Sneaky sneaky sneak

My return to the workforce has been swift and brutal, at least in its impact on my once-peaceful life. I hope to update you soon, should I manage to get some free minutes at home. Too much to do! Too much.
All is well, though. Mostly. For now.
Isn't that always the way?

I'm standing at the crossroads and a figure is a'coming

My head is spinning. How did I ever maintain this pace of life? Or, more to the point, how did I ever sustain this lack of peace?

I am about to finish my first week of web-work, and I am in a mild state of shock. I have so much buzzing through my mind, so much to contemplate and dissect, and yet no time to actually ponder it properly, let alone muse about it on my wee blog. It's disheartening, at the least, to be so abruptly shown my life as I used to lead it.
Thankfully we have next week off, as we'd already booked family holidays and the paper was kind enough to oblige (knowing, perhaps, that I would have turned down the contract if they didn't).

It's all wrong. Everything about this is wrong. The past year was filled with uncertainty, frustration, freedom and -- in the end -- boredom, and somehow during that time I made my way from a frantic pursuit of achievement (any achievement), to a broad, deep and contemplative peace. I could see my world at depth, with texture, and allowed time to let its quiet beauties be heard.

This greedy consumption of mental energy, this flurry of tentacled demands winding its way around my life, is unhealthy.
What had I given up, when I used to live like this without knowing anything different? What have we all given up?

 After rainfall: A plant at the bottom of my front steps, 
so simple and lovely, yet so often overlooked

And so it is

Almost 12 months to the day of being told to leave the country, I've finally gained my Canadian residency.

The year of crazy housewifery is over. I'm already back at the national newspaper (albeit temporarily). I don't know if I'm ready to let go of this yet. 

I have to get to work right now, but am doing a lot of internal exploration on the meaning of work, the joys of escape, and the reality of, well, reality.

Expect a full recount and ensuring ruminations soon.

Great news pending...

I can't tell you yet, because I need to see it all happen before I believe it, but stay tuned for a reason to P-A-R-T-Y!!!


(As if we ever really need one.)

G20 aftermath

This was Queen Street West in downtown Toronto early Sunday afternoon.

Mostly empty streets, about a dozen boarded up storefronts, and police on every corner, usually rifling through the backpacks of pedestrians and cyclists.
This follows yesterday's protests during which dozens of black-clad 'anarchists' (more accurately, 'idiots') smashed storefronts, set police cars on fire, and threatened people who tried to stop them. Meanwhile, the police were performing illegal searches of people, strong-arming non-violent protesters, and shooting people with rubber bullets.

Today, while police massed outside the Eaton Centre (recent busloads pictured above), neighbouring Nathan Phillips Square wasn't giving in. The Toronto Jazz Festival is on, and a sizable crowd gathered to enjoy awesome tunes, and basically give the disruptive protesters a communal, figurative middle-finger.

Following the groovy tunes, I cycled around the downtown for a couple of hours. I was not questioned by police, even when I was standing opposite the fencing that surrounds the G20 security zone (below), but that could also be due to my genial demeanour, ready smile for police, and Aussie accent. 

The only time I was stopped was while I was being a good samaritan, trying to find out for a couple of tourists if airport shuttles were running (they were, but no idea where the usual pick-up points were behind wire fences). The police were largely friendly, and the only officer who was being brusque brightened considerably when I explained I was doing a favour for random strangers. He still wouldn't let me cycle north on Bay Street though, despite the fact people were still coming south. I had to go over to Yonge, head north for a number of blocks, then go west and back south on Bay. Make sense of that, eh?

As the hapless tourists headed to the subway, I went back to Yonge Street, where I then somehow got involved in a bicycle protest. I was happy enough to go along with it for a bit, as it seemed they were protesting the G20 goons as much as they were protesting any worldly wrongs. But then some of them started mouthing off at attending media, and I got out of there. I'm all for peaceful rebukes of violent protest. I'm dead against blatant idiocy and the lambasting of the people whose attention such protests are meant to attract.

Idiots.

As I waited for the straggling cyclists to go past, I overheard a police scanner message mentioning rubber bullets being fired. Sounded like a good time to get out of dodge. Turning homewards, I was overtaken by a flurry of unmarked police vans, a busload of more cops, and the rolling out of the horsey squad.

 

Once out of the downtown, the town was pretty much back to normal. Soccer fans cheered, brunchers munched, and sparse but cheerful crowds browsed through shops. In my neighbourhood, children laughed and played on the virtually derelict streets.

It's a beautiful Sunday in Toronto. If only the G20 delegates had been able to see it.

One Year Wonderful

When people ask me what it's like to be married -- it happens on fairly regular occasion -- I tell them the secret no-one told me: It's amazing. The deepening love and happiness that greets T. and I each day is a true wonder, and something I hoped for but never really expected.
We celebrated our first anniversary on Sunday, a week after our 'earlyversary' weekend escape to Collingwood, Ont. It was beautiful and simple and good and true, like our love has proven to be. 
It must seem sickeningly sweet, or naively optimistic, but being married has changed our lives. I would still love T. just as much if we were not married, our life would be as lovely and joyous, but there is something special about making this bond with another human. My heart is safely in his care, and his in mine, and we can meet each day holding hands and gazing at the beautiful horizon.
Blessed, we are.
I hope you are too.

In the treetops during our eco-earlyversary adventure

PS: We created an anniversary tradition! Each year, we're going to choose a celebratory scotch or whiskey, to savour on the day (and however many other days it lasts... ;)
This years is The Balvenie. There's something impressive about a scotch that insists on a definite article. The Balvenie 12yo Signature. Delicious!

Sunshine and lollipops

Big news! It's with much excitement and some trepidation that I can now report my residency application is in its final stages. My passport is en route to Sydney as I type, in order to get my papers. Eleven months after this stupid life-shock began, we are almost at the end of the road.
I have no idea what to make of it! It feels like the past year has barely existed -- all that frustration, dashed hope, endless budgeting and angst-ridden analysis of my place in this beautiful, beautiful world has simply disappeared. 
Looking at T. and thinking of all we've been through, I couldn't help but tear up and be so thankful for everything we have, and everything we've built during this crazy, wonderful, maddening year. Yes, I've learned that the government is stupid, feckless and intrinsically non-sensical, but what bureaucracy took away shortly after our wedding, the world has returned ten-fold for our first anniversary.


Expect one heck of a celebration once I get my Permanent Resident card!!!
Yeehaa!!!

This is how I'm feeling!!

An explosive morning

The house on the corner exploded this morning. Literally.
There was a huge boom about 3 a.m. and our apartment shook. I know this because T. told me. I slept through it, drowsily waking when T. went to the window and came back reporting massive flames. Bleary-eyed, he called 911 while I tried to work out if I needed to start gathering up our wedding pics. In the end, we donned our shoes and ran onto the street to see if anyone needed help.
If they did, there was nothing we could do. The place was an utter fireball, the inferno reaching high into the sky and sending embers floating over the neighbouring homes. 

The remaining wall, several hours later

Windows blasted out of their frames lay on the street, glass littered the road, and one car parked nearby had a shattered window from the blast. Within about 20 minutes, the roof collapsed and the whole thing disintegrated.

T. was on his blackberry, filing a short hit for the newspaper's website. I momentarily wondered if I should get my camera, then decided against it. It just seemed so voyeuristic, especially as we didn't yet know if anyone was inside. (The house was empty, thankfully.) Of course, now I wish I had taken pics because it was just so damned strange and freaky an occurrence. Oh well.
Here's a photo of the smouldering debris, taken about 10 a.m. today. What had been a handsome 100+ year old home is now ruins, the immediate neighbours likely thanking their very lucky stars.

Firefighters hose the smoldering ruins of the house five-doors down, its window blown onto the footpath.

No word as yet on what caused the explosion, but a few people in the neighbourhood did smell gas yesterday morning. All we know for sure is that even the seemingly indestructible can disappear before your eyes.

Gimme a G! Gimme a 20!

Toronto is in the midst of a peculiarly Torontonian melt-down. This city is to host the G20 meeting at the end of June. After spouting off for months about how this proves we are a 'world standard city', the place is now hitting panic mode and getting set to flee for the hills.
Hundreds of politicians, aides, reporters, lackeys and other various hangers-on are set to descend on the downtown core on the weekend - yes, weekend - of June 26 and 27. 
So what's everyone doing? FREAKING OUT!!!! The national trains have announced they will skip town, the fancy art gallery is closing its doors, theatre productions are canceled, massive fences are being erected around a great chunk of the city core, and there was discussion of removing thousands of bicycle locks from downtown streets lest they be uprooted from the concrete and used as weapons (or, heaven forbid, have bicycles locked to them). Meanwhile, the 'official protest site' keeps getting moved about, and at this rate will end up somewhere just shy of the Arctic circle. 
As a non-native Torontonian, I am greatly amused by all of it. Toronto swaggers about, one thumb draped oh-so-casually from its belt loop, peering out from its mirrored shades to see what the rest of the world makes of its studied nonchalance and perfectly unperfect coif. But after telling the world about its massive June house party, the threat of gate crashers has everyone running for cover. 
So much will be barricaded, closed or crippled by the city-wide klaxon instructing residents to avoid the downtown that our guests will likely step outside their hotels, see a few tumbleweeds bounce by, and wonder how anyone can possibly live in such a wasteland of civilization.


To anyone who's coming to the big G20 gab-and-pic-fest, I assure you this is a cool town. It's just got a massive confidence problem, and desperate need to be liked. Give it a little encouragement, and it'll open right up.
To the people who'll actually be here throughout, bloody toughen up already! Yes, a few glasses might get broken at the mega nerd house party, but that doesn't mean you should cancel the whole shindig. Just find a bloody dustpan, keep it handy and party on!

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.

To market, to market

 I've been putting it off for a week, but I suppose I should now finally report back from my first ever craft market.

We trekked out to Kitchener, and got up before 7 a.m. so we could get to the awesome farmers' market and set up, ready to rock by 8:45 a.m.

I gathered my wares -- hand-made recycled-and-recyclable gift bows made from magazines, and accessories made from ribbon and vintage buttons -- and presented them just so.

And then I amiably chatted with dozens, nay hundreds, of people, almost all of whom professed their utter admiration for my bows, and almost all of whom then wandered away without buying a thing.




As a learning experience, this was tops. As anything approaching worth the effort it required, zilch.
Still, if anyone out there needs a bow, I think I might be able to fix you up with something....

Do II

Further to the previous post 'Do',  subsection 2b, may I present the following household chattels and accoutrements. I argue that, despite being made previous to the current 'Do' week, the collection of these goods from their place of creation during said 'Do' week renders them admissible for inclusion under that same banner.


The exhibit includes: Six (6) napkin rings of my own design; 

Three (3) finger bowls, originally intended to have been cereal bowls, but reduced in stature due to unfortunate incidents during the throwing stage of creation (henceforth to be known as 'my clumsiness'); 

and One (1) leaf-shaped soap dish, also of my own design, created specifically for ease of soap removal from said dish. 

All works were created and glazed by me during six lessons held in the months of February and March. As some pieces remain outstanding due to a delay in the firing process, I reserve the right to reinstate 'Do' week as and when such pieces come into my possession.


Yours faithfully,
T.

Do

For quite some while I've been wondering what to do with this blog. Keep it lighthearted? Wander into the deeper, less entertaining territory of life's unexpected transitions? Start a chronicle of my get-rich-eventually schemes? (they are legion.)
In the end (as I sit here half loaded following a meeting of the Women's Wine Federation), I have decided to follow five themes: Do, Be, Hear, See and Say.
This week, it is Do.


On Monday, I trekked an hour on the TTC to reach the Lawrence-Yonge part of Toronto to turn a stranger's backyard lawn into the beginnings of a vegetable garden. 
I am a Gardeneer -- basically a volunteer who gardens -- and I'm helping the Young Urban Farmers community shared agriculture get up and running. The idea is cool. Instead of trying to find enough land in Toronto to make a farm, homeowners donate use of their backyards so the volunteers and organizers can grow fresh produce, which is then sold through food boxes.
Great idea. Hard work. I spent four hours de-sodding earth, and frankly, that's tough. Sod is hard to turn asunder. Let that be a lesson for life.


Today, Tuesday, I made 50 bows out of magazine pages. It's all towards a craft stall I'll be manning later this month, and frankly, this one-woman-sweat-shop is wearing me down. Thank goodness my darling husband ran out at 10:30pm on Easter Saturday to buy me chocolate bunnies. Everything is better with chocolate bunnies. Another lesson in life for you.


Also today, I went to AFL practise and then trundled eastward for French wine and food with the glorious WWF ladies. I hope to extol the virtues of both at some later date.


For now, it's late and I shall now go curl up around my darling husband and sleep a deep, sore and slightly drunken sleep. The best kind. Lesson for life. 


x

Aus-tastic

I had the strangest experience recently: I had a brilliant phone call with a bank.
I had called my Australian bank to cancel my credit card. I don't use it much, don't want to keep paying annual fees, rah rah rah, and was gearing up to encounter a paperwork juggernaut.
But no. Turns out, the help centre staff were more interested in chatting about Canada, laughing about Melbourne, and helping me do everything over the phone. And then, to top it off, the final lass (I spoke to three people, all lovely) mentioned that, instead of canceling my card, she could just waive the annual fees forever. So she did. And we chatted a bit more like old friends, and then I hung up with the hugest smile.
I walked into the next room, where my bemused husband was shaking his head. "Only in Australia," he muttered. Or something like that. I was busy chuckling and grinning, and being homesick. Ah, Aussies. Gotta love 'em!

Boyz in da kitchen

Peanut butter. Bacon. Cookies. Do it.

You know you want to.

Have you met my little friend?

This little guy was just flitting about outside my window.

Isn't he handsome?