Last day

Strange, it is, to be facing my last day working at The Globe and Mail. Given my absence from the place for a year, one would assume this moment would barely register. After all, I cut that cord earlier this year after months of introspection, didn't I? 
Apparently not, for this moment registers deeply, as it is now my choice to leave.


For those who haven't been inside it, The Globe is a pretty cool place. I was kind of star-struck when I first went in. Windows! In a newsroom! Functioning printers! Colour on the wall that is not just remnant cigarette smoke! 
Each reporter has a huge cubicle that provides two desk spaces -- enough to build a small journalistic empire, unless you are the wonderful, eccentric Colin Freeze, in which case your possessions seem to grow and multiply until their tentacles pry into every space around you, prompting your neighbours to construct protective barriers using outdated government reports and underused dictionaries. 
Sure, it doesn't have the free coffee making facilities, creekside dining area and occasional celebratory beer of the Sunny Coast Daily, but by golly it veritably oozes journalistic endeavour. And that's before I found out I'd be sitting spitting distance from institutions like Ian Brown and Kirk Makin, and of course the wonderful Anthony Reinhart.


That star-struck respect still lingers inside me -- who wouldn't think it's cool to be in that building, with those people? -- yet it's now partnered with a tinge of sadness. I've not become what I imagined there. I didn't scale the heights to become one of the anointed. I am a good journalist, and a better writer, yet I feel as if those aspects of myself were never fully tested.Inside that building, it seems as if they don't see my potential; that they don't see me. Perhaps this is the way of things for all workers, or perhaps I simply didn't show them, but I am now choosing another option.

Like a petulant -- or, some may say, neglected -- child, I'm packing up my bat and ball and heading to greener pastures! Up ahead, distant and hazy but still recognizable, is my future self, and she's not walking on the same rutted path I've been running along for 11 years. Somewhere, she's taken a surprising turn and has ended up in brilliant sunshine. 
I'm not exactly sure where she went astray, but it's going to be bloody fun finding out.

Stay tuned.

Aussie election

Fifty-six months ago, I decided to voluntarily withdraw the voting rights that many people, over the ages, had fought to gain.
At the time, I thought it prudent. I was leaving for 18 months, or maybe more, and didn't need the hassle of international registration. Also, as a journalist who avidly believes in living in the community on which one is reporting, I didn't feel right casting a vote when I was not living in the nation at the time. I'm an astute follower of politics, but the real impact, the full understanding, cannot be fully gained from outside a nation.
Thus I willingly removed myself from the electoral role. I was fully cognisant of the battle women fought to gain the right to vote (Australia was one of the first nations to grant women that right), yet it felt only just and right.
Then, in 2007, Kevin Rudd ran for Prime Minister and I felt I was truly missing am moment of greatness in Australian history. Perhaps I was. Now, three years later, KRudd has been deposed and Julia Guillard is running for Labor. 
I'm not partisan, although I do harbour particular ideals that match more with the left of spectrum. That guarantees no-one my vote, though. I am hard-headed yet idealistic in my voting patterns.
And yet, I've not been able to cast a vote in five years, and will still be unable for many years to come, until I am a Canadian citizen, or Canada gives residents a right to vote, or I move back to Australia.


Either way, I am mourning my absence from the often mundane process of democracy. It is a beautiful thing.

The big buy

There I go again, all teasing snippets of information and allusions to mortgages, without actually telling you the biggest news of an already-huge year.

T. and I have bought a house! It's big(ish) and beautiful, and in Waterloo, Ont., a rockin' place full of science and tech nerds, arty writer types, and -- come October -- us! 

We hadn't intended on this so soon, but opportunity more than knocked. It barrelled down our door and stood in our hallway, stomping its boots and glaring at us without pause.

It all began during My Year of Enforced Respite. The government took away my ability to work, and in doing so broke my bonds with Toronto. I didn't notice at the time, but it is strange indeed to spend a year in this city without disposable income, without a place to go each day, without after-work-drinks and informal networking catch-ups. We got through largely oblivious to the break, then I stepped back into The Globe for this two-month contract and it's becoming glaringly apparent that I'm no longer a part of the cycle here. I'm a spinning cog, desperately wheeling away in the hope of locking on to something that fits.

This is a town for both a certain stage of life -- drinking and travelling and other filling of funnels -- and a certain level of income. And I suspect I've moved out of both. I used to be on top of the latest bars, bands, and all that jazz, not because I went out that much but because I was still paying attention. In the past year, I stopped paying attention and the city has moved on without me. Plus, I have been increasingly itchy for my own piece of space. Our own home. I'm 32. It's probably time I could paint my own walls with abandon. In this town, we'd be lucky to afford a shoebox.

Which all leads me to the idea of Kitchener-Waterloo, twin cities 100km west of Toronto. T. is from there, his boys live there, and we stay there every second weekend. We started looking at open houses a few months ago, partly to fill in the time when the boys are busy, and partly "just to get an idea of the market".  We looked mostly in Kitchener -- the grittier, hard-working big brother to shiny, popular Waterloo -- because it's eminently more affordable.

And then, last month, we happened to drive by a private sale in the best neighbourhood in Waterloo. The house was big but largely unadorned; a blank canvas. It stood solid and dark, but with a welcoming air, as if it was the only immovable thing in a swirling world. There was a man on the landing. He waved, led us through, chatting all the while about the house. His name is John and this is his childhood home, built in 1926, he said. His 93-year-old mother moved in to the house in 1949 and has now had to go to a nursing home.

She had some shocking taste in wallpaper. Her husband lovingly maintained the original woodwork until his death. They've never used pesticides on the huge back yard. It is perfect.

We dropped the boys off that Sunday night and started the drive back to Toronto. Our conversation was a tap dance, all staccato bursts and perky silence. When we left KW, we were hesitantly ruminating on crazy possibility. By the time we got to TO, we had decided to make an offer.

Tuesday morning, as we were sat at the bank getting pre-approval for a home loan, someone else made an offer on the house. The old lady accepted it.

We let it go. A couple of days later, as we walked through our lovely near-downtown neighbourhood to get some dinner, T. and I were laughing about how we had almost bought a house. Crazy timing, we laughed. Nothing arranged. Too soon. At least we know we're game.

And then, two weeks later, opportunity came storming back into our lives to see if we were more than just talk. That other deal fell through. If we were still interested, the house was available.

We sat silent in the kitchen for a while,  looking at each other. I wasn't  game to put my thoughts into words, partly because I wasn't quite sure what would come spilling out of my mouth. It felt like a dare. Were we going to do this?  This was a test of my most fundamental life belief: Plan enough so you can be ready to grab the unexpected. If it comes, be ready to jump. If it frightens you, that's all the more reason to do it.

Finally, after repeatedly soliciting each other's opinion and skirting anything definitive, I said "I think we should do this."

"So do I," T. replied. 

We grinned crazy grins.

An hour later, the forms were printed up (thank you, High Park Library) and we were sitting in The Film Buff, drinking coffee, filling out the offer of purchase. 

T. drove it to Waterloo that afternoon, en route to pick up the boys for the weekend. The family said they'd get back to us Saturday. I worked that night, tense and excited and giddy, and was brutally tense when T. came back to get me Saturday morning. I couldn't sit still for long, had packed hours early, flitted from one task to another. In the car, I distracted myself with lengthy analyses of media. I probably looked pale.

We got to KW and went to a Tim's to await our 1:45 p.m. meet-up at the house. Coffee and a bagel. Mum and Dad would have been proud.

Got to the house, received the counter-offer from John and his sister. The mum wanted $8,000 more than we'd offered. It was starting to drizzle as we took the papers out to the car and sat at the kerb. We looked out at the house, watching it, wondering what price to put on our possible future there.

We went up $3,000 and hoped for the best. The neighbour, Julian, signed as our witness. John and his sister drove off to see their mum.

We stayed at the house, walking from room to room, actually paying attention to what we were seeing. The house has flaws for which I'd automatically discounted other properties: bedrooms too small, not enough closets, will need a new kitchen eventually. But for some reason, that didn't matter with this house. Even the random toilet in the corner of the laundry didn't bother me. It all just felt good, and right, and full of potential. 

About 20 minutes later, John and his sister got back. We heard them climb the stairs, then come to the front door. John poked his head in. "Better take my shoes off in your house," he said with a grin.

I couldn't speak for ages. My head just froze in shock as T. and I signed the papers. She'd accepted the offer, after making sure from her children that we were "a nice couple". It was ours. 

As we stood on the front footpath afterwards, me having partially regained the ability to speak, T. and I wrapped each other in a long, close hug. I started to cry. 

"Thanks for coming on this crazy adventure with me," T. said.

We held each other, shared a teary, smiley kiss, and then stood gazing at the house as the light rain drizzled down.

Let the adventures begin!

Befuddled

The other night I had a flashback so vivid, my heart still aches a little. It was a fraction of a fraction of a moment --  my hand reaching into my open backpack to rifle through the collection of travel clothes that got me through four months in Europe -- but it's set my little heart a-flutter.

It's so long since I travelled in any real sense of the term, and I'm surrounded by people adventuring: Nat's coming to visit, friends from work are flitting about the globe. And here I am, saddling myself up with a mortgage. I want to get somewhere new, and I have no work lined up for September. We move in October. Can I ... should I direct much-needed downpayment funds towards a frivolous self-adventure?

I'm torn. Truly torn. 

I want hostels and pensions and cheap roadside food and the blankness of utter language deficiency. The best option open to me is a solo road trip through the northern States. Is that going to be enough?

One mighty shopping spree...

On my favourites bar, just at the top of my browser screen, I have a tab titled 'KW Search'. I pop different websites there -- house searches, job boards, interesting community groups -- with an eye to our little dream of one day, eventually, if we're lucky, moving out there to the fabled place where houses are still affordable and T.'s boys can come and visit any time they way.

I don't need it any more.

At least, not the house-search bit. ;)

(Pics and deets to come as soon as financing is all squared away. I don't want to jinx this.....)

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....