Moving Sh*t

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Waiting for possession of a house feels kind of like the toe-curling excitement you get when you’re five years old, bundled up on the couch, and waiting for Santa to come down the chimney on Christmas Eve.

I’ve literally got a calendar with big black exes on the days that have gone by and a big red circle around August 16. I’ve already sketched out where my furniture will go, what paint colour I’m putting on my walls, and what I want to renovate first. Just thinking about that stuff makes me crazy-giggles happy.

The entrance hall of our new house. I'm thinking different tiles and a fresh coat of paint.

The entrance hall of our house. I’m thinking hardwood and a fresh coat of paint.

But what I didn’t quite grasp until about two weeks ago is that buying a house and relocating to a new town involves a lot of unpleasant work too. Thrilling tasks such as: decoding inspection reports, talking to lawyers, finding a new doctor, figuring out how to pile all our money together and give it to someone else, getting internet installed, paying hydro and gas installation costs, booking a moving van, changing our phone numbers, and determining what our day to day finances will look like with a massive mortgage weighing us down.

Then there is the actual act of moving. Getting all of our stuff from one residence to another. Call me weird, but I usually enjoy this process. I get a kick out of cleaning, sorting, labelling, and re-organizing my things. And when everything is in its new and proper place, the “I did that” feeling you get is such a high.

That said, this move is a little different than my past moves for a few reasons:

  • I’m not living in Toronto right now, so JF is packing up our apartment. Picture disorganized piles of loose, unrelated things being shipped out.
  • I now have a billion pound, upright piano. Normally awesome but at this moment, ugh.
  • After 10 years of renting, I am apparently millimetres away from becoming a hoarder. Though JF had rather frequently told me I have too many teacups and vases, I certainly never agreed with him until it came time to pack and move them.
Our Toronto apartment a few months ago. Looks innocuous, but I can assure you there were several truckloads of useless trinkets hidden in it.

Our Toronto apartment a few months ago. Looks innocuous, but there were several truckloads of useless trinkets hidden in it.

One thing is certain, I am doing a massive, Clean-Sweep-esque (Peter, I wish I could hire you!) sort as we unpack and settle in. And then, we will be hosting a great big, Elmvale garage sale. Maybe I’ll make lemonade and bake (read: burn) cookies to entice our new neighbours over.

In the meantime, I’m daydreaming about cream coloured walls, chrome hardware, and brightly painted dressers while trying to forget the to do list on my bedside table that seems to be perpetually growing.

Adventures in Antiquing

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I generally believe that old things are much better than new ones. Old music, old recipes, old houses — they are simply more remarkable than their modern counterparts. And few activities get my heart pumping like shopping for vintage furniture.

This chair is on for $55 at Country Connection in Elmvale

This chair is on for $55 at Country Connection in Elmvale

To me, antiques are, by virtue of their age, special. They have stories to tell. Their dents and scratches are like Girl Guide badges: proof that they’ve been there and done that. They make spaces totally inimitable, are often better constructed, and are good for the planet.

But here’s the best part about antiques: they can save you money. They can even be cheaper than IKEA, if you know where to look.

This chandelier was on for $50 at the north Toronto Re-Store

This chandelier was on for $50 at the north Toronto Re-Store

After years of hanging out with my mom (who taught me the value of a lick of paint and new hardware), I feel like I know how to shop for nifty and thrifty old stuff. Here’s my best advice:

1)   Always go with specific items in mind. If you shop aimlessly, you will end up with VHS tapes, santa claus cake molds, and shot glass collections.

2)   Start with the classics. Value Village, the Salvation Army and Goodwill are well organized and cheap. Try asking when they pull out new arrivals, so that you’re looking at a fresh batch when you go.

3)   Move on to garage sales. When garage saleing, start at 7 a.m. and bring caffeine. Come prepared with lots of change, the latest local classifieds and a GPS. Always stop at unadvertised sales for better odds of finding good pieces.

4)   Then check out consignment, estate sales and auctions. I have to be honest, I’ve never been to an auction. But if they’re like estate sales (which are usually advertised in the paper) they are fantastic. Of Things Past and Around the Block, both in north Toronto, are great consignment stores.

5)   Try the Re-Store. Support Habitat for Humanity AND find cheap sinks, light fixtures, and wallpaper.

6)   Next stop, antique stores. When you go to antique stores, you’re buying from people who have scoured sources 2 through 5 as well as hockshops and curbside garbage piles. You pay a bit more for those efforts, but there are some gems out there:

7)   Finally, flea markets. I have better luck buying food than antiques at flea markets, but the 400 market isn’t bad and the Elmvale market surprises me sometimes.

These benches were $40 and $60 at Dead People's Stuff in Bloomfield, PEC

These benches were $40 and $60 at Dead People’s Stuff in Bloomfield, PEC

Because I’ve basically been antiquing since birth, I already have a lot of old stuff. In fact, I probably have enough teak credenzas, rustic wardrobes and musty wicker baskets to fully furnish our new house. That said, I’m still pretty darn excited at the prospect of a few new little nooks to fill.

I’ve already dragged friends to antique stores in Toronto and Prince Edward County (side note: MacCool’s Reuse is a PEC mid-century mecca!) and look forward to more adventuring over the next few months.  Bring on the cracked tables and blue mountain pottery.

My mom scored two of these lamps (sans shades) at a Midland garage sale for $5

My mom scored two of these lamps (sans shades) at a Midland garage sale for $5

(Missing) The big smog

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My country bumpkin family often refers to Toronto as “the big smog.” I usually do it in a teasing, almost loving way, like I’m poking fun at an old friend. Besides, it’s only fair. We get “the sticks,” “the boonies” and “the backwater.”

But today — as I chewed some particularly sad and rubbery wakame salad at Midland’s one sushi restaurant — I found myself pining over some of Toronto’s finer points. So I wrote a list of things I miss about the city:

  • JF
  • People — friends, colleagues, my fellow Cantores choristers, and the Rebelo family
  • Matt Galloway
  • Good sushi
  • Good Any Indian food
  • The plethora of job postings with decent wages
  • Diversity
  • Solomon’s seal tea (Yishey, why did you get me hooked on that shit?)
  • The Toronto Blue Jays
  • The St. Lawrence Market
  • Pride
  • Regularly discovering new corners and nooks
  • Driving through yellow lights
  • The Grid
  • Anonymity
  • Properly stocked LCBOs
  • Social media that actually keeps up with local news
  • Concerts
  • Starbucks
I think I took this at Nuit Blanche 2012.

I think I took this at Nuit Blanche 2012.

Then, I promptly built a list of things I don’t miss a mite:

  • Looking nice all the time
  • Congestion
  • The TTC
  • Noise
  • Warmer temperatures, with sticky air and half-assed breezes
  • The smell of garbage day
  • The pace of everything (but driving and social media)
  • Crowds
  • Feeling totally disconnected from the people around me
  • Biking accidents
  • Yorkdale mall
  • House prices
  • Eating at restaurants almost daily
  • Rob Ford
  • Parking downtown
  • The Toronto Maple Leafs
  • Crazy rent prices
  • Getting lost in the PATH
  • The cost of food at farmer’s markets

Don’t worry, I’m not second guessing my choice. Just re-acquainting myself with what I’ve consciously decided to leave behind. A bittersweet exercise.

We bought a house on Queen West

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Holy f&*@, we did it! I never thought we would get there, but we just bought a house on Queen St. West.

Oooooooo, aaaaaaaah

Oooooooo, aaaaaaaah

With hipster mainstays such as New Golden City Chinese Restaurant, Steelers Restaurant & Pub, The Elmvale Bakery, and the Springwater Library, we think it’s the best Queen St. West around. It even has a weekly farmer’s market.

Queen Street West, Elmvale

Queen Street West, Elmvale

For those of you who have been waiting for the gory details, here is the most important stuff from the listing:

  • 1900 sq ft
  • 3 bedrooms + a finished attic/loft
  • 2.5 bathrooms
  • Massive yard
  • Big, eat-in kitchen
  • New roof, furnace and electrical

Here’s the stuff that wasn’t on the listing but should have been:

  • Acres of wallpaper
  • Windows that don’t open
  • Creaky floors
  • Exposed pipes in two of the bathrooms
  • A leaky basement
  • A yard that must recently have served as an angry rhino’s enclosure

Hits and misses aside, we are very excited. A tiny bit terrified, but mostly excited. Let’s say 95% excited. Because at its core, this is a beautiful home that has a good, happy feeling about it. And it’s really nice to know that before us, a family grew up in it.

The closing date is August 16 — four days before my birthday. Thank you, Jean-François, for the best birthday present in the history of the universe.

Happy

Happy

Francophonie

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I am privileged to be able to call myself Franco-Ontarian. Yup, that’s a thing. We have a flag and even an unofficial anthem.

My father’s family has been living in Tiny Township, en français, for well over a hundred years. The school at County Road 6 and Concession 12 once had so many Lefaives attending it that they named the intersection after us.

The school at Lefaive's corner. That's right, we have a whole corner.

The school at Lefaive’s corner. That’s right, we have a whole corner.

The Lefaives eat tourtière (well, except me the rando vegetarian), play the fiddle, and wear métis sashes on certain special occasions. My mémère and pépère used interesting expressions like « va don plugger l’canar pour moé, ma belle » which losely translates to « would you plug in the kettle for me, dear? »

Mémère et Pépère, sur les plages de la Baie Georgienne.

Mémère et Pépère, sur les plages de la Baie Georgienne.

I’m proud of my heritage, weird idioms and all. I also applaud and support any effort to keep our language and culture strong. It’s hard work, but it’s important. Sometimes it feels like we are on a rickety french raft — or maybe a birch bark canoe? — in a sea of english, but we keep paddling. Now that I’m local, I’m looking forward to lending my slighlty wobbly paddling arm more often.

At the centre of that canoeing (?) effort is one of my favourite events of the year, le Festival du Loup. Organized by local people, it takes place at the park in Lafontaine: the core of the french community.

The festival was this past weekend, and I was delighted to be able to share it with my « France French » friend Sylvie. We volunteered Saturday morning, donning beautiful yellow smocks and fastening neon orange paper bracelets to people’s wrists at the entrance.

Sylvie, showing off the Festival du Loup volunteer smock.

Sylvie, showing off the Festival du Loup volunteer smock.

Minus a brief stint at the beach, we spent the afternoon and evening listening to live, french music. My cousins Kelly, Jill and Nicole performed as Ariko, my childhood crush and longtime friend Joël Forget played some of his original songs (one of them about me), and JF’s brother Damien Robitaille was the headliner.

Mes cousines, Jill et Nicole Lefaive, en pleine performance.

Mes cousines, Jill et Nicole Lefaive, en pleine performance.

Why do I love this festival so much? Because, in the words of Larry Lalonde, it feels like a great, big family reunion. Folks I grew up with come in from out of town and hundreds of people of all ages living in and around Lafontaine make a point of being there. It’s a great opportunity to catch up on gossip, re-connect with friends, and just enjoy dancing at the heart of a community I know and love.

Small Town Living

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Living at mom’s isn’t half bad. As expected, she makes delicious food, folds my socks, and puts little pots of fresh lavender on my bedside table. The way she constantly keeps tabs on me is weird, but I’d forgotten how nice her house — with its comfy couches and vibrant art — is to be in.

I just had lunch on my mom's front porch. Lovely.

I just had lunch on my mom’s front porch. Lovely.

Beyond enjoying my mother’s slave labour, home, and company, living in Midland again is pretty great. My calendar is clearing up, my to do lists are shrinking, and I’ve spent a lot of time with family.

This morning, maman and I walked to Little Lake Park for a drop-in yoga class only to find the gazebo that usually houses Friday yoga totally devoid of activity. Google told me class had been moved to the Yoga House in Penetanguishene.

Little Lake Park, one of Midland's hubs.

Little Lake Park, one of Midland’s hubs.

We were about to walk home grumpy, when another misinformed yogi tapped us on the shoulder and asked if we knew whether class was cancelled. When we said it was moved she (a total stranger!) offered us a ride to the studio. And my mom (I repeat, total stranger!) said “sure” and hopped into the nice lady’s SUV. What could I do but follow?

The Toronto in me thought we might be driven down some dirt road, bound, gagged, and diced into fleshy bits, but it turns out our fellow lululemon-wearer was a friend of a friend. Of course.

When we got to class late, I was astounded when instead of scowling at us, people made room for us. And 90% of attendees looked at least vaguely familiar. The woman behind me was a former colleague at Discovery Harbour. The woman to my right was mom’s best friend. The woman two mats ahead of me had often shopped at Rub of the Green, the eccentric little boutique I worked in through high school.

A billion downward dogs later (ow!) I nabbed my old friend’s number then went out for coffee with mom and her buddies. At Grounded, we bumped into three more acquaintances. I smiled so much I think my dimples are now permanently etched into my cheeks.

It’s nice slash strange to feel so connected to the people and places around me again. That’s small town living for you.

Exercising Judgment

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Long, long ago (about a month), my friend Michelle and I were going to morning gym classes twice a week. I would wake up at 5:30 a.m., be out the door by 5:50 a.m. and squeak into Body Pump for 6:30 a.m. — where Michelle, bless her, had already set up my weights and yoga mat.

After sweating, squatting, jumping, lifting and crunching for about an hour, I always felt fist-pumpingly triumphant. And towards the end of my gym career, I was looking trimmer and sleeping better.

 

Well, my GoodLife membership expired on June 20, and my body knows it. Just call me Jiggly Lefaive. So far the most strenuous exercise I’ve done since then is raise my remote control arm to change the channel. I’ve also undertaken such strenuous activities as walking to bakeries and lifting food to my mouth.

I’ve never exactly been a paragon of good health. I enjoy BBQ-flavoured chips, cookies and red wine. And even though I should be eating gluten free, most of my meals consist of something carby with cheese on top.

But here’s the thing. That’s not how I plan to live the rest of my life. A big part of what attracts us to country living is that we can stop at a neighbour’s place to buy fresh eggs and whatever veggies are in season. That and the non-availability of our two current dietary mainstays: C’est Bon Chinese Restaurant and Bhanjara Indian food.

We also love that there are dozens of reasons to be active outside. Simcoe County offers long trails for biking and amazing beaches for swimming. Wherever our house is, we’ll have access to two marshes, a Provincial Park and several forests.

JF and I like to go to Tiny Marsh, just north of Elmvale

JF and I like to use the trails at Tiny Marsh, north of Elmvale

So now that I am settled into my room at mom’s (five days and counting!) it’s time to get my shit together. My budget doesn’t want me to spend $50 monthly on a gym membership, so I’m going to do my best to use what Simcoe County has to offer to feel healthy again. Or my name will quickly devolve from Jiggly Lefaive to Flabby Lefaive.

My poverty, but not my will, consents

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You know the apothecary in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet who sells Romeo the deadly poison? Well he doesn’t actually want to sell the poison. He has to sell it because he’s poor and hungry.

His exact words in the play are “my poverty, but not my will, consents.” Lately, I’ve been using that line a lot. I’m not hungry. I have a bag of Tostitos on my lap right now. But I’m poor enough that I’ve had to bend my own rules a little bit.

For some (no doubt Freudian, childhood-related) reason, I really don’t accept friends’ generosity very well. When I share a meal at a restaurant, I cover my half.  When someone gives me something, I like to give something back.

Grateful — and lately, relieved — as I am when a kind person treats me to lunch, gets me a coffee, or buys me a drink, it also makes me feel squirmy and wrong inside. I end up saying odd things and not quite knowing when to back down.

Unfortunately/fortunately I have some of the most generous, lovely friends on this earth. So I’ve been in that “uncomfortably delighted” space a lot lately. June featured a series of pleasant lunch and dinner dates with some of my favourite people, but was remarkably easy on my wallet. I can’t say the same for my waistline.

My university roommate Steph took me out for High Tea at MoRoCo last week. Delightful!

My university roommate Steph took me out for High Tea at MoRoCo last week.

To all the great people who have treated me to something lately, thank you. And I apologize for making it awkward. I really appreciated it, but couldn’t properly show my gratitude without screwing my face into an inappropriate smirk-frown.

This whole situation is something I have to work on. But in the meantime, I will continue to stiltedly accept friends’ kindness. And eagerly await the day when I can pay them back in full.

My new friend Nytol

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We recently gave our notice to our landlord. We must and will be out of our Toronto apartment for September 1, 2013. Which means we must and will either buy a house or rent a place in Simcoe County sometime this summer. Blimey. This is really happening.

Or is it?

A few months ago, thinking about houses at bedtime (silk curtains, granite countertops and hardwood floors… mmmmmm) would send me first into a pleasant haze, then straight to sleep. Now, thinking about houses at bedtime induces me to take Nytol — an effective drug recently added to my pharmaceutical lexicon.

We just can’t seem to agree on what house to buy. What I love, he doesn’t. What he loves is ugly. And after ten years of renting, we just don’t want to rent anymore.

Which is why I’m moving (temporarily, I hope) into my teenhood bedroom at my mom’s Midland house in a week. From that tiny “terracotta”-painted (i.e. poo brown) shrine to my youth, I can help with my sister Alicia’s engagement party, volunteer, job hunt, go to the beach, hang out with my avó, and drive around like a crazy person in search of “for rent” and “for sale by owner” signs. My amazing mother will feed me and do my laundry.

This is my mom's house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

This is my mom’s house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

Mom, I love you. Thank you for being a regular reader of this blog. But I’m a bit scared of living with you and Geneviève. Three women, one bathroom. Plus it’s been ten years since I lived with a parent.

I started packing today and it’s harder than I thought. Just how many bags does one need for an indefinite stay in a small, storagely-challenged room?

I say indefinite stay, but there is a ray of hope in the vast gloom of this house hunt. JF and I recently set a drop dead date. On July 22, we will either make an offer on this house in Coldwater (which we both love — we would just prefer Elmvale) or choose a house to rent.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

We’ve committed. Crossed our hearts. Pinky swore. But whether we will actually be able to make a decision on July 22 remains to be seen.

What I know for sure is that for the next few months, I will have a foot in both worlds. JF will be working away in Toronto while I try to start building our new life in Simcoe County.

Ode to Cantores

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This past Tuesday I attended my before-last practice with Cantores Celestes, a choir based in Bloor West Village that I’ve been singing with for about two years now. I walked into the church late and sweaty — clattering about the pews as I frantically dumped my purse, pulled off my jacket, and assembled my sheet music.

The women of Cantores Celestes, in all their splendour

The amazing women of Cantores Celestes

Finally scurrying up the steps to join the 50 or so women already rehearsing on stage, I paused to take a few restorative breaths and open my ears to the music. Being a mostly punctual person, listening to a piece in progress isn’t something I’d had the opportunity to do much before.

They were singing David McIntyre’s Ave Maria. Which, when you’re actually performing it, kind of sucks. The rhythm is hard and the harmonies aren’t normal. I’m pretty sure I look like Neve Campbell in Scream when I’m singing it. Terrified.

But standing there in front of my fellow choristers, you would never guess any of that. They were producing really lovely, beautifully cohesive, warm music. As Jackie would put it, a fitting ode to the feminine nature of the divine.

I’m not a religious person, but there is something very powerful about a large group of hard-working, smart, strong women just enjoying singing together. Sharing a purpose. And there’s something even more powerful about them celebrating another woman through song.

When they finished the Ave Maria, I took another breath and made my way to my usual spot in the third row, already feeling refreshed and forgetting the cares of the day.

Going to choir practice is kind of like going to the gym: getting there is a slog, but you never regret it. In fact, you leave lighter.

Actually, you know that feeling you get when you rock out in the kitchen with a wooden spoon? Well Cantores is often like that, but to Fauré and with a bunch of friends. We sing every piece — even the Ave Maria — with gusto. Kelly, our Director, puts every inch of her heart behind each concert. Which is why I’m sad that our concert in Perth on June 29 will be my last.

My work friend Tina shared this quote by Anatole France with me on my last day: “All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves.” I’m really going to miss this part of my Toronto self.