Could this be… routine?

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I like moving. I like the feeling of renewal it brings, enjoy sorting all of my stuff, and am energized by new hair dressers and bank branches. Relocating makes me re-think my day-to-day, and that’s valuable.

JF, on the other hand, loathes moving with every fibre of his practical body.  He hates it for the reasons I love it: change, challenge, newness. Packing boxes give him anxiety.

Though our opinions on moving are opposite, there is one thing we can agree on and that’s the beauty of settling into the post-move routine. For me, it’s a great reward for putting so much brain, heart and muscle energy into building a new life. For JF it’s “thank mother Mary, things are back to normal!”

Our keys always go in this bowl. It's the mail and key bowl.

Our keys always go in this bowl. It’s the mail and key bowl.

We’ve been in our home for five months and I’m pretty sure we just hit our stride two weeks ago. It took us that long to find our mechanic, our pharmacy and our preferred routes to work.  We’ve finally re-programmed our thermostat, de-coded all the buttons on our dryer, and met most of our neighbours. Our errand list has dwindled down to the usual get gas, get wine, get groceries.

But what I think really makes a routine a routine is that sense that there is a regular rhythm to the day. For me, it’s knowing that if I hit the snooze button at 7:02 a.m. I’ll get to work at 8:42 a.m.; putting my keys in the same bowl when I get home; having a favourite living room outlet to plug in my MacBook.

This is my fruit bowl. It's where the fruit lives. Always.

This is my fruit bowl. It’s where the fruit lives. Always.

The only problem with routine, really, is that it breeds complacency – the reverse of that feeling you get when moving. There are hundreds of pathways to self-betterment, and they can all be obstructed by Netflix.

We have about a bazillion projects to tackle in this house – holes to patch, walls to paint, trim to fix – but I notice them less and less. We know we want to re-finish our floors, replace some electrical, and blow the second floor bathroom to smithereens, but does any of that have to happen while there are still fresh episodes of Star Trek to watch?

I guess as long as I don’t wake up in 30 years and think: “that closet door has been broken since we moved in,” I’ll be alright. Perhaps we’ll move before then – toss the pieces of our lives up in the air and try to catch them again, or see where they land.

29 gifts

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Every January, my slightly-above-average whining abilities grow to superhuman, x-men mutant power strength.

This year’s self-pity key messages include: “Christmas is over,” “I’m exhausted,” “that wasn’t a real vacation,” “I’m sick,” “I’m overweight,” “our 113-year-old house is draughty,” “my arms aches from shovelling,” and the classic “there are three long months of winter to go.” Blurgh. Cough. Sigh.

When I was 12, my mom rarely let me spend more than 10 minutes being surly and grumbly. As soon as she heard a complaint or sniffle, she started singing this song:

So, with the grouch anthem bouncing around in my skull, I’ve decided that instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to:

  1. Focus on the positive. Like my friend Kristin, who keeps reminding me of life’s gifts.
  2. Cleanse. JF and I are officially off wheat, dairy, sugar, caffeine and booze for two weeks.
  3. Clean the house. I’m obsessively tidy, but the place hasn’t been scrubbed down since early December.
  4. Exercise. I’ve bought some purple shoes. Now I have to use them.
Purple, adidas running shoes - squeaky clean

My new, squeaky clean runners. Talk about incentive!

To start thinking positively, I’m emulating a former colleague. On her birthday, she makes a list of highlights from the year gone by – with one bullet for every year she’s been in the world. Here’s my new year take on her tradition.

In 2013 I…

  1. Finally achieved my dearest wish: slowing down and moving back to Simcoe County
  2. Discovered that for good friends, the road from Elmvale to Toronto (and vice-versa) isn’t so long
  3. Celebrated eight years with a handsome, kind and smart man
  4. Bought a big, beautiful, draughty house
  5. Cleared said house of wallpaper
  6. Watched the sun rise over the north rim of the Grand Canyon
  7. Accompanied one of my dearest friends down the aisle
  8. Gained a “new” car and travel buddy
  9. Celebrated my sister’s engagement to an amazing person
  10. Hiked to the highest point in Zion National Park in excellent company
  11. Had a great time making ugly clay bowls at the Gardiner Museum
  12. Joined a book club
  13. Performed with two great choirs – I even did a small solo
  14. Grew my hair long
  15. Explored Ontario on weekend trips with JF
  16. Planted a lilac tree in my own garden, to honour mémère
  17. Went on a wine and pizza-fuelled road trip with college friends
  18. Took a graphic design course at OCAD
  19. Took on some exciting new volunteer roles
  20. Found a great (and local!) job
  21. Started a blog
  22. Had my avo over for dinner for the first time ever
  23. Saw my dad finally find true love
  24. Rode the barf-inducing Polar Express at the Elmvale Fall Fair
  25. Hosted a few good parties
  26. Flew to New York with some great people
  27. Discovered lululemon tights
  28. Had the Rebelo cousins (age 8 to 25) over for the weekend
  29. Got and decorated my first Christmas tree

Reading this list banishes all of that whiny goop from my heart and reminds me that I really am tremendously, astoundingly lucky.

If you’ve got the early winter blues, I recommend blessing-counting. It works just as well as your granny promised.

Finishing the Christmas Marathon

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My romantic soul is always glad to see friends and family, admire sparkling snow and tinsel, sing carols, and sit by the fire. But even I’m about ready to bring this festive season to a close.

Since December15, I’ve taken part in over a dozen holiday gatherings with people I adore. They all featured jingling music, good laughs and games – plus cookies, alcohol, and (often) that addictive layered salsa and cheese dip that everyone’s mom seems to make.

I call this back-to-back line up of heart-warming, artery-clogging parties the Christmas Marathon. I start the race happily chugging along, but by about 2 p.m. on New Year’s Day, I’m crawling to the finish line, weighed down by holiday excess.

New Year’s Eve is my last hurrah – the final sprint. At this moment, I’m looking forward to visiting with dear friends and popping some champagne. I’m also exhausted to the core and battered by my annual Christmas virus – my body’s way of saying: “stop! stop! too much wine!”

As I pull on my rather tight party dress and pack Tobias’s boot with board games, booze and Benadryl, I’m as excited about the evening ahead as I am about the next day. With a bit of luck, I’ll spend tomorrow night sitting on my couch, eating kale, and remembering the joys of the festive season.

Happy New Year to all!

The Elmvale 15

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Over the last two weeks I’ve ingested a Toblerone, two bags of Kernels popcorn, three bags of chips, several handfuls of jujubes and at least three cups of red and green m&ms.

My pants don’t fit me, my belly jollily jiggles like Santa’s, and worst of all, I feel like a (vaguely) human-shaped lump of butter. I’m calling the weight I’ve gained the Elmvale 15.

These days, I blame holiday baking. I must have eaten a solid dozen cookies yesterday. And today I had two chocolate-covered, tree-shaped sugar cookies for breakfast.

Evil Christmas cookies.

Evil Christmas cookies.

Other malefactors include: wine, the Elmvale bakery’s boston cream doughnuts, the cafeteria at work, my enabler partner JF, and Tobias.

Who knew my little blue Honda would keep me off my feet so constantly? The other day I drove from our house to the post office – just over 200 meters. Brutal.

I guess there was an advantage to the TTC’s suckiness after all; it forced me to get off my ass and walk.

Which brings me to the real culprit: slothfulness. Remember when I pledged to exercise regularly in July? Well, the closest I came to a fitness routine was the occasional leisurely stroll through Tiny Marsh, back when Simcoe County wasn’t coated in ice.

I often say I don’t have time, but the truth is that JF and I have somehow managed to watch two full seasons of the original Star Trek since October. Imagine how healthy I would be if I had spent those 50 or so hours running, lifting weights and eating kale – I’d look like 80s Cindy Crawford!

All of this to say I’ve become the dreaded Flabby Lefaive. And after my usual mulled-wine-and-sugar-induced January hangover, I’m going to do something about it. For real. Starting with a cleanse.

I would, after all, like to live long and prosper.

Shovelling, shovelling

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When you take what my colleague Doug calls the terminal moraine (the cement-like, billion pound, dirty brown mound left daily by the snow plough) out of the equation, there are some great things about shovelling the driveway:

1)     I get to hang out with JF. Because there is no way I’m dealing with that shit alone.

2)     It’s exercise. Mostly for my back, which hurts for many hours afterward.

3)     I get my vitamin D. If it isn’t after 4:30 p.m., which so far is never.

JF, hard at work this evening

JF, hard at work this evening

4)     It reminds me that I chose to leave my maintenance-free apartment in Toronto in favour of “less stressful” country living.

5)     My car doesn’t get stuck when I leave. Most of the time.

6)     I’m finally using the sorels and down coat I spent so much money on when I didn’t need them living in Toronto.

7)     It improves our relationship with our neighbours. If only they would start returning the favour and shovel our side once in awhile.

8)     To most of Elmvale, it looks like we have our shit together.

9)     It’s helped us figure out which house improvements to invest in this coming spring: paving our driveway (shoveling gravel sucks), installing a new automatic garage door, flattening out our paving stones, and more!

10)   When it’s over, we get to throw all our wet clothes in the dryer and put our pyjamas on. That part is truly lovely.

A compendium of odd Christmas music

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As we decorated our tree this year, we listened to some classic carols.

As we decorated our tree this year, we listened to some classic carols.

As a Christmasaholic, I listen to a lot of Christmas music. I’m not ashamed to say I love a song with jingle bells. My problem is that (like everyone else in North America) I’ve been listening to the same damn 50 carols since birth.

Every December, my thirst for fresh holiday songs grows. I think of this phenomenon as a maturing of my taste – kind of like learning to like olives, key lime pie or modern jazz.

Anyway, in my 2013 quest for interesting Christmas music, I stumbled on some strange ones. Here, in no particular order, are 10 of them – my compendium of holiday oddities. A far cry from mature, but (I think) strangely awesome. My favourite is the rather racist ‘Dominick the Donkey.’

Cyndi Lauper’s Christmas Conga:

Los Del Rio’s Christmas Joy Macarena:

Run DMC’s Christmas in Hollis: 

Lou Monte’s Dominick the Donkey: 

Augie Rios’ Donde Esta Santa Claus: 

The Village People’s Disco Santa Claus: 

Bob Rivers’ I’m Dressin’ Up Like Santa (When I get out on parole): 

Bobby Helms’ Captain Santa Claus and His Reindeer Space Patrol: 

The Enchanters’ Mambo Santa Mambo: 

I hope these bring a smile to your face. They certainly brought a little jingle to my day. And if I don’t blog again, happy holidays to all!

My mémère made these singing Christmas mice

My mémère made these singing Christmas mice

The Paint Fairy

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Anyone who has ever read A Little Princess remembers the happy moment when the kind neighbour starts turning Sara Crewe’s cold attic into a cozy haven. She gets back after a day’s hard labour to find warm slippers, a comfy chair, and a hot dinner.

Well, JF and I have our own special benefactor: my amazing (generous, funny, smart) aunt JoAnne, a.k.a. the Paint Fairy.

The Paint Fairy comes into our house while we’re at work and makes magical things happen. First, she made our ugly purple stairs a more dignified black.

Left: purple city. Right: dignified black

Left: purple city. Right: dignified black

Then, she swapped our grimy yellow doors for neutral white ones.

Left: Yellow doors, white walls. Right: white doors, white walls.

Left: Yellow doors, white walls. Right: white doors, white walls.

She never drips, does as many coats as it takes, cleans everything up, and leaves nice notes on the kitchen table.

She also (I suspect) does far more than she lets on. Something tells me all the trim in the hallway is looking fresher than before, and I’m pretty sure those exposed pipes were a dirty brown.

The Paint Fairy’s gifts – time and energy – are infinitely better than money under my pillow or presents under my tree, because they make my too looooong to do list that much shorter. And they instantly put me in a good mood when I get home.

Because she won’t let me thank her with money or presents (she’s granted me dinner at our place… pretty sure she’s never sampled my cooking) I want to thank her here.

Merci, ma tante, pour ton merveilleux cadeau. Je t’aime.

If there were more paint fairies out there, the world would be a happier place.

Decking the halls

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Confession: I am a serious Christmas-lover. When I was little, there was nothing I liked more than decking our halls with plastic greenery and felt snowflakes – sometimes as early as November 1.

Now, as a mature adult, I show a bit more restraint – I usually wait until December 1 to admit to Christmasholism. But with this weekend’s dreamy snow, I’ve cracked early.

A hallway with three red stockings hung on a bannister.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to hang our stockings – the third one is for our fake dog, Nessie.

My name is Mikaela, and I have an embarrassingly large Christmas CD collection and far too many butter-stained, dog-eared spiced cookie recipes.

When JF and I first did a tour of our Elmvale house, I could picture it draped in cedar garland and imagined a fir wreath with a big, red bow on the door. It was July.

So you can imagine how pretty, fluffy snow puts a jingle in my step.

Red victorian house covered in snow

I took this photo of our house at 9 a.m. this morning.

This week, a nice handyman will install Christmas lights all along our roofline. Next weekend I’m going to the Elmvale craft sale, decorating our house from top to bottom, and putting Nat King Cole’s Christmas Song back on my ipod. I might even watch Home Alone.

Home Sick

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This morning, I woke up with a runny nose and a big lump in my throat. After about ten minutes of trying to remember what day it was, I realized I couldn’t face a full day of using my brain. So I called in sick. And then I did what I’m sure every 29-year-old woman does on a sick day; I called my mom.

At this moment, my mother is making what she calls and “immune-boosting” soup with kale and about a dozen onions. I am sitting in front of her fireplace, curled up on her comfiest chair. I look like shit and there’s a big pile of used Kleenex next to me, but it sure beats sitting at home.

A view of the fireplace

Sitting comfortably at my mom’s

Why would I rather be here? Well aside from the obvious nice company, toasty fire and great food, being at my mom’s means not doing housework.

Sitting on my own couch, I can’t help constantly contemplating what task most needs doing in our clunker of a home. There’s the everyday stuff like laundry, raking leaves and cooking. But it’s the once-in-awhile jobs that get me – stuff like sharpening my garden shears and repainting trim. Together, they make my to do list gargantuan.

I have a theory that the constant housework (and stressing about housework yet to be done) has made me ill. I’m literally home sick.

I really don’t know how grownups do the whole homeownership thing and still find time to exercise, go on dates, or call friends. Either they are better, faster and stronger human beings, or I am way more anal than I thought I was. It might be the latter, since JF has actually said the words “you have to lower your standards.”

Perhaps this illness is my body’s way of saying: “slow down – I am going to implode!” or maybe “you should eat better and exercise more!” or even “your house will never look like Elle Décor anyway!” Or maybe it’s just that the flu is going around. Time will tell. In the meantime, I’m going to eat some of my mom’s soup.

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My mom’s immune-boosting soup

Unlearning what I have learned

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Tonight, mom and I went to Hope Lives Here, a fundraiser for the Georgian Bay Cancer Support Centre. The big room was filled with people celebrating cancer patients and survivors – bound together by shared experience.

I was moved by stories of courage, loss and, most of all, hope. I was also a bit overwhelmed by faces from my past.

If you aren’t from a small town, here’s what it’s like: there’s no use hiding in the bathroom when you’re guaranteed to know the woman peeing next to you.

If you were a total misfit and weirdo most of your youth (ahem), this lack of anonymity can be trying. But most of the time, it’s nice to feel connected to those around you. I think that’s what most mean when they use the word community: people who share a common story.

When I first moved to Toronto, I made eye contact with everyone I passed on the sidewalk, talked to anyone I rode more than two floors with in an elevator, and always made friends with seatmates on the subway, whether they smelled like garbage or not.

Fast-forward to now. The chatty salesperson trying to recommend a product makes me want to claw my eyes out. The old lady asking me where I got my coat gives me tappy-foot syndrome.  The waitress who can’t stop talking about the weather is deeply irritating.

My ability to remain disconnected from (or inability to connect with?) people I bump into every day is sad. In the words of Yoda, I must unlearn what I have learned.

This event was a good start. A reminder of the importance of community – in helping people heal, giving us purpose, and bringing our days meaning. I’m going to carry that lesson in my back pocket these next few weeks and see where it takes me.