A La Carte

Ken and I don't cook for ourselves much these days. We're just too tuckered out by 6pm to face shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Maybe we should try harder. Sometimes I think so. But it's so much easier to pay someone else to hand over a plate of food.

Sometimes we throw caution to the winds and eat whatever. All day breakfast with really fatty salty bacon. Big, juicy burgers with fries and onion rings. Chinese food glossy with oil and cornstarch. Last time we went to Asian Legend, the lemon chicken was like a sweet, citrusy chicken donut covered in gooey sauce. At a certain point "decadent" becomes "gross".

For my birthday we went to Baton Rouge, the ultimate Canadian slightly-classy pig-out destination. They specialize in grilled meats, especially ribs, served on large oval platters with your choice of sides, usually a pile of fries big enough to choke a horse. This one time I was eating dinner there, and a horse actually came in, gobbled all the fries off my plate in one mouthful, and then choked to death right there on the floor. No one was willing to attempt mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Well, it seriously could have happened.

Like I said, it was my birthday. We showed up on a Monday, which happens to be the day for discounts. 10 oz. of ribs usually goes for $19 and 16 oz. is usually $25, I think, but on Mondays the 16 oz. is only $ 20. So of course I ordered the larger portion. That's why doggie bags were invented.

We also ordered up a couple of strawberry Daiquiri's. If you can believe it, neither of us had ever tried one before. They are very easy to drink. I could barely taste the rum. We waited for our food to arrive. Ken took advantages of pauses in the conversation to thoughtfully lick sugar crystals off the rim of his glass.

Ken ordered a second Daiquiri when we were partway through our meal. He said that it tasted stronger than the first one. By the time he got to the bottom of the glass, he was claiming that either they made that one a triple or someone had slipped him a roofie. He did seem a little loopy.

"You've seen me drink!" he said. "I can have six drinks before I get tipsy!" I'm not sure sure about that. The fact is that when you're at home on your couch, drinking to unknot a stiff back at the end of a long day, it's a lot easier to miss how tipsy you're getting because you're not expected to get up and walk around, or carry on a civilized conversation. Ken doesn't drink all the time, don't get me wrong, but when he has one of his nights I do notice that the Most Watched YouTube videos suddenly seem much funnier to him than usual. By which I mean, there is uninhibited giggling. Therefore: tipsy!

But not after only two drinks. This was something unusual.

Fortunately we were within walking distance from home. On the way back I held Ken's elbow just in case. He walked in a gentle slalom pattern, and serenaded me with an improvised song about how there are a lot of condos.

I wonder what the hell Baton Rouge put in that drink.

A meadow on the bureau

The other day Ken and I were cleaning out that cabinet under the sink: the one where you throw odd-shaped kitcheny things that you almost never use. He held up a turquoise glass vase that I'd gotten for $5 at Ikea years ago and asked Do we still need this? I said Not really, I only hung onto it from when we used to live close to that flower store and you'd bring me armloads of flowers every few weeks.

Two days later, I came home to find this scene on my bureau. That's my Ken! He doesn't do anything by halves.

Incidentally, the painting was made by Ken's father. I was allowed to go into his studio one time and pick out a painting for myself for my birthday, out of dozens of oils, watercolours and ink sketches piled up against the walls. It was a tough choice to make because they're all this beautiful.

***

I found out last week that my step-dad has Congestive Heart Failure. Technically, it's not a big surprise. He's 72; his mother had her first heart attack in her 60's; and his idea of following a "healthy diet" has been low-carb, high-fat for the last few years. He's a card-carrying member of both the Mayonnaise Fan Club and the Butter Appreciation Society. When I was a kid, he'd always insist that my mom put "gravy" on his meat: his name for the 100% liquid fat drippings from the bottom of the roasting pan. It's frankly amazing that he didn't clog up his arteries sooner than this.

Still, he's my dad. I love him, and getting a strong reminder of his mortality is sobering. He's gotta go sometime, and 72 is already a fairly respectable age to have reached, but that's not going to make losing him hurt much less when it happens.

How much danger is he actually in? That's anyone's guess. Some patients with CHF go on for years, after surgery, or managed on medication, to finally be done in by other causes. It doesn't have to be fatal. On the other hand, one of the potential symptoms is listed as "sudden death".

The truth is, my step-dad is one of those selectively brilliant guys. He's a successful businessman, and reads widely on a number of academic subjects. He's also that guy who might try to back up on the highway if he misses his exit. Sometimes he's unbelievably dense.

(I'm always surprised that he's survived his own terrible driving habits. One time he took Ken to hit a few golf balls at the driving range. He asked Ken, who was in the passenger seat, to take the wheel from him for a minute while he did something that required both hands. Ken proceeded to steer the car all the way to the driving range, a 20-minute trip, while my step-dad worked the gas and the brake. What was so important that my step-dad needed both his hands free during this long interval? He wanted to shell and eat a hard-boiled egg which he had in his shirt-pocket in a plastic baggie. I rest my case.)

On Friday Ken and I went out for Japanese food with my step-dad. I watched him pour at least a tablespoon of soy sauce into his miso soup, which is already basically a salt broth with a little reconstituted seaweed floating in it. I didn't say anything, but later I sent him an e-mail with a link to a medical website that states CHF patients need to reduce their sodium intake. I knew that before I looked it up. He knows it already. I'm not sure if he was being absentminded, living in denial, or feeling like he just didn't care at that moment. It's impossible to tell.

Anyway, one thing's for sure, and that's that no one can control my step-dad. He's one of those guys that really does do what he wants, and doesn't much care what other people think. In some ways it's admirable, and in some ways it's maddening. But it's who he is, and I love him. So I guess we'll just see how things go.

Pants on the Ground

I work for a family business. Sometimes that's a fantastic bonus, and sometimes it's just too much. Ken works for the same business, in a freelance capacity, from a home office. So when things are crazy at work it means:

I work all day. Then I go home, and talk about work with Ken. Then I walk around my home, and there are constant visual reminders of work from Ken's files and equipment lying around. The phone rings. It's my step-dad. First he talks to me about work. Then he talks to Ken about work. Our home is small enough that even though Ken takes the call in the other room, I can still hear every word he's saying (about work) while I'm in the other room trying to watch TV or fold the laundry in peace.

On special occasions I get together with my family, and talk about work with my uncle.

Lately, things at work have been totally off the hook. I've been bellyaching here for weeks about my work stress, and this week is exactly the same. My overall state of mind can be encapsulated by one word:
ZOMG!!!1!!!

*sigh*

I won't bore you with the details. God knows, I have certainly talked enough about work lately (see above). So I'll tell you about something else. All you regular readers know that Ken is a prince who consistently spoils me rotten. Well, I finally got a chance to do something for him.

However hard I've worked lately, he's worked harder. More hours, more responsibility, tighter deadlines. His attache case broke, his clipboard broke, and he hasn't had time to replace them. He's eating so little due to stress and lack of time that he's shed enormous amounts of weight, but he hasn't had time to buy any new clothes. Last weekend his belt was on the last notch, and he was headed directly for a Pants On the Ground situation.

He's not working seven full days per week, but when he does have downtime, he's down. The man is on the couch, in a daze, catching his breath.

I decided to go shopping, to help him out.

Replacing the attache case and clipboard was easy. Then I headed into Old Navy to purchase some pants. That was significantly more complicated. Women's clothing manufacturers generally make pants in one length, (long), and expect you to hem them yourself. Or take them to a tailor. Old Navy's mens' pants come in a variety of waist sizes and a variety of inseam lengths. This creates a whole matrix of size options on a two-dimensional grid.

Because the available sizes can't be arranged in a linear fashion, finding a size is like finding a needle in a haystack. The clerks who stock the shelves can't seem to decide whether they're piling the pants by waist size or inseam. It's kind of random. Either that or the customers have been rearranging the display all week.

I dug through stacks of pants looking for sizes until I was sweating. Then I thought I might have better luck on the lower, less frequently-accessed shelves, so I got down on my knees, with my own super-low skinny jeans threatening to give me a case of plumber's butt, and used both hands to burrow through the piles.

I finally came up for air with two pairs of pants one size smaller and two pairs two sizes smaller than Ken's too-big pants. The colours were based entirely on size availability. (Black and beige - what other men's pants colours are there anyway? I can't think of any.)

I cashed out. I was sweaty, tired, and carrying a lot of bags by then. Yes, I'm small and pathetic. Yes, four pairs of pants and an attache case plus my coat and handbag was a lot to be carrying. But I persevered. I still needed to find a belt.

The belt quest was epic. I went from store to store, checking out belts and asking for help with sizing. Either there was nothing in Ken's size, or the belts were all the end-of-winter clearance super-ugly models (for example, white snakeskin), or they had giant buckles shaped like trucks or hundred-dollar bills, or they cost $150 before tax.

I walked through the whole mall before I finally got to The Bay and located a decent belt for $25. By then I was dehydrated, cranky, and my arms were aching. I stood in line at the cash for what seemed like forever, balancing my shopping bags, while some dude fussed over a return. Then, finally, I paid for the damn belt and got out of there.

I dragged my bags all the way home: a subway ride, and then a 20-minute walk. But it was all worthwhile. It made Ken happy. It also made me happy. He's been wearing his new pants, which look much more flattering than his old ones, which were so big on him they were starting to look like clown pants. He's been using his new bag and clipboard. And it was about time I got a chance to do something for him, for a change.

Fighting

I'm a moderately confrontational person. At work, as a manager, I have to confront people now and then. I don't look forward to it, but if it has to be done I'll pull up my socks and do it. One of my bosses likes to know that I can "be a bulldog" when he needs me to. So, GRRRRRR!

With friends and family I'm a lot more likely to avoid uncomfortable issues. I hate fighting. It's such a painful, raw process. And when I'm not in a position of authority, I'm vulnerable.

Fighting with Ken is the worst of all. I usually don't talk about our conflicts on my blog. A) It wouldn't be fair to him because you'd only be getting my side of the story and B) he reads this blog so he'd know if I were whining to the world at large. I like that he reads here. It keeps me honest and accountable. His rule is that I can write anything about him that's true. I think that's more than fair.

We fight around once every couple of weeks. I think that's probably normal. Do you fight with your significant other, those of you who have them, more or less than that?

Ken and I have a co-dependent relationship. Full on, in your face, we are totally wrapped up in each other to the point where sometimes we drive each other crazy. Each of us finds it impossible to pull back to an emotional distance that would allow us not to worry about what the other one is feeling.

For my part, if Ken is upset, I'm upset. I can pretend to be Even Steven, going about my business, but if he's stressed out, I can't keep my head on straight for long. I'm worrying about him, suffering with him, feeling his feelings, and generally freaking out. I can't "be strong" for him in a reliable way if he's upset for more than a couple of hours. Intellectually I realize that this is screwed up, and I should be able to do better, but even my stubborn will isn't enough to make that happen. I fall into the same hole every time, even when I can see it coming.

Ken has his own way of being entwined with me. He's great at staying strong and comforting when I'm down. In fact, he never fails to rise to the occasion when I need someone to cling to. He's good at taking care of people; he's done it all his life. He has his own soft spots that make him sensitive. No matter what I may feel is true, I've re-worded the sentences numerous times but I still don't feel I have the right to expose Ken by listing the specifics.

Let's just say when we fight, it's awful. We don't enjoy making playful , witty jabs at each other. Neither of us gets a high from being self-righteous or sadistic. It's pure misery.

Usually it ends with Ken saying he can't take anymore. He puts his shoes on and goes for a long walk. This is an improvement from the days when he used to get into his car and drive like a maniac to blow off steam. At least I know that he'll probably come home safe from his walk, and that he won't go far.

It's also an improvement that I let him go. I used to go wild when he headed for the door, overcome by my terror of abandonment. It's been enough years, and enough fights, that I know it's best for him to go get some fresh air, and space. I've learned to trust that he'll come back.

And usually by the time he comes back, we've both calmed down. A little time and distance, even 3/4 of an hour, can work magic. And in the worst case scenario, if he goes to bed angry, he'll wake up as cheerful and fresh the next morning as if the fight never happened. I've never known him to hold onto a conflict overnight.

I'm different. If I go to bed sulking, I wake up sulking. I come from a long line (on my mother's side) of champion grudge-holders. Ken is more the type to explode in the moment, and then when it's over, it's over.

My father (who reads this blog: Hi Father!) says that it's actually good for couples to fight on a regular basis. It allows accumulated tensions from the relationship to be blown off, so they don't pile up too high. In the long run it's healthier for the relationship.

How do you fight?

Night BBQ

The other day I wandered into the kitchen at 6:40 am, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. I had washed up all the dishes before I went to bed. Now there was a plate with BBQ sauce on it, and an empty Styrofoam meat tray in the trash.

Looks like Ken had himself a little midnight snack.

Later in the day I mentioned it to him. He told me that he got hungry at 11:30 pm, and took a walk to the 24-hour supermarket to buy himself a steak.

When he got home he suddenly began to worry that perhaps our condo complex might have a rule about BBQ use. We do have quite a few rules, like no roller blading on the property, parking restrictions, etc. But I've never heard one about BBQ's.

Anyway, he didn't want to cook the steak on the stove, because that would heat up the house, and plus, it would be so much less delicious. So he used our BBQ, which is on the front patio, but anytime he heard a car coming down the driveway he ducked down and hid.

I could just imagine him crouching down stealthily, tongs in one hand, saucy brush in the other, waiting for each car to pass. That's my man: Master of Ninja Stealth Cooking!

He succeeded. No authorities came by to give him a $200 ticket for Outdoor Cookery at an Improper Hour. And I'm told that the steak was very yummy.

The Wedding Day Part 2

The Wedding Day Part 1 is here.

When we arrived at the church, everything was as it should be. The lovely, elderly woman who had volunteered to prepare tea and coffee for our reception was puttering around in the Fellowship Hall. There were several large, stainless-steel urns making loud bubbling and blurping noises. All the paper plates, napkins, etc. had been set out the night before by Ken and I. Our good friends J. and K. (a couple engaged to be married soon themselves) were ushering guests into the auditorium.

I have to pause here and say how grateful I am to the woman who made the tea. This is how sweet people are at our church: she hadn't even been introduced to us, but when she saw the announcement of our upcoming nuptials in the church bulletin she immediately called the pastor to volunteer her services. Words fail me here. How many people would step up with an offer like that for a couple they had never met? Would you? Would I?

I puttered around in the Fellowship Hall while the auditorium filled up, periodically stepping out of my shoes to rest my feet. After having been on my feet for over an hour at the Allan Gardens photo shoot, my toes were in pain. Shape of shoes: triangular. Shape of feet: rectangular. Ow.

Pretty soon I got my cue. Go time! The pianist played, the doors swung open, and all heads turned to watch the wedding party walk up the aisle.

We had arranged our wedding with the elder of the two pastors at our church. He's a white haired, bearded gentleman with a peaceful demeanor, somewhat reminiscent of Santa Claus. We had had several meetings to go over what he might say during the ceremony, and to clarify which vows we wanted.

Ken and I both agreed that we wanted traditional vows. Pastor B. offered us a few different wordings of traditional-style vows, and we selected one. Ken requested one change: instead of "for all the days of our lives" he wanted to say "until death do us part". He's hardcore like that, and I guess I am too because I agreed.

We'd gone back and forth with the pastor on the vows, not because we couldn't make up our minds, but because he kept getting the different vows confused. We'd say "OK, we agreed on Vow A" and he'd come back to us three days later saying "I'm just confirming that you wanted Vow B" and we'd have to go over it all again. Each time he forgot which vows we wanted he offered us a different alternate. That morning, I said to Ken "I think we might get random vows today." He agreed that it was likely. Oh well, what can you do?

However, Pastor B. got the vows right, and all was well.

Then Pastor K. stepped up to speak. Yes, we had both pastors at the wedding. Pastor K. had asked if he might be there to say a few words and support us. Again with the volunteers! Of course, we were happy to have him participate. The more the merrier.

Pastor K. said a few things about the sanctity of marriage and this and that. I was having a little trouble concentrating because my feet were distracting me. He was all "On this most important, momentous day in your relationship" and I was busy fidgeting my toes, which had gone numb inside my pointy shoes.

What was that he was saying as I tried to work some circulation back into my poor pinky toe? "So many marriages end in divorce. Half of all marriages!" I thought to myself: why are we talking about divorce NOW of all times? Come on, not now! He had my attention. Then he went on a bit about how divorce was all Satan's fault, and I squirmed inwardly as I thought of all my atheist/agnostic/new age friends sitting in the pews. Pastor K. is a bit of a Bible-thumper, and he was getting revved up.

"What are they thinking?" I wondered. If it were me a couple of years ago in their shoes, I'd be rolling my eyes. Fortunately Pastor K. wrapped up his preaching in fairly short order, reminding us to centre our lives on Jesus to guarantee the success of our marriage. I could go for that.

We exchanged rings, kissed, signed the register and phew! We were done! Pastor B. introduced us as a married couple. "...until one of them lovingly lays the other back into the earth." In the moment after he said that I felt profoundly sad, and very impacted by the reality of the vows we had just made. But there was no time to dwell on it. Much more urgently, it was time for cake.

Around 50 people poured into the Fellowship Hall. There was much hugging, kissing, handshaking, and chatter. The piano player livened up the atmosphere. The cake and two tarts were cut and eaten. The guestbook was signed.

The only two people who didn't bother to greet Ken and I along the receiving line were my new mother-in-law and younger brother-in-law. Yeah. I don't know what their problem was. They both avoided me until I went to each of them to say hello. A small sour blot on an otherwise perfect day.

At 4:45 pm the last folks were saying their goodbyes. By 5:00 pm Ken and I thanked our tea and cake volunteers once again, and headed out. The perfect weather had lasted until just about the time that our reception ended. As we left, the wind picked up, the clouds rolled in, and rain wasn't very far behind. But we'd had our perfect wedding day. What more could we have asked for?

The Wedding Day Part 1

A few days before the wedding I stopped by my local supermarket to pick up a loaf of rye bread. The cashier was a friendly guy I've seen a few times before. We made small talk. I asked him if he'd seen the weather forecast for Saturday. High of 25 degrees Celsius (that's 77 F) and sunny! He handed me my change with a weary smile and went on to the next customer. I didn't get a chance to explain that I wasn't just one more boring drone with nothing better to talk about than the weather.

All last week I looked for him, wanting to explain - I got married on Saturday! That's why I was so jazzed about the weather! Really, I have better things to talk about, usually! I didn't see him and I'm sure he's long since forgotten.

But DANG! What weather we had for that day. Special-ordered just for us.

I got up at 6:30 am to beautify myself and steam the crinkles out of my chiffon gown. We left on time, at the dot of 9:30. I tottered down to the parking garage in my white heels, feeling incredibly self-conscious, hoping not to run into any of the neighbours.

Ken had rented a big, fancy, black car to chauffeur me around. Our first order of business was to stop by the church and set the cake out to warm up. The baker had told me in no uncertain terms:

"This is buttercream icing. If you don't take the cake out to warm up at least four hours before you serve it, the icing texture will be all wrong, like a thick layer of cold butter. It'll be disgusting."

Ever since then, many of my pre-wedding nightmares, the kind that woke me sweating at 3:31 am, brain whirling like a gerbil on crack in a greased exercise wheel, were based on a horror of not getting the cake out of the fridge in time. I worried about it more than anything else. The pastor had offered to swing by the church to take the cake out for us, so we wouldn't have to worry about it, but I didn't trust his memory. (He's a sweet man, but somewhat disorganized, by his own admission.) When Ken returned to the car to let me know that the cake had made a successful transition upstairs and was now warming itself in the lounge, a huge weight lifted off my shoulders.

By 11:00 we were at the Allan Gardens greenhouse, meeting our intrepid photographer. The next hour was spent posing in front of palm trees, ornamental ponds, colourful blossoms, and cacti. Good times. I enjoyed playing the part of Toronto's Next Top Model, and Ken was very dapper in his suit.

As time wore on we all got a bit sweaty, especially Ken in his suit and tie. A greenhouse is meant to heat up in the sun, and, as the clock ticked towards noon, the temperature soared. By the end I think it was probably more than 30 degrees (86 F), and humid. Fortunately we had brought lots of bottled water, so there was no fainting or other unpleasantness.

Finally we crawled out of the oven, gasping for fresh air. Mission accomplished.

I've already written about our issues with traffic. However, a benefit of having to detour all the way to Dufferin to get uptown was that we changed our lunch plans. The strategy, for the sake of speed, had been to stop by home and quickly eat a ham sandwich with carrot sticks, before heading back to the church. This would ensure that we'd get something in our stomachs even if traffic was really bad, and had the added benefit of not posing any threat of staining my dress.

But we were driving north up Dufferin. That meant passing right by California Sandwich, and Ken doesn't like to drive past California Sandwich. Especially not at lunchtime. So he parked, left me in the car with the radio on, and ran in to buy us two enormous Italian sandwiches with lots of toppings.

At home I tied a flannel sheet around my neck as a full-body bib, and put that sandwich away like nobody's business. Such a delicate, ladylike bride, covered up to my wrists with tomato sauce, sauteed mushrooms dripping onto my plate. Hey, it was a long day to get through, and a girl's gotta eat!

Fortunately Ken has more than one good suit, because he'd sweated right through the one he wore to the greenhouse. He showered and changed into his second outfit of the day. I washed my face and re-did my makeup. Then we were off to the church.

Oops

You know how preparing for a wedding can put a relationship in a pressure cooker? If you don't, take my word for it.

Back at the end of March, Ken and I had a difference of opinion. There were some WORDS and some hurt feelings. In the final analysis, Ken decided that I was right to be angry with him because of something he said or did - I don't even remember now - so he made me an offer I've always refused.

"Hit me!" he said. "Just give me a good smack. It'll make us both feel better, and then we'll be even again."

In the past I've always said that it was a silly idea and I couldn't possibly. But this time, I was pretty ticked off, so I went ahead and hit him. Not in the face! Good grief - do you think I'm that vicious? I pummeled his sides with the palms of my hands, smack-'em-up style, with what I estimated to be moderate force. He didn't even say "ow". There were no marks, no bruises.


A couple of days later, when he complained that his ribs hurt, I assumed that he had pulled a muscle coughing. (His asthma's been acting up in the past few weeks, possibly from pre-wedding stress.) His ribs hurt quite badly for a couple of days, and then it started to ease up, relatively speaking. I say "relatively" because he hadn't found time to get to the doctor for his asthma, and all the coughing kept re-aggravating his injury.

Last week he finally went to the doctor. And was sent immediately to the x-ray department. Although we haven't gotten the official results back yet, the doctor seemed to think that he has at least one cracked rib. Not from coughing.

From DOMESTIC VIOLENCE.

OMG.

When Ken told me that I had broken his ribs, I felt sick. How could it be true? I'm undeniably a featherweight weakling. My arms are so skinny that I have to get links taken out of my bracelets so they'll stay on my weeny wrists. An eight-year-old once dead-lifted me clean off my feet. A GIRL eight-year-old! I can't open jars by myself! How could I have broken Ken?

I sank to the floor and cried bitter tears of regret. How could I do this to us just before our wedding? On the day of the x-rays, because he'd been forced to contort his body to get good angles for the x-ray tech, he was in severe pain. Standing hurt. Driving hurt. Everything hurt. I freaked out. That freaked him out.

With all the stress his airways squeezed shut even more, and he launched into the worst coughing fit I'd ever heard since we both got mold-poisoning from a contaminated humidifier. In between gasping for breath and barking coughs, he moaned in pain. Every groan and wheeze was like a knife in my heart.

Neither of us slept much that night. That was Tuesday.

Since then, things have gotten a lot better all around. Ken is on stronger asthma medication, which is bringing his breathing back under control. And the pain which resulted from his contortions in the x-ray machine has diminished considerably. He's still in pain, but it's no longer excruciating.

A doctor explained to us that ribs have some weak points, and hitting them at the wrong angle can cause a break without much force. I guess we just had bad luck.

But in the final analysis, this whole fiasco has had a good result. It's brought Ken and I closer together. This is the worst thing I've ever done to him, intentional or unintentional, and he forgave me without any hesitation. In fact, his exact words were "It's not your fault. There's nothing to forgive."

Technically that might be true, but there are a lot of people who would feel justified holding a grudge even if it was entirely an accident.

On this blog I have shared the good news when Ken brings me flowers, or showers me with gifts, or cooks me a gourmet dinner. But nothing he's ever done for me or given me has been as precious a gift as this instantaneous, complete, unconditional, and unquestioned forgiveness. Even as he was doubled over in pain, almost unable to breathe, he forgave me. It's a blessing beyond compare.

Ken will still be a bit sore on our wedding day, but if we're sticking together in sickness and in health, what better way to prove it? And if anyone feels that's not a good enough excuse, I'll just tell them I had to beat him up and drug him to get him up the aisle.

In closing, consider this a warning. Obviously I'm a raging angerball, endowed with supernatural strength. So watch what you say in the comments, or I'll find out where you live and beat you up next! Grrrrrrr....

Ken's Driving Miracles

Ken would like me to share the stories of his recent miracles. You may wish to argue the classification "miracle", but Ken won't be dissuaded, I assure you. And where do I stand on the matter? Perhaps that will come clear in the telling.

Miracle #1

Ken is driving home at around two o'clock in the morning on a weeknight. He's been out socializing, and he has drunk at four, maybe five vodka and cranberries over the course of the evening. He's sure about the fact that he's not sober, but he's feeling lucky. He'll drive himself home. Everything will be fine.

He takes the car up the on-ramp to the Don Valley Parkway. (This highway is affectionately known as the Don Valley Parking Lot during Toronto rush hours, but at this time of night it's wide open.) Ken gets ready to accelerate, but as he rounds a corner the flashing lights of numerous police cars catch his attention. It's a R.I.D.E.* check. They wave him over.

Ken plays it cool, but inwardly he's panicking. How much did he have to drink exactly? How long has it been? Not long enough. Depending on what happens in the next few minutes they might press charges against him, impound his car, any number of horrible things.

An officer approaches the car. Asks the usual rote questions. Have you been drinking tonight, sir? Offers the Breathalyzer to blow into. Ken blows. The officer checks the readout, and an odd look crosses his face. Ken composes his face into an impassive mask, waiting for the judgement to fall. The officer turns the Breathalyzer around so that Ken can see the readout.

It says 0.00. This indicates an alcohol level of absolutely nil.

Well, says the officer, I suppose it's been some time since your last drink. Yes, I guess so, lies Ken. Then they set him free to drive his tipsy self the rest of the way home.

2:44 am - I am woken by a very excited Ken, exulting about a miracle but he'll tell me in the morning. Grrrrrnnnnnhh, I say, and fall back asleep.

The next morning, Ken tells me his story. He's all "Isn't that a great miracle?" I'm all "You drove home after how many vodka and cranberries?"

So after he has dissuaded me from strangling him, and after I have fetched the Bible and made him solemnly swear on it to never drive after more than one drink ever again, we debrief. It seems to both of us that this is a warning, direct from The Big Guy. Ken got off easy this time, but he's not going to press his luck again. He swore to it.


Miracle #2

Ken and I are driving around on Saturday, doing some errands. Randomly, in the middle of the day, the right-hand turn signal stops working. The clicker sounds different, so we can both tell something is wrong. Ken makes a mental note to fix it as soon as possible, but in the meantime we continue with our day.

We stay out for dinner, and head home after dark. Once again, we're driving on the DVP. Ken's behind the wheel, as usual.

Just as randomly as it stopped working, the right-hand turn signal starts working again.

Five minutes later, a white Acura gets in front of our car and sits there. There's not much space between the two cars. I know it's dangerous based on the speed we're travelling. Ken signals to change lanes, and then moves over. The Acura moves over to and stays right in front of us. Ken switches back and the Acura cuts us off again.

We stay stuck behind the Acura, boxed in by other cars, for enough time to really get Ken's blood boiling. Finally a space opens up to our right: a new lane with no other cars in it all the way to our turn-off. Ken swerves into the lane and floors the accelerator. The pack of cars we were stuck in fades to a speck in the rearview mirror within moments. Shortly thereafter, Ken brakes hard to slow for a red light at the end of the off-ramp.

A car pulls up beside us. It's an O.P.P. cruiser (that's the Ontario Provincial Police), with the lights flashing. He waves us over to the side of the road.

Ken pulls over. We sit very quietly as we wait the obligatory stomach-churning five minutes for the officer to run a check on our plates. I have never been in a pulled-over car before. I will learn later that Ken knew he had accelerated up to 140 Km/h in a 90 Km/h zone. At 50 Km/h over the speed limit, he could be charged with speed racing and lose his license permanently.

"I shouldn't have gotten frustrated," he says to himself. "I shouldn't have let that guy tick me off."

Finally the officer comes over to the car for a chat. Ken explains the situation and admits that he shouldn't have acted out his frustration. Once again, he looks cool as a cucumber, and suitably contrite. On the inside, he's freaking out. He's ready for them to throw the book at him.

The officer is a nice guy. He says that he's just concerned for our safety. It's Saturday night, there are drunks on the road, and there's also a wind warning making it harder for people to control their cars. "One little slip at that speed, or someone gets into your lane..." he shakes his head. I guess he's seen the worst before.

"I'm not going to give you a ticket tonight," he says. "Just drive safely." Ken doesn't need to be told twice. The officer pulls out with his lights on and blocks a lane of traffic so that we can merge safely. Then we're on our way. The worst speeding offense possible under the law, and we got off with a warning.

Not only that, but the turn signal was working. We could have gotten a ticket for that too.

"Wow." says Ken. "Wow!"

All the way home, at intervals he would start shaking his head, smiling, and saying "Wow" over and over again. We got home. He parked. "Wow," he said as we got out of the car. Back in our house, as he was taking off his shoes: "Wow." As I got ready to go to bed, I could hear him muttering "Wow" to himself still.

We debriefed, and figured again that this was a message from Above warning Ken to stay safe. "I will not speed like that again," he promised. "I've learned my lesson. I won't expect a miracle every time."

_____________________________
*Reduce Impaired Driving Everywhere

Change for the Better

So do you remember that post about how I was sad because I couldn't invite my family to my wedding?  And how I said that Ken and I both agreed that it was for the best and he wasn't going to invite his family either?

Well...  The truth is more along these lines: I wanted to be able to invite at least my parents, but Ken felt very strongly otherwise.  So strongly, in fact, that in the end I agreed with him in order to put an end to his distress.  He doesn't have a big family, and the idea of inter-familial tensions on our big day totally freaked him out.  I didn't want him to be miserable about the prospect, and I thought that he did have a point about people possibly not getting along, so I agreed to his wishes.

Not only that, but I figured that if I agreed, the decision became my responsibility too.  So I didn't run around telling everyone "Ken won't let me invite you".  I said that we had made a decision together and we both agreed that it was for the best.  I mean, it's our wedding.  If I can't make a show of solidarity around that, what's the point?

And I was cool with that.  Sad, yes, but accepting of the situation.  Ken lets me have my way 95% of the time, so when he feels really strongly about something I certainly don't resent compromising for him. 

Then.  Then he changed his mind.

Now, let's press the pause button a moment here.  Before you judge Ken, you should know that for every finger I'm pointing at Ken right now I've got way more than four pointing back at me.  In the history of our relationship, I'm the waffler.  Lately not so much, but in our early years Ken put up with time after time when I'd drive him crazy by changing my mind on important issues.  He owes me more than one.

Still.  This is major crazy-making material here.  I was all "Aaaaaah!  Dude, you are really messing with my feelings here!"  I mean, I'd spent all this time trying to find just the right words in order to let my friends and family down gently.  Even so it broke my heart to hear the disappointment of my three at-the-time not-invited parents when they found out they were being were excluded.  My friends all tried to be understanding, but I could see it made them melancholy.  That was some tough emotional drama, and it was all for nothing?

Then I calmed down and realized that this means I get to invite some people that I couldn't invite before, and decided to just be relieved and happy that it turned out this way.  We sure took the long way round getting here, but we're here nonetheless.

Ken decided that he wants to invite his parents, his brother, and a couple of friends.  That means that I get to invite all my parents and my good friends too.  Hurray!  Well, we left it kind of late, so my birth father and step-mom have already made an unchangeable work commitment for that weekend... so they won't be there.  *sadness*  But at least my step-dad will be there.  And it'll be really sweet to have my friends too.

For the record, the reason Ken re-thought the whole idea was that we learned around one month ago that his Dad's cancer came back.  He's in treatment now, but no one knows exactly how this will play out.  Somewhere along the line, Ken's wish for his Dad to be present at our wedding overrode his fears of family strife.  And lo a happy ending: love conquers fear, this time.  Thank God.

And if any of you are prayer-sayers, you might want to say one for Ken's dad Drew and the whole family.  They can use all the support they can get.

Timing is Everything

Ken and I have been living together for seven years now. Why, you might ask, are we bothering to get married? And why now?

The breakup of my first marriage was truly traumatizing. Well, what divorce isn’t? I never realized until I went through it myself how divorce rips your guts out and leaves you, collapsed and hollow, trying to make sense of the wreckage of your life.

When I got married the first time I truly believed, with all of my heart, that I would keep my marriage vows. ‘Till death do us part, honour and cherish, the whole nine yards. And I really, truly tried. That marriage lasted for five years, and we had some good times, but in the end we could not make it work. I remember one time, at the end of another long argument, we both admitted that while we still loved one another, we also had grown to hate each other. I was losing my mind and my self in that marriage. For the sake of my survival, I couldn’t stay.

After that, the thought of remarrying seemed bizarre. If I had believed my vows with all my heart the first time, why should I trust myself any more now? We can’t see the future; can’t see all the ways in which mates will change and possibly grow apart. For a long time it was all I could do just to take one day at a time, to get out of bed, go to work and keep my apartment clean. There was no such thing as Forever anymore.

Also, I felt that I couldn’t promise anyone that I would be there for them, to support them through thick and thin. I could barely care for myself. My emotional life, for a long time, consisted primarily of sadness, despair, anger, and frustration. How could I promise to love someone for better or for worse? I was in the middle of my own worse. I didn’t believe that I had enough left to give, or that I could be resilient enough to withstand the misfortunes of another person on top of my own.

When Ken and I were still fairly new to the idea that our relationship was a serious one, he used to promise me that even if I got really sick or was crippled in a car wreck or if I lost my mind, he would still love me and care for me always. I was ashamed not to be able to return that promise. But at least I was honest. I wept and confessed that I wasn’t sure if I could do the same for him. He said “yes, you would”. He had more faith in me than I did.

The passage of time blunted the pain of my divorce. Ken had to ask me a few times, but I finally agreed to go with him to pick out an engagement ring. That was three years ago. We bought wedding bands quite soon after I started wearing my ring, but we never got around to actually picking a date.

Another part of the problem was that I didn’t want to have another wedding. I wanted to BE married, but the idea of planning a wedding completely turned me off. I’ve written about my first wedding, and how disappointing it was. I didn’t want a repeat of that experience, but the thought of going down to City Hall to sign a paper with no ceremony whatsoever seemed meaningless. I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything.

Finding my faith, and my church, has made all the difference.

First of all, now that I know God is on my side, listening to my prayers and ready to lend me all the grace that I need to get through life, I’m ready to face the scariness of making a lifelong commitment. If Ken got really sick, or went senile, it wouldn’t be easy, but I trust that I would be able to get through it with God’s grace and support. I could keep my vows. I don’t have to believe in my own strength and tenacity. Or I do, to some extent, but I also trust God to meet me halfway, or more than halfway if I need it.

Secondly, we now have a meaningful place and way to get married. Of course we will be married in our church, by the pastor whom we trust. It won’t just be an administrative exercise of signing forms and making a change to our legal status. It will be a spiritual experience, which we undertake in part because we hope that it will be pleasing to God. This is entirely different from my first wedding, which was more of a staged ritual for the benefit of our audience than it was for myself and my first husband.

I am looking forward to this wedding with more joy and less stress than that with which I anticipated the first one. Nine weeks to the big day – and I’m sure they’ll fly by.

Driving a Hard Bargain

Scene: a family-owned local business.  Ken finds his item and puts it on the counter.  There are two guys working there, both in their mid-to-late 20's.  One is working the cash register, the other is nearby, just hanging out.

Guy at the cash:  Hey, Trev, is this on sale?

Trev (the hanging out guy):  It should be.  Everything from that section is on sale.

Cash guy:  How much discount?

Trev:  *shrugs*  Thirty percent?

Cash guy:  That sounds about right.  *To Ken* Does that sound good to you?

Ken: *sensing an opportunity*  How about forty percent?

Cash guy and Trev glance at each other indecisively.

Ken:  How about this?  If I can beat you at Rock, Paper, Scissors, I get forty percent off.  If I lose, I'll take thirty.

Trev: *thinks for a moment* *nods*  OK, it's a deal.

Ken and Trev set themselves up face to face over the counter, and deterimine the rules (on the count of three, or after three?  After three.)

One!  Two!  Three!  Go!

Ken loses.  He grins, shakes his head, and accepts the thirty percent discount.   "Next time!" he says.

See what a good policy that store has?  You can bet that they'll be getting our repeat business.  They also told us their policy for one particularly popular item: if you can tell them an entertaining or unusual story, they'll give you ten percent off.  How can you not love this store?

And now, to another topic entirely.

I rarely post links to music, because it's one of those intensely personal things, where a song that rings your bell will leave me flat, and vice versa.  But I really like this song that a friend introduced me to, and it's relatively unknown.  Some of you might like it too.  I hope so.  Enjoy!

The Better Half

There's something missing from my last post.  In a committed relationship, it takes two people to make the important decisions.  So where is Ken in all this?

Ken's rule is that I can write anything about him in my blog, as long as it's true.  I was going to leave him out of the discussion, based on the urge to protect him from being blamed or scapegoated, but this topic is incomplete without him.

The bottom line for Ken is: he doesn't want to have kids.  He doesn't have moments of waffling, when he's around adorable babies or watching perfect families share warm moments on TV.  He doesn't even want to produce offspring as insurance against being alone in his old age.

Why is he so unmoved by the prospect of raising a family?  Because he spent too much time taking care of other people in his youth, and now he wants to have his life to himself.

Ken's older half-brother, now 38 to Ken's 34, is both physically and mentally disabled.  He has cerebral palsy, and has the intellectual age of a four-year-old, approximately.  Ken was made responsible for looking after his older brother, Gabe, ever since he can remember.  

Ken and Gabe's parents decided to put Gabe into the regular school system with other kids close to his age, perhaps in the hopes that this would stimulate his development.  Ken went to the same school.  Almost every day, the older kids would make fun of Gabe and push him around.  And every time, Ken would step in to try to defend his older brother - from the bigger kids.  Ken took abuse, both verbal and physical, from these older kids almost every day of his early school years.

He told his parents what was happening.  They were going through a hippie phase.  Their response: they advised Ken to be a pacifist.  I get angry every time I think about it.  They let him continue going to school to get beat up by older kids every day.  What's worse - the pummeling, or knowing that your parents aren't going to help you deal with it?

Ken didn't even get time off during summers.  Instead of enjoying leisure or having fun at summer camp, he was signed up by his parents as a volunteer for Gabe's "special" camp.  He spent all his summers helping disabled kids, who didn't all have sweet and sunny dispositions.  

When he grew to young adulthood, Ken often felt lost in the world.  He never had a chance to live for himself, to develop his own identity.  He didn't get a chance to try things out and decide what he liked or disliked, like most kids.  He started from a disadvantage, and he still feels like he's trying to catch up.

As if this wasn't enough, Ken's dad got really sick in 1999.  When I first met Ken, I was told that his dad was dying of cancer.  For two whole years, Ken's dad hovered at death's doorstep.  When he finally overcame the cancer, his liver and kidneys shut down due to a drug interaction, and he almost died from organ failure.

Ken took a minimum-wage job with flexible hours so that he could care for his father.  He spent every weekend for a year driving his dad to Buffalo and back again for special cancer treatments.  He couldn't afford to stay in a hotel while his dad spent the night in hospital, so he'd drive back home with just enough time to sleep, and then leave early the next morning to drive back, pick his dad up, and drive him back to Toronto again by nightfall.

When the cancer treatments were done, Ken spent hours by his dad's hospital bedside, throughout another whole year, praying and giving his dad hands-on energy healing.  His dad was in the palliative care ward at St. Michael's hospital. It's almost unheard of for patients to leave that ward alive, once they've been transferred in.  But Ken's dad inexplicably recovered.  His organs, slowly but surely, regenerated and began to work again.  The doctors called it a miracle.  Ken's dad attributes it to the hours of prayer and energy transfer.

Obviously, Ken is an incredibly caring and devoted man, when it comes to his loved ones.  No detail is too big or too small for him to attend to.  He has always treated me like royalty.

When we were first dating, he would bring me armloads of roses.  One dozen was never enough.  He would bring two or three dozen, in different colours.  I had vases all around my little apartment that were constantly filled.  He kept track of when the blooms would start wilting, and brought replacements.  I didn't know this at the time, but he sold almost his entire CD collection to the used CD store to pay for all the flowers.

Nothing much has changed to this day.  Ken bends himself over backwards to be the best husband he can possibly be.  He listens.  He volunteers backrubs.  He cooks fantastic feasts just for the two of us, and then insists on doing the dishes too.  He does more than his share of the housework.  He tucks a blanket around me while I'm on the sofa, watching TV.

Sure, he's not perfect.  We have fights a few times a year.  We get on each others' nerves sometimes.  But boy does he aim high!  I trust him completely and I never doubt his love.

When I occasionally bring up my broody impulses, he meets my eyes, and says with all the generosity he can muster: "I'd be a Dad for you.  I'd do my best."  But I know that he's burned out on that intensity of care-giving, maybe for the rest of his life.  A baby screaming at all hours of the night, financial stress, disagreements on parenting: I fear it would all be too much.  That could be what it takes to break us up.

So this is what it feels like: if love and happiness were money, I have been scrimping and saving all my life to finally amass a small personal fortune, i.e. my relationship with Ken.  I have a chance to gamble the whole thing on one spin of a roulette wheel.  Red doubles up my love and happiness.  Black - I lose it all.  It truly could go either way.

I'm not a gambler.  I never play the lottery: neither the pick-your-numbers variety nor scratch 'n' lose.  And I surely have no desire to struggle as a single mom.

If Ken had even 50% enthusiasm for being a parent, we could put that together with my 50% and maybe make a go of it.  But as it is, between the two of us I just don't think we have enough. 

Of course, I could turn around and change my mind tomorrow.  The urges of biology are powerful.  I can feel the undertow of maternal instinct trying to pull my logic off-balance.  In the end, only God knows what the future has in store.  Either way, I'm in His* hands.

*(His/Her/Its as you prefer.)

Bowlerama Date

On Sunday afternoon, Ken and I watched The Big Lebowski. Of course, this necessitated an outing to our local Bowlerama...



... to bowl AT OUR OWN RISK!!



I wondered why that warning was necessary, until the other lanes started filling up with rowdy, inexperienced young bowlers. They slugged down beers between turns, and it wasn't long before bowling bowls were flying every which way. As they got drunker, their delivery of each ball became more and more elaborate, more than once ending with the bowler on the floor. I'm surprised that the owners' insurance company didn't make helmets mandatory.

When we first checked in, the guy behind the counter gave me the nastiest pair of old, falling-apart bowling shoes ever. I must have wrinkled my nose as I picked one of them up between my index finger and thumb to inspect the awfulness. He took them back and gave me this spiffy pair:



Part of the challenge of bowling is finding a ball that's got a good combination of weight and finger-hole placement for one's hand. I found one that worked for me alright. Ken had more trouble. He started out with one that was way too heavy for him, so his bowling arm got tired quickly.



This gave me just enough of an advantage to win 2 of our 3 games. Although not by much.



Then we went here...



... for summa dis!



Mmmm. Nothin' like an 8,000 calorie dinner to cap off a bowling date. We should do this more often.

Flowers in Reverse

My Ken, my poor little Sweet Baboo, has bronchitis. Booooooooooooo bronchitis! I banish you from my home!

It's traditional to bring flowers to comfort the sick. However, at our place we do everything backwards. The sick guy brings flowers to me. Yesterday, I came home to this:



and, on the bedside table:



Slightly overshadowed by the three giant vases of flowers, but visible in the first photo, are additional treats:



Enormous gourmet cookies!

A couple more beauty shots:



I love how the snapdragons tower almost to the ceiling with their fierce, yellow bursts.




Apparently I deserve all this because I am so wonderful and have taken such good care of Ken since he fell ill. Wow. I don't even know what to say! Except that if you'd seen my face, my ear-to-ear grin as I explored the garden of gifts, that would have said it all.

Buckle Up

Today is the long-anticipated day that Ken and I will take my mom to buy a computer. We're picking her up at 9 am to make sure that we can get a parking spot at Yorkdale Mall, and be the first customers in the computer store. We want to make this easy on her, because she's not exactly comfortable with computers, and I know she's probably going to be freaked out.

Ken will drive slowly when she's in the car. People who aren't used to driving with him get nervous when he drives at his usual speed.

I've learned, when he warns me that he's going to make a U-turn, to jam my elbow into the door (in anticipation of the centrifugal force of the U) and to hold my head back against the head-rest (so that when he gets aligned with his new lane and puts the pedal to the metal, my head doesn't snap back as the rest of me accelerates). He used to squeal the tires a lot, but then he got Pirelli's. Pirelli's aren't squealers. Maybe it's got something to do with being Italian, and the influence of the mafia on that culture. You know what happens to squealers in the mafia...

We've decided that it's best for my mom to get a Mac. It'll be a lot less hassle and maintenance than a PC. And most importantly, none of her well-meaning friends and relatives know anything about Macs, so they won't "just have a little look-see" and "install an upgrade" that screws everything up.

My step-dad was constantly the victim of "helpers" who were fixated on tinkering with his PC. They were like "Oh, you should download this utility that you don't even understand, because I have a compulsion to mess with your system" and then as soon as they were done with the "upgrade" they'd bugger off and his computer would crash out. He spent hours on the phone with help desks trying to repair the damage. The same goofballs would be back next week with a new gimmick, and before he knew it, they were typing away, files were downloading, and the cycle began anew.

My mom's too polite to fend off these wanna-be geeks. Getting a Mac is the best and maybe the only defense.

The only down-side to this decision is that I'm the only one who will be able to teach her how to use this computer. She barely knows the PC well enough to send e-mail. Word documents are completely beyond her. I'm in for a long haul of one-on-one tutoring. I'll be praying for patience. If you pray, please put in a good word for me on this matter. I'll need all the help that I can get.

Sleeping like a cat

I have posted previously about Ken's snoring. He's always snored, but it's become a more serious problem lately.

My first line of defense is earplugs. I wear them every night, without exception. Previously, if Mr. Snoralupagus woke me in the night, I'd just elbow him aggressively until he rolled over onto his side, and the snoring would stop. But things have changed around here lately.

Firstly, I'm more likely to wake up in the night and less likely to be able to fall back asleep once I'm up, even without the snore factor. Thank you, various stress factors.

Secondly... I was recently awakened by the sound of a six-cylinder engine revving on the next pillow. I turned, elbow primed for action, and what did I see? HE WAS ALREADY SLEEPING ON HIS SIDE.

What? That was supposed to be physically impossible. Turning Ken's body was equivalent to turning down the volume knob. The volume knob is now broken.

I bought him a package of plastic nasal strips - the ones that stick on the outside of your nose and physically pull your nostrils open. Dutifully, he slept with one every night. They were working really well, reducing the snoring volume, until Friday night. Friday night he snored me right out of bed onto the sofa. That was at 3:00 am. At 5:30 am I was woken again. He was snoring so loudly that it woke me from a deep sleep, and I was already as far from him as I could be. I thought: this cannot go on.

Not only is my sleep being interrupted, but that dang couch is not designed to be slept on. My neck hurts, my back hurts... it's not a long-term solution.

Other possible solutions are limited because Ken has a sleeping disorder. It flares up when he's under stress, but it's always a consideration. When it's activated, he can't get a deep sleep. His brain will pull him half-way to wakefulness once every 15 minutes or so. A few years ago when his dad was severely ill and Ken was stressed all the time, he was like a zombie. He'd spend 12 hours lying in bed, and yet he could never get enough rest. He was always whacked out.

Triggering Ken's sleep disorder is to be avoided at all costs. I would not want to see him living like that again.

So on Saturday afternoon, we bought a second bed. Twin size, to be installed in our 2nd bedroom, which we've been using as the computer room. It'll officially be The Guest Bed, but really it will be my escape pod when the snoring gets to be too much. I'll always start the night in our shared bedroom, and hope to stay there most of the time. I figure I'll sleep like a cat - I'll have more than one sleeping spot and choose between them as circumstances dictate.

In fact, I'm looking forward to having my own bed. It means that sometimes, when I wake up there, I can actually TURN ON THE LIGHT in the morning. When the clock radio goes off, I can lie in bed listening to it for a while, instead of lunging to turn it off before it wakes Ken. I'm looking forward to buying sheets and a pretty duvet.

Yay! My own bed. I'm excited.

I luvs me some flannel

Yesterday was quite simply a happy day. For the first time in months, the sun shone in Toronto AND the temperature was relatively mild. For the first time in months, I actually felt a spontaneous urge to leave my home and go exploring outside.

I had a mission in mind. This week, my favourite pink, flannel nightgown disintegrated. First the buttons began popping off, and then, when I rolled over in the middle of the night, there was a dramatic ripping sound,

PPPPPRRRRAAAAATTTTTTCCCCCHHHHHH!!!!

and the fabric at the right shoulder gave out completely.

I'm sorry to say goodbye to this nightgown. It's so old that I can't remember where or when I got it. The print is of cartoon sheep jumping over fences. In between lines of leaping sheep, it says "Count the sheep, Go to sleep, 1,2,3,4..." Isn't that sweet? I may shed a tear or two as I slice it up for rags.

(I'll pause here for a moment to let the less sentimental among my readers recover. I should have warned you that I might be triggering your gag reflex.)

Ken and I bundled up in our parkas and set off for The Great Downtown to shop for a replacement. Our destination was The Bay, currently the biggest and oldest department store in Canada. On our way down there we strolled along Yonge St. (Toronto's central thoroughfare, lined with interesting retail and always excellent for people-watching).

As we walked, I was struck by how many beautiful people were out on the streets. Everyone seemed energetic, healthy, and colourful. Eventually it struck me: it was the effect of seeing people lit by direct sunlight for the first time since October 2007. Yes, it's been that gloomy here and I've been indoors that much. S-U-N, you say? No, I'm afraid I don't remember... How do you pronounce it again?

We made our way to The Bay, and Ken, ever the good sport, came up to the Ladies Lingerie department and held both our coats while I browsed endless racks of sleepwear. In the end I got a great deal: I picked up two pairs of cotton, flannel P.J.'s, each with a bonus pair of matching fuzzy socks, for $11.99 each. Sweet! And they're cute, too:



Oooooh, look at the details....



Sorry guys, just one more and then the shopping torture will be complete:



As we we left the store, I gloated euphorically over the bargains I had found. I said to Ken:

See! That's why it's best to shop at the end of the season. They always have amazing sales.

Ken: What season? The sleeping season? People sleep all year round!

Well, I guess he has a point. Considering he sleeps in his boxer shorts, it doesn't make a lot of sense to him that I have winter pyjamas and summer pyjamas. Such is the simplified life of men.

Things that go "Snorf!" in the night

It's almost miraculous how a person can sleep through their own snores. Ken has given me permission to write about his Blaring Nose-Horn of the Night. Yes I wear earplugs. Sometimes they do the trick, and sometimes nothing can keep out the snores.

I have heard only one story of someone waking themselves up with their own snoring. A friend of mine dreamed that a dog had gotten her pant leg in its teeth. The dog was pulling at her pants and growling menacingly: Grrrr! Grrrr! Grrrr! Grrrr! As she was trying to get away from the dog, she woke herself up and realized that the growling dog was the sound of her own snores.

Ken, on the other hand, is NEVER aware that he's snoring. He can be sawing logs like a lumberjack, and then when I rouse him he'll be all: "What do you mean, wake up? I wasn't asleep!" Meet the amazing Ken, the only man on earth who snores while he's awake AND asleep! I keep promising that I'm going to film him so that he can see and hear for himself, but the video camera is packed away at the back of the closet, and I'm not quite motivated enough to drag it out.

My favourite is when he keeps me awake at night, and then complains to me in the morning. "Wow, you sure were mean to me in your sleep last night! You kept sticking your elbow in my side, like this," (he jabs his elbow at me aggressively) "and going 'Roll Over! Roll Over!'" (He moans the "roll over's" in my desperate please-let-me-get-some-sleep voice.)

Other tricks Ken likes to pull in the night:

1) Steals all the blankets, then shoves them off so that they make a ridge down the middle of the bed, and then sleeps up against that. When I wake up freezing and try to get some blankets back, moans, complains, and yanks them all back.

2) Rolls over onto me so that I become the ridge down the middle of the bed. Complains bitterly when I push him off because he has every right to utilize me as a body pillow.

3) Pulls his pillow over and puts half on top of half of my pillow. This is a trick he usually likes to pull after 6:30 am. On weekdays, no problem, I'm up and in the shower. But if I want to sleep in, look out! I might wake up with a pillow being shoved onto my face. And when I shove it off? Of course, the complaining. "NNNYYYYEEEEERRRRRHHHHH!" Yeah, I know, I'm so mean and selfish. If I really loved you, I'd let you sleep on my face.

Worst case scenario, I end up sleeping on the sofa, which actually isn't so bad. The worst part is getting up in the middle of the night, finding the extra blankets, getting them all set up, etc. I resist, oh how I resist getting up out of my warm bed. It's hard to say how often it comes to that. Probably not more than once or twice a month.

Of course this all has nothing to do with how he is when he's awake. Awake, he's a caring and generous man who will bend over backwards to let me have my way and to make my life easier. Just the other day, he voluntarily stepped into an ankle-deep puddle of icy slush, wearing his dress shoes, to help an old lady across a slippery street. His shoes immediately flooded and he walked all the way home in a snowstorm with freezing, chaffing feet, but it never occurred to him not to help her.

I think I can manage to live with the snoring.

Ken has a question

It seems that we are seeing more and more ads for air fresheners on TV lately.

There are air fresheners that plug in, air fresheners you spray (aerosol) or spritz (manual), air fresheners that look like candles, and air fresheners that change colour. There are air fresheners that alternate two scents so you don't get bored. There are even multi-scent, themed CD air fresheners that require a special player.

Ken turned to me the other day, as yet another ad came on for scented candles that play music and change colour, and asked:

"What is wrong with people? Do their houses stink that much? Why do we need all these air fresheners?"

I thought that was a really good question. There are definitely more products available than ever before. To me, they mostly smell of chemikills. I try to avoid them if at all possible. In my opinion, the only place an air freshener should be necessary on a regular basis is in the loo. But apparently you're supposed to use them all over the house.

Do people not have time to clean anymore? Do their homes stink that badly that they need a plug-in freshener in every room? Or do some people actually enjoy the air freshener flavours?

Please, write in and answer these burning questions.