Bookcases: A Free Write

I'm just going to do a stream of consciousness free-writing thing, because I've been a little blocked this week and this usually helps. Ahem:

I've got a latte and a handful of chocolate chips. I'm sick; I should be drinking water and eating, I don't know, ginger root and cloves of garlic. But if there is one thing I know about being an adult, it's that I'm not any smarter than I was as a kid, I'm just more aware of my stupidity now. And there is no one here to enforce wisdom. Tale as old as time. C'est la vie. Viva Las Vegas.

I organized my bookshelves today. Reorganized them. Before, they were arranged by genre and then by colour within the genre. But lately, I've been looking at them and thinking, "This is very 2008 of me, this whole rainbow book thing." Plus, my book collection is getting...big. I bought 14 books the other day (more on that later) (or, if you follow me on Instagram, more on that before).

So today I took them all off the shelves, piled them in stacks all over the couches and piano bench and chairs and coffee table and floor, and sorted them into genres and then by the authors' last names.


Sully helped, and that was cute and fun.

I like this better than the colour thing, I think. Fiction A-B is on top of the piano. Fiction B-T is on the left bookcase. The bottom shelf on that side is taller and has my cookbooks and music books. The right side has non-fiction, divided into categories, and then a tiny memoir section, and then a short stories and poetry section. Then there are coffee table books (I love a good coffee table book), and then young adult fiction, and then textbooks.  Fiction T-Z, in case you were worried, ended up on the shelf behind the couch, because that's what makes sense for me for now.

This is the thing I like about book organization: it only has to make sense to you. You're the only one who has to like it or find it useful. And, I mean, that's true of all home organization/decor things. It's just that now we have Pinterest and design blogs and now we're aware of all these rules about fashion and function and the "right" way to hang pictures and arrange furniture.

You know what I say to all of that?

Well, hey, here, I just so happen to have a helpful analogy!

I'm sick. I should be eating ginger and garlic and drinking water, but I'm having a latte and chocolate. I am fully aware of what I'm doing "wrong" and I really couldn't care less, because I'm happier with chocolate than garlic cloves, and I will survive.

And that's how I feel about home decor.

Stream of consciousness: ended.

A Favorite and a Surprise

Winterruption happened again last weekend—a three day music festival right in the middle of dreary Saskatchewan January. I'm so thankful for it every year; having something to look forward to in the coldest, darkest part of the year is almost vital.

The great thing about RFF events is that I generally go into them knowing about half of the acts, and the ones I don't know become favourites. Like, last year, I hadn't heard of Begonia, and now I LOVE HER. I was so happy to hear they were bringing her back for this year's festival. They could get her every year and I'd never be mad about it.

This is her latest EP; it's incredible—and even better live.

Saskatoon's Close Talker ended up being this year's surprise, which was kind of funny. I'd heard of them before (my cousin Sarah actually starred in their music video [below] last year), but hadn't really given them a solid listen. Their live show was so great, though, the exact right mix of heavy and intricate. I'm a brand new fan.

Waking Up (Official) - Close Talker from Shoulda Danished on Vimeo.

CD Shopping

It was a dismal day for CD shopping at the Value Village on Broad. I usually have to make a stack and narrow it down to one or two—at $3 a disc, it adds up fast—but that day I didn't even find one I wanted. Disappointing.

I stood, revisiting the top shelf again just in case I'd missed something, when something did indeed catch my eye—not a CD, a person. A middle-aged guy, wearing chunky snow boots and walking fast. He saw me at the same time as I saw him and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition cross his face. I, however, did not recognize him at all.

His momentum carried him past, but then, to my surprise, he stopped short and spun on his heel. His expression had changed from recognition to absolute rage. He galumphed toward me, his steps loud on the tile, his eyes wide. My eyes were probably wide too. Probably.

I had the distinct impression that the man was going to pick me up and throw me across the room, but much to my amazement (and disappointment) I just stood there and let him come at me. So much for Fight or Flight—apparently my response to immediate danger is Passively and Curiously Watch Yourself Get Beat Up.

He was about a metre away when he stopped short again. Rage changed to confusion, and then to realization, and then to embarrassment (at least, these are the things I thought I read on his face. But really, who knows?). He backed up a step, shook his head apologetically (I think), turned, and fled.

I saw him again later that day; we passed each other on the street, he was on a bike. He looked, in the full light of day, very calm and normal and not at all like the kind of man who would galumph. I thought, what are the chances that we'd meet again?

Some days, it feels like a very small city.

Four Years

Four years ago at this time, I stood in a hospital room, hovering over a sleeping eight pound baby in a hospital bassinet. The nurse had gone, after checking me and the baby over and ordering us to get some sleep—we had, after all, just pulled the most exhausting kind of all-nighter.

But instead of laying down, Barclay and I gravitated across the room to where the baby slept. We stared at him, and at each other, and at the clock, and at him and at him and at him.

"We're supposed to go to sleep?" I said.

Barclay shook his head. "I don't know if I can."

I agreed with him. I was beyond tired, but I didn't know if I could leave the baby alone. The thought of both of us losing consciousness, leaving him in this room while we went wherever people go when they sleep, was terrifying. It felt impossible to me in that moment. I remember having this exact thought: Well, I guess I will never sleep again.

(I wasn't wrong.)

There are feelings so distinct and tangible that you always remember the first time you had them, and this is one that I physically remember right in the pit of my stomach and in the front of my head between the eyes, but could not describe to you, not even with a million words.

But if I had to try, I would put it like this: I wanted to put the baby back.

Because the night before he came, I was able to lose consciousness with relative ease. I mean, I had heartburn, and everything hurt, and all the usual stuff, but I didn't feel like I was leaving anything behind when I closed my eyes. He was tucked away safe in my belly, kicking my ribs and having the hiccups. In my mind, he came with me everywhere I went, including to sleep.

And now, there he was, separate from me, the most vulnerable, breakable, wonderful thing I'd ever seen, and I could no longer surround him. I wanted to surround him.

We ended up sleeping that night, at least a little. I think Barclay sat up for a while. I remember I woke up a few hours in to feed him and didn't rush back to bed right away. And I remember that for months afterward, sleep felt like a trust exercise, every single night, like falling off a table backward and hoping someone would catch me.

And now, four years later, I've just tucked Sully into bed, tip-toed out of his room, and am sitting at the kitchen table. I can see into his bedroom from here. His eyes are closed, his breathing is loud. I'm remembering that feeling again and feeling it and trying to think of how to describe it. I still want to surround him, but as he gets older, that gets less and less possible. Every day and night is still a giant trust exercise.

Anyway. It's bittersweet. It's a lot of feelings. I had a lot of feelings before he came, so can you even imagine being in my head  now?

But we had fun today, celebrating him and trying to explain to him what a birthday even is ("Like, you didn't exist, and then you did, and then you were born. At the hospital. This was the day we met you. Get it?")

Oh, and Barclay and I made drum kits out of cupcakes for him and his cousins... Check check check check me out:

My Sully. What a gift.

My Piano on Sticky Notes

A long time ago, back when I was a childless piano teacher, I was in the habit of drawing a picture every morning while I ate breakfast. I don't remember why. I think I just did it one day and enjoyed it so much that I did it the next day too, and then that kept happening.

The first one I did was of the cathedral down the street.

I did my little drawings on sticky notes. I drew things I saw around me, or things I had pictures of. I drew chandeliers and lamps and birthday candles. Very simple drawings, with a very nice pen that Barclay bought me for my birthday (it was almost $5! A very nice pen). The point was speed, not accuracy, and to not allow myself to correct mistakes or start over. I think a little drawing usually took about 30 minutes. A cup of coffee. And then I went off and cleaned something or got lessons ready or whatever.

And then I didn't do it anymore. I can't remember the why of that, either.

Today, I remembered how nice it felt to start every day like that. So, while Sully watched Peanuts cartoons, I drew my piano. I almost crumpled it up five times, but I made myself stick to my own rules, even though they're super old and outdated. It was fun, and here it is:

A Very Long Post About Day Planners

It's +2 today, which is equal parts fantastic and straight up dumb.

It's fantastic because it's warm, because frostbite is unlikely and the ice on the roads might melt a bit. It's dumb because I already ventured out to do my errands earlier this week when it was -40 with the windchill. I got rear-ended, and had to stand out in the cold talking to the guy who rear-ended me and taking pictures of our cars—my damage, his license plate—and wouldn't that all have been so much funner in +2 weather?

But I can't complain, really, because it's +2 now. And Saskatchewanians who complain about the weather when it's +2 are the actual worst.

I talk about the weather a lot on my blog. Probably because I think, somewhere deep down, that simply existing in -40 degree weather makes me a tough person (this is categorically false, though, because a lot of people exist in -40 degree weather. Some of the wimpiest people I know live here—due in part to the fact that most of the people I know live here. I'm digressing wildly).

So enough about the weather. But what else is there to talk about in January? Oh, I know: day planners!

Because in January, most places put their day planners on sale—up to 50% off, as though because you've missed the first few days of January, the value of the whole calendar is depleted by half. It makes no sense, but it's my favourite time of year. 

Is there anything better than a brand new day planner? (Yes, technically, like a billion things.)

But for the purposes of this blog post: NO. There is nothing. 

I took an entire evening last week to peruse the Chapters website in search of the perfect one. There were no less than 500 to choose from (which is kind of silly, Chapters), so it took a while. Lucky for me, I am super picky about planners and have a mile-long list of criteria (below):

1. Has to have a closure of some kind. A bungee cord that wraps around the front, preferably. I saw a few that zip shut like wallets and I thought that was a bit of overkill. Unless you're actually keeping change in your day planner. Which...actually...isn't a terrible idea? Is it? Pockets in the front for your cards? A wallet/planner hybrid. I could get on board with that.

2. Tabs for the months.

3. Lots of room to write—planners with tiny squares are stupid. What, do I only do one thing every day? Half a thing? Come on, Planner People.

4. Lays flat.

5. Month view and day view.

6. Doesn't have a stupid 'inspirational quote' on the front in gold foil. I am over being inspired, and I am over gold foil. (I don't understand 'inspiration culture' to begin with. Am I supposed to feel motivated in my work and personal life just because my planner, who has never met me in real life because it is not a person, says "YOU GOT THIS GIRLFRIEND" on the front of it? That's ridiculous. If one of my actual 'girlfriends' says to me, "You got this," in reference to something they actually believe I've, you know, 'got,' that's one thing. This is another thing. A ridiculous thing.)

7. Doesn't cost $65. I don't understand how a day planner can cost that much. It's a book with nothing written in it. A pretty, hardcover book with lots of well-thought-out, edited to bits words costs about $20-$30 brand new. I am supposed to pay twice as much for a book I have to write myself? 

I probably have other criteria as well, but I whittled down those 500 choices quite quickly using this list.

The one I finally settled on kept almost all of my rules beautifully, but it breaks #6 throughout. It's unfortunately bursting with 'inspirational quotes,' nattery BFFspeak, and has a secret code and a flow chart in the back to help you decide if you need bangs or not (I already know I don't). I feel like it's probably geared toward high school students, so whatever. It's fine. I'll probably take whiteout to some of it, to be honest.

But it's got good bones.

What it lacks in professionalism and bored indifference toward me and my life, it makes up for in functionality, pretty artwork, and a heft that feels very legit, if you know what I mean. And, like, there are two pages of stickers. You're never too old or stoic for stickers. ...riiiiiight?

It's this one here, and here are some pictures of it:

And now you need to tell me about/post links to your day planners, because I love talking about day planners. This is how you can tell I'm thirty.

Sully as a Three-Year-Old

I was playing "checkup" with Sully the other day. The game is like this: I sit in the waiting room (the kitchen) while he types on his computer (the chair in front of him) and then he calls me into his office (the living room) and asks what's wrong with me. I usually lead with something like, "My stomach hurts."

So there we are, sitting across from each other in his office, and he's tapping away on his computer, and he leans back in his seat and rests his heels on the floor, hands folded across his chest. "What's wrong with you, Mom?"

"My stomach hurts."

He furrows his brow, leans in; he's seen his share of doctors this year, you can tell. He asks, "Do you have a heart murmur?"

"Yes," I say, "I probably do." (One of his best friends has a murmur, had to go to the hospital and watch his heart on a TV screen, and Sully talks about it constantly.)

"Ah," he says. "Okay. And do you have a broken infection in your hip?"

"Yes, that too," I say, nodding pathetically (he had an infection in his hip this summer and was crippled for a few days, so that comes up often as well).

He types something on his computer, looks at me again, and goes, "And did someone stab you with a knife?"

Uh.

Wha...

Mm...

Kids grow up so fast these days.

Speaking of, he's turning four next week. I feel like the thing to say is, "Wow, that went so fast!" and, "Where did the time go?" and, "But he was just born yesterday!"

But really, it's hard to remember life before he came along, like it's a movie I saw four years ago instead of, you know, my actual life. It's even kind of hard to remember life with a newborn baby or to remember him as a two-year-old. I don't mean this in a bad way, but the past four years have just kind of felt like...four years. That's not a lot of time, but it's a lot of time. He's done about four years' worth of changing and growing which, in adult years, is more like forty.

That's not to say I don't ever dig my heels in and get sad about him growing up or feel like I want to pause him right where he's at and keep him there forever. But every time I think he's at my favourite stage, he gets a little older and develops some new skill, is able to express himself better, gets even funnier and cooler, and I'm beginning to sense a pattern. Maybe we're on a good trajectory here and I should stop worrying about the passage of time and just ride it out.

Just kidding, I'll always worry about the passage of time. Forever and ever. I will never not be sappy and weepy and schmaltzy.

But that's what blogs are good for, right?

So on this, the first day of the last week of Sully as a Three-Year-Old, I'll take this memory down:

He's sitting beside me building a LEGO car while I write. He's mostly quiet, except for when he figures something out that has been stumping him ("Oh! This piece goes HERE!"). We're listening to "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay. The rest of the house is silent except for the furnace. Sully's humming along to the music and I suddenly realize I am too.

I say, "This is one of my favourite songs." I turn it up a bit.

He says, "What's it called?" I tell him, and he goes, "Hm. It is a good song. I like it too." 

That Christmas When

Christmas 2017 was one for the books, and I basically blame it on my little sister. Because apparently, on the way to my parents' place, she said to her husband, "Everyone else seems to have a 'That Christmas When...' story. I don't have one of those."

So, by way of jinx, we now have one. We have That Christmas When Everyone Got Violently Ill.

(All except two of us. I was not one of the lucky two.)

But, I mean, if you're going to catch a stomach bug like the one we caught (which I would actually be more likely to refer to as a stomach piranha, or a stomach crocodile, or a stomach something else that lives in the Amazon and conjures up images of knife-like teeth tearing into one's abdomen, not by way of hyperbole but, rather, accuracy), and you have other people to look after but you can't even look after yourself, what better place to do that than your parents' house? 

I guess it was lovely in its own way.

Plus, we finally got to spend our first night in the Foursquare.

In case you're new here, a quick recap: A couple of years ago, my grandma accidentally purchased an old farmhouse at an auction sale for $500 (full story in this post here). She wasn't in need of an old farmhouse, particularly one that needed so much TLC, so she gave it to my mom and dad as an anniversary present. My parents, who are obsessed with antiques and old houses and hardwood flooring and all that, were delighted, and immediately sold their farm (where they've lived since before I was born). They bought a $500 lot in Frontier, moved the house there, and got to work restoring it—and you can find pictures of that process here.

There is still a lot of work to be done, but they were able to move into the house in September. There are two functional bathrooms, and they just recently got all of the hardwood on the main floor refinished. The living room and dining room are so close to being completed (they just need to install the picture rail around the tops of the rooms), and it's exciting to be able to see their vision for the house more clearly. Next up, they're installing cabinetry in the kitchen. My mom's stoked about that.

Want to see just a couple of before and currentlys? Yes, I know you do.

This is the dining room, looking into the front sitting room.
BEFORE:

CURRENTLY: (Again, it's almost finished but there will be a picture rail across the top of the room there where the two different colours of paint meet.)

This is the hallway between the kitchen and dining room, leading to the front entrance.
BEFORE:

CURRENTLY: (Not quite an AFTER yet, but it's getting there!)

And another shot of this ridiculously beautiful staircase, for good measure:

I think the next time we go home, I'll be able to snap some pictures of the kitchen (no pressure, mom).

Anyway. As of Thursday, everyone is back to full health. We're back home and being very lounge-y and lazy in the name of Keeping This Bug To Ourselves. How was your Christmas? Very boring and unmemorable, I hope.