It has been years, you guys. Years and years and years of failing at laundry. Years of looming piles of stale clothes. Years of a bumper crop of dirty clothes languishing in the laundry baskets that are meant for clean laundry. One big stinky Festival of Fail after another. So you might be nearly as surprised as I am to learn that I have won. I have kicked laundry’s ass. I AM WINNING AT LIFE. Well, at least at laundry, but it feels surprisingly the same as WINNING AT LIFE.
And the thing is? It’s not like I didn’t do laundry; I did the damn laundry. Often, even. I just couldn’t somehow do all of it. I had, in fact, given up on the enterprise of fixing the laundry problem because it had become clear that the laundry problem was me. Me. I suck at laundry, for really really reals, amen. And the only person who sucks at it more than me is my husband (sorry, Dear). So given how difficult and rare it is to execute a personality reversal, the Blue Yon Belly household appeared doomed to a lifetime of slumping piles of clothes threatening to burst the closet doors.
And then I, we, fixed the whole problem by accident.
See, the thing is, we’ve been doing this…project. Over the last year or so, we’ve kind of, sort of, totally started changing the way we live. It’s not all cult-y or anything creepy, so you don’t need to start mumbling excuses at your sneakers while you slink towards the door. In fact, it’s not terribly exciting or even all that different from how we lived before (that’s the kind of, sort of part), it’s just that it’s planned and charted and discussed (that’s the totally bit). And it’s working.
It’s no big thing, really. In fact, it’s simple. And there, I’ve gone and done it, because I’ve stolen my own punchline: it’s simple. We’ve made the decision to live simply. That’s all.
It could have been argued that we were already living fairly simply, since we spent the greater part of the last decade living in a 500-square foot apartment with no car, no cable, no cell phones, no gaming systems, and, well, y’all have seen the TV. (Nothing has changed except that we’ve splashed out on a second bedroom and an extra 345 square-feet. Or, as I think of it: 345 Square-feet of Worth It.) So, yeah, it’s not like we were huge consumers to begin with. You know, compared to the average North American. I mean, there are people out there with Hummers and snowmobiles and, and…jet skis. And those people aren’t even necessarily anything but middle class. Certainly more middle class than I am, but still.
And yet.
And yet we had, among some other detritus (what was that in the corner? A VCR?), the impenetrable Mountain O’ Laundry and it occurred to us that despite some laudable efforts, we weren’t living quite as simply as we liked to believe. There’s a lot to be said here, but suffice it to say, we’ve since learned that North American standards of consumption are not a good yard stick with which to measure one’s girth as a consumer. It’s like setting your moral compass to Hannibal Lecter: Sure, snorting an eight ball* and unwittingly racing your Ferrari over a little old lady is reprehensible, but have you eaten anyone’s face today? No? Well then, I’m OK, you’re OK!
[Sigh. This is the part that's tricky: telling a multi-faceted story that not only has no defined beginning or end, but in which you're also very much still treading through the middle. It's...it's a process, this project.] So let’s bring it back to the laundry. I think the laundry can be a good parable for simplifying any part of your life. I said that we fixed the problem by accident because when we set about simplifying I wasn’t expecting that I would be giving myself the tools to address certain long-standing problems; I just thought we’d be de-cluttering and saving money and that would kind of be it. But instead, as the boxes of clutter and old clothes were carted off to charity, tiny little revelations bloomed in their wake. And one big revelation: if you simplify your life, your life gets simpler. WHO COULD HAVE SEEN THAT ONE COMING. (Um, I didn’t.) (Like, I thought we’d have less crap, but I didn’t realize that would equate to a hell of a lot more time on my hands and a whole bunch of other stuff I will get into some other time maybe.) Anyway, here’s the little process I’ve learned. Let’s call it the Make Your Life Easier So That You Can Stop Sucking Method.
Step 1: Admit you suck. And that you’re not going to change.
We have a tendency to psychologize the reasons why we suck at something, casting these long narratives about being overwhelmed or perfectionists or not feeling good enough. This can be helpful. It’s good to identify these issues, because they can be true. But they’re probably not going to go away in time to get the laundry done. And even with years of therapy, these things might not go away. Besides, who cares if we suck at something? Everyone sucks at something. Admitting you suck at [something] is not the same as sucking as a human being.
So let’s be real. Me? My issue is a relatively serious, lifelong condition: Chronic Generalized Laziness (CGL). I have found that there is, quite simply, no cure for CGL. There is no effective motivation or deterrent or medication (at least I’m guessing on that one — I’ve never tried methamphetamines). Given the choice between doing the laundry or sitting in a lump on the couch, feeling miserable and deplorable for not doing the laundry, I will always, always, mysteriously, choose feeling miserable and deplorable. Because that’s the option that involves more sitting.
Step 2: Observe how you behave and then accommodate your handicap (Or: Find the limit)
When I said there is no cure for CGL, I was kind of wrong. For me, there is a cure: shame. I will not go to work in dirty clothes. So, I noticed, I will always do precisely enough laundry so that I can go about the world as a clean, presentable, non-smelly person (well, hopefully). The rest of the laundry was just never pressing enough because I didn’t need those other clothes or the spare towels in order to prevent shaming myself. And given the option between doing unnecessary laundry or pretty much anything else, I will do anything else, thank you very much.
Put another way, I am able to overcome my CGL for what amounts to three or four loads of laundry. After that, it’s too much, forget it, please get out of my life, OMG I hate this, etc., etc. I can tell myself I SHOULD do more than three loads and technically there’s no reason why I can’t or won’t, but I don’t and never do. So there’s the limit: three loads. It’s what I’m actually willing to do and it’s what I need to do to accommodate my shame.
Step 3: Wait a minute, did you just say you don’t need those other clothes or the spare towels? (Or: Simplify to accommodate the limit)
Hey, Genius: What if you just got rid of all those clothes you don’t need? Took those extra linens to the women’s shelter? What if you got rid of everything except your favourites that you end up wearing all the time anyway? If you can only do three loads, what if you only had three loads’ worth?
This is, of course, exactly what we did. And guess what? We’re down to three loads a week — lights, darks, linens — and it gets done every week. Our closet is surprisingly full, considering. I thought we would have to be pretty bare bones like monks or something to have only three loads’ worth**, but there’s a bit of a rotation and it works out great. The best part? I no longer hate myself every time I pass the hamper.
Conclusion: There’s a winning formula in this
IF you want to spend less time doing bullshit crap jobs, THEN own less bullshit crap. Bullshit crap requires maintenance, cleaning, dusting, putting away, installation of batteries, recycling, troubleshooting…Or put another way: Less stuff means more time. Enjoy.
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*Does one snort an eight ball? You know, some things I’m glad I don’t know.
**Fellow editor friends: Why is my brain faintly telling me this is possessive? Three loads’ worth? Am tired. My Chicago is in the other room and my CGL is flaring up. It is possessive, isn’t it? I’m putting the apostrophe in.
My beloved Jen, The Trephinist’s, ingenious meme. (Our friendship was born out of a meme, so of course I had to take her up on it.)
WHEN SOMEONE I LOVE DIES
God, I don’t know. One foot in front of the other until one day you’ll find you’ve walked far enough that you’re no longer standing at the precipice of that great chasm of grief. That and, simply: cry. I somehow went completely numb at both my grandma and my grandpa’s funerals and just…didn’t cry. So now I give myself permission to feel it. Let it out. Cry. It helps you to get those feet moving on that long walk ahead of you.
WHEN I HATE MY JOB
Sigh. Yeah. Despite how much I like my job, this happens every weekday around 3:00 in the afternoon. It’s because I’m at the end of my attention span, I’m terminally bored, and my blood sugar is crashing. I.e., I’m DONE for the day. Only there’s two and half more hours to go. Editing for eight hours — staring at the page, trying to keep the big picture while sifting through the minutiae of commas, semi-colons, em dashes — it’s just this slow burn until WHAM! 3:00 burnout. So:
When it’s mild: I get up, lurch out of my office (which has terrible ventilation and air that deadens in this escalating, stifling way), make myself an herbal tea, stare out the window while the kettle is boiling, then wander back to the Publishing department and strike up a conversation with an amenable-looking co-worker. Once my tea is at a drinkable temperature, I retreat to my office, stare at something on the computer screen that looks officious and important, but really just drink the tea and think my thoughts. Generally, this takes about 20 minutes to half an hour all told, which I’m sure is less than awesome in the eyes of my employer, but WHATEVER, eyes of my employer, THAT is why I don’t take a morning coffee break. (This accounts for 90% of the 3:00 crashes.)
When it’s moderate: See above, but replace herbal tea with green tea. Add an apple. Maybe some surreptitious surfing of the Internet wherein I indulge in one juicy blog post. (This accounts for 5% of the 3:00 crashes.)
When it’s moderate to high: See above, but instead add in a fruitless passage wherein I TRY to work but find myself staring out the window after re-reading the same sentence eleventy times. In this case, I invent a five-minute errand that will take me outside where I can breathe AIR, actual AIR (often just buying a lottery ticket [natch] or some nuts from the newsstand downstairs). If, upon my return from breathing actual air, I’m still unable to get past re-reading that same fracking sentence, I switch to doing something administrative and mindless. (This accounts for 4% of the 3:00 crashes.)
When it’s really, really, really bad: Full honesty? I give up. And, like, stare at the wall for two hours until it’s time to go home. Oh, it’s ridiculous, alright. And I don’t exactly feel good about it. But on the other hand, trying to be productive as an editor for eight straight hours is equally ridiculous. The human mind is simply not built like that, so I don’t exactly feel bad about it either. (This accounts for 1% of the 3:00 crashes.)
WHEN I WANT TO STAB MY HUSBAND IN THE FACE
In the beginning, we used to fight balls out. Now, I think we’re getting to a point where we’re realizing that, somehow, time makes a marriage stronger, yet more fragile. Like, we can really hurt each other now, if we’re not careful. So:
When I want to stab my husband in the face because **I** am in a snit for some reason, usually to do with low blood sugar: A silent mantra of “Be nice, be nice, be nice, be nice, be nice, benicebenicebenicebenicebenice,” whilst trying to extricate myself from the room before saying the tantalizing mean thing dancing on my tongue with “hanger” glee.
When I want to stab my husband in the face because **he** is in a snit for some reason, usually to do with low blood sugar: I quite simply say “Please don’t take it out on me that [the Canucks are losing] [you're hungry] [Ikea on a Sunday is hell on Earth]” and, if it continues, “Um, you’re hurting my feelings.” You know, just saying out loud the plain, simple truth of it. Go figure.
WHEN I AM AFRAID TO DIE
Yes. This happens when I’ve forgotten to live. Which is to say, when I’ve neglected to go out, see my friends, do those things I do that make me happy (yoga, ballet, using my limbs to transport me to areas of the planet that don’t involve my couch). And, there’s a quiet little undercurrent at the very heart of me that swells and gushes when I’m nourished on living, and withers when I’m starved for some viva: writing. So, when I find myself afraid to die, it usually begins with an internal horror at how I’ve not been writing. I am afraid to die before I’ve done this for myself, before I’ve been a capital “w” Writer to my own satisfaction. Failing to do this is the most disappointing thing I can think of: squandering my life and neglecting to do the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.
However, I’m increasingly finding that my own satisfaction is in the doing, the trying. So these fears tend to be a reaction to the fact that I’m not trying — to live or to write. So, if you’re afraid to die, silly self, it means you need to get out and live a little. And then write about it.
WHEN I AM TERRIFIED THAT MY BOOK WON’T APPEAL TO VERY MANY PEOPLE
Ah, yes. I am scared of this. And it’s incredible that I can worry about this — a testament to just how much I can live inside my own head, flinging myself on the hamster wheel of anxiety and worry, racing myself to nowhere while listening to the frantic squeaks of my circular thoughts. Incredible because … I haven’t written a book. I think we can all safely agree that wanting to write a book is not nearly the same thing as sitting down every day for, oh, a year or two and writing a book. As I’ve…matured a little, as a person and as a (sometimes) writer, I worry about this far less than I used to. It’s kind of a place I wander to when thinking about writing in general, an old haunt that I return to when I’m on autopilot, the way I sometimes start walking to my old apartment when I’m distracted and tired and going somewhere else that happens to be in the general area. I have an excellent cure, though, for this fear: WRITE THE BOOK FIRST, YOU POMPOUS, DELUSIONAL ASSHOLE. YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THE RIGHT TO WORRY ABOUT THIS.
WHEN I HIT A DRY SPELL MUCH LIKE THE ONE I JUST WENT THROUGH AND STOP WRITING ALTOGETHER (AND WE’RE TALKING ABOUT MORE THAN JUST THIS BLOG, BUT, LIKE, ALTOGETHER, ALTOGETHER, EVEN E-MAIL)
You know how sometimes you hear about a marriage that breaks up and then someone in the know will maybe have a few too many drinks one night and will lean in and say in a low, conspiratorial voice “But s/he told me they hadn’t had sex in years” and you say “Really? Years? How does that…even…?” And then you fall silent and think about how stiflingly terrifying it would be to be in that situation. Like, there must be a point where you both want to have sex, but somehow enough time has passed that suddenly it’s really awkward to be the one to initiate it, so you hope the other person will initiate, while s/he is frantically hoping that you’ll be the one to initiate. [Aside: Yes, hello, Mom and Dad. We're suddenly talking about sex. It'll be over soon.] The only way I can see out of that kind of Catch 22, is to a) SACK UP and admit that you want a divorce because you are no longer attracted to your spouse (or you just really don’t want to, and can’t, wear the latex body suit while oinking like a pig or whatever it is) because, while unpleasant and disappointing, admitting the truth is surely less humiliating than PRETENDING for several years, or b) SACK UP and get really drunk and wear the latex body suit while oinking like a pig because, while certainly unpleasant and disappointing, at least you get to have sex and THAT is surely less humiliating than the whole PRETENDING that’s it’s OK to just not have sex. So to bring this whole awkward analogy back to writing, I think what I’m trying to say is that you (I) need to SACK UP and either admit that you no longer want to be a writer. Or, if that doesn’t ring true, you (I) need to SACK UP and write something, anything (a meme even!), so that you can, uh, break the seal, ignore how awkward and unnatural it feels at first, and start over.
Of course, if I’m choosing to go with Option B, I need to scratch the surface a little about the why of it all. Generally speaking, one feels like writing when one has things to write about. No one in their right mind pens a novel about their daily commune with the sofa, or the nuances of flicking through celebrity gossip sites with a bag of Kettle Chips nestled on their chest. So it comes back to remembering to live, pursuing a life, like I said before. (That, and NEVER RENOVATING AGAIN.)
WHEN I AM WORRIED I MIGHT BE MAKING THE WRONG LIFE DECISION
There are very few life decisions that can actually be classified as wrong and, objectively, you will know what they are from miles away. Drinking and driving, consuming escalating amounts of cocaine, getting in the car with the creepy-eyed man in a trench coat who you saw lurking behind some trees earlier — those are bad life decisions. Moving to a new city, quitting your job to go back to school, accepting that job offer or turning down that job offer — these are decisions that could be a mistake if you tally up certain markers. Decisions like these might turn out differently than you thought, disappoint you, cost you money or pride, or just, simply, not work out. But, if you’re in the position to make these decisions, you’re capable of dealing with whatever is going to happen. And how you deal with these things when they go lurching sideways is precisely what makes you who you are: an interesting, capable person, who’s not afraid to take risks.
WHEN I AM UNJUSTIFIABLY HESITANT
Why? Because you might look foolish? You know who really looks foolish? Who people really do roll their eyes at? The prigs who are so self-focused they come up with lame excuses and never take any risks for fear of looking foolish. People love seeing other people go for it, even if it ends in failure. They’re not looking for the win, they’re looking for the game. So be game!
WHEN I AM BAD AT SOMETHING
See above. Way to be brave enough to try!
WHEN I DECIDE THAT I AM FAT AND UGLY
Reality check: You are a size eight. Sometimes 10 (although then the waist will definitely be too big). This means that you’re neither skinny nor fat, which means…you’re normal. And normal means healthy. And healthy means you take care of yourself, which is pretty damn attractive in itself, isn’t it? As for your pores: Well…yeah. They’re big. But at what point did you become so fascinating and beguiling that people are staring at your face? Surely people do notice at some point, but there’s no way they spend any amount of time actually doing more than just noticing.
WHEN I AM HURT OR ANGRY
Ah, the healing power of sarcasm. Call a friend and say scathing, witty things. Laugh your ass off. Feel better.
WHEN I AM AFRAID
Trust. (Repeat.)
WHEN I AM SAD
There are things in my life that are certainly worthy of being sad about. If this wasn’t the case, I don’t think I would know how blessed I am to have the friends that I have, that I’ve always had. You can dwell on the fact that you’ve fallen down, or you can marvel at how many people rushed forward to help you up.
WHEN I BECOME CONVINCED THAT NO ONE REALLY CARES ABOUT ME
…Wait. When’s the last time you spoke to the people you care about and need to care about you? Call. E-mail. Instant message. Voila. You’re laughing in, what, half a minute?
WHEN I AM STRICKEN BY THE NOTION THAT I WILL BECOME LONELY AND DEPRESSED WHEN I AM ELDERLY BECAUSE EVERYONE HAS BABIES AND FAMILIES AND I DON’T
Having kids is no guarantee that you’re going to be looked after when you’re old. If it was, there wouldn’t be all those lonely old people out there. Kids die, or they move away, or they’re maybe just assholes. Your best bet is to save enough money to get into a nice home when the time comes. Something you’ll be able to do easily on account of not having kids. Heh.
WHEN I WORRY THAT ONE OR BOTH OF US IS GOING TO FUCK UP OUR MARRIAGE AND IT WILL END IN DIVORCE
You’re happy right now, aren’t you? So…you’re worried about something that…isn’t happening? And might never happen? What an excellent use of your time. This is exactly what you should be doing instead of spending time with your husband, whom you enjoy.
WHEN I WORRY ABOUT OTHER THINGS THAT HAVEN’T HAPPENED YET AND MIGHT NEVER HAPPEN
These thoughts are preceded by “What will I do if [something only marginally in my control goes sideways]?” Answer: There’s no way to throw the right pitch until you know what the count is…or who’s at bat, or who’s on base. A good game isn’t just throwing the ball across the plate; a good game is a series of strategic plays, some perfect, some just inside, some walked on purpose. And those kinds of plays, the good plays, are decisions you can’t make until you know the score. In the meantime, why don’t you stop worrying and instead enjoy the things you’re afraid of losing?
WHEN I AM FIGHTING MY TENDENCY TO PROCRASTINATE, IF SOMETHING THAT FLARES UP EVERY TEN MINUTES CAN BE CALLED A TENDENCY INSTEAD OF, SAY, A DEEP AND SEARING CHARACTER FLAW
“Vegetables before dessert.” Sure dessert is fun and it’s the best part. But when you eat nothing but dessert, you feel slimy and gross and you don’t have any energy, and eventually you just hate yourself. It’s turns out the enjoyable things in life are only enjoyable once you’ve put your time in on the less enjoyable bits. Earn that indulgence and it will actually feel like an indulgence, instead of just a hollow failure.
WHEN I AM WISHING I HAD A PONY OR A BOAT OR A MACBOOK AIR WITH A SOLID-STATE HARD DRIVE
Remember how last week you took that big bag of clothes to the Sally Ann? And how you have that box of old electronics in your closet, just sitting there waiting to go to the recycling depot? These are a sign that you already have more stuff than you need. You need food. You don’t need stuff. You don’t need more crap in your closets that you will tire of long before the end of their life cycle. There is no grace in taking more than you need.
WHEN MY FLESH IS TRYING TO CRAWL OFF MY BODY AND I AM AFRAID OF SOMETHING BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS
You are an extrovert. You need to interact with other humans, or your brain will try to run screaming out of your left ear. BACK AWAY FROM THE LAPTOP. Call your friends. Go somewhere.
WHEN IT’S GOOD, WHICH IS AT LEAST LIKE NINETY PERCENT OF THE TIME
Don’t forget to be thankful. You may have earned this, but you’re not entitled to happiness. In fact, other than basic human dignity, you’re not entitled to anything. So this is a gift, a blessing, this moment, this life.
WHEN IT’S BAD
Don’t forget to be thankful. You may not have earned this, but you’re not entitled to happiness. Unlike many people in this world, you have not been robbed of your right to basic human dignity. This is a gift, a blessing, this moment, this life.
WHEN IT’S REALLY, REALLY BAD
One foot in front of the other. Again. And Again. And again. Crawl if you have to. Get going on that walk, the one that moves you away from the chasm.
So the general consensus seems to be that 2009 kind of sucked. I’m guessing that this has to do with many members of the general consensus losing their jobs. So, indeed, point taken.
We mostly managed to survive The Year of the Layoff, although we weren’t entirely unscathed. (Long story — some other time, maybe.) (We both still have our jobs. For now. Please bribe the Job Gods for us, would you?) So at first, I was slightly taken aback by all the “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, 2009!” Facebook statuses, etc. Anyway, even after being reminded for the umpteenth time that the economy is a total disaster, for whatever reason, I’m reluctant to write off 2009 entirely. For us, it was…an unusual year. On the one hand, we kind of kicked ass. We accomplished a lot and we are going to get big shiny gold stars from our financial planner. And! We bought a home!
But we kind of forgot to have fun.
Well. Renovating our home took many, grinding, soul-eating months. We fell off the map. We didn’t see our friends, it seemed, for ages. And then once the (saw)dust settled, it looked for a few months there like we were both going to lose our jobs and we set about on a kind of XXXtreme battening down of the hatches, and going for drinks or movies or burgers or coffees, or any of those things you typically do with your friends, was out of the question. Because LAWD would we be screwed in our new home if neither of us was working and we didn’t have a contingency plan and/or fund. At one point, we had a fight over three dollars. (It seemed like a lot of money at the time.)
(I’m not even going to talk to you about The Cough, which is now in its third month. It’s in the 97th percentile for its age and it’s almost sleeping through the night already! We think it might be able to sit up on its own soon.)
So my New Year’s resolution this year is to have fun. I’ve signed up for classes at the community centre, I’m accepting invitations, I’m blogging (hi!), I’m thinking about what might be a good fit for volunteering*, and, well, I dunno, I guess I’ll do whatever else seems fun. Fun is pretty easy to find, so this should prove an easy resolution to keep.
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*Yeah, listen. I hate volunteering. I know you’re not supposed to say (or think?) that, but it often feels an awful lot like work to me, complete with schedules and office politics. Except the office politics come with a more self-congratulatory crowd, with the kind of people who eye you haughtily across the lunch room over their spelt muffins, waiting for you to do something that they can sniff at. And do you know what I already do 40 hours a week? Deal with schedules and office politics and annoying people I have no choice but to be around. Except I get PAID to do it and it therefore makes some sense for me to feel obligated to show up.
So there’s that. But. I want a dog. And I cannot have a dog. I mean, technically, I can. But, no. We have enough going on here at Chez Hairball in terms of pet hair. So I want to volunteer somewhere** where I can scratch ribs and make tails thump and get snorgled by a wet puppy dog nose…and have that somehow translate into social good. Because, for reals, THAT would be fun.
**Can’t be the SPCA. Guess where my last volunteer position was. Yeah. And now guess how we ended up with the third cat. Yeah. So I want to work with lovey bubkins, but they can’t be on death row, or I fear that we will end up on a very special episode of Hoarders, the one where they find out where where all the pound puppies went.
There are two reasons. One, I’m still sick. Have been sick for months now*. Coughing. It’s neither funny nor interesting, yet sinisterly all-consuming. But, seriously, I really don’t want to talk about it.
The other reason.
An old friend passed away suddenly last month just days after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and, because she was a loyal and supportive reader here, it just hasn’t felt the same. I’d begin to compose a post in my mind and I’d quickly get tripped up on the empty chair in my imaginary audience.
I want to keep this short. I won’t stake any claim on grief when I’m not at the epicentre of this tragedy; this story belongs to her husband and her two little kids. But there’s this: Robyn, Honey, it’s not fair. Thirty-three is too young. I know you didn’t want to leave your kids behind. Fuck cancer — you didn’t deserve this.
And there’s this: You were a sweet person. I’ve known you all my life and can’t remember you once making a cutting remark about someone else. Poised — you were poised. You could sing like an angel, but maybe kindness was your true talent.
And there’s this: Thank you for reading. Thank you for your support.
I’ll see you on the other side, old friend.
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*Yes, the doctor. I’ve been to the doctor. In short, they have no idea. Which: what can you do.
It’s come to my attention that perhaps no one is aware that they should be feeling sorry for me right now. The world continues to spin on its axis and everyone is carrying on with their own lives, focused on their own problems, even though I’m sick. It’s weird, right? To expect a grown woman in her thirties to know what to do with herself when she’s sick, as though most people her own age somehow manage not only to take care of themselves, but growing children too? Ha! See? I knew it! It’s weird!
Perhaps this has been some kind of miscommunication. Perhaps people aren’t fully aware of the gravity of my situation. I have a mild fever, people. A MILD FEVER. Sometimes I feel cold and kind of achy. Yeah. I KNOW. How such things can be trifled with when there’s an international pandemic going on is beyond me. People are critically ill and dying, but what about me? What about that gentle aching in my shoulder that can almost be ignored?
And to make matters worse, my totally flexible employers have been entirely sympathetic and understanding. When the doctor ordered bed rest and was so serious about it he wrote a note to my employer*, my supervisor shoved his note back at me, muttering things about how entirely unnecessary it was, and gave me a hug. And, get this. GET THIS. I can work from home in these situations, if I’m up to it, so that I don’t have to use up my sick days. Sure, my sick days are paid and guaranteed because I’m in a unionized environment, but they’re also banked so that one day I’ll get paid out for those days. How is that fair? Or you know what else? I can choose to go in next Friday to make up time, even though I usually get every third Friday off — in addition to my four weeks’ paid vacation, that is. How can I be expected to work a day that most places I would be required to work anyway?!?
So, OK FINE, I have many attractive perks and options that most people, even those of us lucky enough to be in the industrialized world don’t have (except for maybe the French), but I have big problems here, BIG problems that overshadow all of that. Being home alone all day is boring. I may get to sleep in and then shuffle to the living room to loaf about in my pajamas while no less than two cats snuggle me, but maybe, JUST MAYBE, I don’t want to watch movies anymore. Did you ever think of that? Or maybe people aren’t posting to their blogs at nearly the rate I need them to. Or maybe I am in between library books and am being forced to wait until this evening for my husband to bring me home new ones. (I know! A husband who brings me things! ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE. My GOD the humanity.) Yeah. They’re here and they’re real, these problems. REAL.
And did you hear the part about the mild fever?
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*Well, OK, yes. The slightly serious thing in this whole mild (MILD!) debacle is that I have a pulmonary infection. Also mild (MILD!), I suspect, in the grand scheme of pulmonary infections. Except that it affects my breathing in a most inconvenient (yet mild!) way. Oh that’s right, folks. A MILD INFECTION. You can go ahead and send chocolates, puppies, and kittens directly to my home address. Thank you.
Also, yes, those who have been subjected to my Facebook status updates, my tweets or, let’s say as a ball park figure, those who have been within a 10 mile radius of my person in the last several months will have heard me inevitably whining about being sick PREVIOUS to now. I have been sick this whole time. So. I probably should have gone to the doctor sooner. If you want to feel sorry for me for legitimate reasons, you can pity me for being such a dumb-ass.
[Post inspired by Jen who managed to make me smile today, but who also once cracked me up on her old blog talking about her renos. You should go read her new blog.]
Listen. September was awful. I got sick and was dragging my ass around and then I started to get better. And then. Someone I love passed away and…yeah. That one hurts. I’m not going to write about it because it’s not really mine to write about (it was my best friend’s dad, and although he was like a second dad to me, I could never do her grief justice) except to say being remembered for all the laughter and music you brought into everyone’s life can only mean a life well lived and loved. Would that more of us could be so gracious and open-armed.
I went home for the funeral and we couldn’t afford to fly Kieran out too and I was sad and alone at all the wrong times and cried a lot and then I came home with a fever and got sicker than ever. (I know the words SWINE FLU just came flying at you in big black letters, but, uh, I dunno. I don’t think so? Probably not? OK?)
And then it was Thanksgiving and we drove home through a freak early snowstorm and next thing I knew we were with my best friend and her family for Thanksgiving dinner and Kieran was hanging her son by his ankles and she and I were giggling on the couch about our Grade 5 teacher and the hole that was torn in my heart when I saw her crying for her dad at the funeral began to heal over.
The next day we were surrounded by my own family and in-laws from all corners, and my cousin’s kids were adorable and fun and awesome as always.
As was Kieran’s mini-me baby brother.
And then we were in Calgary with my dear friend Karla, stuffing ourselves with homemade pizza and cupcakes and laughing until we cried about that time I drove for a really, really long time on a really, really flat tire with Karla as my passenger going, “Dude. I THINK SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH YOUR TRUCK.” Then, the next day, because Kieran had never had it and it’s a Calgary institution, we got Pete’s Drive-in and then rolled about like beached whales and groaned dramatically while rubbing our Buddha bellies. And finally, between all the friends and food and cousins and giggling, I was full up again.
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Because this is a post that should not be without music, here’s an old favourite of mine, a song Rob introduced me to when he played it for us kids at the lake cabin…he was perhaps the only person I’ve known who could do Simon and Garfunkel justice.
The spare bedroom (seen here and here in varying states of spirit-killing squalor). But let’s go back to the beginning, just for full effect.
Before
As you can see, again with the beige (BEIGE). Grubby, depressing beige. Beige wallpaper, beige carpet, beige curtains. BEIGE. There is a certain efficiency to using the same non-colour for every surface of your home, BUT STILL. I’ve been over the nightmare that was that fracking wallpaper, so there’s not much fun to be had by way of a during picture, except perhaps to review this…this…STATE OF AFFAIRS THAT CAN ONLY BE SPOKEN OF IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE MY GOD IT WAS HORRIBLE LIVING LIKE THAT BUT ANYWAY HERE YOU GO, I’LL STOP YELLING NOW.
During, My God, the During
And now, several months of manual labour and an untold number of boxes later, here we are!
After
What you’re looking at: walls that have been de-wallpapered, patched, and painted “Zen Green,” which doesn’t actually photograph all that well, but it’s a really pretty, soft, airy green; new flooring that, of course, matches the flooring in the rest of the house; new floaty curtains; new baseboards; our old skool TV atop our antique sideboard that has been waiting to be refinished for the last year but is just going to have to wait even longer because, you know, RENOS; and our new (to us) futon that we got off of Freecycle because we had grown quite weary of spending money on the new home and, also, free! The room in general is a little…unfinished yet, in terms of giving it any real personality or flare, but we’re getting there.
Now, about that futon. I was wary of the free futon from strangers over the Internet. I felt quite certain that cat pee would be involved. However, like I said, spending money on the new home had worn rather thin at that point, and moreover, we’d resolved that all of the renovations would be paid for in cash and buying a new piece of furniture would have been stretching our limits in that regard. So we were willing to give the free futon a shot, figuring that at least we could get a free frame and buy a new, non-urine soaked mattress if necessary. But instead of getting a musty mattress saturated with pee (or wandering into an axe-murderer’s trap, which was my other fear), we hit the freecycle jackpot and found ourselves in one of the most immaculate homes I’ve ever seen, picking up a perfectly good, stain and odour-free futon. For free. The only downside to the whole transaction was that the mattress cover was rather ugly. So, I dug our old duvet cover out of the Goodwill bag and lo! It suited the paint in the spare room quite nicely! Only. Erm, by quite nicely I mean “matched exactly.” As in, “Where’s the futon? I see two floating arm rests and then a sea of Zen Green…” And so commenced my city-wide search for some throw pillows to jazz up the room a bit and, also, to outline the location of the futon so that unwary visitors wouldn’t go bashing their shins into our cleverly camouflaged furniture. And you’ll never guess what colour of cushion is widely available everywhere, from Ikea to Urban Barn and every big box and little store in between. ZEN GREEN. Zen green cushions in every shape and size imaginable! (And don’t even get me started on what it took to come full circle to those white curtains that are exactly the same as the ones in the master bedroom because do you want to know what is very popular right now for curtains? Yes. Of course. ZEN GREEN.) (But I rather love the look of those white curtains now, so it’s all for the best.)
Some other notes on this room: I’d wanted it to feel light and airy and with the colour, the natural light, and the sheer curtains it really does. The room is perfect for sitting and reading, which I love. I also love the whole idea of having another room. We lived in one bedroom apartments for years; this tiny room has become this lovely little sanctuary and the airy feel adds to that. We don’t have to be in the living room or the bedroom…or the living room…or the bedroom. We can, if we want, have a space to ourselves. It’s…a revelation.
We also wanted to try having the TV separate from the main living area so that the focus of the living room could be more on creating a “conversation circle” with the furniture, instead of just pointing all the furniture at the TV. This has worked out quite nicely on the whole. However, the spare bedroom is small and turned out to be rather narrower than we initially thought (I think it’s really designed to be either an office or a nursery) and as you can see, our TV is rather big. So when we do watch TV or movies, we’re uncomfortably close to the screen and we end feeling a little sea sick and cross-eyed. This situation would likely be rectified by a wall-mounted flat-screen TV, but given how very little TV we watch, it just isn’t worth spending the money at this point. I feel obliged to explain that, by the way, because a surprising number of people are resistant to our hesitation to rush out an buy a new TV to the point where I find myself apologizing for how we’re not spending money on a luxury item we don’t need or use. People are weird about it is all I’m saying.
Boy, being frugal can take the wind out of the design-revelation sails, can’t it? “Ta-da! A room with a discarded futon with an old duvet cover that had been headed to charity…all of it facing another second-hand piece of furniture and a hand-me-down TV that is generally considered a mockery to middle class living! Oprah? Are you calling Nate?”
Anyway, I’d also wanted the spare bedroom to serve as an office/space where I can write, which it may well do yet, with a little rearranging of the furniture to accommodate a desk. Although it would have to be creative rearranging once a new piece of furniture was added, wouldn’t it? It’s a small, small space…albeit a small, small space that’s somehow added a whole new dimension to our living space in general. If it came down to it, I’d give up the en suite bathroom (as handy as it is) in a heart beat before I’d give up having a second bedroom.
For this is all I’ve been doing with my time, lo these many months. Tonight, the en suite bathroom.
Before
What you’re looking at: Well, not much. It is but a wee room that is rather tricky to photograph. Anyway, first allow me to draw your attention to that mirror/medicine cabinet combo…thing. That’s glued to the wall. Glued. Yes. We’ve also got going on a faintly musty, yet decent and sturdy vanity; a deplorably chipped beige (BEIGE) sink with ugly faucet; a surprisingly unstained counter top that is unfortunate only for its old skool “pork chop” that runs over the toilet; a rather clunky, big ol’, water guzzling HOG of a 13L toilet that’s also a wee bit on the drippy side; some actually rather lovely blue paint that had to go anyway as it matched too exactly our towels — but, really, we also wanted the colour to be the same as the bedroom; and some truly hideous, asbestos-era linoleum that’s topped by three (3) different types of mismatched baseboards. Oh, and you can’t tell, but the knobs on the vanity doors are a slightly weird size and somehow indescribably odd and ugly, even though they look like they should be cool and modern.
There are no “during” pictures because of the cramped quarters, but the during part did include me applying four (4) coats of paint. Not including the primer. All the other walls took two coats of paint, so this remains a mystery…our only going theory is that yellow paint just doesn’t cover blue paint all that well. My blood pressure is going up thinking about that, so moving on before the ranting overcomes me.
After
What you’re looking at: more Moonlit Yellow paint (four layers of it — ahem!); a proper medicine cabinet (switched out from the main bathroom, actually); a scoured, cleaned, and painted vanity (that has new contact paper on the inside too!), cured of its mustiness and affixed with appropriately sized knobs; the same counter top after undergoing a pork-chop-ectomy; a white sink also switched out from the main bathroom that is sans chips(ish) (I touched up the one chip that it had and you can’t see it at all!); a pretty, new water saving(!) faucet; and a bad ass (so to speak) new, water-saving(!), dual flush toilet. (You’re also looking at poor lighting due to the fact that one of the bulbs in the light fixture burnt out and we…just can’t right now. Too many balls in the air to attend to routine household maintenance, you know? Anyway.)
And in this picture, you can see a little more clearly my pride and joy:
The new tile! Tiling is the one renovation we didn’t take on ourselves because for the tiny amount of square footage we needed covered, hiring a professional was only marginally more expensive than doing it ourselves (once we factored in the cost of the tools we needed for the job). And with hiring someone, there was much less swearing and feeling put-upon, what with all the First World problems. The tile is accented by new baseboards. That all match.
Now to briefly switch gears, a wee glimpse of the living room — the merest hint of a preview — because you need to know that Kes and Logan are fully in love now. They’ve been flirting for years, but now it’s come down to openly snuggling and grooming each other’s faces.
Nermal usually sulks when they do this, as she is convinced that Logan is her nemesis. Nermal still gets tons of Kes cuddles, though; she just wants ALL the Kes cuddles. Here is Nermal, not sulking but demonstrating why we sometimes think she’s a spy from the cat home planet.
I am aware that this couldn’t possibly be as exciting for you as it is for me, but please bear with me anyway. Because it’s exciting! To have a home! That is not squalid and filthy and covered in grit, not to mention a home that doesn’t have a miter saw on the dining room table (or toilets in the dining room for that matter!).
Annnnnnd, I’ll stop there. Because I could go on all night about the hating and the hate with all the hating of living in a mess. Which is over. So it’s okay, self, shh, shh.
Tonight I have for you the master bedroom. Complete! Clean! Yellow! My favourite colour!
Let’s start with the before, shall we?
Before
What you’re looking at: a poorly lit shot of a very drab, grubby room. The poor lighting has something to do with the fact that there is no lighting. The walls are filthy beige — and by filthy I mean when I washed them down before painting them, they turned out to be an entirely lighter shade of beige — and a filthy beige carpet. There was also, for the record, no baseboards, no closet doors, and the door to the en suite bathroom had a sizable hole in it.
During
The first order of business was to remove the filth sponge carpet. And, dudes. Carpets are gross. There were PILES OF DIRT trapped under there (you can click here to see, if you want). I was truly horrified and have sworn that I will never have carpet again, if I can help it. Next up was painting the walls with fresh paint and — hey! — a colour. OTHER THAN BEIGE.
Then it was time for new flooring…
And then ceiling paint, and closet doors, and doors, and baseboards, and curtains and…voila! A MERE THREE AND A HALF MONTHS LATER…
After
And we have a beautiful new master bedroom! With lighting and colour and cleanliness. SWOON. Aside: See the bedside tables? They used to be green and last weekend I painted them white to match the bed frame. This was a task I put off for several months because I thought it would be fussy and annoying, but spray painting turns out to be quite the opposite of fussy (although, I’m afraid, extremely toxic). I put it off to the point of considering buying new bedside tables, which would have cost at least $100 instead of, like, uh, $5.
Here’s a less artful shot of the room from the other side, if only to demonstrate Kieran’s handy work in that we now have closet doors that, you know, exist and entry doors without holes punched in them. It also nicely shows off the colour of the paint (it’s called Moonlit Yellow, which is apt because it has a delicate silvery undertone to it). The paint! Which is yellow! My favourite! Did I mention that already?
Tomorrow: the en suite! But for now, bbs, I have a date with Harry Potter. Oh, did I tell you? We’re relaxing this week and not doing renos. We were both gravely run down. Besides, what’s left is so negligible, I won’t even bother boring you with it. But for this week we’re enjoying what is as good as done.
Sigh. This right here is one of the more awkward aspects of blogging. Where you write something and put it up and then after you’ve marinated on it for a while you change your mind. You didn’t like how it came out. In real life when I’m perhaps saying sarcastic, graceless things, as I am wont to do (most unfortunately), I have the benefit of other people’s falling facial expressions to provide useful cues as to when to STFU. Here, I say stupid things and then have to wait half a day for my brain to catch up with my mouth. And then I have to writhe in horror that I’ve said something stupid on the Internet. Where many, many people can see it.
Which is to say: my post yesterday…I don’t like how it came out. It came out all negative and jabby at blogging in general (hopefully not at other bloggers, because nooooooooo), when what I was trying to say is that **I** suck at this. At blogging. Me. I suck. (Case in point: RIGHT NOW.) Blogging doesn’t suck; I do. Because I’m not entirely convinced that what I’d hoped would be a self-deprecating tone didn’t ratchet into just plain old deprecating, I’ve pulled the post. I don’t know how much weight anyone gives to my opinions in these here parts, but I don’t want Blue Yon Belly to be a negative space. I’m posting this retraction for the four of you who pick me up in your reader. So, gentle readers, if you caught that last post, forgive me.
