Logic

A horrifying episode occured in Cuba when I witnessed Scott sleeping with his eyes wide open.

It was our first night there, and I was feeling sick. We fell asleep with the TV and all the lights on. I woke up about an hour later and turned around to find my husband staring right back at me....only...not. His head was tilted towards the ceiling, mouth half open (thankfully no trickle of blood coming out of it, although that would have completed the scene), and eyes WIDE OPEN. He was definitely sleeping though, because when I jolted him into consciousness there was a significant change in those eyeballs; they snapped from a vegetative glaze to a pair of lenses groggily registering visual stimuli.

"Oh my god! You were sleeping with your eyes wide open!"

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you were. That was so creepy! I thought you were dead! Do you see out of them when you do that? You probably do this every night and I don't notice because it's dark!"

"Well my eyes are pretty dry when I wake up in the morning...."

Good glory. And don't for a second think that I am exaggerating the openness factor. These puppies were not halfway there. There were no eyelids to speak of.

Then last night, I was already in bed but had to answer my stomache's cries to feed it. I brought my bagel and cream cheese back to the bedroom and commented on how I think it's great that we frequently leave our deadliest kitchen knives in plain sight on the cutting board, just in case the maniac who breaks in forgets his weapon in his brown van. This was the perfect justification for Scott to pipe in about his sleeping habits (oh god, of which there are so many weird ones, I cannot possibly describe them all in one entry).

"Well now you know why I sleep with my eyes open. I'm always on alert."

Yah. Well maybe we could just use a drawer and he could get some real shut-eye. But no, this way makes much more sense. While we're at it, we might as well turn on all the burners on the stove in the morning, and I'll run home from work every 10 minutes to make sure the place isn't torched.

21 days later

Where have I been all this time? (This is more a question posed to myself, and not you, dear reader).

Answer: 1)A combination of Cuba and the couch. 2)Elbow-deep in a bag of Doritos one minute, on a quest for another gallon of organic milk the next. 3)In an ever-fluxing headspace: from anxiety and indifference to optimism and utter contentment. I have been incredibly lazy, but my doctor recently erradicated my guilt by allowing me to blame it on "progesterone". Don't force exercise for the next little while? Okay.

This growing a human business can really suck the life right out of you. A bit of a boost yesterday though, hearing the heartbeat for the first time. A sweet little fluttering of poppyseed-sized valves and chambers, having begun a lifetime of tireless work.

Last night, Scott and I went out for dinner. It was a drizzly evening and I was in the mood for a cozy neighbourhood pub (and, let's face it, something deep-fried). We sat down at a table that happened to be beside a younger couple who were dressed to impress and sharing the banquette seat so they could be closer to each other. There was a little bit of bickering and a lot of wine. I decided they were newly dating and ordered a rootbeer.

A few minutes later an older couple sat down on the other side of us. Retired. Both ordered a glass of red wine and while the 20-somethings swapped bites of an apple pie with melted cheese on top (there's a MOD if I've ever heard of one, all you ex-servers out there), the older man and woman clutched the stems of their glasses and stared blankly at molecules of air that occupied space a little to the left of each other's heads.

How poignant the juxtaposition of a new romance and one that is seasoned enough to endure an extended period of unawkward silence. These were two people who could have just as easily convinced me that they were both on the verge of a wine-induced coma, separate but together.

And then there was Scott and I, right in the middle, not noticing our own silence as we finished each other's meals and eavesdropped on our neighbours. Clearly one side proved more interesting.

On a final and fittingly unrelated note, I love my dear cat and have decided she deserves some blog publicity. The only time I feel otherwise towards her (although at 2pm I can't help but find it slightly endearing) is at 5am when there is a black purring mess kneading my ribcage and walking in circles around my pillow. She seeks out my hands and in my state of half-sleep I am treated to the familiar wet-nosed head-butting; a plea for some scratching at the most difficult hour of the day. If I'm lying on my back she inevitably finds comfort in Sphinx pose, the tips of her paws poised on my trachea. She does, afterall, fancy herself a calculating and fearsome jungle cat.

Why do we allow her to sleep in our room, you ask? Well, for one, I do love a warm animal body next to me. But most importantly, if we close our door, the 5am wake-up call is much more disturbing. It conjures images of the other side of the bedroom door splintered into kindling and claws ground down to the quick.

Thank you for reading, I now continue my clumsy and fog-headed journey through the day and will eat the chocolate cookie sitting quietly in a brown paper bag on my desk.

I have spilled my lunch on my pants three times and counting....

Missed

This is Kilah, a beautiful girl with an arctic coat and a famous smile. She loved visiting the neighbours down the road because they always had a treat for her. But whatever it was, she unfailingly carried it all the way home to 3195 Cape Bear Rd before she ate it. Once I saw her cross the front lawn with an entire croissant in her mouth.

Everything around us begins as an idea

There are fingertips padding keyboards all around me and I contribute to the plastic rhythm as I write this. I'm at that not-quite-lunchtime stage of the day, where I absolutely stop all productive work and basically zone out for a good 1o minutes. 

I've learned a lot here. And I know that the book world is where I'm meant to be, in one aspect or another. But sometimes I miss the drawing I used to do for architectural projects. I am in love with the evolution of a hand sketch to a sophisticated computer graphic to a built environment, and the ability of a set of drawings to not only specify the accurate placement of steel studs, but to also be artful in its own ink-on-paper way.

I believe in art with a purpose; an expression of creativity that also communicates an idea.
I believe that form follows function.

I used to draw restored facades of heritage buildings and contemporary living spaces for forward-thinking urbanites; designs that in some way modified an existing urban landscape. Now I draw cats playing instruments on school buses and mice performing ballet recitals to The Blue Danube Waltz. It might be that I also believe in art for art's sake, or perhaps that I enjoy the visual telling of a story. Or maybe the whole while I was drafting up plans and sections there was a child inside me, just dying to get out, and asking me not to think so hard.

Happy birthday L! 

"And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed."

-Kahlil Gibran

Blast! A missed photo opportunity

Ten fashion-hungry females and heaping mounds of neglected clothes on the verge of a renaissance. For three manic hours on a Saturday afternoon, the 2nd semi-annual "Never-Been-Worn" Clothes Swap and Auction Extravaganza returned!

This is how we do it: First, we gorge ourselves on boursin and crackers, homemade cookies and mini eggs. Oh, and of course quench our thirst with caramel apple martinis and white wine; nothing says NBW like a 3pm cocktail! Then each participant itemizes every article she has brought to the table.

Required details include: brand name, city of purchase, number of times worn, whether or not there is "a time and a place for it", and any deficiencies worth mentioning.

Once all has been seen the bidding begins. The try-ons begin. Soon there are half-naked ladies in every room of the house swapping goods, correcting postures in front of mirrors. More wine is poured. A secretary keeps track of monies owed.

"How much for the boots?"

"Fifteen."

"Done."

Transactions occur. And of course, bidding wars are inevitable.

It is worth noting that one woman's trash is another's treasure. Case in point: a "Leggo my Eggo" t-shirt actually found a new home today.

I am 3 tops, 2 pants, 1 jacket and eighty dollars richer than I was this morning. I only wish I had thought to capture the madness with my camera, bare bums and all.