Jolly

We have a freezer full of gourmet cupcakes leftover from the wedding. They are pink with pink chocolate shavings on top and seriously send a warm glow of happiness all the way down to my toes with each and every bite. We just got them back last night from a friend who stored them for us over our honeymoon. However, the pile was not as large as I remember...

My friend admitted that they may have tapped into just a few dozen (I mean, we did leave those innocent little cupcakes in their freezer for six weeks -- TORTURE). Apparently it was all Charis's idea whenever she came over. I'm soooo not surprised and I'm a little bit proud of my friends for doing EXACTLY what I would have done.

So anyway, if I start to look fat, don't even bother to ask me if I'm pregnant. In fact, at the rate I'm going, I'll have a five month old foetus belly in no time.

The Great Invention

I teach Social Studies 9 now. These kids are fresh out of Middle School, and haven't yet gotten used to the ways of big kids.

Today I was doing a homework check with my 9s, and I told them it would only take about four minutes, so they were allowed to just sit quietly and review their notes until I was finished.

Riiiiiight.

I had to raise my voice above the din, and explain to them that high school students do this thing called "chilling." You know, where they sort of just relax, stare at the wall, maybe doodle a bit. That worked for about a minute, but then they started to get nutty again. I had about four kids left to check, when I came up with the most brilliant invention.

A new game.

In my deepest, most confident voice, I bellowed, "OK, we are all going to play a game that you are probably familiar with. I need everybody to put their heads DOWN."

A titter rippled through the class, and I heard a few ask, "Are we playing seven up?"

"Heads DOWN!"

"Are we--"

"Heads DOWN!" Most of them seemed to be following. "OK, now heads down, SHUT UP!"

"Wha--"

"HEADS DOWN, SHUT UP!" I must have repeated that a few times. Finally, I think they got the point.

And they were silent. It was glorious.

After I finished my final homework check, I raised my head and commanded them, "Heads UP, SHUT UP. Yes, heads up, SHUT UP!"

You see, I invented a wonderful game. Seven Up: High School Version.

Culinary Prowess

Andy loves to cook meat. I think it makes him feel very MANLY. What's even better is when he gets to cook it on our brand-new BBQ! (There weren't many wedding presents that made him really excited. I can't imagine why --I find platters and napkins and crockpots HIGHLY exciting). He'll get out all the fancy tongs and flippers and whatnots, carefully select appropriate bbq sauces or marinades, and zip back and forth between the kitchen and the grill with a bit of a spring in his step (those little feet are excellent at springing). He often tries to convince me of all sorts of delicious morsels you can cook on that thing (and which I should "permit" him to cook). Mostly, though, he sticks to the classics: hot dogs, steaks, chicken, and fish. When he cooks salmon he even likes to make a special little sauce for it (and it's actually pretty darn good).

When we moved in together, we melded food supplies. For a bachelor, Andy had a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen. He contributed more boxes and dishes than I did. It was kind of neat seeing that we had a similar taste in food, too. In fact, our spice cupboard is pretty funny because we each had the exact same spices, and so now we have two of everything. The freezer is now full of a much more adult variety -- meats, different kinds of breads and ice creams. I haven't had a chance to even see what all he's put in there.

On Sunday afternoon we had Charis over for lunch after church. Usually I like to have pancakes on Sundays, but the last couple times I made them they were, er, under par. We decided we'd serve the classic smokeys, pop and chips trio. I grabbed some weiners from the freezer, handed them to the bbq king, and started munching on the chippies as I visited my dear friend. We sat down to eat, and I took one bite and gave a very weird expression to Andy. He paused mid-chew, and returned the very odd look. What THE HELL is wrong with my hot dog? I started to worry that we were eating something very freezer burnt, or very poisonous and wrong (and we were feeding it to a breast-feeding mommy). Finally, Andy concluded that it was farmer's sausage. Breakfast farmer's sausage. Well, at least it's edible. And hey, I've never had barbequed breakfast sausage before, on a bun. Apparently I handed him the wrong package, and he unwittingly cooked them (I say the blame is double-sided).

Then, last night, Andy fired up the bbq again (I think to redeem our previous experience). I came home to find him mixing his special salmon marinade, with the rice-cooker steaming away. Awwwww. So, I whipped up a salad and waited for him to finish the fish. And I waited. He finally came back in looking concerned, and he apologized, saying the fish took a while, but now it feels really rubbery. Rubbery? I took one look at it and burst out laughing.

It was chicken.

Yes, with the special fish sauce.

Don't worry. Normally we don't have as many little mishaps in the kitchen. If you come over for dinner, I promise it will be yummy. And if not, well, you'll at least have a story to tell -- something worthy of Reader's Digest, perhaps?

Out with the old, in with the new

I'm not dead. Promise. However, I think the old me has died a little. I have a different name, a different house, a different ROOMMATE, and a different teaching position. I now make the bed in the morning (most days), arrive to school on time (with lunch AND coffee in tow), hand back my assignments within a reasonable amount of time, have people over for dinner parties, buy cards for people in ADVANCE, brilliantly talk about Napoleon's war tactics, and basically exude awesomeness wherever I go.

I do miss the old me sometimes. I miss the girl who would post on her blog a little more regularly. The girl screeching into the parking lot moments before the second bell. The girl with discarded coffee mugs littered throughout her classroom, and molding pumpkins lurking in corners. The girl who was a flailing disaster.

I suppose it is a natural time for reflection: I've been married one month today. Everyone asks me how married life is, and I say with a smile, "Great!" I find it difficult to put into words how truly great it is, and do what we have any justice. It's enough to change me, refine me, peace me. I now get roses on my pillow, coffee with Bailey's handed to me, someone to drive my car, an EXTENSIVE music library, whispers, and unabashed farting. But it's more than what I simply get. It's also what I get to give -- so much is in me, waiting to be poured out. I'm on a Jolly Jumper inside, not quite sure how my muscles and everything work, but givin' 'er just the same. (uh, that was a serious metaphor - no innuendo intended)

I wonder how the old me will be manifested in this new me that is now two people -- both, coincidentally, being former disasters.

setting

i must capture this setting sun

this moment of warmth

that runs over my bones

beneath blankets of light

i must dip my hands in golden water

in waves of laughter

giggling the shore

i must firm the hand fit to mine

set to draw all that is in me

out

no more drifting wood

i must keep my head thrown back

my mouth wide as i twirl in wild abandon

drinking in the miracle

anticipating the dawn

Country Mouse, City Mouse

I pretty much grew up in the bush just outside of Prince George. You know, where mud pies, bugs (mosquitos, spiders, ants), tree-forts, wildflowers, massive snow drifts, and critters are in abundance (one time we had some moose walk through our yard). I liked that we had to run down a muddy dirt road to catch the bus with our jackets half on and our lunchboxes flapping against our legs. I liked that when I was in grade five, the grade seven graduating class had three students. I liked that when you drove down the road and met a car, you gave them a little wave because that's just what you did in the country. I liked that it didn't even matter that we only had two snowy channels on the TV-- I, instead, got lost in a world where the imagination brought a whole world of entertainment. I liked the country. I liked its solitude, its simplicity, its speed.

Then we moved to the "big city" of P.G. where it smelled no longer of wild grasses and trees, but pulp mills! I remembered realizing how sheltered I had been from the world, especially city life. I can clearly recall the day when my friend Tracey taught me what J-walking was. But I mean, it was Prince George, so the hick in me was still a little bit at home. (Last night I actually dreamt of our house in P.G. and it had all been renovated. I wonder if we renovate our memories -- people give us a little bit more detail, or something triggers an additional memory and we add it to the pile.)

Kamloops was next, then Vancouver. It was a pretty big jump to go from the 'Loops to the 'Couv. In Kamloops we'd spend lazy summer afternoons floading down the river beneath the desert-like hills. Often when people drive through Kamloops they comment on what an ugly city it is, and I'm always shocked. I find its geography to be quite stunning and unique -- nowhere else in Canada is like that (people study Kamloops in Geography classes, you know). Plus, I lived there and knew its people, its hidden charms. But, when I had to leave, I was really excited to move to a REAL city -- it was like my evolution would then be complete.

The jump wasn't really that big, though. Sometimes it would hit me kind of funny that I was living in such a big place of culture and ideas and noise and speed. But I liked it. I was ready for it. I would go for walks around my neighbourhood and feel oddly connected to the people outside trimming their lawns or walking their dogs, even though I never talked to them. There's something magical about Vancouver; everyone can feel it.

I have been living on the fourth floor of an apartment building in Aldergrove for two months now. It's crazy. Again there's that sense of everyone being connected, yet we don't really talk to each other. When I'm in the elevator and someone comes in, I'm not sure what to do with myself (and I think I'm generally friendly). Sometimes we chit chat about the weather, and sometimes it's really awkward and I just look at the red numbers changing as we go past floors.

This morning my sleepy ears were met with the sounds of hammers, people laughing, screaming babies, doors slamming, and it was the weirdest thing. All of that chaos was going on at once, in the same place. I looked out my window and could see six pick-up trucks filled with possessions and a whole bunch of friends scurrying around, helping a family move. (I was reminded of when my sister and I would find the biggest ant hills and kick the crap out of them, just so we could see all the ants go nuts.) Other people leaving the building would open the doors to help the army of movers; meanwhile, people were installing hardwood floors in the apartment below me. This bustling of activity made me feel part of something. Part of a community, oddly enough. Then the theme song from Mr. Rogers Neighbourhood began to play -- and I figured it was time to end this post.

t. end.

Currently

Interpretation needed? Naaaaw (gnaw?). Just look at the date.