One Foot Back to Counter It

There are things I say to my therapist, not because I necessarily believe them, but because I want to believe them. That if I say them out loud, allow them to resonate, to bounce off the walls of the small, warm converted 2-storey walk-up where she works, then they will magically turn themselves to truth.

One of those things is "grief is not linear."

In my logical brain, I know that. I know that it is as true as anything that's ever been said. That you don't just "get better", with all the days lined up in neat rows, waiting for the "5 stages of grief" to tick by. But I can't help but feel that some days are setbacks, that I am not moving forward, that I am stuck.

I hadn't cried in weeks. I was showing up for work, if not on time, then at least close, did my job, and did it reasonably well. I was taking the bus again, and I went to trivia night, and made dinner, and paid bills on time, and did everything that, just a few weeks earlier, had seemed nearly impossible. And then, easily, delicately, like someone tugging at a loose string on a beloved sweater, it all neatly fell apart. On Monday morning, I stood staring through the front window, mud room door closed behind me, and I could. Not. Move.

I mean that quite literally. The simplest act- putting one foot in front of the other, walking down the porch and trodding the 6 blocks to the bus stop - seemed absolutely insurmountable. I could feel myself growing hotter and hotter, the weight of my winter boots around my ankles, the knitted hat my grandmother had made, lying itchy on my head, and yet I stood there, dull, doughy face peering back at me in the hall mirror. I envisioned myself picking up my purse and unlocking the door, but in reality I just stood, staring. After 5 minutes or so of this, I said aloud to no one, in a voice that sounded too small to be mine, "I don't think I can."

The Little Engine that Panicked.

I slowly took off my mitts, my boots, let the hat fall from my head, and went back into the house. I sent an email to work that blamed my absence on a physical illness instead, too cowardly to admit I'd been made catatonic by something deep inside my head, and too weary to put up with the sympathetic looks I'd get once I slunk back into the office.

I wasted the entire day in a forgettably boring fashion, watching YouTube videos of the Oscars, eating whatever was about to go bad in the fridge, and annoying the dog. I told TB, who was sweet and sympathetic as we made dinner. I got a good night's sleep and had a hot shower and went through my morning routine as normal the next day, hoping that I'd at least be able to make it into a cab tomorrow, if not the bus stop. But as I slipped an orange into my totebag, I heard a noise. A high-pitched wailing tone that was half mechanical, half animal. It was coming from me. 

I'd heard the idea before that some moments take us out of ourselves, that we feel as though we're watching ourselves from above, like we're in a movie. Like bolting upright when you've had a nightmare, I always thought that was just a cliche. But I get it now. I could see myself brace both hands on the dining room table, I saw my face crumple in on itself as the first droplets of my turns-out-it's-not-waterproof mascara hit my cheeks. I watched as my legs buckled, and my palms slapped the dirty wooden floor and my tears and drool made splashes on the cracks in between the hardwood. And I heard everything. The worst noise I've ever made, and one of the worst I've ever heard. I never fully understood what it was to 'keen' before, but this had to have been it. A rhythmic, rocking, shrill explosion that seemed to come simultaneously from my chest, my throat, and the top of my head. It sounded like some kind of alert, or alarm, though with no logical course of action. Less of a "Fire! Everybody get out!" and more of a "Let us all remark on the utter unfairness that fire destruction can cause!". Like ADT if it was run by Sartre.

The dog was totally perplexed. Here I was, about to give her breakfast, with maybe a biscuit if she did her business outside, and now I'd decided to eschew all that in favour of lying on the floor like a simpleton. She was not impressed, racing back and forth between her bowl and my pathetic display of surrender, trying to encourage me to pick up where I'd left off.

And with a shuddering breath, just like that, it was over. The skies cleared and I was back. And I slowly picked myself up, dusted myself off (seriously, we have to figure out some kind of chore wheel, we're slobs), and went back in the kitchen to feed the dog. I glanced at the clock on the stove as I walked by it - the whole thing had taken me less than 5 minutes. I may not be good at managing my emotions, but my God, I'm efficient.

Today has been better. I've had a few close moments, but no tears today, and I'm trying to go out and meet some people for drinks in order to do something that doesn't involve hibernating in front of a space heater or staring blankly at the myriad of glowing screens I possess. And hopefully the weeks and months ahead will be filled with more moments of normalcy and pleasantness than not.

It's not a step back, I know it isn't. But maybe it's a bit of a kick. A gentle tap of the toe saying "Hey, hotshot, this thing is bigger than you. And don't you forget it."

What I've Learned: Cohabitation

There was a blog entry today on Apartment Therapy asking for advice about moving in with a boyfriend. It got me thinking on what has been the most important set of lessons-learned in our short time here. The Boy and I are coming up on 6 months in our place and, while I'm nowhere near an expert, I think I can offer up a few tips to those of you who might be considering a similar move. So, without further ado, here's what (nearly) 6 months of cohabitated bliss (mostly) has taught me:

The beginnings of our "art wall" - the pictures are straight,
it's me who's crooked.

1) Our house didn't feel like a home until we had art on the walls. It was seriously the one single thing that made us love our place and made it feel like "ours". Since most of the furniture was mine, it was nice to have something we shared equally. The Boy (who hadn't hung most of his art before we got the house) was so excited to see the things he had loved all laid out on the walls and I saw my art in a new way as it intersected with his. 

2) Make a big deal out of a first meal. Our first meal was Indian takeout because the idea of cooking after moving was near impossible. However, one of our favourite meals those first few weeks was a combination of sorts. We each made one thing we're good at - coleslaw (me), cherry pie (him), and each made one thing we'd never made before meatloaf (him) macaroni and cheese from scratch (me). The meatloaf was my mom's recipe and the macaroni and cheese was his mom's. It was kind of corny, but we loved the idea of bringing together our strengths, our mothers' strengths and making new traditions, all in one meal. Plus, if we totally screwed up, at least we had coleslaw and pie to rely on. Which, y'know, is not a bad way to pass an evening.

3) Give each other space. We have a very small second bedroom that I wanted to use as a guest room. In addition, I had a longish desk to put in that room. The bf has a gaming desktop and wanted a place to play his games where he could remain undisturbed and not disturb others. We ended up compromising and putting a double bed against one wall and his small, corner desk against another. Now the room looks kind of cramped but so what? It's clean, it's fairly tidy, and he's happy having a place to do his thing. My desk is currently in the basement, awaiting its new home in my sister's room. At first I was annoyed at having to give it up but you know what? I don't really use a desk. It was a bulky storage system for pens and old textbooks. Him having his own space when everything else is shared matters to him, so I was happy to do it. Me using every square inch of shelf space for cosmetics and samples matters to me, so I got that. It works out.

Similarly, for the first 2 months our socks, underwear, my tights, and my bras all lived in the same small 4-drawer dresser (and a few cardboard boxes to share the overflow). It made mornings incredibly aggravating and made me mutter some unkind words under my breath on more than one occasion. Once we found a wonderful old chest of drawers for him off kijiji, occupying the same bedroom became easy. It's funny how one simple piece of furniture killed almost all our morning bad moods.

4) Make your bedroom an oasis. Cheesy? Maybe. But who doesn't love cheese? Liars, that's who. Our bedroom is one of the rooms I'm the happiest with. It has sloped ceilings with exposed beams, which makes it feel like a quiet little cabin. Even though it's very tiny, it's cozy, and it's a perfect respite at the end of long day. It's where we chat and plan our day and laugh about stupid jokes - I really try to take any arguments we have out of that space because it's usually such a chill location. We bought the bed together, which was a good call, and splurge on good quality sheets (thank god for sneaky sisters who work at HomeSense). We tried to bring no boxes in there when we moved so that it could be a place of (somewhat) serenity when everything else looked like hell. And I'm proud to say it's fairly gender-neutral not some pink-splashed squint-fest (*cough* mom and dad *cough*)

5. Choose your battles. Yeah, sometimes I'll still get annoyed at water glasses left everywhere or 3 or 4 pairs of socks discarded all over the living room. But before I bellow for him to clean it up - I think: how much do I care about this? Often, the answer is close to nil, especially when I consider the stuff he does without me asking. I've accepted we just see mess differently. It doesn't mean he won't do something if I ask him to - he's good about putting stuff away when I can't reach it (shut up) and vacuuming etc. - but he won't necessarily think to do it himself. Yes, I clean the kitchen more than he does but he always packages up and takes out the garbage and recycling even in -40 degree weather. I go through the mail and pick up clothes off the floor, but he fills and empties the dishwasher more, and doesn't complain at the huge amount of hair i leave behind when I straighten it in the morning. Decide what's a dealbreaker and needs to be addressed, but don't harp on everything, and don't accept him doing the same. Separate the wheat from the chaff and you'll be happier for it.

6. Don't become tied to your house. One of the hardest things about having a built-in buddy as a roommate is that the urge to leave the house becomes smaller and smaller. Home now has food and movies and Rock Band (if it's any kind of house worth living in ) AND it has someone to hang out with! Who wouldn't want to stay home?? But fight that urge. Go out for dinner with separate friends, go to a movie together with your siblings, get those after-work drinks with coworkers. The best advice I ever heard about doing stuff when you're lazy is "never spend two weekends in a row at home". This gives you enough time to hang out and do house stuff and watch Modern Family but also to be social and engaged. After all, there's only so many times you can say "no" to someone's invitation before they just stop inviting you. And life gets really boring if every conversation you have involves the phrase "I know. I was there." Trust me.

7. Be kind to each other. I'm not saying you have a terrible relationship, really, I'm not, but kind acts are different when you live together. My heart melts quicker for a hot meal when I come home or an emptied dishwasher than it does for a box of chocolate. When it comes to gifts for your new roommate, it really is the thought that counts, not the cost.  Having someone make you a lunch or replace the toilet paper might seem mundane but trust me when I say they can be bone-jumping hot or rom-com sweet if you're just too tired to cook because you got out of work an hour late and you are just at the end of your rope with this fucking day...

.. *ahem*

So, yes. Be kind.

--------------

I know it's only been a short while but so far, things have been surprisingly good. One kind of weepy fight in the last 5 months but other than that, we've managed to face a broken stove, a busted furnace, neighbour garbage can shenanigans, a house party, two dogsittings, 3 trips to IKEA and a family dinner party with a fair amount of grace and aplomb. Here's to the next six months, and beyond. May there be more cherry pie and less trips to IKEA for all.

What I've Learned: (sort of) Owning a Dog

This past week, The Boy and his family went to a wedding in Saskatchewan. In January. Yeah, I don't know either. Over the Christmas holiday, his family and I were discussing the details, including their plans for their bird, Freddy, and dog, Suze. Given the prospect of driving her 3 hours round trip, twice, to stay with family, I volunteered, perhaps somewhat foolishly, to take care of them myself. I've already talked about the challenge of dog ownership here, but this was the first time I had the menagerie on their own. We're on the last day of 6 here and it hasn't all been easy, but it has taught me some important life lessons when it comes to non-human roommates. I share.

1. You will not want to walk. The dog will always want to walk. 

You can not walk, of course. You're the human. You pay the bills. You're in charge. But then they'll look at you like this:

As far as she's concerned, Pupperoni is her one true owner.

Your call still, of course.

...

I'll get your coat.

2. Some dogs smell, some dogs don't. How close the dog wants to get to you is inversely proportional to how bad they smell.

The boy's previous dog, Eddy, never smelled. He was a fastidious self-cleaner (gross) and, for a big dog never seemed to emit any odours. He mostly kept to himself but would allow you to cuddle him if you'd been particularly good that day.

Suze, by contrast, takes about 4 days post-bath to smell like she's been rolling in garbage (spoiler alert: she has) and cannot wait to get her little muzzle directly underneath your nose. You'd complain but, again, that face.

3. How tired you are is of no relevance to the dog. Especially at 3am. Especially if there's something near you she could be jingling her collar at.

Self-explanatory. My under-eye bags have bags.

4. Dog-walking is all about choice.

Plotting how she'll make you pay for this.
And make no mistake, you'll pay.

You can spend 15 minutes trying to put on the blasted dog booties while man's best friend refuses to lies down and then pulls a "no bones" on you, or you can spend those 15 minutes at the end of the walk, cleaning salt and grit out of her paws using 6 shop towels and a hand-pump of Body Shop coconut hand wash while she refuses to lies down and then pulls a "no bones" on you. It's totally up to you, person-who-is-very-much-in-charge-of-this-situation.

5. Find out how many calories are in a mouthful of dog hair, weight-watchers, because you'll be consuming one every damn time you eat. 

Short of shaving the dog down like a Sphynx cat, you will most likely find yourself pulling parts of the dog out of your mouth at every interval. Which is the closest you're going to get to eating my Lunchable, Suze, so back off.

To say nothing of the clumps of dog hair that now stick defiantly to my living room rug or roll lazily across my kitchen floor. I'm choosing to think of those as urban tumbleweeds, part of my 'western chaos' design scheme.

6. Past behavior does not necessarily indicate future results.

Like, for example, if every other day you've left the garbage on the ground and the dog has remained uninterested in its existence, do not assume you won't come home one evening to find the garbage overturned and its contents strewn willy-nilly around the kitchen. But only when you've just cleaned the kitchen. That's something you can count on.

7. Short of having a baby, nothing makes you more square than a dog.

If I had a nickel for every time I said "I should probably get home to walk the dog" or "I can't, have to see how the dog's doing", then I'd probably have enough money to get a petsitter and stay out for a beer or two. Something about having something completely relying on you for sustenance, entertainment and (in this week's case) company, made me a little nervous when I chose my own activities over hers. Maybe this dissipates in time but for me, it was hard to ignore. I managed to do some fun stuff this week regardless, but there was this stinging feeling in the back of my head every time I agreed to go out instead of going home to walk her. Some might say it was guilt. I say it's more likely her claw digging into my neck, indicating she'd like to go out now.

8. You will worry more than you thought possible.

Full confession: I'm a worrywart at the best of times. I will turn a situation over in my head 1000 times before going to sleep, and then turn it over 1000 times more in my dreams (except now I'll be doing it naked while falling down a flight of stairs in front of my 7th grade crush, natch). So every sniffle, growl, loss of appetite, stumble, howl, disappearance and snore is met with a "Are you okay, Suze?? Tell me!" Which is invariably met with a sneeze, a brow raise, and a return to sleep. Which Google MD tells me means she has full-body cancer.

Suze recuperating after her walk.
Or allowing her cells to reproduce some sort of superbug
from which she will never recover. Either/or.

9. You will miss them so much it's remarkable.

Maybe there's something about the clingyness of a dog, especially this dog, that makes you feel kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Being greeted with all-out excitement is kind of fantastic, even if it's only because they think you're taking them for a walk or giving them their "treat" (joke's on you, dog, it's just your thyroid pill inside a Vache Qui Rit). I'll miss that feeling of being greeted with a little bark and a happy face every day. See, TB? Suze understands why it's nice to say hi to me when I get home instead of continuing to play Skyrim.

BONUS: 10. You will have no fucking clue what the bird's thinking.

Seriously, bird. You puff up, you deflate. You sing for an hour, you stay mute for two days. You spill all the seed on the ground, you want more seed. I don't even know. Learn from the parrots - they're trying to communicate at least.

What I've Learned: Throwing a Party

I took pictures before people arrived and everything
got covered in BLT dip and sparkles

Dudes.

DUDES.

How fun was that??

This weekend we hosted our housewarming/Christmas party and I'm happy to report it was a total blast. Party hosting is one of those things for me that, like buying a house, moving in with someone, or wearing jeggings, seems a lot scarier before you actually do it. I was stressed beforehand, worrying that people wouldn't have a good time or that no one would come, or too many people would come or that something would get broken, or it would be boring, or or or or or orororororororor.

But of course, everything went swimmingly and I'm a maroon.

For the first time all these shoes in the front hall aren't mine!

I was definitely worried about the size of the place but in the end? It was perfect. Good amounts of room to move around, the beat-up couch did what it always did (forced people into the centre of the cushions, made them hug), the food was mostly devoured, the drinks flowed, and while we should have bought the plastic shot glasses I'd suggested, at least I got to be right about something which is almost as good as being prepared.


After all the work we've put into the place* it was nice to be able to have someone else admire it. And they did admire it, which was incredibly kind, and made me happy even if they were lying (don't tell me if you were).

There was this small, kind of wonderful moment in the midst of all this chaos where I looked around and saw all these people that I knew through different means - former work pals, childhood friends, current coworkers, friends-of-friends-who-are-now-friends, and I just couldn't get the stupid smile off my face. How awesome is it when you can gather a bunch of people you like a lot in one place at one time? And how double awesome is it to not have to trudge through the cold when they leave? You just take your pants off! So great!

Come, sit by the warm glow of channel 206

And while not everyone could be there due to space or timing or distance or illness, I was buoyed by how many people trudged through this bizarre sort of terrible snowrain combo just to warm our little place up. And some stayed until 4am which impressed us all.

So, things learned:

1) You can never have too many cups. Or shot glasses *casts stink eye at The Boy*

2) You can, however, have too many dips.

If you think someone didn't put LEGO men in the guacamole and then eat those
decorative balls... you obviously don't know my friends.

3) Parties with 30-year-olds are often just as drunk as parties with 17-year-olds but you don't have as much clean-up to do and it's not as important to have a second bathroom

4) Everything's funnier after 2am - save your worst jokes for then

5) Dishwashers are sent from Heaven to make us happy. So are front halls with coat hooks.

6) If you have anything in your home that invites writing (white boards, grocery lists) or has removable letters (magnets, banners) they will be played with. Offensive things will be written. Deal with it.

7) Newspaper on the ground in the front hall: do it.

That no one spilled that sucker over is the true Hanukkah miracle.

8) Thinking you've made too much sangria is a fool's way of thinking. Don't ever assume.

9) Don't use a sharp knife less than 2 hours before the party starts. Or if you do, shower first. And find fancy band-aids 

10) A teammate and a sister who will help you set up/clean up from a party? Are a godsend. Ones that will staunch the bloodflow of a sliced-up finger? Even better.

11) Sit down as much as you can beforehand - you won't get a chance later.

12) Spend at least some of your clean-up time drinking water - you'll thank yourself later.

13) Muppets, if spotted, must be played with. Fact.

Our muppets, punching rabbi, and Cthulu the next morning.
Signs of a life well lived.

14) Don't agonize over the little things - no one's really going to care about the dirt you couldn't get at in the corners of your kitchen- instead, focus on the obvious: toilet, tabletops, tschotskes. Clean 'em, cuz people are going to spot it. Otherwise, just make sure they drink 'till you're tidy.

15) However, that being said, try to tidy all the rooms - people will want to see what you got going on and it's hard to cover each room with a sarcastic "so this is where the magic happens".

and lastly...

16) Small, quirky dogs are the best thing to bring to a party. They're great conversation starters, they eat the stuff you drop on the floor and you can blame farts on them. A-1 choice.

So that's about it. We're going to do this again, probably for my birthday (barbecues! outdoor furniture! lady drinks!) but maybe before then (My poor introvert Boy is probably shaking his head as we speak).

So what about you? What makes a good party vs. a bad one? What's your favourite kind of social get-together? Telllll meeee. I crave brains like.. something scary that eats brains. A vampire? Yeah, probably a werewolf.

*I'm talking pictures hung and furniture placed, nothing more impressive than that. No "This Old House" for these screwballs.