Category Archives: Life

Our House (Flat)

Posted in Finding Home, Fun, Life by

The flat is finally coming together. Last week we moved to our OWN PLACE! and with us came about 30 boxes and pieces of furniture. Since then, we’ve been wading through cardboard, bubble wrap, books, dishes and dust on the floors. But finally this place seems to be coming together. I’m going to describe it for you, just a little, cause I’m so very pleased to once again be living with my husband in a place we can make our own.

(That gallery I put up the other day was courtesy of my Blackberry, which I don’t use nearly enough and so decided to play with theWordpress app. It’s not user friendly, so writing posts and sharing photographs becomes tricky. However you saw a few bits and bobs – the basket and artwork made by the lovely Barbro of Sweden and Southampton, the slipcover I sewed for my grandmother’s sofas (plus the cushions I sewed with leftover headboard material), the picture I drew ages ago and just discovered in a box, the chairs I recovered, and a rose pattern that was on the dress I happened to be wearing.)

The Bedroom

Right. The bedroom is rather large. It’s also rather sparse. There’s something about bedrooms that I prefer to keep as simple as possible. This has everything to do with my sloppy habits . . . logic goes that if there’s not much in the room to mess up, it doesn’t become a crazy pit of discarded clothing and tissues. Oh my god, you should have seen my room only one year ago – I couldn’t help myself! There’d be so many clothes on the floor that I’d eventually give up walking around the mess, and settle for walking over it. So the bedroom is space with very little decoration except for the drapes with their statement IKEA white-on-black tree pattern, the white & black checked headboard, the blue slip-covered sofa, my Cath Kidson bed sheets (pink roses and blue background) and a picture from Lulu’s old home – this picture is in a beautiful golden frame, and the portrait itself is of a girl reading a book in some fancy Victorian clothing.

I can remember being very young at Lulu’s old home in Montreal and looking at this picture. That was when Lulu had a giant record player in a wooden cabinet, and some silky sofas that would most certainly be called ‘vintage’ wherever they are today. I wondered who the girl  in the painting (print) was, and what she happened to be reading. I wondered if she was really posing for this painting or was it the artist’s imagination? I would look at it and wonder.

Now with it here in this room, I look at it and simply feel calm. Calm is very good.

The Kitchen

The kitchen is also large. Maybe a bit too large? Or maybe I just don’t know how to use space effectively. We have a table (from Lulu’s) accompanied by four colourful chairs that are pushed against the far wall. It is an intermediate room between the bedroom and the living room; it is a place of transition and a place of short-term pause. I like it very much, but amazingly it’s my least favourite room since it receives the least light. Darkness isn’t as soul-feeding as lightness. However, the soup created in this kitchen is totally delish that’s a different sort of soul-feeding.

The Living Room.

My next favourite room after the bedroom-when-the-sun-shines. This room is where life goes down. There is a large desk that Zsolt is currently rearranging because he thinks I’m a crazy messy fool who couldn’t organize a drawer if her life depended upon it. Well, maybe if my life depended on it . . . (But the truth here is that we have different definitions of ‘organization’ and mine involves a bit more creativity while his involves a ton more order.) In this living room, we have a computer and media area (one side of the room) and a life and leisure area (the other side of the room). There’s a HUGE amount of space in the middle, and if I had more inclination I’d fill it with an area rug. But I don’t, so it will stay huge and open and possibly available for spur-of-the-moment dance parties. The front windows are very large, and have a privacy curtain and drapes. This room is particularly fabulous because of the clustering of photographs and artwork on the walls.

And that is that.

Welcome to my new apartment. It’s rather lovely, if I do say so myself.

P.S.

Happy Thanksgiving! This past weekend I was able to take the bus with Zsolt and go into Kanata for a family meal. This is special. I didn’t have to board a plane, didn’t have to fly for hours, and didn’t have to suffer the ache of saying goodbye at the end of the visit because they are close, and I am here, and everyone is reachable. It’s like a big hole in my heart has been filled in. This apartment and my life with Zsolt, that’s another repair that has needed fixing and is now starting to heal. Things are coming together and it warms me up from the inside. Plus, I’m almost done the first draft of my love-child, the Generations story. Wowzers, so many good things – these are all very good things.

P.P.S. I am toying with a new name for this blog, or at least a new look to start. Once I have a list I’ll put up some poll for a bit of fun, but in the meanwhile suggestions are always welcome!

FIVE AM insight

Posted in Bumpboobs, Life, Writing by

It’s an obscene time of the day, five in the morning – and maybe for some of you that’s normal wake up time, but for me it’s more like “wake up now and be punished later with exhaustion” sorta timing. But nevertheless here I am at my computer sitting in the front room of my new apartment (in the dark with the street light outside giving me an orange glow) and writing to you. Because I’ve woken myself up with all kinds of stupidity, and if I don’t get this out then I’m never going to sleep.

Okay. Here is the thing. It’s so incredibly stupid. I’ve woken myself up all because of this blog. Or maybe not exactly the blog. I love blogging, I love writing, I love having a place that’s mine to share and tell stories. What I don’t love is cancer.

Bumpyboobs started over two years ago and she has been a sanity-saver. (Like Tupperware, the fresh saver – it kept my sanity from going stale.) It began with my wondering what the bump in my boob was all about. It started because I was worried and frightened and couldn’t talk with anyone about those feelings . . . and oh  my god, I was in serious need of talking.

So that’s how she began. And then the bump became F*ing cancer, and then this blog took on proper meaning. It’s weird to say this, but because I was diagnosed with cancer – this blog had a purpose. It felt like my story suddenly became special.

Cancer, in its way, made me special. It set me apart. It made me a writer. It gave me an audience. And oh my god, I love the people I’ve met through Bumpyboobs and the stories we have shared, and I will most certainly continue to love those stories and read those blogs and follow people’s lives as the keep moving forward. But what the fuck – cancer made me special?

So now it’s 2.5 years later and I’m clear of any signs of this disease. My hair is so long it’s past my chin. When I meet people for the first time, cancer never comes up – it’s not even because I’m hiding that part of my story, it’s simply because it doesn’t come up. Thank GOD I moved past the urge to tell every single person about how I had cancer. There was a time when I needed to do that, because it was so fucking painful and so fucking scary. (Actually, it’s still entirely fucking scary. And I think about people who have said, ‘I’m done with defining myself by cancer’ and still had recurrence in the end  . . . but is constantly wearing the ‘cancer patient’ badge any better? Does it protect me any more from the chances of recurrence? I’m kinda afraid that if I turn my back on cancer then it will come back, but I’m also kinda afraid that if I don’t turn my back on cancer . . . that I’ll never move forward.)

Okay.

So that’s where my head is, and I woke up in bed and thought to myself – I need to rename my blog, I need to rebrand this sucker so that I don’t have to be about cancer all the time. The posts themselves are often not about the C-word. They have been about friends in England, navigating hard and good times with my husband, honouring my grandmother, immigrating to Canada, living with my parents and trying to find work, travelling and feeling so happy, drinking tea by the gallon, and enjoying the little things in life – also, the best things in life and just sharing those experiences with you.

You want to know who my current personal heroes are?

Margaret Atwood for all her generosity with her audience and her immense talent in her storytelling.

Felicia Day for making Geek Culture so damn cool, producing her own series, NOT being defined by what the world was willing to give her (which were mostly mousy secretary roles rather than awesome-heroine-ass-kicking roles like she’s created for herself).

Lena Dunham for making her amazing series GIRLS, acting and writing a role that rings true across so many experiences, and for being so damn talented and capable.

Jane Austen for always giving her characters happiness and love, and for being damn witty and far more talented than many huge writers of her era.

Lucy Maud Montgomery for the stories she created that were always so hopeful, and the lessons on writing she shared – particularly in her Emily series.

And none of this has to do with cancer. Of course I admire the women who are battling the disease and pushing forward (and the men, and the children too) . . . but my heroes take on a different sorta theme.

Oh man. This post is getting long. It’s 5.30 AM!

Here is my problem which I need to figure out: What is my story? What makes me special if it isn’t cancer? Why would anyone read this blog if it’s aimless and without a goal?

There are mommy bloggers, fashion bloggers, city bloggers, food bloggers . . . okay, I love moms, and food, and beautiful clothing – but I am not any of these categories, and as for lifestyle blogging –that’s a vague term, isn’t it? Should I be writing more about my IKEA decorating, putting flowers in vases and making my rooms look beautiful? (Actually I can’t do that anyhow, because truth be told is that the flowers die and I forget to throw them out, and after sewing all these sofa slipcovers, I’ll be happy to never see another sewing machine in my life.)

What’s my story now? Please goodness, don’t let it be all about cancer. But if it’s not about that – then what? And maybe if I can’t answer that in a nice packaged statement, then I need to really get my head on straight.

One thing I never say, but is true, is that while I am a writer, what I really want to be is a novelist.   I want to write stories and share them in different mediums. I also want to work in a library and walk to work and help people enjoy their days. I want to indulge in simple pleasures. I want to figure out what my thirties are any good for. I want to talk about the lines on my face and how my expression seems more tired when I look in the mirror. I want to take one of my good ideas and actually turn it into something real. I want to have a message . . . and yet, I haven’t got a clue what that might be.

Anyhow, we’ll see what comes from all of this. If you’ve read this far then I applaud you for making it past 1000 words – cause this is one long unresolved ‘too-early-in-the-morning-and-I-am-going-back-to-bed’ post.

Thank you for sharing your time with me.

Good night.