Archives for the month of: November, 2009

Do Something Special

November 25, 09 //

Cameron and I have been together for almost twelve years, and it’s easy to slip into patterns. As much as I hate to admit it, I am not perfect. Sometimes I take him for granted. And sometimes I forget that it’s the little things that matter. Like shaving your legs.

It’s the little things.

The little things, like back massages and eye gazing and writing a card and taking the time.

The little things, like a husband wishing his wife MRS. M. STOFFEL OF ROCHESTER NEW YORK A SPARKLY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY and letting her know that HUSBAND M. STOFFEL OF ROCHESTER NEW YORK wishes her a happy birthday and wants to let her know that he will find a way to bring them both back to the island they love so much just as soon as possible.

The little things, like sharing the last sip and reminiscing about the old days and leaving a love note in the cutlery drawer.

There have been littler and littler little things these days. I need to remind myself that the little things are even more important than the big things.

Otherwise the lack of little things could turn into one really big bad thing.

Some Peoples’ Idea of Relaxation

November 22, 09 //

It’s late morning. Sunday. We’ve had breakfast, and we’re sitting in our home office, looking at each other from our desks.

I’m still wearing my pyjamas and big floppy white socks. We’re both splayed out on our office chairs, facing each other. My legs are sprawled out in front of me; my posture is atrocious.

“I’ve got a lot of work I’ve got to do today,” I say. “What are you going to do today. It is Sunday, you know.”

“I think I’m just going to relax today.” He says. “Maybe I’ll lay on the couch.”

“That sounds great,” I say. “A perfect Sunday.”

He wanders downstairs. I hear the couch squeak. (It’s an old couch.)

I start typing on my computer. Half an hour later, I hear the couch squeak again, and I hear the screen door slam.

A few hours after that, I go outside looking for Cameron.

He’s outside, replacing a screened in window with shingles.

“What are you doing?!” I yell. “I thought you were going to relax!!” I glare up at Cameron, who’s sitting in the tractor bucket and leaning, hammer in hand, against the side of the house.

He looks sheepish. “I don’t know… There are things that needed to be done.” He says.

I throw up my hands, exasperated, because I want him to take a little time for himself.

But inside my heart, I do realize that the only reason we can do what we’re doing is because of the way he defines things. To him, relaxing means getting things done.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that, well, to me “relaxing” means lying on the squeaky couch ALL DAY LONG. And there is just no other way to look at it.

If You’ve Ever: A Whimfield Poem

November 19, 09 //

If you’ve ever brought us produce
If you’ve ever offered me tea
If you’ve ever given us a television
or a delivery of magazines

If you’ve ever blown out our driveway
If you’ve given us disc and harrow
If you’ve ever given us pickles: crisp, long and narrow

If you’ve ever invited us in for a cup of steaming joe
Let us join your Christmas gathering
or stood in our hall while I held the door on your toe

If you’ve ever sent us invitations
stood on our stoop
loaned us saws or boots
pulled us out of a snowbank
delivered pre-screened newspapers to our mailbox
given us a call
left a comment
stopped by to say hi

If you’ve ever done any of these things

And wondered, Why, Why, Why

Why hasn’t that Whimfield couple
dropped by for tea
invited you over for dinner
sent you a card
returned that email
dropped by to chat or
returned the favour

It’s because our house is messy
And we don’t have a kitchen
nor kitchen table
nor kitchen sink, for that matter

It’s because I’m easily overwhelmed
Because the goodness of neighbours makes me eyes bulge and my head go spinning

So if you’ve ever wondered Why, Why, Why

Please understand

That’s it’s not easy for me to leave this house
That I’ve got a running list of friends and neighbours and good deeds unreturned
But one day, I am certain, I will come a-calling

Dedicated to my friend J. Collicott-McGuigan, whose poem “Why, Why, Why” seems to have inspired this poem (of sorts)!

Coming for a Visit

November 12, 09 //

This blog as a chronicling of the exterior; of how we look from the outside looking in. This blog is like visiting our house; it’s like getting a guided tour around our lives.

But it’s not a visit inside my head. It’s not necessarily real life. It’s still only what I choose to show.

It’s like when a new friend comes to visit. You show them the tour, but they don’t get to look in your closets or under your bed. You show them the best parts, and you hope they don’t look in your medicine cabinet when they’re in the bathroom with the door shut.

I’ve censored myself. I show what I choose to show. And I choose what to leave out.

It’s like you’re over for a visit, but there are mountains of papers and dust-bunnies and cardboard boxes shoved under the bed and in the closet. I’m starting to worry that, should you take a wrong turn and open the closet door by mistake, you’ll be buried by a cascade of catalogues and wrapping paper and empty egg cartons. The jig will be up.

Last night, while chopping cucumber in our kitchen-that-isn’t-really-a-kitchen, I spazzed at Cam for being the cause of my censorship.

His eyes got smaller and a little more almond-shaped. “You’re totally wrong.” He said. “It’s not me. When have I ever censored you lately?” He asked.

I glared at him.

He continued, “You can write whatever you want.”

I glared at him some more. Slowly, I relaxed my gaze. “Really?” I asked. “Well why have I been so closed lately?”

He shrugged and went back to arranging chopped radishes.

And then I proceeded to unleash a tirade of pent up angst about this blog… People know us. This blog is not anonymous. We’re running businesses. I can’t just open my medicine cabinet and yell, “Here it is, everybody. Have a look!”

I’m not that brave.

I clenched my jaw and walked out of the kitchen, my cucumber–half-cut–still lying on the cutting board.

Whimfield Kitten Goes Missing

November 10, 09 //

This is sad.

Growing Love

November 3, 09 //

Look at this dear, sweet soul.

He concentrates so hard. He works so hard. He wants nothing more than to have life go smoothly, make things grow, and for us to be happy together.

Why is it that the people we love, the people who we’re closest to, are the people we can ignore, scowl at, snap at, and take for granted?

Maybe it’s because we can. Maybe it’s because we trust them. Because we believe that they love us enough that even if we show our ugly sides they’ll still be there.

But what kind of reward is that?

I want to treat our love like a little seedling that needs nurturing and water and sunlight. Not like a tree that will bend and sway and withstand every storm that invariably passes through.

Because even wise old trees can only weather so much.