I beat the garbage truck today.It is often a race against time to set out the bin before they reach our curb. Somehow The Sweetie and I always forget to take it out the night before, only to wake up to the sound of the truck as it lumbers past our empty curb, our trash left to fester for another two weeks. I am often running out in my pajamas crying “wait! wait!”, only to have the truck whiz past me, the garbage guys sneering and victorious. Not today garbage guys! Not today. With The Sweetie cheering me on in his boxer shorts and the truck rumbling one house away, I dashed out with my hair still dripping from the shower in half pulled on track pants. I did a victory leap on the driveway seconds before the disgruntled garbage guys pulled up. A small triumph to start the morning off right.
Then I saw this on the Bust website. I would like to start all of my mornings feeling like this.
It is the first long weekend of the summer, and Toronto has it’s first heat advisory of the season. It may seem a little unusual then, that I would be spending the day cooking dishes featuring hearty root vegetables: Spanish potatoes, barley and split pea stew.
My sister was aghast when I spoke to her on the phone, “Isn’t it 100 degrees in Toronto today? Who the hell eats stew in the summer?”
The truth is, I’m doing penance for sins committed at my birthday dinner.
Years ago I gave up eating meat. It just felt right to me. I call it my no cute law, and declared that I would no longer eat anything cute. I can’t take a high and mighty stance because I still wear leather shoes, eat honey and don’t believe the bees are being exploited, and I do enjoy seafood from time to time. Lately, however, fish have been looking cute to me. I was contemplating saying good bye.
Then The Sweetie and I went out for a posh dinner for my birthday. There were no vegetarian options so I ordered the sole. As the waiter presented my plate he began to explain how the fish was particularly special since it was frozen alive. The Sweetie quickly cut him off, “That isn’t a selling point for her, you’d better stop right there.”
All I could think of was the happily swimming fish, yanked from his watery home and frozen alive. I had visions of the scene from The Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo is frozen in carbonite to be delivered to Jabba the Hut. I was Jabba, with that flicking lascivious tongue and lumpy body, waiting for my bounty to be delivered.
I was disturbed. You would think that such visions would be enough to diminish my appetite but I think the live freezing made my fish extra succulent. It was delicious.
Post birthday, I am back on the vegetarian train. I will cook my barley and potatoes over a hot stove during a heat wave and do my penance.
Hi Swedish Hasbeens. You are not technically mine yet, but one day we will be together. Long after the trendy girls grow tired of you and toss you to the back of their closets, I will still be loving you. I have loved you forever. Maybe not your brand specifically, but I have had a long standing love of clogs since the 1970’s.
The clog seems to be the quintessential seventies shoe. I love seventies shoes. I love wedges and platforms and clunky cork heels. Maybe it comes with having substantially sized feet. Sticking my big feet in a delicate shoe always strikes me as ridiculous, kind of like a giant man in a tiny car.
I know there were numerous fashion atrocities in the seventies. I am not awaiting the return of polyester leisure suits or mutton chop sideburns. I am highly disturbed by the current hipster trend of messy Grizzly Adams beards and porn star mustaches. I do, however, have a soft spot for some of the outlandish seventies looks. There’s an old photo of my family before a big night out. My dad is sporting a purple shirt with a huge collar and my mom is wearing a green caftan with wide sleeves and coordinating frosted green eyeshadow. My sister and I are in matching red bell-bottoms, white turtlenecks and red vinyl vests. We all look crazy, outrageous and entirely fabulous.
The only thing missing in my seventies childhood were a few choice fashion pieces. I always wanted a satin jacket so I could pretend I was in a girl gang. I always wanted hairy boots. My mom thought they were ridiculous and refused to indulge in Sasquatch footwear. My heart broke a little when the hairy boot trend came back a few years ago. I wanted a pair desperately, but I didn’t want to be a middle aged woman standing on a street corner next to a teenager with matching footwear. When I am eighty and the styles come around again I will get a pair of hairy boots and a satin jacket. At that point I won’t be a middle aged woman trying to recapture her youth. I will be an old crazy lady and I will flaunt my fashion choices with all my frail boned might.
I will not, however, wait for clogs until I am old and my ankles are unsteady. I will bide my time and when they go on sale we will be together. I will make a lot of noise when I walk and be transported back to the days of hearing Steely Dan in my mom’s Pinto, looking at her backcombed head from the backseat, when everything was hazy and dreamy the way it is in childhood, and I will rock my clogs like nobody’s business.
I was going through some shopping withdrawal this week. My new frugal lifestyle has been satisfying and I’ve had many smug moments resisting temptation and eating my thrifty lentil dinners but the treat-lover in me has been feeling a little deprived. I was experiencing a serious case of budget martyrdom.
Luckily The Sweetie and I found some delightful garage sales this morning. It was the perfect day for garage sales. There were copious amounts of charming, fluffy cats sunning themselves on the sidewalks and porches. The garage sale hosts were extra adorable and friendly everywhere we went. The Sweetie and I would whisper to each other, “Could they have been any nicer? Are you shocked that they didn’t offer to make us smoothies and bake muffins?”
I picked up an armful of delights for a mere $12: knitting needles and yarn to add to my stash, a novel I have been wanting to read for ages, a belt since I figured I should start accessorizing more, a magazine holder (which The Sweetie is very excited about since he regularly trips over the books and magazines stacked around my side of the bed), and my most exciting find of the day, a retro bread box. I have been lusting after an old school bread box for ages. On top of that, a lovely woman threw is some heirloom tomato seedlings, just because. She was delightful, the cats were delightful, the weather was delightful, The Sweetie and I were delightful.
Sunny spring Sundays that begin with garage sales are always delightful.
Sometimes I question my path in life and still feel like an awkward tween even at the age of almost forty one. Sometimes it is hard to be an introvert in an extroverted world.
I think it may be my impending birthday. Birthdays have a way of making me want to take stock and look back on how I’ve grown and what, if anything, I’ve accomplished. I often compare myself to others and feel that I am lacking although I know that I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s. It’s strange that I can still make myself feel angst ridden when there is no angst to be had, question my choices and judge myself when there is no reason to judge. It is an adolescent habit I have yet to break.
No matter how old you get sometimes you still can’t outgrow yourself.
As an early birthday gift for myself, I am considering ordering these two lovely prints. There has to be room in this ambitious world for awkward retiring sorts who enjoy a nice furry pet, a bowl of snacks and quiet time.
I am a financially challenged budget-phobe on a mission to live the sweet life, bargain-style. These are my adventures in and around Toronto, crafting and cooking attempts, cheap dates, bargain hunting, and anything else that strikes my fancy.
