>I am mucho excited about my most recent little purchase. I was wandering through Zellers, looking for cheap white 100% cotton sheets to wrap my oh-so-sensitive wedding dress in and I got lost in the small appliances section. I think it was fate. I was grumbling to myself about the casino-like nature of department stores when I saw it: an air pop popcorn maker. The last one in stock. Now, I’ve been wanting one of these forever but have been reluctant to spend too much money on one. And technically I probably should have waited until I found one with glass rather than plastic parts. But I was too happy about the price to care.

Tonight’s West Wing snack: popcorn!!

Note: I found the sheets in the end (yaya!) but now that the dress is all wrapped up, I have nowhere to put it (boo). I wish we had an under-the-bed space. Huh…excuse to convince A. that we simply must buy a bed frame? I think so.

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Thank you, sexy AB. Awesomeness.

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A couple of weeks ago, Fialonia alerted me to the fact that an exhibition site down the road from my house was going to be holding a wedding show. Would I like to go with her? she asked. Why not? I thought. I may have most of the big stuff done, but I still need to register (yayaya new knives!), get chairs for the ceremony, and figure out how the hell I’m going to get to the actual wedding. And in my experience, wedding shows are the place to get the ball rolling on this stuff. I used to work for a party rental place, see, and they always had a stand at these things, enticing people to rent tents, chairs, and chocolate fountains. I never wandered around much at the time because brides and all things bridal freaked me out, but how bad could it be now that I actually am a bride-to-be?

So on Saturday, Fialonia and I were off to the show. I was greeted at the door with a form to fill for the chance to get a free honeymoon (win!) and a sticker that I was to wear proudly that said ‘Bride’ (lose). Next I was handed a bag with free Burt’s Bees hand lotion and some wedding mags (win!). But then I was met with a tulle-swathed archway and two birdcages with real doves (double lose) and it was at this point that I realized I had made a mistake. I was, however, bound and determined to at least get chairs (or perhaps enter a draw to get free chairs…) so I went through the archway with Fialonia who was already snickering.

Egad.

Where to begin. Well first there was the music (which it turned out was coming from the fashion show – more on that visual atrocity in a moment). What is it about weddings that says Shania Twain, Phantom of the Opera, or ZZ Top, exactly? So I’m walking around, being told by ZZ Top that every girl is crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man, and trying to find a party rentals place. Aside from one, ONE, stand devoted entirely to the rental of chair covers (ugly, satin-y chair covers that most chairs would die of shame wearing), I couldn’t find a single party rentals stand (big lose). What I did find was a billion (read: four) stands of DJs who all looked like Ricky or Julian, a number of travel agency stands (mildly helpful I suppose but only if you are planning to go to Mexico and we are not), some crazy jewelry stands (win I suppose in that I was able to pick out a ring for A….lose in that it was waaaay out of our price-range), and stand upon stand devoted to photography – cheesy, misty wedding photography. Every stand was covered in taffeta or tulle or some combination thereof. And because of the stupid Bride sticker, every stand I walked by meant being handed pamphlets and asked if I needed a DJ/photographer/insurance/honeymoon/penis cake/pole dancing lessons etc. Ugh.

After walking through what felt like miles of stands, entering the odd gift basket contest along the way and pushing through crowds of smug bride-to-bes, Fialonia and I discovered the source of the music – the fashion show. It was just starting and so we decided to stay and watch – Fialonia because she wanted to make fun of the bad wedding dresses and me because a) I thought I might be able to get some ideas for bridesmaids dresses and b) ever since I purchased my own wedding dress, I have become obsessed with confirming that it is in fact the prettiest dress in all the land (aside from Miss Knit’s dress which I am sure is beyond stunning). So we watched. First, a round of flower girls/junior bridesmaids. Nothing wrong with this aside from the fact that they were wearing tiaras and the sugar was just oozing from the stage. Oh, and the comment made by the fashion show DJ about how each of these little ladies would be a bride someday (which spurred a little feminist rant from me about lesbianism, independence, expectations, conformity, etc). Next a round of ring bearers – cute. A round of groomsmen – yummy. A round of mother-of-the-brides – yawn. Why must all mother-of-the-bride dresses include a jewel encrusted jacket with Klingon shoulder pads? Ick. A round of bridesmaids. Here’s where things started to get funny – why on earth would I ever ask my bridesmaids to buy let alone wear a muted lemon full length ball gown complete with bum crystals? Vomit. And then a round of wedding dresses. Awful, every last one. Part of the problem was that none of the dresses fit properly; many of the girls could have fit an extra set of knockers in the front…others looked like sausages in casings. Another problem, however, was that the dresses all looked like meringue curtains. With giant flowers. And/or giant bows. And randomly placed jewel explosions. Vomit vomit vomit.

But the pièce de résistance was the stand immediately to the right of the fashion show – the stand devoted to selling wedding dresses that was stuffed with smug bride-to-bes all scrambling to get a deal on a piece of meringue dress. Who, I ask you, goes to a tradeshow to try on wedding gowns? Doing this means stepping behind a curtain, donning an over-sized wedding dress and then stepping out and modeling said dress in front of your family, friends, and everyone at the wedding show. It also means battling over dresses with other bride-to-bes. And paying $1500 for a dress that was made by 5 year olds in Malaysia and that looks exactly the same as every dress on the market today. Ick ick ick.

To be fair, though, the show wasn’t all bad. I did end up registering with the Bay – well, starting a registry with them and being awarded $50 in gift certificates in return. I’m only going with them for the Denby but whatever. And I did enter a number of spiffy gift basket contests. But I would never go back to the taffeta madness again. There’s another show coming up in the spring but I’ve learned my lesson – online and thrift stores from here on out.

>I don’t know how it happened, but somehow at the end of August all of the wedding stuff (well, the big stuff) just came together. It started with the ceremony location. I was wandering through Google searches for secular ceremony locations in Ottawa, wondering how we were going to fit 150 people anywhere pretty. And I came across the gazebo in Rockcliffe Park (see above). Now this picture doesn’t do this location justice – generally the place is covered in flowers. It’s covered in case it rains (which it will because this is me). And it fits how many? 150 people. Ceremony location? Check.

Then came The Dress. I’m not posting pictures of The Dress because it’s too beautiful to be photographed. Or I just want to leave some things a surprise. Or both. Anyway, I found The Dress on PreOwnedWeddingDresses.com, a wicked site filled with designer gowns being sold for 1/4-1/2 of their original price because they’ve only been worn once. The Dress is, well, fantastic. Teensy bit traditional but not so much that I can’t jazz it up with a gorgeous piece of ridiculous jewelry (I’m thinking big chunky amber necklace…). I love it. As does A. (that’s right, he’s seen it and no, I don’t think our marriage is cursed now). Wedding dress? Check.

And finally, the all important reception location. This was causing me some grief. First, it had to be a place that fit 150 people which in and of itself was tougher than I thought it would be. And I didn’t really want to have the reception in a hotel…or a community center…or the Legion. Not that there is anything wrong with these places, but they just aren’t us. So already I was limited. But when I went searching I was faced with another problem: money. If we had the wedding in town, near our ceremony location and the hotels, we had our pick of hotels (meh) and museums or galleries (yaya!)…but we were looking at $150-$300/head. HAHAHAHAHA. Not happening. If we had the wedding outside of the city, we could pick from much cheaper and in many cases nicer character homes and golf courses (meh)…but we were looking at a pretty hefty commute of 45 minutes from the nearest hotel which doesn’t sound like a lot unless a) you have no car and b) you have no extra money lying around to help others with transportation. Which is important, I think, given that people drink at weddings. Asking guests to fork out whatever amount in cab fare didn’t seem right and we couldn’t really afford to rent shuttle buses (a friend of mine did this – a good idea, actually, but just a little too pricey for us). Plus I like the convenience of being close to the hotels and the ceremony location. What to do, what to do.

On August 18, I went out with A., fialonia, JLP, RL and FL for dinner at Restaurant 18. A. and I had been here before, and I had considered it as a location but thought it would be waaaay out of our price range. But when I looked it up, it actually wasn’t that bad. Then I met with the wedding coordinator person and realized it really, REALLY, wasn’t that bad. Is it a tad expensive? Certainly. But it’s perfect. It’s pretty, near the hotels, has good food, doesn’t require us to have a DJ, and the woman running the joint is well-organized and friendly. Yay! The picture above is the outside and the picture below is the only shot I could find of the inside. All stone and covered in funky art done the by the owner. Location? Check.

Now I just need to find someone who will marry us…

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So I lied. I just wasn’t feeling the olives. Well that and I knew that the basil I had in the fridge was going to go all soggy gross ick on me soon (enter more thoughts re: owning my own herb plants…reminded of this post…thoughts begrudgingly step aside). Instead, I decided to cook up a pesto-y pasta dish from Eat, Drink and Be Vegan. The recipe calls for cashews but I replaced them with almonds because a) cashews are more expensive and if I wanted expensive, I’d go with pine nuts, b) cashews are more fattening (not that I’m watching my weight or anything, but I am aware of the fact that I’m not getting any younger and my metabolism isn’t what it used to be. Case in point: after a week of drinking and eating fatty Scottish food, I actually put on weight. Oh the horror), and c) I had almonds on hand. The recipe also calls for dry mustard but I had a nice peppery dijon in the fridge that worked just fine. Finally, this book suggested topping the pasta with sliced cherry tomatoes and serving it with a salad. I did not. First, who the hell slices cherry tomatoes? Halve them, sure, but slice? Pfft. And second, I have no patience for salads. Too much work for a side dish, in my humble opinion. I decided to mix in some tasty kale with a pinch of coarse sea salt. The result was most excellent.

Starving Student Lemon-y Pesto Pasta

*1 large clove of garlic
*the juice from half a lemon
*1 tsp dijon mustard
*1/2 tsp salt
*ground black pepper to taste
*2 tbsp olive oil
*1 tbsp water (or white wine…)
*1 cup almonds
*2 1/2 cups (packed) of fresh basil leaves and tender stems

+pasta
+leafy greens

In a food processor, combine garlic, lemon juice, dijon mustard, salt, pepper, olive oil, water, almonds, and basil and blend up until fairly smooth (this can be frustrating…I would start by chopping the garlic, then add everything except the basil and almonds and blend up for a bit, then add the almonds and basil in batches). Set aside. Cook the pasta (I chose spaghetti but would go with spaghettini next time). Once pasta is done, drain but set aside a bit of the pasta water. Mix the almond fun in with the pasta – if it is too dry, add a bit of the pasta water. Serve with the all important leafy greens. Yummy!!

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So this is Freja Jean Livingstone Norrgard. With her pal, Phil the Bear. Phil is made of felted sweater. Felted, expensive sweater. See, my cousin LL’s husband, darling P., was doing laundry and well, it seems he’s not fantastic at laundry, particularly when it comes to washing expensive sweaters. JLP is quite the seamstress. And so the birth of Phil the Bear, one of a few best pals of Freja Jean. Other pals include Mr. Moo, Chokes the Giraffe, and Yellow Elephant.

No new recipes today – I’m going to test out a previous olive-y recipe on A.. It’s super strange cooking for him again but super great. Like Fialonia, he’ll eat just about anything which is most helpful on days when I have to make a dinner out of ketchup, almond butter, kale, and rice (it worked!). So after today I promise I’ll start getting more creative. I’ve gone through all of the recipes in my vegan books so I think it’s time to make the leap into veganizing non-vegan recipes. This could get interesting…

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So August was a nutty month. Actually, things started to get kind of nutty around July 31. July 31 marks the day that I woke up and realized that I just plain did not care about doing a PhD; indeed, I realized that I had never really wanted to do the PhD but had in fact only wanted to see if I could get into the program. Comforting as this realization sounds, I was suddenly sent into a downward spiral of awfulness. Guilt-ridden, what-am-I-gonna-do-with-my-life-now awfulness. See, A. and I had this lovely little plan for the next couple of years and he was more than holding up his end of the plan. If I left this program, I would be screwing with the plan. A sensible person would have not worried about this; life, afterall, rarely works when planned and the powers that be (unicorns) always fuck with you when you try to pretend as though your plans matter. Plus what the hell does A. care? As long as I’m happy and doing what I want to do, that’s what matters. A sensible person would have said something like that.

But someone who wakes up one morning and realizes that the thing she has been planning to do for the last six years isn’t actually the thing she wants to do is not a sensible person. Here’s how July 31 went:

5am: Wake up already dreading the day ahead. More political science. More environmental ethics. The desire to vomit grows.

6am: Still in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering why I never became a movie star. Movie stars don’t have to deal with political science. Where did I go wrong on the path to movie stardom?

7am: Still in bed. You know what I hate? Conferences. Boring as hell and I have no desire to listen to other people rant on about environmental ethics. And I really hate marking. And writing papers – good GOD I’m tired of writing papers about things I just don’t care about. And I’m really not looking forward to classes – a bunch of people pretending they know what Aristotle meant. Vomit.

8am: Still in bed and starting to worry. So…I don’t like any of the things that I’m going to have to do for the next 5 years at least. Well, that’s ok. I’ll just suffer through it…for, erm, five years. Yeah. I can totally do that. You know, people have suffered a lot worse. And maybe I’ll grow to like it.

9am-11am: Still in bed but have retreated to the foot of the bed under the covers. Oh dear god. I can’t do this for five more years. I really just can’t.

11am-1pm: Out of bed now but pacing. But if I don’t do this won’t I be letting everyone down? What about Dr. R who has worked so hard to help me get to this point? What about A.? Maybe A. only wanted to be with me because I was going to become Dr. Ezmy. Maybe he’ll leave me for another person who can figure out what the fuck she wants to do before she’s 30. Oh dear god, I’m going to be 30. I’m going to be 30 and working at TGI Fridays or something and I’ll never make anything of myself. What will I tell my children? Oh my god, I want children. How can we afford children if all I’m doing is wasting away as a coatcheck girl? That’s crazy pressure to put on A. what with the house and…oh my god I want a house! And they’ll never approve us for a mortgage if all I’m doing is raking leaves for people at $5 an hour, dragging my 15 kids after me. Yep, A. is going to leave me for sure. And everyone will point and say remember that Ezmy? She used to be going places.

1pm-2pm: And….meltdown.

Thankfully, at around 2pm I decided I needed reinforcements. So I called my younger and far more sensible sister, Lady Heather, who promptly informed me that I was an idiot and of course I shouldn’t do the PhD if I don’t really want to and of course everything would still be fine, just a different kind of fine. And of course A. would leave me, not because I wouldn’t be doing the PhD but because I’m clearly insane. Ha.

So that was July 31. On August 1, I emailed Dr. R to let her know I was not going to do the PhD. Then I ran away to Scotland with A. and his family for 10 days. Then I came home and went to my mum’s wedding. Then my sensible sister and her husband and kiddo visited with us for a bit. Then one of my favourite cousins, JLP came to visit. Then I turned 29. And for the last two weeks, A. and I have spent everyday sleeping in, watching tennis, and wandering around Ottawa. Bliss.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen now. I’ve got a few things in mind though. And unlike July 31, I’m kind of excited about the whole thing. Something will work out, I’m sure. In the meantime, here’s a new recipe that I tried this morning. Yummy!!

Banana Cream Pancakes with Raspberries:

1 1/3 cup flour
1 tbsp baking powder
pinch of sea salt
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 tin coconut milk
1 large banana
1 tsp vanilla extract

+ raspberries and maple syrup

Blend the banana, coconut milk and vanilla until smooth. Mix up the dry ingredients (sure, you should probably sift the flour and baking powder together but I never remember to do that). Add the banana mixture and mix well. Get your frying pan out and lightly oil. Make pancakes (I’m assuming that you do not need me to get into details about how to actually make pancakes). Throw on half a cup of raspberries and heaps of maple syrup. Or perhaps whip up some vegan whip cream and use this with sliced bananas to make a truly decadent breakfast. I enjoyed my pancakes with raspberries and a cup of jet black coffee in my shiny new pumpkin shaped mug, a surprise that A. brought home one day because he’s the best. So happy to have him back home. :)

>Hallo!

A teaser update:
a) I am in Scotland for the next week – will post when I get back. Loving it thus far. May never come home… :P
b) Am not, in fact, doing the PhD. Am bored with polisci.
c) Have purchased a wedding gown. Stay tuned for pictures.
d) Am still training for marathon, getting married, etc.

more to come…

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Rotten day on Monday. Thesis has stalled during the revising and concluding chapters process. I have no conclusion. Why? Because I do not care.

When things have got me this down, I retaliate with beverages. Thankfully, it was Fialonia’s birthday on Monday. Happy 22 to her! To celebrate, we went to the Blue Cactus (for all of you BC folk, it’s similar to Earls, Moxies, etc). And instead of opting for my usual pint of Guiness, I went with a mojito. Where has The Mojito been all my life?? Love. This. Beverage. Now, I didn’t go all nutty – I had one. But it was delish. Dangerously tasty in fact. Could have had 12 and not known it until I stood up. But I didn’t. *pats self on back*

Since Monday though, nothing has happened. I write, I delete, I write some more, I delete some more, I run and lift a few weights, and then I go back to the writing and deleting. I haven’t even been cooking anything interesting. My life is so exciting, I don’t know how I stand it.

>I have nothing to say. I’m just taking a moment away from revisions to moan and groan. I effing miss A.. I didn’t go on the last R&R, see, ’cause of the thesis and the niece and whatnot. And that means it’s been about three months since I’ve seen him and I have to wait another 3 1/2 weeks. Fack. You don’t really get how long three months is until you do it. And it’s been WAY too long since he left in the first place. Two hundred and eighty eight days to be exact. Boo. And maybe it would be different if I could just call him up and say ‘hallo!’ but I cannot. Because he’s in some tent in the middle of nowhere. I can’t say where, of course, but it’s a bloody long way away. Argh.

alkehgaeighlaeihafioefhaihf = my frustration.