Deep in the Cockels

I am a self-purported SCROOGE.  I find Christmas stressful, I get pissed at the mall and I actually shouldered someone out of the way on my way to the subway yesterday.  (Not a proud moment, I'm usually a pretty even keeled kind of gal.)  To the world, I present a firmly "bah humbug" kind of attitude.

But, deep down, I can't stop myself from getting excited about it.

I love buying presents for people.  And the hubby and I grocery shopped tonight for all of his favourite meals to eat over the 3 whole days I have off!  In a row!  We have a cute little tree.  I bought the stuff to make cookies....

But I don't even want to be excited.  Being excited often means being let down when it doesn't hold up to your expectations.  Mind you, I don't really have high expectations about it, I just can't squash the Christmas in the cockels of my heart.

Yup.

What more do I need?

So while I work at becoming a successful stage actress (and by successful, I mean one that can afford to pay rent by acting) I moonlight as a waitress.  And since waitressing doesn't quite pay the aforementioned rent completely, I moonlight from the moonlighting as a cater-waiter.  (For those not in the know, a server employed by a catering company to pass out canapes and try to not die of boredom as people in ill-fitting formal wear down booze by the bucket in an attempt to also not die of boredom.)

It's not a bad gig.  The shifts usually go reasonably quickly, as there's always something to do.  And it's the Christmas season, so there's lots of work to be had.  Every company has to give it's employees the opportunity to wear inappropriate clothing and get drunk in front of their bosses at least once a year.

It's a good fit for me, this cater-waiting gig.  I wander with my tray.  Pleasant smile on my face.  I exist but am invisible.  I stroll about the room, I pick up empty glasses, I exist in my own universe, but get paid in the one we all share.

Tonight I'm off to another Christmas Party, while the Hubby does homework.  He'll be asleep for hours by the time I come home.  I'll crawl into bed with a live hot-water bottle snoring away beside me and warm my cold and tired toes on his warm and sleeping form, which will wake him up just long enough to give me my kiss goodnight.

And what more do I need than that.

My planner is my best friend. (Just don't tell AK....)

So, the hubby and I had a... discussion... today about our schedule.  Complicated feelings in something that would seem so innocuous.  He feels like he is overscheduled.  Too many things planned, too many responsibilities in the week, not enough time for him to do that which he wants to do.  And I totally get that.  He is a creative guy, a musician, and he doesn't get enough time to work on the recording that he loves.  It's important to him, and it feeds him in a way that nothing else does or can, and there needs to be space for it.  And right now there isn't enough.  And that's a problem.

But it's also hard for me to understand because I tend to thrive when I'm overscheduled.  When I have appointments followed by work followed by a coffee date followed by a rehearsal I tend to be the most productive and focused.  I can buckle down and get results in a way that I can't when I have too much time to dabble.

Don't get me wrong, burnout is bad.  There was a patch last July where, between the world cup, two plays and a wedding, I thought I was actually going to lose my mind.  I understand that there's a limit.

But I also like looking at a planner where there's something special ever week to look forward to.  This week we're having friends over on Saturday night, next week we're going to see Billy Conolly, the next week a rehearsal with a swing band, the next week a show at Soulpepper.

And in addition, I like having weekly dates to look forward to.  My friend Lise and I are writing a play together, and once a week we meet.  And I always look forward to it, because I know it will be three hours of focused creative work, no matter how many bar and catering shifts have squeezed there way into my week.

The hubby's issue is that the things he enjoys and wants to spend time on are the things that he cares about the least, and the things he loves don't get to be a priority.  And that's a tough one.  One without an answer.  And that's the part that's hard for me to take.

I can't make it better.

Man, that was hard to write.  I have much love for the hubby, and, as such, I just want him to be happy.  Have joy.  But as I don't make enough money at the bar to support our new little family, I can't do anything about it except try and maintain a balance of what I want to bring into our lives to add fun and special times vs. what time commitments he can handle without getting frustrated.

Sigh.  This marriage stuff is complicated.

In the throes of a head cold from Hell....

Last weekend I went to my niece's first birthday party.  She is the most wonderful and adorable baby to ever crawl the earth.  The epitome of baby perfection.  Unfortunately, one of her baby playmates at the party was a snarling demon from Hell, sent to London, Ontario to give me this miserable cold.

GRUMPY!

My head is stuffed up and I'm sneezing all the time and I'm starting to cough and my brain feels like fuzzzzzzzz.

I've also become addicted to Tylenol Cold & Sinus.

And my husband's snuggles.  They are a key ingredient of the healing process.

Groan!  Whine!  Mope!

Well, the inevitable has happened.

Three more sleeps.  Two sick marrieds-to-be.  One slightly worried bride.

This process of planning and preparing the wedding has been totally fine.  A million things to keep track of.  A billion details to manage and execute.  Everything planned and prepared in totality.

And we're brought down by a bug.

Matt's definitely feeling it worse than I am.  I've just got a little tickle; he's got a full blown knock 'em out head cold.  While groggy, weavy, drunky-seeming sick Matt is usually entertaining, three days before the wedding is a little nerve-wracking!

The good news, one way or another we're going to be wed in four days.  Papers will be signed, vows will be recited, a party will be enjoyed by all our guests.

The sucky part is that I hope we can fully enjoy it.  I hope we get well enough that we're not coughing and sneezing and wheezing our way through what is otherwise going to be one of the most incredible days of our lives.

This is a bit of a whiny post.  But it's also a plea for help.  We've got our chicken soup.  We've got our Cold FX.  We're pumping ourselves full of vitamins.  Please send your good vibes and healing wishes.  Send good thoughts.  Any you can spare.

Sigh.

One week to go. Seven days. 168 hours, give or take.

Throughout the entire process of planning a wedding, I have considered myself to be a pretty "chill" bride. Stuff has gotten done.  Decisions have been made when decisions have needed to be made.  Creative touches, check.  And I'm on track with getting it all ready.  I really believe that.  There's not a tonne left to do, and there's ample time to do it.

And yet....

It's weird.  I'm so excited to be marrying the love of my life.  So excited for such a special day with friends and family.  But there's this weird pressure that comes as soon as it's a *wedding*.  It has to be the most incredible, most amazing, high point of your entire life, your existence is culminating in this moment kind of day.  Which, to be perfectly honest, I think is pretty much on track to be the case.  I have no doubt that our wedding day will be full of the ultimate amazingness.  It's just that it is supposed to be this that the weird pressure creeps up.

I suppose that this could be anticipation, but it doesn't feel quite the same.  With anticipation, the time drags by.  With this, it seems to speed closer with this undercurrent of dread that everything won't get done.  Which is silly.  As it stands, they'll be people, a person legally capable of marrying people, food, booze and tunes.  Everything else is superfluous details.  Superfluous details that are, by and large, complete.  If I don't remember to buy dental floss for the bathroom baskets, I'm pretty sure people won't walk out.

If you do, you're a jerk.

I've really enjoyed this process, and, because of that, I hate to see it marred by this late onslaught of stressy weirdness.  So I'll try to chill out.  And go buy the dental floss.

Flour Power.

So, because of the wedding, and, specifically, because of the wedding pictures, I've been working with a personal trainer for the past eight months.  For three hours a week I subject myself to excruciatingly hard work and pain.  The result of this masochism?  I've actually gained about 15 pounds.  I'm sure it's mainly comprised of muscle, but it still sucks.  And it's frustrating.  I've been working so hard, and getting so much stronger; I would have liked some change in how my jeans fit.

So, I expressed this to my personal trainer yesterday.  And we chatted a bit about potential symptoms... do I feel bloaty, how are my joints, what do I usually eat... and (insert the guttural wail here) he thinks I might be allergic to gluten.  (Noooooooooooooooo!  All my best friends are made of wheat!  Sweet whole wheat pasta!  My darling bruschetta on fluffy French bread!  Not my whole wheat buttermilk pancakes!)

This is a terribly sad day.  And not just because I adore gluten.  (If I weren't marrying Matt I would consider  proposing to gluten.  I love gluten so much that I keep it locked up in my closet in a cage so that I can love gluten whenever I want to, whether gluten wants to be loved or not.)  It's also really frustrating.  Why could I not have figured this out a couple of months ago so that I could have dropped the extra weight before the wedding?

I hate being one of those girls who prattles on about her weight, but the truth is I kind of am one.  It's been something I think about at least three times a day every day since I was 10 years old.  To think that something that I love so much (Scrumptious whole grain grilled cheese sandwiches!) could potentially be a large part of what has caused me so much pain over the years, not to be melodramatic about it.

I'm whining now.  That's lame.

So... THE POINT...  I'm going to cut gluten out of my diet for the next two weeks until the wedding.

It's going to suck.

(Multigrain Toast slathered in butter!  Oh, multigrain toast....)

Grey.

Today has been a grey day.  The clouds lumbering overhead mirror my general state of disgruntledness.  I recognize, of course, that I am one of the luckiest girls on the planet.  A few weeks from marrying the love of my life, a wonderfully supportive family, a comfortable home full of fun toys to entertain me... I know I am fully blessed.  And yet, the human condition requires that we continually strive to have it all.

The "all" that I'm missing is a satisfaction with my career.  I feel like I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, but I'm just not getting where I want to be.  So, I think I need to make a change.  If this isn't working, lets try something different.  I want to be an actor.  If other people aren't hiring me, I need to do something to hire myself.  I need to start writing more.  I need to collaborate more.  I need to improvise, and move and push myself and create.  I need to strive more.

It's daunting, being responsible for your own happiness.  Knowing that you control your destiny.  But being frightened of that fact doesn't take away your accountability.  That I'm scared of the overwhelming task of creating the future I want to live in doesn't change the fact that I am the only one who can create that future.  If I want it, then it's up to me to do what I have to do to get it.

So, I guess I need to set some goals.  I need to put a notebook by the bed for ideas in the middle of the night.  I need to learn a new monologue once a month.  I need to stop eating my frustrations.

I need to quit whining and just start doing it.

It's hard to rant when you're so darn happy.

Life has been so good to me lately.

Take last night for example.  It was the perfect evening, as far as I'm concerned; exactly the kind of night that brings me the maximum amount of joy.  Good friends over for dinner consisting of a roasted starch with lots of olive oil, some kind of veggie drenched in homemade-from-scratch cheesesauce and steak, followed by wii and good-natured rivalry.  That's all it takes to make me really happy.  That's it.  People.  Food.  Games.

I love a dinner party.  Whether it be two couples or ten.  There's something about the gathering of interesting people with big hearts (a very apt way to describe all of my friends) mingling over tasty vittles and stories, then top it all off with a chance to play together, whether it be wii or boardgames or old-fashioned Victorian parlour games.  How often do we get a chance to take an evening to play anymore?  Always so busy and so tired... when the opportunity presents itself, it begins to feel like magic to me.

My bachelorette was last Saturday.  Not your typical bachelorette, but more of an extended dinner party like I described above.  Lots of gin and charades.  And those aforementioned friends with big hearts.  It was such a wonderful night.  It's been such a wonderful week.

I have such a wonderful life.

I thought this moment would never arrive.

It's planned.  The whole shebang, top to bottom, is planned.  Still a few little things to do here and there, but, organizationally speaking, the entire wedding has been constructed.  Flowers ordered, makeup lady booked, chinese takeout boxes purchased and monogrammed...  It's a relief.  I'm sure not everyone feels this way, but it was actually kind of fun.  I enjoyed tracking down all the pieces.  Going through all the options with the hubby.  Finding the little details that will make it our special day.  I am pretty convinced that it's going to be the most fun party that ever was.  At least I hope so.  I hope it's not the wedding that everyone remembers because the salmon mousse had turned and the downtown core had a toilet paper shortage.

I had a chance to reconnect with a dear, dear, dear friend on Tuesday.  The kind that you might only speak to twice a year, but it feels like home when you do get together.  It's so easy.  Our friendship is so easy to be a member of.  There's no guilt that you've gotten busy and haven't had a chance to call.  There's no awkwardness that you're asking questions that seem like the most basic kind of thing that you should know about your friend like where they're working and what their partner's last name is.  It's just friend with whom you can be yourself, and trust that they'll be themselves, and you can just relax and be.  I'm a pretty darn lucky girl.  In many ways, but definitely in the quality of friendships that I've been blessed with.

And I'm lucky in that this whole bloody wedding is arranged!

Crucial Discussions and Negotiations

My hubby and I held a critical war council yesterday.  It's been a year and a half in discussion, but it all came to a head yesterday.  The issue: sweaty, stinky inside-out socks.  His argument: Laundry is my responsibility, therefore I should have to deal with his socks.  My argument: they're his socks.  And they're gross.  Why should I have to handle them any more than I already have to?  His counter: What's the problem with just washing them inside out and turning them right side out once they're clean.  My rebuttal: because the soles get covered in kitty litter than won't wash away, and then when you turn them right side out, the kitty litter scatters all over everywhere and everything.  The verdict: My utter brilliance and ultimately superior logic wins the day.

But don't be led astray by my whimsical tone, this was a serious issue.  One that has been grating on my nerves for a long, long time.  But with the wedding looming just around the corner there are some details of life that need to be addressed.  Dealbreakers, as it were.  Cigars outside only.  No cats in the bedroom.  Deal  with your own stinky socks.

Kate 1, Rest of Toronto 0

Today I rented myself a zipcar to do a big grocery shop.  (Side note: I got the last box of freezies.  Booyeah!  Fifty giant frozen sticks of sugar and food colouring! It means my freezer door won't stay closed, but that's a tiny inconsequential detail.)  Shopping solo, unfortunately, which I hate.  Not because I am desperate to be attached to the fiance at all times, but rather because it means I can make him push the cart and carry all the heavy stuff.  Why else get married?  I was talking to a friend this afternoon and we were discussing what should really be in our wedding vows.

Baby, I promise to make you eat at least one vegetable a day for as long as we both shall live.  I'll let you push the cart at the grocery store, and I swear that I won't put all the tin cans and jars of spaghetti sauce into one bag.  And I know, in return, that you'll download my episodes of True Blood before you download your Brian Ferry concert videos.

I don't think the hubby will go for it.  But a girl can dream.... of Vampire Eric?

My bedtime is 9:30. You gotta problem with that?

I may be 29, but I have the soul of a 90 year old grandmother.

A recently acquired penchant for arts and crafts, melba toast and phrases such as "I have a penchant for" have only confirmed this deep-seated side of my psyche.  I love nothing better than a night at home watching television with my sweetie.  Wearing sensible shoes.  Freaking out over the health of my tomato plants as if they were my children.  Heaven.

However, the other day I looked in the mirror and realized for the first time, that I no longer look like like I did when I was 24.  Not bad, not wrong, just... older.  I look like I'm pushing thirty, which I am.  So why is this weird?  And when it's so inevitable, and even somewhat welcome, why is it so unexpected?

I'm sure some of it has to do with the fact I'm getting married in six weeks, and my fiance and I have spent a large amount of money on a professional photographer.  I'll admit, I'm a little paranoid that I'm going to end up looking like the elephant man in the pictures.  No real reason, just fears that for some reason, although I'm sure I'll look fine on the day in person, the pictures will end up looking like Jabba the Hut in a cute little tea length lace dress.  (Though I have much nicer legs than Jabba.)  Totally irrational, I know.  I'm sure the pictures will look like me, I'm just not sure that I have a realistic picture of what I look like right now, and I guess I'm afraid of what I'll see when we open up those pictures a couple of months from now.

But, I'm not afraid of getting older.  I only like myself more the older I get.  I'm prouder of myself, and more confident in my choices.  I like who I am, if maybe I would like myself more 30 pounds lighter, but I like who I am.  And if I like who I am than that will shine through in the pictures, and I need to not stress over it.  There.  Decision made.  Well, that was easy enough....