Category Archives: Roncesvalles

Stick it to me, baby.

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I keep a pregnancy test in the lower cabinet of my bathroom vanity.

Tucked in the back corner, within a tote filled with grooming supplies and feminine hygiene products and body butters that I never use, my just-in-case-we-slipped test sits in an bright white wrapper, inside of a blue and pink box.

Recently, I had to open that box.

The good news is that we’re not picking out baby names this fall. I say good news because making, growing and raising a baby is just not where our hearts are right now. I’m not sure when our hearts will be there, but I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the idea of it either. All I know is, I held my breath the whole time I was peeing on that stick.

I’m sure someday, when the stars are aligned and there’s a half empty bottle of Brunello nearby, our hearts will be open to the possibility of a baby. Until then, I have a second pregnancy test tucked away in a safe place for another one of those hold-my-breath moments.

Since we moved to beautiful Roncesvalles, the avenue strewn with as many vintage shops and Polish delis as baby strollers and hipster parents, our social life has been given a rebirth. Our lives changed and grew and brought us closure to the life we never knew we always wanted. We love it this way.

Lately, chatter and baby-speculation flows freely around the diner table with friends. Most recently it happened again on Valentine’s Day. Twelve of us dined at Giancarlo’s on College Street to celebrate love and friendship; and then, somewhere between appetizers and the main course, it came up: “So, who’s thinking about kids?” someone asked,  testing the waters to see who would become the next baby-toting hipster pair.

No one responded. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

Tick-tock.

Maybe it’s living in the city and loving it too much. Maybe it’s fearing things that scream louder than I do. Maybe it’s not feeling rooted since selling our home to move here to Roncesvalles. Maybe all of these reasons keep us from wanting to grow our family of two and half (the cat totally counts as .5). Whatever the reasons, I sure am glad that stick read exactly what I was thinking: Girl, party’s not over yet.

So, is this a topic in your circles, too?

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Weekend in review, last first kisses and why I hate red roses.

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At 1:30 on Sunday morning, Rob and I headed out for the night. Yes, you read that correctly – 1:30am.

My friend has a new beau and he’s in town for the week from London/Nigeria – he’s a world traveler, expat and possibly super hero and divides his time between the UK and Africa.

I had a photo shoot on Saturday and was ex-haust-ed when I got home (why a shoot? I’m updating my other website – the one I use to pimp out my words to magazines and newspapers). The day was such an experience and I met one cool chick with a camera – shout out Cheryl! Needless to say, I was pooched when I got home. But when your friend’s new man has traveled dozens of hours to see her, the least you can do is make your way to Pravda Vodka Bar on King Street to sip on some Dom Perignon to welcome him to your city and celebrate. Right?

Yes, you also read that right – we luxed out on champagne worth more than my pay cheque last week. True story.

I won’t go into details, but the man has had a long, successful career. He likes the finer things in life and isn’t afraid to share the fruits of his labor. Just so happens I love fruit.

Rob and I got home at around 4:30 Sunday morning, which never fails to make us feel like teenagers again, enjoying youth and freedom and fun in a way that makes us feel alive and happy that we’re kid-free and living in one of the best cities in the world. That is, we feel all of those things until we wake up in the morning and feel like 29 and 31 and wish to God we drank less, slept more and didn’t wolf down bacon ‘n’ eggs at 3:30 that morning. Things just don’t digest the same way, apparently.

Youth, as they say, is truly wasted on the young.

At around noon yesterday – Valentine’s Day – Rob surprised with me a medium Americano from Chery Bomb, a box of Godiva truffles and Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. The man knows the way to my heart: Coffee, chocolate and poetry… oh my. Oh and he also gave me one red rose, which is a bit of inside joke because I don’t like roses, which is exactly why Rob gave me one. There’s a bit of a back story to red roses and how they relate to Valentine’s Day. And no, it’s not a love story, so no need to prep for a gag fest.

Mid-way through my box of truffles and thumbing through poetry, I still hadn’t touched the rose. It was a sweet gesture, absolutely, and  I thanked my husband, but nah, I’m much more into my other mouth-watering gifts than the lowly red rose. I don’t know why the aversion to red roses, but I have one, so whatever. And before you say something out loud, like, “What a douchebag she is… doesn’t even appreciate the rose… from her husband… poor guy…” you should know that Rob takes great pleasure in giving me roses because I don’t like them. We try not to take things too seriously and this is his way of reminding me of just that. So, for the rest of our lives, I will continue to not love roses and he will continue to give them to me.  I will leave the rose in its cellophane, staring at it as I eat truffles and then Rob will  trim the stem, prune back the leaves and pick off the thorns and place it squarely in the center of my pink carnations arrangement sitting on our coffee table. It’s sort of our own symbiosis and it works.

The rose is just sitting there now, towering above my frilly gals, sticking out like a soar thumb. Thank God roses die in three days or less.

My carnations are now on day six. And I’m down to my second last truffle.

… that’s what love is. Ya, something like that.

***

Eleven years ago, Rob sent me a box of red roses and picked me up at my parent’s house after two moths and two days of dates, dozens of shared bottles of wine and not a single kiss between us. He was a bit of a slow mover.

He took me to a romantic little restaurant with a piano and waiters with white gloves. He had the lamb and I had pasta, I think. Later that night we went to one of our favorite pubs in the suburbs. It was quiet and only a few lonely men took up residency at the bar.

After a bottle of wine and two hours of the kind of conversation that makes you fall in love with someone, we leaned in close. Really close.

I think the kiss lasted at least a minute. I know this because that’s how long I can hold my breath before wanting to gasp. And I know for certain that I didn’t breath the entire time he kissed me. And no, it’s not because he took my breath away – although he has long since swept me off of my feet – there had been shit loads of garlic in my pasta and not a mint in sight.

When it was over, we pulled back, in soft shock. It had been two months and two days since our first date and things had been building up to this one first kiss for weeks.

Looking back, I really don’t know what we were waiting for or how we had manged to go so long without it. It was the best last first kiss I ever had… despite the roses.

***

So, how was your weekend?

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A date, no Rob & another one crossed off the List! (but I cheated… sort of).

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I did something tonight that’s been on my mind for some time – years, I think.

I always thought that if the opportunity would arise, I’d take it, but likely not seek it out myself.

It’s not something that a lot of people in my circle of friends have done, or do, although I know they’ve thought of it once or twice. After tonight, I find myself in the realm of people who… well…

I just returned from a date… without my husband.

Want to know what I did?

DROP YOUR SHORTS!

I went to a local film festival of short, independent films tonight and gratuitously crossed off #19 from my List! (so what if I added it just now, only to cross if off. My List, my rules.)

For years, I’ve wanted to take myself to the movies alone. I know, I know, no big deal, right? People do it like, all the time. Ya, sure, but I haven’t. Being in a relationship as long as I have (and no, I’m not complaining, ya’ll) you sometimes forget to take time to do things alone, which, like I’ve learned a lot lately, holds a lot of value.

You talk… to yourself

You argue… with yourself

You agree… with yourself

You enjoy your favorite neighborhood in the whole city… with yourself

And that’s awesome.

I bought my “ticket for one, please” for a mere $2 and sat mid-way up the theater and had the row to myself. Score. I stretched  out, took up three seats (one for the coat, the purse and, of course, myself) and sat quietly as the screen flickered from black to gold.

Two years ago, this wonderful, not-for profit cinema, The Revue (which dates back to the vintage and beloved days of Art Deco) nearly closed down. The community was devastated. But, some angel purchased it; fundraisers were held; articles were written and all media in Toronto published or aired stories of the sadness that was the Closing of the Revue on Roncesvalles. And so, it received a face-life and remains open today.

And that’s how I ended up at the 10th installment, second annual Drop Your Shorts (as in, um, short films) festival… with myself.

*On a side note, my aversion to the cold lately has kept me indoors and in the bath way to often. So much so, that I had no idea that two of usual haunts have succumb to the remnants of the recession and the ongoing construction on Roncesvalles Ave – ironically, this construction is meant to “revive” the community long term. I guess when there’s change, there’s casualties. Two of the fallen include The Queen of Tarts bakery (the best ginger bread cookie in the city) and  Silver Spoon bistro (the best creme brulee from here to Mexico).

Recession + major construction to Roncesvalles Avenue x lost business = store closures.  That’s the new math on our beloved street.

I need to reconnect with this lovely neighborhood, the one we sold our loft for, so that we could rent our asses off and live in a too-small apartment, above a drug dealer with three noisy kids and a wife with questionable cooking practices. Yes, we must reconnect, indeed. I love this city.

To review all the films from this evening (there were eight, in varying lengths) wouldn’t be my style. Instead, I’ll leave you with the film that left me speechless (which was a good thing, because people who talk to themselves live one neighborhood over, anyway) and reminded me to remember the things I love most about the people in my life.

I hope you enjoy it, too

-For more info on this artist, please visit justinewart.com.

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How I have been spending my weekends… for months now.

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I love knowing behind-the-scenes bits about any movie, even an amateur one, like this is. So here are some bits for you:

-I made this video about two months ago… there’s swearing in it, and it’s unedited because I have no idea how to do that (yet), so I’ve been shy to post it.

-You’ll notice (vaguely) two dimples on either side of my face – those are caused by those invisible braces, which were part of my List from 2008. My teeth are nearly perfect now. A good investment.

-Our luck hasn’t changed with the real estate market, unfortunately. We’ve spent every weekend since September, after returning from our trip to Portugal, looking for a house that doesn’t go into a dreaded bidding war. Apparently the Toronto real estate market was impervious to the recession.

-Last May, Rob and I sold our renovated, funktified loft (where we threw lots and lots of parties) to rent an apartment in the neighborhood of our dreams. It was a leap of faith to live very much in the moment and for the sake of doing the things that make you happy. And to reinvent our lives, of course.

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