In a couple weeks, I’ll be participating in the Spike Back Against Poverty volleyball tournament, hosted by Toronto City Mission as a fundraiser for their summer day camps. I don’t really play volleyball, but I guess that’s not really the point of this particular event. In order to raise our $700 entry, my team put together a coffee house and silent auction fundraiser this past Saturday night. We gave it a 1920s theme, got all dressed up, and entertained our crowd with a little Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby.
Monthly Archives: January 2013
by Bram Stoker
I have not read Twilight. In fact, I refuse to read Twilight. This refusal, believe it or not, does somewhat disturb me, because I fully believe that, in order to believe a book to be bad, one must first read it. True, other people, whose opinions I trust, have reassured me that yes, Twilight is a terrible book, full of bad, immature writing and questionable views of women and love. However, I will fully acknowledge that, in order to claim these opinions as my own, I must read the books first.
I still refuse to read Twilight.
However, I have seen the movies, so I know what Stephenie Meyer has done to the vampire. This in itself, I believe, is grounds enough to refuse to read the books. Guys, believe me when I say this, vampires don’t sparkle. In fact, vampires are scary as shit.
I don’t only blame Meyer alone for the romanticizing of the vampire, though I do blame her for the extremes to which she took it. Anne Rice did it to. Read Interview with a Vampire or The Vampire LeStat. Both are good books, by the way, but both turn the vampire into a hero, beautiful and desirable, lost and searching. But the vampire was never meant to be a hero. The vampire was always meant to be a thing of horror, a thing to be feared.
And then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.
When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares, then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form and color, but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hell fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it!
– Dracula, Bram Stoker, Chapter 16
I’m not actually saying much here. I mean, I love Anne Rice’s books. And Buffy and Angel? How can I condemn such a love story between the Vampire Slayer and the creature she’s supposed to be killing? Star-crossed lovers at their best. But, I am lamenting the loss of the horror of vampires. They used to be some of the most terrifying creatures one could imagine. Now? They’re a watered down semblance of themselves.
So, do me a favour. Go read Dracula. You can download it for free on Goodreads so it won’t even cost you a dime. And trust me – it may have been written in 1897, but it’s a very accessible book, with only a little of the complicated language you’ll find in other 100-years-and-older novels.
Vampires – love them? Hate them? Miss what they were or love what they have become? What’s your favourite vampire book? Do you love Twilight and think I’m being completely unreasonable in my refusal to read it? (I probably am.) Will you be adding Dracula to your to-read list?
I have fallen in love with pillows.
We tried to make the couch work for a little while longer. We just shoved the stuffing back into the couch cushions – they had only ripped it out through the back of the cushions – and fluffed them up over the mess of the shredded fabric on the frame. Technically, it looked fine, exactly like it did before. But, it was becoming habit. Every day, we would come home to another mess, stuffing all over the house. It was frustrating.
We are so not ready to buy a second new couch though. Solution? Pillows! We have one huge square pillow, a Christmas gift, that works perfectly on the back of the couch. In a quest for two more, we popped into HomeSense and discovered how expensive such pillows really are. I wanted three more, but after checking out the selection, I was wondering if we should just go out and pick up a second Klippan couch instead.
And then, we found two pillows on the clearance rack. They were slightly smaller that what I was hoping for, but I figured they would be ok if we managed to track down enough to pile the back high. The pillows were a great price – $10 and $11 – but, unfortunately, kind of hideous. Time to pull out my sewing machine.
Plaid, purple and fuzzy, and the other, the brown, yellow and grey one, the stitching was rough and falling out. Added to the pile of pillows that needed new covers, our three year old Ikea pillows were looking rough, chewed in the corners from Mocha’s puppy days, greying and faded from the years of being squished, thrown on the floor, slept on by dirty puppies.
I picked up a decent length – 2 yards – of fabric at Ikea.
Carefully ironed and laid out on my kitchen table. I removed the cover from the pillow, turned it inside out and laid it out on the fabric, making sure my edges were straight first. (Snip, then rip your fabric. It will rip easily, along a straight line.)
Using the original cover as a template, I cut a rectangle that was double the size of the cover. In other words, when my piece of fabric was folded in half, it was the same size as the cover. Then, I sewed the two edges! Folded in half so the patterned sides were together, I sewed the edges, leaving the end of the pillow open.
With the edges sewn, it looks like this, almost a pillowcase!
Next, comes the zipper. Trust me when I say a zipper is really not that hard. I painstakingly ripped the zipper out of my hideous purple pillowcase and pinned it to the open edge of my pillow.
Figuring out how it gets pinned is the most difficult part of this step. It needs to be pinned to the right side (the patterned side) of the fabric with the non-zippered part of the zipper against the edge. Does that make sense? Does the picture above help it to make sense?
Now, sew it into place! You will definitely want a zipper foot for this. The foot I use, that I’ve always thought was my zipper foot, works just fine but seems to be backwards.
And, voila. A finished pillow!
I still have a few more pillows to recover and source before I can actually consider our couch resurrected. At the moment, we’re just kind of making it work and ignoring the mess, but soon, perhaps, our living room will be back to its cozy self.
One: Vintage Kitchens
Two: Big Scarves
Three: The Joy of Books
By the time I had mixed up the dry ingredients for these scones, the heat had begun to inch up the pipe and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Our system wasn’t broken. We wouldn’t be calling a plumber, or HVAC person, or whoever it is who services radiator systems. We would be finding some blissful warmth before bedtime after all.
By the time I had whisked together the milk and egg yolk, the husband had bled the dining room radiator and started on the bathroom radiator.
Once I had the scones shaped on a cookie sheet, the radiator in the bedroom had finally calmed down, taking a break from being the only radiator in the apartment that was working.
And, when I pulled them out of the oven, I was blissfully warm, content.
The radiators had been so empty, we couldn’t even hear the hiss of air as it left the bleeding valve. Where did that water go? We have no idea. We’ve seen no leaks. We bled the system after we finished our work on it last summer. The water just mysteriously disappeared.
Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Scones
From Brown Eyed Baker
These are delicious. They’re a little more moist than your average scone, I think, because of the mix of peanut butter and oats. And they’re delightfully chocolatey, but they still make a delicious breakfast with a nice tall cup of milk. Or, a bedtime snack with a mug of hot chocolate, or tea, or, if you’re like me, that fake apple cider stuff that comes in little packets of powder. (Seriously. I’m addicted.)
I didn’t change Michelle’s recipe much (which she adapted from this book), so I’m going to send you over there to get it. I did, however, use milk instead of buttermilk, regular quick oats instead of traditional rolled oats (which probably accounts for some of the extra moisture I ended up with) and I skipped the egg wash and sugar dusting at the end, purely because I forgot to do it before I popped it in the oven.
Also, I learned last night that wax paper is really not a good substitute for parchment paper. It smokes and makes your house smell like burning candles in a bad way. If you don’t have parchment paper, just skip the paper all together. I ended up baking mine on an ungreased baking sheet and it worked just fine.
I slept like a baby last night and didn’t once wake up sweating because the radiator was too hot. And then, I ate one of these for breakfast. They’re not the prettiest things in the world, but trust me on this: so tasty!
Last night, we put down an offer on a house.
The idea of buying a new house is pretty fresh. It was just last week that we finally let go of the idea of a major, second floor renovation and, in the same breath, acknowledged that our cute little bungalow was not going to be sustainable for very much longer. In a way, it seemed almost serendipitous that an old, two storey, semi-detached house with plenty of work to be done would come on the market well within a price range that would allow us to keep our bungalow, increase our rental income, and, in the future, provide the perfect space to grow into.
The house is split into two, a main floor/basement unit, and an upstairs second floor unit. Its layout, though, would, truly, make it a simple matter to convert it back to a single family home, a home full of plenty of room for the Husband and I, our puppies, and whatever little tots we add to our numbers at some point in the next five years.
There were lots of things that didn’t work about the house too. It has no parking. The backyard is cute, but tiny and full shade, which meant any hopes of planting another garden were dashed. The basement is low, which is unfortunate since the only bathroom for the main floor unit is down there. And, of course, everything is rough, rough, rough. There’s tens of thousands of dollars of work that needs to be done. We toured the place on Friday. As we sat in our car afterwards, absorbing all the potential we had seen, I dug in my heels, forced our conversation down a cautious road. By the time we went to bed on Friday, we had agreed: there were too many uncertainties, too many compromises.
But that price!
The house was listed at $299,000. I’m aware that not all of my readers will fully understand how low that is. To put it in perspective, there are maybe a dozen houses listed at $299,000 and under in Toronto. Most of them are tiny 400 square foot fixer-upper bungalows on tiny lots that make them unattractive to builders. The remaining are run-down houses on incredibly busy streets. We knew the house wouldn’t go for $299,000. We knew it was a strategy to start a bidding war. But, as we kept thinking about it, as the problems seemed to disappear, as the numbers crunched beautifully, the idea of letting the house go without sending even a feeble offer at it seemed, well… wrong.
But, here’s the catch. The unfortunate, sad problem with the housing market and bidding wars. In order for it to feel like a good idea to put in an offer, I needed to get excited about the house. I needed to want it. I don’t have a business mind that can focus purely on the transaction. In order to be ok with promising someone I would spend that amount of money, in order to agree to send my life into chaos, I needed to get emotionally attached to the house.
I’m sure you can see where this is going. By Sunday afternoon, I found myself sinking into emotional attachment to a house that was not mine. I made plans for the new kitchen layout. I figured out all the walls we would knock down. I dreamed of the closets we would put in and the rugs we would buy for those floors.
Yesterday was torture, waiting for the news that wasn’t going to come until well into the night. In early afternoon, when we submitted our offer, there were 4 other offers. I began bracing myself for disappointment. By 7, I heard news of 14. By 7:10, the last few had trickled in and the number was 17. At that point, I already knew our offer wasn’t going to cut it, but I was still holding out some hope that the housing market would surprise me.
I wish I could throw a twist at you right now and say the housing market did surprise me. I wish this could be an excited, happy announcement that we are now homeowners times 2.
But I can’t.
I’m ok with it this morning. Content. Ready to move on. What we’re moving on to (renovations? further house hunting?), I don’t know.
(All photos were pulled from an old listing for this house on Property Guys. Apparently, the seller tried, unsuccessfully, to get rid of the house approximately a year and a half ago. He didn’t change anything since then.)
On the weekend, my wonderful parents-in-law came to the Big City to visit, take the Husband out for his birthday, and do some sofa shopping. My mum-in-law is right in the middle of a huge decorating whirl-wind that she’s been talking about ever since I’ve known them. And now, she’s excited to finally start. We gladly offered to tag along with them and help them navigate around the city as they explored their sofa options. Of course, the excursion also meant I could get a little snap happy with my cell phone camera and bring to you a round-up of sorts of places at which you can buy your next couch.
Stop One: Urban Barn
Believe it or not, of all the furniture stores that came after this stop, I think it may have been my favourite. They carry a wide variety of couches, plenty of sizes for all sorts of homes and styles. Their staff were by far the most available and the most willing to chat about fabrics. Granted, this may have a lot to do with the fact that we chose a location that was not exactly central and was, therefore, rather quiet.
Stop Two: West Elm
West Elm is one of my favourite stores for accessories that I will drool over and probably never purchase, but it’s not my favourite store for couches. It has a decent number and of a wide variety, but there’s just something about them that doesn’t quite fit with my style.
These bowls however? I want the whole set. I don’t care that Valentine’s Day is one unimportant day of the year. I will use them all year round.
Stop Three: EQ3
Dear EQ3: why are you so bleeping hard to find?
Dear fellow sofa shoppers: EQ3 is not properly signed. Their address is 51 Hanna street, but their entrance is most certainly not on Hanna. EQ3 is lucky that it wasn’t particularly cold on Saturday or we would have given up and headed on to CB2. In the end, wandering around in confusion, shaking my head at my phone for the extra 15 minutes was worth it because EQ3 is fun! And cute. Except for the rocking chair that feels like it’s going to tip straight back and dump you on the floor.
I liked this couch there:
Stop Four: CB2
I was surprised that CB2 wasn’t much help for us. They had this couch, which I was immediately drawn to and essentially fell in love because it’s way more turquoise than it appear in my terrible cellphone photo but will never buy because it’s $1300:
But other than that, they didn’t have much that really fit with my mom-in-law’s small space and modern aesthetic. We didn’t spend terribly long in the store. It’s two floors, but surprisingly quick to wander through.
Also, we were hungry by this point, and we still had one store to visit.
Stop Five: Structube
Once again, I didn’t see a lot that I would love to take home. This store was a little cramped and difficult to navigate through. They had a few good options, but nothing really new or unique.
Stop Six: Lunch
We stopped at the first pub we found. I don’t even know what it’s name was. We were starving and exhausted. My final recommendation? Don’t try to visit 5 furniture stores in a row. Couches start to blend together and everything looks the same.
The trip was useful for my mother-in-law though. She left with a solidified view of what type of couch she’s looking for, where she’s going to buy it, and how much she’s going to have to spend on it. It was fun wandering among the couches and discussing accessories and different options with her. I see another trip in our near future, once the new couch has been chosen and it’s time to pick all the pretty to go with it.
Obviously, the majority of the places we visited were Downtown, on the west side. There are way more furniture places in the city, and we had originally planned on visiting a few more in the more northern areas of Toronto, but by the time we were finished lunch, no one had any desire to get back to it. I guess that’s what we get for choosing to walk from one store to the next.
Were there any we missed? Where did you get your last couch?
On Thursdays, I usually talk about three things because Three and Thursday and Things makes alliteration and I’m a huge fan of alliteration. But these days, I’ve been thinking about just one thing.
What the heck are we doing with this house?
I don’t know.
Months ago, we shared with you our plans to raise the roof and add three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and 600 square feet with a second floor addition. And then, I went silent about the whole thing. We were in the permitting process for a while. We submitted some plans to the city, had them send them back because they were missing things. Sent some more. In the meantime, we kept researching. We talked to some contractors, got quotes, eyed MLS for comparables and prices, contacted realtors and talked and talked and talked.
I’m going to apologize to all my readers who happen to be in real estate when I make this generalization: realtors are unreliable. At least, if you’re not immediately making them money, they’re unreliable. The first one we invited came, toured the house, gushed about the work we’ve done, promised she would drop off a package of estimates and comparables the next day, and then disappeared.
It was almost the same story with the second realtor. He plead family emergencies and disappeared, but only after the Husband spent numerous emails and time trying to get a number out of him, just an estimate.
The third realtor came through. She sat in our kitchen and talked plainly about our plans, about the numbers, about the real estate market. She gave us concrete information that we could use. When she left, we hemmed and hawed for a few more weeks. Then, we threw the plans out.
As much as our little bungalow is calling for a second storey it is just not worth it. The apartments behind us and the house’s small footprint are strikes against it that even the most beautiful renovation couldn’t make disappear. Unless we were willing to build out as well as up, the numbers just weren’t lining up.
So, now we’re left wondering what to do. We know this house is not sustainable for us in the long run. We’re already busting at the seams and, while we have no current, concrete plans to continue growing our family, the last time we added to it, it wasn’t exactly planned well in advance. A home office is still out of the question. We need more space – maybe not right now, but in the very near future.
So, what do we do? Sell and buy, make the move? Build anyway? Purge and reorganize?
We’re confused. We’re still talking. We’re figuring it out. One day, something will happen.
I met Mark at church. It was December 5. When we talk about it, we wonder why exactly we had never met before. We’d been going to the same church for the past four years, both students at the nearby university. I admit I was aware of him and his tight-knit group of friends. I also readily admit that I was consumed in a different life, consumed by university, consumed by relationships that didn’t always fit within the walls of the sanctuary. In fact, I’m grateful I didn’t meet him and his friends until that last year of school. I was on a different journey, a different path, a path that was not yet meant to come parallel with his.
On December 5th, finally, we met, thanks to a mutual friend, and standing in that circle of guys, looking at the man with the shaggy hair and glasses, the man with the easy smile, I knew. I won’t try to claim that I knew everything. I won’t claim that I went home and told my roommate that I was going to marry him one day. I didn’t even know for sure that I would ever see him again – it was the end of the semester, after all, and January was a co-op term for both of us, splitting us apart. But standing in that circle, I knew there was something so right about him, so perfect, so matched.
Call me ridiculous. Call me uneducated, superstitious, a religious nut. I firmly believe that Mark and I were predestined for each other from the days we were born. On January 16, 20-something years ago, God put our intertwined lives into motion. I am so grateful He chose this man for me.
Happy birthday Husband. I love you.
Approximately four times a year, I think about opening an Etsy shop.
Last year, I was going to go full bore crocheting these little chair booties.
I thought this would be a great idea, especially since this post is the most popular post on my blog. Last year, it even beat out this post that so many people find by searching for ‘brick’, simply because I snagged (and properly sourced!) a photo of a brick wall from some random site on the Internet.
Obviously, that idea died.
But then, I made two baby blankets on two separate occasions for two people last year, and I thought to myself, I should start an Etsy shop of baby blankets!
And then I finally worked the last end into the baby blanket I made for my sister and my tired, achy fingers brought me back to reality.
Now, let’s go back even farther. I used to make pretty earrings.
This is an ancient photo dating way back to 2007. I still have the blue ones. The brown and green earrings disappeared somewhere and the black and white ones were left in a hotel room, and I still miss them.
It seems like every few months or so, I’m thinking about something I can make to sell. And, every few months or so, I don’t do it.
On the weekend, I stitched together two pillow covers to cover a couple down-filled pillows that I picked up for cheap in the Home Sense clearance section. It was easy. And fun. Probably the most fun, simple sewing I’ve ever done. Of course, my brain starts ticking. I start exploring Etsy, looking at prices, comparing expenses, punching numbers into my cellphone’s calculator. Of all the random Etsy-shop thoughts I’ve had, perhaps sewing pillow covers in the most realistic, the most plausible.
Still, I’m unlikely to do it. Seriously. When do I have time to sew pillow covers for someone else’s living room?
Anyone else like me out there? Constantly eyeing Etsy sellers with just a tinge of jealousy and wishing you could join their numbers?