Paranormal Activity & Abnormal Behaviour

So I LOVE horror movies.  Oh and I'm also TERRIFIED of horror movies.  I am the jumpiest person in the world, scared crapless when someone surprises me in the printer room at work (all they have to do is be IN the printer room for me to jump and gasp.. they always seem somewhat wounded by my reaction..), hiding my head under the blankets when shadows look at me funny, nightmares that often wake me up in sheer terror - stomach churning, etc.  Yet I seek out horror!  I'm a roller coaster addict who thinks a 90 degree drop is barely enough.. 420' in the air?  Bring it! I scream like an asshole at the top of these rides and shake like a leaf, pretty much every time.  But always want MORE!  My friend Viv and I have been seeing every horror movie that has come out since we met in 2005 - we scream together, laugh at ourselves, holding each other, jumping out of our skin.  It's fun, it's hilarious, it's mildly terrifying.  But deeply psychologically scary horror movies get to me in a different sort of way when I leave the theatre....  Some people get scared by gore, by killers, aliens, whatever.  None of that really does it for me (I might jump at a surprise, but won't feel scared in the dark aftewards). Psychological horror movies leave me terrified in regular life, and the effects LINGER! Blair Witch Project in grade 11 was about the worst idea ever (full credit to ADRIENNE! :)) - compunded when I had to take the bus home after my friends got off and then walk late at night along dark Scarborough streets by myself.  For AT LEAST 6 years afterwards the woods at night terrified me. I didn't get scared like that again until The Ring.  My tv in university glowed at night and I would have to have my head under the blanket (as above) to fall asleep.  Then I was ok again for some time.  Until a few years back when Viv and I went to see Paranormal Activity - not really knowing what to expect.  Terror.  Fabulous, unadulterated terror.  We actually screamed out loud at the ending, then burst out laughing at ourselves.. probably my fave part of being scared, and why I'm addicted to it: ADRENALINE!!

This is the story of Paranormal Activity (the original).

I was driving that night and Viv and I discussed the movie in high pitched terror all the way back to her house ("remember when THIS happened?!" "how she like SNIFFED his body after she killed him!?" "remember her DEMON VOICE when she said 'everything's fine' or whatever?! AUGH!").  In her driveway we had switched the convo to our next get together.  For a split second my eyes passed over Viv's shoulder where her neighbour was on his porch, presumably just coming home, or taking out the garbage, or something to that effect.  Viv saw my eyes move, turned in her seat and upon seeing the figure (which was at least 20' from the car and not even looking at us) screamed and ducked into her lap, covering her head with her hands.  I laughed for about 5 mins straight, not being able to get that image out of my head. Then as I wove through the dark streets of Guelph's east end, the fear crept into me.. demons.  Scary bad demons. I called Dawn so she could laugh at me, which would for sure calm me down, but I couldn't get ahold of her.  I called Jeff to say "I'm coming home and you better have all the lights on!".  But Jeff was still at the gym.  Uh oh.

Now in my car in my garage and unable to go inside after watching a movie where a demon haunts a couple entirely within their own home, nay, THEIR BEDROOM, I called my parents' place in a panic.  My dad picked up and drily humoured me for a few minutes while I sat in the car. I told him "THIS MOVIE WAS SO SCARY!  I can't go inside!  Jeff isn't home!  I can't go in there and be all alone!!"  "Uh-huh. Ok Kristyn. You're weird."  At that moment the light on the garage door opener flicked off after it's four minutes of remaining on after the garage opens or closes.  Logically I know this is what happened.  In my head: demon.  I started screaming, murder-esque, into the phone and bolted into the house as fast as I could.  My dad had pretty much had it by this point - he told me to turn on the lights, no demon, you're ridiculous, etc. etc.  Then let me go.  WHAT!  So in a rock-climbing fashion I moved through the house, turning each light on before I entered the room and only turning it off when my path ahead was fully illuminated.  I was living in a wee townhouse at the time, but the journey to my bedroom was epic.  Once in my room I felt completely unsafe.. bedrooms are where demons HANG OUT!!!!!!!!!  Dawn called back, luckily, and with my coat still on I pulled the hood up, crawled under the covers and talked to her in terror until Jeff got home.  He found me in the fetal position in bed and proceeded to make fun of me for awhile.  Seeing how scared I was, he relented, got into bed with me, lights ablaze and talked to me as I was way too hyped up to sleep.  Every dark corner held a demon.   Nowhere was safe!!!!!

I tried to turn the lights off to fall asleep around 12 a.m. - NO DICE!!!!  Lights back on.  I yammered incessantly to Jeff until 2 in the morning - sadly I'm not exaggerating.  2009 Jeff was very understanding and stayed up listening to me blather about nothing, distracting myself from thoughts of demons and the eventual darkness that would occur.  I suspect 2012 Jeff would not be so patient....... :P  I let poor Jeff go to sleep at 2 a.m. and eventually, distracted enough by reading, fell asleep myself with the lights on.  I woke up at 5 to blinding light and manned up enough to turn off the lamps and sleep through the rest of the night.

But I was haunted.  For months afterwards, every dark room held demons.  I would challenge the demons to come out when I heard a weird noise ("let's do this!  show yourself!!").  Then I'd try not to think about demons, because that's what gets them fired up, as I learned from my very reliable source: Paranormal Activity 1.  Jeff watched it with me on DVD and stared in disbelief at me when it was over: "THAT was what you were so scared about?!".  When we were in the process of breaking into our house daily as it was being built, we heard a ridiculous noise coming from the basement - distracting white-noise like (much like demons use when they're up to no good, you know).  I made Jeff go down first and he reported that they were heating the basement to dry the concrete that had been poured and the noise was coming from a little gas-powered heater/fire thing.  So I ventured down after him.  In Paranormal Activity, the couple puts baby powder across the floor to see if something is walking there - what emerges are very distinct demon footprints the next morning.  AUGH!  So of course on this night, as I walk into the eerily-lit basement aglow with fire and damp and dark with newly poured concrete THIS is what I see:


Come on now!!!!!!!!!!!! :(  I didn't spent much time down there that night. 

Somehow I've continued to watch the Paranormal Activity series - just watched #3 tonight on the couch with Viv where I gripped her foot so tightly during the scary parts that she may have lost a toe or two.  Viv thinks the part where the guy's wife bursts out of the closet in a scary mask to freak him out was the best - Dave, fair warning that you better check your closets closely!!!!!!

After Viv left I turned on every light in the house (of course), and went straight to my bright computer to write this entry.  And Jeff just got home (PHEW!) - so I'm outtie!!!  I'm going to stop drinking water now so I don't have to get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.. cuz... you know....demons and all..........

Classic

When I was fifteen, my mom asked if I did one productive thing that summer, could I please read a classic novel.  She handed me Pride and Prejudice and said “just trust me; this is better than the garbage you’re reading”.  So while I was a fun-seeking teenager by night, I spent my days on my back deck plunging into the romantic and totally foreign world of my first classic novel.  Diehard romantic as I was, and am today, I liked the happy ending.  The language was fairly impossible to get through (and I thought I was wordy!!! No comparison!).  All in all.. worthwhile.  And I did feel like I’d made a switch, something I could liken to switching from my breakfast of Hostess Cupcakes to a yogurt, fruit and granola parfait.  There was just more real, more heart, more substance.  (Sidenote that I continued to eat Hostess Cupcakes for breakfast pretty much every day through high school except when I was on one of my famous “lose 10 lbs” diets – more on THOSE another day!!).  So I added to my life goal list: read as many classic works of literature as I could in a lifetime.  I put an approximate number on there of 300 – I’m yet to define the list better, but it’s on my life goal list to better define my life goal. :P  In total, I have read probably about 10.  Tragedy.

In grade twelve I remember consuming Jane Eyre and bawling with happiness over its ending.  To date, it is my absolute favourite book.  It’s the romance that does me in, every time!  In OAC I tackled D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers – loved it.  I even liked the love stories that ended sadly, like Wuthering Heights which I read my first summer living alone in Guelph – wind whipping across the lonely moors (or Kortright Rd. in my case).  So far this post seems like a blessed love story with love stories – alas, not the case.  Reading the language of classic literature is incredibly tough.  One night in bed last month I read Jeff a sentence or two out Villette, my read from Nov – Jan and he was like “um, that’s a lot of words”.  Haha.. yep.  That was my point – highly verbose, but gorgeously written and well-considered sentences make for a serious trod to get the message and get to the next point.  Classics are a brain workout.  My previous menu of reads were a stroll on a sandy shore; classics are an uphill winter hike through a forest with a blanket of snow overlying a thick sheet of ice.  Certainly more rewarding to get to the top of the latter, but strugglicious all the way through!  I actually gave up reading “other” books entirely, and snottily bragged for many years that I only read classics (all four of them that I got through in that time..). Through university, I always was known to have one on my nightstand. But because I spent about 0.03% of my undergrad career reading for fun, considering I either had my nose in a textbook or a beer for the majority of those 4 years, my trek through classics came much more slowly than 15 year old Kristyn had anticipated.  Upon entering my master’s studies (quite rightly the easy-breeziest time in my life where I could make my own schedule and had lots of delicious free time), I picked up reading again.  But exhausted from years of plodding through the classics, I rebelled! I vowed only to read easy books – chick lit with pink covers and catchy titles, by fun, fabulous authors!!  And this is how I’ve spent the past ~ 6 years.  My goodness, do Hostess Cupcakes taste good!!

I’m just kidding around about the book snobbery.  I honestly, truly, LOVED devouring the pretty books.  I found some amazing authors by opening up my eyes to the world of modern reads. I have fallen head over heels in love with Marian Keyes.  I was beyond blessed to already have an innate understanding of Irish culture and geography before I travelled there from years of reading her amazing books.  Sophie Kinsella books, while admittedly absolutely terrible (that’s the only judgy thing I feel about chick lit!), sure do make a plane ride go quickly.  Emily Giffin’s books, ESPECIALLY Babyproof (the story of my life; that I actually applied in my own life when Jeff and I made a pact to always stay together even if one of us changed our minds about not wanting to have kids), are little slices of fabulousness.  I liken these books to really, really good desserts – not cheap McCain Deep & Delicious cakes, but $7 fancy restaurant chocolate ganache on a pecan & butter crust.  The good stuff!  Maybe not the best thing for you, but sometimes exactly just what you want, and need.

I’m happy to say I have finally found balance.  I reread Jane Eyre this past year as my introduction back into classic literature, and, to what I really feel is my true self, if recently abandoned.  I continue to read pretty books, chosen based solely on the covers. :) Last year I found a great new Irish author in Maeve Binchy and have been making my way through the collection of her books, which were perfect for pre-Ireland!  My Kobo app let me download a bunch of free books, and I picked up the classic Walden Pond by Thoreau (finally) which I’m trudging my way through (holy slow start, buddy).  In the past month I’ve also read a few funny memoirs (shout out to Val Frankel, my new hero of honesty and humour), a Jodi Picoult read that I somehow missed along the way, and Villette by Charlotte Bronte.  I just finished Villette 20 mins ago in the bath, and tears streamed down my over-emoted face as the book neared its long-coming ending.  As usual, love prevailed.  The main character “got her man” (Bronte put this a bit more elegantly).  There is something so incredibly comforting about coming back to the same ending time and again – love wins.  As a hopeless romantic, this is always, certainly, my preferred ending.  In these books, they do a wonderful job leaving you guessing until the last minute: “will he come for her?!”  “will she find him again?!”.  Probably because in modern books these questions are able to be answered through texts and emails; I just never find that same satisfaction about love found that I do in these works of yore.  My tear-inducer from tonight:

“… he gathered me near his heart. I was full of faults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear: ‘Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.’”

Augh!  How could you not love the classics!?

So I’ve decided to be accountable, take inventory and keep working towards my goal.  Maybe not 300, but as many of these hearty, nutritious offerings to my brain that I can make a in a lifetime.  So here's to balance, and 1800s romance…

What I’ve Read So Far

Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen

Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

Sons and Lovers – D.H. Lawrence

Lady Chatterley’s Lover – D. H. Lawrence

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall – Anne Bronte

Mansfield Park – Jane Austen

Vanity Fair – William Thackeray (never finished! tbc..)

Daniel Deronda – George Eliot (never finished! tbc..)

Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte

Women in Love – D.H. Lawrence

Villette – Charlotte Bronte

Next Up

To be determined!  I need to sharpen up my list of “must reads”, without actually reading any plot breakdowns and ruining the endings!  To me the greatest tragedy would be not knowing how it’s going to end (though I always know how it’s going to end.. :))

My Week With Ziggy

It's taken me nearly 2 months to recover to the point where I feel like I can write about My Week With Ziggy (sorry about this, Mom :P). Ziggy is my parents' German Short-haired Pointer, who is now a year old but still entirely an insane puppy (apparently they stay puppies for life.. oh ... fun!).  He is basically the most adorable dog in the world, but I'm pretty sure he's had it in for me since day 1.

Day 1

Whether he was chewing on my neck (or hands, or clothes, or toes), scratching my legs into a hives factory or trying to drink out of my water glass, Ziggy has been a tiny devil through and through.  Of course, puppies are made to be sooooo cute so you can never stay mad at them for long.  And sleepy Ziggy with his long wonderful silky ears is just about the cutest, snuggliest thing that exists.  When my mom asked if Jeff and I could puppysit while she and my dad jetted off to Cuba for a week I said sure.  I dogsit my coworker Laura's dog pretty frequently and like the excuse to get outside walking (what I look forward to most when we get a dog - our dog-adoption date is now pushed back to approximately 2017 if anyone's wondering :P).  So, armed with an extra large crate, treats, toys, food and a leash, we were ready for Our Week with Ziggy.  Sunday started off great!  Walking Ziggy through the forest was truly lovely - he found two other GSPs (what these guys are called in the dog slang world.. which may only consist of my mom) to play with, and the three dogs flew through the forest.



Hike at Starky's Hill (note airborne GSP just to my left)

 I remember walking Rusty-the-puppy and how good it felt when he ran and really tired himself out - you knew he'd sleep great later!  Ziggy probably covered at least 15 kms on that 4 km hike.  Jeff and I crated him that afternoon, went out shopping for fireplace tiles, came home and let him out of his crate.  Or, he exploded out of his crate.  Apparently the 1+ hour hike through the forest had done nothing to quell his energy.  This was an omen of things to come.

Then Ziggy started crying.  If at any time he was not being petted, cuddled, played with, or laying on top of you on the couch he was crying.  If you left him alone in the backyard, he was crying.  If you were out of his sight he was crying.  This became slightly difficult.  I worked from home that Monday to ease his apparent abandonment issues.  Ziggy also worked that day.. and admirable effort of standing beside my desk, staring at me, and crying.  I said to Jeff at the end of the day "I don't know what to do.  I can't make him stop crying."  Jeff let Ziggy lay on his lap on the couch for three hours that night just to keep him happy and quiet.  I began to feel a small pit of dread form in my stomach for what this week had in store for us.

Ziggy does not walk well on a leash.  My mom said "he's great off leash!  just take him where he can be offleash! *quiet voice* not so good on leash".  I'm surrounded by country roads, subdivisions, more roads and major roads.  There was to be no offleash.  But this crying dog needed to expend energy.  I got into the habit of driving him to different walking trails all over Guelph just so he could be offleash and run like his maniacal self.  Ziggy and I were most in tune during those walks, enjoying the last bits of fall outdoors and getting our exercise on.  He would of course cry for the entire car ride there; a cry which rose to a loud cresendo as he sensed we were nearing our destination (or when he was wrong and we were just at a stop sign).  He'd cry as we neared home, so I'd let him out of the car into the garage.  He'd cry in the garage to go into the house.  I'd let him in the house where he would stare at me and cry.  At one point I said "I just took you for an hour walk!  What do you want from me?!"  His reply?  A long low cry.  ZIGGY!!!!!

Tuesday I crated him and went to work.  At lunch we played an intense game of keepaway in the backyard.  I was exhausted after 20 minutes.  Ziggy was barely out of breath. 

Walking him on leash was an adventure in itself.  I kept thinking rollerblades would have been ideal.  Ziggy and Jeff ran a couple of times together in the morning.  Jeff ran while Ziggy gracefully cantered, a light jog for him, no more.  The Tuesday night with the freezing rain was a slippery adventure, half walk/half dog-skiing.  Our hair, coats and thighs were coated with solid ice when we got home.  Ziggy was fine!  Warm as anything, and just shook off a bit of water.  Then looked at up me.  And cried.

Tuesday after work I FINALLY, FINALLY got Ziggy to go into the backyard by himself and amuse himself with the various smells from the farm behind us (cows, chickens, mice, cats, etc.) and the wonders of our backyard (.....).  After 20 minutes of no crying, I started to feel worried.  I tiptoed up to our bedroom window which overlooks the backyard and gently pulled up the blind.  His superhero senses heard me, and he looked up - right into my eyes - and I looked at him - right into his mouth - where the tail of a mouse was hanging out.  Oh dear god.  I raced downstairs, threw on my boots and rushed into the backyard screaming "drop it! drop it!". Personally I didn't want to see what "mouse" looked like coming out Ziggy's other end.  Ziggy of course thought it was time for another game of keepaway, so another 10 minutes ensued of this (only this time I wasn't saying "I'm gonna getcha ya little fella!", but "I'm going to f*&!*ing kill you, you crazy moron!" - nice soundtrack for our backyard neighbour Farmer Joe to hear!).  I finally lured him to the top of the deck with a cookie and got him to drop the poor, dead... chewed (I'm sorry).. creature.  Which I then got to pick up with a plastic bag and dispose of. *shudder*

Wednesday at lunch Ziggy miraculously stayed outside for 20 minutes while I ate my lunch in peace without a long licking tongue propelling towards me with every bite.  Very nice!  Good Ziggy!

Wednesday after work, Ziggy and I were walking along the Speed River trail in the north end of Guelph when I noticed he wasn't looping back to me like he usually did every 30 seconds.  Rounding a corner I saw him ahead of me, mowing down on a pile of food and garbage.  I ran towards him, yelling no - once again, full eye contact while he continued to eat popcorn, orange peels, and to my horror, a plastic bottle cap.  I actually got him to drop it for a second, but he picked it up again and as I reached into his gross mouth to grab it.. gulp.. it was gone.  I put in calls to my vet friends, friends of vets, boyfriends of vets and received some advice about "waiting it out", or "inducing vomiting" (sounds like a fun afterschool activity).  After googling for awhile about "intestinal blockages" and reading a few horror stories from pet owners, I decided I just couldn't live with it if this stupid bottle cap got stuck and ended up costing money in surgery, or worse putting his crying life in danger. It was time for a trip to the vet's for some barium-induced vomiting - fun.   Ziggy terrorized the vet's office, jumping on the counter, on the receptionist, on the vet, on me, on a chair, on a child and worst of all on a bereaved couple just leaving the room where their dog had obviously just been put down. I was embarassed and of course, crying (Ziggy-style) because I felt bad for having not been there to get him away from the bottle cap in time, bad for what he was going to have to go through, and in terror of the bill that was surely to follow.

The vet and his assistant took Ziggy away and brought him back within about 10 minutes.  The assistant said "he's .. umm.. wiggly.  Has he been exercised today?" "Yes, we just got back from an hour hike where he ran full speed for 3x the distance I went." "Oh.  Wow...".  Yes.  I know. Thanks.  The vet then told me Ziggy threw up a full three times - a lot, he was surprised.  With the bottle cap emerged some other interesting items, including what looked like an entire bag of carrots, banana peels, something resembling seaweed and a melange of other rotten fruits and vegetables.  Oh no.  An ominous voice in my head said: "THE COMPOSTER". Which I then repeated to the vet: "THE COMPOSTER". The dog got into the backyard composter when he was being "miraculously well behaved" in the backyard at lunch.  How does one even break into a locked composter?!?!  The vet said, helpfully, "he probably would have thrown up anyways today with all that in his stomach".  Then presented me with a bill for a $250 worth of medically induced barf.  Awesome.

Ziggy took me for a few more walks, did some more crying (to the point where Jeff and I just started crying back at him to alleviate our tiredness of listening to it - he just looked at us like we were bat sh*t crazy.. as anyone would have done I imagine, then went back to crying), and sometimes would fall asleep on the couch and be a perfect, content, sleepy angel.  Sometimes I would be so tired of the deafening squeals that I'd pull him onto the couch in my lap and pet him and say things in a soothing voice like "shut up" "yes" "aren't you nice when you're quiet" "you're driving Kristyn crazy".  Every single day that week I got an average of 5 hours of sleep at night, because I had to take over some morning walks and Ziggy tends to make grunting noises in his sleep, hence the nickname "Ziggy the Piggy", waking me up hourly. I was extremely tense all week, and stressing about not sleeping, which was leading to less sleep. I would sit at my desk like a zombie in the morning at 7:30 a.m., prompting sympathetic looks from my coworker John who I NEVER beat into the office (but did every day THAT week!), then roll home, try to nap (just 20 mins.. please just 20 mins!) to a cacophony of crying and then just give up and ask Ziggy helplessly "what do you WANT from me!?".  (answer: more crying).  I also caught him tearing a chew toy to shreds and found him chewing on the tiny plastic squeaker.  Which I promptly grabbed out of his jaw and threw in the bathroom garbage and closed the bathroom door because, really, one could go broke on vet barf bills (though, quick shout out to my parents who footed the bill for the vet and gave us a generous gift for looking after him all week!).

Friday afternoon it was time to bid farewell to our furry friend.  I took a half day from work and took him for one last walk on that gorgeously sunny afternoon before we headed back to Stouffville to greet my parents who were arriving home that day.  I let him off leash on the conservation trails down the street from us so he would be tired for the car ride (ha.. ha ha).  When we neared the retention pond where the mallards hang out, Ziggy took one look at them and decided for the first time in his life he was going to go swimming, and catch me a duck.  For the first time all week he listened to my screams of "ZIGGY! NOOOOO!!" and actually came out of the water before reaching the terrified, squawking ducks, perhaps because he remembered he doesn't swim, or perhaps due to the exact pitch of my voice (exasperation meets desperation meets terror meets duck lover).  He was back on the leash for the rest of that walk home. 

Then I loaded up the car (while he cried/screamed, certain I was going to abandon him too); put his favourite toys in the backseat and headed out down Highway 24 en route to my parents'.  Ziggy decided to cap off our last bit of time together that week by crying at a higher, more intense, more insistent pitch than I'd heard for the entire week.  I pulled over twice to make sure he hadn't caught his ear in the window (why else would he be crying that loudly!?), or lost a toy.. or a limb.. what could be wrong?!  Nothing was wrong.  Ziggy just wanted to cry.  Loud music drowned out the crying to some degree.  I did some experiments with classical music, rock music, loud music, quiet music.  Conclusion: no effect.  My mom texted their plane had landed.  Not having been able to contact them all week I immediately called and asked if this crying was normal. Her answer: "oh my goodness, is that ZIGGY making that noise?!"  She told me he should stop.  45 minutes later on Highway 9 he hadn't stopped.  10 minutes later I began to sob.  Uncontrollable tears of the overtired brain who was in the throes of noise-torture (that must be a thing).1.5 hours later we were at my parents' place.. that was quite the car ride.

I spent that night at my parents..........Ziggy didn't cry once.  My parents' barely believed my stories - "Ziggy doesn't cry!".  I asked my dad the next morning "what's wrong with Ziggy? he's so quiet" and he answered "umm.. this is just what he's like."  I kept looking suspiciously at Ziggy who would only wag his tail and gaze with a goofy doggy grin back at me.. but I swear there was a glint in his eye...

In our drafty bathroom at the office that I sit across from, the wind whistles through a certain vent making a high pitched screaming noise.  For 3 weeks after taking Ziggy home, I cringed whenever I heard this noise and found myself looking around for a certain freckled, grunting, mouse-eating, compost-loving, mischevious little dog.  Oh Ziggy.....

Ireland - The First 12 Hours

I'm excited!  My first "I was just going about my day, when.." post (working title).  This one features protagonist Kristyn and her poor new husband Jeff, who is now going to be exposed to a life of "the most outrageous things that happen."  As a side note, my best friend Dawn is wary about me posting these tales, these "I was just going about my day, when..." tales, but I'm already convinced that these posts will get a laugh or two and make it all worth it!  Honestly what is the point of a day when you don't burst out giggling at some point!

So let me set the scene.  It's September 30 and I have not had a good nights sleep in several nights.  My wedding is tomorrow.  I need about 8 hours of sleep to function normally, and I'm averaging about 5-6/night.  And my wedding is TOMORROW.  The world's most hectic day involves setting up the venue for dinner, prepping my house for rehearsal dinner & caterers, holding rehearsal outdoors in sideways rain (it was that windy), hosting about 30 ppl at my house for food, drinks, speeches and presents, all the while trying to make sure I've remembered all the "little details" (and relaying them to my wedding coordinator while my mom simultaneously yells at me for not remembering if I gave our officiant proper directions to our house several weeks ago - thanks mom!).  After a day like this you think I'd sleep like a baby - um not so much.  The night before MY wedding I was on the phone with Jeff at 2 in the morning going "I am feeling nervous.  No, not about YOU, of course not. There are too many PEOPLE involved in this, and something is going to go WRONG!!!" (My name's Kristyn, and I'm a Control Freak).  I got up at 6 a.m. for my hair appt. (that's another whole separate story involving a crazy bridezilla - not me! I was pretty sane! - who got double booked at my hair salon), wondering if I can't function on a regular day on 4 hours of sleep, how the heck am I going to get through THIS day?!  Jeff is tired from a night of dodging drinks (best husband ever as my only request was "please don't be hungover at our wedding") with his party animal groomsmen.  However, adrenaline, love and excitement sure can carry you through a wedding day - it was a breeze! Not to mention the happiest day of my life. :) At about 5:30 p.m. I went "holy CRAP I'm tired", but didn't notice it again.  Honestly.  Not until about 3 a.m., when we went to bed (we may have opened our presents that night.. I can't confirm or deny.. ;)).  When we happened to stir at 7 a.m. that morning, we kept trying to force ourselves back to sleep. However, faced with a day of post-wedding tasks (don't discount those, soon to be brides - there is an annoying lot to do the day after your wedding!!) including finishing packing and leaving for the honeymoon, we were not succesful.  One crazy day later, our friend Viv came to take us to the airport around 4 p.m.. Once in TO we found out our flight to London had been delayed about an hour.  Naturally concerned about making our connection to Dublin, I asked the lady at Pearson if we'd be ok.  "Plenty of time!", she cheerfully replied.  Heathrow was big, but we just had to get from Terminal 1 to 5 (or 5 to 1.. I think I've blocked it all out) in an hour.  Armed with this knowledge, we grabbed a bite, and kept promising each other the best sleep of our lives on the sleeper flight over to London.  HA.  HAHAHAHAHA.  No.  I took a sleeping pill which actually made me have restless leg syndrome (WTF!) so I couldn't sleep for the first hour.  Thank goodness we had an extra seat between us so I could put my feet on Jeff's lap, and maybe scored an hour or two of broken sleep.  Let's just say when it was 4 a.m. our time after essentially a light nap, and it was bright and shiny over the British Isles, life was very very confusing.

Always a planner, I asked the flight attendant before we landed if we needed to fill out customs cards - nope, we were good.  Ok then!  So we get off the plane around 10:15 a.m. local time, with a flight leaving at 11:20 a.m..  Seems like we should be ok, right?  The next part is a bit of a blur.  There was the angry customs guy ("of course you need to fill out the customs card" "oh, sorry, we were told we didn't have to. we asked because we have a tight connection" "WELL YOU HAVE TO" <-- that's when I stopped speaking and just started writing); there was the train AND the bus to get from Terminal to Terminal (not like the 2 min ride at Pearson - this was a 15 minute journey); there was the fact that it was still 10:15 and we were making great time.  Wait, what?  How has no time passed?  Ohhhh because Jeff's watch stopped.  Excellent.  Excellent time for that to happen.  The clock on the bus read 10:45 and I thought "that isn't good".  Oh well.. I'm sure the line at security will be moving efficiently at this gigantic airport which probably has lots of staff.  Can we see where this is going?

So the 100 person line up at security is incredibly daunting.  I am in line, heart racing, staring at Jeff's watch (still 10:15), peering at the watch of the guy in front of me in line (10:50), trying not to worst-case-scenario it (OMG OMG FIRST DAY OF HONEYMOON STUCK IN AN AIRPORT).  This sleazy looking dude, many gold chains, and his skinny coiffed girlfriend start excusing themselves to the people in front of them, claiming they have a tight connection, can they please butt in front of everyone in line.  I said to Jeff "that's rude. we're not doing that. Just because he's some rich dude he thinks he can be a jerk like that".  5 minutes of not moving later, I heard myself politely saying "excuse me, we have a tight connection, is there any chance we can go in front of you?".  Shout out to anyone who was in line at Terminal whatever at Heathrow on the morning of Monday October 3 - you're all wonderful people.  Squeezing awkwardly to the front of the line, with our four giant pieces of carry-on luggage bumping the heads of children, we triumphantly reach the front of the line.  I fly through - ok - things are looking ok!  Turn around and OF COURSE Jeff has been pulled aside for a random wanding.  COME ON!!!  I say to him "I'm going to check the board" and pull a hard left.  Gate 81.  Gate 81. Searching.  Searching.  GATE 81!  "GATE CLOSING".  WHAT THE !*#$!!!!  I rush back to Jeff, who is, ironically, putting his watch back on (sigh) and yell "WE HAVE TO GO NOW!!!".  The couple who was just behind us in line who'd followed our embarassing plight to the front of the line and were also on this flight to Dublin caught wind of this and the four of us took off!!!!  I've never looked into the floor plan for Heathrow since, but I'm pretty sure the distance from that security terminal to Gate 81 was approximately 2 km (folks, I'm actually not exaggerating).  So picture running a 2 km race.  But you need to sprint, not jog.  And you're loaded down with a duffel bag and laptop case (or backpack and shoulder bag - take your pick, we had them all!). And there are A LOT OF SLOW PEOPLE in your way (including more children whose heads are level with your gear).  And you haven't slept properly in several nights including next to no sleep the night before.  And it's 5 in the morning in your mind (but oddly bright, sunny and late-morning looking outside :P).  And you have been drinking a LOT of champagne for about 3 days straight and haven't bothered to rehydrate because airplane washrooms scare the bejesus out of you.  As I SPRINTED through Heathrow airport, I tried to swallow and found I couldn't -  I'd now sweated out the last squeeze of liquid in my body doing this fantastic early morning race.  The snafu came when there was a tricky sign about which way, indeed, Gate 81 was.  Up the ramp!  Wrong! Down the ramp!  Go!!!  The rather portly Irish fellow running with us was labouring.  Jeff took the lead.  The cottonballs in my mouth made it impossible to talk.  With my last ounce of everything, I spat out "run Jeff RUN!!!!".  And my little Forrest Gump was gone.  This is why I love Jeff.  The three of us staggered around the corner a few minutes later to find him standing triumphantly, smiling, with the attendant at the godforsaken Gate 81.  We made the flight!!  What a scene we all made getting on the plane, panting, sweating, apologizing. Ridiculously, a guy actually got on 2 minutes later, looking cool and collected (no it wasn't the gold chain guy - I would have had to kill him at that point!).  People have since snarkily told me "of course you could have chilled out.  it's only bad when they start calling your name".  As someone who doesn't live in London, hasn't been to this airport, is trying to get to a different country entirely, and has no experience flying Aer Lingus, was that honestly a chance I was going to take?!  No.  When you see "GATE CLOSING", you go into full on caveman adrenaline-fuelled panic mode and your legs just MOVE.  Within minutes the plane was in the air.  1 hour flight with no drink service.. are you kidding me?  I didn't so much sleep as I did cool down and stare blankly into space thinking "wow, I'm thirsty". (these pics below are from the end of our Aer Lingus flight to Dublin - landed!  could two people LOOK more tired?  my cheeks are still pink from the sprint!!).

The luggage carousel was churning around merrily in the Dublin airport, people triumphantly claiming their bags as if they had won a prize (who doesn't feel that way, I totally get it), children yelling "mommy, there's ours!"; then the crowd began to peter out.  Oddly enough, left standing there were four people - myself, Jeff and the Irish couple we'd run our race with.  Interesting.  The baggage carousel churned to a halt.  Numbed with lack of sleep and a full 12 hour of flying and airport hijinx, I simply rose, and walked wordlessly to the service desk and began filling out forms to have our bags delivered to our hotel.  Obviously they just hadn't tried as hard as we had to make the flight.  Thinking to myself "this is quite the start to our honeymoon - what are the next 2 weeks going to have in store?", but staying positive, because hey I was married to Jeff, in Ireland, and off work for 2 weeks, I turned to see Jeff walking towards me.  Weighed down with our crazy amount of carry-on luggage - AND OUR TWO SUITCASES!  Overjoyed, I thanked the friendly Irish woman (almost redundant - there are no one friendlier than Irish people) and sprinted towards the nearest vending machine.  Inserting a few euros, I received and drank the most rewarding bottle of water in my life.  When we pulled away from the airport (driving on the left side of the road), it was like we drove away from any trouble, and proceeded to have the most amazing, peaceful, wonderful and joyful 2 weeks of our lives.  Honestly, that is hands down the best time we've had in the whole time we've been together!  Ireland was INCREDIBLE.

However... being me... I couldn't go the entire 2 weeks without getting into trouble.  Below, a couple of other "incidents".  I was just going about my day, when...

- On our first full day in Ireland, touring arund County Wicklow, Jeff was trying to make a right turn (they're the harder turn to make when driving on the left) up a hill, at a blind corner, still not used to shifting with his left hand, when a car pulled up super close behind him.  Jeff, the most confident driver I know, said "I wish that guy would back up.. I'm going to slide backwards into him because I can't see who's coming around this bend to make my turn."  Eager to be a good wife, I offered to go claim "stupid tourist" and ask the gentleman to back up until we had made our turn.  I hopped out of the car and jogged back along the pavement to go ask the guy to roll down his window.  Um, ya, he wasn't on the side of the car where he was supposed to be (or maybe that was my error, we'll never know ;)), so I had to make a quick 180 to run in FRONT of his car to get to the actual driver's window.  On the newly paved road which was quite smooth, shiny, and slippery, I completely bailed and fell forward, taking the brunt of the attack on my knee.  Already looking like a complete moron, I decided to power through and popped up like a jack in the box, grinning widely, and made it to the window and asked the guy could he move back as it was our first day driving here. He did.  I got back into the car (honestly I tried to get in the North American passenger side first before realizing Jeff was there.. this whole thing took me a few days..), Jeff successfully made the turn.  I had actually torn a giant hole in my jeans and my knee, and between the bruise and blood was feeling pretty sorry for myself and cried a few self pitying tears.  Regardless of how it ended, I still think about that eager, maniacally smiling "pop up" from the ground in front of this guy's car, and what he must have thought (and what that must have all looked like to him!), and I burst out laughing at myself.

- Jeff and I REALLY didn't want to spend several hours of our honeymoon in a laundromat, so around the 7th day started looking for hotels with laundry facilities while we were booking our rooms on Expedia.  Alas, we found one in Belfast!  Clean clothes, here I come!  We were so excited.  We popped the first load in, and Jeff went down to take care of switching it to the dryer later.  In hindsight, I should have overseen this step.  One of the ladies who attended my bachelorette had given me a gift of purple underwear covered in little purple sequins.  At home.. these would have been hung to dry.  In the hotel in Belfast they were put in the dryer.  When Jeff went to fetch things from the dryer later on, he was devestated to find that everything (all his clothes, all my clothes, the lint trap, the dryer) were covered in tiny purple sequins.  The glue had melted in the dryer and the majority of sequins had detached, then reattached and glued themselves onto our clothes.  I spent our first night in Belfast picking these tiny circles off all our clothes.  They really seemed to like Jeff's boxers!  We spent the rest of the trip strategically picking sequins off of each other, and to this day I still find the occassional sequin stuck in the sleeve of a sweatshirt.. and it makes me think fondly of Belfast. 



Picking purple sequins off our clothes (see pile on table - maybe 2% of the problem)



Two Years of House Love

Tomorrow is my anniversary.  Well not MY anniversary, but the two year anniversary of Jeff and I with our house.  You’re now thinking: this is a weird thing to write about.  Yes.  Admittedly, Jeff and I are sort of nuts about our house – probably ad nauseum at times – but the happiness this place has brought us has been an incredibly significant part of our lives.  Our house is our pet, our baby, our third family member.  So I wanted to take a moment to give it the shout out it deserves!  For those just tuning into my life, Jeff is my husband (together since ’07, married in ’11) who moved into my first owned home (a townhouse in Guelph, Ontario that I bought just after securing my first job) in December 2008.  He currently rents his owned property in Stratford, Ontario which he was unable to sell during the recession (go figure) when he moved to Guelph.

This is the story of our journey to our dream home. It was an accident, really.  We love looking at open houses “just for fun” (something I for sure inherited from my parents who did this to me many Saturdays in my childhood).  In June 2009 we hit up an open house that was just out of our price range on an adorable street in Guelph’s west end: Sugarbush Place.  With a name that cute, and houses built right into a towering maple forest, how could this place not be meant for us?  Long story short, it wasn’t meant for us.  A drastically reduced price was still out of our price range and our lowball offer wasn’t accepted. We were crushed.  But from that experience, a fiesty fire was lit within us (mainly me) and we embarked on a couple of seriously crazy months.  Summer for me is already a hysterically busy time.  This particular summer I was splitting my time between two jobs (I’d been seconded from my original position to a job that involved a commute to Toronto three days a week), working in the field at least half that time which involved travel all over southern Ontario, and competing for a new job at my original organization.  Couldn’t have picked a better time to become obsessed with finding a new house!  However, once that fire was lit it wouldn’t go out.  We were lucky enough to meet our real estate agent Will Lenssen (Homelife Realty, Guelph, if you’re looking for a great, kind and honest agent!) during The Sugarbush Incident and he was eager to help us find our dream home.  We’re a little picky, though.  We looked at every house on the market in Guelph in our price range during July and August 2009 and came up absolutely short.  Frustrated with Jeff (who ended up being the pickier one.. I had a tendency to “LOVE” and “WANT!!!!” every house that moderately met our needs – I have the real estate crazies, full on) I said to him one Saturday morning “if you don’t like what’s out there in our price range, you’re going to have to start thinking seriously about building a house”.  We had always shunned the idea of building a house.  Crowded subdivisions!  Every house looks the same!  Tiny backyards with no privacy!  (I’m not denying most of this isn’t true).  But we decided to look into it because maybe we could get some of our dream “wants” along with our “needs” – a mid-level family room; three bathrooms; a dining room and two living rooms – just maybe!  We had an almost-there with Cityview’s The Vales in Guelph on a quiet crescent in the east end which backed onto conservation trails.  Seemed perfect!  But their absolute refusal to budge a dollar on the price ended up being the sticking point.  With Jeff and I each having a mortgage in our name, our upper price limit was very firm (as in, the mortgage company would NOT lend us more even if I pleaded that we were superhero budgeters, which we are!! They weren’t having any of it..).  I remember Jeff hugging me in the driveway of the model home while I cried as our little dream slipped away. 

We ventured out on a camping trip that weekend where we’d promised not to think about houses until we were in the car on the way home. I remember I was still wearing my three days old camping and Pelee Island touring clothes, several days out from a shower (picture stink lines rising off of me) when we walked into the Ashton Ridge model home in Guelph’s far east end. Stink aside, I was transfixed by the artist’s rendition on the wall : The Iona. 2,000 square feet, mid-level den, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, extra living room, dining room, main floor laundry, A 40’ WIDE x 121’ DEEP LOT (anyone building in the “I’m Middle Class” price range will appreciate that), funky exterior designs with no two houses in a row being the same, and, I’m sorry, what? In our price range with $10,000 in free upgrades?!?!  We were basically signing the papers while twigs fell out of my hair.  We were back at the model the next night, putting our “yellow dot” on the lot plan to reserve it Lot 10, conditional on the sale of my house. 

The Iona (ours has less trees, more neighbours :P)

Throwing my town house up for sale and juggling the stream of viewings and open houses, getting finances and approvals in order for the new house, finishing out my summer secondment in TO, interviewing for my new position: this all happened in ONE WEEK. I can remember my (now) boss calling and going “So do you want to work for me?” and I said “Oh my gosh!!!! Of course!  Hang on my real estate agent is calling on my cell phone. (aside) Yes, a 2:00 showing today is fine. (back to boss) I’m so happy, thank you so much!” At least a I set a precedent for my level of candid unprofessionalism with him in that moment. 

Then came the glorious 4 months of watching the house get built.  I have never been so excited for a hole in the ground.  For poured concrete.  For 2 x 4s in a vertical formation.  Jeff and I were once again possessed, obsessed; visiting our concrete and wood creation every single day after work (I’d also sometimes drive by at lunch).  I remember stopping in on my way home from a meeting in Toronto to find Jeff already crawling around inside the house.  We took at least 500 pictures of the house being built. We took our very bored-looking friends along to marvel at it – “ohh… wood and concrete” they’d say, excitement nearly tangible. Once the doors, windows and drywall were in and the house was locked each day, we still managed to find our way inside. Every. Single. Day. The window in the downstairs bathroom still makes a funny noise when you open it from Jeff warping it by squeezing his not so tiny body through a very tiny space every day for about three weeks.  I can’t explain the feelings I had about this house, this pile of building materials.  I just knew in my gut what this pile o’ stuff really was: our home.


Admiring the hole in the ground



Jeff on a stealth nighttime break-in mission

Friends humouring us - Ben and Jeff outside our house



Our beloved work in progress



 And it has not disappointed.  The feeling I get when I pull in the driveway and my house smiles down at me still makes me happy EVERY SINGLE DAY.  I’m not kidding.  The sod went down and I nearly passed out with excitement.  I actually just went and sat on it, grinning.  This was MY GRASS.  In my backyard.  I watered it so it wouldn’t die – it relied on me for life that summer.  Truly, this house was our baby.  A deck, a fence, a top to bottom paint job and a massive living room renovation later; it continues to be shaped by us as the months tick by.  We’ve turned builder’s beige and sterility into something warm, cozy and living.  I have accidentally stayed in my house for three days at a time before (while sick, or working from home during the winter months) and not even minded or noticed.  Every corner I turn, every groove my toes touch in the floor tiles, every time I put my hand on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, I feel my house reach out and give me a little squeeze back. (“I love you too, crazy lady!”). Our house even made a surprise appearance in both our wedding vows last fall - a sweet note from each side about doing fun projects, and continuing to turn it into a home.

Which brings me to the point I was actually thinking about today: the pros and cons of a new build (I’ll make this short, gosh I’m rambly), just in case anyone is pondering having a house built.  I honestly don’t know if I’d do it again, but I just may (very decisive).  I’ll let you decide for yourself!

Pros:

- Being able to pick the model that’s right for you, and customize it (to some extent).

- Picking colours (walls, tiles, counters, cupboards, bricks – all of it!).  You can’t believe how much pink ceramic tile and blue laminate counter is out there in the resale market!!

- Watching your baby grow during the building process.  It is oddly fascinating watching a gaping hole in the ground turn into a house.

- Having a clean palate when it’s time to make your house your own through the years.  Ripping up standard beige carpet over pristine subfloor that’s been there for a couple of years is pretty easy compared to ripping up that 70s shag and wondering what surprises, damage or other flooring you might find underneath!

- Moving into a gorgeously clean home; not one that has cooked spaghetti in a kitchen drawer and a powder room that smells vaguely of pee for the first 6 months (lucky for me, both examples from my first home)

Cons:

- Unless you’re rich and living in an estate neighbourhood, you’re going to be in a typical subdivision and RIGHTNEXT to your neighbour.  Invest in window coverings immediately!!

- You live in a construction zone for at least 2 years (ours is FINALLY FINALLY almost done) – this means construction vehicles, dirt instead of lawns, debris (I frequently find siding on my front lawn), giant ruts in the unfinished road, no street trees, and perpetually dirty windows

- New build backyards are traditionally pretty teeny so you have to make good use of deck space to avoid losing your backyard entirely.

- Ashton Ridge is a phenomenal builder that broke ground in late September and had the house ready early January and us in by the promised closing date.  I still can’t believe it actually happened.  Many people live in their parents’ basement during the overlap of selling their old house and getting into their new one.  I recommend a long closing on your current property if you’re going the new build route, to be safe.

To Blog...?

This week I felt like my brain was exploding with thoughts and ideas that I am just dying to throw onto paper (I’m showing my age as a writer, because paper is now computer screen…). I absolutely love the tingling feeling of having the urge to write, and try to pounce on it when it shows up (because it’s fewer and farther between these days than when I was a kid and lived with a pen glued to my hand).  However, if I’m actually going to get writing in 2012, I’m going to have to publish it (because this is the only way I know how to handle information these days – stupid facebook).  So I finally bit the bullet and made my own blog.  WHAT. I know.  I remember my friend Little Eric complaining way back in like 2004 about how this crazy stalker girl “overtly blogged about him” - I asked what the HECK a blog was.  My first reaction when he explained: what a stupid idea; what an attention grubbing weirdo! Back in the day where I actually wrote proper long emails and talked to all my friends on the phone all the time, it did seem completely showboaty, attention-grabby and ridiculous. Eight years later, having these feelings dulled by the facebook era, coupled with feeling the urge to write and knowing how much I enjoy reading my friends’ blogs (all 2 of them) I actually feel like this could be a nice way to stay better connected with friends, near and far.  Of course if the series of (true) stories I’m planning on posting featuring two young, bright, professional 29 year old blondes who fall into ridiculous hijinx including being attempt-punched by random men on the street and being dragged along the ground headfirst by dog leashes on MULTIPLE occasions (that would be my bff Dawn and myself, respectively) ends up with any sort of following - well that would just be a perk!  I realized last week I honestly have enough “crazy sh*t that happens to Dawn and Kristyn” stories to fill a novel.  I hope Dawn doesn’t mind – I forgot to run it by her. Lol.  In addition, I’ve been transcribing my high school diaries (for fear of losing them in a fire, and, admittedly, enjoying revisiting a (different kind of) awesome time in my life) and I swear there’s a Twilight-esque series in there – minus the vampires, but rife with fantastic, gripping teen drama and heart wrenching moments!  So who knows what will fall out of my head, and I can only dream about where it might go. I hope like most New Year-fuelled initiatives this one doesn’t fall by the wayside. And I hope you’ll stay tuned!

Pertinent stats about me:

Name – Kristyn

Age – 29 (and planning on turning 29 again for the next 10 years at least)

Hometown – Scarborough, Ontario

Home – Guelph, Ontario

Significant Other – Jeff.  Boyfriend: Oct 2007 – Oct 2010; Fiance: Oct 2010 – Oct 2011; Husband: Oct 2011 – forever. J

Style notes:

I struggle all the time at work with writing too colloquially and with certain style issues because of how much I enjoy free association writing where the thoughts in my head virtually pour onto the page. It’s not always pretty.  In my head and in conversation, I frequently start sentences with And, But and So. And I like it. So I’m not going to sensor that.  But I hope it doesn’t bug anyone too much (since I’m sure the following of this blog is already in the millions).  Oh that all felt really good.  Also I’m bracket crazy (I freaking love brackets). Disclaimer done (promise)!