Dear Grace,

When I was small, I didn't want to be a princess. Instead, I thought, I’d much rather be a lawyer and imagined myself bent over a large mahogany desk absently handling a pair of oversized glasses, the ear tip of one arm resting between my lips. I'd lean closer, tracing the lines in the thick file, trying to incline the balance of justice. In my childhood, all castles were fixed firmly to earth.

But now, Grace, I fall into reveries on far away lands, fantasies of dresses formed from raw silk. Why now do I tangle myself in thoughts of bestowed title and unearned privilege? Perhaps the arrival of a prince piqued my imagination too; maybe a June wedding under the golden Tuscan sun warmed my skin and reminded me to dream. Are my feet finally large enough to fill your grown-up slippers?

As I sit before a sprawling desk, fingertips poised, you—sweet Grace—are once again on the screen. I begin to assemble the pieces of your editorial. I puzzle together your pretty face, your signature uniform, your inescapable public being and I think to myself that the life of a princess is a far more fitting fantasy for a grown woman, a woman already well impressed by sadness and beauty, hope and possibility.

Archive Photo: Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly

The Ninth

Pin pricks of exploding light illuminate
goosebumps on exposed flesh
a Catherine Wheel whirls easily across an open sky.

And knowing breathes that this too is short-lived and unbearably lovely
The quietly whispered love to a sleeping partner
(perceived by the sleeper with one foot in dream and one ear at ready)
is for both, bravery and fear.

We hope these softly woven words will hold the night close
heavy against the skin like a child's blanket,
its threadbare membrane drawing the thin line
between us two and the imminent wolves.

And we cling desperately to one another beneath it
afraid of the space between our bodies
fighting against the looming disconnect
the howling dark that opens wide and swallows us in morning.

'Wedding Amnesia' and other follies of love.

I've been working from home a lot this summer and typically leave the TV on in the background so the house seems more 'happening' while I'm alone. Usually, I leave it on TLC, unless it's baby show time (I just want to enjoy married life in peace for a little while), in which case it's on Slice: whatever fluff is running that doesn't distract me from work, but keeps me company.

Anyway, during the day there are a lot of wedding shows on these stations: Wedding S.O.S, Rich Bride/Poor Bride, In-Law Wedding Wars, Four Weddings.....and so on. After passively watching literally hundreds of episodes of these shows, I noticed (sometimes it takes me a while to clue in) that as the half hour draws to a close the bride and groom predictably say "Our wedding day was absolutely perfect."

Every time. Never mind that the makeup artist didn't show up, the best man lost the rings, a cat wandered into the church and coughed up a hairball in the aisle, the minister fainted and the bride's grandmother caught on fire. I think it's a safe bet that even when the best man pushed that bride into the lake on AFV, the couple beamingly reported that their wedding was absolutely perfect: the best day ever.

Looking back to my own wedding a few weeks ago, I can't think of a single thing that went wrong. It all seems so warm, fuzzy and lovely in my mind. Even the things that didn't go exactly as planned, seem like they were better for the change. 

Best. day. ever.

Is there some sort of wedding amnesia?

Something like the pregnancy amnesia that makes mothers who practically died in labour (if you catch them right after the birth they grab at your sleeve sobbing "Never again. Never again" repeatedly) go back and do it again several months later.

And really, if there is such a thing as wedding amnesia and therefore it always seems "perfect, the best day ever", why do we stress out so much about it for months and months before? Why do we morph into bridezillas and make everyone crazy on our rampage to wrangle every single detail into perfection? Why do we bankrupt ourselves trying to create an event that will be so glorious it will live on forever in our minds, when it obviously will, no matter what we do, no matter how it turns out?

Maybe it's because down the line, when the glow of warm fuzzy love dulls a little after a fight over who left the milk on the counter overnight (if that bastard would just admit it, I could forgive him and we could move on) or when we feel a little neglected or distant from our once warm and communicative spouse, it's then that we envelop ourselves in the memories, pore through the photos to remind us of how pretty we looked, how his eyes shone when he saw us coming down the isle, how hard we laughed when that cat barfed on the runner, and how those little things that went wrong on our wedding day just bonded the two of us even closer. Like a little practice run for real life, our wedding day: us against the odds.

So even though we're pissed about whatever, we think back to this bond and feel the anger and upset fade as we look at his beautiful sleeping profile. We remember how we're supposed to side together against the world as we snuggle in around him and fall asleep listening to him snore like a purring lion. Maybe it's not so much wedding amnesia as wedding remembrance. Maybe every wedding day is perfect. The best ever.

To all the boys I've loved before....

Having just come back to earth from a magical trip to Tuscany where I married my true love, followed by a blissed out honeymoon in Paris, I've been reflecting on the great crushes of my life: specifically, the beautiful celebs who made my heart beat faster, from the age of four until today.

I wanted to remember those boys who inspired me, the ones who kept me up at night, and those who taught me the difference between that sick love you feel in your stomach and the pure love you feel in your heart. The ones who walked with me on the path to choosing the man who is now my husband and in whom I see pieces of each of these dreamboats.

In homage to these men, I present my 'crushline'.

Do you love these honey-babies too?! Comment here with your own crushlines :) I know you have them....and I want the guys too, I know you grew up with Kelly Kapowski on your wall.....

Why are we here again? Oh yes, the lamps.

What am I trying to do here, really? It's 2011. It's Blog City out there and after almost nine years of working in publishing, I'm launching my first blog. Why now? I can only really answer that I've had many false starts. It's sort of weird actually: after a lifetime of writing about everything else, it's so very hard to put myself on the page. 
But, it's an exercise like anything else and there's a lot of good stuff to talk and laugh about, share and show. There are some big deal stories and some trivial minutiae, but let's spill it all on the proverbial page and see what kind of beautiful monster we create.

First off, I need some new bedside lamps. My uber-handy-but-typically-stays-away-from-electrics husband, Mark, built the ones we use now before we met. I think he wired old artillery shells or something (fingers crossed deactivated) and I added gorgeous creamy linen lampshades (from Restoration Hardware) before allowing them into our bedroom. Marriage is about compromise, so I ventured that they had a rustic sort of charm and were obviously unique, which allowed me to tolerate them while they lasted. Happily, for the last month, they've been in rapid decline, flickering in and out of rhythm like confused fireflies and Mark has finally wondered aloud why we don't just get new ones.

Post-war post-modern bedside lamps

O happy day that brings me back to this point: We need new lamps. Perhaps the reason for this blog is to bring you all along with me to buy them. I'll post photos, you vote. I hate shopping alone.

The Monkey's Wedding

I was born in South Africa, in a little surfing town on the east coast called Durban (I've always been east coast ;). When I was nearly nine, my parents decided to move our little family across the world to Toronto. I've spent most of my life in Canada, but a lot of the folklore, sayings, and sweet stories from the different inhabitants from this lush land have stayed with me. Of all of these, the one that pops up all the time is about the monkey's wedding.

The story goes: it is a rare day when the sun shines and rain suddenly spatters down through the sunbeams--but when it does, we call it a monkey's wedding. It comes from the Zulu "umshado wezinkawu", a wedding for monkeys.

A monkey's wedding in Moore Park, shot from outside my house.

I'm sure this strange moniker has something to do with the combination of opposing elements, something we North Americans more literally call a 'sunshower'. I suppose it's the meteorological equivalent of the absurd personification that includes a monkey acting in a distinctly human ceremony, but no one really knows. It's a sweet string of words, regardless; the imagery is vivid in my mind and every sunshower sees me smiling, lost in the happy nostalgia of my childhood.


Riding in a cab to an interview last week, the rain splattered windows glinted in the sunshine and I mused aloud that it was a monkey's wedding. The driver (of Middle Eastern descent) laughed, saying that in his homeland they called it a wedding for rats. 

I don't know that this variation would have left quite the same impression...