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My Two Dads

As I get older it becomes more difficult to remember things about my dad. I can remember his pager number along with our answering machine greeting.  If you ever had to leave a message at my house between 1987 and 1993 I’m sure you can hear his voice as clearly as I can saying:

“Hi.  This is Andy Peattie answering your call.  There’s no one in at the moment, so leave a message after the beep and someone will get back to you.  However, if you need me in a hurry, call my pager at 1-553-0207 and I will answer your call within an hour. Thank you.”

My Dad, 1949,  Age 21
He had a car phone, and a pretty sweet bar in our basement.  He rigged up speakers so music could be playing the back yard while he fiddled with the pH level in the pool, or re-strung the lawn chairs.  He loved big band music, and country even more, and I’ve never heard a tape played more than the Floyd Cramer greatest hits he kept in his talking Chrysler Lebaron.  He used vaseline in his hair before there was pomade and he once owned the Harding Hotel.  But what did I get from him?  I don’t look the slightest bit like him, I don’t care what anyone says.    My mother, on the other hand, I hear her voice come out of my mouth every other day.  I see her face looking back at me in the mirror and in photos and my figure has her curves written all over it.  Her genes were the dominant ones it seems.  At 14 I don’t think I really knew him well enough to figure out  the exact characteristics of his I carry with me, so I’m gonna start guessing.  Here goes my best shot:
1)  His love of music, modified,  intensified, and much more emotionally charged.  I just heard the first four bars of “Canadian Sunset” as played by Floyd Cramer, and I got goosebumps.  I went to a concert on Tuesday night, and as I often do, I found myself tearstuck as I stood in awe of the music. I doubt my dad could appreciate the Postal Service, but I’m sure seeing Patsy Cline live would have brought tears to his eyes.  Thinking of the musically talented people that surround me, my mind wanders to Rolly Honsberger, and the black and white photo of him hanging in my apartment, signed for my dad, thanking him for giving Rolly his first big break.  The eight tracks, the records, the Floyd Cramer on repeat.  These things certainly live on in me.
2)  Snacks.  The man really loved snacks.  His night table drawer was usually filled with peanut brittle, cheddar corn, and cheesies.  Nights spent without my mom were filled with trips to the Avondale to get two for $1 chocolate bars.  His intentions were that the bars were for him and my mum, though both bars had almost always vanished before mum got home from the bingo later than night.  I certainly love snacks, as most people do, but I’m willing to wager that I love snacks a lot more than other people.  SNACKS!  Thanks dad, for the undying love of tasty treats that I feel burning deep inside.
Me, my dad and some snacks
3) Broadly:  Being social.   More specifically, I’m speaking of booze and parties and bars.  And all the things that come along with that.  He had his hangouts and his chums.  He owned a hotel and later sold liquor systems.  Sounds like a pretty rad time to me…. The late nights my dad spent at the Esquire, and later Gerry’s Express have been mirrored in my life by the close the curtains and turn down the lights nights at the Cloak and the Cock and Tail.  His Friday night dart parties in the basement wrought with kielbasa, cheese and beer gently permeated the atmosphere of every “HKM” I ever hosted.  What Glen, Norm and Dave were to my dad are probably not that different from what Gord, Parker and Meher are to me.
My dad, my uncle Cliff, and some other guy who might be my uncle.
My dad at his finest.  Laying in my bed, eating Krinkles and playing Tetris on the Nintendo
I’m sure there’s likely more characteristics I could add to the list, but that’s a pretty good start.  What I hope to have, and what might still reveal itself as I grow older is that entrepreneurial spark–that one day I would be willing to go out of my comfort zone to start and run a business.  Do I know what that business would be?  Not entirely sure about that yet.    Was he successful with his businesses?  I have no idea, but his success doesn’t dictate mine anyways.  We’ll have to wait and see.
My dad died, about a month before I turned 15.  Today, I’m not in regular touch with anyone that really knew him,  so most of this is speculation at best.  But it’s my sense that these things are the “Peattie” that lives in me.
A couple of years after my dad died, my mum introduced me to Luigi.  He had one of the biggest beards I had ever seen, hideous hideous furniture, a cute little beagle, a garage full of birds and a backyard full of fruit trees.  And while I can’t say there are specific things about my character or who am I that directly point to Luigi, there is more of a general influence on things in my life, with hospitality as a big part of that.
I knew Luigi in a way I didn’t know my dad.   He loved me and Matt as his children, he did.  We would spend Sundays and holidays with him and my mum through the remainder of my teenage years and throughout my 20’s.  Often when I remember him, I remember him more fondly than I do my actual dad. Probably only because I can more easily remember him and who he was. I can remember his heart, and the heart of his home, the kitchen.
Matt, Luigi and me, in the kitchen
Luigi was outrageously generous–with his time, his money, his refrigerator and with his lectures on the many English words that were stolen from Italian.  I truly hope that there’s a fraction of his generosity that shines through me in my daily life, and I’d like this to be a reminder to be deliberately generous when the circumstances arise.
And though it may seem trivial to some, my cooking style and my palette are both heavily influenced by him and that causes me great pride.  Going to Luigi’s house always meant some sort of meal, interesting cheese and home brewed wine.  From the salad dressing to the roasted potatoes, right on down to penne a la vodka–the food prepared by his hand or with his recipe was always delicious.  I never wrote down the recipes, they weren’t meant for pen and paper, they were meant to be interpreted.  Which is how I cook today.
Luigi died in July of 2008, the summer of rainbows.  He faded away, which allowed us to say goodbye over a longer span of time.  Having already lost my dad suddenly in 1993, I had learned to cherish the thoughts and feelings and store the memories away deep in my heart for future recollection.  My memories of Luigi are much more deliberate than the memories I have of my dad.
Luigi, me & my mum, 2006
I often stop to think of Luigi when I don my apron, as I do of my dad when I get a taste of cheddar corn or take a sip of my beer.  I don’t believe they’re in heaven looking down on me.  I believe their souls went on to live somewhere else, but I’ll take the pieces I can remember along with me and share it with anyone that will listen for the rest of my life.   Of course, I make it all sound ideal–and please trust me when I say it wasn’t–I will always strive to remember the fondest throughout my life.   And hopefully, the fondest of my two dads really does live on in me.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my glass of champagne, and dance around my living room to this:

Becoming Mrs. LadyBird Magpie of Parkdale

I definitely don’t want to forget any of this.  Just a bride and a groom and some rings and everyone we know and love.



Where do I even start?  A DIY wedding is a blogger’s fantasy, and I did almost all of it myself, so I should have lots and lots to share.  Through the exhaustion of the last two weeks, I’ve been trying to find the clarity and the words, trying to find anything to write about, and I’m still unsure about what to say…


I thought I would be much more emotional throughout the ceremony.  Like falling over sobbing, with a mascara raccoon nightmare face, but it wasn’t really that bad.  I thought I would get to the part where Gord handed me over to Martin and I would completely lose my shit.  But I didn’t–I had welled to tears enough many times in the weeks prior to the wedding about Gord giving me away.  I cry because I’m happy.  How could I not be?  Everything makes sense, right?  Marrying Martin for starters, and Gord giving me away, and everything leading up to that point.  My life has made 100% sense, and I’m full of so much joy.

On May 11, 2013, I had a bath with a Lush bath bomb, I made our bouquets, I traipsed down the stairs of my Parkdale house of dreams without calling a cab because at this point, I don’t even know HOW to call a cab.  But hailing a cab is pretty tough carrying a suitcase, two bouquets, a crinoline and smoking a stranger’s cigarette.  The neighbour of all neighbours escorted me to the street corner and hailed me a cab.  Put my bags in the trunk and sent me off to the Gladstone.  It really was very very sweet.  He later hauled like 250 lbs of ice up the stairs, and had the time of his life blasting records.  What an awesome dude.


Maid of Honour
The maid’s homemade bouquet
Really awesome homemade bouquet
The Brides homeemade bouquet



My room was at the Gladdy was red, and there was just enough time to doll myself up to the fashion by which I chose to get married.  My red room, my red dress,  and a perfect Parkdale view of the Gladstone Cafe (ha!) and the rug factory in the distance.  I hung my dress in the window for all of Parkdale to see. I prepped and primped and listened to old reggae and my escorts arrived on cue, and I got to show off my crinoline for the very first time. And no, that’s not a euphemism.

 
Red Curtains
Red Curtains in the Gladstone Room #303
TTC at the Gladstone
Outside the Gladstone

We drank champagne and put feathers in our hair and descended down a beautiful three flights of stairs to the Gladstone lobby. I guess whenever I imagined my wedding the two things that were always consistent–I was always coming downstairs and there was always music.  As a child, I used to stand at the top of our stairs and have my mother call “Andrea Peattie, come on down”, as though I was headed to contestants row on the Price is Right.  No contestants row on May 11, though, just a groom and some rings and everyone we know and love. and the last time I’ll ever descend anything as an unmarried lady.  Just Andrea Peattie, for the very last time.

 


Smoking Bride, vintage red dress
$12.99, just slightly more than my pack of cigarettes


Vintage bride in a taxi
Back of a taxi, heading away from the sunset
My Handsome Groom awaits

I never want to forget, sitting in the judge’s office, singing with my dudes, and my best gal.  It was one of the most special moments of my life.  The sweet harmonies, Vigoda’s soft strums and some super slow tempoed soul.  This all sung volumes to me about the man I was going to marry.  They love me, and they love Martin.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  


They led me, and serenaded us into our marriage.  And while I really wish my dad and Luigi could’ve been there, it didn’t really matter, because I knew they would be so happy, and they would love Martin too.  Samson-esque locks and all!.  

The words of the ceremony didn’t even occur to me at the time—and I really don’t even know what the JP said.  He asked about vows and readings just prior to the ceremony and I told him to say whatever he wanted, just don’t say anything about God.  What I do know is that I meant what I said to Martin and I know Martin meant what he said to me and we’re never going to stop meaning it.

  ……..I will.  So will he.  The end and also the beginning.  Presenting Mr. and Mrs. McWaters.


There are about 1000 things that I wanted to say to Martin the night we got married, and by the time that I got to him, I didn’t have to say anything.  Everything just makes sense for us.  And we are head over heels in love to boot.  

When I first started dating Martin, he had stayed over on a Saturday night, and we went for brunch at Mezzrows, then walked along King back to my former PD house of dreams.  We lollygagged up the stairs, sat down on the futon and played Tony Hawk on the PS2.  We were having some snacks (naturally) and I turned and looked at him and said…”Does this feel normal to you?”  He said “yep” and we went back to playing our video game.  


Here we are now, tonight, on the couch, and he’s playing a video game while I write.  The snacks will be out soon, I’m sure.  Guess what?  This is absolutely-one-hundred-fucking–percent-no-doubt-in-my-mind “normal”.  And so my first reflection (yes there are more to come), upon being wed, is this:  I got married and I don’t feel any different.  Not even in the slightest.  And as you can see on my face, I am thrilled.



****Special thanks for the photos:  AJ, Lisa Dee, Alex in Wasaga, & Maureen & Alan.  

Oh, Toronto! I love you!

Some memories from the last 7 years.  Photos taken by me, or people that I know.
Tippy, Velma and a Jedi, Hallowe’en 2006
Some friendlies at the Garrison, Parkdale Vigoda’s album release
Streets of the Dale
Celebrating together, posed by Parker.
Saturday High Tea
Potato Chips, Sour Cream, Katrin, my Kindred, and my Zee.
Now, where’s my smokes.
Too cool for school in Parkdale
Emily Weedon Wednesday @ the Cameron back in 2007
Delay’s birthday at the Cock and Tail
Salvador
The Dakotah
Me and Shark Week at the Bovine.
Butter Turkey Thanksgiving, photo by Marilee
HKTM II
My love on Grace
My favourite place in Toronto, outside of Parkdale

Mostly Marigolds

This last year has passed by faster than I could’ve ever imagined.  She walks now.  She talks now.  She has opinions now.  She needs to express herself now.  Holy crap, she is 2 years old!
Each day that passes, I don’t think it’s possible to love her anymore than I already do, and then tomorrow comes, and my love is even stronger.  I am still amazed that I have been blessed by this universe with such a beautiful child, and I get to keep her.  Marigold is indeed very, very special.  She is mine, all mine.
If you had asked me about having children as little as 5 years ago, I would’ve laughed in your face at the thought. And now…I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.  
Happy Birthday, my little Miss Marigold.  You are a true treasure and you bring me so much joy.  
Learning to walk on her first birthday
Mother’s Day

Marigold’s first leaf pile
Working hard at her new easel


My mummy cuts my hair!!
Family Day Snuggles with Daddy

I Have Never Loved this Much

Over the last few days, I have felt this incredible need to write. There are so many things running through my mind, so many things to do, trying to stay organized and trying not to forget anything….

Plus One!

Our birth story is a great success, and I’m incredibly happy and thankful for how everything went.

I was about 9 days overdue, and didn’t sleep much Saturday night. I got out of bed early on Sunday morning and ran a bath. I was getting pretty frustrated and didn’t want to have to be induced. I got into the tub with the novel I’m reading.

Martin and I had decided on the name Marigold a long time ago–maybe even before I was pregnant. Strangely enough, my book introduces a new minor character (a makeup artist for a wedding) and her name is MARIGOLD!! No joke, moments later in the tub, my contractions started. That was somewhere between 7am and 8am. I got out of the tub and told Martin that he should probably get up. The contractions began at about 7 minutes apart and quickly progressed to 5 minutes apart.

It was the worst pain of my life. I was throwing up and felt pretty bad. I had expected that when labour started, I would have time in between contractions where the pain was gone, but what no one really told me was that the pain DOESN’T stop in between contractions. It still feels pretty awful (like bad period cramps) but the contractions were insanely painful. I thought I would have time to tidy up before I left the house and pack a few last minute things in my bag. Not so much–at that point I didn’t care about anything other than the pain.

Martin made a call to the doctor who promptly called back and asked if we had got the message she left earlier. Apparently there was some availability at the hospital for me to be induced and she had scheduled me in. Fortunately, I didn’t need it. She told us to go ahead to the hospital, so Martin called a cab while I got dressed.

When the taxi arrived, Martin brought our bags out and told the driver that I was in labour. We were lucky he was still willing to take us. He drove us quickly to the hospital (taking the exact route which I would’ve taken which makes me happy). I went right to triage where they monitored my contractions and the baby’s heartbeat. The admitting nurse told me that it only gets worse and I promised her I would never do this again. Then I asked for an epidural.

The resident doctor, Dr. Scott came in to check where I was at and I was about 3 centimeters dialated. They got an IV in and moved me to a delievery room. The delivery rooms at Mount Sinai are amazing. It was about the size of our kitchen with it’s own bathroom and beautiful tub and shower. Shortly thereafter, the needle guy showed up to put a big needle in my back (epidural). Once he had the catheter in, I had to wait about 15 minutes to see if it was actually working. He admitted that he wasn’t sure if it was in properly, and the only way to tell would be to wait to see if I was still in pain.

Turns out the needle didn’t go in far enough so they had to do it again. Another needle man came with an ultrasound and the two of them worked out where it should go. 15 minutes later I was a completely different person.

Prior to the epidural, I had mentally “checked out” and could only really respond to questions that were being asked of me. I couldn’t even look at Martin. He was being so supportive and talking me through the contractions but I couldn’t make eye contact because of the fucking blinding pain.

The actions that helped best while I was in pain was slowing down my breathing, taking very deep breaths and then when I needed to moan, low/deep moans really helped get through the contraction. Martin also applied counter pressure during a contraction where he squeezed my hips and that really aided with the pain.

The epidural wasn’t painful, though the docs warned me that it would be. I didn’t feel the needle at all–I guess they don’t realize that in comparison to the contractions, the needle paled.

Once the epidual kicked in, I was a completely new woman. I was able to talk and laugh. I even got out my makeup case and put a little makeup on. I wanted to look good for this baby. It was nice spending time with Martin and talking to the nurses. The nurses said the contractions were mild to moderate, which I found puzzling since there is no way they could’ve been any worse in my opinion.

At around 1:30 Dr. Scott came in to break my water and check how far along I was. She was surprised to find out that I was about 7 centi….no, wait…..9 centimeters dialated! This was all happening very very fast. They thought I was going to go quickly, but were surprised at the progress.

It was time to call my OB and get her to the hospital. I was just about ready to push, so all I had to do was wait for the doctor to arrive. It was really nice, because Martin and I got to spend our last few moments alone together. It was really rather romantic.

I would recommend that anyone giving birth has an epidural if possible. Don’t be a hero, Martin says. It made the labour process enjoyable for me and for him, and we really got to take the time to get excited about the impending baby.

There were some minor complications–as the baby’s heart rate kept dropping, which was likely due to the head pressing against my cervix. Rolling from side to side and a little tickle on the baby’s head by the doctor helped that. Also, my contractions were not coming regularly and were still only mild to moderate so they gave me some pitocin to pick up the contractions. I was only on it for like a second, and it did the trick…

Anyways, around 3:42, my doctor advised me to push. Martin was instrumental in getting this baby out. He was very actively involved in helping me hold my breath, my legs and my head while I pushed my heart out. About half way through pushing, my doctor, Karlinsky, asked for my hand and she made me feel the baby’s head down below. I couldn’t believe how fast it was all happening!! Moments later, at 4:08, a baby squeezed it’s way out and landed on my belly (well, the doctors put her there). I had to ask what it was, and when they told me it was a girl I was sooooooo surprised. Almost everyone thought it was going to be a boy!

Martin cut the cord and the rest is history….or rather, our future.

Our baby, Marigold Charlotte was born happy and healthy. I only needed one stitch, and the labour and delivery was like a gift from the universe. I know that almost no one has a simple labour like mine, so I am VERY thankful. The whole process was a lot easier than I expected it to be, and I felt as though I could deliver a baby again the next day.

I used to talk about having 7 kids so that it was always an instant party, and sometimes I think I only want just one because I like Marigold so much. She looks exactly like Martin’s Sister, Kyla, when she was born, so most of her looks are McWaters. However, sometimes, you can see a deep dimple in her right cheek and that she gets from her Mamabird.

Everyone always talks about how you find a love for the child that you never knew existed. I knew I would love the baby, but I thought it would change our relationship. I was worried that Martin would love the baby more than me, that I would no longer be attractive to him and that we would grow apart because of the stress and frustration and lack of sleep that comes with a newborn.

I know it’s only been 6 days since she was born, but she has brought us closer together. My love for Martin has increased exponentially (and I was REALLY in love before) and I love the feeling of building a family. We amaze each other everyday with the love and support we provide to one another, and with the way we interact with Marigold. We really love our little baby, and in turn it makes us love each other more.

Sometimes life doesn’t always deal you the best hands, but I truly believe that people are in control of their own destinies. You get what you are given, but you are responsible for what you make of it. I feel as though the universe is constantly rewarding me with amazing things that I never dreamed of. I am so lucky to have this village of support around me to help raise this little baby and to make her into an awesome person who will do good things and make people feel amazing.

I love my life.

Many Happy Returns

I got some great rewards this week….I feel great about this Moana account. I really feel like they’re strongly prepared for this go live. I think this is one of the most robust implementations yet. I’m also ecstatic about the fact that we were able to surpass the expectation of an existing customer. I worked really hard this week and it was absolutely worth it. And at the end of it all, on top of those amazing feelings of accomplishment, I come home to this absolutely amazing gem of a life.

10 years ago I never would’ve ever have thought like this, but I feel like I’m a living magnet of awesome. I have the pleasure of having really awesome energy surround me, I get to meet awesome people all the time, and my friends are outlandishly awesome, I have a super awesome job with really really awesome customers, I love what I do, I like my boss, who is also awesome, I love all my coworkers and think they are amazingly awesome, I have the BEST cats who are also awesome, I have an awesome apartment in an awesome location, I get to eat awesome food, I get to sleep in an awesome bed with awesome sheets and share my life with the absolute, hands down most rock n’ roll, super cool, ridiculously handsome, hilarious and attentive and awesome partner anyone could ever have.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, that things DO get paid forward. Thank you Universe. Nothing is easy and you have to work really hard to reap the rewards this life has to offer. I’ve found the things I love, and I’m just going to do more of them. Awesome.

I don’t know if that’s your leg or if it’s mine…

I’m trying to use as many outlets as possible to remember things. I guess I have a fear, because I seem to forget EVERYTHING, but it’s scary to forget.

I’m carrying a notebook. I’m writing things down. I’m taking pictures. I’m drawing pictures.

But it’s too late now, because the thing I want to remember most I’ve already started to forget….I wasn’t writing it down, I wasn’t taking pictures, and I’ll soon lose almost all of it. I don’t want to be left with just a few memories of the last 13 years of my life. Now I wish that we would’ve stayed longer at the Sunday afternoon lunches that we were so desperate to escape.

It’s amazing to me that I can be generous with everything else in my life, but not my time. I love to give, but the minute it interferes with my time I’m so very hesitant. I guess that’s something I need to work on.

I hate the feeling of scrambling. Of the last minute rush. I can’t do anything now. I can’t take pictures, this is not what I want to remember. I want to remember the birds, and the trees in his garden, him yelling at my mom, his cooking advice. I want to remember him and Matt together. I want to remember the lawnmower. I want to remember his beard from years ago.

It horrible to say goodbye over and over again. It’s also horrible to not say goodbye. I really can’t say which is worse. And I feel so alone. I know there are so many of my dear dear friends that are around me to support me and help me through this, but the one person that would really understand is so far away. I wouldn’t feel alone if he was here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydtDhqowDSs

And my poor mother. The thought of losing two people that I loved makes me sick. I feel terrible for her. How is she ever going to get over this?

May 12, 2008

This is all because I don’t want to forget any of this.
I come home at night and get into bed with cookies, a bowl of pasta, or even sausages with perogies (and, no, that’s not a euphemism for something, even though it may sound that way). And yes, this is the part I want to remember. I want to remember that I have the best life. I don’t have to worry about crumbs in the bed, because, well, who cares? It’s my bed and they’re my crumbs!

I popped over to Alex’s place tonight for a quick visit, and we ended up down at the Cloak to meet two of our other friends. The first has such a way of making you feel special and important. She’s everything you would want in a sister. She’s smart, and funny, has great style, and she really adds life to any place at any time. The second is so meek, yet evil at the same time and he has such a way of telling stories that you could listen to him talk for hours. He also has the BEST beard in all of Toronto.

Of course I was looking for Jack, are you kidding me? I’m always looking.

Alex and I spent some time discussing my new motus operandi. Which is a new device called the “DateRapeTaserShoe”. You use your foot to taser your prey, and then you lead them out of the bar to get them to “safety”. No, that’s not really my m.o. I’m actually scared to write it, because if I write it, I’ll have to stick with it. Let’s give it a couple more days to see what happens. I’m doing well so far.

And now, the whole reason I’m writing tonight, and always, but especially tonight. I don’t want to forget how I’m feeling. My dear friend is moving from the house he has lived in for over 4 years. I’m so very sad that I can’t say a proper goodbye. It has always been important to me to say goodbye to the places I’ve lived. I want to say goodbye to the place where I’d stumble to drunk in the middle of the night. To the place where I left chocolates and brought balloons. To the place where I danced drunk after an Easter Egg hunt. To the place I called home. To the place where my heart was broken over and over again yet where I felt safe and happy. To the place where I was loved. The last place I was loved.

I know that I never lived there and that all of these things have nothing to do with 30 Roxton Road , but rather the person that lived there. It was him that made me feel those things and made those things happen. I’m sure in the future, he will be a part of my life, even if just vaguely….but for now I need to say goodbye. He’s not going far, he’s actually moving closer, but I’m no longer chasing things I cannot get. It’s a fruitless and heartbreaking effort. And frankly, I’ve had enough of that.