PS: It’s Marty’s Birthday Today

The birthday boy, high atop a tower in his homeland (Czech Republic)

LONG BACKSTORY FOR CONTEXT:

I am certain that I’m not the only person who sets Arbitrary Rules to Live By and then panics if any one of those rules is ever violated. I have policies regarding when to use my debit card vs. my credit card, lists of foods that are appropriate to serve to dinner guests (and longer lists re: what not to serve, EVER!), and a detailed mental flow chart of acceptable conversation topics to use with family members, friends, and perfect strangers.

These rules have not been written in stone by any means (hence the title: arbitrary), but I can’t help feeling a flutter in my tummy every time I whip out my Visa instead of my bank card or commit the unthinkable act and serve my guests hummus. (I love garlic, but will they?) I won’t even mention the awkward conversation I once had with a professor about Blackberries. He was talking about the latest technological gadget… but I was fixated on those delicious, juicy fruits. I should have remembered to never engage in tech talk with my intellectual superiors.

Pretending we were on our honeymoon in Alaska (2004), much to the delight and cooing of the other passengers on board the Lu-Lu Belle. We had been dating for all of 7 months but felt very much like we were in a honeymoon phase.

Anyway. One of my most steadfast rules growing up was the 8 Year Rule. I decreed to myself that I would never date anybody more than 8 years older than me, specifically because that would make my beau closer to my mom’s age than to mine. I felt that it would be very awkward and possibly gross/wrong to date somebody in my mom and dad’s league, so I stuck to this rule like gum sticks to shoes. (If you are confused by the math, remember that I am the product of teen parents– my mom was 16 years old when she gave birth to me.)

Funnily enough, Marty also had an Arbitrary, Age-Related Rule for potential partners. His rule wasn’t based on the immutable age difference between himself and his parents, though– nope. Instead, after ending a long-term relationship with a woman who was 29 years old according to the calendar (but maybe 18 years old on the maturity scale), he decided that he would Never Again Date Anybody Younger Than 29.

Well.

The night that Marty and I met each other, we started falling in deep, crazy love before we even knew the most basic information about each other. Like whether Marty was old enough to be my dad. We were marveling at just how amazing the other person was– “He’s a vegetarian, too? Is this heaven??“; “She usually does something new-agey to mark every Solstice and Equinox? Is she an angel??“– and then I totally ruined the moment by asking Marty his age.

[insert 80s-style screeching of a needle on a spinning record]

He whispered that he was 32. What?! 8 Year Rule: Violated by 2 whole years! (2 and a half years when you factored in his winter birthday and my summer one.)

I felt like I had been punched in the gut and again in the head. Could I possibly date somebody who was an entire decade older than me, even if he was a Complete and Total Marvel, the very embodiment of Heaven on Earth?

... not as old as the tree, for sure.

Taking advantage of the sour-feeling that was now lingering slightly in the air, Marty decided to ask me my age. For those of you who are not math-inclined and didn’t already figure it out, I was 22. Say what?! ‘Must Be 29+ Years Old To Ride’ Rule: Violated by a whopping 7 years!

I think we both panicked a little (breaking rules is bad and carries scary consequences!), but fortunately, our blossoming love flower was already planted too deeply for our flagrant age violations to matter very much. We resumed our sickening admiration of each other and have continued to fawn over each other to this day. (Marty’s mom groans to her friends that we stare at each other like we are exquisite, fine art masterpieces, and my mom usually asks me, “Do you still pet Marty like a puppy?” when we talk on the phone. The answer is always ‘yes’. Of course I still do.)

Long Beach is for lovers!

Aaaannnyway…. Our 10-year age difference might have been more shocking when I was a fresh 22 and Marty was a more seasoned 32. However, time has passed and it doesn’t seem so crazy to be dating a 40-something man in my 30s. Marty turns 41 today, and I’m so glad I was a badass rule disobeyer back in the day and gave our relationship a chance! After all, Arbitrary Rules were made to be broken, right? (Even if it does mean my husband and both my parents are all in their 40s for now. Ahem.)

Join me in wishing Marty a Happy 41st, dear readers!

Epic Snow Day Dates, Bachelor-Style

I have many endearing qualities, but the fact that I watch The Bachelor is not one of them. Marty and I watch it together, scoffing at its ridiculousness and over-the-top cheesiness the whole way through. If somebody were to spy on our Bachelor-watching sessions, more often than not they would hear exasperated “Oh, please!“s and “Yeah right, give me a break!“s. But we don’t stop watching it. We tune in devotedly every Monday night and take a 2-hour break from reality. (After all, that’s what Reality TV is for… right?)

What? You don't wear a bikini and tube socks when *you* go skiing?

We are still fairly new to the whole Bachelor scene (I promise), but already it’s apparent that the producers of the show recycle Amazing Date ideas from season to season. Inevitably, the contestant with a deathly fear of heights is selected to go rappelling off a skyscraper or climbing up the city’s tallest bridge, high above roaring rush-hour traffic; somebody usually gets a private concert from a lame, desperate-for-publicity band; helicopter rides are a regular occurrence (especially for the contestants who are afraid of flying); and one lucky girl or guy always gets a personal fireworks show on their date, while the rest of the contestants view the spectacle morosely from the comforts of their shared, 5-star hotel suite. Promotional considerations supplied by Fairmont Hotels and the all-new 2012 Honda CRV...

Well. I don’t have any private concerts to report, and it’s been a while since Marty arranged us our own, personal fireworks show. However, we did have some outdoor adventures recently, when our lakeside community was walloped with an Epic Amount of Snow. Occasionally I wish we had a video camera so that I could post ludicrous vlogs, like an professionally-edited Bachelor spoof. Alas. We only have a point and shoot camera and some rudimentary knowledge of Photoshop, so you’ll have to endure a storyboard-style recollection of our recent Bachelor-worthy dates. (If you don’t think you can tolerate stilted Bachelor dialogue for the rest of this post, allow me to summarize the plot: It snowed. Marty and I played outside. Yer welcome. Now just enjoy the pictures. Everyone else, get ready for The Bachelor Season 17: Creating Beautiful Magic with Marty M.!)

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Dana: I get to go on a one-on-one date today with Marty, and I’m so excited! The date card said “Let’s get our relationship on the right track”, and I honestly have no idea what that means… Are there any race tracks in the area? God, I hope not! Maybe we’ll be running on the high school track…? I should probably dress sporty.

Marty: I decided to ask Dana on the one-on-one date today, and I’m hoping that I can see a different side of her personality. She seems to be a very serious woman, which is great, but I’m also looking for somebody who can just have fun and who has the ability to laugh at herself. Hopefully, this lighter side of Dana can shine through when it’s just the two of us together. I’m looking forward to it!

Literally right outside the kitchen

Dana: So, Marty comes to pick me up for our date, and he just straps on snowshoes right outside the door! I couldn’t believe it– apparently we’re going snowshoeing! I couldn’t be more excited about this date. Marty brings out aspects of me that I haven’t been in touch with for a very long time, and I’m hopeful that this one-on-one date could be the start of something really special…

The docks were completely frozen over

The Kinsol Trestle, covered in snow

Marty: Today, I’m taking Dana snowshoeing along the old railroad tracks at the lake, and we’ll also take a detour along the historic Kinsol Trestle. The weather couldn’t be more perfect today: we got a ton of snowfall overnight, and the conditions are great for some epic snowshoeing. I can’t wait to see this girl in action!

Action shot! (I know, I make it look easy...)

Dana: Snowshoeing with Marty is so amazing! We have such a great connection together, and being outdoors alongside this beautiful lake– with fresh snow everywhere and no one else around– feels very magical. It’s like we have this Winter Wonderland all to ourselves. What better place to fall in love?

Is that love on the horizon? The vanishing point of my heart?

Marty: I have to say, I’m really impressed with Dana’s ability to snowshoe. She told me that she’s more of a gym rat than an outdoorsy-type woman, but she’s really giving it on those snowshoes! This is a side of her that I haven’t seen before and, I don’t know– it just feels right. We’re laughing and having a good time together– our conversations feel natural and spontaneous. I could easily see myself developing feelings for Dana.

A match made on reality TV...

Dana: Marty is such a wonderful person! Seeing him in his element– outside, being athletic, really opening up and letting his guard down– is so special to me. I could really see myself being with him. We could definitely be on the right track to love! [giddy, lovestruck smile]

Disaster strikes? We'll be back after a short commercial break...

Epic meltdown??

Marty: Everything was going smoothly on this date. I could tell that Dana was feeling more relaxed, and that was great. But then… we came upon a bridge, and Dana confessed that she felt afraid to cross it. There was a freezing river running beneath the bridge, and I could tell that Dana was nervous about falling in. I wanted to let her know that she was safe and that we could face this fear together, but the words escaped me in the moment. So I did the only thing that I could do: I kissed her.

Kinsol Trestle is for lovers!

Dana: [delirious] Kissing Marty… on that bridge… was like a dream. I had been so afraid of falling into the water, but when Marty kissed me, I felt like he was giving me courage. I felt safe! We crossed that bridge together, hand in hand, and if we can get through that, I really think that our relationship can handle anything.

Marty: Facing your fears is a big part of falling in love. You really do have to let your guard down and just trust that everything will be okay in the end. Conquering a fear today brought Dana and I closer together. We really bonded on that bridge, and… I don’t know… I just have the biggest smile on my face right now! I can really see myself being in a relationship with Dana. She’s smart, she’s willing to try new things, and she also looks cute in hand-knit elf hats!

We ended up hiking and snowshoeing about 25km (15.5 miles) over three days during the Epic Snowfall. Then the rain came again and turned everything into gigantic (and gross!) puddles of slush. Not to worry, though– I got a rose and survived another Rose Ceremony. Maybe next week I’ll get to swim with stingrays, descend into a cave, or wander around a private amusement park on my quest to find magical love with Marty M.  

Dr. Obvious Comes to Town

I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, especially when it comes to knowing things that have actual, real-world applications. I can go on and on about mostly useless trivia (god bless Master of Arts degrees), but I always seem to be learning basic things that other people have known since the 1980s… at least.

That said, Dr. Obvious paid a visit to our quiet, lakeside community recently, and I was flabbergasted to discover the following new (to me) facts:

1. It is possible to make vanilla extract at home.

This should not have been news to me, having descended from a woman who insisted on making her own ketchup, curry pastes, bread, and soup stocks. My mom endeavoured to make as much food from scratch as possible when we were growing up, but somehow, the thought that vanilla extract could also be made at home escaped me until very recently. I just assumed it was untouchable.

I use a ton of vanilla in my kitchen. It goes in my oatmeal every morning, flavours my weekly batch of almond milk, and features prominently in any cake or baked good recipe I test out (for scientific purposes only. Obviously.) Each bottle of vanilla extract runs around a hefty $8-$12 from the store, so discovering that I could make a schwack of vanilla extract– easily, by myself, at home, for a fraction of the cost of the store-bought variety– felt like the Secret of Life had been whispered sweetly into my ear. Homemade vanilla extract! Who knew?

Starting the process off by steeping vanilla beans in alcohol

2. Bourbon = Whiskey

The recipe I found online for homemade vanilla extract called for some bourbon. I ventured out to the local liquor store, post-haste, and scanned the aisles for the telltale “Bourbon” sign. None could be found! I saw signs for Wine, B.C. Wine, Beer, Vodka, Liqueurs, and all sorts of other spirits, but the Bourbon sign was conspicuously absent from the lot.

I felt certain that this was not possible– surely liquor stores sell bourbon… and scotch… and beer (at least if that terrible George Thorogood song has any truth to it whatsoever)– so I focused on the shelves more intently, pleading silently with the myriad bottles to point the way to the bourbon without me having to ask a clerk. (A thing you should know about me and liquor stores: I’m not a drinker at all, so I inevitably end up looking like a wide-eyed, probably underage kid whenever I go into one. It doesn’t help that I’m usually wearing a junior high-appropriate backpack. (What? I commute by foot!) I’m a tad self-conscious about my lack of liquor store savvy, so I usually overcompensate and pretend I know exactly what I’m doing as I stroll regally through the aisles. This air of overconfidence, in turn, tends to make liquor store clerks suspicious– like I’m not of legal drinking age and/or trying to steal something. Guess how often I get ID’d at liquor stores? Almost every single time. Showing my ID isn’t a huge deal, but it’s awkward and embarrassing to know that the only reason I’m getting carded in the first place is because I’ve acted like a total freak.)

Anyway: bourbon. I lingered in certain sections of the liquor store, trying to locate a godforsaken bottle of bourbon. I knew it wasn’t vodka. I knew it wasn’t wine. Finally, I stumbled into the whiskey section and noted with confusion that there were bottles of scotch, rye, and Irish whiskeys there. Another awkward minute passed, and thankfully, I happened to read the blessed words “bourbon” on a bottle of Jim Beam. Yes! Bourbon!! I snatched it up (in retrospect, a little too swiftly) and then was promptly asked to show my ID to the clerk at the till. Next time I’ll know: bourbon IS whiskey. I might even escape the dreaded ID check– Thank you, Dr. Obvious!

Bless you, Mr. Beam

3. Vanilla is a ‘bean’ in the ‘green’, ‘yellow’, or ‘string’ sense of the term, not in the ‘mung’ or ‘kidney’ sense.

I felt so mature bringing home a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. I win liquor store shopping! I laid it out on the kitchen counter when I got home, along with a clean jar and several vanilla pods.

The recipe calls for a ratio of 4 vanilla beans to 1 cup of bourbon, so I gleefully laid out three long vanilla pods and sliced them open lengthwise, fully expecting tiny “beans”– many more than four of them– to spill forth.

Um….

Vanilla pods are not like pea pods. No spherical pearls of sumptuous vanilla roll out of vanilla pods. For future reference: the long black pods are vanilla beans. Inside the pods, there are only sticky, smaller-than-poppy-seed grits. If you decide to make your own vanilla extract, use four long pods in every one cup of bourbon. (And, on that note, try to buy the vanilla pods in bulk. I bought my first few individually from Planet Organic and ended up paying more for 3 measly beans than I did for approximately 10 beans in bulk from Mountain Rose Herbs. Lessons learned, Dr. Obvious– lessons learned!)

The difference between beans and seeds is duly noted

4. “Bourbon” Vanilla Extract can actually be made with vodka.

Be honest: you see a bottle of “Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Extract” at the store and automatically assume it was made with bourbon whiskey. I did, too! Alas, it was only after I purchased a gigantic bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon that I read more about vanilla extract online. Turns out that the “bourbon” part actually refers to the type of vanilla bean that is used, not the alcohol itself. There are “Tahitian” and “Bourbon” types of vanilla beans, and just about any ol’ alcohol can be used as a base to make your own extract. Just don’t use beer. I think that would be nasty.

I saw several people writing online that they’ve found vodka to be the best when making vanilla extract at home. (Apparently it is one of the most tasteless alcohols around and really allows the vanilla flavour to punch through.) I will happily attempt my own extract with vodka after I’ve guzzled down a whole liter of bourbon-based vanilla extract, but that could take a while… In the meantime, I’m waiting for my Jim Beam-based extract to mature and will definitely report back once I finally crack open the jar.

One week of sitting, with original Jim Beam bottle on left side for comparison

Two weeks of sitting... only six more weeks to wait!

To Make Your Own Vanilla Extract at Home:

1. Use a ratio of 4 vanilla beans (aka pods, not non-existent pearl-seeds!) to 1 cup of alcohol (bourbon or vodka, though others have reported delicious-tasting vanilla extract with a bottle of Jack Daniels)

2. Slice beans lengthwise and place into clean jar with alcohol.

3. Wait.

4. Gently shake your vanilla brew every couple of days.

5. Use as you would store-bought vanilla extract after 8 weeks of waiting. Patience is a virtue, my friends.

6. Marvel at all the money you saved, simply by putting vanilla beans in a jar with regular ol’ alcohol.

7. Thank Dr. Obvious for coming to town!

I started off with a modest 3/4 cup of alcohol and 3 vanilla beans, partly because I wanted to test this recipe out before making a gallon of it, but mostly because I had only purchased 3 vanilla pods in advance from Planet Organic. I assumed that 3 pods would contain 30+ seeds/beans inside, but I was so wrong. I've since ordered a giant sack of vanilla beans/pods from Mountain Rose Herbs, and I will be adding them to my mostly-full Jim Beam bottle in the next few days.

Distractions

I have several busy days awaiting me to round out the rest of this week. Like a blissful fool, I always picture our winter months involving a whole lotta nothing (except maybe kicking back or sipping on a tropical drink), but there’s always a gigantic To Do List looming and many Important Tasks that demand my undivided attention. This is life. “Time off” isn’t really time off completely… it’s just time off of the Harbour and time to do other, work-related things. Oh well.

The Things I Have To Do This Week are– even from an objective, practical standpoint– pretty important, and they also stand to shape the rest of 2012, for better or worse. (If I complete these tasks well, 2012 could become an exciting, prosperous, and thrilling adventure for Marty and I, but if I complete these tasks not so well…. well…. 2012 will carry on like any other year. It won’t be the end of the world, for sure, but wouldn’t it be fun to have an adventuresome 2012 instead?)

Deadlines are fast approaching, and I’m trying to focus, focus on the tasks at hand. Hocus pocus, focus focus. For the most part, things are getting written and revised, elaborated upon or neatly summarized, and progress is being made. But every now and again, I catch my mind wandering. It thinks about the weather outside or whether I could find any mail in our mailbox. (Should I walk the 2km there to find out?) It focuses on the lake, on the trees, on the sunshine, on the fog, on the squirrels, on the chickadees, and on those nameless water birds that swim right close to the beach. (Should I look them up on the internet?)

A particularly enchanting afternoon at the lake. Everything was candy-tinted and covered in a delicately sweet, marshmallowy mist.

Shamefully, my mind is also wandering even farther away sometimes, into Guilty, Forbidden Territory like reality television and who Ben might end up with on The Bachelor. (Gulp!!) I’m thinking about the afghan I’m knitting and wondering whether I particularly like the colours I’m using. (Why so neutral? What happened to the reds?) But the most common distraction I’m encountering has to do with boots. Tall boots. Red boots. Specifically, these boots:

Oh, John Fluevog-- why must you seize my mostly non-materialistic heart and make it so hellbent on owning your shoes??

I can’t stop thinking about them. I don’t need them, for sure, but I certainly want them. (Did you know you can remove the biker-ish hardware from them and have almost a completely different-looking pair of beautiful, red boots?) A January Sale is on, and I’m constantly debating: should I buy them? Will I love them? Should I reward myself for completing this week’s tasks with an over-the-top pair of delicious, red boots?

My thrift store heart is appalled. My modest bank account is trembling. My distracted, boot-loving brain is foaming at its brain-mouth. MUST HAVE THOSE BOOTS!

I’ve put a moratorium on my boot-buying debate until I can finish what’s ahead of me and approach the issue with a clear(er) head. What do you think? Do you love these boots or do you love them?