Sunglasses at night

So I says to Mabel I says: Going to work in the dark and leaving work in the dark is definitely a bit crap. 

I find myself heading out at lunch time, just to breathe some fresh air, (fresh life!) into my lungs and bask in the limited-time-only daylight that seems to be available only between the hours of ten in the morning until two in the afternoon.

Working within this time frame makes me thing that whoever in charge of allotting Vancouver’s daily sunlight ration must also be affiliated with the Swiss consulate (as they seem to keep the same hours.)

It’s quite a trip looking out the window as I exit my office building and see the moon, shining down on myself and all the other commuters at 4:26 in the afternoon.  It makes me want to yell out: “JUST BECAUSE I LIKE THEM, DOESN’T MEAN I EVER AGREED TO LIVING INSIDE A PHILLIP K. DICK NOVEL!!!”

COME ON.

(Or Heinlein, or Asimov, or Herbert, or – okay hopefully you get my drift).

That tiny dot on the left? THE MOON! At 4:30pm!

The one plus to this perpetual darkness?  The view walking to transit in the morning can be utterly breathtaking.  The sky is engulfed by a brilliant mosaic of blues, and greens and oranges and purples – like the most beautiful bruise you have ever seen – and Mount Baker stands stark, back lit, like an American Mount Doom, looming in the foreground.

One view to rule them all.  One view to find them.

[Please sir – may I be an elf?]

Okay, in all honesty I really shouldn’t gripe.

There is something almost romantic to getting up, and getting out, in the early a.m.

The world is quiet, still.

Because it is so early, each person who is up, are themselves quiet.  Although they move, they exude, are even defined by, a pristine stillness, becalmed by the early hour.

We are awake, but are still, very slowly coming alive – stretching our arms, wiping away the sleepy cobwebs in tandem with the molasses-slow sunrise as it heralds the official break of day.

Standing on the metro platform, our breath is a thick fog that hangs suspended in the morning chill; no one talks, no one looks at each other.

We are like living statues, meditating on the start of the day (or perhaps just counting down the minutes until hot java will surge through our system and jolt our brains into activity.)

This sunrise took my breath away (sorry for bad quality!)

I actually don’t understand those who prefer waking up later and therefore staying at work later – why would anyone want to leave work at a time when it doesn’t just look like night, it actually is night time?

Blargh.

Even if the daylight has faded, I would prefer to have the afternoon and evening to myself – go to the gym, prepare dinner, read, spend time with my husband and cat, go for a walk, watch a movie – all in the same night if need be.

I can’t imagine accomplishing any of these things, let along all of them, if I was leaving work after eight o’clock at night.

Plus I really hate doing laundry anytime after seven o’clock – eight MAYBE if I’m really pushing it..  I get this crazy anxiety that the clothes won’t have time to dry properly and everything will end up moldy and smelling like the boot bin at one of the Annapolis valley Frenchies.

(a.k.a. THE WORST EVER.)

Also, I am paranoid about the neighbours having a conniption about the late hour of these washing exploits.

Having worked shift work for two years, I am familiar with very early mornings and very late nights (that I suppose should also be classified as early mornings.)  I know about sleepiness on both ends of the tired spectrum and I promise you, that if I was forced to chose between the two, I would pick early mornings ten times out of ten.

So Mr. Morning Sauron! Bring on the 6 a.m. starts!

I’ll name my first child little Vanilla Bean Gamgee  if need be.

…

One odd duck

Hey Kids!  In lieu of the regular Friday Fry-up, I have a little something different planned.

Now, before I get into the crux of the matter, I feel as though I need to explain myself.

I, contrary to past (and current) posts, am not a completely deranged animal-cum-water fowl fiend.  I just happen to suffer from some kind of faulty construction (birth defect?)  in so far as I incapable of stopping myself from becoming momentarily paralyzed every time I am found in the presence of these beings.

Seriously, I almost start crying every time I read an article on polar bears.  (DAMN YOU COCA COLA!)

What can I say?

I also just really, really like ducks.

Like, a lot.

So it pretty much makes my day, but also sort-of takes my breath away and makes me tear up a bit every time I walk into the lobby of my office building and see this:

I’m trying to figure out how to 1.) get one of the geese up the elevator and into my office and 2.) jerry-rig the electronics so it will still be able to move and not, you know, blow my place sky high.

But nere you worry – I’m working on it.

Man, is it just me or is it that any way you slice the mandarin orange these days, things are looking pretty darn festive?

I don’t know if the daily increased swelling I experience in my chest is due to 1.) the holiday spirit 2.) the daily inclusion of mechanized ducks from an old Woodward’s window display 3.) angina or 4.) all of the above.

Two nights ago I was speaking with my sister on the phone and we were laughing (nay cackling) about an incident that occurred a couple of Christmas’ ago that concerned her, a Christmas-cracker hat, and a bowl of bran buds cereal.

It is definitely one of our favourites and a total go-to memory when we are in need of a good laugh-until-you-cry moment.

So do it I shall.

Cry tears of happiness.

Throw me a bone here

Tonight I went to the gym and ran and crunched and pumped and chinned and ran some more.

I am trying to drink more water both outside of, and during my workouts because my lips currently feel as though they have taken up house somewhere smack dab in the middle of the Sahara.

If I really tried (and well, lost all sense of social decorum – or more importantly, of right and wrong) I could probably give myself a pedicure using only my mouth.

Anywho, it was during one of my many trips to the bathroom to drink water from the sink (I keep forgetting water bottles and as I was saying before, my gym leaves something to be desired both aesthetics and amenities-wise.  ie) no available water fountain.  Seriously, it’s amazing there is even a functional plumbing system in the change rooms and that we’re not forced to drink the rusty water droplets as they leak from the overhead pipes) that I noticed that outside, tied up on the deck was one of the cutest, most forlorn doggies I have ever espied.

I walked over to the window and there he was, lying on the cold hard concrete.  I crouched down to get a better look at the fella (I don’t actually know for sure if the dog was of the XY persuasion – I am one of those strange individuals who assumes that all dogs are male and all cats are female, while holding absolutely zero preconceptions about the sexes of all other animals) and as I folded myself into a squat, he looked at me and actually sighed.

He sighed!!!

Like an old man, leaning back in his rocker, eyeing his pipe that has recently gone cold, pondering whether or not he should refill the bowl with his favourite tobacco, or whether or not there is ample lighter fluid in his zippo, or perhaps how he got that small hole in the top corner of his right slipper – THE DOG SIGHED.

I sighed back.

He then looked at me – a stare that was both long and hard, almost pleading – before yawning a big, darn-right terrific yawn (a yawn like how the lions yawn in national geographic photos or PBS documentaries) before turning away and resting his chin on his front paws.

The word yawn has lost all meaning to me now.

But I digress.

The lonely and abject dejection in his eyes, combined with the fact that he actually just exhaled as if to say – PEOPLE AM I RITE? – pretty much broke my heart in half.

Plus, anyone who is operating on the West Coast of Canada (WCOC or Wuhcock if you will) these days knows that the temperatures have been anything BUT temperate.

It’s colder than Frosty’s carrot stick out there.

Who could do that to their pet?  Tie them up outside, alone in the freezing night air.

Cripes, can you imagine what the whole scenario must look like from the eyes of this canine?  You head inside and proceed to run on a machine that goes nowhere.  Then you repeatedly lift what can only be rubber, over-sized chew toys.  Then you frig around on your back for a bit, contorting yourself into the positions that the cat tends to sleep in- but only when she’s really, really exhausted.

That dog probably wasn’t just tired and sad.

He was probably thinking to himself: “Shit.  What an asshole.”

And let me tell you, he wasn’t the only one.

People who don’t exercise with their pets when it’s a viable option – I’m not purporting that people should run marathons with their super old doggies or Chihuahuas,  but within the acceptable limits – don’t deserve to have the pet in the first place.

Take responsibility and do the right thing.  Spend that time with your dog – they are not the only one who will benefit from the activity!

For example, tonight, in spite the cold, it was actually a super lovely evening.  The jerk owner could have gone for a nice long walk with Mr. Pooch, enjoyed the crisp, invigorating air, got some quality bonding time in, and if they still felt the need to feel the burn, could have gone to the gym after having dropped their dog off back home.

It’s the humane thing to do.

So all you pet owners out there, I have one piece of advice:

HEY – BE A MAN.  DO THE RIGHT THING!

Oh and bring a water bottle to the gym.  Drinking straight out of the tap is for the dogs.

…

Cylon? You mean the robot or the tea?

Double fire!

Hey dudes.  I really hope that wherever you are, you are warm and snuggly.

Please, cozy up to a double fire, pour yourself a hot toddy, and enjoy not doing whatever it is you are supposed to be doing.

Because goodness knows, after this week, I think we all could do with some quality relaxation.

AND FIRE.

You’re a virgin who can’t drive

Hey Kids,

It’s once again time for the Friday Fry-up.  First on the docket, THIS DRESS:

OMG.

At the beginning of the week I wrote about the walk M and I took last weekend, post-vote.  As we strolled along Columbia Street, bundled up in our warmest warms to protect us from the new winter frost, we window-shopped at the many boutiques and store fronts.

Now, anyone who has ever walked the length of the Columbia waterfront knows that it is otherwise known as Wedding Dress Central or “WDHQ”.  The many shops range from incredibly high end, to give or take a box of triscuits, two Andrew Alberts hockey cards and a napkin IOU and well, you’ve got yourself an outfit fit to be wed.

It was outside one of the latter that I we espied the dress to the left, which in itself isn’t a huge tragedy here.

I look at it more as a sociological experiment.

Specifically, I need to know at what marriage ceremony is this appropriate dress FOR ANYONE IN THE BRIDAL PARTY?  IF THIS IS FOR THE BRIDESMAIDS, WHAT PRAY TELL WILL THE BRIDE BE WEARING? And where is it taking place so I can be there?  Hell, I’ll wear the thing just so I can witness, not only the exchange of vows, but what I like to imagine would be the most epic fashion statement of the year.  Nay decade.

Century?

Paging M. Antoinette, you’re in for a fight.  Plus, these people (wherever they are) not only let them eat cake but look damn sharp (or at least blinding) in the process.

NEXT!

Speaking of weddings, if I were to tie the knot again, this would be my choice of dress for the festivities:

I DO!

For all intents and purposes, a “Banana Republic” carries overarching negative connotations (at least for me) so I always feel a little off-put even checking out their window displays, but heck if I wouldn’t rock this frock while re-affirming my fidelity and troth.

(Oh who am I kidding?  I would have bought this dress in a Finnish flash if the proper funds had only been in place.  And yes, that was a direct reference to my other husband, one Teemu Selanne.)

Yet alas, at present, I am on a strict “try-don’t-buy” clothing diet.  This can be exceedingly hard in so far as I work downtown – a place where, at any given time, the number of beautiful outfits on display can be, to put it mildly, five chillies (or, you know, HIGH.)

So I’ve become something of a roving try-er on-er.  I’m hesitant to enter any one store too often, lest I be blackballed as the persistent jerk that shows up and refuses to purchase anything, ever.

Also, there are specific stores that I just know not to enter, due to the fact that 1) they have the prettiest clothes – clothes that make my knees weak and palms sweaty; 2) the amount of sweet cash dollars required to buy these beautiful pieces are, in the parlance of Cher Horowitz, way expensive – WAY expensive; and 3) because I’m so in love with the clothes I try on I’ve started taking photos of myself in the outfits for posterity sake.

YIKES.

Exibit B (exhibit A can be seen above):

Help me. Please.

To the shop keeps, I am not only a frugal spazz, but a snap-happy, narcissistic  counterfeiter!

ONLY SOME OF THAT DESCRIPTION IS TRUE SO DON’T JUDGE.

Even though I would gladly live forever in some of those outfits, I will freely admit that having a roof over my head is more preferable to spending six months in the rain wearing nothing but a lace dress and superhero heels.

But only marginally.

On a deeper lever, this whole endeavor has also got me thinking about how we price clothing.  What differentiates a one hundred dollar dress from one that costs two hundred?  Or one that costs two thousand?  Can the untrained eye actually tell the difference between the two?

Walk through Holt Renfrew and you can see shoes that are priced at three thousand dollars.  THREE THOUSAND.  Trousers for seven hundred; dresses for seven thousand.

I won’t deny that many of these pieces are incredible (on the mannequins at least – I don’t have the nerve or guts to pull my shenanigans in H.F.  I’m too afraid of a public stoning, or the inevitable pre-requisite credit check.  Plus, in third year of my undergrad, whilst in search of a beautiful dress to wear for my first date with the opera, a security guard followed me around from the moment I entered the store, to the moment I left.)

Our society is stratified in so many areas.  The fact that human beings make judgements based on aesthetics is true, and serves to make hard edges all the harder.

Plus I cannot help but wonder: what is the percentage of the cost of a piece of clothing that goes toward those involved in the actual construction of the garment?  Who is benefiting from a $20,000 coat?

How much was someone paid for that $15 dollar t-shirt?

In trust, as much as I love beautiful clothing, I cannot help becoming more aware of how darn exploitative the entire industry is, and will undoubtedly continue to be.

So while yes, I’m not buying clothes because I inherently lack the proper funding. I am also abstaining because when I do finally purchase something, I want to feel good – not only for how I feel wearing it, but from knowing where it came from.

I am working on it.

I am making it work.