Beauty – Page 14 – Rant and Roll

A day for the ducks

This weekend Mr. M and I trekked out to the Reifel Bird Sanctuary, for an afternoon of water fowl and barnyard owls.

(Unfortunately, sightings of our flexible-necked friends were few and far between.)

We did however, espy a few swallows, a couple of herons, many, MANY ducks (mallards and otherwise), and a crap load of other birds I don’t know the names of, because who the heck do I look like people?

Ranger Rick?

Yeesh.

(I kid, I kid. Except not at all about knowing anything about the different species of birds I encountered. About that I seriously do know squat.)

It was a truly gorgeous afternoon – blue skies, brilliant sunshine – although the wind was a little snappish; I could feel each gust of cold sea air nibbling at my ear lobes, nose, my fingertips, and toes.

I was super thankful for my last minute decision to bring my winter coat, but even with the extra layer, I walked around with my arms speckled with gooseflesh (how appropriate for the venue, no?) for the majority of the time we were there.

However, when you’re strolling around a nature reserve, surrounded by hilarious, chirping, feathered creatures, your “problems” are put into perspective pretty darn quickly.

I sometimes have a really hard time visiting places like this because I get so over wrought with need to SAVE ALL THE BIRDS the world over.

(This reaction is much the same to the one I wrote about last week. See: Ethel v. SPCA adoption website.)

It’s also intrinsically tied to the paralysis I undergo every time I take out my recycling and see, once again, that the tone deaf dirt bags that live in my complex have once again placed their recyclables in the bin, in a bloody plastic bag.

For serious, one day someone is going to find my body, dead, splayed about on the ground in front of the blue boxes, empty cans in hand. I will have passed over to the other side from a complete and utter rage out (combined with a complete lack of understanding) over why someone would do this.

I mean – HOW LAZY CAN YOU POSSIBLY BE THAT YOU CANNOT JUST EMPTY THE CANS OR BOTTLES FROM THE PLASTIC BAG INTO THE BLUE BOX?

Good grief.

Yesterday Mr. M found a broken toaster in the recycle bin.

A TOASTER! AND IT WAS IN A PLASTIC BAG!

Okay, I need to take it easy. My heart probably shouldn’t be pumping this fast.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Seriously though, what the heck is the point of “recycling” if you’re not going to do it right? Wouldn’t it actually be better if they just threw everything into the trash, because at least that way they wouldn’t be buggering it up for the rest of us that actually, you know, care?

I thought about these indolent bastards as I walked about the park (but just for a little while – I didn’t want to give them too much airtime, or the satisfaction of ruining my entire afternoon.)

But then I started to think about how if the people who already inhabit the earth don’t care, what kind of destruction will the planet oversee when we have an even greater population of (I’m afraid to even imagine) people who care even less?

And then I thought about how many species of birds will be around for my children? Or their children?

Will this amazing bird sanctuary be a moot point because we’ve annihilated everything that would be targeted to live and thrive within the reserve itself?

My heart grew heavier and heavier just thinking about it all.

But then M took my hand, and we say on a bench and ate some grapes, and I slowly started to feel better.

This heaviness I felt was gradually offset by a new set of competing factors and thoughts – indeed it became harder and harder to imagine such a dark world, because everything and everyone I was encountering at the park was the complete antithesis of that humanity and ecological peril I was fearing.

There were so many families out together – parents, children, grandparents, babies – teaching, watching, talking, learning about the different plant life, the insects, and course all the birds – calling out to the chickadees, and marveling at the swooping, circling falcons, feeding the ducks, and laughing at the geese.

There were exchange students with guide books, young couples on early spring dates, long-time husband and wife duos, and bird watching aces with camera lenses the width of my living room.

There were so many people, out enjoying the sun, basking in the beauty of the day, the park, the birds – the earth.

That it gave me hope.

And continues to give me hope.

It gives me hope that the Reifel sanctuary will be here for years to come.

And that out there people actually know how to properly dispose of toasters.

Curiouser and curiouser

Good morning friends!

This is my morning view. Also how do people take photos before eating their treats? It is almost impossible for me.

My cat (who is in stealth mode in the above picture) is currently tearing about our home (which sadly means she is also tearing up our carpet each time she reaches both the top and bottom of our stairs.)

If I wasn’t so madly in love with her, there would be repercussions.

When she gets into these scamp moods of hers we like to say that she’s “riding her little horse” because of the way she gallops about the house (and the way her gait sounds like that of a young steed racing around a track.)

We adopted Ms. Nymeria from the SPCA a little over four years ago.

I had been badgering M forever to let us get a cat.

Being a remarkably patient, and loving man, he withstood this constant bombardment quite well (and with much grace at that.)

Because seriously, anytime he inquired about gifts, I would immediately, without thinking, blurt out: “A CAT.”

Hey Ethel, he’d say. What do you want for Christmas this year?

A CAT, I’d respond.

Hey Ethel, what would you like for your birthday this year?

A CAH! I’d say, not bothering to swallow that bite of my sandwich before taking the time to respond.

Hey Ethel, what do we need to pick up at the grocery store tonight?

A CAT! I’d answer. And milk, bread and cheese. But mostly though, a cat.

(That joke was always a laugh and a half for me, but obnoxious as heck for him. Still, I couldn’t stop myself.)

Come February 2008, M ever so nonchalantly asked me to come over to his computer. He picked me up, sat me in his lap, and together we looking through the pictures of the kittens that were currently available for adoption over at our local SPCA shelter.

Now, I don’t know about you folks, but there is a very limited time frame in which I can stay on one of those websites and remain a functioning, coherent human being.

Just looking at all the little ones that need homes thrusts me into sensory overload, and I become overwhelmed between two very conflicting reactions.

These are: MUST SAVE ALL THE KITTIES – and – OH NO THERE ARE TOO MANY KITTIES TO SAVE I AM POWERLESS IN THIS FIGHT.

It’s like all of my life force swells to epic proportions but is simultaneously sucked out of me. Like I turn into a superhero just before being administered a Dementor’s kiss.

Luckily, it wasn’t before long that we saw Nymeria’s picture and we both fell head over heels in love.

At the time she wasn’t Nymeria. She was Faye, who – “didn’t play well with others.”

We knew immediately that she had a touch of both Rhoyne and direwolf inside her.

The next day we went to the shelter, and along with the help of two stellar friends of ours, adopted the little Miss into our arms, heart and home.

And she’s been there ever since. Snuggling, purring, meowing (she talks, like, all the darn time), furring up furniture, ripping up carpets, going absolutely bat shit crazy when she sees other cats, sleeping on my feet, and sailing 1,000 ships to Dorne (just like her namesake of course.)

IMG_0214 - Copy — The beauty cat. And M's hair pants.

I always joke that Nymeria is my daughter – and while there is a healthy dose of both tongue and cheek in this statement – she is a dear, dear part of my family.

She was with us during our engagement, our marriage, both of our post-grads; she forgave us for going to England without her (that one took a while, let me assure you).

She is with us when we wake up, and when we sleep.

And I love her. (Even if at the moment she is scoping out my lemon bar.)

So what about you dear readers? Who are the furry friends in your life?

Nymeria and I would love to know.

Danke schoen, darling

I really feel like a crazy Haligonian opening every one of my blog posts with a report on the weather.

But it’s something that I just cannot help. It’s in my friggen DNA for goodness sake.

(Using the word friggen is also a trait inherent to my east coastness, along with my undying love for biscuits topped with molasses, and raucous, foot stomping fiddle music.)

CIMG8028 - Copy — I'm blue, dabadee dabadie...

Seriously, if you talk to anyone from the east, it’s inevitable that you will eventually have a frank, relatively long (and always in-depth) exchange of information covering the current temperature, wind speed, cloud cover, chance of rain, possibility of snow flurries, or likelihood of category five hurricanes – it’s pretty much conversation law.

My grandfather used to sit and watch the weather network. On TV. At home.

For fun.

So in that (weather) vein, it must be reported that today has been absolutely blooming gorgeous. Cool and crisp as all get out (it was minus five walking to skytrain this morning) but beautiful – in a way that felt as though you were living inside of an icicle.

The sun shone long, and the sky burned blue, and the mountains stood stark and snow capped, fogged only by the slow, even rhythms of my breath.

And confronted with such beauty, well – there isn’t much else you can do save mention it to every single person you possibly can.

CIMG8039 - Copy — I wear my sunglasses...so the sun doesn't burn my eyeballs.

It’s something to celebrate!

Today at lunch I meandered around the Robson Street corridor, dropping in on clothiers and admiring their new spring collections.

I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by the goods on display at Zara, a store I have been consistently disappointed in for a while now.

While I didn’t purchase anything, I did try on a rather adorable capped sleeve sundress – the cotton stretch material was a dark navy, speckled with a beige palm tree print, and an asymmetrical hemline – longer in the back than in the front – a styling that I actually find quite charming.

I didn’t take any photos because I’m making a concerted effort not to be so dang weird.

(For all of you who know me this is an epic undertaking.)

If I’m still thinking about it tomorrow, well, as one General Douglas MacArthur said, “I shall return.”

(For different reasons entirely, I assure you.)

I also managed to find my way into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory.

Love, love, LOVE this place.

Although, to be completely honest, I kind of get to the point of some perverse, nihilistic panic every time I find myself in this store. I undergo something of a sensory overload that eventually reaches the level where I start to think, “I’ll never be able to taste all of these delicious looking treats – what’s the point in even trying!?”

Especially because I know that I’m just going to buy the same thing I always get.

Oh skewer of marshmallows dipped in chocolate and sprinkles – where would my life be without you?

(Wait. I probably don’t need an answer to this question.)

Like ice cream flavours, I’m not very good at branching out and trying new things – especially when it comes to the simple, but amazing taste-bud tickling pleasure of moulds of sugar, corn syrup, water, and gelatine covered in processed cacao and more (multicoloured) shards of sugar.

When I put it that way, doesn’t it sound downright delicious? No wonder I love them so much.

Side note: What will they think of next? Dipping it in yogurt? Covering it in chocolate buttons?!

We’ll just have to wait and see.

Okay, now that I’ve got weather, fashion and chocolate out of the way (the blinkin’ trifecta of my life here folks), it’s times to get down to brass tacks (aka the real reason I wanted to write this post).

P.S. Did you know that ‘brass tacks’ can be defined by: “engaging with the basic facts or realities” and that the origin of the figurative expression – “getting down to brass tacks” – originated in a Texas newspaper The Tri-Weekly Telegraph in January of 1863. One of their editors wrote:

“When you come down to ‘brass tacks’ – if we may be allowed the expression – everybody is governed by selfishness.”

The more you know, eh?

OKAY, for real, I’m getting back on topic.

Last night I watched the Oscars. This is both an exercise in brilliance, and brutality.

(Also, is it just me or is Billy Crystal turning into Wayne Newton?)

This is how the majority of my person feels about (all) awards shows:

Award shows…ugh…WHY CAN’T I QUIT YOU!? You’re like the friend I no longer know anything about, and have nothing in common with, but refuse to stop having that one really boring, vapid lunch with every year because, well let’s face it, YOU’RE FLIPPING GORGEOUS.

I wrote that after watching the mind-numbing dreck that some fool advertised as the 2012 Golden Globes.

(The fact that I watched the entire bloody thing lends me to believe that it is in fact I that is the bigger fool.)

Seriously though, no matter how much I want to leave these programs in my past, and never, ever look back, I cannot stop watching them for two small, but very important reasons.

1.) Growing up, my family used to always watch the Academy Awards together. It was our thing. Inevitably, amongst the five of us, we would have seen all the nominated films, so we would actually have some kind of vested interested in the outcome of the night. It would be spring break, so we kids would be allowed to stay up much later than our usual bedtime, ensuring that we would get to see the full scope of the program (this was at the time that the ceremony would run 5+ hours long). Often time we would be on vacation somewhere, which only added to the mystique and brilliance of the night, particularly during the years spent at Silver Star (ski resort), which meant lots of cozy clothing, warm rooms, roaring fires and carnation hot chocolate.

My family didn’t do much together as a team – after the age of twelve I hardly remember eating a dinner that had every member present. In fact, due to our frantic, conflicting schedules, I pretty much ate every single meal outside of school hours alone.

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m not complaining about this. It’s just the way things were. And perhaps why those nights with everyone crammed around the TV set, wondering who would win, or why someone would chose to wear what they did, so special.

It was so out of the ordinary, it was extraordinary.

2.) As much as Hollywood is well, Hollywood, there is so much else going on at the Oscars that I find remarkable, and inspiring. The short film makers, the animators, the documentary filmmakers, the foreign film nominations (and yes, of course, many of the “mainstream” films, their casts, and crews) are all heartening examples of individuals who have committed their lives to a passion, pure and simple.

And I like to be reminded of that.

As I continue to walk the line between my creative and academic pursuits – stretching my legs a little further into both ponds, I like to see those beings rewarded for their efforts.

I like the reminder – it gives me better reach.

Gifts that keeps on giving

For my birthday, I received a number of fabitty fab birthday presents (from a number of fabitty fab individuals.)

In preparation for my first marathon, I was gifted a belt to store gel packs, and a beautiful, (but more important breathable) zip-up running shirt. Mr. M gave me a pair of lovely earrings that have little cameos of ravens on them (because this way I can pretend that I’m Odin, and that my little feathered friends are whispering the world’s secrets into my ears as I go about my daily business.)

I also received another Murakami book from my good friend A that I devoured on my way home from her house on skytrain.

An absolutely scrumptious lunch Ms. A treated me to, at Cafe Medina. GO THERE.

Such a strange sensation to be reading a book about a very early Tokyo morning, when you yourself feel as though you are operating out of a parallel, late-night dreamland. I was so tired that I could hardly keep my eyes open, and yet at the same time, too engrossed in Murkami’s prose to actually allow my body to let go, and crumple under the weight of my end-of-week exhaustion and post-hang out daze.

What a strange tug-of-war we mortals can play, between need and desire, consciousness and sleep.

Two other gifts that provide me with a huge amount of happiness (on a daily basis at that) are the gorgeous prints my sister in-law V made for me.

They are currently hanging in my office and I cannot even begin to describe what a difference they have made in my day-to-day work regime.

The power of art is strong, my friends – very strong.

Is your office green with ivy? I mean, envy?

Plus, the prints, combined with a few other touches of beauty and comfort (I also have nice black and white photo of SFU hanging on the opposite wall, and I finally managed to finagle someone to come in and mount my “to-do” cork board) ensure my office no longer looks like the place you go where you find out that you have a terminal illness.

Because that folks, is pretty darn bleak.

Just looking at this photo puts a smile on my face!

Seriously.

Today the sky is blue, and the trees are sun-drenched (and not rain-drenched) for the first time in what seems like ages.

Over my lunch break I hopped, skipped, and jumped my way out of the office, and around my downtown neighbourhood in an effort to procure everything that was populating my (ever-growing) “NEED TO GET” list.

It is always so pleasant doing these kinds of things in the glorious sunshine, rather than scurrying about like a drowned rat, trying to stay one step ahead of the looming fog and drizzle.

Is it springtime yet, Ms. Nature?

I picked up the usual suspect at Shoppers Drug Mart: make-up remover, cotton pads (to be used with said remover), body wash, and face cleanser.

I had a mild flashback to high school when I approached one of the clerks to ask if she knew where the Neutrogena products were, and she briskly responded:

You mean the acne products?

Umm, I wasn’t sure, actually. “It’s very orange and has a pump on the top?” I said, a little nervous all of a sudden.

Yes. You want the acne face washes, upstairs in the acne solutions section – aisle four.

I know this might seem a little silly, but I totally felt as though I was being shamed. Like I was in a one of those horrible sitcoms playing the nerdy high school kid who tries to purchase condoms, or tampons – or the young girl stuck buying Vagisil, or Imodium, or Exlax or whatever.

(Also, super hilarious that the spell check wants to change Vagisil to valise. That would require a majorly daft pharmacist to make that mix-up.)

Now, I’m sure the only reason I actually felt this way is because in high school I actually did have bad acne, and I spent so much time, energy and money trying not to have bad acne. Now that I’m finally living a life of clear skin (as an easy, breezy, covergirl – or, you know, whatever) it’s hard for me not to get my back up in those kind of situations.

It’s like the horribly embarrassed fourteen year-old girl inside starts yelling: “I’m beautiful now! Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

LEAVE ETHEL ALONE!

Okay, so I’m over dramatizing this for the sake of humour and readability, but the sentiment is the same. Even though I was over the whole thing in about 2.7 seconds, I guess it’s true what they say:

Some (acne) scars just take longer to heal.

To speed up the process I bought (and thoroughly enjoyed) a large package of peanut butter M&M’s (seriously I’d fight to the death to prove, and/or, to defend my stance that they are in fact, the best M&M product – or at least to a missing handful of hair) and an ice cold diet Pepsi.

I also managed to get a hold of a pair of sweatpants that I can wear on my way home from the gym for only sixteen dollars!

You have no idea how happy this makes me. Seriously.

Money-wise aside, this is also fantastic news because I normally go to the gym straight after work, and I really don’t like walking home in my workout clothes with just my big winter coat as my only over layer.

It kind of makes me feel like a super-harlot, because my shorts are shorter than my (rather long) coat, and this may or may not contribute to the illusion that makes it look as though I’m not wearing anything underneath my jacket.

And that’s not a look I’m ever striving for.

EVER.

My final purchase was a new pair of work shoes (nine dollars! Thank you bargain barrel pricing and size ten feet!) and two lipsticks (two for twelve bucks! I’m almost, almost afraid to know what they’re made out of, because they’re so cheap. Probably the other bargain barrel size tens that were never sold.)

It’s easy to forget about that though, because they’re so, so pretty.

Sparkly toes and red lips. Watch out world!

With all this talk of TREAT YOU SELF and the weather being as fabulous and fine, it was the perfect day to go out and do something nice for myself.

(It is also heart warming to know that I will once again be able to properly remove my mascara, and not wake up with crazy black muck that has sealed my eyelids shut whilst I slept. Side note: I was going to write “sleep-cum-makeup muck” but thought it might give some people the wrong idea.)

Okay, I definitely don’t need any more proof about how immature I can be, because just writing that out has given a case of the giggles I just may never get over.

Heeheeheeheehee.

Sunny days! Chasing the - clouds away! On my way...

OKAY.

Enough now.

I hope every single one of you had a beautiful day, were fortunate to feel the warmth of the sun on your face, and did something lovely in celebration of you, and just you.

Or at the very least, had a good giggle.

Maybe she’s born with it

So I went to Joe Fresh yesterday to see if they had any quality, affordable sweaters that would help protect me from the freezing rain and harsh winds that are currently ravaging our fair city, and well, me.

These two weather-based phenomena have been the chief culprits behind the transformation of what is normally a rather rainy, temperate rainforest into an unforgiving, frozen wasteland.

I mean, we’re not exactly talking L.A. in T2 here (not by any stretch of the imagination), but seriously dudes, it’s cold.

And while there weren’t any swell sweater deals to be found, I did however make a different discovery.

Ch-ch-ch-check out that styling. Are you seeing this Vogue?

It’s seems as though Mr. Fresh (and his affiliates) are not just purveyors of clothing for budget-minded people –they also sell cosmetics, (rather decent ones at that) and as such, I was able to pick up three nail polishes (for 10 dollars!) and a new red lipstick (for six).

This made me very happy.

Now, for those of you who don’t know me, I am a lipstick kind of gal.

I don’t wear eye shadows or liners, bronzer, or lip gloss.

Sure, I wear mascara, and I love blush, and I’ll pull out the concealer when I have bags the size of China, or a zit that is threatening to take over the world – but lipstick?

Well, lipstick, and lipstick only – that’s my bag baby.

For the past two years I had it down to a pretty solid science: I owned three different colours, from three different brands, and depending on my mood, I would chose from one of the following:

– A fierce, fluorescent pink, by Rimmel London

– A sensuous, lavender-pink, by MAC

– A dark, wine stain-red, by Revlon

And then of course, sometime in the last month I up and lost my red, and I was devastated, and because I am currently living at 123 Frugal House, Frugal Lane, Frugal, BC, Canada, I refused to bone up the clams (yes I realized that is a horrible mixed money metaphor) to replace it.

For me, there is just something so effortlessly awesome about red lipstick. It immediately puts me in a good mood, and makes whatever I may be wearing seem one hundred times more glamorous.

It’s like playing dress up without having to find a cape and flying goggles.

I also tend to get a lot of really awesome feedback whenever I wear it, which is lovely, but hands down the most common reaction I get, again and again, is an admission from the complimenter.

I cannot even being to count the number of times someone has told me that they don’t believe they could ever wear it (red lipstick) themselves.

They’ll always be all: “But you can pull off that kind of stuff! But there is no way I could never do it myself!”

Um…what?

Who told you this? And whatever reason did you have to believe them?

Right here and now I would like to end this pervasive, persistent and completely untrue assumption that the majority of women (or men) cannot pull off this particular piece of macquillage.

Anyone who wants to wear this can, and do so swimmingly, as long as they have one thing:

LIPS.

Got lips? Perfect – we’re good to go.

Nymeria just doesn't understand. She says go for it! Or you know, I'm exhausted and feed me.

Now, for the sake of covering all my bases, let it be known that I understand the difference between not being interested in wearing a product and believing that you are somehow physically incapable of either 1.) wearing said product because 2.) wearing said product while somehow trigger hordes of petrified individuals running away in the opposite direction should they have the misfortune of setting eyes on you, again, wearing said product.

(I promise I will never say wearing said product ever again.)

(Or at least in this post.)

Did any of that make any sense?

The nub and gist of what I am trying to communicate here, is that it makes my heart really heavy when I encounter so many beautiful, brilliant women, of all ages, who live their lives (fashion, or otherwise) according to some kind of code that dictates what they are, and are not, capable of.

When I go shopping with friends I often find myself persuading them to try on things I believe would look marvellous on them, especially if they are particularly reticent (ie. they write off) an entire style of clothing.

I of course am not immune to this way of thinking either. Surprisingly enough, the majority of times I have found myself really moving outside of my comfort zone (we are talking like, to the Russian Taiga here) have been with M.

(The man every so often has some powerful fashion aces up his sleeve.)

CIMG7663 — Mr. M aka fashion plate extraordinaire. Are you seeing this Vogue?

But I do truly believe in taking risks.

Even if it – the risk (be it a dress, a lipstick, a relationship, a road less taken, etc.) ends up not working exactly the way you imagined, isn’t it always better to have tried?

Isn’t this how we learn, and become stronger, and ultimately, become braver? Which in turn, allows for greater and more rewarding risk-taking and self-fulfilment?

Isn’t this some awesome feedback loop we should focus on, not move away from?

Is this not how we should truly be getting to know ourselves?

My experience (as limited as it has been) has shown me that at the root of it all, this is how we truly find out what works, for us and what doesn’t.

Not from some silly code.

Fear of being judged, or looking silly may dictate the parameters of what we think is best for us at the beginning (of our relationships with certain looks, people, ideas, etc.) – but they don’t need to control them forever.

We just need to remember that variety is both an entertainment magazine, but more importantly, the spice of life.

…

One last note on my recent makeup purchases.

M says that this photo reminds him on a serial killer. We have been watching a lot of Dexter lately.

Does this colour of nail polish make me look like I’ve set up shop in the morgue, as you know, a resident?

Because as much as I really love this shade of blue, I’m kind of sold on the fact that it makes me look like a very dead (albeit very stylish) corpse.

And yet, just having written out these words, I sit here thinking whether or not my assessment of whether or not this nail polish is working or not is viable, or skewed – are my preconceived notions of what looks good next to my (rather translucent skin) wrecking havoc with my assessment of the situation?

Heck, if I want to wear blue nail polish, I’ll find a way to make it work.

Yet between my red lips, white skin, and blue fingernails, I don’t know if I’m a fashion statement, or a political symbol.

Liberte, egalite, and Mme. Estee?