Sometimes – although very rarely now – after I finish eating a meal, a little voice inside my head tells me to throw everything up.
Sometimes – although very rarely now – after a week of rest, a little voice inside my head tells me that my inactivity has rendered me ugly and powerless.
Sometimes – although very rarely now – I feel as though my skin is itself crawling the length of my body, and that none of my clothes fit my frame.
Sometimes – although very rarely now – I’m afraid to leave the house for fear of others looking at me.
Sometimes it’s hard.
Every day it’s getting better.
One foot in front of the other…
2.) I firmly believe in the importance of first impressions.
Don’t get me wrong, I also believe in second chances, but nothing leaves a mark like an awkward or obnoxious round one in, shall we say, the boxing ring of life.
And in the end, after the bell has run twice, if I still don’t warm to you, I’m probably not going to stick around and try to play-act nice.
I’ll probably just punch your lights out.
(I kid, I kid.)
I mean, I’m not going to treat you like a right-arse, or anything to that effect – I will be polite, or professional, or formal (or a combination of all three), but then I’ll get the heck out.
My cat is also incredibly picky about the individuals with whom she associates.
Plus, if I don’t dig your style, you probably don’t dig mine. It’s a mutual thing, right? It’s not me, it’s you – and vice versa.
I fight tooth and nail for those that I love (in said boxing ring of life), and I put a ton of energy into championing them and their causes. As such, I would prefer to invest my time and resources into helping those individuals.
I am finally at a place in my life where I have stopped completely wrecking myself over what others think of me (I am now known to only marginally wreck myself.)
And I’d like to keep going down this path.
3.) I love, LOVE pop music.
I sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen ALL THE DAMN TIME. On repeat.
I like Robyn.
I like Lady Gaga.
I like LMFAO.
(Seriously, everyday I’m shuffling.)
I love cheesey, dance-crazy, pump-up-the-radio-and-SING music.
(I like other music too, but come summertime? GIVE ME BEATS THAT MAKE MY FEET TAPA-TAP-TAP AND TEETH ACHE FROM A SUGARY SYRUP OVERLOAD.)
And if you ever pull up next to me in your car, at some random stoplight, betwixt the months of June and August?
I am buzzing with inspiration, and love, and just general bonkerness.
This morning I, along my very glamorous, and gem of a genius colleague J, went to a leadership panel at the Vancity Theatre, where we heard six different talks from a brilliant buffet of speakers: they were athletes, intellectuals, doctors, storytellers, and demographers.
Seriously, these individuals were fascinating as they were diverse: ranging from Trevor Linden, ex-Canuck extraordinaire, to Dr. Samantha Nutt, the founder and executive director of WarChild Canada and US.
Hey! It's that Clearly Contacts guy!
What a collection of neat people.
Phew.
I know I often write about the inordinate number of injustices I perceive, (or hear about, or read about) – on a daily basis at that, and I know I am wont to chronicle about how this overwhelming tide of negativity can be pretty difficult to fight against, (particularly day in and day out)– but just sitting there, and listening to all of the speakers, allowing their passion, and humour, and dedication, and eloquence to just wash over me – heck, it really made me think that we just might make it out of this out-of-control space-ship-cum-wrecking-ball of a planet alive.
And kicking!
(Well. Maybe.)
It all may depend on the subject of Al Gore’s next documentary.
(I kid, I kid.)
And if we don’t survive?
And we are all exploded into millions of tiny particles of space dust because no one bothers to recycle their toasters, or throw out their bubble tea cups, and instead just stashes their Subway wrappers in university pruned bushes and other miscellaneous vegetation?
Well, I plan on looking darn stylish in the process of said annihilation.
And, why is that exactly might you ask?
Because, ladies and gentlemen…I did it!
May I present to you, my two favourite clothing purchases of 2012:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...
Hot damn.
The excitement around these parts (aka coursing around the length of my body) is palpable.
PALPABLE!
I cannot begin to explain to you all how excited I am to wear both of these pieces. Maybe not together (at least not to the office), but all day, and every day, I will don this as my warrior dress, as I kick ass and chew bubble gum.
And folks, I’m all out of bubble gum.
Okay, in all seriousness, I have really been trying to make conscious choices when it comes to my fashion purchases. This works rather well with the fact that I have a very hard time breaking away from the “student” mindset when it comes to buying, well, anything really.
I want to make sure that whatever it is I am purchasing, it will be something that I will wear and get good use of, as well as being as ethically responsible as possible.
It can be a hard balancing act, and I am by no means perfect, but I am working on it.
At the root of it all, I just want to understand where my clothing is coming from, who is profiting off my purchase, how well the product will benefit myself as a consumer, and (of course) first and foremost: ask myself – do I actually need it in my life?
Now, I could argue that I don’t actually need 99% of the stuff that I buy – I become more and more aware of this issue every time I walk by a store, or through a shopping mall.
But I hope that, at the very least, by just asking these questions, I am making some sort of impact, or progress – that it is the catalyst for a slow building, slow moving change, even if just in my life.
A change of one.
And if it can grow from there? Well then, that’s just perfect.
…
As two quick post-scripts, let me share with you two of my biggest laughs (or gaffs?) of the day:
I was an overzealous coffee pourer at the speaker’s panel. Can you tell I was a tad tired this morning?
Java moat.
And, prices advertised by Flight Centre:
Good marketing there folks. Fine print is pretty crap though.
WOW, this flight is only $29.00?! But taxes are $600.00?
Today, as my mother would also say, is a day for the ducks.
This awful perma-drizzle that we’ve going on is pretty much the equivalent of operating within the water arc of the world’s finest (but also largest) sprinkler.
Or, to put it in much simpler terms: it’s like living inside a very, very, low hanging cloud. (Which isn’t that too far off from the truth – the sky is so low, I feel as though I could touch it, if only my name was Ms. Stretch.)
Also, it’s DANG cold.
Urgh.
For someone like me, who has terrifically bad circulation, this is a recipe for disaster.
For one, my hands are always freezing.
This, of course, means that every time I introduce myself to someone and shake their hand, I get the obligatory “your hands are so cold!” to which I have to reply “well…you know what they say – cold hands, warm heart!”(After saying this for some reason I always feel like dancing a short jig, or slapping them on the back, or something equally as strange) and then they think I’m basically a nine hundred year old weirdo.)
Full disclosure: that observation is only half-correct.
Seriously though, whilst at work (when I’m not typing away like a typing thing), I have to alternate warming my hands between my legs (when I have them crossed,) sitting at my desk, lest I lose feeling in them for what can range from a couple of minutes, to pretty much the rest of my day.
There were times in my undergrad when I would be writing an in-class essay and I would lose all feeling in a two, or three of my pen-holding fingers. They would grow strangely stiff, before turning a (terribly off-putting) bone white (with just the faintest tint of blue), and I would be stuck rubbing them for what seemed like hours, post-exam, in order to get them back to a “normal” range of motion and, you know, hue.
Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure one of my office mates (a rather shy and awkward gentlemen) thinks that I am completely barmy, because every time he walks by my office I have my hands mashed betwixt my legs.
I am sure that his impression of the situation is this: me (el grade pervo) mashing my hands (enthusiastically) in my general crotchular area ALL THE FRIGGEN TIME.
(I am well aware that “crotchular” isn’t a word, but I feel as though it is the best way to sum up what it is I am trying to describe.)
No joke, sometimes when I see him casting (covert) glimpses into my office (although this of course could just be a symptom on my growing insanity, and or paranoia) I just want to yell out “I’M NOT A PERVERT!MY HANDS ARE JUST REALLY COLD!”
Even though these are probably display cookies, I still want to eat them all.
In my head, the “I am not a pervert” part would always be done in the voice of Richard Nixon.
(Okay, now I know for sure that I am completely deranged.)
Anywho, today my delightful and hilarious colleague J and I went and had tea and macarons at the lovely little French bakery Soirette, just down the street from us in Coal Harbour.
It was such a brilliant way to spend our lunch hour, on an otherwise dreary and bleak Friday afternoon.
We both decided to order “Pink Champagne” tea (seriously out-of-this-world amazing – it was a black tea with strong raspberry undertones, that somehow came out yellow when poured!) before selecting three cookies to taste.
J chose passion fruit, fererro rocher, and salted caramel, whilst I picked (also) fererro rocher, lemon, raspberry.
For real, I could eat these tasty treats until they started growing out of my ears.
Happiness
In short: they were simply divine! Crunchy, but smooth – silky and flavourful, but not overpowering, nor were they too sweet.
My favourite was hands down the raspberry flavour, and J gave the salted caramel her top marks.
Come on. Dunk me. DUNK ME!
Afterwards, we strolled up the street, talking the long way back to our building. When you are filled to the brim with sweets and tea, facing the rain-soaked murk is such an easier task!
(Although, living in Lotus Land, you have to be extra careful not to have your umbrella crash into the many others parading down the sidewalk. We had a few close calls.)
Also, am I the only one of the mind that if there is even the minutest possibility that an individual could use their parapluie as a substitute for their tent the next time they go camping, it might be just a tad too large for everyday use?
This is the kind of flower power Mario and Luigi fight AGAINST.
Come on people, we’re (possibly) in a recession here. Learn the art of downsizing!
Speaking of outrageous excess, a couple of week ago I was walking the south Granville corridor (I could probably just stop there, couldn’t I?) when I espied the current window dressing at the store Anthropologie.
I don’t know if 1.) I am becoming more and more disconnected from what is actually “fashionable”, 2.) I am turning into a cranky old codger, or 3.) the fashion industry is trolling us all, (perhaps the answer is a mixture of all three) but the clothing on display was (to me and to put it mildly) MAJORLY OBJECTIONABLE.
Skin tight, floral-print skinny pants and some kind of fishing net inspired, mesh top?
Good grief.
Do not want.
But of course I went inside (with the full intention of trying the outfit on to further illustrate my point), however my upchuck reflex was fully engaged when I saw not only that the pants were priced at $240.00 (!!!) but that they also had wide-legged floral nightmares for sale (priced at a similar amount).
No. Just no.
Good thing my fainting couch was nearby, because the intake of that information alone damn near well killed me.
Still no.
(Okay, I won’t lie, I did try on a couple of cute dresses, and some non-violent seizure inducing priced pants, but none of these articles of clothing took my breath away, so they remained at the store for another day.)
P.S. I am still thinking about that Zara dress from Monday. I may just have to return for another try…
In terms of my blue mood from this past Wednesday, I have not been one hundred percent successful in righting myself to my normal level of joie de vivre – but do not despair, my lovely cyber pals – I am getting there.
Slowly but surely – one macaron, one potential party dress, one fashion diatribe at a time –
As a palette cleanser from my last post, I would like to offer you a portrait of some of the incredibly rad ladies who populate my life, who not only accept me for my bonkers self, but who make me at least sixty-five percent less likely to blow a rage-out gasket and/or move to Baffin Island for a life of solitude and frost-bite.
Last week whilst I was out to lunch (there’s a double meaning in there somewhere, I’m sure of it) my mother phoned and left me the most heart-warming, highly comedic voice mail that perhaps has ever been recorded.
It went something like this:
Okay, let me explain why this photo of my mom is one of my favorite ever (she's the one all in black with the hood) A hurricane arrived just as my cousin was set to wed, so my mom went in her rain gear and helped keep everyone under control. Awesome sauce.
Hi there. You’re probably out somewhere, trying on clothes and taking photos of yourself, you weirdo. Just wanting to chat and I’ll try to you again later. Bye!
Holy smokes. This nearly bowled me over when I listened to it.
And while I wasn’t out skulking around my favourite fashion haunts, just knowing that this is what she pictures me doing on my lunch breaks not only cracks me up, but fills me with such a simple, sublime happiness, I could probably power a small household appliance (or at the very least, a key-chain flashlight) from the wattage of my smile alone.
Love you mom!
Today, along with of my two lovely coworkers, A and J, I ventured out at lunch in search of food-truck treats and a reprieve from the cloying warmth that has infiltrated our otherwise freezing office space. Seriously, the place is normally plagued by random frosts and sub-zero temperatures. Brutal!
Unfortunately, the establishment we were hoping to buy from had a 1+ hour wait (for a grilled cheese from a van? Outrageous!) so we decided to try out the Philly cheesetake cart and its offerings.
This, in retrospect was not the greatest choice, especially on my end – I don’t know whose idea it was to put fried onions, processed cheese and thousand island salad dressing on top of French fries AND THEN MARKET IT, but having tasted that vile concoction, I believe it should probably be banned in all ten provinces, and three territories.
Bletch.
A and J were wonderful in so far as they didn’t mercilessly mock me (when it could have been oh-so-easy) on my choice of food (and in my defence let me say I didn’t know the cheese would be processed and that the “secret sauce” would be the dressing equivalent of a bloody archipelago), nor did they take the piss out of me when they saw what said “meal” looked like.
Their food wasn't much better but at least there was no salad dressing to be found.
I kind of wish I had a picture to post on the blog, but at the same time I really don’t need to be reminded of that hot mess of a plate for the discernable future (aka for the rest of my life.)
These two ladies are brilliant, and beautiful (both inside and out) and make my days at work (especially the ones where my stress level is ratcheted up to eleven) considerably less overwhelming. Plus they can turn a lunch populated by long-line ups and tasteless gruel into a fun, funny outing where conversations range from the etymology of the word ma’am, to the absurdity of men’s couture fashion.
Because that stuff is just darn bizarre.
Finally, while I am not intimately acquainted with these women (in fact, I not acquainted with any of them in any sense of the term) I have had the opportunity to watch many of the Olympic Women’s Qualifying Soccer (erm – Football) Tournament and it has been awesome! Sure, the talent disparity between many of the teams exists, and has been evidenced by quite a few blowouts (mostly from the hands of the highly-skilled, incredibly fit American team) but I have really enjoyed watching the different teams play and interact with one another.
Now, you can ask anybody and they’ll tell you that I have been that big of a soccer fan – in fact I’ve lived the majority of my life with a never-hidden (and often voiced) aversion to the sport, but I feel as though this tournament has somehow completely erased this condition and replaced it with a healthy need to learn more, watch more, and maybe even play a game or two (I just need to get over my fear of headers. They scare the crap out of me.)
Our tickets on our, erm, colourful cork board.
I was supposed to go to two games last Friday, but alas the terms of my illness dictated that I couldn’t leave the confines of my living room, wrapped in a blanket, plunked down on the couch.
However, Mr. M and I will be going to the finals this coming Sunday and I am very excited to see the game live, and gather energy and inspiration from the passion, teamwork and dedication on display from these remarkable women.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again (and again, and again) – the power of sport is something to behold, and the way it brings together such a vibrant mix of people, from disparate countries and cultures serves as terrific reminder of the beauty and strength inherent to humanity that is so often lost among the folds of everyday life.
So thank you to the competitors, the dynamic duo that is Ms. A and J, and of course my answering machine comedienne mom. You, and all the other strong, stimulating women in my life help me breathe and believe.
Having been quite sick for most of the last week, my energy is at an all time low. Normally I can kick it pretty well after about a day or two of an illness, but this blasted flu has really dug its claws in deep.
I feel as though my sinuses are in a vice that has been set on “death grip.”
That, and the fact that my nose is dripping for all of Canada. It’s like I have a leaky tap attached to my face.
I really hope my cat doesn’t start to hydrate herself from my nostrils as I sleep (uneasily at best), thinking that I actually have transformed into some kind of human-malfunctioning-faucet hybrid.
(If you’re reading this Uwe Boll, I don’t give you permission to take this idea and turn it into a movie. Just walk away now.)
Our kitty doesn’t do well at the vet at the best of times and I really don’t want to have to take her in due to massive mucus ingestion.
The embarrassment of the explanation alone might destroy me.
So as you can imagine, all in all, this whole sickness experience has been, for lack of a more poetic term, bloody lovely.
(Let me assure you.)
(Erm.)
Anywho, despite my all-encompassing-entire-body lethargy, M and I went and had dinner with some brilliant friends this evening.
My sister in-law is in town from the Big Apple, and we had dinner with her and her parents, and her three nephews.
At one point every single person in the house, save for me, was playing (re: wailing on) an incredibly random assortment of musical instruments. For serious, we had the bodhran, the maracas, the violin, the bagpipe chanter, the recorder, the auto harp, and the piano all going at once.
I just laughed like a loon, giggling myself into a tear-streaked stupor.
It was like that scene from Mary Poppins that features Bert’s one man band, just without the – you know – talent and musical prowess.
Not that I’m complaining. It was sheer brilliance.
Now that I have arrived back home, I am in the process of rehydrating. It is imperative that I replace all that vital fluid I lost through my laugh attack induced tears – plus my throat is like the mother fracking Sahara here dudes. DRY AS CRAP.
The way that this this blasted sickness has set up camp in my chest, it’s like Occupy fricken Wall Street in there.
Though Occupy Respiratory System doesn’t have quite the same ring to it…
(We’ll also have to wait and see if Kanye manages to show up or not.)
Okay, enough now. I’m all over the place tonight.
What I’m trying to say here is that I am making a concerted effort to just chilling out.
FOR REAL.
This is especially true due to the fact that I always find that it’s a bit of an adjustment period heading back to work after an extended period of time off. You have to find the right rhythms, get used to the crank of the gears, and the ebb and flow of the, well, flow charts.
(Let alone the challenge of accomplishing all this when you have an accordion in your lungs and nasal cavities with the proportions and capabilities of a water hose.)
It’s discombobulating! But heartening to acknowledge that at least everything will eventually return to as it once was, all in good time.
In the interim, I am going to sleep like a sleeping thing, and drink like a drinking thing, and eat as much lemon meringue pie that I possibly can.
When life gives you lemons - blow your nose and eat pie.
It’s probably not the best thing to be eating while still fighting the flu.
Can I write it off as part of my daily citrus-Vitamin C intake?
Rant and Roll 