There was a star danced, and under that was I born

Hey kids,

I’m going to apologize right off the bat for a post that is going to be a ridiculous mishmash of thoughts, ideas, pictures, and song.

It’s like a “we need to eat these leftovers before they go bad” casserole, over here.

I’m throwing anything and everything into this dish. So just let me know if you need some ketchup, or BBQ sauce, or what have you.

I’ll be on it.

It is Monday after all.

And, do you know how I know dear readers, that today was in fact a Monday?

I’ll tell you.

You see, this was my breakfast:


And this was my lunch:


Not exactly the healthiest of choices, heavens no, but certainly one of the tastiest. I know I’ve written about these apple fritters before, and I just need to reiterate one more time just how fricken stellar they truly are.

And because they are the size of a small cat, they pretty much count as two meals in one.

I know, I know – NOT HEALTHY!

But oh, so delicious.

Because I’m running around at work like a running around working thing, today at lunch I made an effort to pry myself away from my desk and go for a walk.

When I’m not laughing myself into six pack abs trying on the absolute barmiest outfit combinations I can find, I like to torture myself by modelling all the beautiful pieces of clothing I will never be able to afford.

Sometimes I stroll through Holt Renfrew at a snail’s pace, staring into the Prada showroom, devouring all the couture gowns that hang off of the mannequins, or are draped over banquettes and loveseats (or the arms of a wealthy patron.)

I tell you, it’s a pretty interesting sensation to ride the escalator behind someone whose bloody SUNGLASSES are worth more than your entire ensemble.

It’s also a little scary.

Today I tried on this skirt from Club Monaco.

Sparkles! Pleats! LOVE!

I must say that I kind of really loved it.

AND, it was sixty percent off – though by no means cheap (even still after the discount), it had pleats and sparkles, which are pretty much my favourite things ever when it comes to clothing accoutrements, so I think I will have to go back tomorrow and purchase it.

As long as I don’t find something even more sparkly and pleated in the interim.

(I’m a bit like a hummingbird in that way. My attention span can be quickly taken over by -Ooerrr…SHINEY THINGS!)

Speaking of moving from one thing to the next without absolutely zero transition, please,  PLEASE, listen to this song by Sarah Slean, about which I currently cannot get enough of:

I have been a dancing woman since getting home today, listening to it on repeat.

(I don’t even know how many times I’ve listened to it while writing this post. I’ve completely lost count.)

If I was currently using my ipod at the gym, this would be the only thing on my running playlist.

It actually makes me so happy I feel like crying.

And I know that’s pretty cheesy and all, and sometimes I feel like I oscillate wildly from one emotion to the next, and I do regularly find myself so overcome by events that transpire all over the world (pretty much to the point of paralysis), but I am also aware of how much beauty I have in my life, and how fortunate I am in so many ways.

Despite of course, having two-toned hair from my (continually craptastic) dye job.

The seal is for marksmanship and the gorilla is for sand racing.

Seriously guys, what is wrong with me? How am I so, SO bad at this?


In the meantime, however, let’s just keep dancing.

And eating apple fritters.

And sparkling. Like stars.

Until the day we supernova; fade away.

Oh make me over

I have a question for all the beautiful people.

What, pray tell, is the difference between “very black” and “classic black” in terms of mascara?

Or equally confounding, in life?

Won't somebody please think of the children!?

I mean, there can’t actually be a discernible distinction between the two – can there?

From what I remember of Art 8, (and there really isn’t much) black isn’t even a colour, so there can’t be all that much variation in terms of its presentation (or interpretation).


Of course this conundrum doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of the impossible and completely insufferable colour coding on the (seemingly) millions of packaged eyelash-extending products available for purchase at your friendly neighborhood drug and/or department store.

The amount of merchandise on display is overwhelming to the point of paralysis.

Seriously, what is this? Bill’s Candy Shop? I mean, a company (that shall remain nameless) actually markets a product called “blackest-black”.

Those twisted bastards.

To be fair, I totally get why they do it.  They’re just trying to make as much money as they possibly can, through their totally warped and markedly transparent manipulation of the otherwise blissfully unassuming masses, and yet I still want to scream: HELLO COMPANY EXECS! WE ALL SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE AND WE KNOW ITS ALL ABOUT STUFFING THOSE GIANT ALREADY FIT-TO-BURSTING MONEY BAGS OF YOURS!

Also, if we are going to venture into this totally inane, waste-of-time-marketing-territory couldn’t we get a little creative? Where is my “the-Grinch’s-heart-pre-Cindy-Lou-Who-black,” or “black-hole-before-you-knew-anything-about-physics-black,” or “everyone-knows-you-look-skinnier-in-black-black”?


Well, give me time. I’m working on it.

In the interim, I can’t bring myself to buy any other brand than this one pictured below:

This colour scheme is pretty darn 80s.

It’s still the cheapest product available that (in my opinion) provides the best results.  Yet, I’m worried. The price has been steadily rising and I’m afraid that its affordability may be heading the way of the dodo.

So, in the near future, should you see a woman stockpiling Greatlash mascara with an almost deranged fervor, don’t fret – I’m just saving up in preparation for the zombie apocalypse.  Because if there is one thing I’ve learned from the Resident Evil franchise, (and I’ve learned a lot), it’s that the hotter I look, the more proficient I will be at kicking major flesh-eating, walking-dead butt.

So boy do I plan to look SMOKING.

Another point I feel as though I must touch on today is a bit of a post-script to my post from Monday, in which I mercilessly lampooned Forever Twenty-One’s horrifying fashions and equally disastrous window display.

Not to be outdone, it seems as though Holt Renfrew has thrown its hat into the ring in order to compete for the “erm…right…okay…” prize of the year.

Exhibit A:

No Bessie! Not on the Chanel!

Yeah, I’m pretty sure the last time I checked, right below “buy couture clothing” on my bucket list DOES NOT READ “bottle feed baby cow.”

In fact, the more I think about it, those two enterprises done in tandem just seem downright counter-intuitive.

(I’ll let you guys guess which of those two is actually on my bucket list. Please, be nice.)

Also, I cannot help but think of all the individuals of Swiss heritage I know, and how hard they would laugh at this display – not so much in a “hah! What a novel idea for a high-end department store to employ over the holidays,” but more of a “hah! Canadians are such silly, simple creatures. Please pass the gruyere.”


The other displays are equally alarming: bird people playing tin-can telephone? French maids wearing lace corsets over Victorian-style blouses?

Voulez-vous acheter des vetements vraiments cher? EH?

Didn’t anyone ever teach the store’s head display designer the dangers of mixed metaphors?

Can they even read?

(I kid. I kid.)


I worry that someone could end up with a bad case of mistaken (or even lost) identity from simply setting foot in the store!  Though to be fair, something tells me they are more likely to suffer from massive hemorrhaging of sweet cash dollars that anything else.

But I digress.

I also shouldn’t lie and say that I don’t desperately want those birds chilling out on the teeter-totter.  These awesome dudes were what definitely caught my eye in the first place:

Come on Jim! Left, left, left, right, left!

(Though the Swiss-miss Vogue cover shoot was a close second.)

They would make an excellent addition to my office, any day of the year.

Finally, yesterday my excellent friend A accompanied me to the Hyatt over lunch where we perused some of the stellar gingerbread creations currently on display in the hotel’s lobby.

It’s really quite amazing to behold how creative people can be in terms of the tasty treat! These people aren’t just culinary masters – they are bloody architects to boot!

Now, if I can just find a way to make this one life size I’ll be set.

Our house! In the middle of the farm!

Even more so if those Holt Renfrew birds want to join me.

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:


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.


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.


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


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.


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!


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.