What I remember so vividly, was an ivy draped house, cherry blossom biscuits, fresh kissed from the oven; our mosquito wed skin that licked the autumn air so quickly we would itch for days.
My sister, whispering stories, sticky from giggles and jam, of evenings coloured with imaginary characters – men whom we imagined dressed like millionaires, and women who smiled bright pearls.
We listened, between the cracks in the door that we dared not enter.
We attended their parties, solved their mysteries, stole their riches – never so much as dipping our toes in the world outside of the beauty we created.
On afternoons that we breathed quietly, and we would watch the birds in the yard, drinking cool lemonade flavoured with mint, fresh picked from the garden.
I was in grade nine, on exchange in Dijon. As a French immersion student, I was one of the lucky few who, because of my fluency, was picked to spend a month oversees studying at the lycée.
The trip was a pilot programme – the school wanted to “try it out” and see if it was something they would consider implementing on a permanent, yearly basis.
Believe me when I say that my time in the city as a student was a total trip.
First off, my home-stay parents didn’t seem to grasp the concept that I was a vegetarian. Every day for lunch they would make me these amazing baguettes filled with salami, or rotisserie chicken, or roast beef – seriously, you name the viande and it was packed up for me every morning, between two slices of bread.
I felt so horrible the one and only time I binned my lunch, that from that day onwards I would gift them to one of the other Canadian students whose parents didn’t think to send them off to class with anything at all.
It was a pretty sweet trade off in the end, because in return, whomever I had gifted the sammie would give me a couple of francs, which I would then use to purchase a crepe from the creperie down the street.
A replica of one of the many crepes I ate in France.
Come to think of it, I pretty much ate my body weight in Nutella during my stay.
(Whoever owned stocks in that brilliant, hazelnut-chocolate nectar of the gods that month must have done very, very well.)
My classes were great, though some (re: computer science) were a complete write off because not only did I understand nothing of which was said (alas, I learned much as an immersion student, but the inner workings of PCs was never a topic included in our weekly dictées) but the boys in that class were so darn funny, I was too busy concentrating on keeping all my urine inside my body to really focus on anything else.
Other notes of mention: French schools have super long hours, way crazy math, and the multi-storied, multi-buildinged campus made our school back home look like a pre-kindergarten.
Okay, back to kisses.
It was Friday night, the end of our second week of study.
All of the Canadian students were invited to attend the school’s senior dance.
Point: high-school dances are complete gong shows, and a completely ridiculous explosion of drama, hormones, angst, and hilarity the world over.
Teenagers – doing it like it’s the most important thing in life, since time immemorial.
Anywho, so myself and my home-stay gal Charlotte showed up ready to get our tip-top grooves on with the rest of the senior grades.
As we walked into the gymnasium I couldn’t help remarking to myself, for what was probably the (rougly) two thousandth time since touching down in France: HOLY CRAP FRENCH BOYS WEAR TIGHT PANTS.
My immediate follow-up thought was (of course): I wonder if any of them think I’m pretty?
And so it went on.
We danced to Will Smith and Ricky Martin, and a TON of crazy French rap and R&B. At one point the DJ played a rap song that had bagpipes in it and everyone went completely batshit crazy, dancing like complete madmen and singing like banshees, which both cracked me up but also made me really happy.
It was at this point, as I moved off to the side, just to watch the carnage unfold – a slightly loopy smile flickering across my mostly shocked visage – that a boy about my height (pretty good for 14 years old, because at this point I had already reached five foot ten) came and stood beside me.
He had sandy brown hair, in the style of Chris Klein from American Pie. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, and his front teeth were crooked, but only slightly so.
Same hair. TOTALLY.
He was a bona fide hottie.
Bonjour, he said.
Bonjour, I said.
My heart nearly exploded out my chest right then and there. A boy!? Talking to ME!?
It was almost a real Alien moment.
Voulez-vous sortir avec moi? Juste pour quelques instants? He asked.
He wanted to go outside!? With ME!?
HELL YES I WILL ACCOMPANY YOU OUTSIDE I wanted to yell.
Instead, I remembered to smile coquettishly and simply nod. Also, the less I spoke, the less likely I was to barf all over my shoes.
We walked outside and sat on top of a picnic table in the middle of a covered courtyard. We talked about school, and Canada, and France, and good grief, I’m pretty sure we talked about Will Smith’s latest CD, and then – WHAM.
Julian, of the freckles and the tight jeans, was kissing me.
Kissing ME!?
Yes.
And honestly, it wasn’t good.
Dude was a smoker and as much as half of my brain was screaming THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING EVER!!!!1!!1!!, the other have was screaming THIS IS LIKE LICKING A BLOODY ASHTRAY MAKE IT STOP.
Like kissing one of these it was.
Also, French kissing may look glamorous and sexy as hell to all those young, impressionable kidlets at the movie theatre, (aka me) but in real life, for the first time – EGADS.
Do not want.
Especially with Monsieur Marlboro.
Anyways, the long and short of it is, we made out for a good hour (you think just because the guy tasted like a tobacco leaf I didn’t want to keep kissing him? DREAM ON!) before returning to the dance for one final slow jam.
We met up the next day, ate at McDonalds and walked around the old town.
On Monday, after spending about half an hour looking for him after class, Julian’s friend Tony came up to me and let me know that he was really sorry, but Julian had just been using me to get back at his girlfriend who had cheated on him the week before.
This was the second time in a very short period that I felt as though I was going to have a real alien moment.
Or barf on my shoes.
But I didn’t. I sucked it up and moved on.
But only until of course I arrived home, opened a jar of Nutella, listened to Everybody Hurts on repeat six hundred times, and wept like the silly, angsty teenager that I was.
So there you have it.
I had my first French kiss, with a French boy, in France.
Five years ago, on this day, on a deserted beach on Oahu’s north shore, M asked me to marry him.
Believe me when I say that I didn’t have the faintest clue that he was going to propose.
I mean, we had been together for four years, so it was inevitable that the topic would come up in conversation from time to time, and I knew that there was no one else in the world that I wanted to be with – I was just never one to think much about it.
Growing up, I never day dreamed about weddings, sketched dresses, or play acted happily ever after.
I just hoped to heck that one day I would actually have a boyfriend, and all that practice kissing the back of my hand in the shower would amount to something.
So when this beautiful, kind, brilliant man, kneeled in front of me, and told me “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” I briefly stood there shocked, a befuddled statue.
My mouth opening and closing like that of a stunned trout.
And then I burst into tears.
I cried so hard and for so long that M actually had to ask me (quite nervously at that) if my tears were a good or bad thing.
“Good…thing…” I managed to croak, before the next wave of sobs took over.
M began to laugh, and eventually I did too (although it was through my tears), and then he took my hand and placed a ring on my finger.
My engagement band has three stones – one larger diamond, framed by two smaller ones. When he gave it to me he explained that he choose this ring because the two stones on the outside are meant to signify us, and the middle stone is our life that we have built – that we continue to build – together.
You can imagine how quickly my tears dried up after hearing that.
Yeesh.
(For real, I’m pretty sure that I severely dehydrated myself standing there on the beach that night.)
But it was magical.
The sun slowly setting, melting into the rich greens and blues of the sea; giant turtles sunning themselves in the warmth of the white sand; a young fisherman walking by with his multicoloured catch of the day.
When we arrived back at the house where we were staying, we surprised all of our friends by revealing the good news.
We phoned family back in Canada (waking up every single last person) before doing the thing that every good 21st century couple does – updated our profiles on facebook.
Good grief.
And then for the rest of the trip, we swan, sunned, explored, adventured, ate, drank, laughed, lived, and loved.
Here are some photos of our all too brief sojourn in paradise:
Lanai.
Sunrise.
Ninja surfer.
Palm-palms.
King and queen of the world.
Beach.
So we may always return.
So there you have it friends.
A memory for the month of May.
If you have stories to share, I’m all ears (and probably all tears.)
I was in the process of finishing up my master’s thesis, and as such, was spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sitting in front my computer (and I use the term sitting pretty liberally, because for much of the time, I just contorted myself into the most back breaking positions imaginable to human kind – so much so that it’s really quite amazing I didn’t rework the entire curvature of my spine) writing a path dependent analysis of British and Canadian immigration policies and immigrant integration schemes, post-1945.
Nymeria was pretty much the best study partner I could have asked for.
Overall, I loved writing on the subject matter, loved my research (carried out both here in Canada and over in the UK), and very much loved the finished product.
Of course the million dollar question is, would have I said all this to you then?
Maybe.
Probably not.
What most likely would have happened instead, was that sometime during our conversation on the matter I would have either burst into tears, or begged you to go out and buy me a 7/11 apple fritter.
(Had you said either yes, or no, I probably still would have cried. From either disappointment or happiness – believe you me, those fat, salty sobs would have flowed.)
Sitting here, writing this today, with so much perspective on this event, it is pretty darn easy to talk about how great the whole experience was.
Nymeria is also here to remind me not to get completely delusional. She would like me to remember that at the time I was completely knackered. PLUS: Animal Print.
However at the time, I was a miserable wreck; as previously noted, my life was rife with high-drama crying fits, poor nutritional choices, and completely cringe-worthy, totally horrifying fashion statements.
If I only had one word to describe my dress sense for the first four months of 2010, it would be BRUTAL.
Just brutal.
I am disclosing this today, because I want to provide a different perspective (or palate cleanser if you will) from last Friday’s post.
I feel compelled point out that there have been times in my life where I have, on a daily basis, fashioned outfits that would have propelled me to the top of any worst dressed list out there.
Sometimes when I look at old photos, particularly of the early years Mr. M and I spent together as a couple, I often repeat to him, “Thank you so much for staying with me despite all the times I looked absolutely deranged.”
He normally just smiles, and dismisses my claims.
(Although, to be real here folks, if you take a second at the photos, he may be thinking along the same lines. We are a match made in (crazily dressed) heaven.)
But getting back to Thesisgate, 2010.
By the end of my scholarly run, things had gotten pretty darn bad.
Indeed, my closet had pretty much devolved into the following two outfits:
The first?
My pajamas.
The words on this sweater "who gives a hoot?" eventually became a short-lived life motto of mine.
Each morning I would wake up, and immediately begin writing. No shower. No bath. I would type away until about one o’clock, at which point I would eat a banana completely slathered in peanut butter, drink a pot of tea, and then have a massive, massive sweat-and-panic attack. To combat my massively rising anxiety, I would throw myself into different feats of strength, which sometimes meant push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, but other times meant episodes of Gossip Girl.
After these exercises (in self-loathing), my garb would be sufficiently grodtastic, so I would take everything off, wash them, dry them, wash myself, dry myself, and then put the whole thing on again.
At the height of my efficiency, I probably had about three different sleeping ensembles on the go, none of which (I promise you) had a best before date that outlasted my defense date.
Blargh.
Outfit number two was my “Going Out Outfit.”
Now, at the beginning of January, this setup was at least a “semi-normal” ranking, on a scale from plain jane to absolutely barmy.
It mostly consisted of a pair of thick, comfortable leggings, a cute (albeit short) summer dress (it pretty much covered my bum and that was it) and a rotating duo of cardigans.
Unfortunately, before I really knew what was happening, I started adding soccer socks (on top of the leggings), big doc marten boots, chunky mens sweaters, and really outrageous scarves to the whole shebang.
I looked a bit like a cross between Daria, Blossom, and Claudia from the Babysitter’s Club.
The only thing missing was a giant hat with a bunch of fake flowers stuck to it. I mostly just wore old-school Canuck’s toques and a pink beret.
In my opinion, (and to the many, wide-eyed, confused individuals, who saw me wearing this in public places)- this is not a very good look.
For anyone.
(Or at least not anyone over the age of fourteen. In 1992.)
The day after I defended, Mr. M (ever the gentleman) very politely asked if I could never , ever, wear any one version of the getup ever again for the rest of my life.
I very respectfully (not to mention eagerly) agreed to do so.
I’ve also stopped eating 7/11 baked goods.
( But you can pry my penny candy from my cold dead hands.)
So there you have it my darlings. A (very bleak) fashion confession from yours truly.
Okay, so I have scoured my archives for a digital copy of my "going out outfit" and couldn't find one (good thinking on my part it would seem.) So please accept this as evidence of some of the silly things I do like take photos of my hairdo before going to work so I know what it looks like.
And I would like to make it very clear that when I do offer critiques on this here blog spot, they are never done with any malicious intent, or mean spiritedness. It is a way for me to deconstruct my relationship with the fashion industry, and how both my choices as a consumer, and my (evolving) taste aesthetic inform not only my perspective of the industry, but also of myself.
I spent a lovely afternoon with my sister in-law V on Sunday, and she remarked that she thinks there are lots of people out in the world who probably wish they could try on some of the more, well, unique outfits available for purchase at different stores, but never have the nerve or gall to follow through.
(To which I say (of course) is: GO FOR IT DUDES! It’s a TON of fun!
She also remarked that the salespeople probably spend quite a while speculating on who will even purchase the store’s crazier merchandise when its shows up at the store.
And just like them, I so desperately want to know who, if anyone, is out there is purchasing the strange apparel I’ve come across in downtown Vancouver.
And if I find out, I won’t have the heart to pass judgment.
After all, they’re probably just in the midst of finishing their PhD.
Rant and Roll 