I took this snap as I walked to skytrain this morning:
Flower power!
It’s been so cold around these parts that most of the trees that line my route still stand bare, their flowers tucked away inside their warm and cozy buds.
I am missing the vibrant colours we on the West Coast are normally treated too at this time of year.
Cherry blossoms always remind me a bit of popcorn. One minute they are nothing more than little shells, rattling about in the spring time wind. Close your eyes, or turn your head but for a moment, and -POOF!
They have exploded into multi-textured, blush-toned brilliance.
They remind me of love.
They also remind me to keep the faith that one day we’ll have two days of consecutive sunshine.
(A girl can dream right?)
Today at lunch my great friend J asked me to accompany her to H&M because she needed to purchase some tank tops for a bachelorette party.
Never one to give up the opportunity to visit my “try don’t buy” Mecca, I readily agreed.
For those of you who are new to the blog, I love to do this thing where I go into stores and try on outfits that are modeled on the mannequins to see how well they translate to a real life body.
Some ridiculing is sometimes involved.
(H&M is also one of the most fun stores to do this in. Furthermore, it’s an extra bonus because I really like their men’s clothing and have been trying on more of their stuff in hopes of finding sweet new deals.)
Pretty much as soon as we entered the store, we honed in on what would be today’s outfit to highlight:
Lady bugs. On my shorts.
I mean, can you think of anything else that says SUMMER-BBQ-FUNTIME than these shorts?
I dare you to come up with something better!
Impossible. P.S. I am wearing a shirt I promise! It's the matching shirt (that goes with the shorts) but it's about three inches long.
But then, of course, I had to try on two other fashion concoctions to prove that I am 1.) not a total crap master (to both you, dear readers, and the sad faced girl working in the change room) and 2.) genuinely interested in some of the merchandise available for purchase at the store.
So in that aim, I put on this dress:
It was all yellow.
Which I would actually love if I wouldn’t be branded a hoyden extraordinaire (and maybe just general pervert) if I ever wore it outside of the confines of the dressing room – because take my word of it, the “dress” was darn short.
Cute as heck yes, but not enough to convince me that I’m ready for a rap sheet.
The second were these pants:
Ms. Men's Red Pants to you!
I love the colour and they were super comfortable, but the crotch was hanging perilously low. And like I said, I’m just not digging the debauched vibe.
All in all, I struck out.
After J bought her goods, we walked back to the office and the perma-drizzle clung to our coats and hung from our hair.
But the memory of this morning’s flowers remains. And if things get really bad, I’ll just try on some new shorts.
Although I spent the majority of my day running around like a chicken with her head cut off, bopping around the city in taxi cabs, driven by semi-mad (and generally intolerant of all other motorists on the road) middle aged men, or otherwise glued to my computer screen sending out fourteen (give or take) different types of invitations to a 2,000 person gala event I am in the midst of organizing – just seeing those magnificent rays breaking through the ever-present cloud cover was downright magical.
Hello friends! It's been so long.
I am also happy to report that over the last two days I have felt a real shift in the air.
The cold in the mornings is less biting, less sharp. I can hear chickadees calling out to one another, echoing off the dew dappled branches, in harmony with the early hum, and buzz, of the world waking to a new day.
The air smells a little sweeter.
The wind blows a little warmer.
I can sense the cherry blossoms waiting to emerge from their long winter rest, and I can almost imagine a time where I can run about in sundresses and pedal pushers, ride my bike in flip-flops, and wear sunglasses at least every other day.
I am aware that I may be jumping the gun here, but I am so ready to herald the arrive of spring, I become giddy at the mere thought of any day where the temperature moves into double digit territory.
A girl can dream, right?
It was this giddiness that brought me back to H&M on Thursday to try on a few of the pieces that had caught my attention last Friday, and of course – thenewly arrived merchandise.
This activity alone led to a full on laugh attack smack dab in the middle of my change room.
Seriously, I need to meet the principal buyer for this store, because based on their choices I wouldn’t know whether to shake their hand or send them to the loony bin.
Do not pass go. Do not ever work in the clothing industry again.
While I was putting on my outfits I was literally shaking with laughter – hooting and snorting like some crazed owl-pig hybrid.
To paraphrase those dude bros from LMFAO, who put it ever so wisely: I’m sexy and I know it BUT I LOOK COMPLETELY BARMY.
Now, don’t misunderstand me here – I am completely aware that I am a bit of a jerk (and a half), repeatedly showing up at this store with the express intention of only trying on clothes (clothes that nobody in their right mind has the business of buying) and never purchasing anything.
I am always especially aware of this factafter I’ve just spent a good chunk of my time in the store, careening about the change room, blinded by laughter, while chronicling the entire escapade with my camera phone.
Also, that this is, for sure, the definition of weirdo, hands down, bar-none, I am sure.
And yet seriously folks, as much as I am aware of my complicity in this whole charade, it still unnerves me to think about how all this merchandise (expensive merchandise at that) does end up going somewhere (and that place certainly is not the Lower Mainland Goodwill), which then makes me think that I shouldn’t feel like such a wanker, because I am not the one buying all these incredibly strange, over-priced articles of clothing.
And what I really start to think about (once my laugther has died down) are what (I perceive to be) the pros and cons of the fashion industry, and what I’m finding more and more to be its overall transient, fickle, and seemingly arbitrary nature.
Despite, of course, my slightly-wavering love for (what my aesthetic dictates to be) beautiful, beautiful pieces.
(This is where the whole endeavor gets a little sticky, you see.)
Like Heidi Klum has said, hundreds and hundreds of times: One day you’re in, and the next day you’re out.
People will spend over one hundred dollars on a suit jacket that they may wear once, that will not be a style a week from Saturday, just because they can.
The privilege and excess that the entire industry is built on, is truly astounding.
Plus so much of the clothing is not only completely unflattering, but downright BIZARRE.
Okay, so you could argue that the really bizarre thing is going and trying on clothing and taking photos of yourself (headless at that.)
Yet, despite the fact that my own actions don’t exactly connote a healthy level of sanity (I am aware that all the young, dispassionate individuals working at the store probably hate my guts) I’m hoping that my commitment to an academic deconstruction of the women’s fashion world (or at least some in-depth selfrefleciton on my own relationship with the industry) will make my actions less objectionable.
Or at the very least be enough to keep both of my feet firmly planted in the “sane” swimming pool of life (which isn’t all that deep, let me tell you) and not swimming laps with the dudes who are purchasing this:
Ummm. BANANA-RAMA.
Or this:
Do my pants remind you of a race track finish flag?
Okay, let’s go back to the first one and take one more look at that shirt:
When I retire to Florida, I'll wear many shirts like this.
(P.S. I am definitely wearing pants in that photo despite the fact that it looks like I’m not. Dodgy stuff here folks!)
When I showed this snap to Mr. M he was so incredibly distressed at the idea of this piece of clothing even existing he was pretty much at a loss for words.
While I felt like a cross between a big band leader and a detective from Miami Vice (and maybe also an extra from a Janet Jackson video circa 1989), he just thought that I looked absolutely deranged.
“Who would possibly think that a flesh toned suit would look GOOD?”
Who indeed.
But more than that, I am still wondering about where all those pieces of clothing go. Who is purchasing them? And who is manufacturing them? And what about designing?
And how do I feel about asking all these questions, if I myself am purchasing other pieces of clothing from the store?
Case in point, I ended up purchasing this sweater:
Love, love, rainbow love!
Am I, at the root of it all, stifling creativity, both on a design end, and a consumer end, when I lampoon these pieces?
Should it matter at all to me what people spend their money on, and how they dress?
While taking part in this one-side dialectic makes for some interesting thought patterns, most of the time I just end up feeling like such a grumpy, old fool.
So then should I, a self-assessed (at times) stodgy, bad-tempered prat, just let the crazily-dressed kids play all they want on my lawn, especially if they are wearing lemon coloured suit jackets, with tapered, zippered pants, hounds-tooth leggings and sheer metal crop tops?
I don’t have the answer to that one, dear readers.
Not yet at least.
But come spring, I’ll be on the lookout for these outfits. And the answers they might provide.
I’m not sure what the temperatures are like where you find yourself bopping about, but as of late it has been absolutely blinkin’ freezing around these parts. Currently, there is wet, wet snow, whirling its way around the downtown core and the majority of men and women scurrying about on the sidewalks look, at best, downright miserable.
A park close to our house. One word: BRRRR!
This morning as I walked to a conference I was attending (a hot topic of which just happened to be climate change – go figure!) I narrowly missed being walloped by a fellow pedestrian’s umbrella, as it tried to make up its mind whether to take flight, or just turn itself inside out.
Yikes!
This weather is just one giant yuck-hole.
In fact, the more that I think about it someone should totally wake up all those lying, bastard groundhogs and let them know that I (and probably the majority of the folks living here on the West Coast) are suitably unimpressed.
Early spring you say? Early spring my foot!
In an attempt to remind myself that life is so much more than just rain drops (there are of course, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens) may I present to you, dear readers, one of my favourite things:
(Edit: “Favorite things” can also be read as strange, idiosyncratic activities that fill me with more pleasure than they probably should. And I’m okay with this.)
Onwards!
Peeling vegetables/fruit.
For real, I LOVE doing this. I could peel yams or apples until the cows came home.
I’m not sure what it is about this activity that I find so fab – a lot of it probably has to do with my sense memory, and what I automatically associate with the peeling of potatoes, or peaches, or pumpkins, or pears. Peeling fruit and veg is, for me, a reminder of a holiday.
It is Thanksgiving; it is Christmas. Two celebrations that remind me of family, and fireplaces, of laughter and light; rooms that smell of rosemary and cinnamon, and spiced cider and cloves; it is Mr. M’s cranberry-kissed lips, and his gravy stained oven mitts; frosted windows, overlooking gardens, both green and white, from dustings of snow.
It is love (which is strange I know – but it is true!)
So today as I travelled home on skytrain, I thought about the different things I could make that would require me to peel, peel, peel (I have three different utensils to choose from when I take on this task), and many different kinds of veggies at that.
So I decided that the perfect antidote to both this soggy, sunless day and my now urgent need to, well, strip legumes of their skin, would be to make a frittata, Ethel-style (aka with sweet potatoes, instead of regular ol’ tubers, and two kinds of cheese!)
I was introduced to the frittata by the brilliant and hilarious Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten – how good is that?) and while I have never quite yet achieved her level of fluffiness, it is something to which I aspire.
I picked up the goods that were required for the task (plus a few other treats, such as fresh strawberries and whipping cream) and Mr. M was lovely enough to pick me up at New West station, relieving me of the burden of walking up the (ridiculous) Eighth Avenue hill, in the rain, laden down with food stuffs.
Ready to rock! Chop! PEEL!
And they say chivalry is dead!
As soon as I got home, I put on my professional cooking outfit (my Dr. Seuss t-shirt and stripped pyjama pants.) This is after all, serious business.
BOOYAKACHA!
The first thing I did was infuse my oil as it warmed up in my cast iron pan.
Bottle this scent and sell it!
I started doing this a couple of years ago, and it is a method that I highly recommend. I learned this from my genius chef-extraordinaire sister – I add garlic, salt, pepper, basil, and chilli powder and I promise you, as the oil heats up the smell of all the different herbs and spices coming together is something pretty special.
Also, it saves you the time from adding flavour later, and if I may so myself, it just always tastes better doing it this way.
Love these colours. They sure taste good too.
(But then again, this could just be a sensory reaction that I have, due to the awesome memory of cooking fried potatoes with my two sisters, three summers ago while we all vacationed in New York together. A late morning, after an even later night, spent sipping home brewed espressos and nibbling on fresh baguettes, slathered with nutella and peach preserves.)
But still, take my word for it and try it!
Green with hunger.
Sometimes I cannot believe how quickly time seems to be passing – a blink, a skip of a record needle, a missed alarm clock, or a late dinner date – three years have passed since that trip but I feel as though I just got off that plane yesterday.
A marriage made in taste heaven.
So I peel carrots and sweet potatoes, and chop onions, and grate cheese – because during this simple, self-satisfying activity, time slows. It doesn’t stop, but a lovely lethargy sets in, that allows the world to sit back, and breathe.
EGGY.
Time also slows when I dance about our kitchen, singing Rod Stewart, and Mr. M breaks it down in the living room, in front of the fireplace, his shadow looming large, flickering on the adjacent wall.
Nymeria, sits watching, intrigued by our antics, and perhaps perturbed (but not enough to move us from her line of vision.)
CHEESY.
And so on this windy, wet Wednesday night, Mr. M and I will peel, and chop, and dance, and we will wrap ourselves in memories and time, rhythms and rhymes, eating a frittata, dreaming of spring.
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 –
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.)
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.
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.
Almost as cozy...
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.
Rant and Roll 