The Ex-Ex-Nomad

I've Moved On To Bigger and Better Things

2008-06-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

And you can join me, too!

Please update your links to my new blog:

http://www.zonapellucida.wordpress.com

See you all there!

But Of Course, Salt Spring Wasn't ALL Bad...

2008-06-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

Lest y'all think my first trip to Salt Spring Island was all doom, gloom, and grumbling about the crappy hand drawn hiking maps, let me remind you what a wonderful and magical place it truly is...

Only on Salt Spring:

- Can you meet not one, but two people, who are members of the same chanting and meditation group as Marty and I (Siddha Yoga). In a span of 10 minutes!

- Can you search for mystical 'fairy doors' on a magical mountain hike. (Alas, Marty and I only found 5 of the 6 doors. But I did learn that one way to sound like a crazy lady is to ask an unsuspecting hiker, whilst huffing and puffing your way up the mountain, where the fairy doors are. Especially if they are completely and utterly unaware that there are 6 to be found on the hike...)

Me: (huffing, puffing, before we stumbled upon our first fairy door discovery) Excuse me, but do you know where any of the fairy doors on this hike are?
Unsuspecting Hiker: (genuinely perturbed) The what?!
Me: (more huffing, more puffing): You know, the F-A-I-R-Y D-O-O-R-S (saying it slow and all deliberate-like)
U.H.: (genuinely alarmed) The what??!
Me: (gaining a sudden awareness of what this interaction must seem like to Mr. U.H.) Oh, the woman at the Visitor Information Centre, at the Chamber of Commerce, told us that 6 small doors were built into the roots of the trees here. (trying to maintain a semblance of sanity and rationality. Tossing in big, professional-sounding words like "Chamber of Commerce".)
U.H.: (now genuinely afraid) I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about. (proceeds to give me an extremely wide berth while passing me. Disobeys numerous admonitions by B.C. Parks to "please stay on marked trails to prevent erosion and to protect delicate ecosystems". The bastard!)

Yes, the doors exist. I promise.

But only on Salt Spring can you look for fairy doors on one of your hikes!

Rejoicing on the top of Mount Erskine after discovering the 3rd of 6 doors!

Also, only on Salt Spring:

- Can you tour a beautiful lavender farm and dream of one day living on/owning such a sacred and serene piece of property

The orchard, with stunningly beautiful barn/log house in background. I want to live there:
Inside the yurt dedicated to yoga and meditation. I have a thing for yurts:

A close-up of the dream house:

And in the window of the dream house, a chakra light catcher:

This is how serene I would be if I lived at the lavender farm. And not just because of the lavender working its essential oil magic:

We came back from a mere two days on Salt Spring feeling like we had experienced a whole week's vacation... Simply put: it was amazing, and I can't wait to go back.

Note to people somewhere in the general Pacific Northwest area: July 6 is not only my dear mother's birthday-- it is also the day of the annual Lavender Festival at the Sacred Mountain Lavender Farm. Check it out!

Just a Thought

2008-06-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Tourism B.C. and B.C. Parks,

There's something to be said about decent maps and trail markers. As a diverse and gorgeous province, you have a wealth of stunning hiking trails, most of which can be used as tasty bait to lure adventurous tourists inside the provincial boundaries. (And once they are in, they are sure to spend money.) However, the hikes themselves are not enough. You know what visitors really need? DECENT MAPS AND TRAIL MARKERS.

Not everyone who checks out the hiking trails in B.C. is navigationally savvy. And even those that are would still like to know a few critical details about a hike before embarking on it. For example:

1. How do I get myself to the trail head?

2. How long is the hike? (Better if this is measured in good old kilometres, rather than by time, because the last time I checked, not everybody hikes at the same speed)

3. Where will the hike take me? I.e. what is the route?

4. How do I get back to my car (or bicycle, or the road) when I am finished the hike? Is this a loop trail or an out-and-back?

Seems pretty simple, right? Then why, B.C., oh why, on one of your most beautiful Gulf Islands, can you not provide clear and consistent answers to these basic questions in any of your visitor information provided materials?

An example might help to illustrate this point. My dear husband and I ventured onto beautiful Salt Spring Island this past weekend. We were excited to take in the Saturday market in Ganges and to experience some of the hiking trails that Salt Spring had to offer. We were armed with a hiking trails guide book, and we also stopped by the Visitor Information Centre to retrieve maps of some popular hiking trails. We were prepared. Or so we thought.

One of the hikes we attempted was to Baynes Peak on Mount Maxwell. Our guide book provided the following instructions to drive to the trailhead:

"On Fulford-Ganges Road... turn southwest onto Cranberry Road to Hobbs Road. Swing left (south) at the T-Junction and take Mount Maxwell Road to the main parking lot. The pavement ends at the 4km mark. Parts of the 9km route may be rough. The road is not suited to trailers and RVs"
--- from Hiking Trails II: South-Central Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands

OK, so we were on Mount Maxwell Road in no time. As soon as we turned onto the road, the pavement ended. That must mean 5 km to the main parking lot, then? Sure.

Well, five or so kilometres later, we were indeed in the main parking lot, but said parking lot, unbeknownst to us, actually represented the end of the hike, not the trailhead. There were picnic tables full of families who had driven up for the day, and nary a hiking boot nor bead of sweat was evident on any one of them.

This is how we came to hike down a mountain, rather than up. If you are ever thinking of doing this one day, it's not really recommended. For one thing, nothing beats the exhilarated rush of scaling a mountain by foot and finally being rewarded with a spectacular view. Honestly, it's kind of anti-climactic going from majestic panoramics up above to dark moss down below tree level. Still nice, but anti-climactic. Secondly, going down a mountain from the get-go means you still have to go back up to return to your vehicle. So the pain and suffering of the whole ordeal gets moved to the end of the hike. Come on. You sweat on the way up (at the BEGINNING) and scamper all carefree-like on the way down (AT THE END). That's how it should go.

In any case, down the mountain we hiked, following our 'trusty' visitor information centre-provided map and also consulting our 'very concise and clear' hiking guide book instructions:

Instructions: "At Baynes Peak (4), you will find the best viewpoint... The main viewing area near the sheer bluffs is fenced. From here you can hike northwest to find more viewpoints. The walk back to (1) is clearly marked. You can pick a route through open forest (2) where there is limited roadside parking. If you follow the park road east about 300m you'll find a minor, sometimes indistinct, trail (3) which winds through salal mainly along the north boundary. There are no trail markers. You can estimate the boundary by the size of the trees within the park... Avoid the south side trails: some are extremely dangerous. Only the trails from (4) to (1) are maintained."

Um, yeah. "Surprisingly" (truly, I'm shocked), we got a little lost on the hike. We started off on what must have been the south side trails... not marked at all. Beautiful and well-trodden, but not at all marked.

Marty posing next to the "Extremely Precipitous Dangerous Drop-Off", which had so lovingly been written onto our hand-drawn map.

In 45 minutes or so, we came to a dead end and the road back up. We were so not going to "hike" the road back up (so rustic!), so we crossed the road and discovered another trail. This one was marked with neon orange reflective tape and sometimes with neon orange reflective tiles that had been nailed onto trees. We figured we must be somewhere back on the mysterious route from "(4) to (1)", but even when walking in a straight line on the same trail, we discovered that some of the tiles had the number 2 scrawled on them, whereas others had the number 1, the number 3, the number 5 (?), and even "Gary's Trail" etched in permanent marker on them. So where the hell were we?

Don't get me wrong: the trail was still beautiful, and we were pretty certain that we would get back to our van so long as we eventually hiked "up". But how long would it take? Did we have enough food and water? Would we make it to the lavender farm afterward in time to take a tour before it closed? How much longer was this trail? To all of these questions, we didn't have the foggiest idea of an answer.

More time passed in the confusing sea of randomly numbered tiles, and suddenly we came across this:

Some other hiker, it seemed, had clearly been frustrated in this forest before and had taken it upon himself to laminate a little card of directions and hammer it to a tree. How thoughtful. And then again, soon after heading in the direction that was so helpfully pointed out by Mr. Lamination, we saw another novel trail marker:

This just happens to be a lid from a yogurt container that has been scribbled on in permanent marker and tacked to another tree! Note to B.C.: when your hikers have to resort to guerrilla trail marking tactics, perhaps it is time to invest in some DECENT (and preferably topographical) MAPS AND TRAIL MARKERS. Come on now!

The laminated sign and the yogurt containers proved to be the most clear directions we had received all weekend. We instinctively trusted in these rudimentary signs, even though their directions led us through a jumbled sea of more tiles marked 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and now "Frosty Trail". Eventually, we ended up back at the top, taking in the majestic views (again-- and this time at least a little sweaty), but cursing our stupid, not to scale, hand-drawn map, and our convoluted guide book.

We arrived at the lavender farm exactly 4 minutes before they officially closed. Luckily, we were still able to tour the farm on our own time. But B.C, had we known exactly how long the trail was and exactly where it was going, we could have planned our hike accordingly and finished it up with oodles of time to spare. A novel concept, I know, but come on... all the other provinces are doing it.

Hopelessly Devoted To You

2008-06-06T06:42:00.000-07:00

Back in Calgary, I used to work out at the U of C Fitness Centre. At the time, some of my friends bought memberships to other gyms, feeling that the Fitness Centre at school was much too elitist and meat market-y (many Olympic athletes train there, and yeah-- I can definitely see how it might be a wee intimidating). I was too cheap (and broke) to explore other options. I figured that since the cost of my Fitness Centre membership was included (and mandatory) in my school fees, I might as well take full advantage of it.

Truthfully, I didn't find the U of C gym to be too elitist or full of bar stars, but it could be because I used to work out at the ungodly hour of 6 am. At that time of the morning, all of the people looking to score their next date at the gym were usually still hungover and/or sleeping... bless their hungover hearts. No, during my time there, I was typically joined by a handful of elderly U of C alumni who would faithfully do their gentle walks around the track. That was that, and life was good.

When we first moved to Victoria, Marty and I bought memberships to the least expensive club around: the local Rec Centre. It had many things going for it-- it was cheap, it had recently been renovated, and it was within a few minutes' walk of our apartment. However, it was also crowded and small. And did I mention crowded? I hated it there and only managed to drag my grumbling ass over there for a few measly workouts. For being the least expensive gym in town, I sure ended up paying an exorbitant amount of money per workout, if you're a geek like me and divide the total costs of things by the number of times you use them. (You know who you are!)

After my membership expired at ye olde Rec Centre, I hurried over to the YMCA to give that a go. What a difference! It's large, well-equipped (with both equipment and a variety of fitness classes), diverse, and just a few blocks away from my work. Plus, I'm now able to see why my friends gave up the U of C to come to a Y: every size and shape of person works out at the Y, and it's way less intimidating than the U of C could be. At the Y, you still see people working out in the latest Lululemon attire, but you also see a wide array of people sweating it out in an oversized 80s T-shirt and a ratty old pair of shorts. And yes, there are the people who are carefully groomed and well-manicured at the Y, but then there are also those who are more disheveled and who don't give a rat's ass what they look like for their workout.

I love it there. I like not giving a passing thought to the fact that my own workout attire is now a full 10 years old (and a little droopy on the bottom half... bought back in the day when bigger/baggier meant better!). I like feeling like I am 'somewhere in the middle' of the crowd: not the shortest or tallest, not the thinnest or heaviest, not the coolest or most awkward, not the most athletic or coordinated but also not the least athletic and coordinated. Yes, yes-- the Y here takes away most of the pressure and distractions that can characterize the gym atmosphere and makes it possible to focus on the only thing that really matters there: my workout.

However...

I have developed a keen sense of self-consciousness in one area in particular. Despite the Y being home to a 'global village', mishmashed group of people working out, it still seems that mostly everyone has one thing in common: they all tend to sport an ipod or an mp3 player of sorts. Even the most disheveled looking old men in the faded neon t-shirts and shocking yellow short shorts have their ipod minis nestled discreetly in the armbands on their upper arms. I, on the other hand, still kick it old school. And by old school, I am not referring to the antiquities known as "discmans"; no, I'm talking about something a little bit more old school still.

I work out with one of those yellow Sony Sport walkmans affixed to the waistband of my pants. You know the ones... the ones like this (but more yellow, still) that were really cool in the 90s, when sweatbands and shimmery spandex leggings were the workout attire of choice. I still have one. It's big. And yellow. And instead of easily selecting which tracks to listen to while I'm sweating it out on the elliptical machine, I have to listen to the tracks on my mix tape (remember those?) in order. (Fastforwarding or rewinding is extremely slow on this machine and wastes the batteries big time). Plus, the 'auto flip' button on the walkman broke sometime... in the 90s, I'm sure... so when one side of the tape is finished, I have to suffer the awkwardness and embarrassment of opening the shell and manually flipping the tape. Oh, the shame!

I know that ipods and mp3 players have become so much more affordable than they used to be, and I also know that even the least technologically-adept of people can download music onto their ipods. So why don't I have one yet? I have no idea. I feel morbidly self-conscious flashing my giant cassette player around at the gym and yet... no ipod to make everything better at this point in time.

The truth is, I really like the mix tapes I made nearly a decade ago. I used to borrow random CDs from the library and record a song or two from each onto my tapes. Alas, I wasn't really clued into the whole 'demise of the cassette tape' trend until it was much, much too late. And now I have a bunch of really good (and random-- did I mention I didn't write down any of the artists or song titles? NON-REPLICABLE MIX TAPE MATERIAL. Very smart.) music on a bunch of tapes that need to be played in my hot yellow walkman.

Tell me how cool I am again?

Yeah, I know.

Wanted: A Czech Translator

2008-06-05T07:21:00.001-07:00

Marty and I are hoping that you, or somebody you know, can speak both fluent English and fluent Czech (at an adult level).

You see, possibly the most generous and wonderful woman we know in all of Czech Republic-- Zdena-- has fallen very ill with colon cancer. The prognosis is not good. Already, she looks and feels sickly enough that she is refusing to have any visitors, lest they see her in her weakened state. Marty's parents, who only visit their home country once every three years, had to settle for a visit with her husband alone, because Zdena was too uncomfortable to visit with them, too.

During our visit (we stayed in a suite in their house for nearly 3 months), Zdena was always happy to indulge my sweet tooth (and her own!) Pictured here with our favourite: Geisha brand chocolate bar.

We cried when we heard this news. Now, we are hoping to send her a heartfelt letter. Alas, there are two complicating factors:

1. Zdena only speaks Czech. She and I had many moments of laughter, trying to communicate without Marty acting as a translator. I know only enough Czech to tell her "nerozumim"-- I don't understand. Her English is limited to words like "happy" and "rainbow".

2. Marty's Czech vocabulary is not sophisticated enough to tell Zdena everything we feel in Czech. He was brought to Canada from CZ when he was only 8 years old, so his Czech is rather elementary (literally).

Are you able to translate our English letter into Czech? Do you know of somebody who can translate our letter for us?

We are happy to compensate you for your efforts. If you are interested and capable, please e-mail Marty at:

marty AT martycultural DOT com (marty@martycultural.com)

Thank you so much!

My Name Is Dana, and I Am A First Aid Attendant. Can I Help You?

2008-05-29T06:48:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I overcame a deep-seated dislike of blood and Little Anne dolls and managed to scrape by with my Level 1 First Aid training. It was only one day of learning, and yes, it's only Level 1, but I am proud to say I can now perform CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, artificial respiration, and the like. If I have to. But I hope I never will.

It all started when we realized at work that we were NOT AT ALL PREPARED in terms of safety. People seem to have a big fear of earthquakes here (I haven't yet been swayed to that mentality, but I guess I'll be the one who's sorry when the WHOLE OF VANCOUVER ISLAND sinks into the ocean by 15-20 metres because of some devastating earthquake. Or so I'm told.) We got to checking out our emergency earthquake kits in the office and discovered such delights as batteries that didn't work, dusty old blankets that gave me allergies, and a lack of things like shoes, whistles, and oh yeah- food supplies. So a safety committee was formed, and it was determined that, in addition to restocking the kits with fresh (and working!) supplies, a number of people on every floor should also be trained in first aid. Just in case. I volunteered.

Having first aid training is like donating blood, I figure: everybody urges you to do it, and everybody reminds you how many lives can be saved if and when you do it, and the nagging voice inside my head agrees with everything that is being argued in favour of doing it, but I never could bring myself to just go out and get first aid or to donate blood. Not donating blood was easy to rationalize: I have low iron, or I just had a piercing, or I was just in a foreign country, etc., etc. I could always find some reason to get out of donating blood. But first aid? The only reason why I secretly never learned before was because of those dreaded Annie dolls.

The last experience I had with an Annie doll was quite traumatic. Don't laugh-- it's true. I was participating in the P.A.R.T.Y. program with my Grade 9 class at the Foothills Hospital. For those of you not familiar with the program, it's basically designed to sway young people-- by any possible means-- not to drink and drive. You see graphic slide shows of car wrecks and detached feet or limbs, get heart wrenching presentations from people who have been affected personally by impaired driving or who have lost somebody to the same, see x-rays of broken bones and stab wounds from people who were injured by an impaired person, and even eat your lunch with a 'disability' caused by impaired driving (e.g. having to eat your lunch with oven mitts on to simulate the loss of fine motor skills). I was devastated by the PARTY program. I came home from it completely weeping, and a few years later, my sister had to leave the program early because she just couldn't tolerate the sadness and intensity of it all. Plus, there were those Annie dolls.

In the ER and ICU, they had Annie dolls hooked up to various machines to show us young people what might happen in the event of an impaired driving crash. I was fine looking at x-rays of actual injuries and real people's cracked skulls, but for some reason, I nearly fainted every time I came into contact with an Annie doll. Hearing the fake blood chorus through fake Annie's veins made me sick to my stomach, and upon seeing poor Annie hooked up to a respirator, I had to be escorted, fainting, out of the room by an alarmed nurse who kept shouting at me to "take my hands out of my pockets!" I positively could not handle those Annie dolls.

Long story short: volunteering to take First Aid training was kind of a big deal for me, because I KNEW we would be dealing with those Annie dolls and that I would have to face my nausea and feelings of faintness full-on. No wimping out here: 3 of my other coworkers would be training on the same day as well, and I didn't want them to have to report back to work that I failed the training because I fainted on sight of the Annie doll...

And? More than 15 years have passed since my first experience with Annie. I did okay yesterday. There were a few times when I feared I might throw up a little bit into Annie's mouth while I performed artificial respiration on her, but it never happened. I would just take a few seconds of rest, toughen up, and get back to saving her plastic life. On the flip side: I was really good at the whole communication part. I talked a mile a minute to Annie while trying to rescue her, and my instructor kept urging the rest of the students to be like me, "Keep talking to the casualty: let her know what you're doing!".

The funny thing is: I'm pretty sure I will be fine performing first aid on an actual, living person. (If I have to. But I hope I never will.) It's just those plastic creepy dolls that make me feel dizzy and sick. Curse you, Annie.

There's Something You Should Know

2008-05-18T07:39:00.000-07:00

After nearly 27 years of getting to know myself, I have come to the resounding conclusion that I am simply incapable of carrying on 'as usual' if I know I am being watched or observed. Positively, utterly incapable. Reams of data, yielded from informal studies conducted since 1981 reveal that I, in fact, am a prime example of what psychologists like to call the 'observer effect'.

As our dear Wikipedia points out, "the effect refers to how people change their behaviour when aware of being watched". Yes, my friends, if I know I am being watched, or more importantly if I suspect I am being monitored or evaluated, I will transform into the best possible version of myself, so as to score the most points, 'A' grades, kudos, or whatever it is that is being handed out. I can't help it. I fear failing at something like I fear being mauled by bears in the remote Alaskan wilderness. It's genetic.

The problem is that this observer-effect thing easily turns into a vicious circle, in which I-- by default and unfortunate human conditioning-- instantly change my behaviour but am simultaneously aware that I am changing my behaviour because of this thing called the observer effect. Then the academic side of me tells myself not to change my behaviour even though I am being observed, and then I become hypervigilant about my behaviour and change it anyway, and then whoever is observing me thinks 'wow, that Dana L. sure is neurotic and sketchy', and then I become even more neurotic and sketchy and wonder just how I used to behave before I knew I was being watched. It's exhausting.

On the flip side, though, the observer effect can also lead to great things in my life. If I know I'm going to be watched or evaluated, and I know I'm going to modify my behaviour because of it, I can use the opportunity to change for the better. So when my (wonderful) doctor told me to keep a diet and exercise diary for two weeks, and to 'not modify anything' just for the sake of looking good in my diary, I decided that since me not changing anything was about as likely as me going hiking in the remote Alaskan wilderness with an outfit made of raw meat and juicy berries, I was going to take full advantage of the observer effect and become Super Fabulous Dana L.

Before starting my diet diary, I was eating rather well during the week but letting everything fall apart on the weekends. Since I started writing things down, though, unnecessary sweets and treats (and other things like coffee and cheese) have simply been eliminated from my diet. Likewise, before making notes of the exercise I was doing, sure I was walking to and from work everyday, but I was also taking an unfortunate (and extended) break from the gym and felt my lungs burn every time I had to ride my bike. Lo and behold, since starting my diet and exercise diary, I have made it to the gym 3 times each week (and liked it!), plus I've also taken to the outdoors with Marty much more than usual. Just yesterday, we cycled 40 km on the Galloping Goose trail! (The sunshine helps. A lot.)

These images are both part of a mural that is found along the Galloping Goose trail. Incredible.

I don't omit things in my diary or lie about what I've eaten or the exercise I've done. So if I have to eat out or if I skip a workout, that will get noted in my diary. However, the odds of me eating something crappy or deciding I just don't feel like a workout now are much, much slimmer. This is a good thing, no?

I figure my doctor is an educated man who knows all about the observer effect and that I will change my behaviour even though he has told me not to. I also figure that even if I miraculously managed to keep everything exactly the same, my doctor would look at my diary and tell me to omit things like coffee and cheese and to exercise more, anyway. By modifying my behaviour, I figure, I'm actually jumping ahead a step and making it unnecessary for him to waste an appointment by pointing out the obvious. So it's like I'm doing us both a favour.

Scent of a Woman, Revisited

2008-05-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

A while back, I had wondered aloud how I must smell to other people. I'm pretty much a soap and water kind of girl, save for my Tom's of Maine deodorant, but how was I to know how that smell got translated in the nostrils of others-- others who were heavily laden with perfumes and colognes?

Well, the other day, I was given a clue.

It happened in a laundromat-- our laundry room is closed for renovations this week (sucks), so I was rockin' it, bachelor-suite style, at our nearest laundromat. I had our Borax all ready to go, and then another woman stepped up to the machine beside me.

Her: Oh, you smell so good! Like a vegetarian! Are you a vegetarian?
Me: (perturbed and a little taken aback) Um, yes?
Her: I knew it! I can always smell a vegetarian! (blathers on about her bionic nose and how she hates working out next to meat eaters)
Me: (still perturbed and taken aback, but also a little bit... relieved.) Mm-hmm.

So there you have it-- bionic nose woman says so: I smell like a vegetarian. And apparently, that smells good.

I Betcha Our New Doctor Can Levitate

2008-05-09T07:11:00.000-07:00

Well, you'll be pleased to know that Marty and I both 'passed' the compatibility test during our first appointments with our new doctor. With flying colours. That doctor is completely on the same page as us, health philosophy-wise, it just makes me want to sing and dance with sheer joy!

My first visit lasted nearly an hour (with a doctor!), and we covered everything from past health history, to current health issues, to health goals, relationships, spiritual beliefs and practices, exercise and diet. It was a thorough visit in all the right ways, and such a refreshing change from medical practice as I've known it for... my whole life. (Disclaimer: I did love my sweet doctor in Calgary, but there were definitely some times when his diagnoses or prescriptions would just make me cringe. Like the time I had spotting between periods, and my doctor recommended doing an intra-uterine scope to see if I had a dysfunctional uterus. My naturopath prescribed B-Complex vitamins instead, and that was the end of that. Le sigh.)

Anyway, for the first time:

- We've found a doctor who practices a vegan lifestyle and who therefore will be highly unlikely to tell us to eat meat. (I'd be a little shocked if he did. And by 'little', I mean my jaw would drop so low it would cause me to tip forward and collapse on the floor.)

- I've mentioned that I practice Fertility Awareness Methods of birth control and have not been scolded about its infamous (but mostly alleged) unreliability. (His response was "It sounds like you've found a method that works for you and that helps keep you aware about the goings-on in your body") I LOVE IT!!

- We've discovered a doctor who is willing to work on the foundations of health -- sleep, diet, exercise, and stress -- before he'll even consider moving on to any sort of pharmaceutical. (Actually, he'll help balance the foundations of health, and then move on to herbs/homeopathy/acupuncture if there's still imbalance. If imbalance remains after THAT, then he might reluctantly prescribe a drug. That's perfect for us!)

- I walked out of a doctor's appointment with a prescription that looked like this:

Yep- he recommended a book I should read to learn more about Ayurvedic Medicine, and he also wants me to take a diet diary for two weeks. What a wonderful world!

All in all, I'm completely impressed. Even though Dr. S. might not be right for everybody (i.e. some people just want the codeine, and that's it), he is completely perfect for Marty and I. Soon, we will be fully conversant in matters of doshas, yogic practices, and qi meridians, and oh yeah-- we'll be vibrant and healthy to boot!

The Return to Blogging: In Which I Say "Screw Physio" and Decide to Listen to My Own Body

2008-05-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

I used to work at a sexual health clinic back in Calgary. Every day, no matter what, we would inevitably remind one of our clients that 'she knew her own body best', and that 'she also knew what was best for her'. It was true. There was no way any of us could decide for another person what method of birth control should be used or what course of action should be taken in the face of an unplanned pregnancy. 'You know your body best': Sage advice from the mouths of babes.

Well, in the spirit of knowing my own body best, I've said NUTS to physiotherapy and gone back to see my wonder acupuncturist. Screw the splinting for 24 hours a day. Screw thinking I have nerve damage all of a sudden. Screw the idea of taking extra strength Advils 3 times a day for a whole week, when I only ever use regular strength Advil a few times a year, and even then it's only if I'm pretty convinced I'm going to die of pain unless I take a painkiller/anti-inflammatory. Screw not knitting or blogging but working on an effin' computer for 8 whole hours a day at work! Just screw it all (I know, so jaded).

After feeling extremely sorry for myself and dutifully following my physio's instructions for a few days, it suddenly hit me: "I know my own body best, and I also know what's best for me.' And seriously-- physio only seemed to be making things worse for my forearms, not better. So off came the splints and in went the needles.

It's not that I don't think my physiotherapist is skilled and knowledgeable or that physiotherapy in general is a bloody waste of time-- not at all. It's just that acupuncture seems to work in harmony with my body and mind, whereas physio seems to work against it. For me.

What this all means is that I'm tentatively taking up blogging again (after a whole week and some hiatus-- I know my absence was hard on all of us) and that in a few weeks' time (I have it all planned out), I'm even more tentatively going to resume knitting again. I'm certainly not throwing caution to the wind or working my arms so hard that they only get worse. I'm just starting to listen to my body again. And my body, in borderline masochistic fashion, seems to be saying 'no thanks' to massage, heat packs, and gentle ultrasound therapy; and 'yes, please' to needles in my forehead, forearms, shoulders, back, hands, knees, and feet (in between my toes, even!)

And Now, To The OTHER Extrem(ities)

2008-04-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

I thought it was bad news when my forearms started getting sore after too much knitting and/or keyboarding.

'Oh no', I thought to myself-- 'I'll have to knit and blog less! How sad is that?!'

And so I started knitting and blogging less. Reluctantly. This goes without saying.

After cutting back a bit on my hobbies, it seemed like a good time to try some strengthening exercises for my arms and wrists-- you know, to get things all nice and strong so that my pain threshold would be much higher the next time I felt like knitting an afghan or two. I went back to the place I used to work for some physio and was told to do some reps using cans of beans as a weight.

One mighty pound of weight. 'Ha!', I laughed. 'What sort of wimp needs to start off with one pound weights?'

Needless to say, given my cocky attitude, after a week of the strengthening exercises, my forearms were such a mess. It hurt to lift that stupid one pound can of beans. At my next physio appointment, I was demoted to a can of tomato paste for my exercises. A half pound of resistance. I burned with shame.

I thought it was really bad news to get kicked back to a half pound of weight for strengthening exercises. I felt wholly below average in the forearm strength department, and plus-- the exercises were getting in the way of me knitting and blogging. I started to find that my arms would hurt after only 10 or so minutes of knitting or typing. No good. At all.

Things got even worse when the half pound of weight proved too much for my VERY IRRITATED tendons. I was shocked at my own weakness and felt a very pronounced dislike for that can of tomato paste. How could something so small and benign induce so much pain?

I was given night splints at my next physio appointment. I was told to stop doing my strengthening exercises altogether and to also stop things like knitting and... well... typing. BUT FOR THE SAKE OF THIS POST, let's pretend that I was only told to stop knitting. Which I did. Reluctantly so. I also started wearing my chic 1980s Madonna/early '90s rollerblading fashion splints to bed. (They're black with an 'athletic' mesh on the back. Very hot, I can assure you, in an early 90s kind of way.)

The funny thing was, after a week of wearing my splints to bed, my forearms felt WORSE, not better. I was then put into full-time splinting, save for showers and hand washing. That was last Monday.

At my appointment today, after a week and a half of breaking in my splints like a new pair of shoes, we determined that my forearms are, in fact, not any better at all. What does this mean, exactly? Well, it means that I've probably got a little bit more than bilateral tendonitis going on.

We've already eliminated pretty much everything that could have been aggravating my arms (save for typing. That's my job, even if I'm doing it a lot slower lately in these giant-- but sexy-- splints). So we've determined that I most likely have some scar tissue on my nerves and/or some nerve damage proper.

HOW BAD IS THAT NEWS??!

No knitting. As little typing as I can get away with (so brace yourself for a possible drought in the blogosphere). I can't even chop vegetables or do a SuDoku puzzle at lunch! (I love SuDoku.)

This blows.

The only upside to this (aside from being able to singlehandedly bring back some early '90s fashion... now where did I stash my fluorescents and ripped denim??) is knowing that this HOPEFULLY should not be permanent. After my nerves and tendons have calmed down a bit (OK, a lot), I should be able to do those pesky exercises and to work my strength up to the point where I'm able to do the things I enjoy in moderation. Plus, if the splinting, massage, ultrasound, arnica treatments, and/or anti-inflammatories don't work, I do happen to know from past experience what really helps with the tendonitis:

A 3 month holiday in Europe. Doctor's orders.

Going to Extrem(ities)

2008-04-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

My aunt offered to give me a pedicure yesterday. I was hesitant to accept her offer, partly because I never know exactly where to draw the line between acceptable and unacceptable interactions with family (i.e. do I really want somebody related to me to rub my nasty feet??), but mostly I was hesitant because I think my feet are pretty... shall we say 'rustic'. Let's just say they're not exactly known for their delicate and feminine features.

I warned my aunt that my feet have never experienced anything even mildly resembling a pedicure and that furthermore, they have been subjected to repeated callous-building activities such as hiking and cycling over many years. I was trying to be professional but honest about their condition, without going into graphic detail about the rough patches, the long-standing blisters, and the thing that resembled a hole through my foot. I secretly hoped that the talk-about-callouses would be enough to throw her off and to rethink the generous offer.
It didn't work, though-- her offer still stood. As she put it: "Dana, you're going to love your beautiful feet when we are finished with you." I was skeptical-- nay, dubious. And inside, alarm bells were clanging and I wanted to blurt out to her 'NO! SAVE YOURSELF!! RUN AWAY-- RUN FAR, FAR AWAY!!"

She penciled me in for 11:30 on Saturday morning. Not sure exactly what pedicure protocol entailed, I planned to ride my bike to the appointment. She quickly shot this brilliant idea down and reminded me that I needed to wear open-toed shoes to enable my nail polish to dry. 'NAIL POLISH??!', I thought- 'what the hell am I getting myself into?!' True, I used to own close to 200 (!!) shades of nail polish when I was in junior high and early high school and true, my toes were never au naturel for a solid 5 years, but that was nearly 10 years ago. A lot had changed. Open toed shoes? Nail polish?! This would be.... different.

Of course, it snowed yesterday morning on the way to the appointment. Luckily, I wasn't riding my bike, but I still couldn't imagine not putting on my socks after the appointment was over. It was cold. And I was afraid. (And as an aside... note to Victoria: it's APRIL. And you're snowing?! What's going on?)

The appointment itself was entirely unexpected. There were soaks and scrubs and files and creams and pumice stones and even though everything felt fabulous and luxurious, I was still tentative. In my mind-- try as I might-- I could not bridge the giant gulf between the pampering and the everyday treatment of my feet. I kept looking at my feet all clean and soft and pretty... and then thinking of them slipping into my rugged hiking boots. It seemed like such a sad waste of my aunt's precious time and energy to get my feet all gussied up for what- My bike ride to work?

I emerged from my appointment, toenails glowing a "Night on the Town" red (but kind of freezing in my open toed shoes) and feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction, guilt, and thankfulness. Satisfied and thankful to have my feet made pretty, if only for a little while, but guilty because I knew I would not be able to maintain any level of prettiness on my own. Unless I suddenly became afflicted with the 'make yourself more feminine' sickness, but I'm pretty sure I'm immune. What can I say? My feet were made for trekking, and no amount of scrubbing or polish will ever hide that fact.

My Own Personal Jesus

2008-04-16T07:21:00.000-07:00

Could the day get any better?

Not only did I just manage to sneak Depeche Mode into my post (still experiencing a little obsession of the teenage variety), but I also received a phone call from GOD'S MESSENGER herself just yesterday!

It looks like God-- or, more appropriately, Dr. God-- has accepted Marty and I into his select circle of chosen ones. In other words: we are that much closer to having a family doctor in Victoria! And not just any doctor, no-- the very same wonder doctor that we were hoping for, against all odds.

Now we just need to pass the 'first visit' compatibility test... Our appointments are booked for early May (because God has a pretty packed schedule, obviously), and you can bet we'll be on our most saintly behaviour. No "can you please perform a healing miracle on my disease-infested body" or "can you please teach me how to walk on water" here... no, siree. We'll just be plain, ordinary, everyday church mice: meek and with a touch of holy fear. Obviously.

Home of the Afraid of Everything

2008-04-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

Before I begin: Yes, I completely ripped the blog post title off from the now-defunct The President's Blog. Just giving credit.

And now....

Back in 2004, Marty and I ventured up to Alaska.

We had been dating for 7 months by that time, and this trip, in many people's eyes (including our own), was the true test of our compatibility. Alaska had many things to offer: stunning scenery, challenging hikes, and both flora and fauna we had never even dreamed of in our tiny prairie-raised brains.

But it also had its fair share of things that might put strain on any budding relationship: limited opportunities to bathe or shower, giant mosquitoes that wouldn't hesitate to bite you on the most private of body parts, and ubiquitous backcountry dangers that made it impractical and unsafe to spend any time apart. The fact is, in Alaska, sometimes the choice comes down to "stick together and live" or "go it alone and potentially die in the remote wilderness". It's the truth, and for two people who both generally believed that they required extensive alone time in order to thrive, the idea of spending 6 solid weeks together was a wee bit daunting...

Anyway, after driving thousands and thousands of kilometres northwest, we finally crossed into Alaska and were immediately alerted to some of the many things we should fear in that great land:

1. Forest fires. Half of the Yukon on the drive up had been charred by a recent fire, and we were warned that sometimes fires prevented access to "the only road back to Canada". We prayed that the road would miraculously still be open when the time came for us to return home.

2. Subhuman temperatures.

Sure, on the ground it was sometimes in the 20s Celsius/70s Fahrenheit, but on the alpine ridges, there were glaciers and icy rivers that necessitated the use of toques and mitts. We were warned to not freeze to death, for heaven's sake. That would only inconvenience the already-busy (and for the most part, volunteer) rescue crews, having to fetch our frozen carcasses from the top of a mountain. 'Amateurs', they would mutter as they strapped our blue bodies onto a rescue sled-- 'We told you not to freeze to death. Geez.'

3. Tsunamis/Earthquakes!

Alaska has a sordid history of intense weather events, including tsunamis, earthquakes, and oh yeah, the Exxon oil spill (wait- does that count as a weather event? No?! Sorry.) And even though it's beautiful (and encouraged!) to camp on a spit that stretches into the middle of the sea, it's also important to be aware that, in the event of a tsunami, there will be no hope of running to safety like the little man on the sign. You will be the first to die. Nice!

4. Sasquatches. Of course. Who doesn't fear the mighty sasquatch?

5. Mosquitoes. They are jokingly referred to as Alaska's state bird, but the authorities there were adamant that we stave off the dreaded West Nile virus by dousing ourselves in safe, all-natural DEET. Right... BUT WE DID IT! And then hiked for hours every day. And then didn't shower for a week afterward because there were no showers to be found in all of Alaska. So we were caked full of dirt, DEET, stink, sweat, and sunscreen. So classy!

6. Bears.

And even for the people who were well prepared weather-wise, and who didn't need to get back to Canada on the only road out, and who put no stock in make-believe things like sasquatches, and who had a 'live-free and die-hard' attitude in the face of potential tsunamis, and who wore DEET like it was going out of style-- as a god-fearing being, they had better be afraid of bears. They were everywhere. And they petrified me.

Some of you might be aware that in my pre-Marty time, I had hiked a total of zero kilometres and zero metres. There were many reasons for this, but the fact remains that this Alaska trip was a super huge deal to me. a) I was excited to put my new and still-fledgling hiking skillz to the ultimate test (in Alaska!!) and b) I wanted nothing more than to impress the love of my life with my madd trekking skillz. I was more than head over heels for Marty at this point (perhaps I was heels over head over heels), and there was absolutely no way I would jeopardize his returning love for me by being any of the following: slow, unskilled, awkward, unprepared, or afraid. More than anything, I didn't want to be afraid, but did I mention the bears? THEY WERE EVERYWHERE!

I suffered through a great many things in Alaska: cuts, bruises, aching muscles, collapsed arches in my feet, mosquito bites in every place imaginable (including at least 20 ON MY ASS!), up to seven days in a row without a shower (the stench of it all!), and even a first-time (and scorching!) case of hemorrhoids (not that y'all need to know that... I'm just illustrating a point). The truth is, I had a giant smile on my face throughout all of those afflictions-- Alaska was great, and I was having an amazing time! But the bears... I had an extremely hard time working through my all-consuming anxiety about bears.

We were likely the only people in the entire state of Alaska who were not enjoying the scenery from the safety of a giant, fully-equipped RV. No. We were tenting it... every. single. night. And most of those nights, I would be worried about bears. Marty had an amazing knack for falling asleep the moment he closed his beautiful eyes, but I would stay awake most nights, gripped with fear until somehow I exhausted myself into a fitful sleep. Waking up to giant, fresh footsteps (like the ones pictured above) a mere 15 feet away from our tent did not help, nor did the ubiquitous pamphlets and posters that detailed in excruciating detail what you should do in the event of a confrontation with a bear (i.e. remember to cover the back of your neck when you're curled up in the fetal position so the bear's powerful jaws do not BITE YOUR HEAD OFF! BECAUSE THEY CAN!) In the end, I survived (and for the most part, LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF THE TRIP), but I must confess how deliriously happy I was to come home and sleep soundly, without fear of bears.

Moving to the island has been like a dream come true for this bear-fearing soul. Yes, I know that the island is still technically bear-country, but I like to think that it is bear-country in the same way that some chocolate bars could technically contain nuts or soy products. No big deal-- nothing to fear. Our hikes to date here have consisted of nothing but lush plants and stunning ocean views:

... and not once have I even been remotely afraid of a bear. Truthfully, they haven't even crossed my mind.

(cue foreshadowing scary music)

Yesterday, we jumped at the chance to soak in the first real sunshine of the year on the Coast Trail at East Sooke Regional Park. The weather was amazing, the views were delicious, and it was great to see Robertine again after giving her a mild anxiety attack when we finished our housesitting duties. (So sad!) We had a leisurely hike, choosing to sit on almost every sunbaked rock we came across (there were lots) and to simply stare at the ocean.

During one of the stretches we were actually hiking, we came across a HUGE pile of crap which was unlike any scat we'd ever encountered before. It was green, sludgy, and encapsulated in a jelly-like sac. (No photos to show, I'm afraid... who takes pictures of crap?) Upon closer inspection, we realized it wasn't scat at all-- it was a remnant organ (bladder? stomach?) of some sorry animal who had been taken down right on the trail. Tufts of fur and some (really pitiful) leg bones were off to one side, with most of the flesh eaten away. Surprisingly, me, the eternally-afraid-of-bears one, was not at all afraid at that point. Mildly disgusted, yes, but afraid? Not at all. I thought (rather naively, I might add) that some sick or old animal had simply crawled onto the trail to die and had then proceeded to be eaten by the crows and other non-threatening wild animals. We continued on the trail.

As we lounged on yet another rock a few dozen metres up, we gushed to each other about what a perfect day it was and how wonderful it was to be out on a hike. Then Robertine went completely silent and still. Barely breathing for a while, she stared intently into the thick forest and sniffed tentatively. A low and quiet growl came from her mouth.

Surprisingly, me, the eternally-afraid-of-bears one, was not at all afraid at that point. STILL. Who the hell knows what my mind was figuring then? That another dog-- a Yorkie, perhaps-- was hiding in the bushes, off the beaten path? That a chipmunk (the bane of Robertine's existence) was taunting her from a not-so-distant tree?! For some reason, it did not at all occur to me that something large and predatory, a cougar or even GOD FORBID A BEAR, was protecting what was left of its dead prey and stalking us for getting too close. Like I said, my mind has been completely wiped off all things bear or cougar-related since moving to the island. Blissfully wiped.

It wasn't until Marty, bless his heart, said something along the lines of us needing to keep moving so we could hopefully appease the jealous, hungry soul of whatever-it-was-that-killed-that-unidentified-animal-on-the-trail and let it know that we weren't at all interested in that leftover bladder that it hit me: THERE WAS A BEAR OR COUGAR ON THE TRAIL AND IT WAS POSSIBLY VERY UPSET WITH US!!!

Like a child who bears witness to a gruesome crime, my innocence was shattered. Suddenly I was afraid again. Very afraid. I did not want to die on that trail on such a beautiful day, or any day for that matter! I didn't want to curl up in any fetal position or to cover my neck with my hands! I didn't want to have anything bad happen to me, Marty, or especially Robertine! But most of all-- I didn't want to be afraid.

So I stopped. Consciously stopped being scared.

I was cautious for the rest of the hike, yes. But afraid? No. And sure, I felt more alert and more aware of any rustling sounds on the way back, yes. But I wasn't afraid-- not like I had been in Alaska. I figured: SCREW IT. Yes, I promise to be in awe of nature and to revel in the majestic and powerful creatures that roam in the forests. But no, I will not let fear of the unknown take control of me anymore if I can help it. It's simply too breathtaking out here to let the nagging 'what ifs' take hold of me. Screw it.

Wednesday Love List-- Are YOU Feeling the Love?

2008-04-09T07:28:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday, dear readers, and that means a couple of things for Marty and I:

1. The start of the Flames/Sharks hockey series. Yes, we'll be watching.
2. This year's edition of housesitting and looking after Robertine for a month is coming to a close. Her owner returns from Arizona tonight, and so we'll be packing up our things and moving on out.

We've loved taking care of Robertine, and it's been excellent living in a house so close to a beautiful beach. However, I've got a bit of a hankering to come home. I'm ready to be back in our tiny, one-bedroom apartment. Hence, my love list today is devoted to my home.

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT OUR ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT

1. HEAT! We had a total chill the entire time we were housesitting. Granted, the weather has been cold and wet lately, but still. Turning up the heat did not help. Having a bath did not help, either, mainly because the water only trickles from the tap there and pretty much cools off by the time it gets into the tub (i.e. immediately). Our apartment, on the other hand, has glorious UNLIMITED heat included in our rent-- screw global warming, dear-- let's crank it!!

2. A tub/shower faucet with decent water pressure. Remember that Seinfeld episode with the shower heads and Kramer's flat hair? Yep. No more of that, either.

3. Our computer! The computer there did crazy things and erased e-mails and blog posts at whim.

4. Our bed. Big enough that it's not like sleeping in a crib for adults and totally free of dog hair.

5. Getting to sleep in on weekends for however long we feel like it... no getting woken up by the tinkling of a dog collar at 6 am or by our very brave part-time dog barking at anything that moves. (What a protector!)

6. The mundane routines of ordinary life! It was always so sad leaving for errands or ANYTHING and having those puppy dog eyes staring sadly, straight into your SOUL. Come on, Robertine, I was raised Catholic-- I have enough guilt already!

7. Living in Oak Bay. I don't care if it's a little bit (read: a lot) upper-class and snobbish at times (read: almost always). I'll dive right in and say in my toity fake British accent. "Oh, us? We live in (pause for dramatic effect), OAK BAY." I love it here.

8. Living on the ground floor with our own little private garden. This way, Marty is able to indulge his midnight gardener tendencies.

9. Being close enough to walk to work, without taking hours and hours out of my day. Speaking of which... it's time to go.

Spread the love, dear readers, spread the love. Go!

A Friend, Indeed

2008-04-08T06:57:00.000-07:00

One of my closest and dearest friends has the sweetest child named Dylan.

I can't explain why, but Dylan and I have been magically connected since before he was born. Even though kids are OK in my books overall, since his birth, Dylan has managed to wriggle his sweet little soul right under my skin (in a good way), and to fill me with such a warm and cosmic glow. (Not to sound like a Scientologist or anything...) He's simply amazing, and even though I don't live in Calgary anymore and I don't get to see him very often at all, he still holds a very special place in my heart. Seriously... it's hard to resist his cuteness or his charm.

I've asked permission of Dylan's mom, Carolyn, to pass this note along:

___________________________________________________________

Hey everyone…

It has been another year, and again I will be walking for the Stroll for Liver on June 8 to honor my son Dylan.

I actually dread writing this only because the reality of the facts depresses me and sometimes living in an alternate universe where I don’t need to think about this calms me.

As most of you know, Dylan was diagnosed with a rare liver disease called Biliary Atresia when he was only 2 months old. Our world as we knew it crashed. How could this happen? I remember when we were at the hospital for those 2 weeks that nothing else mattered except for the health of our little one. I honestly don’t remember if I took a shower, ate and sometimes who I even talked to. I just wanted someone to tell me and know for a fact that he would be ok….and no one could…not even the medical professionals. That is because this type of liver disease is full of unknowns. No one knows what causes the disease, or what to do to prevent it. They do know though that it is not hereditary or contagious and cannot be attributed to any aspect of prenatal care. However, you can’t help but blame yourself because you carried this little being in you for 9 months and took care of him when he was born. The worst unknown is that there is no cure…YET!

Biliary Atresia is a chronic, progressive disease. Even with a successful Kasai (the major surgery he had when he was 2 months old to help with bile flow), 50% of patients will end up needing a liver transplant before the age of 5 and 80% before the age of 20. It is the number one cause of pediatric liver transplant. We pray everyday and hope that Dylan’s liver can hold out for a long time, and although we are extremely grateful that Dylan is doing well currently, one day his liver may lose this fight. We don’t know when this day will be, the doctors can’t even give us an estimate…it is a day-by-day thing and TODAY Dylan is doing wonderful. I watch him everyday amazed that he shines and teaches me about life. Sure I get depressed at times when I think of the stats but I can’t let that ruin the positive energy I try to give Dylan. My world is Dylan. I think I may even be a little obsessed with him…just a bit. And nothing hurts me more than to feel helpless.

That is why I am trying my best to get off my bum right now and do something about it. Without the money that goes to this foundation, no or limited research can be done to find a cure. To give you a little insight, cancer and heart disease currently receive 10 to 15 times more money each year for research. What hope does this give us that a cure will be found for liver disease? I remember that last year’s stroll for liver, our team ended up being the top in CANADA and we raised $13,000. OUR team from Calgary…TOP! And the total amount raised in all of Canada didn’t even reach their goal….not even half. What does that mean? Well first it means that there were a lot of generous people that support Dylan and his cause and love him, and second that means not enough is being done elsewhere to fund for this research. I cannot be ignorant to this fact…I still have very strong faith that a cure will be found in our life time….I have to.

The last thing I want to mention which really disturbs me is that even though transplant could be in the future ( I always say “could” instead of “would”, even though the doctors say “It is not if he will need a transplant, it is when”), it is not a cure....the 15 year life expectancy after transplant is 48%. Of course the thought of this makes our world crumble piece by piece.

Well there it is…the dreaded facts that I hate mentioning, but I thought it is important because most often if you see or talk to me, I will not tell you that, because it always brings me to tears, and at the same time I feel the need to remain positive and not think about that and be grateful for this day.

I can’t stress how important this is to us. The Canadian Liver Foundation is our hope for a cure. Nothing can be done without your help. Please support us on this walk by making a donation. If you would like to join us on this walk and help raise funds, you can join our team called “Dylan’s Dinosaurs” . This year our team goal is to beat last year’s goal of $13,000.

This disease is serious. The Liver Foundation not getting nearly enough money to fund for research is also serious. I cannot sit back and wait for a cure to magically appear. I will walk on that day. I will do anything for my baby…cuz he is my baby and I want him to live the life that we all enjoy.

You can help support me by making a secure online donation using your credit card. Click on the link below:

http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=1748462

If you are having trouble viewing the above web address, copy & paste the entire URL into the address bar of your browser.

Thank you for your support and hope to see you there!

--Carolyn

___________________________________________________________________________

Now, I know most of you do not know Dylan or Carolyn personally. Some of you do not even know me personally (for shame!), but I'm hopeful that the spirit of giving and helping out is not limited to our own individual circles of friends.

Giving to charity is a very personal decision, of course, but if everybody who reads this blog found it in themselves to donate even a little bit, we could help raise at least 15 bucks (right? mom? dad?!! the one other reader who visits this blog??) KIDDING!! I'm sure we could do way better than that!

It's up to each of you in the end, dear readers, to help out in the way that makes you feel comfortable. I won't love you any less no matter what you decide, but maybe I'll love you just a little bit more if you help Carolyn meet and beat this year's goal... (Again kidding. Kind of.)

Thank you!

Doctor, Doctor-- Give Me the News

2008-04-03T07:26:00.000-07:00

So it's been a year and a half-ish since Marty and I moved to Victoria. During that time, I think we've both needed to see a doctor twice. Nothing serious, of course, but both times we were forced to visit a dreaded walk-in clinic, seeing as we don't have a family doctor yet.

The other day I decided it was high time for us to look into getting a GP. But I didn't want us to have just any GP, no: I wanted us to have the most bestest GP in all of Victorialand. Ideally, this person would be an MD with a flair for integrative medicine; somebody who wouldn't necessarily push a prescription down our throats if ever we visited; somebody who would recommend things like yoga and tai chi as therapy. Yeah, I wanted us one of those GPs.

Luckily, Victoria has a list of "Wholistic Medical Doctors" that can be downloaded from the internet and direct one's search. Not so luckily, most of these doctors are flat out busy for the rest of their professional lives and have receptionists who merely laugh at you when you ask them if they are accepting new patients. One of the women I spoke with even went so far as to tell me that Dr. So-and-So would never be taking new patients, because everybody he has right now in his practice would be with him 'to the death'. (And presumably those patients will never die, either. Not even one of them. Under his magical care? NEVER!)

Anyway, after scratching off one wholistic GP after another, I finally found one who would be accepting applications for new patients the very next day! (This, I learned, was a once a year occurrence, too, so it felt very serendipitous to me that I happened to phone them that morning.) There were a few catches to this application process, however:

1. Only 40 applications would be handed out on a first come, first serve basis.
2. The clinic reserved the right to reject applications as they saw fit. (So getting an application didn't guarantee getting a doctor.)
3. Even applications that were accepted might not be accepted into Dr. Also-Magic's private practice... they might get stuck with a regular Dr. Joe Blow doctor from the same clinic. Ech.

Basically, there were no guarantees whatsoever. Did I care? Of course not. I was positively determined to land us our magical GP, and doing almost anything for the sake of the doctor who practices Ayurvedic medicine (!), nutrition (!), reiki (!!), and hosts meditation workshops every Saturday (!!!) seemed worth the chance.

I rode my bike to the clinic VERY EARLY the next morning to stand in line. I was not the first one there, or even the twentieth person there. I was still in the top 40 (thank god!), but man, were there ever a ton of people already waiting. Some had arrived at 6:30 for applications that would be handed out at 9 am. I felt so callous, seeing older-than-old women huddled over their walkers and mothers with young babies behind me in line. Ordinarily, I would be falling over myself to offer them seats, open doors, back massages-- WHATEVER THEY NEEDED, but that morning, all I could think was 'back off! I got here first!' Heaven forbid they get one of MY applications.

After an hour and some in line, they finally started handing out applications. I scored one each for Marty and I, but I noticed many people behind me weren't so lucky. After all that wait, they simply got told that there were no more applications to be given out. How insane!

We carefully filled out our applications, not wanting to sound too sick or too healthy. We wanted all of our concerns to sound like they were perfectly tailored to Dr. Also-Magic's skill set. I dropped them back off the next morning, and now all we do is wait. They say it takes up to one month to review all of the applications. Some will be rejected outright. Others will be offered a first visit to 'assess their compatibility' with the practitioners at the clinic. I am SO HOPING to be in the lucky few who not only make it pass the first round and the first visit, but who also make it into the LIFELONG PARTNERSHIP with Dr. Also Magic. After all, if we ever manage to get ourselves under his care, Marty and I are basically assured eternal life. See you all in the 30th century! (right.)

Only YOU Can Prevent Forest Fires and Other Such Accidents

2008-03-25T07:24:00.001-07:00

Today I am sporting the biggest, most purple, most tender, and most preventable bruise EVER in my 26 year history. On Easter Sunday, as I was taking a garbage bag down to the bin, I slipped and fell down a set of stairs. Hard. Luckily I only have a nasty bruise and not some broken bones or dislocated elbows/shoulders/fingers to show for it. However... had I listened carefully to mascots like Smokey the Bear or that War Amps robot kid ("I can put my arm back on.... you can't"), I probably wouldn't have slipped and fell in the first place. Le sigh.

They say hindsight has 20/20 vision, yes? Well, in retrospect, there are at least 3 THINGS that I could have done differently to avoid taking such a tumble:

1. I could have moved the garbage to the bin at a later time. Did I mention there was a torrential downpour at the time when I took the garbage out? And that the stairs are painted wood stairs that practically turn into skating rinks when they are wet? No? I neglected to mention those details? Ahem..

Don't let the rays of (after-the-fact) sunshine fool you... these stairs are nothing short of DEADLY in the rain!

2. I could have dressed myself properly for the conditions. Yes, I did slap on my rain jacket, but no-- I opted not to go with the Shoes With Good Grips for the occasion. Instead, I kept my stellar Bosnian Slippers on, stuffed them into Marty's Birkenstocks (a full 2 or 3 or even 4 sizes too big for me) and headed outside. The shame.

The slippers. What can I say? I just hate to take them off. Ever.

The sandals. What can I say? They were at the back door, and my Shoes With Good Grips were all the way at the front door. And god knows, the GARBAGE COULD NOT WAIT to be taken outside. Even though the torrential downpour only ended up lasting about 20 minutes. And even though the garbage does not get picked up until April 1. So many things to look back on with regret...

3. I could have held onto the railing. But I didn't want to get wet.

(clears throat awkwardly). This is how I came to fall HARD on my sweatpants-clad ASS a mere two steps in to the 8-step journey. And yes, now I have a horrific, cringe-inducing bruise to show for it. Let this be a lesson for all of us, no? Chores can wait, but asses are irreplaceable.

Soul for Sale

2008-03-19T07:10:00.001-07:00

I like to think of myself as somebody who isn't easily swayed by a cheap marketing gimmick-- you know, someone who is edgy, intelligent, media savvy, and even a little bit cynical. Of course, all of these intentions melt away when I am face to face with the tea section in any store. Call me weak: I am simply a sucker for tea bag/loose tea marketing.

I was recently sunk (as in hooked and lined) by Yogi brand tea. Yes, it's bagged, but it's much easier to do bagged than loose tea at work. Anyway, I love everything about this tea: the lotus designs on the outside (and inside!) of the boxes, the cheesy little yoga posture on the side of the box (e.g. 'a posture for relaxation', 'a posture for enhanced creativity'), and I especially love the little drops of wisdom printed on the tag of every tea bag. It's like getting a miniature horoscope or fortune with every single cup! (And you know me: I am nothing if not full of hearts for a good horoscope.) I like to think that the fortunes on the tea bags give me something to reflect on as I go about my busy day, but it's probably just another cheap and easy way for the Yogi company to bolster up my brand loyalty. Well, Yogi company: I'm sold. I sign my soul over to YOU.

A few days ago, I received this dose of particularly warm wisdom:

And let them come to me, I did. Guess who is now the proud owner of the softest and most gorgeous little scarflette ever?

Me!! I've always thought Kathy's work was incredibly beautiful, but I never imagined how SOFT and completely like WEARING YOUR OWN LITTLE SILVER-LINED CLOUD FROM HEAVEN these scarflettes would be! It is positively the most dreamy thing that has ever lovingly embellished my throat, and I swear to you all, I would sleep and shower in it every single day if I could. I love it so much.

Also included in my package from the Slocan valley? This:

Made with love by Kathy the Great as well. My mind spins with the possibility of what this gorgeous skein can become, but for now I'm happy just placing it on a mantle of sorts and bowing down every time I pass. (OK, OK, Kathy-- you can own a little bit of my soul, too. As long as you don't mind sharing with Yogi. And Mason... as in the jars.)

No, I Haven't Died

2008-03-11T07:14:00.000-07:00

I know I've been a little stingy in the posting department as of late, but I can assure you I have decent reasons. Mostly? Hiking!

(OK, OK... this isn't so much 'hiking' as it is 'exploring the rustic setting of the Craigdarroch Castle'. Ahem. I stand corrected. But HEY, IT WAS SUNNY OUTSIDE!)

We've also been very much occupied taking care of our precious part-time-turned-full-time-for-a-little-while dog!

What can I say... as soon as the sunshine peeks through those clouds, I am SO OUT OF THE HOUSE! Hence... nothing much in that cursed posting dept. Meh. You'd be outside, too, if you were me.

Anyway, we completed the big move over to our home-away-from-home last night, and now we're all set to look after Robertine for a whole month while her owner is getting better in sunny Arizona. This means walks every day, evening walks to the beach every night, and extended walks/hikes every weekend. We sound like such a personals ad, 'enjoy[ing] long walks on the beach, watching sunsets, and taking in the gorgeous ocean scenery'. What a cushy life!

(Most) Pictures Are Worth A Thousand Words

2008-03-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

... except for these photos.

If these photos were to speak a thousand words each about the progress I'm making on my Adult Sized Underwater-Turned-Autumn-Leaves Afghan (my made up name- can you tell?), those words would mostly be ums and ers:

Um.... yeah:

Er... yeah!:

Um, er, yeah-- what she said:

First of all, it's hard for me to do justice to the blanket-in-progress just by lying it on my apartment carpet and snapping some pictures. I accept this (sort of). The shadow from our patio door doesn't help, nor does the fact that the carpet tugs on the wool a bit and makes the afghan edges look weirdly uneven and slovenly. I promise you I am not that sloppy a knitter. Ah, well-- these pictures are all I've got for the time being, so let's use our imaginations and fantasize about what a perfect blanket this will eventually be.

These are the first four strips out of 12 or 15 that will comprise the finished afghan. Once all of the strips have been made and sewn together, a border will also be knit and will of course look fabulous (can I get a witness?). Right now, if I were to lie down beside this blanket, it would be a foot and a half taller than me, and I'm 5'8". I think it will make a decent queen-sized afghan when it's all said and done, but first of all, I've got to get me through another 8 or 11 strips of nothing but garter stitch! Huzzah for mindless knitting!

Update: Math is Hard!

2008-02-26T17:42:00.000-08:00

Just kidding-- I haven't had to do any math in my new job yet. I did, however, come home from my first day at the new desk with a killer headache and a decided incapacity to keep my eyes open/focused on anything for any length of time. I'm still trying to determine if this was because of the (very bright) lights in my VERY OWN NEW OFFICE (did I mention the window? And my very own patio??), the staring-at-the-computer-all-day-long thing, the INTENSELY NASTY Febreze (Febreeze?) that somebody decided to drench our office hallway in, or the fact that I've been trying to wean myself off of the horrible Marty-is-away "diet" (which consists mostly of takeout sushi and loads of espresso flavoured chocolate) and have been experiencing intense caffeine withdrawal symptoms because of it. And I thought I was going to be so good and disciplined while he was away...

In related news, I positively cannot wait for Marty's return (tonight!!). I hate to sound like a suck, but this was the longest we've ever been apart since we met each other 4 and some years ago, and I found it rather rough. I got lots of cleaning and silly errands done, but I also managed to prove with empirical evidence that I have a wee bit of an emotional eating issue. And by issue, I mean that I ate nothing but CRAP the entire time Marty was away! (OK, OK-- I could have done much worse than takeout sushi, but I also could have done much better than German Cappuccino chocolate bars...) So much for that cleanse I did, and so long to fitting in my special pants. Le sigh.

Something.... Unexpected

2008-02-21T12:47:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would see the day when Salt 'n' Pepa's song Whatta Man would be used to refer to Jesus. But it was! Explicitly! By the girls themselves! In a church! And I saw it! (Just don't ask me how or why. I don't want to talk about it.)

Yes, a number of key lyrics were edited/omitted to make the whole performance seem less dirty and to get around the whole 'this is the VERY DEFINITION of sacrilege' thing. But still, Jesus?! Something just doesn't feel right about it. But I'll let you be your own judge...

The lyrics: (graciously just copied, pasted, and left here in their original early 90s glory, without the added benefit of my social commentary written in brackets. For the record, that commentary would be mostly "???????????????"s, "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"s, and various permutations and combinations of the two. But anyway...)

-------------------------------
Whatta Man

Yeah, yeah (Oooo)
Uh, hey hey
All right, yeah
Oooo

CHORUS
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man

I wanna take a minute or two, and give much respect due
To the man that's made a difference in my world
And although most men are ho's he flows on the down low
Cuz I never heard about him with another girl
But I don't sweat it because it's just pathetic
To let it get me involved in that he said/she said crowd
I know that ain't nobody perfect, I give props to those who deserve it
And believe me y'all, he's worth it
So here's to the future cuz we got through the past
I finally found somebody that can make me laugh(Ha ha ha)
You so crazyI think I wanna have your baby

CHORUS

My man is smooth like Barry, and his voice got bass
A body like Arnold with a Denzel face
He's smart like a doctor with a real good rep
And when he comes home he's relaxed with Pep
He always got a gift for me everytime I see him
A lot of snot-nosed ex-flames couldn't be him
He never ran a corny line once to me yet
So I give him stuff that he'll never forget
He keeps me on Cloud Nine just like the Temps
He's not a fake wannabe tryin' to be a pimp
He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans
He's a God-sent original, the man of my dreams

Yes, my man says he loves me, never says he loves me not
Tryin' to rush me good and touch me in the right spot
See other guys that I've had, they tried to play all that mac shit
But every time they tried I said, "That's not it"
But not this man, he's got the right potion
Baby, rub it down and make it smooth like lotion
Yeah, the ritual, highway to heaven
From seven to seven he's got me open like Seven Eleven
And yes, it's me that he's always choosin'
With him I'm never losin', and he knows that my name is not Susan
He always has heavy conversation for the mind
Which means a lot to me cuz good men are hard to find

CHORUS

My man gives real loving that's why I call him Killer
He's not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, he's a thriller
He takes his time and does everything right
Knocks me out with one shot for the rest of the night
He's a real smooth brother, never in a rush
And he gives me goose pimples with every single touch
Spends quality time with his kids when he can
Secure in his manhood cuz he's a real man
A lover and a fighter and he'll knock a knucker out
Don't take him for a sucker cuz that's not what he's about
Every time I need him, he always got my back
Never disrespectful cuz his mama taught him that

CHORUS (Fade out)
----------------------------------

Truly... could I even make this shit up?? I don't think so.

Scent of A Woman

2008-02-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding a tad preoccupied and more-than-a-tad strange, I have been thinking quite a bit about smells lately. I have been paying more attention than usual to the smells that linger after people brush by, and it has left me wondering what my own scent is-- do I leave a tell-tale odor behind? Something that people can recognize instantly as my own? And pray tell, is it a good smell or a bad one??

Mostly I've been noticing how suffocated and allergic I feel to all varieties of synthetic perfumes, from Ex'cla.ma'tion fragrance ("Make a Statement Without Saying a Word" is right!! Yuck!) all the way up to Coco Chanel. I'm not sure if there's a common denominator ingredient in all perfumes that sets me off, but seriously-- I just can't handle them. Neither can Marty (thank goodness for that. We can be soulmates in our immuno-fragility.)

It never used to be like this. I started off trying to rip off my best friend's 'signature fragrance' (it was Ex'cla.ma'tion) in Grade 6 or 7 but then quickly progressed to a marginally more expensive drugstore perfume called "Longing". (It was classy with a 'k'.) There were the years (or maybe just months) when I wore CK One along with every single person in my Grade 8 class (so unisex!) and then I capped my illustrious perfume career off with Gap Dream... or maybe it was Gap Sun or something else like it. Something Gap. Something early 90s.

And then one day, within the span of a few hours it seems, I became allergic. I secretly blame the woman who sat in front of my sister and I at the movie theatre. We were watching Titanic. We were probably swooning at the time, though we would vehemently deny it years later. We possibly even denied seeing Titanic at all. At least in the theatre. 2 or 3 separate times. In any case, you didn't hear this from me.

The woman sitting in front of us at the theatre must have had a full-blown phobia of smelling badly. I infer this because as part of her coping mechanisms, she proceeded to douse herself (and I do mean douse) with a nasty lilac-ish smelling concoction at least every 20-30 minutes during the movie. Might I remind you that Titanic is nearly 3 hours long?? (At least from what I've read... couldn't tell you from personal or repeated experiences or anything...) By the end of the movie, the scent of synthetic flowers had been burned through our nostrils and stuffed like cotton into our skulls. We tried blowing our noses to get the lilac out. It didn't help. (By this time, the smell had crusted on to every one of our nostril hairs, and they weren't letting go.) We tried changing our clothes and washing our hair. This did help, but unfortunately, that essence of fake lilac has been chemically imprinted into my soul forever. In a very bad way.

Today, I'm OK with the scent of essential oils and if I had to go with an artificially scented anything (like if somebody was forcing me to buy a Glade Plug-In at gunpoint or something), I'm best off with smells like citrus, lavender, or vanilla. Everything else-- flowers, 'spicy undertones', mountainy springy breezes, rainshowers, etc. are no good for me. This makes it pretty difficult to shop for things ranging from dish detergents (I use Ecover) to shampoos (Aveda) to air fresheners (um, Nag Champa, if needed?), but I manage.

I still wonder, though, what kind of scent I leave lingering when I pass by people in the halls? Is it an unscented scent? A 'natural' scent (whatever that means)? Hopefully I smell like my DoBeClean soap or even my Tom's Of Maine deodorant and not anything displeasing or nasty. Or perhaps my non-scent scent makes the people wearing Coco Chanel feel suffocated and allergic. There's a thought.

Something to Brighten Your Day

2008-02-18T18:16:00.000-08:00

I know that when you think of things that might brighten an otherwise drab or nondescript day, a terribly sad and disturbed baby face doesn't immediately come to mind. Unicorns and puppies MAYBE, but babies with obviously sad and/or angry eyebrows? Not usually. Conventional wisdom aside, though... is Lily cute or WHAT??!

Wednesday has affectionately dubbed this photo the "You're Not My Parents!" look. I love it. And lest you think she was one giant cranky pants on her first birthday, check out the raw, unfiltered, and unadulterated delight she exudes when discovering that the pyramid of rainbow-coloured plastic donuts is, indeed, being gifted to her:

(chin disappears into back-up chin and neck) We should all have something in this world that causes this much excitement/chins! Something to reflect upon... You may resume your regular activities now.

Let's Discuss: Hugh Grant

2008-02-17T16:15:00.000-08:00

If there is one (more) thing you should know about Marty, it is that he cannot stand Hugh Grant. At all. He has no tolerance for the man-- for his pretending- to- be- bashful- when- he- is- probably- incurably- conceited- in- real- life movie star smile, for playing many a slimeball, potentially without even needing to act, and for umpteen other reasons that Marty cannot clearly articulate-- it is enough for me to see his exaggerated eye rolling and to hear his hiss of sheer disdain to know without a doubt how Marty feels about Hugh. (It's like me with J. Lo movies.) The thing is, Marty is mostly unwavering in his anti-Hugh Grant stance, even when faced with persuasive movies like Love, Actually, which make it nearly impossible to feel anything but lightheaded and decidedly pro-love afterward. (In that case, Marty felt goofily pro-love afterward but still very much anti-Hugh. Some things never change.)

I certainly sympathize with Marty's feelings about Hugh Grant. I have an extremely hard time getting into movies where he is the object of attraction or affection-- I just don't find them believable or even plausible. I also don't actively seek out Hugh Grant movies when I'm going to the theatre or renting a movie, like "Oooh, Hugh Grant is in this?! Let's go see it, hon, pretty please???" Not a chance. Here's where Marty and I differ in our views on Hugh, though: I think Hugh does a pretty great job in his more smarmy roles. So what if he's not acting in them? I get a kick out of Hugh Grant playing scum.

Seeing as we have an unspoken 'no Hugh Grant' rule in our household, I usually only see his movies when Marty is away. (And for the record, this isn't because I'm 'finally casting off the yoke of Marty's irrational and totally unfair decree that thou shalt not watch Hugh Grant movies in my presence', it's more like I go to library to rent some DVDs while Marty is gone and a Hugh Grant movie just happens to be there. Let's get one thing straight, OK? I have no overriding urge to see Hugh Grant movies at all cost.) Anyway, back to the point:
one of my movies- to- watch- while- Marty- is- living- like- a- king- at- training- camp- in- California * (sniff!) was American Dreamz. Can I just say how much I loved this movie?

Tongue-in-cheek spoofs of American Idol + tongue-in-cheek spoofs of American politics = Recipe for a perfectly entertaining movie on a Sunday afternoon

Yes, it did technically star HUGH in a leading role, but I think that jazz hands, Superfreak, and Dennis Quaid using 'Gee-dammit' as a swear word have the potential to soften up any resistance, even Marty's stalwart "Just Say No To Hugh" stance. Just a thought.

* And to confirm: Yes, Marty is on his way to beautiful and sunny California for an intensive cycling training camp as we speak. It's not all roses, though-- he is expected to endure a 100- 160 km bike ride each and every day he's there. But anyway: as is always the case when he leaves, I sobbed like a little baby while I was bidding him farewell. It's like a reflex, this weeping: I have no control over it whatsoever, and even if I resolve that I will be stronger and less overcome by emotion the next time he goes on a trip of sorts, it never happens. Part of me wants to be more 'grown up' and stoic in the face of his leaving (especially because seriously: it's only for a few days!), but another part of me secretly never wants to become somebody who doesn't feel any sadness, even if it only lasts for a little while, when the person they love departs. I miss you, my dearest! xoxo

Wednesday, Wednesday

2008-02-16T09:15:00.000-08:00

The abridged life story of my middle sister, Wednesday:

1. Born in 1983; very soon overshadows me (her older sister by 20 months) in size, smarts, and cool factor.

2. Never one to be put in a box-- resists boxiness in all incarnations: cribs, stereotypes, sweaters that are too short and too wide at the same time, 80s haircuts, etc.

3. Some time in between elementary and junior high school, grows 5 (or 6 or 7) vertical inches but stays the same weight. Describes her new figure good-naturedly as a "ruler with apples on the front"; incurs silent admiration mixed with envy from her shorter, more curvaceous sisters.

4. Does not play "The Game". Wears everything from camera film to plastic farm animals in her hair, accepts an award for Highest Standing student at school wearing a grey 50s maid outfit and pink rubber gloves up to her elbows, and delivers a scathing (yet incredibly perceptive) critique of the junior high experience in her final project: while everyone else is writing yearbook-esque poems about 'never losing touch' and 'having a great time!', she delivers a mock Teen magazine cover with the headliner: "QUIZ: ARE YOU NORMAL?" Touche.

5. Decides to pursue a Fibre degree in art college. Finds her element.

6. Continues to make her older sister proud, amused, amazed, envious, and sometimes even a little bit horrified (but only when her outfits incorporate neon yellow and/or appliqued cat images. The above image does NOT fall into the 'making her older sister horrified' category. I love the Christmas-esque 80s workout attire. LOVE IT!)

Happy 25th birthday, Wednesday! I love you so much.

xo, li'l bro!

V.D.: Are You a Lover or a Fighter?

2008-02-14T06:52:00.000-08:00

Forget the glistening tear of the regretful 'if only I'd have known' variety: I happen to be a lover of Valentine's Day. Whether I've been single, dating, or married like I am now, I say you can't go wrong with a day that celebrates LOVE with CHOCOLATE! (Two of my favourite things!) True, I feel like the definition of love that gets celebrated on Valentine's Day proper is very hetero, straight-edged, and commercial, but still-- one can technically celebrate any kind of love on any day at all. Valentine's is just a great time to get everything in a red or pink wrapper and shaped like a heart! And chocolate! Did I mention the chocolate?

In honour of the Day of Love, and to pay homage to my New Favourite Blog of All Time, MegFowler.com, I am going to post my very own Love List!

(For those of you not yet in the know... and believe me, you should run right now to become in the know... OK, maybe not right now but perhaps after you finish reading MY post, Meg Fowler typically posts a weekly-ish Love List to chronicle things, people, and places that she's enamoured with for the moment. I love how specific, random, and always changing these lists are. Plus: When I read them, it makes my love for Mason jars feel AOK!)

Dana L.'s Love List: Because Really, What's NOT to Love?

- Marty
- Growing whole plants at home from single leaves or stems
- Thrift shopping
- Scoring priceless finds at thrift stores or used book stores (see: 'The Teenager and VD' example above. Priceless.)
- Tarot cards
- Decks of cards in general
- Rye bread with caraway seeds
- Lighthouses and windmills
- Religious icons
- Embroidery
- Alpaca wool
- Butter!
- Licorice Spice tea
- Depeche Mode, especially (at the moment), the Violator album
- Subtitled movies
- Found magazine

- The Astrological Clock in Prague

- Hummus! (All types: regular, roasted red pepper, roasted garlic, black bean, etc.)
- Sushi
- Listening to the same CD every night softly as I fall asleep
- Lavender
- Seeing crocuses sprouting up in FEBRUARY (February, people!)
- Finding new, non-saddlebag hiking pants
- Reading my horoscope at work; emailing it to Marty when it seems dead on
- Sending and receiving postcards
- Secretly plotting surprises for people I know
- Remembering random bits of information about people: scaring them a little if I bring said details up in conversation
- Our food processor
- Being an aunt but not a mom
- Reading blogs at work; stumbling across new blogs through other blogs
- Acupuncture
- Girl Guide patches
- NHL hockey
- My big pot of all natural beeswax lipgloss from The Beehive in Calgary (not to be confused with the Beehive here in Victoria)
- My retro 70's floor lamp, given to me FOR FREE by Janet
- signing notes as "Dana, M.A.", and putting my 6 years of postsecondary education to good use
- walking/hiking/kickboxing ASS enough that my muscles ache for days afterward
- making soup; feeling superior and extraordinarily healthy at work when my coworkers ask me if I made it myself
- making plans to knit amazing things; accumulating supplies to make amazing things
- red, pink, and orange things
- dance-offs and choreographed dance scenes
- 80s and 90s dance music, though only in small doses (What is love? Baby, don't hurt me!)
- Funny home videos... not America's Funniest, but something similar... especially reels with people falling down, slipping, or losing their balance. I know, I'm a horrible, horrible person

... and YOU?

(The tradition now is to either post a mini-list in the comments or to post your very own Love List on your blog and link to it in the comments! SPREAD THE LOVE, people! And Happy V.D.!)

When I grow up, I want to be just like Celia Deschin, Ph.D. Love those glasses!

Another Lesson Learned the Hard Way

2008-02-12T17:11:00.001-08:00

I had been following a gently cleansing diet for nearly 2 months before I went to Calgary last week. Yes, I also did the Wild Rose D-Tox as part of it. (I must have been inspired by Karen's tales of 'ass blasting trips to the loo'... or not.) Even though, from the outset, it sounds nearly impossible to stick to an eating plan that forbids such wonderful foods as:

- chocolate
- cheese (and yogurt. And dairy except for butter. BLESS BUTTER!)
- fermented foods including vinegar (no pickles!), tempeh, soy sauce, yeasts, and alcohol
- wheat and flour
- refined sugars, including honey
- caffeine
- tropical fruits like pineapple, mango, papaya, and even dried fruits and grapes

... I find my body really loves me back when I make a valiant attempt to cut the crap out. It (my body) rewards me in multiple ways for my efforts, like keeping my stomach regular-looking and not bloated out like a nine-month pregnant belly every night; keeping my skin clear and more elastic; affording me more energy and stamina; and even letting me slip back into my favourite pair of pants without busting any seams. (My ma bought them for me in Thailand, where the sizes go something like: XXXS, XXS, XS, S, or GIANT THAI FISHERMAN'S PANTS FOR MEN. Of course they will always be too small unless I'm very diligent. Very. Very. Diligent.)

'The Pants' when they fit, circa 2006. Please ignore the 'long-haired-cat-in-a-steam-bath' look of the top half. FOCUS ON THE BOTTOM HALF!

Alas, although a cleansing diet helps transform 'Dana L.' into 'SUPER FABULOUS Dana L.', one (major) downside to the regiment is that I'd need much more than imaginary super powers to keep it up while on the road or visiting with... pretty much anybody. (Aside from my equally-sensitive-to-nearly-every-food-on-this-earth friends, and I have to say, I have quite a few of them!) Try stopping at any restaurant or eating over at anybody's house and handing them a list of all the 'do not eat' foods. That would pretty much be your cue to leave... Thank goodness I'm a social recluse for the most part!

When we went to Calgary, I decided to adopt the 'resistance is futile' motto, especially because I knew we would be staying at my inlaws' place, where fried foods, white flour, and melted cheese reign queen. I figured that I had been eating so well and being so good for so long that I could afford to relax the rules a little bit-- nay, I even deserved a break from all my saintliness.

Let's never do that again, OK?

We celebrated Marty's belated birthday with one of his mom's specialties: a monstrosity of a cake that managed to combine nearly half of the 'not allowed' foods into one gloriously elaborate confection. In one sitting, I ate a piece of white, wheat flour cake mixed with COCONUT CHOCOLATE and filled with layers of pudding, whipped cream, and pineapples. Oh, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. (I declined the offer to wash it down with a glass of red wine.) Resistance is futile, right?

As I was eating the cake, I thought to myself: 'This isn't so bad. It's not like the sugar and flour and dairy and tropical fruits and chocolate are killing me'. But then I had to digest it all. And let's just say I might as well have strapped a john to my ass (no, not that kind of john-- THIS IS A DIRT FREE BLOG! Well, sort of. I am talking about ass-blasting trips to the loo after all...).

The problem with the whole situation is that I only know how terrible I felt afterward, but not what food specifically triggered the horribleness. The whole point of eliminating so many foods at once is to re-introduce them gradually, and one at a time, so that your body can tell you plain as day what feels good and what doesn't. None of this smörgåsbord of everything-bad-all-at-once.
So it's time to start over now, isn't it? On Sunday when we got back home, I made not one but two wholesome soups, and I've been diving back into the goodness of salads and grains again. And butter. Sweet, sweet butter.

Lessons learned: 1. Resistance is NOT futile. Vive le resistance! 2. When trying to strike a balance in the eating department, the balance does NOT consist of nothing-nothing-and-nothing on one hand, and sugar-wheat-flour-dairy-more dairy-chocolate-and-pineapples on the other. But wouldn't it be neat if it did?

Dear Calgary:

2008-02-11T07:38:00.001-08:00

After visiting you again on the fly for a few days last week, I have to say that I am wholly glad we broke up when I moved to the island a year and some ago. The long distance thing wouldn't have worked very well, and I have to say that I just can't deal with many of the things that go hand-in-hand with living together.

The floor mats in stores that are soaking wet with the snowy sludge of a thousand other people's dirty shoes? I don't miss those mats at all, and my pant hems also appreciate not getting doused anymore (although it is much more rainy here in Victoria than it ever will be in Calgary).

Crawling through traffic in a sea of Hummers and SUVs, spending hours on the Deerfoot just to get from Marty's parent's place to see my own family on the other side of town? I don't miss that, either.

Brown grass, salty roads, gravel and ice caked together where the adventurous dare to ride their bikes on the daily commute, so many people in a hurry all the time, biting wind that pierces through even the thickest of fleece/merino wool outfits, and temperatures that routinely change 30 or 40 degrees overnight (for better or for worse)-- I'm glad to be done with it all. Yes, Calgary, it was wise of us to end our long term relationship.

Our hot new van against the splendid (and green!) surroundings on the island

Our hot new van looking dirty and cold in the freezing conditions of Calgary. Notice the Traffic-esque cinematography of the blue hues. Nasty.

It's not all doom and gloom, though, Calgary-- although I have my issues, I am not so bitter an ex that all I can muster up is an unequivocal slam of you. Indeed, there are things I cherish about you and even miss about you. In no particular order (and not counting my family and friends-- those are just too obvious), these include:

Great falafels. Why oh why, in the restaurant capital of Canada, can I not seem to find a good, even a decent, falafel? There are some paltry imitations here in Victoria, but I have yet to stumble across anything that wins me over. Calgary, you still reign king in the falafel department.

Big skies. I always thought it was cliche and cowboyish to comment on the grandeur of prairie skies, but last Thursday, when the sky was mostly clear and the temperature was pleasantly mild, I saw more sky than I had seen in many months on the island. It was beautiful.

The MEC store. Two glorious levels of outdoor gear! Ach, Calgary-- you've left me pining for everything from hiking socks to full on kayaks!

Kananaskis. So close and so chock full of adventure! Also included in this category: a wide selection of detailed and accurate topographical maps of hiking trails. Why is there no such thing here on the island? Or random 'estimated distances' for island hikes? It doesn't help when the '4 km' hike ends up taking 4 whole hours! How are we supposed to plan our day trips that way??

The Farmer's Market at Currie Barracks. We have plenty of farmer's markets here in Vic, but nothing compares to the indoor goodness of the Calgary market and the sweetness of Lund's organic carrots.

Various restaurants: The Coup, Cadence, Diner Deluxe, Cedar's Deli, and Infusion restaurant out in Bragg Creek. Though I have to say, the sushi restaurants here in Victoria kick some serious ass, and the Blue Nile Ethiopian restaurant here gives our old favourite, Marathon, some stiff competition.

Yes, Calgary, you are complex and I feel love and non-love for you at the same time. Mostly, I love how you prepared me to fully appreciate the beautiful place I live now.

Time Goes By/So Slowly

2008-02-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

Oh, who am I kidding? One day, our little chops (or 'Chopz', as we like to call her- it's more festive that way) was resting peacefully in her incubator, a mere 4 and some pounds:

Then I blinked and it was her first birthday!

Rockin' the birthday suit for her first birthday! February 08, 2008

I have to say, she is an incredible little girl (even though the total time I have spent in her company still adds up to less than 12 hours). She is clever, a little bit devious (just like her mom!), gorgeous, and most importantly: healthy and happy. I wish she would have bared her actual chops for some photos during our drive-by visit... but no go. I am thrilled to bits that she sports a GIANT space in between her two front teeth-- at latest check, a whole two nickels worth! Aw... that means she's family!

Happy birthday, Lily! Go, C-H-O-P-Z!!!

"I Like Math?!" and other Shocking Realizations

2008-02-01T06:55:00.000-08:00

As much as we talk about the need to 'think outside the box', or about not wanting others to put us in a box, or to label us, or to define us by such narrow standards, the truth is that we often put ourselves into our own boxes without even realizing it. Our identities are so tied up with particular elements that their box-like status becomes invisible to us, until of course somebody exposes them for what they really are: damn hell ass boxes!

For the greater part of my life, I have put myself into various (but always cool, right?) boxes: the vegetarian box (which is of course made out of 100 % post-consumer materials and will be recycled if ever I choose to step out of it); the 'i hate to debate for the sake of debating' box, the chocoholic box, and the 'alternative' (whatever that means) box. Boxes I have religiously avoided or distanced myself from include the 'let's critically engage with the issues because we're scholars and that's what scholars do' box, the 'practicing Roman Catholic' box, and others that I will choose not to mention here, lest the sarcasm and subtle nuances of the descriptions be misinterpreted on the other end (and we don't want to give anybody a stroke now, do we?).

Anyway, one box that has never really crossed the path I identify with contains all sorts of math people: accountants, engineers, mathematicians, physicists, etc. I have many friends in said professions, but nothing about that math box ever enticed me enough to want to jump in. Despite my (totally fake) near-perfect averages in all my high school math classes, it was the subject I dropped out of my life as soon as I had the chance (bless the Faculty of Communication and Culture for that). In my mind, math and I just didn't jive. And if we ever did jive, it was because we were forced to, a la the social dance unit in junior high dance classes. In other words, math had the potential to be fun and exhilarating, but mostly it was awkward and disastrous in practice.

Getting to the point of this post (in a roundabout way), as I hinted last time, I have been feeling the blahs at my job lately. We were insanely busy for the last 4 months, and then all of a sudden everything stopped, and I was left surfing the internet for most of my days. I love surfing the net as much as anyone else, but when it comes down to it, I'd really prefer my job to be challenging, stimulating, and to keep me busy for the full 8 hours versus paying me just to sit there and be bored. Just saying.

I started looking for other work-- something different, and then I felt guilty for never being satisfied with where I am and for always keeping an eye out for something better. (I might not be a practicing Roman Catholic, but I certainly am a recovering one!) A new job was posted in my workplace, and 3 out of 5 managers asked me to please apply for it. But when I looked at the job description, at the scattered and vague job requirements, my first thought was 'I'd rather vomit'. So I kept my eyes wandering...

Yesterday, in the strange and auspicious voice of the universe, I was asked if I would consider applying for a vacant accounting assistant position in the organization, and strangely, I found myself saying yes. I SAID YES!!! This comes from the woman who swore off math like a bad habit, who dreads tax time every year (except for the refund part!), and who thought (up until a few hours ago) that numbers of all sorts were best used like a narcotic to induce a deep, coma-like sleep.

Since when are math and I best friends again... or, for that matter, at all?

How I can potentially rationalize this complete deviation from my norm:

1. I might not particularly like numbers, but I am very good at solving problems and finding patterns.
2. I have a secret crush on counting money and adding things up. (Just don't get me started on the subtraction business. Or any long division.)
3. Apparently, I am extremely good at entering in random codes and numbers at lightning speed, and having them be correct.
4. As much as I love the open-endedness and creativity of qualitative inquiry, I equally love it when there is only one right answer to any given problem. It's like the job description of accounting is to have things balance out-- each and every time, and honestly, who doesn't love balance?
5. Even if I cannot comprehend why on earth I would ever want to pursue something in accounting, I trust that when the universe practically drops a job in my lap, it's for a damn good reason. I just haven't got the foggiest idea what that reason could be yet.

The next steps (i.e. applying for the position, picking out a pair of sensible 'accounting' shoes and an equally sensible/conservative pair of glasses to wear on the job) are still in the works, so for the time being I'm still bored and surfing the internet at work. However, starting tomorrow, I have a whole week off, so I can sit back and let the universe orchestrate my next wacky adventure and you can all tune in to see it unfold when I get back!

Snowshoe Sabbatical

2008-01-28T07:01:00.000-08:00

We have lived on this glorious island for over a year now, but I'm (obviously) still pretty clueless about it. There are too many examples that I could use to illustrate this point, but allow me to select just one: this weekend we went snowshoeing, but up until that point (pretty much up until we pulled into the Mount Washington parking lot), I had no idea there was anywhere close-ish that boasted enough snow to merit us strapping on the snowshoes! This was despite the fact that many of my friends go up to Mount Washington to ski... I just assumed that the 'ski hill' they spoke of was a C.O.P. special-- full of freshly made 'snow' to attract all the hard core 'skiers'. I'll admit I was wrong about this. Very, very wrong. Sure, it was no 45 minute jaunt to Kananaskis, but even the 3 hour commute to and from the resort here was worth it- we love to snowshoe!!

Marty celebrated his big 3-7 yesterday, so snowshoeing was a perfect way to usher in his special day. It was also the perfect antidote to a less-than-perfect week, in which I grumbled nonstop about my job being boring and proceeded to take a self-proclaimed mental health day on Thursday. I literally walked into the door, signed myself in, paused for thought, signed myself back out and said 'SEE YA' to the non-profit world. At least for the day-- the next day I was back in my desk (but so productive! I should take a mental health day every single week!)

I could do this every day:

These Are a Few of My Favourite Things

2008-01-15T13:51:00.000-08:00

In case my mild OCD tendencies have not been obvious to date, allow me to detail my latest fascination. You see, I have large loves for many tiny things, and most of these things would certainly fail to thrill ordinary people in the slightest bit. To reason: Mason jars? Check! I collect them and put anything and everything I can into them.

Clothes pins? Ditto! Even though we have not had the luxury of a clothes line for a good 3 years now, I still harbour the pins and long for the day when our clothes will once again air dry outside, fastened to the line with the most stunning of jewel-toned clothes pins.

Rolls of coins, or the act of rolling loose change? Yes! I was over the moon when I discovered that part of my job would be to sort and count thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of spare change. 'I love counting coins!', I proclaimed when I saw the brimming bucketfuls that awaited me in the office upstairs. 'Don't say that too loudly', my coworker hushed, fearful of the ocean of coins that would soon threaten to drown me if others knew they could pawn the dreaded coin-counting job off on me. I didn't care. I was in absolute heaven counting all of that change and sorting it all into neat little stacks of 10, 20, or 50 coins. Plus, I was getting paid to do it! Imagine that!

My most recent squeals of delight are related to making sprouts. Now, the mere act of making things grow is tremendously rewarding in itself; however, sprouting becomes doubly exciting when you factor in the added bonus that I get to use some of my Mason jars to do it! (If I were James Brown, (and if James Brown were still alive), this is when I'd be melting down onto the stage and getting my sidekicks to rush over and cover me with a glittery cape. Headfake-- YOW!-- I'd get back up and keep shakin' that thang. It feels that good to make sprouts in my Mason jars.)

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was under the impression that sprouting was a difficult and time-consuming process. From my past life working at a natural foods grocery store, I had seen sprouting kits that you could buy, and I simply assumed that those kits were necessary components of the sprouting process. I had never bought a kit; ergo, I had never made sprouts before.

This past weekend, based on the extremely simple instructions in the Thrive Diet book, I decided to grow some mung bean sprouts. The directions:

1. Rinse seeds, nuts, or beans, and place in a clean jar. The beans (or whatever) should only fill a maximum of 1/4 jar (my experience suggests less than that, even, because these suckers GROW!). Then add purified or filtered water to the 3/4 jar mark and let the jar sit at room temperature overnight. No need to add a lid or anything to the jar at this stage.

2. Wake up in the morning and discover to your immense delight that the beans (or whatever) look puffy and swollen. The germinating process has begun! Drain water and rinse sprouts-to-be very well. Put back in the jar.

3. Put cheesecloth over the mouth of the jar and hold in place with an elastic band. (If only I could have worked clothes pins in there somewhere, this truly would have been an angelic process!) Turn jar upside down to drain any more water out and just let those suckers sit.

4. Whenever sprouts-to-be are looking a little dry, fill the jar with water, swish around, and then tip the jar and let the water drain through the cheesecloth again. I did this once or twice a day. If you're like me, you will have to transfer your sprouts into a larger jar because they just grow so huge!

Sorry for the crappy quality of the photo, but this is what you get when you're taking photos in the bathroom (!!) in the wee hours of the morning before you leave for work, or in my case, an acupuncture appt. The light just sucks.

5. Within 1-2 days, prepare to be amazed and astonished: In place of your dry beans, nuts, or seeds will be wholesome and delicious sprouts! Just like that! Eat with salads, on sandwiches, in wraps, or as a garnish for pretty much anything. Repeat steps 1-5 indefinitely, and mix things up in the seed department. YUM!

To the Dogs

2008-01-14T06:13:00.000-08:00

Even though I grew up with cats (at times, many cats-- enough to qualify me as a cat lady, even-- except I wasn't a lady yet), I have developed a strong fondness for dogs. Big dogs, especially. And one big dog in particular:

Our part time dog, Robertina. Our current apartment building does not allow dogs (especially large, excited, always-so-happy-to-see-us ones like her), but it's OK: we get to take Robertine on a walk every single weekend, and we're loving it. She waits for us patiently until we come pick her up, she's into our new van as much as we are (points!), and she has so much fun on the walks, it would be impossible for it not to rub off on us, too.

Bounding down Lone Tree Hill!

It's a win-win-win situation for everybody involved: her owner has chronic fatigue and likes to know that her dog is taken care of while she catches up on rest, we get to explore our beautiful surroundings with our FAVOURITE DOG EVER, and of course, Robertine gets to run free, scramble over mossy rocks, chase squirrels, and hang out with her boyfriend:

Putting the moves on Marty-- I'd say 'back off, bitch!' in a horrible pun, but the truth is Robertina and I have made an agreement: she can be the girlfriend as long as I still get to be the wife. Besides, Robertine is the only one I know who loves Marty as much as I do, so I'm cool with that. We relate.

Apparently, I Never Learn

2008-01-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

I mentioned a few posts ago that I have been a bad blogger and knitter as of late, due to an unfortunate case of bilateral tendonitis. It seems that everything I really enjoy doing involves repetitive movements of my hands, arms, and wrists, and geez-- even if I can't get enough knitting, my body sure can. Well, I've been remedying the situation by seeing an excellent acupuncturist. After 3 measly (and intensely relaxing) sessions, I was able to resume many of the activities I missed doing-- knitting being the most important one.

Well, seeing as I regained the use of my arms so easily and holistically, I decided that it was high time for me to undertake a project I've wanted to knit for a very long time: an entire damn knitted blanket! The original pattern is for a baby blanket in an "Underwater" colour theme, but with some fudged mathematical equations (i.e.: Baby blanket x 3ish for length x 3ish for width= Big Blanket), and a fancy for the shades of autumn leaves, I am adapting the project to be big enough for Marty and I.

Well, I have made it through the first strip of the pattern and part of the second one (photos to be added later-- Marty must have taken the camera on his bike ride this morning). Already, it has become apparent that I am a complete and utter fool. The nagging soreness in my arms has returned, and if my poor wrists could talk, they would strongly tsk-tsk me, I'm sure of it. Their lecture would be something along the lines of: "I know that you're excited to start knitting again, but really-- would it maybe be sufficient to knit a pair of mittens instead of knitting 500 rows of blanket and weaving in the ends all in one sitting??" Heh. When you put it that way...

I will have to return to my sweet (and hopefully understanding) acupuncturist this Friday to start the healing process all over again. It's OK, though-- I completely enjoy the feeling of the needles in my forearms (and sometimes my feet and ears!), and it's even better when she does some roving cupping on my back and shoulder muscles-- I don't even mind the resulting (huge, dark, questionable-looking) hickeys that linger for nearly a week afterward...

I [heart] Depeche Mode!

2008-01-05T10:49:00.000-08:00

Just recently, I stumbled into an intense, all-consuming obsession (the good way) with Depeche Mode. I can't say why or how this happened, exactly, but I can tell you that I haven't been this enthralled with a band since junior high, when I was outrageously in love with U2 and even nicknamed myself Bono while playing computer games (I know-- terribly cool, right?). We watched their live DVD "Touring the Angel" the other night, and I was positively blown away-- so much so, in fact, that I watched it AGAIN the very next night. Now, of course, I must. see. Depeche. live. in concert. I must.

I am now the unofficial President of the Teenage Depeche Mode Fanclub. Sure, I'm about 15 years late jumping on this bandwagon, but better late than never, right?

"Never Let Me Down" Live: I appreciate the jazz hands action of 80,000 fans, though it's not captured nearly as good in this video as it was in the official DVD.

So far, 2008 is PERFECT!

2008-01-03T06:50:00.000-08:00

Well, we are back from a quick jaunt into the temperate rainforests to ring in the new year. We spent a night camping at the illustrious French Beach, and for probably the first time in west coast history, it did not rain AT ALL on the 31st or the 1st! There's one for the record books!

It's amazing how different camping and hiking are here, compared to Kananaskis and Banff National Park, where we are used to spending time outdoors. In Alberta, there are plenty of things to be worried about when camping: bears, cougars, freezing to death, avalanches, falling through ice, getting caught in snowdrifts up to your head, etc., etc. Here, you still have to worry about bears and cougars, but most people say this tongue and cheek like there is only one Ogopogo-like bear that only the craziest people have actually ever "seen". Overall, though, for some reason, camping here never feels as dangerous-- it's like a gorgeous and inspiring Camping Lite.

This past holiday, we did discover something that you must absolutely fear here that you wouldn't even think about back in Alberta (aside from the tide coming in and swallowing your tent on the beach): FALLING TREES. Wind storms on the west coast, especially in winter, are commonplace and intense. Hence, we strategically put our tent in the mossy depths near a giant cedar tree and hoped to hell that it would shelter us in the event of a wind storm. Luckily, it did.

Unfortunately, the starfish weren't as lucky as we were in the overnight winds. We saw nearly 10 of these guys washed up on the shore, most of them already dead.

New Year's Day was spent hiking a mere 2 km on the epic 47 km Juan de Fuca Marine Coast Trail. What a beautiful hike!

Cozying up on Mystic Beach

Those measly 2 km (and back) made us hunger for more rainforest hiking, so hopefully I can book some time off of work STAT and make plans to do the whole thing-- finally!

I hope you have all enjoyed the 2 days of the new year as much as we have!

2007: Year in Review by Dana L.

2007-12-31T07:26:00.000-08:00

If 2006 was a year of endings, then 2007 will be remembered as a year of rebuilding. Marty and I slowly but surely transported our possessions from the "prairies" (ha- because Calgary is so prairie like!) to the beautiful island, and we also spent time building up our livelihoods in a brand new place. Marty went from a few alarmingly dry months of art sales here to having his best year ever, and I progressed from spending time at agonizingly horrible jobs to rekindling my interest and experience in the non-profit world.

One of the many trips back and forth in our Nomad to bring all of our stuff here to Victoria.

2007 feels like a cusp or a turning point, though-- not something complete or finite in and of itself. I have a clear sense that 2008 will be a whooshing journey into something completely different but completely incredible. As audible as a clock's ticking, I hear the countdown inside of me. This ticking, I'm relieved to tell you, is not coming from my biological clock (if I even have such a thing), but rather from my certainty that this, too, shall pass. I'm sure Marty's sales will increasingly come from people all over the world, and I'm hoping that 2008 will be the year when I finally begin to understand the direction my own career/life is heading.

My resolutions for 2008 are not resolutions in the traditional sense; rather, they are plans that I'm putting down on a makeshift 'To Do' List:

1. I'd like to read more books. I am only now just coming out of my academia-induced reading coma, wherein reading was no longer fun but required. In 2008, I'd like to read books that are not published by a university publishing house or other recognized scholarly printing press. Among the books that I'd like to (finally!) start are the Harry Potter series. (I wanted to wait until ALL the books were finished before I started the first one. Now I can go ahead and delve into a 4900-page odyssey!) Perhaps I shall even read some trash! Hooray for trash!

2. I would like to visit some of the Southern Gulf Islands. It's been over a year on this main island already, and yet I've never ventured onto one of the smaller islands. In 2008, Salt Spring-- here I come!

This little guy was spotted on our hike yesterday... along with over 30 of its kind! I had never seen so many jellyfish before, and they were all just relaxin' in the inlet.

3. I will take a vacation. God knows I need one. I don't even care where or how long-- I'm a little burnt out now and would love a few weeks to rejuvenate. (Of course, my mind's eye has already planned out elaborate trips to Peru, Scandinavia, Mongolia, and Mother Ukraine, but I'd be happy even spending a week on a lawnchair up island.)

And on that note, Marty and I will be spending New Year's Eve at the lovely (if not stormy) French Beach. We have welcomed a new addition into our family, and it's high time we start spending a little more time together.

Our SUPER FANTASTIC new Mitsubishi Delica van!! Straight from Japan! 4 wheel drive! Right hand drive! FOG LAMPS!!!!

See you all in the New Year!

Spaghetti (Squash) with Vegetable Marinara Sauce

2007-12-30T09:52:00.000-08:00

Marty is such a wonderful chef. He is spontaneous and discerning in the kitchen, and there has only ever been one dish of his that turned out horribly (and that was because everything burnt to the bottom of the pot and we still tried to eat it). The only problem with Marty's cooking is that he does everything on the fly. I have never once seen him use a recipe. It's great that everything of his turns out to be a masterpiece, but it's not so good when I need to replicate the meal for some reason... I'm getting better at shooting from the hip when it comes to the kitchen, but I still feel more comfortable with a recipe of sorts.

Marty is the mastermind behind our Boho Spaghetti Squash meal. In the post that follows, however, I will try to distill everything into a somewhat common sense recipe format. Luckily, it's not so technical of a meal that everything has to be precisely measured or cooked for x amount of seconds at y degree of heat. It's vegetarian cooking at its finest: seasonal, local, and SUPER EASY!

Spaghetti Squash Bowls

Ingredients:

- 1 spaghetti squash, cut in half, cored (i.e. spoon out the guts!), and sliced on each end so that it is able to stand up as a bowl after cooking
- seeds of the spaghetti squash, separated from the guts, washed, and set aside
- 1-2 tbsp oil or coconut oil for cooking
- 8-9 brown mushrooms, washed and sliced
- 1 eggplant, cubed
- 1 zucchini, sliced
- 2 or 3 carrots, sliced coarsely
- 2 or 3 stalks of celery, chopped
- 1 onion, sliced
- garlic and ginger to taste, minced
- 1 or 2 large cans of crushed tomatoes (depends on how saucy you want your sauce, on how many people will be eating, or on how many meals of leftovers you wish to have)
- salt and pepper to taste
- 1/2 tsp turmeric powder
- random spices to taste. We threw in a bit of cumin powder, oregano, and paprika.
- sprigs of parsley for garnish (optional)
- 1 tsp nutritional yeast for garnish (optional)

Directions:
1. Gently heat oil in large saucepan at a low temperature.
2. Add onions and saute with the lid on until just tender (2-3 minutes).
3. Add mushrooms, eggplant, ginger, garlic, carrots, and celery, and saute with lid on until vegetables are tender (5-8 minutes).
4. Add crushed tomatoes and spices and continue to simmer the sauce.
5. Add zucchini and gently simmer sauce until zucchini is slightly tender, but not soggy!

Meanwhile...
1. Place clean squash seeds on a baking pan, salt lightly, and place in oven or toaster oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Bake until seeds are slightly brown and popping. Remove from oven and set aside for garnish.

2. Bring 1-2 inches of water to a boil in a pot. Use 1 pot or pan for each half of squash.
3. Making sure that the squash has been scraped, de-seeded, and sliced cleanly on each end, place face down (like an upside down bowl) in the boiling water. Cover if possible and let cook for approximately 8-10 minutes, or until the inside of the squash is tender and easily scraped with a fork.

To serve:
1. Remove squash halves from boiling water and place face up (like a bowl) on a large plate. Because the tips of the squash have been cut before cooking, the bowl will stand upright but some slight leakage may still occur. Hence, the plate.
2. Fill the squash bowl with sauce until sauce is level with the rim of the squash.
3. Garnish with parsley, toasted squash seeds, and nutritional yeast if desired.

To eat:
1. Use a fork to scrape the inside of the squash. Delicate, spaghetti-like strands will peel off and can be eaten with the sauce-- YUM!!
2. Refill sauce if needed.

Note: The squash bowls provide a GIANT serving of food for an average human, even those with large appetites. When you have stuffed yourself full of spaghetti squash goodness, finish scraping off the inside of the squash and add to remaining sauce for leftovers. Voila! Delicious and nutritious.

Return of the Domestic Diva

2007-12-29T09:43:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought I had steered my life away from the life of a housewife, I heard it: the siren call of a food processor. Not just any food processor, either-- no. I heard the blissed out whir of an Onyx Black KitchenAid Food Processor, and I succumbed to it. Needless to say, the experience thus far has been orgasmic.

The baked falafel balls I like to make? The ones that busted the motor out of our first Braun Hand Mixer because they are a bit chewy and tough to blend? Oh yeah-- they whipped up like silk in our new KitchenAid. Silk, I tell you! And the green Thai curry paste ingredients that would have made my poor hands bleed had I attempted to chop them finely enough by hand? Oh yes, they emerged deliciously and impeccably smooth as well from our wonderful KitchenAid. I am in love- I am positive of it.

(An aside: since Terra seems to be living my very own life in a parallel universe, I don't need to tell you that Marty and I will be using our Kitchen Aid to start the Thrive Diet. She already scooped that post on her own blog, though she will be using the Magic Bullet Blender rather than the grand and irreplacable KitchenAid Food Processor. Just kidding, Terra. I'm sure it doesn't matter which food processor you use!)

And even though these pictures have nothing to do with our new food processor, I had to include them anyway, because we have become so gourmet in every way in the past few weeks. It must be the new dishes... And did you know that you can make a wonderful 'spaghetti' with sauce using a spaghetti squash as both a bowl and the actual spaghetti?? This thrills me to no end! I guess I really am a closet domestic diva. Incurably so, I'm afraid...

Sweet Solstice

2007-12-22T15:31:00.000-08:00

Here's to hoping your winter solstice was as blissful as ours:

We had been invited to, ahem, play pool by one of our friends to mark the occasion. Given our history of having incredibly special solstice celebrations, we were a tad crestfallen by the mere notion of going to an effin' pool hall for solstice. Thank goodness our eyes happened to glance over an advertisement for a traditional Celtic solstice gathering at a yurt (a yurt!) not too far out of the city a mere minute after we had reluctantly penciled 'play pool' into our daytimers.

The celebration was amazing, and I must say the property where it was held was pretty much my dream land. There was a gazebo, the yurt, a medicine wheel, and a regular home, too. I wish I had more photos of the ceremony to show, but it didn't seem appropriate to be snapping pictures while everyone else was blessing the yule log fire...

As is our tradition on solstice, Marty and I read our cards and we also drew runes.

(Our runes (just like us!) are extra special. They were gifted to us as a wedding present by one of Marty's friends. He retrieved the stones from the top of the sacred mountain Yamnuska in Kananaskis, die cast them with the rune symbols, and then painted them white. Funnily enough, both Marty and I drew the exact same runes we did when we first moved to Victoria ('Journey' and 'Opening').

This is the first year where it really doesn't feel like Christmas is right around the corner, and I kind of like it that way. In the spirit of leaving the nest for good, I'm all for establishing new holiday traditions, though we did purchase a new tree ornament this year again. Hence, this year for Christmas, Marty and I will be cozying up to watch a marathon of Desperate Housewives on DVD. How festive!

Open Letter from a Kitteh to a Bird

2007-12-19T06:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Bird,

Why have you not blogged in so long? You seem so close to me, yet so far away. I am forlorn. (Witness distant, forlorn expression in photo below. And above.)

Seriously, though-- how am I to be entertained all day if you are not keeping up with your blog? Even Ex-Nomad managed to claw her way back after an extended hiatus-- you can too! I may be a cat, but paper towel rolls can only provide so many hours (upon hours, upon hours) of entertainment...

Please come back to the blogosphere soon.

Love,
Your Cat

Ode to Czechs

2007-12-11T19:04:00.000-08:00

Having married into a Czech family, I've been afforded yet another impossible to pronounce last name, and I've also been given the golden opportunity to witness Czech cultural traditions as both an insider and an outsider. Let me tell you (as somebody who's in the know now), those Czechs are just plain WACKY!!!

Take, for instance, Krtek. Did you ever think that the Smurfs were outrageous and zany? Well, my friend, you have yet to witness the sheer brilliance that is the Krtek cartoon. Case in point:

(You really have to watch the whole clip for effect. As an added bonus, you get to find out how babies are made and born in just over 5 minutes! Try explaining THAT one to the kids before you put them to sleep!)

Another 'personal favourite' tradition comes on Easter Mondays, when all the Czech boys and men go whipping the women on their legs with twigs-- get this: to 'keep them young'. They also douse them with water, and are then rewarded by the girls with decorated eggs, ribbons, money, or shots of plum liquor, slivovice. (As Mr. T. would say, I pity the fool who tries to whip me and then expects to be rewarded for it!!)

There's a devil on St. Nicholas Day (December 6th) with a long tongue that walks around with a chain at night and scares you into confessing if you've been naughty or nice for Christmas;

(photo comes from here)

There's a troll, Hodnik, that lives in rivers and ponds and drowns you to steal your soul-- man, the Czechs are nothing if not imaginative!

One of the more tame traditions is that of name days. Everyone in Czech is named after a Czech saint, and each name is celebrated on particular day every year. When your name day comes around, it is celebrated much like a birthday, only it's you and everybody else in the country who has your name doing the celebrating. And if you happen to wake up in the morning and forget who's name day it is that day, no need to worry: they announce it on the morning news. So three things to note:

1. There are a finite amount of Czech names to go around. It's not like here in Canada where pretty much any name goes-- you either name your child one of the 365 Czech names or get permission from the government to deviate from the norm. (And if that's not hassle enough, imagine a lifetime of your children feeling left out because they are the only ones in the ENTIRE COUNTRY who don't get to celebrate a name day! Not fair= no good.)

2. In my (limited) experience, nobody in Czech has a middle name. That would mean more than one name day, and once again, that would not be fair.

3. I'm sure some people are named after the saint's name that falls on their actual birthday, but most people are named after a different saint so that they can celebrate BOTH a birthday and a name day. (E.g. Marty was born on January 27th, but the day to celebrate everybody named Martin is on November 11th). Those Czechs always have excuses to celebrate!

Anyway... (long preamble for a relatively short story): I am fortunate enough to have inadvertently been named after a Czech saint! (Put up your hands if you've ever heard of St. Dana... didn't think so.) Today (December 11th) just happens to be my (and every other Dana's) name day! Huzzah!

You can see if you've been blessed with a name day, too: check here. You can also see if there's a loose Czech translation for your decidedly non-Czech name here. Happy name day to me!

Exhibitionist

2007-12-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

The Christmas season is always busy for us, but not in the traditional 'Christmas shopping, Christmas parties, and holiday get-togethers' sense. No. (Thank god!!) Rather, as the holidays descend upon the frenzied masses of eager shoppers, we (and by 'we', I mean "Marty") traditionally gets inundated with commissions for custom pieces of artwork. 'Tis the season for all-nighters spent creating the perfect gift for your loved ones!

Work in progress: Log cabin in Field, BC. © Martin Machacek 2006-07

This year, in addition to his usual special orders, Marty was also invited to display his artwork at a Christmas Home Exhibition in Sooke. What a great idea! Over twenty-five artists participated in this particular exhibition, and even though I'm biased and somehow always seem to like Marty's artwork the best (I know, I know...), I got into the festive spirit and came home with a pretty snazzy new necklace!

Mini canvas necklace by Lisa Riehl, who by the way might just be my second favourite artist here on the island, after you know who!

The necklace is for myself. No gift-giving or Christmas knitting here... I'm great with spontaneous gift-giving, but tell me that it's expected to give somebody a gift because of such-and-such an occasion, and it just won't happen. Apologies to all of the babies who have gone without toques and booties because of this quirk of mine. Not to mention all of the friends who have wondered where various birthday/Christmas/housewarming/bridal shower/wedding gifts are... Just you wait until you get spontaneously gifted!

Excuses, Excuses

2007-12-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

During my extended absence, I accomplished a number of things:

1. I survived a pathetic writer's block crisis, in which I attended a well meaning creative writing workshop but emerged wondering if anything written 'authentically' had to be
written
with random spacing
and no punctuation
teenage poetry
straight from the soul.

Oh, God... That one little blip-of-a-workshop kept me from blogging for quite some time (months!!), as I wondered 'can sarcasm be authentic?', (fret!) 'is my dry sense of humour actually in line with my inner being?' (deep!) Blah, blah, yawn, yawn-- fortunately for me (and you), I have emerged from this catastrophe relatively unscathed. I might have reverted back to my pre-teen angst state for a time, but at least I didn't do it publicly. I like to maintain some standards of decency, after all.

2. I developed an acute case of bilateral tendonitis! This has been a huge factor in my not blogging as of late, because quite honestly, when I get home after a FULL DAY (or week, or month) of entering in pledges for our fundraising campaign at work, the LAST thing I want to do is get back on a computer and type away. My poor forearms! As much as I'm enjoying watching the money roll in, I'm a bit miffed that this same money has gotten in the way of some of my favourite things, namely blogging and knitting. (Yes, it's true, even though all I feel like doing is knitting mittens, scarves, toques, and AFGHANS, I haven't been able to muster enough wrist support to do anything of the sort. Hence, you'll have to make due with some outdated photos of FOs from the recent past):

Marty's 'autumn socks', complete with fitting 'fallen leaves' setting:

Lil Star's 'Bumblebee Toque', complete with non-matching outfit because Auntie Dana just HAD TO SEE her model it THE SECOND she arrived to visit:

I've been (slowly) trying to complete another pair of socks for Marty, but alas- those tiny needles and that sockweight yarn are not doing any favours for the forearms. Le sigh.

3. I've begun taking in the festivities that make up Christmas time in Victoria. So far, we have been to the Oak Bay Light Up (basically where all the shops in the Village plug in their Christmas lights at more or less the same time--- amazingly, this event attracted over 7000 PEOPLE!!)

Creepy Santa's elf 'making toys' to 'delight' the 'young ones':

$1 apple cider and a tantalizing preview of festivities still to come:

We also hauled our asses (and some coffee with Bailey's) to the totally awesome Lighted Truck Parade. This just happens to be my ALL TIME FAVOURITE Christmas event in the whole wide world, even though it's like GOOD LUCK trying to get a decent photo of the goings on:

(See what I mean? The last one was taken when the parade stopped unexpectedly for a few precious moments. You get the idea, though-- the truck parade RULES!!!!)

All in all, I have still been alive and well, if not a little sore from all of my data entry as of late. Thanks for still checking in... Hopefully when I say that I'll try to publish more frequently now, it'll actually be a promise and not an opportunity to make more excuses!

Checking In

2007-10-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I've officially learned that I find it much easier to blog when I am bitching and moaning about something. I've had it pretty good for the last month and a bit, so lo and behold-- the blog, she suffered. I've had nothing to complain about, really-- my job is going very well (I love counting money!), Marty's paintings have started selling by the dozen here in Victoria (finally!), I've been meeting lots of great people who are inspiring me to write (though not to blog, apparently), and guess who I get to see this weekend?

Lil-Star!! I haven't seen her in the flesh since she was a 'hefty' six pounds and a month old! Now she's god-knows-how-many-pounds and just celebrated her 8 month birthday! So this weekend I get a whole blissful day in Calgary/Canmore and then it's back to counting money in Victoria. I CAN'T WAIT!!

If this is not inspiration to knit, I don't know WHAT is! My sister says that Lily likes the Lil Devil Hat because she can pull the straps down over her eyes and sneak in naps clandestinely. Right... so inconspicuous! (But SO CUTE!!!)

Lost and Found

2007-09-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make: I monitor the traffic coming to this blog. I'm able to track how many people visit the site, where they are from, how long they spend, and whether they are repeat visitors or not. To be fair, though... I'm not really interested in any of that information. I mean, does it really help me to know that somebody from Calgary, Alberta with the IP address xx.xxx.xxx.xxx visits me once a week? Not so much. What really interests me is how people find my site. The nifty thing about my counting widget is that is also keeps track of any random terms that people type into search engines and find my blog with.

A number of people might actually be looking for me on the internet. This is evident in the hits I have from people who type my first or last name into a search engine and end up here. (Welcome!) Other people type something along the lines of 'exnomad, blog' and end up here, too. That's fine but not as thrilling as some of the other terms people use to get here!

Some of my favourite search terms include the following: (And yes, all of these are actual things that people search for on the internet!! Can you believe it?!)

Things related to 'ex's of all types:

- ex jealous
- revenge on my ex nude photo
- ex office carpet Victoria
- i want to jinx my ex
- birthday wish to ex
- ex superstitious
- usher's ex girlfriend

Things related to nomads of all types:

- big nomad camper for 6
- romantic nomad
- 56 nomad for sale
- diy campervans
- i married a nomad

Burning questions:

- why is pickled ginger sweetened with aspartame (I've often wondered the same thing...)
- ex. topic of response to eulogy (???)
- who won oscar de la hoyas fight (can't help you there, brother)
- how to make a luminara lantern (well, I've now officially written the book on luminara lanterns, let me tell you!)
- calgary taxi why don't they answer the phone (I wish I knew, sister-- I wish I knew)

Knitting, crafting, and camping-related queries:

- third eye chullo hat pattern
- hat baby knitted pattern free
- knitted zodiac signs
- unipo sock yarn
- thrift store t-shirts recycled
- recycled cosmetics
- finnish viking symbols
- boxy sunglasses
- adrspach teplice camping
- luminara and lighthouse (again, we wrote the book!)

Random (and I do mean random) topics:

- being on the mantracker show
- stirrup pants
- calgary dating
- other woman
- wild rose cleanse bra
- hermaphrodite sister
- tiny math
- csi
- space relations test
- those little donuts stampede
- hummus gave me indigestion
- smackdown play
- my short haircut
- orca breach
- threesome with another woman-- teen (I don't even want to know...)
- qualicum bay sphere
- legitimate personality tests
- ponytail addiction

I'm not sure which is more disturbing: the fact that people search for half these things on the internet, or the fact that they end up at my blog using said terms? What do you think?

What's the Buzz- Tell Me What's Happening!

2007-09-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm back, and (like Old Dutch chips) I'm boasting a new and improved flavour to boot! Unlike the chips, however, my flavour isn't simulated! Huzzah!

I know I had some people worried with my extended blog hiatus. I imagine that some people were thinking to themselves that I was lost in a world of horrible happenings and self-wallowing, but in fact, it was quite the opposite. I'M OFFICIALLY OUT OF MY RUT AND HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER!!!

All it took was a weekend in the wonderful (though rainy) Strathcona Park here on the island, and my perceptions were irrevocably altered (for the better!) Since then, I have been overcome with intense feelings of happiness, thankfulness, and raw, unfiltered, organic JOY, and all of that other great new age stuff! I feel great-- that's all there is to it!

Communication Breakdown

2007-08-23T17:08:00.000-07:00

As somebody who withstood 6 whole years of postsecondary education in Communication Studies, I get a wee distressed when a message doesn't make it to its recipient as intended. (Once a geek, always a geek.) Miscommunication has serious consequences, and this past little while has been all about discovering exactly what those consequences can be.

Exhibit A: (already discussed) Receiving condolences for long-past passings. Seriousness: Not very. It was nice to receive condolences, even though it had a been a year since my Baba passed away.

Exhibit B: (more recent) Being accused of putting an elderly gentleman in emergency for 8 hours! Seriousness: Very. Details to follow.

So... as most of you know by now, I am back in the wonderful world of non-profit organizations, and a big part of my (very important) job involves being extremely pleasant to everyone I encounter, in case they happen to be a significant contributor to our fundraising campaigns. You never know, right? Coworkers have joked that my job title should be 'Director of First Impressions', and in a big sense, they're right. If my phone mannerisms, appearance, or greeting skills in any way put a potential or ongoing donor off, it can mean huge consequences for the organization. In many cases, it could even cost the agency years of my salary in lost donations! Needless to say, I've been very careful thus far. There's no way I'd want to be incriminated if a large donor dropped out of our fundraising efforts. But on that note...

I answered the phone (very pleasantly and professionally) a short while ago, and proceeded to get ripped apart by somebody who thought he was phoning a country club and couldn't understand why the bloody hell I didn't know his tee-off time. (I had no idea what he was talking about and tried my hardest to be polite, in case he was a significant donor, but really-- I got yelled and sworn at for things that were in no way my own fault. Boo! Hiss!) Turns out he's donated enough money to pay my salary for the next ten years. (Aside: This just goes to show that, on the list of things that money can't buy, we should add 'good manners'.) Anyway, after we figured out who had been calling, I was assured that it was all a very unfortunate mistake and that the gentleman would be in to apologize to me within a few days.

When the gentleman did, in fact, come to apologize, I was stunned to discover that his apology quickly morphed into a not-so-subtle curse of eternal damnation. I was accused of not answering the phone with a cheerful 'good afternoon, Name of Place You Have Phoned' (Note: I totally did answer the phone with the name of the organization... I'm not an idiot.) Since I apparently neglected to tell him where he was phoning, he 'got confused' and thought he was phoning the country club. Fair enough... but then he goes on to tell me that he was worried about his confusion and thinks that it gave him a stroke! In his own words: "Incidentally, after I hung up the phone with you, I was in emergency for 8 hours getting tested for a stroke. I couldn't understand why I was so confused, but now I know it's because you didn't say I was phoning the [Charity-o-Rama]." Is it just me, or was that uncalled for? Serious miscommunication, I tell you. But seeing as he's an important donor and I'm just the new kid on the block, sickly ass-kissing prevails. Curses.

Flowers Gratefully Declined...

2007-08-16T07:18:00.000-07:00

Well, in future posts, should I be remembering the loss of a loved one, I'll remember to put the date of death in BIG BOLD LETTERS so that I won't confuse anyone! Thank you to everyone who commented, e-mailed, and phoned me with condolences yesterday for the passing of my Baba... she actually passed away last year on August 15th, though-- not yesterday. Heheh! [she laughs nervously, like a proverbial boy after having cried wolf]. Like I say, I'll make sure to make that more clear if I ever post something similar!

My dearest Baba passed away last year when I was in Europe. It was such an alienating experience, because on one hand, I felt so far away, lonely, and disconnected, but on the other hand, I didn't feel I had the right to be upset over her death, seeing as she had suffered long enough in a nursing home before finally passing away. We tried hard in the Czech Republic to gain a sense of closure around her death-- Marty took me to a beautiful convent and we admired the beauty of it while reminiscing about my Baba. However, because we moved to Victoria soon after coming back from Europe, I still have not had the chance to visit her gravesite, and a small part of me still feels unsettled because of it. One day, I guess.

Missing You (Edited for Clarity)

2007-08-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

Baba
October 7, 1919- August 15, 2006

Ewok Anniversary

2007-08-07T07:15:00.001-07:00

Well, we're back from a positively MAGICAL anniversary weekend. I've never been much of a 'fairy-tale-princess' kind of girl (in the sense of pretty dresses, ballrooms and high-heeled shoes-- did my wedding attire give that away?), but I'm definitely a fan of magic. And what could be more magical, I ask you, than an anniversary spent high up in the trees in our very own spherical treehouse? I'll tell you the answer if you don't already know it: nothing.

Looking out from our sphere to the spiral staircase.

Detail of the sphere from below

The sphere from afar!

Tom and Rosey, the genius minds behind this whole Ewok operation, did absolutely everything they could to make our special evening even more special. There was a sparkling 'Happy Anniversary' sign draped across the front of our door (like a disco-esque produce code sticker on an onion!), complimentary strawberries, champagne, and baked goods, and of course, the sphere itself!!

I planned this evening as a surprise for Marty, and even though: a) he's really good at guessing and b) I'm not very good at planning surprises, he had no idea where we were going until we walked to the back of Tom and Rosey's property and saw our room for the night gently swaying in the breeze. (Yeah! One point: Dana!) If only I had the camera to capture the look on his face! Alas, you'll just have to see some more photos of the sphere instead:

The view from our bed.

The sphere at dusk.

Marty using the sphere as creative inspiration.

I can't even describe how magical this experience was. If any of you are ever in the Qualicum Bay area on the island, definitely see if you can spend some time in the sphere! (But be warned: I was only able to book one weeknight in August when I phoned them in May, and when we asked about their bookings for the 'down season', the response was something like "Well, we still have some days open in November"... meaning there's probably a random Tuesday night available but every other night has been booked! NO KIDDING!)

Random graffiti on the walls in the composting toilet chamber.

Happy Anniversary! (To Us)

2007-08-02T19:15:00.000-07:00

OK, everybody-- don't go calling me on Friday night, because I won't be home. On second thought, don't call me on Saturday, Sunday, or Monday, too -- I won't be home on those days, either. I'm totally stoked, because tomorrow ushers in our EXTENDED ANNIVERSARY WEEKEND!! Marty and I will be celebrating our big 0-2! (I know, doesn't have quite the punch that the big 2-0 or even 1-0 has! Ah, well...)

Many people have already heard the story, but for those who haven't, here goes: (This is the story we sent out to friends and relatives around the world right after we got married, many of whom have limited comprehension of English, so don't mind the Grade 5 format of the details. On the plus side: if you passed Grade 4, you can feel included!)

We planned a kayaking trip off the north tip of Vancouver Island to see the orca whales migrate and to spend some much needed time together in the outdoors. However, our trip brought with it much more than whales—we ended up getting married in front of our group on the evening of Thursday, August 4th!

It's obvious from this shot who wore the kayaking pants in the relationship... Marty's all working hard, I'm just relaxin' in the back, taking in the scenery!

Monday and Tuesday of the trip were spent learning how to (pack a) kayak, exploring the various islands of Johnstone Strait, and watching for any signs of wildlife. In the first two days, our group was fortunate enough to see a bear, many eagles, pods of dolphins and porpoises, and of course, orca whales. The scenery and the animals were breathtaking—it is difficult to put into words the feeling we got watching an orca male breach against the stunning backdrop of blue sky, ocean, and lush green islands.

On Wednesday, we paddled to a new camp on the north shore of Double Bay. One of our guides shared with us that he planned to propose to his girlfriend there in the near future. As soon as we landed on shore, we understood why: the camp was very private and the view was amazing! We sat high in our tents on a cliff of mossy rocks, overlooking the ocean and surrounded by other small islands and harbours in the distance. Later that evening, our guide asked us if we wanted him to make some phone calls to arrange a wedding. Given that he had been known for his practical jokes up to that point, we didn’t think his offer was serious, but we took him up on it, knowing that we were looking forward to getting married some time in the near future. Lo and behold, our guide took this new challenge very seriously, calling nearby islands on a satellite phone, cashing in numerous favours from his friends, and spending considerable time and effort tracking down key contacts to help a wedding idea become a reality.

The first obstacle we came across had to do with documents: we were out in the middle of nowhere, deciding on the spur of the moment to get married, and we did not have the license needed to get married in British Columbia. As well, given that we had left our car at Alder Bay not knowing that we would be planning a wedding, we did not have any identification on us, except for bank and credit cards and driver’s licenses. No birth certificates, no social insurance numbers, no other government ID. After speaking to a marriage commissioner in Alert Bay, however, we learned that we would only need to answer a series of questions about our parents to be able to get the marriage license. That led us to our next obstacle—how were we going to obtain the license from the middle of nowhere?

Our guide determined that the woman who was able to arrange for a marriage license was also qualified to perform a wedding ceremony. That left us wondering how we could make it to Alert Bay, get our license, and bring the woman back to marry us on Double Bay. Our guide phoned one water taxi company, who wanted to charge us close to $700 to ferry us to and from Double Bay. We were devastated. Our guide’s enthusiasm had been contagious, and we were starting to look very forward to “our big day”, but $700 for an hour and some of water time seemed a bit excessive. Our guide wasn’t about to give up on his quest, however, and he ordered us to unload a kayak for him. He paddled off to the nearest port to look into the possibility of us renting a motorboat for the day. Alas, he came back with the news that there were no boats available. Later, though, after phoning another water taxi company, our guide arranged for us to be picked up from Double Bay, dropped off at Alert Bay, and brought back to Double Bay with a marriage commissioner. This company was also able to ferry the commissioner back to Alert Bay after the ceremony, all for a fraction of the cost. It was set, then! We went to sleep that night, amazed that we would be married in less than 24 hours, and excited to catch our water ferry the very next afternoon!

The next morning, we helped the rest of our group prepare for a day paddle to a nearby island. After they left, we spent some time deciding where we wanted our “altar” to be and wondering if we would be getting married in our neoprene wetsuits! Marty artfully and skillfully carved us out a “Just Married” sign on a piece of firewood in no time, and he left it behind our tent flap for after our ceremony.

Our group came back from their paddle just in time to send us off on our private water taxi! Our guide helped us into the boat, piggybacking Dana across a brief stretch of water so she could climb the ladder into the back of the boat. With enthusiasm, Marty leaped onto the boat soon after, eagerly joining his bride-to-be. En route to Alert Bay, the boat driver took some time to play with a large pod of dolphins, much to our delight! We arrived in Alert Bay in around 20 minutes, and the driver pledged to meet us back at the dock once our license had been secured.

We met with our marriage commissioner, Joyce Rigby, right off the dock. She pulled up in an old, wood-paneled station wagon, and had us fill out our forms on the hood of her car. Much to our surprise, many of the islanders watched us curiously as we huddled over our forms. We then remembered that their curiosity was brought on because the news of our wedding had been broadcasted by satellite across the entire north coast of Vancouver Island! After our forms were signed and completed, Joyce headed home to type up the necessary documents. In the meantime, we had a quick pineapple juice in a café in the harbour (where we were congratulated by the staff for our upcoming ceremony), splashed our faces with soap and running water (!! Our first in five days!), tried to style our greasy hair, and hurried back to our taxi to head back to Double Bay!

Our wedding guests self-styling their hair with excessive grease in preparation for the big ceremony.

The ride back to Double Bay was spent mostly worrying about how we would manage to get Joyce onto the island. She seemed to be over 80 years old, and she was dressed nicely in a blouse and dress pants. Double Bay, however, had no beach or shore whatsoever—cliffs and rocks that were covered in slippery seaweed simply rose out of the ocean at a steep angle. We wondered whether we would be having our ceremony in the water taxi after all!

You can see our guide carrying the wedding commissioner if you look closely!

We arrived at the island, pulled up close to the rocks, and our guides helped hoist a good spirited Joyce up onto the campsites. As we came out of the boat and onto the island, our group members trumpeted on horns they had made out of bull kelp, and they presented us with seashell necklaces! We were informed that the group had dove into the frigid waters of Johnstone Strait (which are, on average, 10 degrees cooler than other waters) especially to retrieve the bull kelp.

Dana was presented with a bouquet of wildflowers that the group had picked out for her during their day trip paddle earlier on! We were surrounded by our group, who took pictures and eagerly awaited the ceremony. Dana changed into her “gown” (which was Marty’s sarong skirt over top of her week-old shorts!), and we both made our way to the altar, which had been built and decorated so beautifully by our group members. It was made of wood, covered in vines and leaves, and flanked by two pillar citronella candles. Evening was approaching, and we were slightly backlit by the setting sun in the background.

The blushing bride-to-be... People actually had to remind me to take off my sunglasses for my moment in the spotlight. Um... other things on my mind, perhaps?

We walked down an aisle lined by seashells, and stood in front of our altar. Joyce began the ceremony, and we said our vows and exchanged rings. Our friends Jasmine and Denko graciously acted as our Best Man, Maid of Honour, Ring Bearer, Flower Girl, and witnesses. Dana managed to get through the entire ceremony without weeping loudly (which was an amazing accomplishment for her!), and both of us felt so happy to be confirming our commitment to each other in a most amazing setting!

After the ceremony, we had our pictures taken with Joyce and the “Just Married” sign. One of our group members presented us with an eagle feather that he had found on our island. In a very touching tribute, he told us that the feather was a good omen and that eagles find mates for life. Dana took the feather and included it in her wildflower bouquet.

It was our night to cook for the group, and although they offered to cook our meal for us, we were more than happy to prepare a meal and share it with our wonderful group members! One couple on the trip shared their chilled white wine with us and the rest of the group, so we all had a beverage to use when our guide gave us a heartwarming toast. (He toasted us with beer, though- wine apparently made him ill!). We had a wonderful dinner, a tasty dessert of apple and pear flambé, and then we were serenaded into the late hours of the night by our guides, who did wonderful karaoke-style versions of the entire Dirty Dancing soundtrack, as well as classic hits such as “The Chicken Dance” song and a few Bon Jovi numbers!

All in all, our wedding ceremony was so much more meaningful and beautiful than anything we could have planned in advance. We were so thankful for everything our guides and group members did to make our wedding a special event, and we were thrilled to have our wedding take place at such a beautiful location! We paddled back to Alder Bay the next morning with our “Just Married” sign affixed to the back of our kayak, and then all the way back to Calgary, we looked forward to sharing this wonderful story with family and friends!

Double Bay is for lovers!

The End of the World as I Knew It

2007-07-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

... and (predictably enough, if you're an REM fan, anyway) I feel fine.

My meatless streak officially ended late Friday night. By the time the potatoes had roasted and the meat had cooked, it was well past 10:30 pm, which arguably wasn't the greatest time to re-introduce our bodies to something they hadn't ingested in over a decade. Oh, well. With the help of some digestive enzyme tablets and a hearty dose of courage, the deed was done. (Enter anticlimax.)

(Note: We did not eat NEARLY that much ham from the get go... those pieces on the plate will last about 46 meals, or 3.5 years, whichever takes longer.)

I'll admit I was visibly shaken before, during, and immediately after I had put the tiniest of pieces of ham into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. My mind was reeling, and my long-standing issues with various food textures reared their ugly heads again. The next afternoon, though, I tried again. This time around, I dipped into the culture of my ancestors, and prepared the leftover ham with perogies and fried onions and mushrooms. (God bless Ukraine!) It was much better, and I didn't feel so nasty afterward. And now... perhaps I will be what they call a flexitarian? (One of those made-up states of being, like metrosexual.) I don't know. We'll see.

Even though the decision to try meat again was well thought out and pre-meditated by both Marty and I, it will still take me a while to renegotiate my feelings on the whole meat-eating issue and to feel like I am comfortable with this 'half-and-half' business on my own terms. I've caught myself a number of times almost apologizing for eating meat again to some of the people I know, and I'm definitely not cool with feeling ashamed or like a half-assed failure of a vegetarian. (It's funny how you can go for EONS without eating meat, and then as soon as you do, you get treated by *certain* vegetarians like they knew all along that you weren't cut out for the honorable lifestyle. Give me a break! I should point out, though, that all of you have been incredibly supportive, despite the shock. Thank you for that.)

Anyway... here's to hoping that this experiment will help Marty's blood get better.

OMG!!!

2007-07-27T21:32:00.000-07:00

Forgive the pre-teen title of this post... I'm just freaking out a little bit. Why, you ask? Well, because as we speak, I have an effin' HAM roasting in my effin' OVEN!!! (And it's not for some random meat-eating guests, either-- the plan is for MARTY AND I to eat it-- EEP!!!!)

I know, I know-- Ham is not normally that big of a deal. Perhaps it's a bit more exciting than chicken, but it's certainly not something to write home about, right? Unless, of course, you're like me, and you haven't had anything to do with ham or any other meats for more than HALF YOUR LIFE!! Seriously. I've *officially* been vegetarian since I was twelve, but if I had been given the choice when I was 8 months old... I probably would have been vegetarian back then, too.

So how the hell did this ham end up in my oven, then? Well, a couple of weeks ago, Marty and I trekked into Vancouver so he could have a live blood analysis done. The results were not good. Specifically, instead of having rich red blood cells wrapped with thick black ropes of protein, Marty's blood was a weak pinkish-blue shade and sported hardly any evidence of protein.

See the difference between healthy (above) and non-healthy blood (below)? I was sad to see that Marty's looked more like the bottom picture than the top one.

Anyway... We've been vegetarian for years and years, and even though we're pretty good at getting our alternative sources of protein (huzzah for legumes!), Marty's body wasn't absorbing nearly enough. The doctor even went out of her way to e-mail Marty a few weeks after his appointment to remind him that (quote): "Your body is grossly lacking protein". Hence the ham.

Both of us are a little nervous about what will transgress... we're trying to do this scary thing together, partly for moral support, but also because it's way more practical for people who live together to eat the same things. I know that a big part of my identity is tied up with the fact that I've been vegetarian for so long, and it seems so strange to me that I'll be cutting into a slice of meat in about a half hour from now. But on the other hand, a teeny tiny part of me is suddenly starting to crave meat. (!!!) Maybe I'm just trying to psych myself up for it... because I had an extremely hard time taking the ham out of the plastic and putting it in a tray to cook. I even got ham juice on my hands-- YUCK!!!!!

Well, I guess it won't be the end of my life to end my meatless streak. If I don't like it, I don't have to eat it again. I think I'm actually more afraid that I will like it and that my days of being a vegetarian will be over.

Check it out!

2007-07-24T07:02:00.000-07:00

Hey all,

I'm a little run down and lazy, so go here to check out some hot photos of our lighthouse lantern. You can also check out Marty's website to see some of the daytime shots at the Luminara festival. Maybe I'll do a proper post about the whole ordeal tonight. Suffice it to say that our little lantern survived more than 8 solid hours of rain!

Thanks to Alex McMillan for taking these beautiful shots. Our camera didn't fare so well in the dark or in the rain (two strikes!), but he was kind enough to forward these pictures on to us.

Rain, Rain-- Go Away

2007-07-19T17:43:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding like my weather-obsessed inlaws, I just have to point out that the bastards at the weather office do this every single weekend: They forecast nothing but rain on Saturday and Sunday, and then they invite the sunshine back come Monday. See?

	Saturday July 21	Sunday July 22	Monday July 23	Tuesday July 24	Wednesday July 25	Thursday July 26

High	16°C	18°C	20°C	21°C	23°C	22°C
Condition	Rain	Rain	Cloudy with sunny breaks	Mainly sunny	Sunny	Scattered showers
P.O.P.	90%	90%	20%	0%	0%	40%

Normally, rain on the weekend would be a mild annoyance, but I would be able to take it in stride. Not this weekend, though. Nope. Saturday night is when our labour of love is supposed to get its moment in the spotlight. I'm getting horrific visions of the tissue on our lantern melting off in the inanimate object's equivalent of flesh eating disease. Yuck. Pulpy puddles of lantern and glue aren't fun on a good day, but they're even worse when they are the remnants of something you invested more than 100 hours of hard labour into! (<-- arrest me, grammar police. And while we're on the topic, the punctuation police can lay charges against me, too.) The crew at Luminara did a walk through the (rainy and soggy) park last night, and in a disturbing display of denial, nobody talked about what to do in the event of rain. The coordinator even went so far as to declare that she 'didn't think it would rain on Saturday evening'. OK... I love the coordinator and all, but I'd still like to know what Plan B is, in the (hopefully very unlikely) event that Mother Nature decides that she really does feel like raining on that night. Exactly how much wetness can a paper lantern handle before everything goes to shit?

Well, hopefully I'll be posting beautiful and magical photos of the lantern's grand debut on Sunday-ish, but just in case, here are some sneak preview 'before' shots of our wonderful lighthouse:

(Sorry, I decided against putting photos of the lantern all lit up at the last second. Call me superstitious, but I didn't want to jinx it!)

Everyone, cross your fingers, arms, eyes, and even toes that the weather holds out for Saturday. There are lots of things going on this weekend (Moss Street Paint-In, Luminara, Salt Spring Fibre Festival, and even the Harry Potter book release mayhem!), and it would be great for every single one of those events if the rain stayed away. Come on, Mother Nature!

Then Again, Maybe Not

2007-07-16T19:55:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's the fact that I started a new job yesterday, or maybe it's the fact that my hair is sticking to my sweaty neck because of the high temperatures lately, but I've been thinking about cutting my hair short again. I've had my hair long(ish) for a while now, and I've been getting bored with the same old ponytail every day. (Note: I know I can technically do so much more with long hair than pull it back in an elastic, but of course I'm too lazy and/or low maintenance to bother with the blowdryer, straightening iron, and hair product. Besides, I've been commuting by bike between two jobs for the past four months, and even if I had enough pizazz to style my hair nicely for the first of two jobs, I certainly wouldn't be able to maintain the glitz for Job #2. I just can't be bothered.)

When I think back to my short hair, I generally feel a warm glow and nostalgic fondness. I associate my short hair with a sassy and confident version of me-- one who refused to fit into the confines of the 'traditionally feminine' box and one who looked great doing it! And even though I like having long hair for many reasons, too... I don't know. Sometimes I feel like long hair makes me too conservative, plain, and 'safe' looking. (Not like I want to look dangerous or unsafe-- just, you know, a little more spunky!)

Anyway, I was all determined to post some photos of my long-haired and short-haired selves and then to have you, dear readers, decide which of the two looks better suited me. I was all prepared to weigh the pros and cons of each option and then to make a rational decision re: a possible haircut afterward. But then I looked back through old albums of mine and was horrified with what I saw! Did I say that I associated my short hair with sass?! And confidence?!?!?! Well, I certainly would have needed some semblance of confidence to make these haircuts pass! Case in point:

Granted, I did pick the absolute worst of the worst photos to post as an example of my short hair. (I promise.) I can honestly say that this is the all time rock bottom of my looks captured on film. But now that it's out in the open, maybe I won't be so horrified about the thought of people accidentally stumbling upon this sorry evidence from my past (A&E biography, anyone?). Anywho, the point of this public humiliation is to remind myself that short hair requires just as much maintenance as long hair does, despite my (obviously distorted) memories of being able to just wash-'n'-go. Furthermore, it would seem from this evidence that the consequences of not putting any effort into styling short hair far outweigh those of stumbling out of bed with long hair and simply heading out into the world with a ponytail. Don't you agree?

This Little Light of Mine (and Marty's)

2007-07-10T07:52:00.001-07:00

I'm gonna let it shine!

We have been working non-stop on our lantern for the past week or so. It's making for tremendously long days (10 hours at work, then 4 or 5 more at the lantern studio), but somehow, just knowing that this chapter of my working life will be coming to an end in one short week is keeping my spirits high and my motivation in tact. (It couldn't come too soon, either. These last few days at work are DRAGGING ON!!)

Anyway, there are so many amazing lanterns being made at the Luminara studio (a pharoah! a geisha!), but of course, I have a soft spot for our very own lighthouse lantern.

(And yes... those are spandex cycling shorts on underneath my shorts... a little bit of 80s fashion never hurt anyone, right? And by the way, Robin, thanks for the yellow top-- the off-the-shoulder-top-over-a-sports-bra look really completed my retro ensemble!)

Alas, we are stuck right in the middle of everything to do our papering (in between the only washroom, the only staircase, the broom closet, and about a zillion people), but I am incredibly excited about the way it's shaping up so far.

We have been told many times (by many, many people) not to get too attached to our lantern, because so many things can happen to it between now and the festival. It can rip, get stepped on, burn down, collapse into the lake it will float on, or get soaked and ruined if it rains. Yikes. Luckily, we have taken many photos of the work in progress, so I'm hoping (hoping!!) that I won't be too devastated if anything happens to it. (I'm also hoping to win a gazillion dollars and travel the world, though, so that might shed some light on how realistic my dreams are. Not getting attached to the lantern = not very realistic. It's too late.)

Only two more nights left, and then our lighthouse will (hopefully) be ready to raft on the open sea! (OK, it's a lake, but at least it's still water!)

Ch-ch-ch-ch-CHANGES!

2007-07-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

So... Just when I finally started to adjust to the 10-hour workdays and even the sub-par pay at my two jobs, I put my foot down and got a new one. (Keyword: one! So much for my super-intricate juggling act and the dramatic-collapses-from-exhaustion-at-home!)

In two short weeks from now, I will be basking in the sunshine of a regulated work week (37.5 hours!), a comprehensive benefits package (100 percent coverage for many of my family's health care needs!), and of course, vacation pay! (After all, what good is sunshine without a vacation?) This is where my revised To Do List comes in. Ahem:

1. Shower copious amounts of pats on my own back.

2. Try to find a way to deal with the tremendous guilt I feel for putting in my notice at my other jobs. (Why was I raised Catholic, I ask you-- WHY?!)

3. Resume congratulatory back-patting.

The best part of the whole thing is: I honestly feel like I was hired for being me, Masters Degree and all! Bonus points: The interview had none of those pre-formulated "What do you picture yourself doing in five years from now" questions... (BLESS THEM!!) All in all, I left the interview feeling like I had engaged in a conversation with the hiring committee, instead of feeling like I had accidentally dropped in on the Spanish Inquisition Convention. HUZZAH!!

Time Keeps on Slipping...

2007-07-03T06:46:00.000-07:00

Technically, we have until July 14th to finish our lantern. However, Marty will be heading out to Calgary (again) on the 12th, and I'm hopeless at making any progress on this thing unless I get very specific instructions every step of the way (e.g.' put tape here. Now put tape there.', etc.) What this means (for those of you who are just as impaired as I am when it comes to reasoning and logic) is that our lantern must be finished by July 11th. That gives us just over a week, natch. Think we'll make it?

As you can see, although the frame itself has been completed, our lantern is still lacking one very important detail: tissue paper! Tomorrow night, we start tackling the giant reams of tissue and the oversized bottles of glue. We can do it!! (Right? Can I get a witness?)

Differential Aptitude Tests in Action

2007-06-25T22:03:00.001-07:00

In Grade 9, my classmates and I took a series of multiple choice tests that supposedly held the very keys to our futures. We were solemnly told by our Health Education teacher that, should we (for example) want to be a high-end fashion designer when we grew up, we'd best be scoring high on the Space Relations battery. Likewise, if we had set our hopes and dreams on being a Junior High Health Education Teacher when we were older, we should really try to ace the.... um, 'Health' section of the test. (An aside: There was no 'health' section to complete, but I'm sure our teacher tried to tie in his own Differential Aptitude scores from fifty years earlier with his current career path. He was just that sort of teacher. Dustin D: 'The world, she's a round!" It was him.)

Anyway. Despite having taken those dreadful tests over a decade ago, I still remember them clearly. I remember the stress of the timed exams and feeling the weight of the professional world bearing down on my fourteen-year-old shoulders. I remember the Spelling Test, and how I decided that 'muslin' was spelled incorrectly, only to find out literally the day after that it was a type of fabric, not something pertaining to the religion, law, or civilization of Islam as I had thought when I marked my answer down in HB pencil. (CURSE THOSE MUSLIN CURTAINS!!) But mostly, I remember the agonizing frustration and the crushing defeat associated with one test battery in particular: Space Relations.

The Space Relations section of the test was designed to measure my ability to visualize 3D objects from 2D pictures. The first questions weren't so bad: they depicted a simple pattern, like a rectangular box unfolded and laid flat on a table, and we had to decide which of four pictures best resembled what the box would look like when it was put together. It was only when the box patterns started getting more irregular, decorated, and complicated that I ran into extreme difficulties.

I had a horrible time trying to figure out which face of the box some dots or lines would end up on when a particular box pattern was put together. And I couldn't for the life of me decide if the 45-degree section of the box would come out on the left or the right side of the box when it was done, try as I might to fold that box together in my mind. When it was all over, I felt utterly deflated. Gone were any dreams I had of being a Fashion Designer, Engineer, or Architect. Gone also were my more realistic goals of working in a shoe store or anything like that when I became a full-fledged high school student-- god forbid I not be able to put the damn box together!

When the test scores came back, we spent an entire class period colouring in our own percentiles on a bar graph to indicate our aptitude for each section. (Looking back, I'm pretty sure it cost extra to have the test scores graphed on a computer for us. Hence, the pencil crayons and cheap student labour.) Most of my test scores were extremely high: 99th percentile in spelling, 98th in math, a couple of 97s and 96s for the grammar sections and even the practial reasoning section. One test battery stood out in particular, though: The Space Relations bar was like a little rotten stump in the midst of my graceful Amazon-esque trees. My score for that section put me in the 60-somethingth percentile. I was humiliated.

Fast forward to the other day: all of the insecurities and frustrations I experienced back in my youth came flooding back, as Marty and I endeavoured to build a lantern for the exciting Luminara Festival. When we first signed up as 'installation artists' for the event, we were picturing making a paper box of sorts, hanging it from a stick, and perhaps drawing a little symbol on one side. However, it turns out we're a lot more invested in the lantern building aspect of the show than we expected. Take, for instance, these photos:

Is it clear from these photos that the lantern we're building is over 6 feet tall?! And did you know that we're building this mammoth lantern from one of Marty's thumbnail sketches that measures around... oh... 2 inches tall?! Marty was all excited to get started and to turn his tiny brainchild into a giant bamboo frame. On the other hand, I was panicking. This would be the ultimate Space Relations test. And it, too, would be timed.

Our lantern has to be ready to light (and float!) by July 14th, though the festival itself takes place on the 21st. I'll keep posting photos of our progress as we get closer and closer to completion... if I don't implode from all of the stress that making a giant, irregularly-shaped box out of a little picture is creating for me. Deep breaths, Dana-- deep breaths.

Around the World in 80 Days

2007-06-23T19:30:00.000-07:00

I know it hasn't quite been 80 days since my last post... but it certainly feels like it's been a long time! Where have I been, you ask? Oh, you know-- I've mostly been withering away at my two jobs (which I'm becoming more and more frustrated with), but I've also traveling around the world vicariously. Thank God for swaps!

First Stop: India

Recently, I received another package through the Gimme Your Stuff set-up. This time, the package was from India, and let me tell you-- it gave me some serious wanderlust cramps! The lovely Anuja sent me glorious wall hangings, gilded decorations and toys, and icons-- lots and lots of icons!

Once again, everything about the package was perfect. (Thank goodness! That first package I received was so disappointing!) It will take Marty and I about ten zillion years to be able to afford a trip there, so until we can actually get to India ourselves, Anuja's thoughtful package will tide us over nicely.

Next stop: The Centre of the Universe!

To ring in Solstice, the ever-romantic Marty whisked me away to nothing less than the Centre of the Effin' Universe! (An aside for a geeky confession: I LOVE Science Centres and Planetariums, despite having only taken a total of one (yes, one) science course in all of my six years of university studies.) The Centre of the Universe/Dominion Astrophysical Observatory did not disappoint. We toured the Plaskett Telescope, took in the informational and interactive displays, and were even treated to our own private planetarium show.

We happened to be the only visitors to the Centre that evening-- curse the cloudy sky!-- so the poor guides were all forced to give these huge and incredibly detailed presentations to an audience of two. Ah, well-- we learned a lot about stars, constellations, nebulae, and planets! Alas, we weren't able to view anything through the telescopes that evening, but we did get a 'Cloudy Day Raincheck' because of the overcast sky and can now return any evening this summer to take in the night sky!

Final Stop: Um.... 'Birthday Town'?

Yes, 'twas my birthday yesterday. Not being one to go all out with the birthday celebrations, we took it easy last night. Marty made me a beautiful card, dinner, and a so-bad-its-good decorated cake. (Check out the KISS-esque font for my name spelled out with Twix bars! Also note the candle wax running free across the cake... it was even worse by the time I finally came home to blow out the flames! It's like he knew about my family's awful birthday cake tradition!)

Anyway, I usually like to set some sort of goal when my birthday comes around. This year, I'd like to get my blogging ass back in gear! It's not like I've had nothing to blog about... I've just been bogged down with long work weeks at an unfulfilling job or two. Meh. Here's to less work and more blogging for the year to come!

Where in the World is Dana L.?

2007-06-21T08:59:00.000-07:00

Well, given my lack of frequent posting lately, it's obvious that I'm not hanging out in blogland. Instead, I've been taking trips to the Centre of the Universe and to Happy Birthday land!

I promise to write a better post soon, complete with fancy pictures and all that good stuff. For now, though, I'm still at work, waiting for the day to end so I can get on with celebrating my BIG 2-6!! YEEHAW!!

Yarn Harlot vs Toaster Oven

2007-06-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

If you had to choose between:

- seeing a fairly well-known and well-loved somebody give a much-anticipated talk OR

- purchasing a product to replace a similar product you already own and haven't even used or taken out of its box,

what would you decide?

Me, too.

We ended up with back row seats at the Yarn Harlot talk (as we were running a bit late from our garage sale purchasing excursion), but we made up for the lousy seats with some fine toasted bagels and bruschetta afterwards! Who knew?

Introducing... Stampede 'Lite'!

2007-06-04T07:33:00.000-07:00

This weekend, we discovered that the (dreaded) Calgary Stampede had followed us all the way to Victoria. Granted, there were no cheesy saloon-facades in banks and grocery stores, no cows or horses painted on every shop window, no businessmen decked out in denim for a week, no drunken 'cowboys' letting out random 'yeehaw!'s well into the night on downtown streets, and certainly no Testicle Festival. Nonetheless, I think it's safe to say that we experienced a "Stampede Lite" this past weekend. All the fun, with half the calories!

Just like the Stampede, this weekend's famed "Oak Bay Tea Party" kicked off with a much-anticipated parade. However, unlike the Stampede parade (which I confess, I don't know much about since I've never actually watched it), the local parade was somewhat anticlimactic. We were expecting giant floats, mascots, marching bands and the like. Instead, we were treated to a bizarre (and somewhat sad) display of preschoolers and long-term care residents in wheelchairs passing by. It was quite surreal to watch. One minute, there'd be a swarm of 4 year old kids on bikes riding by. None of them seemed to understand that they were in a parade-- they just wheeled wherever their training wheels would take them. The next minute, there would be a group of very old people getting wheeled by in their wheelchairs. Sadly, none of these people seemed to realize they were in a parade, either. In fact, most of them were bundled up in handknit acrylic blankets and sleeping! (I kid you not.) Needless to say, it was quite a strange kick-off.

(I was going to take a photo of the long term care residents in their wheelchairs, but it just felt wrong on so many levels. Hence, check out the four-year-olds on bikes!)

The next morning, we debated about whether or not to go back to the Tea Party. After witnessing the 'parade' the previous morning, reason said it would be wise to stay home. However, an overwhelming urge to try out the pancake breakfast overrode the rational parts of our brains, so we found ourselves back at the beach and taking in the festivities.

There were rides:

As well as an airshow! Skydivers! Bathtub races! (And before you get excited like I did, it wasn't a race of real bathtubs. It was a bunch of jetskis going around in circles... false advertising, I know.)

We ate french fries and those little donuts (actually, here they were 'Birdie's' donuts and not actually 'Those Little Donuts"(TM).)

Marty tried his luck at playing darts, but lost the prize (a satin pirate pillow!) on a technicality... His dart hit the middle of the tiny target like it was supposed to, but since it didn't stick, the girl from Quesnel, BC wouldn't let him take the pillow home. Arrr.... (said in an angry pirate voice).

The weather was beautiful, the beach was packed, and overall, we had a wonderful day.

We even caught a glimpse of what might be the cutest little girl in the world:

Don't think she's super cute? Look again:

Check out that hair!! YEEHAW!!!

Right Here, Right Now

2007-05-29T09:10:00.001-07:00

There comes a time in every girl's life when the pants that used to fit her simply don't fit anymore. For me, that time is now. Right now.

Normally, it takes a good long while for pants to not fit anymore. Not this time, though. My pants decided that they didn't want to fit me this very morning. Unfortunately, they made this executive decision after I had already biked to work, when I was changing out of my cycling clothes and into my semi-professional work attire. Sigh.

So now I'm at work, hiding behind my desk in my work top and my cycling shorts. I feel like a news anchor-- all done up on the top half, totally unkempt and unprofessional on the bottom half. Luckily, my desk is one of those big wooden ones that nicely disguises my spandex to the people that come in. Speaking of which... I never (ever) have people come into the office normally. Except for this morning. (Of course.) Two people have already come into the office, and I haven't even been here for an hour yet! Needless to say, Marty has been put on a code blue alert to bring me some new pants-- stat!!

A Beautiful Day in the 'Hood

2007-05-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

The forecast called for rain and cloud this past weekend, but it turned out that Marty's parents were right when they said of the meteorologists : "they be always lying". Guilty as charged.

This weekend has been a bit windy in Victoria, but the sun has been blazing and we've managed to get a lot accomplished. We hung out at a local coffee shop and then moved our relaxin' asses over to the oceanfront to take in some beautiful scenery:

Here, we were voted by some random guy as the "two people with the best T-shirts on the beach". (Marty was wearing the classic Take A Hike shirt from Threadless. Not to be outdone by a subtle bird design, I was sporting a more garish weeping Virgin Mary on my chest. We're not sure if this is a daily, weekly, monthly, or annual award... nonetheless, we were honoured to have been given the day's nod.)

I finished knitting a(nother) sock for Marty. This time around, the wool is from a local yarn shop, so if I happen to run out near the end of the second sock like I did last time, I don't have to boot it to Eastern Europe, though a little vacation would be nice... I swear, the 'ex' in Ex-Nomad gets fainter and fainter every day!

I was hoping to try out the famous Jaywalker sock pattern this time around, but Marty loves his Thujas. If I ever get around to knitting myself some socks, you can bet they'll be Jaywalkers. But beware: it may just be a snowy day in hell before I ever knit myself something. What can I say? Marty is probably the most excited and appreciative recipient of knitted items on the planet-- I must be addicted to his gleeful exclamations and proud flaunting of the socks once they're done.

Anyway, back to my Grade 4 diary style recounting of our weekend... Both Marty and I had a hankering for pancakes. So we did the unthinkable... we went to Smitty's!! I think I must've been to Smitty's at least once before in my lifetime (though memories of my mom and dad cooking up homemade pancakes and waffles almost every Sunday after church make me hesitant to say this is true). In any case, if I ever did happen to eat at Smitty's before, I would have been about six years old, and hence I would have neglected to remember crucial details like the fact that the pancakes there are gross!!! Seriously, Marty and I are used to eating our pancakes from the illustrious Diner Deluxe in Calgary, so Smitty's was a serious (and expensive!) let-down. Dry like cardboard (no butter!), and the fruit on top was one of those nasty artificially-enhanced things. Sick. That was the worst $30 I've ever spent on breakfast. Ever.

As you can see, my expression is one of those 'well, we're already $30 in the hole on nasty pancakes... might as well pretend to enjoy them' ones. The forced smile does a bad job of masking my pain and disappointment. Never again.

You've GOT to be Kidding!

2007-05-23T07:49:00.000-07:00

Way back when, I told the tale of a big spider that apparently hitched its way all the way to Victoria from the Czech Republic. I also mentioned that I killed it. In my bathroom. It was the end of that spider, and the end of my worries... until recently.

Check out the MONSTER that was hanging out on the roof of our balcony the other afternoon!!! (PS- Mom, don't look. I mean it.)

I just have a few things to say about it:

1. THANK GOD I wasn't home to see this!!!!!! Poor Marty-- bless his heart-- he was going to check on our sunflower outside when he had the bejeezus scared out of him by this (not so) little guy. See the fuzz on its body?! See his blackish red rat tail-esque legs?! See how like an honest to God tarantula it is?! DISGUSTING!!!!

2. An aside: Kudos to Marty for being brave enough to snap a photo of this bugger (get it- bug?! Hahahaha), albeit from behind the somewhat blurry safety of our patio door. I can't say what I would have done in the situation-- set up camp on the couch and watch its every move in horror? Phone the police and get a squad car on it?-- but I can assure you I would not have possessed enough wits to photograph it. Heaven forbid that the camera flash would cause it to drop from its ceiling perch onto my unsuspecting head! (and an aside to an aside: we don't know where it is now. Marty ran away.... erm... to have lunch with me at work... and when he came back home, it was gone. The sickening mystery deepens.)

3. How the hell do you deal with creatures of this magnitude? In my (zen-like, peaceful, love-filled) mind, all spiders must die, but I know I could never muster up the necessary courage, skill, or brute force to do the deed myself to something this big. It would be akin to killing a small cat! Do spiders bleed? Or would it just be guts? Either way, the off-white carpet in my apartment just couldn't handle the mess. (In the unlikely-- please JesusJosephMary make it unlikely!-- event that something like this actually crawled into my house! Eep!!)

4. I guess when I was told that Victoria was part of its very own rainforest system, it really meant 'rainforest' and not 'rainforest-sans-tropical-spiders'. For shame. I had been thoroughly enjoying the splendour of brilliant flowers and lush vegetation everywhere. Now I'm walking around like a bad spy trainee in a cheesy 70s movie, inspecting every nook, cranny, and corner for evidence of spiders on steroids. Have mercy!!

Seven (More) Things About Me

2007-05-22T07:42:00.000-07:00

So I've been tagged... Apparently there are still people in this world who want to know more about me (even though I was pretty sure my secret confession re: liking Justin Timberlake's new album would have put people off of knowing anything else about me. I was wrong.)

In keeping with my ongoing theme of somewhat embarrassing revelations:

One:

My first crush was on country singer Dwight Yoakam. (I was six, OK?) I used to to dream that he would ride up on a motorcycle and whisk me away from my quiet cul-de-sac. For the record: I'm officially petrified of motorcycles, I prefer quiet streets over bustling fairways and Dwight Yoakam?! Country music?!!! What was I thinking? (Aside: I agree with Karen that Dwight is one of the few tolerable country musicians. Forget about that 'rockin' country' crap. Rockin' my ass.)

Two:

Way back before I broke up with Math, we had a pretty steady relationship going on. My ma taught me how to carry numbers in addition when I was about four years old (once a geek, always a geek-- besides, I had already mastered things like reading and writing). I used to get hours of entertainment out of adding long numbers to themselves, then adding the answer to itself, etc., etc. (e.g. 123456789 + 123456789= 246913578. 246913578 + 246913578 =.....) My family even has me on tape asking Santa to give me those yellow pads of lined paper "so I could do more math" for Christmas. Math and Christmas?! Also, one time I brought in a whole binder of tiny math equations to my ECS class for show and tell. Needless to say, my five-year-old classmates looked at me as though I had an alien living on my head, then went back to showing off rocks and dolls. Juveniles. (However, that was the beginning of the end of my love affair with Math.)

Three:

From Grades 9-11, I had the dubious honour of sitting on Mayor Al Duerr's Youth Advisory Council. We met every month or so to discuss pressing issues like... um... to be honest, I don't know if we ever discussed any issues at all. All I remember was that I had been selected to be a part of the Council based on my half-assed recommendations to implement more mazes in the city. I guess I had made a pretty mean case in my application essay that mazes were 'affordable', 'safe', and 'fun' ways to engage and entertain the youth of the city. Forget what you think about mazes making excellent nooks for illicit drug use and sexual activities. Me and the former mayor agree: Mazes provide good clean fun.

Four:

If I had to pick one food item to live off of for the rest of my life, it would be hummus. God bless hummus.

Five:

I lied to the priest at my First Confession. Wait, wait-- allow me to explain. I underwent the sacrament en masse with my Grade 4 class from Catholic school. We were all petrified of eternal damnation and spent hours rehearsing what we would say to the priest when our turn to confess came. Anyway, I couldn't think of anything clever enough to say, and everyone I knew who had gone into the cubicle before me had confessed about fighting with their brothers and sisters. Being the little lamb I was at the time (I was nine), and wanting to come across to the priest as regular and ordinary (as opposed to being worthy of damnation at nine years old), I told the priest I had fought with my sisters when my turn finally came around. Um... to this day, I can still count on one hand the times I've argued with my sisters. OK, OK. So I lied. To a priest. During confession. And sort of defeated the whole purpose of the exercise. But at least I didn't fight with my sisters!

Six:

I used to work in the lingerie department at the Bay. During my year and a half there, I had at least 100 customers return (very obviously) used bras and underwear. I'm talking broken underwires, tattered lace, a cadaver-grey sheen from 10 good years of use, holes, and even skid marks. Yes, you heard me: SKID MARKS!!! So to those of you that buy your undergarments from the Bay (and why not? I still do), might I suggest you wash them first? Sometimes, even though it's best not to know, it doesn't hurt to put any of those nagging 'what if?' questions to rest.

Seven:

I was pretty dirty and unkempt at my very own wedding ceremony. I had been wearing the same clothes for the past five days and hadn't washed my greasy hair in over a week! I didn't even have a dress for the occasion and so I had to borrow one... from Marty! Despite my general nastiness on that beautiful Thursday, though, I wouldn't change even one thing about the ceremony. In a word, it was perfect.

Nope-- that's not the wind blowing my hair. It's actually just a self-sculpting grease monster having its way with my scalp!

Waxing Nostalgic

2007-05-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to find the perfect esthetician here in Victoria. And by perfect, I don't mean impeccably groomed, beautiful, or flawlessly put together; in fact, I'd prefer it if he or (hopefully) she wasn't.

It's a tricky thing, finding somebody 'just-so' to wax your legs for you. I know (or at least I assume) that the job isn't an esthetician's favourite task-- they'd probably prefer the facials and the manicures over ripping hair out of another person's follicles-- and this notion alone makes me so anxious about finding somebody I can trust to do it. Since I only ever go to a spa to have my legs waxed, I have to know that the person I'm going to can like and/or understand me enough to wax graciously, without hating my guts or groaning "Dana L.?!-- not again!! I told you not to book her with me anymore!" when they see my name on their list of the day's appointments.

I had the perfect esthetician back in Calgary. She was a she, which was a must in my books, and she was ordinary-looking enough to make me feel at ease, which is pretty difficult to do, especially considering that all of our interactions consisted of me lying just about half naked on a glorified operating table! She was professional and neat, but not without flaws. It was important for me to know she was a regular human female, with all or at least most of the concerns that I have as another regular human female, because I had (horribly agonizing!) experiences before being waxed by the living equivalent of Barbie-- except she was a brunette. Never again will I subject my poor follicles to the demonic rips of a person who was likely born without a single hair anywhere on her body, except of course in her flowing dark locks.

My idea of the perfect esthetician goes something like this:

1. Female! Somebody I can relate to on a subliminal level at the very least, and somebody that won't freak Marty (or me!) out every time I go for a session.

2. Experienced! It's more than a little unnerving to be lying very vulnerably on the table and then to be told that they just finished esthetic school/ haven't had much practice doing waxes/ normally are in charge of the facials/ want to be something else entirely when they grow up.

3. Ordinary! I'm talking about more than just ordinary looking-- I'm also talking about 'ordinary' in the sense of having ordinary womanly experiences (menstrual cramps! the occasional ingrown hair!). Superhumans need not apply.

4. Professional and compassionate! One time I was very preoccupied during my waxing appointment and somehow forgot (I know!!!!) to put on those paper underwear things. It wasn't until I felt a gentle breeze in a not-so-public spot that I came to the embarrassing (more like horrifying and damning) realization that I was, in fact, nude from the waist down in front of somebody who had clearly given me that pair of paper underwear with the expectation that I would actually put them on! When I said to her in the smallest of all voices, 'I think I accidentally forgot to put on the underwear', she graciously took her leave for a minute and came back all calm, like nothing had happened. Of course, we laughed about it for a good 10 minutes once she was back inside the room, but at least she was laughing with me, and not completely at me. (Or so I like to think!) That's what I mean when I say professional and compassionate.

If anybody knows somebody who meets the above criteria in the Victoria area, please let me know! Until then, I'll just have to suffer with my self-inflicted waxing... and for anybody who's ever waxed before, you know that it's not fun to begin with, but it's even worse when you're doing it to yourself!!

Isn't She Lovely?

2007-05-14T07:33:00.000-07:00

How cute is she??

...I know- quite cute! Happy (belated) Mother's Day to all the mothers out there, and a great big smooch to the aunts and uncles of the world as well! xoxo

Note to Self: The Apple Really Doesn't Fall Far

2007-05-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

You know when you're growing up, and people say 'oh, you look so much like your mother!', or 'oh, you must get that trait from your father'? Well, today I did something rather spontaneous and right away thought to myself, 'wow- that was so much like my mother!'

My mother has one of those uber-maxed-out magnetic personalities that people seem to either be really attracted to or really repelled by. (Kind of like those industrial magnets that you can't unstick with simple human strength when they come together. Or the ones that fly out of your fingers when you try to make the repelling sides meet.) I don't know why there is no happy medium with my mother, but I like to think that the few people who don't click with her just don't understand her. It's their loss, really-- nobody I know is as fun or dynamic as my ma.

Anyway. Yesterday (Tuesday) I was asked at my job to prepare an impromptu 'rally' (that was the actual word that was used in the request) to send off a cyclist who will be biking across Canada to raise money and awareness for a good cause. Fine. Except this well-attended and media-saturated rally was supposed to take place today-- Wednesday-- at 10 in the morning. Right... Because I know a good 50 or 100 people who can just automatically drop their plans or skip out of work/school on a moment's notice to come attend some random rally. Not to mention my best friend the news anchor. And the high-profile journalist. BFF. 'Sure thing, folks at National Office. I'll get right on it.'

I felt bad for the cyclist, knowing he had been told back in Nova Scotia (where he's from) that we would have a big hoopla event waiting for him at Mile Zero. The thing is, I would totally have prepared some big thing for him, but (and this is a rather big 'but') I would have needed more than 19 hours to do it in. Just saying. So I did what I could: I wrangled up a board member, two volunteers, and a friend of a volunteer to come out for a more 'intimate' send-off ('rally' would definitely be the wrong word to use in this case!)

We congregated this morning at around 10 am and waited for the cyclist to show up (thank goodness he did, or his sorry ass would have been kicked all the way back to New Waterford!!) We felt pretty pathetic, shuffling our heels and apologizing to each other for having such a lame five-person send-off. Then, like Q-Tips creeping out of the medicine cabinet, we saw them: a good twenty elderly women, most of them decked out in those (totally happening!) boxy sunglasses that can be worn over the regular glasses (you know the ones I'm talking about). They all came toward us, and then they huddled around the Mile 0 marker, waiting to have their group photo taken!

It turns out they were part of a 'Widow's Walking Group' (and in case you were wondering, no- YCMTSU!). They just happened to be meeting at Mile 0 at the same time we were there to go on their weekly walk. Well... that's when my mother's genes kicked in. I boldly introduced myself, said a few moving words about what a great cause we were supporting today, asked them to hold our agency banner and to pose in front of the marker (it was more like placing the banner in their hands as I rambled on about our agency and this bike tour I knew nothing about!), and then I wheeled the cyclist in front of the perturbed bunch. A few snaps of the digital camera later- et voila! We had a well-attended (if not a media-saturated) send-off event!

If anybody from Calgary had seen me in action this morning, I know exactly what they would have said: "that was totally something your mom would do!" And I would have felt proud. 'Yeah, it was.'

Boy Toy

2007-05-09T07:56:00.000-07:00

OK, for those of you who don't already know it: I don't drive. There. I said it. I get a lot of flack from other people about it, but seriously, there are many reasons why I choose not to drive, and honestly-- it's for the safety of everybody involved. Anyway, up until yesterday, Marty and I had three vehicles, two of which were nasty gas-guzzling pollution-mobiles. There was the tiny Honda Civic, for regular city driving and excellent highway mileage; the Nomad (ah, the Nomad), to move our crap from city to city; and the 1964 Dodge Fargo, the pride and joy of Marty's dear little heart.

I liked the Fargo as much as Marty did, with its groovy beaded curtain and its rollered-on paint job. (Hey, at least it was red- my favourite colour!) It had one of those retro crystal doorknobs as the handle on the stick shift, and I must say, we had many an excellent camping trip in it (even that time when the driver side front tire blew out in the middle of nowhere... en route to Radium of all places... because that steep downhill is always such a great place to lose control of a vehicle! Haha- yeah right.)

Well, I'm sad to report that the Fargo had to be given up. Marty sold it yesterday to one of his brother's friends, because there really was no way we could still have three vehicles in Victoria. The Nomad will be put up for sale as well, as soon as it makes it back from Calgary with our remaining crap. Then, we'll be left with nothing but the Honda That Never Dies. (It's true.)

I was disappointed to hear about the Fargo being gone, but I wasn't even close to Marty's level of distress. Seriously, having to sell the Fargo ranked right up there in Marty's List of Sad Life Events-- probably up with the death of loved ones. :( Let's all take a moment of silence, then, and wish the Fargo all the best in its new home.

When it Rains, it Snores

2007-05-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

Most of you have heard of our trials and tribulations with the upstairs neighbours. They sing, play guitar, open their patio door every five minutes to have a cigarette, stay up late, and set their alarm clock for way too early each morning. We can't figure out why they set the alarm for 5:45 am every day, because it takes them until 7:30 am (at least!) to get out of bed. (And usually, it's more like 8:30 or 9 am). Of course, the worst part about the upstairs neighbours is that during the time between when the alarm first goes off and when they finally think to wake up and turn it off, the beeping stays on. Constantly.

Nothing could be worse than having your sleep interrupted every. single. morning by somebody else's alarm clock. We've complained about it numerous times (to them directly and also to our landlord), but to no avail. The alarm clock rings on! So Marty and I have had to strategize. Our plans have ranged from moving our bed into the dining room to sneaking out in the middle of the night and ringing their (very loud) apartment buzzer to give them a (granted, pretty immature) taste of their own medicine. However, practicality has kept our bed in the bedroom where it technically belongs, and plain old guilt has prevented us from ever ringing the apartment buzzer at 3 am. Sigh... What to do?

Just last week, Marty tossed out the rather ludicrous idea of beating them at their own game. He reasoned that if we just got up earlier than them each morning, the alarm clock wouldn't even have a chance to bother us, because by then, we'd already be awake. I was skeptical, nay-- dubious. Even though I used to wake up insanely early every morning many moons ago to go work out, that was exactly the problem: it was many moons ago! Besides, with 10-hour workdays during the week, I wasn't about to cut back on my sleeping hours. I need every minute I can get!

Anyway, fast forward to last night, when I tucked my (lonesome!) self into bed and prepared to doze off into a blissful sleep. Then I heard it: the unmistakable sound of snoring! It came from right above me, and because I'm such a conspiracy theorist, I swear it was just an annoying recording that was being played right on the ground above me-- speakers face-down. The upstairs neighbours probably muffled their laughter as they imagined frustrated little me, downstairs and cursing them for the nth time, popping in my worn-out earplugs and lying agitated in my bed. Bah. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I opted to sleep on the couch for the night, and then I set my alarm early (for 5:15 am!), woke up, held my ringing alarm clock right to my ceiling, kept it there until even I got annoyed, and then pranced off to the gym for my first early-morning workout in a very long time. Let me tell you: it felt great!!

I can't say whether I'll be able to keep up this early bird schedule for very long, but this morning at least, I felt more empowered and energetic than I have in a while. Nothing seems to beat the rush of a workout mixed with childish 'na-nana-boo-boo' nose-thumbing antics! Take that, rotten upstairs neighbours! Granted, I'll probably be falling asleep around 8 pm today, but if that's what it takes to have a semi-decent sleep in these parts of town, so be it. Two can play at this game...

PS: Betcha thought this post would be all rosy, what with pictures of pretty flowers and all. Nope. I want revenge!!!

And Now, Some Pictures Worth A Thousand Words

2007-05-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

I'm speechless. I really am.

The walk was a huge success, raising over $10,000 for the Victoria Women's Sexual Assault Centre. (not bad at all, considering it was the first annual event!) About 50 men registered to participate in this year's walk, and it was awesome seeing some of them fight over which shoes to wear ('no way, man-- I already called dibs on those white ones.') I kept thinking I had seen the best pair of shoes hands-down, and then somebody else would walk by in something even better. Lace-up cork-soled platforms? Lavender bridesmaid shoes? Strappy stiletto sandals? Knee-high go-go boots? My favourites were the more understated ones-- the ones that had obviously been pilfered from the closets of ordinary wives, sisters, mothers, and even daughters, instead of borrowed from a costume shop like some of them were (although those were most excellent, too). We marched for an actual mile through downtown Victoria, and I have to say it was one of the best fundraising events I've ever attended. Now I have a whole year to pick out the perfect shoes for Marty to wear to the second annual walk! :)

Putting the 'FUN' back in 'Fundraiser'

2007-05-04T20:46:00.000-07:00

It seems like every charity and mascot dog has a signature fundraising walk now. I know this because not only have I pledged for a good friend's walk coming up in June (it's a great cause! Go here to sponsor her if you're so inclined), but I'm also involved in planning one of those very charitable fundraising walks with one of my jobs now. (It's a far cry from helping to organize a speaking event with no less than freaking Gloria Steinem, but I guess you can only have so many of those teeny-bopper-meets-the-New-Kids moments in your life. No big deal. PS: I'm glad it was Gloria I met instead of Jordan Knight. Thank goodness we don't always get what we wished for when we were 10 years old!)

Anyway, in an effort to learn more about how these events run (and also to discover the kinds of jobs I'll need to trick people into, erm, I mean... recruit for), I volunteered for yet another charity walk this weekend. The thing is: neither walk has happened yet, and I already know that the one I'm going to volunteer at this weekend will kick my own plan-a-charity-walk-a-thon's ass.

I've signed up to be a marshal at the "Walk a Mile In Her Shoes" walk this Saturday. It goes to support programs (education, counselling, prevention, etc.) at the Victoria Women's Sexual Assault Centre, and I must say that they have the single most brilliant gimmick I can imagine for a walking event. Men walking a mile in women's shoes??! As if that's not the greatest thing you can possibly imagine! The (all) male participants will be raising money to walk a mile in women's shoes, and the more money each participant raises, the more they will go from walking in simple pumps to getting stuck in plain old 3" stilettos. SWEET!!! Some of the participants (which include media personalities, crown counsel lawyers, and other pretty big wigs) are even shaving or waxing their legs if a certain pledge amount is reached. (This part isn't so big a deal to me, though, given that my own husband always has smoother legs than I do, not to mention freshly polished toenails. This is secretly one of the things I love most about Marty-- his baby-smooth (not to mention gorgeous!) legs and his m&m coloured toenails.. but I digress. It's a really big deal for the other lawyers in the crown counsel office watching their boss get waxed right on the office floor!).

My only regrets about this walk are that a) Marty won't be there to participate, because he's in Calgary for the weekend (he would have looked so pretty in high heels!) and b) that my own charity walking event will not be nearly as spirited, fun, or interesting to the general public. I'm so glad that the Sexual Assault Centre has such a great way for people to raise awareness and funds for their cause, but I really wish that we had a similar trick to pull at my job! I'll post photos after the event... you can bet I'll be bringing my camera!

My Cup Runneth Over

2007-05-04T08:36:00.000-07:00

Some of you might recall that I joined a little something called Gimme Your Stuff a while back, in the hopes of giving and receiving rare gems from around the world. Well, I've participated in a number of swaps now-- one with a woman from Singapore, another with a woman in Bulgaria, one with a woman in South Korea, and I've even got a swap pending with a woman in India.

I have to say that I found the first package that arrived at my door a tiny bit disappointing. I ripped it open, eager to take in the splendour of campy and kitschy stuff (or downright breathtaking stuff) from a different corner of the globe, and I ended up staring at a load of cheap tourist crap. We're talking 'car air freshener' crap. Gimme A Break! A bit of a let-down, especially considering I had actually put a lot of time and effort into the package I sent her back. I debated cancelling any future/pending swaps, because the payoff just wasn't there. Plus, I worried that people who had never met me before might not understand that fine line between 'so bad it's good' and 'so bad it's bad'. (And believe me, it's a very fine line!) That's when the package from Melanie arrived.

This package is HUGE, and it's chock-full of handmade and (I like to think) lovingly purchased items... all of them perfectly in line with my very particular sense of humour. Kudos to Melanie for pulling out the psychic card and running with it!

Thank you!

When The Cat's Away...

2007-05-03T11:24:00.000-07:00

The mice will pop the new Justin Timberlake- ssh! album into the stereo and shrink with self-conscious embarrassment at the fact that they actually like it! (She blushes)

Marty left early this morning for Calgary, so I'll be all by my lonesome for almost a week! Sniff, sniff. Everything about the trip is wrong: Marty leaving, the whole 'going to Calgary' part, and of course the 'me being lonesome at home' part. Le sigh.

My dear: I miss you already!

Birthday Buzz

2007-04-30T21:58:00.000-07:00

Today is my youngest sister's 21st birthday. As I was flipping through some old photo albums and trying to find some embarrassing photos of her to post for the occasion, I got to thinking about a particular idiosyncracy in (about?) the way my family celebrates birthdays.

It's been a while since all of us have been together to mark a birthday, but one thing we usually did when we lived in the same place was to seek out the worst possible cake from Dairy Queen to bring home with whoever's-birthday-it-was name on it. I don't know how the tradition started, or why, but I do know that I miss feeling that rush of delightful wickedness while asking some unfortunate employee to write one of my sister's names out in the most awful of loopy cursive. 'Yes, yes! Can you put a heart over the 'i'? And can you make that 'D' a little more juvenile? It's too legible right now.' (The L. family seems to be genetically programmed to appreciate the inherent humour of teenage cursive. The more dots, loops, and hearts, the better! Maybe it's just us.)

Anyway, since the tradition of cutesy cake giving was rather short-lived, I have only a few photos of nasty ice cream concoctions to share. Luckily, the cream of the crop (so to speak) just happened to be for one of Caroline's birthdays (pictured below). It was originally intended to be a Mother's Day cake, as evidenced by the giant "MOM" scrawled underneath that beaming rendition of a woman resembling Sally Forth (sans black shaggy 80s comic book hair, of course). We got the employee to wipe off the two 'm's and to write Caroline's name on either side of the leftover 'o'. You could (and still can) see the blue smudges from the 'm's underneath, so the employee covered it with sprinkles to disguise the botched icing name job. Sweet.

It's the gift that keeps on giving! Happy birthday, Gare! (PS: Nice red pearl necklace!)

A Day in the Life of Dana L.

2007-04-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

So I've been wracked with guilt for being MIA in blogland (or, as a former schoolmate used to call it, 'the blogosphere'... blech! Some things are best left un-academicized... though I suppose 'un-academicized' is as much of a made-up schoolish word as blogosphere. Nevermind, then.)

I'd like to say that I've been consumed with incredibly interesting adventures in between my intermittent posts, but unfortunately, things have been pretty much same old since I started working. You know: eating, sleeping, working, catching playoff hockey, and watching harbour seals. That kind of stuff. Plain old, boring, everyday seal watching.

I've also been knitting, though. Back in January, I promised my dear husband that I would knit him a sweater for his birthday. We borrowed some books from the library so he could pick out the perfect pattern. Then we went to the *cough* incredible local yarn store so he could pick out the perfect yarn. Since then, I've been knitting and knitting. Hopefully, the sweater will be ready in time for his birthday next January! (Slow and steady wins the race, right?)

This whole process has enlightened me about one of the key differences between Marty and I. He's much more aware of his likes and dislikes than I am, and he's also much more able to articulate them to others (whereas I often leave things unspoken, for fear of offending, bothering, or otherwise putting off somebody else. Stupid gender socialization.) This sweater situation is a prime example. Had Marty offered to knit me a sweater, I would probably have picked something plain and simple-- something not too intricate or difficult to knit, especially for a first-time-sweater-knitter (which, by the way, I am). Marty, however, went straight for the cabled fishermen's patterns. He also opted for a button-up sweater instead of a pullover, which means I have to learn how to make buttonholes! And oh yeah, he wondered if I could alter the v-neck pattern to a regular crewneck style. And could the sweater and sleeves be longer? 'Sure, honey! Anything for my sweet love.'

Well, I have to say that ultimately, I'm glad he chose the sweater he did. I'm learning many mad knitting skillz as I go along (lattices 4-eva', yo!), and every successful row feels like a significant accomplishment on my end. Plus, I figure that by getting him to buy into every little detail of this sweater, I'll be able to avoid the dreaded Sweater Curse. (Granted, Marty and I are already married, and the curse normally applies to unwedded significant others, but still... I would hate to knit a whole cabled sweater and have him not like the fit/style/wool/colour/whatever else.) This way, if anything goes wrong with the sweater, it won't be my fault. After all, he was the one who picked the pattern, the wool, the specific length, the buttons, the crewneck (when I get there), and everything else. I'm just the knitter in this situation. Don't shoot the knitter. Everyone knows that.

For Shame

2007-04-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some lunch and snacks for another looooong day at work. I decided 'hey, let's grab some chocolate' because, you know, as the day wears on, nothing really beats a little taste of the pick-me-up good stuff.

When I brought my wares up to the till, the cashier took one look at the chocolate, sniffed "for breakfast?!" in a disdainful tone that would shame even the most shameless of outlaws, and then proceeded to race through the rest of my order like the chocolate-for-breakfast-disease might be contagious. Hmph. Did he think my Greek salad was for breakfast, too?

I was miffed to be judged so early in the morning for my apparent lack of culinary discretion, but then I remembered judging somebody else (a priest, no less- for shame!) for what was in his cart one fine day many years ago. The memory is crisp and clear, as though I scanned the cart only yesterday: frozen orange juice concentrate, cigarettes, and Cheez Whiz lay scattered around the bottom of the cart. That was it.

In the spirit of forgiveness and letting bygones be bygones, I've decided to assume that the priest was only stocking up on some dwindling essentials that day, not subsisting entirely on orange semi-solids like I wickedly assumed back then. And to the cashier that clucked at me this morning? May you one day discover the joy of the good stuff on your tongue as another long day at work drags on. Amen, brother.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

2007-04-22T14:58:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you guys, but when I was growing up, my parents were clearly divided into 'good cop, bad cop' camps when it came to parenting. My mom was the one who got things done (unfortunately, this means she was aka 'the bad cop'). When things weren't right, she set them straight. She'd let you know what was on her mind, and on the (blissfully rare) occasions when one of us girls was misbehaving, we were sure to hear about it from mom.

My dad, on the other hand, was by default (or by strategic planning on his part, perhaps) the 'good cop'. He rarely, if ever, made a fuss, and he only enforced discipline reluctantly, at the insistence of my ma, who was tired of always playing the bad cop role. I see now that his style of parenting was the more passive-aggressive and frustrating of the two (especially for my mom, who inevitably ended up coming across as more strict, less patient, and over-reactive), but growing up, all I knew was that the 'good cop' seemed to do a better job of avoiding conflict, and I was drawn to that, because if anything, I didn't like conflict.

Anyway, looking after Robertina for the past 3 weeks has taught me a lot about parenting. (I know that dogs in no way = babies, but nonetheless, petsitting in many ways resembles babysitting.) For example, it seems I'm neither a good cop nor a bad cop. I've tried to be a good cop, rewarding Robertine with treats and pats for every little thing she does, but instead of gaining her utmost trust and respect, she's given me this sly little look that says I've been duped. Well, then. I've tried to be a bad cop, commanding her to sit and stay, and tugging a bit at her leash when she (occasionally) growls at other dogs. She doesn't listen to me. Unless of course, I give her treats-- in which case, she's distracted for a couple of seconds before getting into mischief again. Curses.

See how she pulls? You have no idea how long we had to try 'posing' for this photo before she actually stood still enough to be in the same frame as me!

So I'm kind of a wishy-washy cop, trying hard to be everything at once but ending up being nothing particularly special in the parenting department. Marty, on the other hand, has managed to blend the good cop and the bad cop parts into a seamless whole, and let me tell you: he's reaping the rewards. Robertine literally worships the ground he walks on! She listens to his every command, even when they're merely whispered to her. She's affectionate and obedient, playful and demure: the perfect dog in every way.

The feminist in me hates myself for even thinking it, but maybe Robertine is so drawn to 'alpha male' Marty simply because he's a man. Maybe my voice isn't deep enough or serious-sounding enough for her to accord it much clout. Maybe she feels more protected by his side than she does by mine, especially because I'm always talking to her in a ridiculous sing-song and giving her treats, rather than making her heel and shooing other dogs away. Whatever it is, I'm feeling a teensy bit jealous. Since when does the disciplinarian parent get all the love?? Since when do the bad cops come out on top?? Sigh...

See how relaxed and not-on-a-leash she is? She loves Marty-- and who could blame her? Just remember, Robertina: You can be the girlfriend, but I still get to be the wife.

This isn't to say that Robertine completely ignores or hates me. She just knows that I'm much more of a pushover than Marty will ever be. And if I can't put my foot down for a dog, how would I ever be an effective parent? Well, the good news (for me!) is that another pregnancy-free cycle has just gone by, so at least I won't have to test out my cop roles in real life for another little while. No hermaphrodite prophet for me just yet! Thank goodness for that. No, seriously.

Wrong Side of the Bed

2007-04-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

Wow, I'm having quite a dazed morning so far.

Last night, I had a very vivid dream that I was pregnant with a hermaphrodite prophet. Marty and I spent most of the dream trying to figure out if the father was him or Jesus. Yikes! I blame it on the ice cream (yes, ice cream!) I slipped up and ate last night. This just goes to show that cleansing is good for more than my physical health: it also does wonders for my mental health, it seems.

PS: I couldn't bring myself to make the photo any bigger for this post. It's really a horrible shot of me (taken surreptitiously by Marty while I was jetlagged (and coincidentally enough, pregnant, although I didn't know it at the time)... I might as well have been drugged!) I just felt it captured the 'wrong side of the bed' feeling perfectly. Can't you just feel the grossness and grogginess, imagining me waking up from this sprawled-out-sleep-in-socks? Sick.

Much Ado About Nothing

2007-04-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

Well, it turns out my employers never found out about my Master's degree after all. A decision was made at the last minute to not include the credentials of the office staff, given that most patients would rather know the qualifications of the therapists over those of the peons... er, admin people. I personally think the move is smart, but I also think it's sneaky. I think the higher ups thought to themselves that it might reflect poorly on the clinic to have such qualified people doing regular-jane jobs for slightly less than average wages (the other admin people have at least BAs, too). Ah, well.

Anyway, my experiences lately have been stoking ye olde academic fire in my belly, although I'm certainly the last person in this world who would have ever thought my mind could turn in that direction ever again. When I made my grand exit out of university (last April already!), I was given a gentle talking to by my dear supervisor. Like the all-knowing chorus in a Greek play (most likely a tragedy), she seemed unwavering in her conviction when she told me:

"You can't escape the academy, Dana. It's your destiny."

(And yes, she said it just as ominously and outrageously as it seems. This is a direct quote!)

I had laughed her comments off at the time, thinking them to be overdramatic and even a bit preposterous (me in the university?! Forever??!!! Hahahahaha-- good one!) But deep inside, I was shaken. She just seemed so sure of herself. Would I really end up back in the academy? The same university that had sucked my soul out with the intensity of a leech on a vampire using a vacuum in a black hole? (Kudos to ffwd magazine for enlightening me on the degree to which things could suck!) Could I ever escape my so-called destiny?

Well, the first year following my thesis defense didn't prove to be so difficult. If anything, I was still getting over my dry heaves and anxiety attacks until this March at the very least. I thought about the stress-ridden, eternally preoccupied demon I had become during my MA program, and I couldn't believe that poor Marty managed to suffer through it all. He even married me halfway through my program! (Now that's what I call commitment!) When I think of school, any excitement or curiosity that I feel about researching and learning is nearly instantly overtaken by nauseating memories of having no time or life outside of school. And debates. Endless debates and 'critical engagement' with the 'issues'. Blech. I hate debating.

So with all of these nasty thoughts about university, why is it that lately I've been feeling the yearning to learn? I've been searching through university websites listlessly, hoping to stumble upon some program that would jump out and squeal 'take me!'... So far, nothing, but I'm still searching. How odd.

I think I've finally come to terms with what my professor sensed all along: I would never be fully satisfied in a job where my skills weren't fully utilized and where I couldn't flex my brain muscles. Many jobs outside of the university just won't cut it for somebody who has the geeky desire to do research running through her veins! Sure, I'm learning at my job now, but it's not the same. Not at all.

So, in the meantime, although I hear the siren call of... um... proselytizing?... I haven't yet turned my ship towards that sweet destruction. And as far as destiny is concerned, when it comes down to it, I'd much rather have my destiny be to carry out my life in the academy than to kill my mother, marry my father, and then scratch out my eyes in horror when I find out what I've done. Maybe it's just me, though.

Today is the Day

2007-04-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

Today just happens to be the day when my work will find out I have a Master's degree. I managed to skirt the issue in my interview (so as to be able to secure the job in the first place), but today I'm getting my 'staff photo' taken for the website (more like a mugshot, I've been told), and I've been asked to list my credentials as well. It would be downright lying to not mention it (as opposed to the half-lying that I did in my interview!), so I'm going to go ahead and brazenly write: 'Dana L., B.A., M.A. (Calgary)' beneath my photo.

I don't know if this will change anything at work. Maybe my employers will be surprised and a bit upset at me for not saying so before they hired me. But maybe they won't care (or even notice!) Either way, I suppose it really doesn't matter. I have perfectly well-thought-out responses to any imaginable reaction I can invoke.

And just to keep you updated on the goings-on of my 'career path', I'm starting to hear a quiet little voice inside, preparing me for my next journey-slash-calling. (And to borrow a bit from Kathy, who mentioned about five times in a recent post that 'no, she's not pregnant'-- no, I'm not pregnant! I think. Hope. Um... We'll have to wait until the next period to confirm.) I just have been feeling more aware of little synchronicities in my life lately, and they all seem to be leading me in a new and exciting (at least to me) direction. I'll have to let these ideas stew a bit more before I come out and set my next Five Year Plan in Soviet stone, but in the meantime, I'm starting to feel more relieved that perhaps I didn't get my MA for damn all nothing.

And speaking of Soviet stone, have any of y'all seen the movie Everything is Illuminated? As a Ukrainian and a big fan of the band Gogol Bordello, I have to highly recommend it. Are you looking for a movie with an ironic 80s vibe and purposely horrible Ukrainian-to-English translations? ("official seeing eye bitch", anyone?) Have you ever wondered what Eugene Hutz looks like without his fu-manchu mustache get-up? Then really, you must, must see this movie. End of story.

Yours respectfully,
Dana, M.A.

Family Ties

2007-04-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

My mom's family is huge. She has six brothers and sisters, and all of them have about 3 children of their own. That's a lot of cousins!

Growing up, we spent a lot of time with the family. Nearly every weekend I can remember from my childhood, we were doing something or other with a group of cousins. Setting up mattresses and 'satin' sheets on a set of stairs and careening down in laundry baskets. Playing Bubble Bobble on the computer until we were hallucinating tiny dragons and fluorescent green bubbles. Listening to the New Kids on the Block and twisting Barbies into obscene positions. That kind of stuff. I knew the ins and outs of my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and my cousins, and life was good.

Now that I'm an aunt myself, I have very mixed feelings about being so far away from my new niece. Mostly I'm disappointed that I can't be an integral part of Lily's life as she grows up. But then I think to myself that I would hardly even get to see her if I lived in Calgary still. I don't drive, and my sister lives in Canmore, so I would only get to see them occasionally anyway. Plus, being in Victoria helps me cherish each and every little thing I see or hear about Lily. Take, for instance, these photos:

Too cute!!