Right Here, Right Now

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

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!

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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'

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

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...

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!