Wanted: A Czech Translator

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!

Home of the Afraid of Everything

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.

A Friend, Indeed

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!

Update: Math is Hard!

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.

Scent of A Woman

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.

Let's Discuss: Hugh Grant

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

Dear Calgary:

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.

Spaghetti (Squash) with Vegetable Marinara Sauce

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.

Open Letter from a Kitteh to a Bird

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

Lost and Found

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?

Yarn Harlot vs Toaster Oven

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?

For Shame

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.

Ach!

Calgary always puts me into a state of angst. From getting up at 5 am to make the first ferry out, to eating horrific amounts of junk food on the road to stay awake and to pass the 15-16 hours of time, to pulling into the urban sprawl at 11 pm and seeing the brown-ness of the surroundings—everything about the trip just makes me feel blah.

Our latest trip was no different. Sure, we had a few mudslide detours and even a baby shower to mix things up a bit, but other than that, everything was the same. We pulled into Calgary around 11 pm on Friday night, and sure enough, we were offered soup and cake by the inlaws. Nothing like some sugar and flour to ease your way into a good night’s sleep! Saturday was spent running errands, switching Marty’s art around, and generally driving around the city. Then today we visited our storage unit and crammed as much crap into our van as was humanly possible. Then I caught a flight back and came home to prepare for another week at work. Angst, I tell you. Angst.

There are some things that I miss about Calgary: My favourite local yarn store. Certain tea houses and coffee shops. Family. Friends. CJSW radio. The Coup restaurant. And oddly enough, the camaraderie that comes along with bitching about conservative governments (though I still prefer a more liberal government in office to bitching about a conservative government hands down!). So many things about the city, however, make me feel really disgusting and just plain heavy. I associate Calgary with being expected (forced?) to overeat foods that really don’t do my digestive system any favours, and every night I go to bed feeling bloated and greasy. During the days, because Marty and I are trying to cram in as many errands as we can during our short stays, we run around from mall to mall with the equivalent of a brick of wax in our bellies and then wonder why we come back in the evenings feeling like ass (in a very bad way—nothing sexual implied here at all). I know our friends and family mean well when they offer us meals and a place to stay, but somehow I always end up coming back to Victoria feeling like an ungrateful wench for trying to refuse at least half of the sugary/white flour-y/fried/cabbage family concoctions that are spooned onto my plate. (The other half I eat mostly out of guilt or to assuage the gnawing sense of wench-ness eating away at my insides. ANGST!!!!)

Gah!! I’ll report on the baby shower in a future post, after Marty brings the camera back home and after I cleanse myself of any lingering loathing of the trip back to Calgary. Maybe it was the blatant tsk-tsk look I got when I declined to take thirteen open-faced sandwiches with me to the airport (for a one hour flight!!! Right after a HUGE lunch!! I am not a burly man!!!), or maybe it was the ‘random’ full-body search I had to endure at the airport (during which I was frisked naked-like with no shoes on in front of hundreds of people, but then later got to relish the sight of the security person combing through a weekend’s worth of dirty laundry to uncover any phantom drugs… in front of those same hundreds of people… serves them right), but I really don’t feel my best right now. It must be time to soothe my chapped skin/lips/throat with some salty ocean air, click my shoes together, and repeat “We’re not in Calgary anymore, we’re not in Calgary anymore…” (though poor Marty still is! Ach.)

CSI: Victoria

My workplace was broken into late last week. Not the best way to start off my new job (understatement of the year), and to make matters worse, I discovered just how easy it would be for somebody to frame Marty and I for the robbery.

I received a phone call early on Friday morning that the office door was ajar. Somebody in the office building had seen the door open and had reported it to our national office in Toronto. The message was relayed from national to Edmonton and then to me, so by that time, I felt a wee mortified. As the new (and now only) paid staff person, it’s definitely my job to lock the door. Beside myself that I might have let this crucial step slip my mind, I apologized to my boss and vowed to go straight down (on my day off) to lock up for real.

When I got to the office, I did a once through just to make sure everything inside was all right. It wasn’t. Our filing cabinet had been wrenched open, and our cash box had been emptied and discarded in a corner. Loose change was scattered all over the carpet, and a bag of rolled coins from a recent fundraising activity was noticeably absent. Being the cool and collected person I am under pressure, I did a very stupid thing: I cleaned up the entire mess! It was only after I had picked the last dime off the floor that it hit me: I should be phoning the police and not wasting my time oh… you know… destroying all of the evidence (or putting my fingerprints all over the place)!!! Cripes. I may be certified as ‘school smart’, but I’m a long way from earning my MA in street smarts, that’s for damn sure.

Anyway, I phoned the police and sheepishly told the dispatcher who warned me not to touch anything that I already had. A lot. Then, while I waited for an officer to arrive, I chastised myself for all manners of things. How could I have forgotten to lock the door? Why the hell did I clean up the crime scene—have I never watched an episode of CSI?! What kind of an impression was I leaving for my employers after only one measly week of work? Who did I think I was?

I talked to an employee from a neighbouring office in the building, and we tried to solve the crime ourselves. I was pretty sure that the door had been locked when I left it, so maybe somebody had actually broken in? As we were wracking our brains for clues of some sort, this guy suddenly remembered what seemed like a crucial piece of evidence: just the other night, he said, he noticed a suspicious man pacing back and forth in front of our office in the evening, trying to look in the windows, and then dipping back around a nearby corner. As he told his story, it seemed more and more likely that this dodgy man could have had something to do with the break-in. Perhaps this hit had been premeditated by somebody who had scoped out our office beforehand! Eager to have the blame taken off of my shoulders, I asked the employee what the suspicious man had looked like. The guy proceeded to describe Marty to a tee. My dearest husband!!! The beard. The cap. The Thai fisherman’s pants. No good. Does my sweet husband really look that much like a terrorist??

It was true that Marty had been pacing back and forth in front of the building on the evening in question. However, I was quick to clarify that he was simply waiting for me to be out of my meeting, which I said would be over at 8:30 pm but didn’t actually end until 9:15. Thank god for a decent alibi!

Anyway, neither of us have been hauled off to a police station for questioning yet, but it doesn’t seem like anybody will ever be apprehended for the burglary. Not much was stolen, granted, (they don’t call them non-profits for nothing!), but I’d still feel better about the situation if there was some closure or some answers to all of the questions I have. To date, this episode remains unsolved.

The Stench of Academia

I just finished reading a book called Bait and Switch by Barbara Ehrenreich. In it, she goes undercover as an educated and otherwise experienced professional who ostensibly is ‘in transition’ and looking for a new position in the corporate world. She chronicles her experiences reading career manuals (ugh!), taking personality tests (double ugh!), getting image makeovers (potentially OK, but probably ugh if it has to do with the corporate world... hello, camel toes and yeast infections!), networking (uggity-ugh), and applying to hundreds upon hundreds of corporate jobs (sigh-- this gives me the cramps), all to no avail. Her and her fellow disenfranchised white-collar workers struggle to avoid the pull of downward mobility, but unfortunately, many of them end up settling for jobs that pay far less than their previous positions, offer no benefits, expect them to work ridiculous hours and discourage or even flat out reject the use of independent thinking skills. That is, of course, if any of them are even offered a job. (Most of them are turned away from position after position for being ‘overqualified’. Go figure.)


The book jacket describes her project as “Alternately hilarious and tragic”, and that’s pretty much how I felt about it, too. It was hilarious to read about an image consultant dissecting the impressions that business professionals supposedly projected to potential employers with their outfits and makeup. Note to self for future interviews: skirts are for Republicans, and gold-on-tan outfit ensembles project a ‘winning attitude’. Who knew? It was totally tragic, though, when it became painfully clear to me that the subtitle to the book could have been ‘The Story of My Life, by Dana L.’ Tragic in the sense that I can totally relate to the sad experience of downplaying or even omitting my credentials to land a job (on paper I am now MA-less), and also tragic in the sense that somebody already beat me to publishing my memoirs… There’s something very peculiar and unnerving about stumbling across the Story of Your Life and having it be written by somebody else.


I discovered in this book that many employers recoil from the 'stench of the academy'. I know from my own experiences in grad school that the university doesn't exactly smell like roses (unless the thorns have their own special scent), but certainly it doesn't smell that bad... right? On second thought: after removing my own university degrees from my resume in an effort to get called for job interviews (and having it work), maybe university does stink. I wonder if they make a deodorant for that...

Cable TV and Capoeira

Since moving into an apartment that offers free cable, Marty and I have been catching up on the world of crappy television shows. One of our favourites is Mantracker on the Outdoor Life Network. I didn’t enjoy it at first (something about a man being called ‘Mantracker’ left a sour taste on my can-we-find-a-gender-neutral-term tongue), but now I get a rush watching people trying to escape from this crazy (and mean!) old man on a horse.

Marty would be superb as ‘prey’ for Mantracker. He’s skilled in the outdoors, has excellent navigating skills, and he’s seen enough episodes of the show now to know what not to do (e.g. no mooning Mantracker, no filming him with the prey cam if you’ve narrowly escaped capture, no flashing the man the finger, no silly games or ineffective, time-wasting ‘traps’, and especially no teasing or taunting.) I, on the other hand, would be the worst prey in the history of the show. I would probably be caught somewhere in the first 3 km, even with a headstart of the same distance! I’m an OK hiker, but I’m a ‘stick to the trails’ kind of girl—a definite ‘no-no’ on Mantracker. Plus, I can’t swim (for shame) and I can’t navigate to save my life. Literally. I SUCK at reading maps.

This brings me to yesterday, when Marty and I were about to attend the Brazilian Festival concert. We were riding our bikes to the auditorium, and we were hopelessly lost. My fault. I had checked out the location of the auditorium on Google, and I had led us to the other side of the city with 5 minutes left until the concert started. Sigh. What should have been a relatively simple 6 km ride ended up being a gargantuan 25 km at high speed, and of course we ended up getting there about a half-hour late. I couldn’t have ridden faster if Mantracker was on my tail!

What we saw of the concert was well worth the sweat and the 200 beats per minute heart rate: (forgive the blurry photos)

I’ve decided that if I ever undertake a program to focus my mind and to heighten awareness of my body in space, Capoeira is the way to go. Forget yoga: Brazilian martial arts/dance-offs are way more my style. (Ignore my lifelong history of awkwardness in gymnastics and my complete inability to do things like somersaults, and the fact that the four-year old Capoeira students could easily kick my ass—a girl can still dream, right?)

Gimme Your Stuff!

So I mentioned in my post yesterday that I stumbled across a little thing called Gimme Your Stuff in the quest to find new Sockenwolle Unipo yarn. There is nothing I like more than sending and getting things through the mail (bills don’t count), so I’ve decided to go ahead and post lists of what I can send and what I would like to receive in an international swap!

I live on Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, and I love to knit, so things I can send include:

• Knitting and crafting supplies (quality natural yarns, buttons, homemade magnets, stickers, fancy ribbons, fabric, paper, vintage pattern booklets)

• Handknit baby caps and/or booties; handknit armwarmers or wristwarmers

• Blank greeting cards from around here

• Homemade pickled ginger for sushi or stirfry (no aspartame or food coloring!)

• Canadian food and candy (chips, chocolate bars, maple syrup stuff, whatever else tickles your fancy)

• Ocean seashells and beach glass

• Thrifted books in English (on a bunch of different topics. They’re usually more entertaining to look at than they are informative or especially good to read...)

• Children’s picture books

• Random (but beautiful!) tin boxes and containers

• Unique decorations (figurines, ornaments, wall hangings, etc.)

• Stationery items (cards, notebooks, pens, pencils, paper)

• Postcards, stamps, and coins from Canada

• Tea leaves or bags

I can also make arrangements to find stuff that isn’t on this list if you’re looking for something else (cosmetics, toiletries, Tums, Lipsmackers, whatever)!


What I would like to receive:

• Wool yarn in rich earthy colours (greens, browns, oranges, and reds)

• Books, pictures, posters, or postcards with non-English text/words on it

• Prints of religious icons or deities (it doesn’t matter which ones—any gods or sacred symbols from any religions are fine)

• Blank greeting cards!

• Crafting supplies

• Stationery stuff (paperclips, paper, clips, etc.)

• Patches or badges of your country’s crest, flag, or national symbols

• Hardcover journals or notepads

• Anything kitschy, vintage, or retro (especially tins, communist propaganda posters/postcards/photos, or decorations to put around the house)

• CDs/tapes of national folk or traditional music

What I would prefer not to receive (just saying):

• Food (unless you’ve got some Finnish Viking licorice… OK, and maybe some quality milk chocolate, too!)

• Acrylic yarn. God knows I have enough of that in my stash!

• Anything soapy or scented (bath stuff, candles, etc.) Unless it's made with 100% essential oils, I will break into hives. We don't want that, do we?

I am a big fan of quality and ironic thrift store finds, so if you’d like to swap with me, leave a comment or drop me an e-mail! Thank you!

A Room of One's Own

I have been daydreaming a lot lately.

I used to dream almost constantly, but that stopped while I was pursuing my Master’s degree. Almost overnight, it felt like I morphed from a passionate do-gooder with a colossal lust for life to a vacant zombie who was just slogging through and trying to get the program done; getting it done well was pretty much an afterthought.

Anyway, it feels like it’s taken a long time, but slowly and surely I’ve started to reclaim my former self and to let my imagination run loose! I’ve heard it said that you can only be limited by the boundaries of your own imagination, so I’ve taken the liberty of knocking down any fences of self-censorship and letting my dreams wander wherever they please. Lately, they’ve been hovering around one particular manifestation of Marty’s and my dream home.

I’ve often thought about my ideal home, but from the time in Grade 7 French class when we were supposed to construct a cardboard rendition of our dream home and all I did was write a shoddy narrative about it en français until recently, I’ve had a difficult time visualizing what I could so easily describe. Then we moved to Victoria and one version of our dream home was there, just a few blocks away from our apartment!

This home is perched atop not one, not two, but three quaint little shops in the village section of our lovely neighbourhood. I never would have even noticed it, had we not walked by it one evening and seen the lofty living quarters illuminated and shining warmth and coziness down onto the street.

Inside the main section is a vaulted ceiling and rich orange walls. There are plants, a bedroom loft, and a peaceful solarium just adjacent to the living room. Everything about this home strikes a jubilant chord within me: I love that there would be no neighbours above us to keep us awake with booming video games and painfully incompetent band practices (only to then wake us up early with the never-ending alarm clock beeps from hell). I love that the businesses below us would all be closed long before bedtime each night. I love that Marty would be able to set up a studio space in the solarium and to paint in natural light. I love the size of the home—not too big, but not too small, either. I love the inviting aura that the current occupants have established (now if I could only go inside!) Finally, I love the idea of one day setting up a gallery in the same building as our home. It has always been a dream to open up our own gallery/creative space, but I’ve never been able to actually see what it might look like until now.

Of course, this home is but one rendition of our ideal living space. We also have grand visions of mountain log cabins, cozy cottages in the Okanagan, and sprawling acreages in the rolling hills of the Czech Republic. Granted, we are so far away financially from reaching even one of these ideals right now, but as always, it never hurts to dream.

A Little Bit of History Repeating

Do you believe in past lives?


I haven’t really worked through the intricate details of what I believe about life and death (still sorting through what is mine and what belongs to my traditional Roman-Catholic upbringing), but I have, at various points in my life, attributed strong stirrings inside of me to possible past lives of mine. I feel like certain lessons that were not learned in past lives were passed down to me. If I can't master the lessons in this life, then I'll be given another chance in my next life.


In my late teens and early twenties, I was pretty convinced that one of my former selves was some kind of rebel in the French Revolution. How a simple Ukrainian girl ever ended up in the French Revolution is beyond me, but I used to have recurring dreams of being decapitated by guillotine or sometimes hung. The specifics of my dream used to vary a bit (e.g. sometimes the blade was sharp and swift, but most times it was rusty and dull), but one thing was always constant: in every dream, I had a large tomato stuffed into my mouth, and when I involuntarily clamped down on it with my teeth, it signified I was dead.


It always seemed strange but inconsequential to me that I had a tomato in my mouth in these dreams, until I learned about the fascinating folklore history of the tomato in Europe. Apparently, tomatoes were largely considered to be poisonous (or at least unfit to eat) until the late 1700s and early 1800s… around the time, coincidentally, of the French Revolution. Hmmm… are you thinking what I’m thinking? Funny that I always had a tomato in my mouth while being executed, despite not knowing about its supposed fatal qualities until recently. Perhaps a former self of mine knew something about the fruit that I didn’t?


Anyway, one thing I do know about past life exploration is that many people who search for their former selves inevitably claim famous or otherwise prominent people as their own. After all, it’s much more exciting to say “I was Marie Antoinette in a past life and I was executed by guillotine in the most public of fashions” than it is to say “I was a random Francophone who died for no good reason before anybody could even remember my name”. That said, though, I’m pretty sure the majority of us were mostly nameless or faceless people in past lives, perhaps with notorious figures sprinkled in every once in a while.


Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of a peasant or pioneer archetype. The toiling aspect has been minimized considerably (on purpose. Who likes to toil?!), but the urge to harvest and preserve the fruits of the earth is there, big time. Granted, I’ve romanticized the peasant figure quite a bit (read: almost entirely), but I attribute my newfound inclinations to make jam, pickles, soup stocks, and wool socks to a former self of mine who did things like these regularly to survive. I’ve also been bitten by a gardening bug, but who can blame me when flowers like these are popping up everywhere?





I’m curious to know what you were in your past lives? Orators, sculptors, builders, queens or kings? Slaves, merchants, revolutionaries, midwives, healers, witches? Maybe we were all of these and more, maybe we were none…

Heart Felt, Indeed

As if Valentine’s Day wasn’t sweet enough to begin with, look at what I found in my mailbox yesterday:

Kathy sent me a lovely and heart felt package full of Valentine goodness! There was chocolate, a disgruntled housewife pad of paper (which says ‘Make your own damn dinner!’ on the front—I’m not quite there with my loathing of the domestic yet… right now it’s more like ‘toilet: clean your own damn self!’, but maybe that’s written on one of the inside pages… I’ll have to check.), a beautiful postcard, and a couple of things that might look familiar to you from her crafty post yesterday:

Yep, her luscious soap wrapped in felty goodness, and an absolutely gorgeous brooch. Thank you, Kathy!

And while I’m still on the subject of Valentine’s Day, I’m also happy to report that my nose is Bioré fresh this morning and that I officially ‘broke up’ with the clinic yesterday. Anybody that doesn’t have the common courtesy to make a simple phone call after four dates isn’t worth my time. Granted, it took me almost a month and four dates/interviews to figure that out, but I finally did it.

Dear Clinic:

We’re better off as friends.

Love, Dana L.

(Yep, I’m breaking up via blog. Even more of an insult than breaking up over the phone, e-mail, or text message à la Britney Spears. Burn! Sssssss! Now cue those infectious beats of ‘I Will Survive’ already…)

So today I’m back to the resumé grind—which, out of all the grinds, is admittedly not my favourite—but at least I’ve got a tubful of chocolate to keep me motivated. Until next time, dear readers, wish me luck!