Ray Bradbury’s three – brutally honest – rules for writers…

“Work is the only answer. I have three rules to live by. One, get your work done. If that doesn’t work, shut up and drink your gin. And when all else fails, run like hell!” – Ray Bradbury, The Art of Fiction No. 203, The Paris Review

And people wonder why I wear my sneakers year round…

Public washroom cell phone etiquette – Lesson #1

RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~The woman answered her cell mid-flush. I listened in on the short conversation from the next stall – because you know the one thing classier than answering a phone on the toilet is eavesdropping in a Walmart public washroom.

After telling the caller she’d phone him/her back, she hung up and started carping to her real-time companion on the other side of my monkey-in-the-middle stall:

“I hate answering my phone when I’m on the can!”

“Ya, me too,” agreed the friend. “Who was that anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

Maybe I’m a luddite, or just a stubborn hold-out when it comes to that quaint little concept of personal privacy, but I can’t help wondering why any phone HAS to be answered the moment it starts ringing. I suppose, like new mothers, we’re all programmed to respond to the wailings of the people who need us, but what about the mystery? The anticipation? At least wait out the flush, people. At least the flush!

Born in a Walmart parking lot… The Urban Yoke

Ever notice how a shopping cart is almost exactly the size of a car’s trunk? Both can comfortably fit a body and/or the spoils of a Sunday morning mission to Walmart. This revelation came too late for yours truly, who recently found herself stranded in the middle of a snowy Walmart parking lot with a cart’s worth pile of loot heaped at her feet, but no car, no trunk, and no options – and stubbornness can only take a girl so far.

Just then, a small sedan pulled up out of nowhere. The driver opened his door and leaned out. “Are you ok? Do you need a hand there?”

Now, I’m a great believer in chivalry; I take an opened door with all due grace and appreciation. But I draw the line at accepting rides - however fortuitous - from strange men in Walmart parking lots, men who quite possibly spend their Sunday mornings trolling said parking lots for bodies to fit snugly into their trunks.

“No thanks,” I said, with all due grace and appreciation, “I’m fine. It’s just a question of logistics.”

Now, I’m also a great believer in creative problem solving. I took a fresh look at all my available resources (excluding the man who gave me a weird look before driving off). Eureka! And the ‘Urban Yoke’ was born! Note toilet paper back padding. After a joyous stroll home (ok I’ll be honest here, it was still one heck of a trudge) I pulled the hubby out of bed to come take a picture of my genius. He also gave me a weird look, especially when I described my vision for an ergonomically molded, carbon fiber version for Mountain Equipment Coop. I guess some of us are just ahead of our time….and other people don’t buy more than they can carry, sigh.

The fallibility of statistics when applied to housework and husbands

I came home to find that I had won our latest Mexican Standoff. The dishes were done (sweet joy!), but there was a small debris pile on the counter by the stove.

“Dude!” I called to hubby from the kitchen (after thanking the man for backing down first – of course). “You can’t have broken two cups doing the dishes once. That’s a statistical impossibility!”

“Not when you drop one cup on the other one. Oh, and we need new dish gloves too – one of the fingers ripped open.”

Sound logic, sure, but the man had no explanation for his forth casualty; discovered the next day, when I was only three inches away from slicing my lip open on its splintered glass rim.

Well, I suppose I now know why it’s always the bull in the china shop, and never the steer – statistically speaking…

The dangers of reading over other people’s shoulders

It’s 7:54AM and the bus is packed. I’m squished in by the back doors, trying not to make eye and/or backpack contact with any of my fellow sufferers. The plump, mousy haired, maternal archetype in the seat in front of me is engrossed in a thick novel. I’ve always been jealous of those lucky people whose stomachs let them read on transit. I sneak a peak, anything to keep from thinking about how late we all are. Etiquette aside, what’s the harm in sharing a sentence?

“She sits down and offers Mandy a breast.”

Wowsers! (a term I never use lightly) This woman, lost in her own private world of forbidden lusts – and so early in the morning too! – blows apart my first impression. I look around… so many books, so many secrets. Who are you when you think nobody’s looking? I can’t resist a second sentence…

“The baby latches on…”

Sigh.

Harvard Medical School’s FIVE Keys To Happiness

What’s your New Year’s resolution? Whether you’re determined to shed that extra turkey weight or change careers, the end goal is always the same… to increase your happiness. One current scientific theory, substantiated by reams of research, is that we are all born with a genetic happiness ‘set point’. But just because you were a gnarly teen, or mopey twentysomething, it doesn’t mean you’re condemned to live out the rest of your life in emo purgatory. According to Ronald D. Siegel, Psy.D., assistant clinical professor of psychology at Harvard Medical School, there are five key lifestyle tweaks we all can make to maximize our happiness:

1. Practice using our strengths, particularly our virtues (ie: curiousity, compassion)

2. Practice internal and external gratitude for what we have, and towards the people who show us love and generousity

3. Savour the moment by practicing mindfulness (seriously, have you ever truly experienced an orange? Its intricacies of form and flavour will blow your mind)

4. Engage in the process (ie: feeling ‘in the zone’ while writing, or heck, even knitting)

5. Live meaningfully by serving others rather than our own egos (my own ego is pouting in a corner over this one, but no amount of whining can refute the piles of evidence supporting #5)

So go forth and be happy! Not buying it? Ok, ok, so go forth and be happier! I just can’t believe that Harvard hasn’t caught on to #6. But whatever path or key you choose, don’t forget that the rollercoaster is what drives the magic. So go forth and click out of this embarrassingly Oprah-atic post and get back to surfing this grand ol’ distraction from mortality we call the web. I suggest Youtube, because you never know when you’ll click your way into a wee spot of wisdom.

A sure sign it’s time to do the dishes…

“Can you get me a plate?” called hubby from the living room.

“Um… there are no plates,” I answered from the kitchen.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Or something plate-like then?”

With all due pomp and circumstance, I presented my man with a Tupperware lid.

In the years since the renegotiation of THE (infamous) DEAL – a politically charged, highly controversial, bit of newlywed legislation - we’ve held a long running Mexican Standoff over the dishes. And, much like the World War II era housewives who fashioned ball gowns out of mattress ticking, we weather each long siege (before the inevitable dish soap blitz) with resourcefulness and creativity. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but in our Calgary apartment, invention’s maternal grandparents go by the names ‘stubbornness’ and ‘procrastination’.

Concerning eyeglasses, mortality, and the miracles worked by a George Foreman Grill

George Foreman: boxer, spokesman, quiet champion for immortal truths

I answered the doorbell last Sunday wearing long johns and one of my husband’s giant sweaters. The dapper couple in the doorway looked past my fashion faux-pas and proceeded to expound on ‘why war happens’ and, if that wasn’t helpful enough, ‘where I’m going after I die’ – all with the help of a colourful brochure. The man looked like he’d just stepped off Ed Sullivan’s stage with a 60’s boy band, while his partner, a lovely earnest girl, was dressed in the prerequisite knee-length skirt and ‘sensible’ shoes.

But there was something about her that didn’t quite fit the cliché…

“Awesome glasses,” I said, “those have got to be the coolest frames I’ve ever seen.”

Her face lit up and her demeanor brightened right away. The moment served as further proof that however strong our faith, our souls are still driven to justify themselves within the social/material construct of our physical world. As I writer, I itch for validation and recognition as much as the next biped. My husband, on the other hand, has always been a rebel.

“So how do you deal with the pain of your mortality?” I asked the wise man sitting next to me on the couch.

“We live… we die.” He shrugged and turned back to the TV.

He was right, of course, and – philosophical crisis averted – my body relaxed into the warm beige faux-suede beside him. Though, I do think much of his Zen frame of mind could be attributed to the disturbingly huge slab of juicy grilled beef he’d just devoured. George Foreman may have been beaten by Mohammad Ali in 1974, but yesterday, in Calgary, Canada, the ex-boxer took on mortality itself – and knocked it flat.

(image source)

Is it possible to embarrass yourself when no one is watching?

Proof: I was walking into the kitchen while mumbling to myself in a pretentious New England accent (don’t ask, I’m embarrassed already) “let us contemplate the inherent…” when my left big toe caught in the hem of the opposite polar bear pajama pant leg and I pitched headlong into the door frame. As I hauled myself up and rubbed my bruised shoulder, I could feel my cheeks getting red hot…

Conclusion A: Yes. Without a doubt!
Conclusion B: Those who cannot multitask should keep their pant legs rolled up!

Let me introduce you to LIFE: A subject I know nothing about

Click Here to colour your own

So THIS is what happens when women try to do it all…

It seemed like such a great idea at the time… A quick toilet scrub while running out the door to my full-time job. In pursuit of maximum efficiency, I squirted some cleaner in the bowl and went at it with a vengeance (quite literally). I attacked the chore with such violence, I must have looked like I was plunging some horrible clog. Until…

Exploring the delicious, pine-scented back woods of Quebec, one quickly learns to walk a few paces behind a partner. No, our dear French Canadians do not subscribe to some antiquated religious diktat – although the prevalence of front yard Virgin Mary ceramics do make one wonder. The gap is simply to prevent one of those prickly, dew laden, boughs from clocking you in the nose when it whips back across the path.

We lose so much in the time-clogged rush of being a modern woman; so many of life’s most beautiful lessons are forgotten in the mania of “having to do it all.” As the brush caught on the rim, and a heavy spray of yellowish, mucky, bleachy, ‘water’ splashed up into my face, I grabbed hold of the gentle quiet of those pine-lined trails to stop from screaming. No, life is not fair (especially before 7am), but it’s nice to know there’s still enough justice, somewhere out there, to make sure I was wearing my glasses!

(image source)

Cleaning In Character: Because there are ways of making life fun… even cleaning the bathroom

...because what could be more fun than sharing your struggles with a colour coordinated, early 20th century, Eastern European peasant girl?

Remember Puff The Magic Dragon? Remember how little Jackie Paper abandoned his best friend for “other toys,” and how heartbroken Puff “sadly slipped into his cave?” What a horrible lesson to teach kids! The idea that one outgrows one’s imagination is not only absurd, but cruel, and can even be crippling for certain personalities. Next time you’re in a long lineup, watch what happens… The children immediately evaluate their environment in terms of story possibilities and novel sensations, while the adults generally shuffle around getting bored and/or irritated. Which sounds like more fun to you?

National Geographic's next cover

What if we could protect our imaginations the same way we now wear sunscreen to prevent (or at least stave off) wrinkles? I, for one, refuse to compromise what continues to be my most powerful tool in how I interpret and interact with the world. Globalization has exposed us to so many differing cultural worldviews; why not explore the possibility of your own unique construct? Why not make life a little more fun?

Sure, I felt a bit silly cleaning in costume, but only at first. It was incredible how much more bearable (let’s not get carried away here) my chore became after I added the story. Try it for yourself! Your imagination is a whole lot closer to the surface than you’ve been led to believe…

How (not) to leave a tip for your office cleaning staff!

I used to laugh at those stories about girls in the 1970s needing pliers to do up their jeans – not anymore! Turns out there’s a reason why fashion’s perennial pariah, pleats, were welcomed back as the prodigal pants of the 80s. The hippies thought they’d put an end to war too, but then along came 9/11 and the skinny jean trend, and we’re right back in the dark ages.

There I was, wedged into a cramped stall in our office washroom, enmeshed in an epic struggle with two stonewashed denim sausage casings – the kind of jeans you have to peel rather than pull. They’d been almost bearable when I’d ratcheted them on in the morning, but by our 4:27pm duel, my thighs had set stiff like a couple of cement filled foundation tubes. Ever been so claustrophobic you started fantasizing about jerry-rigging some primitive form of culotte out of old recycling bags and packing tape?

I’d just flushed (sorry TMI), and was jumping up and down, heaving on the waistband, when an odd thing happened. One quarter, one dime, and two pennies, popped free of my front pocket and dropped into the – still flushing – toilet. I watched the water swirl, then settle, leaving my small collection of coins adrift in the bottom of the bowl. I ask you this… What, pray tell, is the etiquette in this sort of situation?

I made an executive decision; I left a tip. I thought of sticking a post-it on the seat to explain, but what would I really say? That I my pants were too tight? That I think another woman’s dignity can be bought for a measly 37 cents? The office cleaning woman and I wear the clothes of different cultures, and now my jeans have driven another wedge between us. It’s no wonder the hippies were wrong about war – just think of all those stems and seeds they left for the rest of the world to clean up.

Escaping The Joplin/Hendrix Birthday Curse

Headlong into twenty-eight...

Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kurt Cobain… the list goes on. At twenty seven, the creative brain must make a choice: to embrace its talents, or, through self-destruction and/or social conformity, escape them. The buoyancy of youthful idealism cannot be sustained. Once its intoxication, the powerful high of potential, begins to wane, it’s easy to see how a person could be drawn to the false grandeur of drugs. The latter would become even more of a temptation if the creative individual’s talents had been overindulged at a young age (ie: prodigies). Excess praise, however justified from an outside perspective, would have the dangerous effect of validating a child’s underdeveloped, self-centric understanding of reality. A child who has engaged with the world primarily through intelligent adaptation of her/his talents couldn’t help but develop an exaggerated sense of control over life. Combine this unreality with a lack of learned social empathy, and you’ve got a disaster waiting to happen.

There’s more to the curse, of course, such as exhaustion, overextension, disillusionment, and THE SHOCK. When creative production has been your currency, it comes as a terrible shock to discover how widely its value can vary on the global exchange. Turns out there are plenty of people who don’t need to “produce” to feel engaged and satisfied with life – lucky bastards! Some folks… wait for it… actually thrive primarily off human interactions. Weird, I know. But then again, I’d be lost without my circle (and my G!). Can you see the conflict?

At twenty-seven, the world comes crashing in. It is no longer possible to ignore alternative worldviews, and even the acknowledgement of differing motivations can be paralyzing to someone whose self-image, if not their entire self-worth (Joplin), has been dependent on narrow self expression. For authentic creative growth at this stage in life, the individual must be willing to integrate these new universalities into her/his work. Successful integration requires a compassionate understanding of these new value systems. But how do you prioritize/balance the demands of these new systems against one’s intrinsic creative independence?

Creativity is by nature self-indulgent, being, in essence, a personality’s violent rebuttal against the known (we’ll leave death for another essay). It doesn’t take long to discover how eager the world is to intrude on our self-direction. So how does one balance these new priorities and demands being made on our energies by the differing worldviews we’ve now gone and validated through successful integration into our creative work? Once you know how much your “No” will hurt someone, how do protect your creative time without feeling like a Jerk?

As someone who can relate (possibly more than I’d like to admit) to the struggles above, all I can say is this: you know who you need to love, so love them with everything they deserve. And, if you wake up to a dismal, snow laced, May Birthday, just grab a piece of office cardstock, some multicoloured highlighters, and go prove to the world that not only did you escape the curse, but… screw it… that not all of us were put on this earth to collect Royal Dalton figurines!

(Note: not that there’s anything wrong with that…um…vocation)

Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Update IV)

Yesterday's blazer experiment

How do you engage with the world? Our clothing plays a major role in communicating the nature of our engagement with both society and ourselves. Generally, those who dress ‘fashionably’ have the most to gain from being perceived as ‘plugged in’ to their culture (ie: Vogue interns), while ‘style’ is more an expression of a person’s confident engagement with self (Vogue’s Grace Coddington). It’s no coincidence that the most successful people (according to our culture’s standards) exhibit a combination of both (ie: Michelle Obama).

Yesterday’s outfit was a preliminary experiment in engagement. Which is to say, I wore a blazer around downtown Calgary. Sure, I still had on my jeans and Nike baseball cap, but by replacing my hoodie with a fitted brown velvet blazer, the look was entirely transformed. Not only did I immediately become more conscious of my posture in the structured jacket, but there was also a marked increase in public attention (from both men and women). I felt suddenly more conspicuous, and at the same time, somehow more involved with my streetmates. It was as if they wanted to recognize me as one of their business-class clan, which, of course, would open the door to my being judged by their standards. It was an odd feeling, and I’m not sure yet if I’m open to living it daily. I’ve always relished my role as an observer, especially being a writer, but there’s a power in setting yourself up as an equal – a power that must be explored…

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Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Update III)

My introduction to Crest Whitestrips was brutal. My gums burned. I was slurping and slucking all over the place. Talking was impossible… need I go on? It was intolerable. But then something strange happened. After two weeks of twice a day misery, the process became manageable – even routine. You know, I can’t help wondering what other intolerables I’ve allowed into my life… but maybe that’s a dangerous question. With nothing to overcome, how would we ever move forward?

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Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Part Four)

This new beauty diet could use a little salt...

‘Stumbling’ upon a rerun of VH1’s Celebrity Rehab, I was shocked to hear Kerri Ann Peniche describe how, even as a child, she was forced to primp for every public appearance – middle school to grocery store. Her mother’s mantra, “because you never know where you’ll run into Mr. Right,” had an insidious effect on her daughter’s psyche. Lipstick in the produce aisle? Poor girl never stood a chance.

My parents, an artist and a poet, lived by very a different set of rules – none of them involving a hairbrush! Needless to say, we had a whole lot of fun, but advanced personal grooming was part of some other world, right along with daily dish washing and remembering other people’s birthdays. Personally, I’ve never been afraid of glamming it up, but only on occasion. The idea of daily maintenance, aiming for some rudimentary baseline, has never made it past the “wouldn’t that be nice” phase – until now. Part of my hesitation has come from knowing that for any perfectionist, the word baseline is such a tease. Where do you stop? Lipgloss? Eyeliner? Flat-iron? Where do you draw the line?

When you’re used to jumping between your own 1 and 10, how do you settle at 5? There’s a risk in projecting an honest, albeit lightly highlighted, self. Suddenly, there’s nothing to hide behind, no more comforting “he’d have noticed me if only I wasn’t wearing this sweater” delusions. And what if they do start noticing? I’ve been married to my own Mr. Right for almost 7 years, why would I want random strangers judging/soliciting me? Doesn’t ‘being on display’ just add more pressure to a person’s day?

The way I see it, the only way this can work is if our projections are 100% authentic, which is only possible once we’ve fully explored (and come to terms with!) the who/why/how’s of our most private selves. And, since time creates a dynamic system, and no system, even if static, can be fully justified within themselves (good ol’ Gödel), we come to an impasse. Or do we? For me, this is where faith comes in. It takes the edge off, so to speak. When your confidence is rooted in the infallible, that confidence (though not necessarily you) becomes impervious to smudged eyeliner or moments like these.

But enough talk… on to the action. In the pics below – because what’s a makeover without hard evidence – I’m glamming it up with my new highlights and Covergirl Lipstain in Berry Smooch. Because, like I always say (at least since this past Saturday), why snag your hair with gloss when you can set it free with tint!

Having a Winston Churchill moment with Covergirl Lipstain - Air kisses (in Berry Smooch) for all!

I have two confessions before I sign off. First: like all self portraits of quality, these come directly from my bathroom mirror. Second: I had just come back from the grocery store - sorry Kerri Ann. But in my defence, it was lipstain, not lipstick!

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Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (update II)

Despite the dust in one eye, the redness and squinting. Despite my lifeless ponytail and lack of concealer. Despite the scotchtape holding my glasses together. Despite the cyclist who bawled me out on the bikepath this morning, when I was only trying to give him MORE room. Despite everything, I went ahead and waved my wand in front of the office bathroom mirror.

For the first time, I understand why lipstick sales spiked during World War II. My lipgloss isn’t about conformity,  it’s a rebellion. I’m taking a stand against entropy. Beauty doesn’t have to be the final touch. It can be the beginning - a tough revelation for any perfectionist. 

Every “Despite” up there can be changed to a “Because.” This simple switch in semantics gives us back our power. Rather than victims of circumstance, just trying to catch up, we move up to the offensive line. Besides, who wouldn’t want to start off the day with a little taste of ‘rasberry sorbet’.

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Motivated weight loss – The ultimate gender divide

Fitness magazines are as shameless as Playboys in their exploitation of our fantasies. But only fitness mags try to fool us into believing that we too can have a piece of the action. For men, the headlines promise power, authority, and not just more sex, but better sex.

According to dear hubby, this sort of motivation “works for most men.” He made this statement while looking down his nose with an air of superiority and a certain scientific detachment – as if he, out of billions, had somehow managed to cross that elusive evolutionary threshold into an existence governed by pure altruistic impulses and the Zen pursuit of self actualization. Of course, he also said this while watching NHL hockey on his specialty cable sports pack, but who am I to judge~wink.

As for us women, why should we be hitting the gym? The headlines are unanimous: get more energy, look younger, look (though not nesesarily ‘be’) sexier. Yesterday, as part of my project, I read through an entire issue of Shape Magazine. By the final page, I was far more tired and angry than any-kind-of motivated. To figure out why, I went back and read between the lines.

So this is it for us? We’re supposed to want to sweat, stretch, and strain just to become more efficient in our daily lives? Just so we can do more, more effectively, for the people asking things of us? Not only that, but we’re supposed to project a perfectly maintained body/mind/soul trinity if we want to advance our careers, let alone hang onto our men! Sure, all the Shape women claim to be so much “happier and healthier” than before, but there’s something off, something missing. Ever wonder why we’re not all munching on granola after 6am runs?

The back page of the magazine featured a profile of a thin blond Utah clothing designer who’s “can-do attitude and strong willpower help keep this Shape reader – and her family – healthy and happy.” There was a small text box in the bottom right corner for her “moments of calm.” On some nights, after the kids are in bed, she gets to curl up with her husband on the couch and watch a movie. “To make that time even sweeter,” she confesses, “I treat myself to a few pieces of licorice, like Red Vines.”

A few pieces of licorice? I’m sorry, but that’s just about the saddest things I’ve ever read.

Now I ask you, is it any wonder men are still running the world?

Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Part Two)

In this new era of Star Trek caliber cosmetics, a non-sticky lipgloss remains the ‘final frontier’

Every makeover needs a catalyst, some tiny drop of something to get the whole process going. See that rather clinical looking tube far left? Held up by that rather glossy looking Wesley Crusher? I needed something from outside my comfort zone to get my experiment started. But how, you ask, does this gloss differ from the other three juicy specimens that ‘have gone before’? This time I’m going for more opacity, more commitment, more sparkle – each a new risk. 

Why the fear? We all have that one feature that made middle-school hell, be it weight, bad glasses, acne, etc. Let me set the scene: late Grade 8, my best ‘friend’ calls to tell me a certain boy won’t consider dating me because “that girl’s teeth are too big.” I know, I know, I barely survived. We’re talking deep trauma here…sigh. Anyways, I’ve never been much for calling attention to the area with lipstick. But things have changed since then; I’ve changed. I went through braces and my face has grown. But the biggest switch – in a frightening-but-fairytale-true Oprah twist – has been the discovery that ‘big teeth make a bigger smile’. They’ve turned out to be one of my best features, if I do say so myself – and who’s going to stop me! That’s what’s so exciting about beauty’s current celebration of individuality; we don’t have to let anyone stop us, especially not grade 8 punks who’ve forgotten their Brothers Grimm… “all the better to eat you with my dear.” 

There is something sweetly surreal about the latest glosses. We’re promised a sheen so fantastic, so radiant, we risk blinding those unlucky enough to catch us at wrong angles to the sun. And yes, for that briefest moment – after application and before you realize you’d prefer not looking like parts of your face are melting off when you try to talk – the mirrored look is a delicious reality. But there’s another problem. It’s not rocket science; the principles of chemistry and physics will never allow for a true non-stick lipgloss. Any viscous goo, no matter how technologically advanced, will inevitably snare hair. This is basic science, yet still we yearn for the fantasy. So, dear readers, is it worth it? Let’s find out… 

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Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Update I)

Since beginning this makeover, I have officially been hit on twice (albeit mildly) at the grocery store. This, as any woman will attest, must be logged as quantitative proof of progress. I bragged about this new development to my dear hubby, who was suitably impressed. Although, come to think of it, maybe he was a little too impressed. I’ve always assumed he thought of me as the blond Pied Piper of Calgary, trailing a long line of hapless suitors behind. Why else would I have spent 10 years learning the flute and waking up for 7:30 band practices!

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Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Part One)

The Before...

We live in a blank canvas world. Social conventions, notions of class, and even the dictates of fashion are becoming increasingly flexible. Such freedom can leave one floundering when it comes to communicating (or even defining) one’s identity. Who are we without structure? What happens when a society disconnects from its own history and traditions? 

We are becoming a surface people, all sound bites and profile pics, status updates and 140 character tweets. I’ve rebelled against this new framework from the start (although, I suppose you did just catch me blogging~wink). I’ve tried my best to dive down under the surface chaos – a life lived in ripples is a raw deal if you ask me – and explore the cool, still world under the waves. But, as you can see from the pic above, it’s bloody well time to come up for some air! 

There is a boon to all this surface talk. For the first in history, we have the unique opportunity to have our projections believed. If the world is so intent on taking us at face value, why not play the game? But on our terms. I’m not talking about plastic surgery and piles of makeup, but more about establishing a personal style that projects our strengths and ambitions. It’s about Focus.  

I invite you to join me in a 2010 personal style makeover. To tell you the truth, I’m actually quite nervous about this project. Will I have have the guts to follow it through? What about maintenance? Can I do it inexpensively? And, of course, the question all women ask themselves before embarking such journeys… Will it really make a difference? 

Let’s find out!

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A New Year

As a culture, we’re ‘cusping’… can you feel it? We’re the Romans, gorging ourselves senseless, ceding to every gluttonous urge and craving, filling… filling… filling only to purge so we can do it all over again. And, like our predecessors, we are insatiable, a society addicted to its distractions (case in point: Farmville). But we’re losing - our leadership, our structure, our hope.

A new year. A new hope? A new office tower went up two doors down from my workplace this year - an entire building, 18 stories, thousands of tons of metal, concrete, and carpeting. I feel its weight, its presence, as I scurry by on the sidewalk. What do I have to show for 2009? Anything so monumental? Anything so tangible?

Yes. I’ve spent much of this past decade filling out an intellectual framework - the product of a slow and ponderous personal evolution (come on… you remember your twenties!). I hadn’t realized how much structural work must be done before closing off one’s construction to the elements. Well, my foundation is set. My architecture is commited. What comes next? Why… the cosmetics of course! ~Stay tuned

Chillin’ on the carpet at work – don’t ask

Sometimes we find ourselves doing strange things in strange places for the people we love... yesterday morning was one of those times.

What was I up to? You’ll find out soon! Hint: It took three dozen tries to get the right angle (this one was a major miss) 

The closest I’ve ever come to killing a man

I’d just taken off my glasses when I spotted a strange black, spindly looking speck on the middle of my bed. In one swift, automatic motion, like one of those robotic arms at GM checking a tail light, I squinted and leaned down for a closer look.

I remember that fateful day in grade six when I first discovered I needed glasses. My friend and I were running for the bus. “What number is it?” he hollered over his shoulder. I couldn’t tell him. I knew from the look he gave me after he’d turned to check for himself, that from that moment on the only 20/20s I’d be seeing would be quiz scores. Hey, we nerds have had to compensate somehow. It’s no coincidence grades and glasses go together. You wouldn’t believe how high my marks were the year I got braces!

As my nose came closer and closer to the comforter, I thought of how many times I’ve come face to face with that eternal question… dust? Or spider?  I must say though, despite all those jerk-back-and-scream moments, there’s a certain amount of empathy those of us with four eyes can’t help but feel for those poor souls cursed with eight. But, sometimes that’s not enough to protect them when the situation becomes a clear case of ’it’ or ‘me’.

I was over at a high school boyfriend’s house in grade eleven. Even though his parents were home (nothin’ to worry about Mom), it somehow fell to me to deal with the teeny arachnid lurking over their second floor landing. I vacuumed it up with the duster extension while my boyfriend cringed behind me. I decided to have a little fun with him (not that kind Mom).

“See,” I said, swinging the nozzle round to within inches of his face, “it’s right here!”

With a wild shriek, he flung himself backwards down the stairs.

Thankfully, the stairs were carpeted. Even more thankfully, he somehow caught hold of the railing – while upside down! - half a second before his head slammed into the ground. Still, to this day, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to killing a man.

The speck on my bed turned out to be a tiny mess of thread. I flicked it into the corner, where it now lies in wait to freak me out another day. Though luckily, now I have backup.

In praise of ritual…

Vogue & brie topped blueberries for breakfast

Indulge yourself! Create a ritual around your favourites. On my latest trip back East, these three ingredients made my mornings magical: a bowl full of blueberries, a huge hunk of  brie cheese, and one mammoth September Vogue. Although I’m sure Anna Wintour would smack me upside the head for the size of that piece a’ cheese, I’ve always believed in maximizing the moment. Who says we can’t have it all! Well, at least on vacation~wink.

Bonus Link: Looking for something to wet your appetite? Try Calgary Fashion’s in-depth review of The September Issue

The greatest loophole in gastronomical history

This morning’s chocolate craving was fierce, unrelenting, and entirely unexpected. I’m usually the one pining for her own Ikea desktop salt-lick. But the holidays are coming, and my palate is way ahead of the Bay’s Christmas window dressers. How can I concentrate with sleigh-bells ringing in my ears and thoughts of chocolate advent calendars - dose-a-day methadone clinics for chocolate addled brains – getting in the way? No chestnuts though, roasted or otherwise. I’m allergic to tree nuts. Therein lies the problem.

What sick, discriminatory urge drove the first person to mix nuts with chocolate, business with pleasure? What a waste. What a tease. Like this morning… when, just as my craving was peaking, I discovered two boxes of chocolates on our office kitchen counter. Oh sweet relief? One was chocolate covered almonds; the other was the biggest tease of all: Turtles. Ever since that one magical Christmas long ago, when I found a stash of Peanut-Turtles hidden on the bottom shelf of a Shoppers Drug Mart in Ottawa, every ‘pecan’ box has been its own disappointment.

I didn’t panic. I just did the one thing I’ve been tempted to do ever since I can remember:  The Loophole. Yes, I nibbled, ever so delicately, around the nuts. In theory, brilliant… In practice? I’m still alive, aren’t I (touch wood). What’s a little lip tingle in the grand scheme of things? People pay thousands for Angelina Jolie’s pucker. My genetics are primed to give me one for free. Nothing like the tiniest hint of anaphylactic action to sweeten a Thursday morning.

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

I know I shouldn’t blog about people at work, but…

It has come to my attention that four out of this company’s sixteen employees – a full 25% – are wearing glasses held together by quintessentially nerdist means. I know we are a geophysical data processing firm, but seriously! I mean really, could we get any more cliché:

Culprit 1: Scotch tape (keeping it simple with what’s at hand)

Culprit 2: Plastic shrink-wrap sleeve reinforced with Scotch tape (because I’m – yes, of course I’m on this list too – an all or nothing kind of gal, in my loves, in my dreams, and apparently in my DIY eyewear repairs)

Culprit 3: Electrical tape (for a more discreet look, because one can never sacrifice style)

Culprit 4: An ungainly silver ball of soldering (because one must have style before one can sacrifice it)

I don’t dare rank us in terms of nerdiness, but you’re welcome give it a try. Oh, and sorry #4, but look on the bright side; I’m sure your repair will outlast all of ours. And anyways, there’s something to be said for a touch of asymmetrical nerd bling – Jay-Z would be proud~wink.