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!

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) 

Just another Monday

Standing atop a frozen hilltop yesterday before dawn, I beheld an apocalyptic vision… a smoking, ruinous, hulk of a city lay spread out beneath me, its jagged skyline blurred by countless plumes of thick grey steam. A thousand tiny yellow licks of flame glowed bright against the blackness – a thousand twinkling windows.  Man, it was cold out.

Allen Iverson and the quiet gratification of semantics

Official SavingCymbria Iverson Tribute ~We'll miss you!~

The husband and I got into a heated debate last night over Allen Iverson’s retirement. I argued that ’ego’ had to have been a factor in the gifted basketball player’s decision to leave the game. This accusation came across as cruel blasphemy to the diehard fan beside me on the couch.

“He doesn’t have an ego!” My husband was obstinate. “He’s just proud and uncompromising.”

Point. Set. Match.

Update: Way to go Philly for making this post entirely null and void

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.

One quaint little sentence proves our culture has gone completely off the rails…

“We know plenty of women and men that would wear a $3 million dollar diamond covered bra even if it made them bleed!”

- Perez Hilton www.cocoperez.com

Just be thankful your invite got lost in the mail!

If you see this sign... You'd better watch out!

Starts out all innocent...

Then someone invites a friend...

Then the friends start adding up...

And pretty soon you've got a real party!

I came across this charming ‘cow tree’ in New Brunswick last month. There was magic in that warm August air, and I couldn’t resist bringing some back to Calgary to share with all my readers. Of course, the ‘real’ lesson here is that the inherent romance of some settings can even, on the rare occasion, transend species. Oh Newton, how different your future (and all of ours!) might have been if you’d planted yourself under a cow tree on that sunny afternoon in Lincolnshire.

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.

Fabulous news for writers!

We write, can’t help it, can’t fight it. But who reads?

I hopped the bus to work on a recent rainy morning, and was delighted to find five of my fellow passengers with novels under their noses. How many were busy with their cell phones or Blackberrys? Just one! And, wouldn’t you know it, of all the bleary faces on the bus, hers wore the only frown.

Soap operas and sweet potatoes in the produce aisle

I was in the grocery store the other day, when I happened to overhear an age old human drama play out over the sweet potatoes. One of the two men stocking the vegetables flagged down a passing produce manager to ask her advice on a logistical problem – I’m assuming she was higher up the food chain since she was wearing a classy full-length Safeway smock instead of lowly green apron.

Logistics resolved, the three got to chatting about the ol’ days:

“…Now, Harry,” said the older of the two men, “there was one heck of a produce man.” He spoke wistfully, with respect and an obvious, long kindled awe, the way other men speak of Winston Churchill, or Elvis.

“Oh,” cut in the younger man, turning to the woman, whose androgyny was cut only by a tight blond ponytail, “isn’t that your husband?”

Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear her whole body went tense under that smock. She suddenly had somewhere else to be and took off for the swinging doors behind the prepackaged salads.

“My EX husband,” she called back to the men, before disappearing into the bowels of the building.

I felt for her. How hard it must be to live in the shadow of a legend. Any man who can inspire such awe, such reverence, must pay a terrible cost. In choosing greatness, as Harry, and a hundred before him have done, our heroes must leave so many behind. A pickle any way you slice it.

A ‘Sign’ of our times…

A 'Sign' of our times - as seen on a Monday morning in Calgary

Our Albertan economy is finally feeling the pinch after decades of unchecked growth. Everyone knows someone who has lost a job, or worse. About a month ago on a rush hour city bus, I overheard a conversation between two well dressed business men. One was lamenting over how his high risk investments had virtually vanished.

“Why did you buy into them in the first place?” the other asked.

The man’s answer was spoken matter of fact, with an honesty not often heard on public transit, especially during rush hour…

“Greed.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and quickly changed the subject.

**********

The best way to stay motivated during this time of economic flux, is to push forward with our career plans using creativity to set ourselves apart. Make a list of all your soft skills (ie: social, organizational), to add to your more easily resuméd hard skills (ie: Microsoft Office, masonry). Try to make connections between both sets to expand your general skill set. You’ll be surprised to discover what services you can offer as a uniquely experienced human being, rather than simply a _______ graduate with x number of years working in _______ . Now is the time to market yourself creatively, as a whole person, as… You!

Speaking of marketing…

To my dear SavingCymbria readers, and to those of you just breezing by, I am now available for all your Creative Problem Solving needs. Freelance writing and design (fashion commissions, graphic design, & web applications) are my specialties, along with photography and general creativity consulting for both individuals and businesses. I’d love to hear your thoughts, and thank you all for dropping by!

It's time to get creative with our personal marketing!

More snow in June?

Take a closer look... Achoo!

Calgary weather has a cruel sense of humor. Like the uncle who insists on pinching your cheek in front of your fiancé, it doesn’t knows when to stop the joke. After this little incident, I had to do a double take to make sure what I found this morning was the kind of  fluff that makes you sneeze rather than sniffle. But somehow, this city always gets the last laugh. While I was taking a closer look with my camera, I was just about mowed down by a crazed morning cyclist. Touché, Calgary…touché.

A personal apology to Dorothy…

Coming up to the last tee box of a Saturday morning nine, one of my freshly introduced foursome, dear Dorothy, told us how she had never once hit the short par three’s green in 15 years of playing Shaganappi.

“Today’s the day,” she said, and promptly topped the ball straight into the rough.

The other two women played it safe, as in nowhere near the green. I shot last, taking a chance on my moody 5 hybrid rather than my usual 6 iron. I’ve never hit it so clean, and the ball sailed singing all the way to the very center of the green.   

I’m sorry Dorothy. I really am. But my ego has to say a little thank you, because you set me up for a shot that – with golf’s wicket sense of humor - couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere else.

If NASA launched Voyager III today, this would HAVE to be on The Golden Record!

When NASA’s Voyager mission launched its two spacecrafts in 1977, there existed no single image/sound/document that could perfectly encapsulate the human experience. Instead, over one hundred images and dozens of recordings, greetings, and printed messages were gathered together and sent along as the ultimate interplanetary press release. The Golden Record, as a (Grammy worthy) compilation album, was the only way to communicate the complexity of our existence… until now.

This ten second clip (Click Here) changes everything. Finally, we have single, stand alone, snapshot of what it is… “to be”.

The official (embarrassing) first sign of golf season

Witness the glorious rebirth of sock-tan!

How to bring a sense of awe into your office (with this DIY meditation retreat)

Bring the wonder of Stonehenge to your job with ‘Officehenge’!

Stack your empty Xerox boxes to match the Stonehenge diagram.

Perfect for when you're having a busy day at work...

...and you need to re-center yourself.

But if you really want a Stonehenge that’ll
make all your worries disappear… CLICK HERE

**************

(Source of Stonehenge diagram)

Help – I’ve married a goldfish!

Let me set the scene…
The hubby and I were chatting in the kitchen late last night. You know, just hangin’ round the ol’ fridge shootin’ the breeze. I turned away briefly (couldn’t have been for more than three seconds), to grab something out of my backpack on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George making a move for the fridge door.

When I looked back, I saw something no wife should ever witness. Sure, we all know it goes on, in your fridge, in your neighbour’s, but nobody talks about it. Yes, sometimes what we don’t know will only hurt us (microscopic pathogens aside) when it hits us right smack in the face.

To be fair, there was no split lip involved, but the impact of the horror I saw was just as strong. George had the Brita water pitcher in both hands and was doing his best to guzzle directly from the spout. I know, I know, he’s a guy, and I can deal with the occasional scruffy milk top or orange juice container… but a Brita? Doesn’t that bloody well defeat the whole purpose!! “Filtered” water anyone?

And the visual was just too awful. The man had somehow managed to get his lips wedged inside the spout and was sucking away like mad with a panicked look on his face. He’d been caught in the act, after all, and his eyes were bugged like a lidless goldfish. I could see his puckered mouth, bright fleshy pink, through the clear plastic – not a good look for any man, least of all for my Viking George. I’d stumbled onto a tragic Kafka-esque scene… Man wakes up as suffocating goldfish… makes mad dash for fridge… reaches with last strength ebbing…for …the…Brita?

Ya, so I married a goldfish. Well, at least that sounds better than “ya, so I married a guy who sticks his mouth all over the water filter.” Hmmm, t’is better to savour the irony? Or build on the surrealism? That is the question. Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop thinking like a writer and just tell the man to use a glass!

Sucking on chicken feet – good times?

Uncooked chicken feet...mmmmm

“Want to go out for Dim Sum?” my husband asked me. “They have chicken feet!”

I couldn’t believe how excited he was to try this rather bizarre sounding delicacy. He talked about it with the same breathless, bright eyed anticipation he normally reserves for the newest (and all too frequent, if you ask me) innovations in golf club technology. As for myself, I’m a gal as thrilled by novelty as the next, and chicken feet are about as novel a breakfast treat as you can get around Calgary.

Except of course, for the fabled monkey brains my hubby was also looking forward to trying. At least, until the two friends treating us to Dim Sum explained how they are traditionally served…The monkey is sedated, then its skull is sliced open and the brains exposed through a hole in the table while the poor animal dangles underneath. Thankfully, I didn’t find any suspicious holes in our table. Believe me, I checked! Just imagining my knee brushing against something soft and furry (and still warm!) under the table makes my skin crawl. Yep, I’m all for novelty, but playing footsie with my food (while I’m munching on it!) is where I draw the line.

Cart after cart of steaming, bamboo cradled, deliciousness was wheeled by our table. My husband waited eagerly for the chicken feet, tiding himself over with shrimp dumplings, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves, beef balls (not the prairie oyster kind!), and all kinds of other goodies. Finally, the feet arrived.

All eyes were on the round bamboo steamer as my George lifted the lid. Inside was a glistening pile of what looked like thick spongy sprigs of red coral, smothered in a sticky sweet and sour sauce. Our friend Bill, at a huge advantage being Chinese, dug right in. Chicken feet were old news to him, and he happily started slucking off the skin and spitting out the bones.

“Oh,” I said, in an unbelievable moment of idiocy, “they have bones?”

After sticking my own foot in my mouth with that bit of genius, I figured sticking something else’s foot in there would be no great leap. I stared at the strange sticky toe thing in my fingers – too slippery for my chopsticks. All I can say is thank goodness they trimmed the nails! After a moment’s hesitation to get my courage up, I slipped the foot between my lips. “AAAGH!” The closest description I can give you is this: imagine a ‘Parisian’ kiss with your husband/wife gone terribly, terribly, wrong. I’m squirming just thinking about it. I tried biting down through the spongy, goose-bumped, tongue-like mass, but I had to spit it out as soon as my teeth touched bone. I will say, though, the rest of the table got quite a kick out of my full-body-spasm reaction.

What did George think of the chicken feet?

“They’re ok, I guess,” he told me after, “but really, they’re just skin and bones, so what’s the point?”

I smiled. Yes, any woman would be tickled pink to hear those words from her husband. But in terms of other toes to tickle, I think we’ll stick to our own, at least for a while : )

(Image Source)

Learning basic psychology… from a potato

There are some people who, when left alone, begin to die. There are others who, given the space to breathe, finally have room to live. The proof is in the potato…

Years ago, I walked into my kitchen and was struck smack in the nose by an awful odour. The source? A long forgotten bag of potatoes under the sink. The rotting vegetable matter had somehow transformed into a filthy fermenting liquid in the bottom of the bag – Gross!

More recently, yesterday to be exact, I was washing dishes when the long ago memory of buying a potato (for a never-actualized dinner months ago) drifted into my thoughts. With trepidation, I got down on my hands and knees and cautiously opened the bottom cupboard door…

I shrieked and fell backwards! Pale octopus tentacle things were reaching up at me out of the bag! AACK! What the? I braved another peek. Sprouts, they were sprouts – finger thick and ten inches long! I never invited them into my kitchen! I must admit, though, I did feel a certain kinship to this introvert potato, who had thrived when left up to its own devices. I even felt a wee bit guilty when I covered it with empty cans and orange peel in the garbage. The more sensitive among us need to be careful about who we let into our space – not to mention our kitchens! We must remember that even a potato’s noble struggle for self actualization must not be allowed to get in the way of our own.

Now, what’s for dinner?

The one thing I will not wait for…

I wait patiently for traffic lights to turn, for water to boil, for my hubby to take me play-by-play through his latest round of golf ; ) Yes, willingly, even joyfully, I twiddle my thumbs through it all. But there is one thing I refuse to wait for, even for a matter of seconds. I will not wait for Porta-potties to be unloaded from a construction site pickup truck while I stand freezing on a snowy downtown sidewalk on my way to work. I was caught in just such a situation recently – hence the descriptive detail lol. My fellow pedestrians were grumbling and kicking at the snow, when someone finally spoke up: “Are we really waiting for Porta-potties?” The closest construction worker nodded sheepishly.

Well forget that! I took off for the nearest building entrance and made my way up to the +15 (Calgary’s raised downtown walkway), where, promptly, I got lost.

Sigh. First time dignity’s ever made me late for work.

Heli-potty takes flight…a much better delivery method!

(Image source)

Oh dear…

Mitch - one feisty little guy

I happen to be very affected by what I read, and even more so by what I write. I really should have kept that in mind before beginning my current novel project. Why? Because this is my main character…

I think, and I’m sure my husband would agree, that I may be starting to take a little too much of his character home with me. After a full-on writing session, I see that same ever-so-darling face staring out of the mirror at me (but with more hair, or course) ; ) All I can say is, I better get this book done quick!

The spider plant monologue revisited

Remember the pledge?

I made a commitment three months ago to our office spider plant. For the first time, I allowed myself to become emotionally involved with a plant and to take on primary responsiblity for its care. That’s a lot for a professed brown thumb to take on!

I’ve always been to plants what Lucrezia Borgia was to her relatives. Yes, that poisonous! They’ve always been a complete mystery to me, just like babies. I water them; they die (oops, not the babies!). I water them less; they die. I water them more; same ol’ same ol’. Can you believe I actually spent a summer working in Home Depot’s Garden Center? Don’t even ask! Pure irony. Putting on the orange apron every morning was terrifying. I was a fraud, a joke. My cash register was the stocks and, man oh man, did my customers ever let the fruit fly!

All the panic and anxiety of that summer came rushing back as I turned my cart into Walmart’s Garden Centre last week. But there was no turning back. I was on a mission of love. After finally establishing a working watering routine (months of trial and error), my adopted charge had gone and outgrown its pot! It was also time for one of its babies to start on solid food. They grow up so fast lol. I found Walmart’s potting soil, and everything else I’d heard I might need for the task, and got out of there as quick as possible.

I couldn’t believe how nervous I was when it came time for the actual operation. My heart was racing as I gently knocked the plant loose of its old green plastic pot. I turned the ball of roots over in my hands, and ever so carefully…

…I screamed and threw my precious spider plant across the desk.

No one ever told me roots can look just like gross white maggot worms! When the dirt settled, so to speak, I finished the job. The smell of the potting soil, and the feel of it under my nails was a delicious novelty. After patting down the soil and blowing the dirt off the leaves, I felt a fierce and entirely unexpected sense of accomplishment. I’d seen the same emotion on my Home Depot customers’ faces a hundred times, but I’d never understood it. So this is why people spend their weekends on their knees in the dirt?

Yes. And I discovered something else. I never knew how much life energy is held in a plant. With both my hands in the dirt, all my senses were drinking in pure chlorophyll scented “life”. I felt powerful, generous, and connected – a thrilling combination. My original goal had been only to keep my spider plant alive, and even that was asking myself to do the unprecedented. I want to do so much more for it now. I want it to grow and thrive and be as brilliantly green as it can possibly be, and I want to line up its babies in a rainbow of bright tiny pots along my kitchen widow sill at home.

I took a risk three months ago. It was touch and go for a long time, but my spider plant is alive and (as you can see below) multiplying. I’ve let a part of my identity go, the running joke is over. And I’m more than ready to move on. Goal met: I, Cymbria, can take care of a plant.

So go ahead… set a goal. Just don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty ; )

We've come a long way baby!

(photo source: Cymbria (ps.check the view!)

Risking it all to get down

I pressed the “down” button and waited for the chime.

“Ding”

The red arrow lit up over one of the doors.

I made a mad dash for it, the furthest elevator of our floor’s bank of eight, and got there just in time to jam my arm in between the doors as they were closing. There was one long terrifying moment when my arm was in the guillotine, past the point of no return (aka the elbow joint), before the door sensors kicked in.

This moment was so long, in fact, that I had plenty of time to wonder why we so blindly put our faith in technology. I came up with the answer, ruminated a bit about it, thought of some alternative arguments, all while placidly watching a giant metal vice close around my arm. At the last second, (isn’t it always the last second?), just as it caught hold of my flesh, the door released and I squeezed though.

What did I come up with? You ask. I’d love to tell you, but I was in such a hurry that I promptly forgot all my musings the second I pressed ‘G’.

*wink*

Wondering if you’re a writer? Let Agatha Christie solve the mystery

If you can relate to the following quote from Agatha Christie… it’s already too late!

“One walks along the street, passing all the shops one meant to go into, or all the offices one ought to have visited, talking to oneself hard – not too loud, I hope – and rolling one’s eyes expressively, and then one suddenly sees people looking at one and drawing slightly aside, clearly thinking one is mad.” – Excerpted from “Agatha Christie – An Autobiography”

How does she always just, you know, know! Sigh, if we only could follow her lead.

One more reason to love Agatha Christie

“We are all the same people as we were at three, six, ten or twenty years old. More noticeably so, perhaps, at six or seven, because we were not pretending so much then, whereas at twenty we put on a show of being someone else, of being in the mode of the moment…As life goes on, however, it becomes tiring to keep up the character you invented for yourself, and so you relapse into individuality and become more like yourself every day. This is sometimes disconcerting for those around you, but a great relief to the person concerned.”-Excerpted from “Agatha Christie – An Autobiography”

What’s the first reason?

Introducing Lou Lou de Milo!

A mud spattered white pickup pulls up to the curb. The driver leans over and rolls open the passenger window. He calls out to me on the sidewalk. “Hey, I’ve got a dead body in the bed of my truck here. Want it?”

“Sure do!” I say, without a second’s hesitation.

He jumps out and races round to the back of his truck. We’re doing this in public, at a downtown intersection. The handoff has got to be quick. I pass him a couple of folded bills. He lifts the torso, hidden under a dark green garbage bag, off the bed and places her gently in my arms.

“She’s lighter than I thought,” I say.

“Ya I know,” says the man. “My wife says she’s in good shape.”

I stand her up beside me, cloaked in her garbage bag, for the elevator ride back up to my office. The businessman beside me looks bemused.

“Any guesses?” I ask. Only her metal support pole and four legged base are clear of the bag.

“Hmmmm, a mannequin?”

“How did you know?” I ask.

He points at two small rises in the plastic. “I can see the breasts.”

Sigh. Men.

*************************************
I found Lou Lou on Kiijii. I’ve wanted a dress form for years, but it’s never been the right time, place, or price – until now. How did I name her? I couldn’t resist the “de Milo”, taken from the legendary Venus de Milo sculpture. The Lou Lou is in honour of Loulou de la Falaise, Yves Saint Laurent’s Parisian muse. She collaborated, inspired, and supported him in his atelier from 1972 though to his retirement in 2002.

Just days before the “dead body” incident, I stumbled upon the most amazing movie while channel surfing. It was a quiet, intimate documentary that took fashion lovers behind the scenes of YSL’s spring/summer 2001 collection. Loulou was always by Saint Laurent’s side, draping models with bolts of gorgeous soft silk florals, daring her mentor to stretch his creativity. I can only hope my Lou Lou will do the same for me.