I was rooting through my stalk of picks (and apparently puns), looking for the photo I’d taken to accent a vaguely philosophical post about a shower curtain (don’t ask), when I came face to cob with ultimate summer bliss. Suddenly, I was aching for spring… aching. Groundhog Day may not be the most noble of holidays, but is it so wrong to want a little bit of hope? Even if it’s from a rodent? Even if said rodent lives in a place called Gobbler’s Knob? Who needs dignity when the today’s prediction tasted so darn gooood.
“Is this a stop?” I called out politely after an unsuccessful battle with the bus’ back doors. No one answered. I was sure I’d seen my bus # on the sign right outside the window – and the bus had bloody well stopped, hadn’t it!?
Maybe I was just asking too much from a Monday… for one (just one) of my fellow ‘civilized’ public transit customers to come forward with a word of help for one of their own. I know this is the start of the week; and I know Mondays come with their own set of rules, but…
As the bus pulled away from the curb, a man, two shoulders down, finally spoke. “Looks like you missed your stop,” he said.
Be proud of me, dear readers… I let him live.
But just like Calgary’s weather, its people are prone to Chinooks. My faith in humanity was restored five city blocks later when a woman opened a door for me, then held it for that extra glorious ½ second that takes a gesture straight from courtesy to comfort.
Yes, all was peaches and cream until I came face to face with The Sun’s Front Page. Why, Calgary, why? Can’t a girl make it to her desk without being forced to stare into the soul-dead eyes of a man tortured, beaten, and starved almost to death by his trusted roommate? Or should I simply appreciate the fact that his abuser – with a generosity similar to my own – ‘let him live’?
How often do you see a well built man in his underwear lay down his purse, ever so gently, and hit the floor for a vigorous set of clap pushups? Want to get in on the action? And find out why my husband wasn’t worried? My article about the YWCA of Calgary’s first annual Open Your Purse event is now up at Calgary Fashion – The Fashion Media Collective.
Dear readers, I recently wrote about a momentous life choice. It’s incredible what can happen when you risk a front-row-center chance on your dreams. Ending up, literally, front row center is just the beginning…
Greek culture is a celebration of tradition and family, with a history rich in art, food, and – as three blonds discovered at Calgary’s Greek Festival – lively dancing. Of our three family trees, mine has come the closest to Grecian soil, but that’s only by way of my step-mother’s ex-husband. Needless to say, we’ve never been invited to any family reunions. We’re always up for a party though, and as we quickly discovered, going Greek guarantees a great time!
This year’s Festival was attended by thousands and took place under a giant white tent in SouthWest Calgary, next to the Hellenic Community Center. The late June air was filled with the wonderful smells of honey drenched pastries and spit roasted lamb. I can still taste the sweet warmth of the Loukoumades on my tongue when I close my eyes – and yes, they’re just as sensational as their name. After a delicious meal, we took our seats third row from the stage, having no idea we were to become stars of the show!
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.”
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.