Author Archives: Rachelle

About Rachelle

I live on the west coast but hail from the eastern one and I love the things I love. I think life should be the pursuit of happiness, because what's the point otherwise? I'm a writer, a dancer, an unlikely MBA and a yoga teacher. I live on a beautiful island in the Pacific Northwest with my dashing and fun husband, Adam and our two furry cat-kids, Maui & Hermes.

Just over the fence.

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Hey guys. I’m in Seattle, for weekend two of my coaches’ training program. I’m not ready to write about it yet, so I’ll fill you in later. I will share that while I can see the beginnings of transformation (which is what I signed up for, after all), I childishly don’t want to admit it (though I suppose I just did, didn’t I?). This is largely because the weekends thus far, all 1.5 of them, have kind of left me feeling generally pissy and angry. Being confronted with your stuff—in concert with 14 other people’s baggage—doesn’t leave you (maybe it’s just me) a lot of room for grace. Oh well. No one said it would be easy.

More to come on this at some other point. I know I’ve said that before and never returned to a topic, but I promise I’ll be back with this one. Scout’s honour.

Anyway. On another note, Starbuck’s in Seattle are always interesting. There’s an impressively bearded guy on my right who is either playing an intense video game or plotting the overthrowing of a small nation somewhere in the South Pacific. I wonder if when he wakes up, he has bed-beard. Like, it’s all squished and flattened on one side. I wonder…

It bears noting that I will consistently take a seat next to a chatty Kathy, or in this case, chatty Keith, who absolutely does not pick up on my I-want-to-be-alone vibes. Seriously. When I put on headphones, I’m telling you I’d rather listen to Fun than to you. To be completely honest, I’d rather listen to Fun a lot. IT’S SO GOOD! I have to limit my exposure to Some Nights, though that limit is pretty high. I think there’d be an amazing opportunity for choreography there. All marchy and throwing yourself around the floor and big, surprising jumps. I love a good jump that you don’t see coming. They happen to me all the time in ballet class. “Whoa—I just jumped there. In pliés. At the barre.” (I’m 32. At this point, a lot of my dancing is kind of an out-of-body experience, where my mind is just kind of bemusedly watching my legs and feet do stuff, with little communication between the two.)

But I digress. Surprising.

You know, throughout the course of my day, I’m often struck by random thoughts (shocking, I know) and inspirations for future blog posts. I always think to myself, “I should really write these things down,” lest I forget. But I never do. Write it down, that is. Forgetting I do all the time. Which leads me to today’s topic: Stuff you can get in the U.S. that you can’t get up here in the True North Strong and Free. I think I kind of sort of generally remember the gist of this one.

For example (NB: the font’s about to get all small. Don’t ask me why.):

  • POG. Okay, to be fair, I actually enjoy that I only get this in Hawaii, because it’s totally an island treat. But still. Still.
  • 4-litre jugs (that’s right, I said JUGS) of rum, with a reinforced plastic handle (on account of the heaviness of the rum, you see).
  • Flavoured everything. Coffee? How ’bout toasted coconut coffee? UM YES PLEASE VERY MUCH THANK YOU! Almonds? Why not try roasted coffee almonds? OMIGOSH THEY’RE PUTTING ALL MY FAVOURITE THINGS IN ALL MY FAVOURITE THINGS. IT’S LIKE THE SOUND OF MUSIC IN MY MOUTH! “THESE ARE [QUITE] A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS!” (You can sing along)
  • Cheap but awesome white t-shirts at Tar-jay. Seriously. I wear a white t-shirt pretty much every day. I’m not exaggerating. They’re like $8 and they’re really nice. A decent, though not as nicely fitting, tee at home will set me back at least $20. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I AM. I’M CRYING OUT LOUD HERE.
  • OH, AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE YOGOURT. Seriously. You guys: They make fat-free flavoured Greek yogourt that you can’t tell is fat free. And it’s not sweetened artificially, either. Up here, all our fat-free yogourt is sweetened with aspartame or Lord knows what (and even He might not be able to pronounce it. I’m just saying). Because obviously, I don’t want to watch my weight without increasing my odds of developing cancer and having a numb tongue. Which reminds me; does your tongue go numb with artificial sweeteners? Mine does. It’s like my tastebuds are protesting and just pretending to ignore me and everything I eat for an hour after touching the offending stuff.

Well. Now I’m all riled up. Good thing I love Canada so much. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Except maybe a sojourn in France. I’d be down with that. I could bring Grimby everywhere. He’s very chic (when he’s not peeing on his own face. Don’t ask. My dog is amazing and not always in the most sanitary way.).

Anyway, I think this post is just about a wrap. I must say, though, that the weather is kind of yucky. This is not shocking to those of you who are aware of the meteorological conditions that tend to frequent the Pacific Northwest. But in my defense, I did check my iPhone weather and it said there would just be clouds. So I wore suede shoes, which was a decidedly bold move, not unburdened with doubt. You win, Mother Nature. This time (and probably most of the time).

 

This is an unrelated picture, because the internet is slow in this Starbucks and I'm impatient. But it is a good picture.

This is an unrelated picture, because the internet is slow in this Starbucks and I’m impatient. But it is a good picture.

Hey bra, it’s goin’ off.

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Check out how awesome I’ve become (see the title). I’m so Hawaiian.

This morning, Adam and I went surfing at Pua’ena Point, which is on the North Shore of Oahu. So, technically, I’ve surfed the North Shore. Just like Jack Johnson and Blue Crush. Sort of.

Anyway, it was really fun. I stood up for all but my first wave, saw a humpback and paddled beside a sea turtle. I saw the humpback from afar, which is good, because honestly, if a humpback breached or even just swam in anything resembling close proximity to the vicinity of me bobbing about in the ocean (attached to nothing but a smallish flotation device), I’d first

  1. be overcome by the majestic beauty of nature,
  2. then pee in fear, attracting sharks and dying of humiliation and being eaten at the same time. There’s really no other way this could turn out. Obviously.

Adam came too, and though he got tired before I did (yay, yoga-shoulders!), he had a really great time, too. Which, translated, means that he wants to surf more. I WIN! I’ve surfed a few times, but never really got into it, because it’s kind of tricky to do alone, if you don’t have someone to share it with (both the sport and the epic drive up to Tofino). Though, I must say, I kind of want to stick to tropical surfing. Because it is awesome. Awesome and warm. It’s nice to not squeeze yourself into a wetsuit that you just KNOW oodles of strangers have peed in.

So clearly, my dear friends, I need to move to Hawaii. Didn’t I say this would happen? I visit Hawaii; I want to move here. For surfing and for tropical fruits. Seriously. They have coconut EVERYTHING here. You know who likes coconut EVERYTHING? This wahine!

So, that’s pretty much my update. It was rainy today. But I didn’t mind, though I hope it’s sunnier tomorrow. I’d like more of a (safely acquired through the thorough application of SPF 30) tan before I head back to the true north strong and free (and frozen).

photo

Isn’t it pretty?

 

Aloha hello!

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Hey my esteemed readers! I’m currently on a ferry, enroute to Vancouver. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be driving down (okay, I’m not driving, I’m passenging) with my beloved and his family (also mine, then) to Bellingham and then getting on a plane. To Hawaii. You may have already gathered that, from my title. Did you know “aloha” means both “hello” and “goodbye”? There’s a little bit of something nice in that, though I haven’t put my finger on it yet.

I haven’t been to Hawaii since 2004, when we visited Maui with Ben and Ashley. I, for one, am very much stoked. I wonder if, when we come home, I’ll find a kitten I can’t resist and name it Oahu (that’s how Maui the Hairy got her name). I also ended up getting a Hawaiian tattoo in ’04. So you just never know what could happen. Could be I come home with a mohawk. Or a surfboard. Or, more likely, a new bikini. And sand in my hair that doesn’t come out for 2 weeks.

*** Time Passes***

And now it’s Sunday, and I’m sitting on our patio listening to the crashing waves and finishing this post. I couldn’t remember the incredibly pithy and witty topic I was going to write while I was on the ferry, so I gave up. But now, my friends. Now. NOW I AM IN HAWAII AND I REMEMBER HOW MUCH I FRIGGING LOVE IT HERE. For reals (obviously, based on my use of caps lock, right?). Last time I was here, it was spring of 2004 and I spent much of the ensuing 3 years trying to find a way to move here. Then I got all busy, what with accruing more student debt getting my MBA. And now I am back and I am in love with Hawaii. If I weren’t already married, I’d get down on one sandy knee and propose a lusty engagement, followed by a long and happy life growing old together. With Adam. Of course. And Grimby and the cats. They’d love this sand.

Anyway, I’m here and drinking toasted coconut beer:

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and eating my body weight in dried mango: Thank you Ben & Ashley for creating a monster.

Here is my view. Life is very hard for me. Clearly.

It's so far to the beach.

It’s so far to the beach.

We’re staying in Hale’iwa on the North Shore of Oahu. You know; Pipeline, where I won’t be surfing.

We haven’t been to Waikiki yet, but we will, oh we will. Also, I have a theory: Hawaii is way more fun than working. I’ll keep testing it and let you know how it turns out (Spoiler Alert: The theory is correct. I already know this to be true.).

 

 

Just out of curiosity…

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Do you know where yeast comes from?

I do: the grocery store. It comes in handy little packets, designated for particular uses by the labelling.

This is very convenient for me, because, apart from the baking aisle, I have literally no idea where to find/harvest/grow yeast. Is it hunt? Does one hunt it? Are there pack[et]s of wild yeasts, roaming the countryside?

Generally speaking, this kind of thing doesn’t keep me up at night, except for tonight, but that’s largely because I was too busy having an amazing time this weekend to draft a post. And I did say I’d post at least once a week. I even put that on Facebook, so you know it’s true.

Seriously, though.

Does it ever stop and make you think, “How the hell did they figure yeast out, anyway? And who were they?” I mean, humanity has been eating bread for an awfully long time and I’m pretty sure it’s been of the leavened variety for longer than Wonderbread‘s been available.

I’m also pretty sure that, were there to be an apocalypse of some kind, those of us who survive it would be up the proverbial creek for a myriad of reasons. Just for the record, I optimistically include myself on this team of survivors. It is my hypothesis, after all…

Yeast aside, how about mushrooms? Indeed, you say—how about them? Well, most of them look pretty devious to me. I love truffles, but they’re kind of malevolent-looking funghi, if I do say so myself. Funky, wrinkly delicious little funghi that I can’t tell from poison truffles. If I’m needing to forage for my dinner, I’m likely to kill myself and anyone else unlucky enough to be over for the meal.

Do you know which berries are poisonous and which ones make delicious pies? Because I sure as heck don’t.

Let’s say I’m making a celebratory post-apocalyptic pie. One must carry on, after all, and it’s important to keep the morale high in such dismal circumstances. Let’s imagine (because it would be purely imaginative) that I’ve somehow managed to discern the tasty, non-fatal varieties from the instant-and-yet-still-agonizingly-painful-death varieties. I mean, it’d be pretty shitty irony if my “Yay-We’re-Still-Alive” pie killed what few persistent and tenaciously dogged survivors that made it relatively unscathed through The Great Whatever.

But back to the pie: a pie needs a crust. I can’t make flour and I have no idea where I’d find lard. How does one make lard? Actually, on second thought, please nobody answer that. I don’t think I want to know. But you see where I’m going with this, right?

I’m not sitting here freaking out or anything (in case you were worried). Nor do I fear/foresee an impending apocalypse, just for the record. I just wonder about these things sometimes.

We have come an awfully long way, as a species, but it’s a bit sobering to think that my house pets would better survive and be suited to life sans comforts/necessities than I would, no contest. This is saying something, because currently, my dog is rubbing his head against my feet, while Maui hides from nothing at all, under the bed. I can’t see Hermes, but it’s a fair bet that he’s laying close to his food dish. On second thought, maybe Hermes wouldn’t fare well. After all, he’s not that resourceful and he’s awfully lazy…

Anyway. Stuff to think about. Am I the only one who wonders (not worries; just wonders) about this kind of stuff? What random stuff makes you go hmm?

Another example: shoe-water/weatherproofing spray. I don't know where this stuff comes from. So, what, my shoes all get wrecked, because life as we know it is changed forever?

Another example: shoe-water/weatherproofing spray. I don’t know where this stuff comes from. So, what, my shoes all get wrecked, because life as we know it is changed forever?

In which we discuss cosiness.

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Doesn’t that word look weird? I mean, I prefer the American spelling, with a “z”, as in cozy, but try as I might to type it, it’s impossible. Well, not impossible, per se, but my CP Caps and Spelling Guide walks across the room and smacks me repeatedly across the face until I fix it and swap the “s” back in. It’s cosier when it’s cozier.

Anyway, as of late, I’ve found myself wanting to wear sweatpants (this is not unusual in and of itself, I know) and curl up in front of the fire, watching 10 episodes of Once Upon A Time at one sitting. Fortunately, I only have one season on Netflix, so I had to mete it out.

Update:  Wow. I started this post on December 10th. And here we are, January 6th of 2013. Thankfully, the Mayans were wrong and life as we know it has continued. I know I’m relieved. I mean, I wasn’t truly anxious or worried or anything, because, really, if we were facing an apocalypse, I am fairly certain that my worrying about it would not, in fact, be the planet’s salvation. But I must admit that I had a couple of moments in which I found myself wondering, “Well, what if they were right?” before shrugging it off and realizing that there wasn’t much I could do about it. And then went back to watching Once Upon a Time. Which I have now finished. I need season two. Badly.

Oh Fairytales. I LOVE YOU. No, really, je t’aime. Je t’adore. Always have, always will. I have this big ol’ fat tome of fairytales my mom gave me when I was a wee small thing and I devoured the stories, the morals, the characters and just a touch of magic, over and over again. My favourite stories are always the ones where I can escape into a make-believe world of things I wish were real. I mean, I NEVER open a wardrobe without thinking, “Wouldn’t it be so cool if this opened into Narnia?” I’m not even making this up. Though I could, seeing as how I love things that are made up and all.

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FYI: Mine’s a tiara.

And gosh, if this year could get better and better: Fairytales are all over the silver screen. Two Snow White movies in one year (seriously, do these people not call each other? I mean, just to make sure they don’t make the same movie? “Hey, I’m doing a Snow White, so—” “No way! Me too! Jinx, you owe me a Coke!”). I just saw The Hobbit (amazing), which I’ve been eagerly anticipating for eons. Some thought it was lame that they split the story into three movies. I just thought, “Yay—that means I get to live in Middle Earth for longer!”

I’ve seen previews for a Jack and the Beanstalk movie and Hansel and Gretel. Pinocchio. Maleficent (Sleeping Beauty). Oh the fun I will have. I won’t have to live in the real world hardly at all this year! <<fist pumps>> Oh, wait; there’s more! There’s another Sleeping Beauty, another Hansel & Gretel (less witch-hunt-y), Peter Pan, Little Mermaid, Enchanted 2, Arabian Nights.

Well, there you have it. A post. Not a great one, but a post all the same.

The End.

P.S. How am I not in Once Upon a Time? Seriously. This must be fixed. All my favourite movies are being made without me in them. Oh, the injustice.

P.P.S. I’ve resolved to blog at least once per week. So there’s gonna be some gooders and some not-so-gooders. I’m okay with that.

The [real] End.

Oh December!

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It is December. According to some, we’ve got like 13 days before the end of days. I prefer to think that perhaps the Mayans just ran out of pages in their daytimer. So, now that’s dealt with and we can move on. See? Optimism just saved the planet. Positivity works.

I love December. It’s where I find some of my favourite things, namely: Winter and Christmas. We haven’t put up any decorations yet, because I have rules about such things (no decorating before December 10). It’s important I have these rules; after all, I do listen to Christmas music all year long. What?! IT IS PRETTY MUSIC AND I LIKE IT. So there, all you judgers out there. At least I don’t put my tree up in November and then whine on December 26th about how the season is too commercialized. Whuppaw!

I wish we had snow. That pretty much is a standard condition for me for about 6-to-8 months of the year, though, so that’s hardly newsworthy. Everything is pretty and clean and wintry in the snow. I mean, I actually get a little sad when they break the curse in Narnia, because I think the endless winter was pretty awesome. And the animals talked, so that’s pretty cool. Obviously minus the eee-ville witch. She needed to go and melt.

Um, so I have lots of stuff to write about, on account of how I’ve been all absent, et cetera. But, I have a Christmas craftiness session to head off to, so I’ll have to catch you up laters. I will say, because I know you’re wondering, that I have done some soul-searching (and talked to a counsellor) and am feeling much more okay with a) having anger (turns out I’m human after all), and b) the fact that I can choose to express anger in non-upsetting ways, and c) my dog is, in fact, awesome. Phewf.

Also, this is neither here nor there (nor is it a secret reference to my condition, which is patently NOT-PREGNANT), but EVERYONE is pregnant right now. Do NOT drink the water, if you’re hoping to remain childless. It’s an epidemic. Luckily, these are all amazing people and favourite friends who will have adorable children who will be lucky to have such awesome parents.

Here’s me:

I know, right?

 

Excuses, excuses.

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I’ve been awfully  busy — did you miss me? I know I’ve been slacking off the blog. Here’s my excuse:

The cutest excuse.

It’s hard work being this cute.

It turns out, puppies are a LOT of work. Who knew? Apparently, everyone but me. I mean, I knew having a puppy would mean some work, but I think my expectations were completely unrealistic. In my defence, I have never, ever had a puppy. Kittens, yes. Dog, yes. But the only dog I ever had, Chip, was a grown dog when we rescued him. So, really, I had no clue what I was getting myself into.

Having Grimby (short for Grimbergen, our favourite beer while in France) has been a great opportunity for me to learn about myself. Some of it has been good, some has been bad, much like the days themselves. I’ve discovered the following about myself:

  • I am not a very patient person. I need to change this. I’m working on it.
  • I’m a perfectionist. I know, I know: Everyone says this, but wow. I SERIOUSLY need to learn to let some things go. I’m working on this, too. Good thing Grimby’s a patient teacher.
  • I don’t know what to do with anger.

This last one’s been a biggie. Pardon my language, but I have LOST MY SHIT so many times, I am mortified to admit it. I’m ashamed of my temper and who I become when I lose it. I don’t like me very much then, and it’s made me feel like I’m just like some members of my family who have some real anger management issues. Having grown up thinking I was so different from those people, at least in terms of my chill attitude and pleasant demeanour, this has proven exceptionally hard to swallow. I think herein lies my largest issue with poor little Grimby, who is just being a puppy and wondering what the hell he’s done and where he can hide from me when I’m blowing my lid. I’ve reacted in ways that make me cringe: shoving him away from me, or flipping him on his back, even when I know it’s not a good practice with dogs. I’ve yelled and shouted and seen him cowering. And oh, the profanity. Seriously, the sailor’s mouth on me. Pass me the bar of soap.

While I’m glad to be learning this now with a puppy, as opposed to a child, I’d really prefer to not have this red angry monster be a part of me. I’ve become terrified that if we should ever get around to having kids, I’ll be a terrible, angry, seeing-red mom, which is someone I very much don’t want to be (having grown up with a lot of anger around me and not liking it very much at all). I think that anger has probably always been there, being that I am, in fact, human, but I ignored it, since there were always people in my home who were often very, very angry, very, very often.

I’ve tried to figure out why I am SO poor at dealing with anger and I think I might know why (thanks to a recent epiphany): Those other people around me were so angry when I was growing up, that there wasn’t really room for me to be angry, too. Though now I realize that I should have had that right, too. Instead, I swallowed any anger I might have experienced and probably displayed through more acceptable attitudes: fear, timidity, avoidance and guilt/shame. Because there was so much stress, strife and anger in my home, there was no room for me to express angry feelings, which means I never learned how to manage or express anger in a more productive or acceptable manner. No one else knew how to deal with theirs, so I had no model to follow. I didn’t have a chance. But I realize that I do have a chance, and a choice, now. I’m actually amazed that I’ve never ever thought of this before.

Sharing this here makes me want to cry, because I hate it and it’s embarrassing. I feel vulnerable and ashamed of myself. I want to hide that this anger is a part of me, but I think that’s actually the problem. It’s time to own up and admit that I’m human and that humans sometimes get frustrated and angry. I’m working on it, though, which means owning it, accepting it and learning to translate my anger into more productive actions and emotions.

Because you know why? This little guy is awesome. Grimby is the cutest puppy in the world. Everyone loves him (well, maybe not Maui and Hermes) and I do, too.

Grimby wants this bed, thank you very much.

After having enough in Petsmart, Grimby decided this was the best place for him to hang out.

I just want him to be the perfect dog. And you know what I’m learning? He already is. He accepts my flaws, without judging me, and he’s teaching me to do the same for him, and maybe more importantly, for me, too.

Who knew how much a small, snorty, wriggly little creature can teach you. I’m learning that, too.

Fake it ’til you make it.

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Sooo, the other day, I was coming out of the Market on Yates, which is the closest grocery store within walking distance to our digs. I wondered as I shopped if I would see young Mr. Smileypants* (*names have been changed to protect the identity of the innocent and also because I don’t actually know this guy’s name). Young Mr. Smileypants is just that: young and smiley (he also wears pants, but that’s not really pivotal to my point here, although I’m sure if he didn’t wear pants, he would find it detrimental to his employment status).

I mean, this guy? He smiles. All. The. Time. How can you not smile back? I challenge even the Grinchiest of Grumpy pants to stand stoically and remain steadfastly unhappy in this kid’s Care Bear stare of pure, unadulterated happiness. Not possible. One thing I know for sure is that even if he couldn’t make some grouch’s heart grow three sizes that day, his joy wouldn’t be dimmed. You know how I know? Here’s the secret: I think he’s choosing happiness and joy.

You pick.

Yup, that’s right. Choosing it. Because he can. So can we all. I mean, you guys, don’t get me wrong, but really, most stuff is a choice. You can choose to be happy just as easily as you can choose to be sad, angry, hurt, embarrassed or any of the other more-common-than-joyful attitudes we pull on in the morning. And it works. I’m no expert, but I have definitely tried this method, with great results. You see, I used to be shy. I know, I know: “Bay? Shy? Pshaw! I don’t buy it.” But really, I was pretty low in the self-confidence factor when I was wee-er. Until I was 15 and my ballet teacher called my bluff.

“Ooh, a story!” you say? Indeed, my friends, indeed. When I was young and shy, I used to hide out at the back of the ballet class, so no one could see me. I knew just where to stand so that whether at the barre or in centre, I could always see the other, better dancers. This way, I could follow them and not screw up, not that it would matter, while I was skulking in the shadows like Gollum in pale pink tights.

Alas! One day, my teacher called me out and moved me from beneath my comforting shadows. Right into the middle of the studio, where I had to demonstrate each exercise, instead of one of the usual girls (generally the stronger dancers). After somehow making it past my heart attack, I demonstrated the exercise (over and over again, until I got it right) and turned to go back to my little safe corner. But alas again! My teacher made me stay there, in the centre, for the whole class. Didn’t I just die. Interestingly enough, I didn’t actually. Die, that is.

On and on this went, until I realized there was no point struggling, my teacher clearly had it in for me and would make me stay in the middle, demonstrating, until I moved far away for college. One day, I had a brilliant idea: I would march right into the middle of the class without her telling me to. I would gladly demonstrate, pretending I was down with it and confident and generally getting it together. Ha! I showed her! I became quite skilled at this make-believe game, fooling her into thinking I was actually filled with confidence and knew how to pull my own weight in a ballet class.

And then, you guys: Then. Then, one fine day, I realized I wasn’t actually pretending anymore. I actually was confident in my ability to stand in the middle of the studio and dance without copying the girls I thought were better dancers. I actually felt comfortable speaking my mind. Slowly, I had grown and changed and become This New Girl. One who was fun and competent and comfortable in her skin. Many, many years later, I realized that had been her plan all along. I wasn’t being so clever and tricky as I thought, but she was and she knew what she was doing.

I owe that ballet teacher a lot. I finally let her know that I know what her perseverance with me had accomplished. She didn’t give up and she wouldn’t let me give up, either. She’s one of my favourite people and the living definition of what makes teaching such a noble profession. You don’t find ’em like that every day, folks. I’ve been lucky.

What does this have to do with the guy at the market? Well, I like to imagine that he’s sorted this out. See, sometimes he has to do annoying tasks, or deal with unreasonable and unfriendly, even spiteful people. Don’t we all. But I like to think he’s decided to be happy and polite and smile at everyone he meets, anyway. He might have been faking it, but eventually, he’ll just become a person who is too happy on the inside to let the outside stuff weigh him down.

That’s what it means to fake it ’til you make it.

What do you choose? Are you aware of your choices, setting them intentionally, or are you reacting to things along the way?

I like everything about this picture.

I’m on a boat!

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Enroute to the big smoke!

Merrily we drive to Van, after being THE LAST CAR ON THE FERRY.

This weekend, Adam and I are going to Vancouver for a romantical getaway. I know: “Get a room, guys,” right? We’ll stay at Adam’s brother, Brendan’s, place, which is in False Creek. I don’t know why I’m telling you that, since you very well may have no idea where that is. But it’s lovely and while we stay there (Adam lived with Bren during his 8 months of co-op terms in Van), I like to pretend we live in this fabulous downtown-ish condo and are all metropolitan and stylish. Hey, it works for me.

Needless to say, picking outfits is of great importance for such a jaunt, since LET ME TELL YOU, there is a great void in the middle of the Georgia Strait, into which all style is absorbed before passengers alight upon Vancouver Island. I’m not being snotty, since I live on the island and love it there, but seriously, you guys: Something happens between Schwartz Bay and Tsawwassen and it’s not fashionable. I mean, I have left Victoria feeling like I’m lookin’ pretty put together, and by the time I reach Vancouver, I feel like I’m a clamdigger gone far, far astray.

It probably has something to do with the shopping. Vancouver has way better shopping. Don’t even get me started on Seattle (oh, I love you, Nordstrom Rack). Since Adam began his coaching training south of the 49th Parallel, I’ve become much more stylish (in my humble opinion). The options and prices are just SO much better. Victoria has some awesome indie shops and labels, but the prices are pretty much out of my grasp.

To be fair, though, I think a lot of my style metamorphosis has come about thanks to Pinterest. I’ve always had great ideas of what I’d like to do, but without the pieces, it’s hard to put it into action. I like to peruse the ensembles and see what works for me and what I might be able to do. I’ve learned that I can play with accessories (something I think I’ve really shied away from in the past), which really helps to refresh my pieces and enables a much more creative use of my wardrobe. And yes, my wardrobe is plentiful. I’ve got a good idea of what I like and I take exceptionally good care of my clothes. Clothes and fashion bring me a lot of joy, which sounds lame and materialistic, but really, it’s just a way I like to express my creativity (along with every other thing I do all day long—I’m an artist at heart. Always was.).

And then there’s my shoes. My affection for footwear is really enough fodder for an entire blog, or at least it’s own post, so I won’t say much in this one, but suffice it to say that my mother’s been calling me Imelda Marcos for as long as I can remember. I like shoes, and I like good ones, at that. Really, I like good quality everything. I’m not a brand junkie, but I know what I like, and when that coincides with a quality item, I’m sold (over and over again). I think that’s the topic of another post.

So, where was I going with this massive digression? Oh yes, to Vancouver. Where there is shopping (though I have not a lot of money and am aware of my impending trip to Seattle next weekend…). Adam still owes me a birthday present and we decided we’d shop for it together (that’s a two-fer for me!)… I’ll let you know how it turns out!

What do you like to spend your money on? Are clothes and fashion as a form of personal expression important to your identity? If not, what is?

Summertime, I love you.

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Heyo! Isn’t summer great? I mean, it’s all warm and smells like Hawaiian Tropic (the good scent that made you do this when you applied it, before they went and changed the scent <<shakes head sadly>>).

I’ve been out being all summery, which has been great (there’s that word again), since we’ve had a bunch of warm weather ’round these parts. I had begun to think we would never have summer sun + heat together again, ever. Luckily, it came and things got all toasty. Of course, I have yet to be able to coordinate a trip to a beach/lake/lawn with a bathing suit, so thus far (and really, summer’s kind of wrapping up and slipping into fall), my bronzed glow is restricted embarrassingly and quite obviously to my running and cycling shorts. Sun safe? Yes. Summer fun and sexy? Not so much…

I started my archery lessons last week. I’m pretty much a natural. Except for how I managed to repeatedly catch myself with my bow string and wound up with a series of bruises. And yes, I did enjoy explaining how I got them. Is that weird?

Also, know what? You know how they make archery look on TV and in movies? Like Legolas and Katniss? Yeah, that’s not incredibly realistic, it turns out. Now, you guys, this may not surprise you, but it does me, a little. And not just because I’m incredibly trusting and gullible, either. I mean, one would imagine that there must be a nugget, or at least a grain, of truth to what we see on the silver screen. Come on, Hollywood: it’s not like I’ll never figure it out that you’re lying to me.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it looks like I will not be

  1. Shooting from a stampeding oliphant.
  2. Shooting rapidly at multiple attackers.
  3. Swiftly plucking arrows from my shoulder-slung quiver and firing them in one graceful motion.

That’s okay, though. It’s still pretty fun and my mom is hilarious (I signed her up for the classes, too)!

We're going that-a-way.

We went sailing on Sunday on my Aunt and Uncle’s boat, The Mantra, in Cowichan Bay. It was awesome. Check out my golden non-marking Sperrys.