My hypothetical life on a hill

San Francisco makes my heart hurt a little.

There's something about a city determined by geography that appeals to me. I don't understand the connection people have to those metropolises that have just been dumped randomly onto an empty plain. Sure, I recognize the practicality of such spaces, but I find them utterly lacking in character. Perhaps it just appears that because of their lack of need to consider the environment around them, these cities aren't quite as conscious of their surrounding. When you are built in a valley or on the shore, the features of the outdoors suddenly become such a necessary part of day-to-day life, whether it be your daily bridge crossing or the hike up the hill to the grocery store.

Sure, more often than not, these realities of the environment are actually a hassle. I have cursed the fact that the mountains and ocean shores in make for a series of awkward bridges, curvy roads and traffic jams in the city I live in, as compared to the convenient bold highways dumped in the middle of prairie cities. And the hills of San Francisco, while picturesque, certainly make for gasps for air, squealing brakes, and aching toes, even without an armload of groceries.

But these hills are just so damn beautiful. I adore how you turn a corner and are suddenly greeted by an unexpected and dramatic view, how the bottom floors of houses are cut into a diagonal by the sidewalk, how the old houses loom above the people walking their dogs below. Perhaps it is from growing up on the sides of a mountain, but hills just feel like home to me somehow.

As I wander about the streets, I am a little insatiable in searching out the details. I feel compelled to peer down every corner and sneak a glimpse into any open backyard, just to make sure I'm not missing something. I feel like I'm playing dress-up, adult-style; instead of wearing a tiara and pretending I am a princess, I masquerade as a local. I ride public transit and decide which coffee shop would be my coffee shop. I start imagining all the things I would do in my new San Francisco life. These include taking naps with my cat in my bay window, growing herbs on my roof, and having serious phone conversations on my front stoop. I even briefly consider taking up smoking in my hypothetical life just for the satisfaction of having a formal reason for climbing out my window onto the fire escape late at night.

Cities

Some people, while kind and polite and every other generic positive characteristic, just aren't terribly memorable. They are pleasant to sit beside at a dinner party, but you may never have another thought about them once you walk out the door. 

I find cities can be the same way. While it is rare that I actively dislike a city, I find it entirely disconcerting how apathetic I can feel about them. They all have their cliched tourist attractions, be it their random museum, their ubiquitous waterfront pathways, their concrete shopping meccas. And while these may capture my attention for a series of moments, I always find myself looking for something about the city to speak more directly to me. I can't just let my only snapshot of it be the billboards around the highway to and from the airport, the tacky wall art in a hotel, the abstract patterned carpets in the conference centres, the glass walled skyscrapers. If this is all I see, I can't help but resent the five hour plane ride and taxi rides. I think that I could find this very same experience in my backyard. I wonder what drives people to live there, versus anywhere else in the world, and wish I had the time to figure that out.

Other cities just have an immediate spark. These aren't always the ones I would predict. While I loved the warm beaches and the people watching in Los Angeles, or I found the life amidst the crumbling buildings in Havana fascinating, they remained with me more as stories than a continued connection. I become a little insatiable in wanting to know these cities that I sense this spark in, to breathe them in, wander down random streets, to know all the banal details, like where people get their groceries and walk their dogs.

Montreal, for instance, has an instant charm. It could be that there is something both comfortable and exotic about feeling French flowing off my tongue again, hearing the rolling r's echoing out of my mouth. It could also be that it is such a stark contrast to the modernity of other Canadian metropolises, with its dramatic stone buildings, its cafes spilling into the streets, its steep staircases up the sides of homes. Even the most dilapidated neighbourhoods have this layer of character that other cities lack, making me wish to take photos of the chattering Greek men lined up outside a ramshackle cafe or the bold neon signs shouting "Club Supersexe!"

I was able to predict that I would like Chicago as soon as I started planning my trip there. Granted, when I emerged from an underground train into the looming buildings of the financial district, rolling bag in tow, the details of the city were a little overwhelming. However, in my week there, I relished the detailed architecture and the public art. I found myself picturing my life in a brick apartment building, drinking at the local pub. More than anything, I loved the unique flavour of the different neighbourhoods, how they felt like real communities in a sea of millions.

I just returned from a week in Portland. Often, when I travel, I feel a little vigilant and hyperaware the first few days as I grow accustomed to my surroundings. Portland put me at ease near immediately. People are kind, it is clean, easy to navigate, relaxed, without feeling small or quaint or boring. Although I could list off the features I adored, like the green parks and the eclectic market, it was more just a sense that walking the streets felt comfortable.

I suppose this is one of the best things about travel-- the idea of finding these connections in random locales. So, tell me, what cities have you felt an immediate connection to?

Sunshine on my mind

The thing about graduate school in clinical psychology is that it feels a little never ending. There is no school's out for summer, or look, it's the weekend, so I don't need to work, or woo-hoo, classes are done, that means there is nothing left to do but watch Iron Chef reruns. It is both all encompassing and totally scattered, in that you have to switch gears between the bazillion different specializations you are supposed to master. When class is out, you are running participants. When you're done running participants, you have to analyze data. Don't forget to go to your practicum, and squeeze your regular clients in there, as well as commute to the suburbs for meetings with your case supervisors. Oh yeah, and here's a pile of essays to mark when you have that break between the workshop on clinical challenges, the lab meeting, and the training you are running for the programming software. And what do you mean you haven't published anything yet this year?

It is a go-go-go kind of life, the one where you keep spare journal articles in your purse just in case you have a moment to read them. (Seriously. I do that. People make fun of me when I go to fish out a pen and pull out a jumble of stapled together papers instead.)

Sometimes, in the middle of this rushing about, I find myself wondering why I decided that it was really so important to get my PhD as quickly as possible. Would anyone really begrudge me not being Dr. Pointful until the ripe age of 30? Was it really necessary to spend the bulk of my 20s on a university campus? And why didn't I take the time to do that generic coming of age post-college backpacking trip across Europe or Southeast Asia?

So, finally, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet.

Visit Cuba??


Don't mind if I do!

After what seemed like years of paying lip service to the fact that we needed a real holiday, not an extra day tacked onto a conference excursion, and debating journeys across Chile and Ecuador that we both knew our temperamental theses would never allow, we decided to bite the proverbial bullet and escape for a week in Cuba.

(It is our duty as Canadians, after all.)

So, yes, from Monday through Monday, you can find me drinking at absurdly inappropriate times, splayed out on the beach. To cope with our odd sense of guilt over staying at a resort far classier than the likes of us, we are also taking a non-tour bus related expedition to Havana, where we are staying at a casa particular with a Cuban family and wandering the streets with delicious aimlessness. I am only bringing books with no practical bearing on my future profession, and am staying far, far away from the Internet. My purse will be full of sunscreen and pesos, not annotated journal articles.

Hijinks will not be utterly abandoned, though. I have lined up a number of wonderful guest posters during my absence, so be sure to stop by and show them plenty of love. 

Who knows? Maybe I will learn to write again while I'm gone, as it feels like stress is sapping the ease right out of my words lately. At the very least, I should be a little more tanned with some rum breath and knowing a few more words of Spanish.

Never underestimate the power of blanket forts

The contrast to the fact that I feel justified acting younger when I'm back in HomeTown is that I feel compelled to act my age when I am back in the city.

The city is the place where I only hit the snooze button one time.

Where I file my own taxes.

Where I use a clipboard regularly.

Where I eat steamed vegetables by choice.

Where I own too many pairs of plain black socks.

Where I spend my Saturday afternoons buying garbage bags and Swiffer refills.

Where I send important emails on the train to work.

Where I make sure I wear sensible earrings (in certain contexts, at least).

Every once in a while, though, I get a flash of something that makes me feel like a child again.

Today, I was taking my bedding out of the dryer, I noticed that one of my pillow cases had gone missing. I stuck my head into my comforter cover, and saw that the pillow case had become wedged at the bottom, so I crawled in a little further to retrieve it. All the sudden, with the way the light was filtering through the blanket, I felt as though I was hiding out in a blanket fort.

And I smiled.

I realize, now, even though I've done a remarkable job at this whole "adult" thing, there are some things that all the practical pants and day planners in the world can't suppress.

Like the smell of crayons.

Having breakfast for supper.

Giving myself a bubble bath beard.

Jumping onto every chalked game of hopscotch I come across.

Dancing around my apartment to the song on my iPod the second the front door closes behind me.

Eating too much ice cream.

Tickle fights.

And being tucked into bed so tightly that my arms can barely move.

Blanket forts trump steamed vegetables any day.

Things I've done in the past 3 days that make me feel at least 10 years younger

Had cookie dough jammed into every hand crevice and fingernail.

Calling my dad at midnight asking him to pick me up from my friend's house, and then asking him when he arrives if he can also drive my friend home in the minivan.

Sitting crosslegged on the floor playing board games.

Calling my competitors names while playing said board games.

Sleeping until eleven.

Asking my dad to open a pickle jar for me.

Wearing pink kitty cat socks to my birthday dinner.

Making fun of my parents for their random hippie ways, like their eschewing of a microwave and rinsing out of eggshells.

Tapping my sister on the shoulder whenever a goofy looking guy walks by, and whispering "That's your new boyfriend!"

Having whipped cream on my nose.

Putting on my old ugly Sorels to go Christmas tree hunting.

Talking to my boyfriend on the phone in hushed tones in my bedroom.

Staying in the bath until my fingers get wrinkly.

Falling asleep, curled up in the backseat of a car, with a suitcase as a pillow.

Licking egg beaters.

One more day

My red mittens are too big for me. I feel childlike with them hanging loose around my wrists.

Winter has come to Canada with a bang. In an instant, my skin has been sapped off all moisture. Chilled air is seeping through my single panes windows, needing me to wipe the hazy film from them to be able to see the world outside. I swim in the fog of others breaths waiting for the bus.

A transit worker in a Santa hat sees me frantically hugging myself at the train station. He laughs and tells me to try being outside for ten hours, then hands me a candy cane, ostensibly to get my blood sugar flowing. The crook of the cane fits perfectly around the edge of my tongue.

Last day, I tell myself.
One more day. One more day.

One more day of tacky soft rock seeping into my dreams and unceremoniously shaking me out of them.
One more day of coffee for breakfast.
One more day of one bus to the next.
One more day of chores and shopping squeezed into fifteen minute breaks in my schedule.
One more day of shoulders weighed down a bag filled with the day's necessary odds and ends.
One more day of a steady flow of emails.

Tomorrow I'm in a car, driving through the mountains.

The day after that, I wake up on my birthday to a home warmed by a fireplace. I will be wrapping my neck in a scarf not in preparation for the trek to work, but to walk the dog, cut down a Christmas tree, even to trod to the local bar.

And, so, here I am in my office, drinking lukewarm coffee and huddling next to my little heater, which is only allowed to be on low for fear of blowing a circuit, playing countdown.
Five hours and thirty eight minutes until work is done for the holidays.
Thirteen hours and thirty eight minutes until today is through.

One.
more.
day.

Mix CDs for the holidays!

Not too far back, I asked for your recommendations for some new tunes, and, indeed, you all delivered. My iTunes bill has been skyrocketing ever since, and I still haven't had the opportunity to listen to all the artists that have been selected! I have already found several new favourites, though, so thank you! I was also surprised at how many of you were right on track, as shown by the fact that you suggested other music that I already own.

And, as promised, I'm going to dole out the tunes to you...

I've made up two mix CDs that I want to give away. One is a collection of the tunes recommended by you-- blogger's choice, if you will. The second is more of a soundtrack to my life, with artists you may or may not have heard of. 

Though I wish I could bestow you all with a bombardment of new music, if I am to realistically get it to you before Christmas, I had to restrict myself a little. As such, I am going to give away four CDs in total, two of each mix, as a thank you and happy holidays to all my lovely readers. I appreciate you all a lot for making my little corner of the internet that much more warm and fuzzy!!

However, I still need to make you work for it, at least a little...

So here's the deal! If you are interested in winning one of these CDs, comment on this post with two piece of information:

#1- Tell me a story about a song that holds a special meaning to you.

#2- If we haven't been in touch before, or your email address isn't clearly posted on your blog, please include your email address!

You have until midnight (pacific time) on Saturday December 13th to enter. At that point, I will pick four commenters at random as winner, and will be touch to get your mailing address (I promise you I won't mail you a steady supply of tear soiled love poetry, just a single CD).

Lurkers, you should come out and play, too! There's some good tunes to be discovered!

I'll post the track listings and my own tales about meaningful songs with the winners.

(and I'm crossing my fingers I get more than four entrants so I don't have to start making up comments, like Pierre from Versailles who lost his virginity to Elton John)

An ode to making out

Less than two weeks away from my annual holiday visit to HomeTown, planning has already begun for various reunions and bar nights. This talks, of course, lead me to reminiscing-- thoughts of lunch hours, sleepovers, camping, house parties... and making out.

Making out was different back when it was the end goal, rather than just a brief stopover on the way to another destination. There is something about the furtiveness, the franticness, even the awkwardness that I almost miss-- tangled shirts, undone buttons. 

There was so forbidden about it, as though you always had to be vigilant to the sound of footsteps or a knock at the door, but you would still let yourself get a little more caught up and carried away than intended.

Sure, as a girl, you were forced to remain especially attentive to the whole situation and how it progressed. You'd have to keep it at the forefront of your mind what "the line" was, blocking his hands with yours or murmuring "We'd better stop". You'd have to prepare yourself for the puppy dogs eyes, the whispering pleas and promises, or even the lines of desperation (who can forget blue balls?), shake your head, stand your ground, reluctantly or not. 

Still, there was something enticing about those moments when you weren't too sure how much you could resist, when you could get that swept up despite having all of your clothes on.

Tra-la-la (or the one in which I seek my lovely readers' input)

I got the internet at home for the first time in 2005. Up until then, it had remained a little exotic. I did have my first hotmail account nearly 10 years prior, and used to visit "Teen Chat" at the public library (and wondering why every time I talked to a boy he wanted to "cyber"). However, paying for all my tuition out of pocket meant for little money for a computer for most of my undergrad, making me on of those students in the library until midnight, and only enough money for monthly internet a few years later.

Of course, gaining everyday access to the internet is like a rainstorm of information for one who is used to stolen minutes of email checking on one's friends' computers. Once the novelty of games and chat and random Wikipedia'ing died down, however, the thing that likely changed my life the most was music.

Though I downloaded some CDs here and there, what really sparked my interest was going to an artist's online forum to discuss a concert I had recently attended. Suddenly, I was bombarded by artist recommendations, links to MySpace pages, concert dates. It was deliciously overwhelming. I would discover a new artist almost daily, and would hop on the bus to the local record shop and stock up. Suddenly, the listings in the newspaper were full of bands I used to flip past, but now wanted to see. My busy life suddenly felt as though it had a few more minutes in each day.

And though I felt more connected to something, I also felt more separate. My relationship had been going downhill for a good year, and the gap began growing as I found myself in crowds alone. I couldn't convince my friends to spend $20 on a band they'd never heard of.

Perhaps it may sound ridiculously cheesy, but I really do think the music was the boot I needed to realize that my life was stagnating before my very eyes and that something needed to change. Music also brought me to a concert where I turned around at the right time during an encore, and look into with those very same blue eyes that sleep beside me today.

Why do I recount all this? Because I've just realized that despite several thousand songs, my iPod is starting to bore me. I am heading into concert-hibernation season as well, so I would love to have some new music to make those busy yet dreary winter day a little more sunny. As such, I want to hear from all of you! What album do you whole heartedly recommend? What band do you love that no one else has heard of? What song are you rocking out to right now?

A bit of background on my taste may be useful, I suppose...

I'm not terribly into mainstream radio, pop, punk, country or rap. I don't know that what I like has a particular genre title, though iTunes recently labeled it as Alterna-pop, whatever that means.

Some of my faves?

Bands like Arcade Fire, Radiohead, Tegan & Sara, Rilo Kiley, Stars, the Decemberists.

More mellow artists like Tristan Prettyman, Jack Johnson, Damien Rice, Kathleen Edwards, Jenny Lewis, Elliott Smith, Feist.

Some good rock-ish stuff, like the White Stripes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Metric, MGMT.

So, yes.... suggestions please!!

Also, if there is enough interest, I may be inspired to copy Your Ill-Fitting Overcoat and send out a few mix CDs-- maybe even one of the great new recommended music and another of my own favourites. You can pretend I'm that dreamy artsy band boy/girl you had a crush on in junior year who you always wished would make you a mix tape. 

And you wished would write a song about you.

(Though I can't guarantee I'll do that.)

The amateur epicurean

Sometimes I can understand how my adamantly single friends view coupledom as a little pathetic. However, I do not apologize for finding joy from a Sunday afternoon spent in a fresh food market. Holding hands while choosing grapefruit, getting lost in towers of peaches and splurging on elaborate cheeses can be just as lovely as a candlelit dinner. 

These situations bring out the unapologetic domestic in me. As we speak, I am alternating between trimming the ends off green beans, twisting the lids off spices, crushing garlic. Sure, we are likely to end up with plates on our laps in front of the television. However, in the midst of a swirl of bills, emails, deadlines, invitations, it feels refreshing to focus on something as hedonistic as a good meal.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the chili-garlic green beans are waiting.

Inspiration and fast food

I don't know if there is much that I can say about last night that won't have been already spoken.

I joked around on the phone with an American friend that the little election pizza, beer and CNN party was merely us being "just another group of opinionated Canadians". However, despite the fact that this is not my election, I will be damned if I didn't feel a swell of pride as Barack Obama stood before a crowd, uttering the words "Yes we can" with utter conviction. People had real hope in their eyes again.

I'm sure we all heard the cliche that tonight, history was made. However, I received an email from a Black friend today that really drove this home-- he said that he woke up this morning, and the thought that there may actually be an African-American president made him want to cry, as ten years ago, he would have never expected this to even be a possibility in his lifetime. How phenomenal for this to have been proven wrong.

(I also learned today that my mega-crush, Jon Stewart, has hairier knuckles than expected. I would just make him wear gloves.)

Rather than belabour the point any further (and, as I write this, I am still anxiously awaiting the results of Proposition 8, the results of which may diminish some of rose colours on my glasses), I will direct you to a delightfully non-political and comical post I wrote over in the land of Libby of In This Skin about why your job is nowhere near as horrible as my first (fast-food) job. It has tales of grease, polyester and maltreatment. You know you want to click.

Miss M

Where was I this Thursday night??

Perhaps the picture below may provide a clue...

In case you can't ready the reverse writing, my enormous lollipop says "Madonna: Candy Shop". Fitting considering it was part of the free swag I got as part of my Madonna VIP passes!

(eeekkk!)

In general, truthfully, I am not a huge pop music fan-- but growing up in the 80s, I have to make an exception for Madonna. I lipsynced to "True Blue" in on my bed, secretly watched "Truth or Dare" with my girlfriends,  and danced to "Ray of Light" in living rooms at parties. I remember being forbidden from going to see "A League of Their Own" for a friend's birthday party simply because Madonna acted it in, and parents were therefore convinced it had to be salacious. As such, when I heard she was making her first appearance ever in my city of residence, I decided I was going to be one of those people, waiting in line the day tickets went on sale and spending atrocious amounts of money.

My friend ended up picking up a number of VIP packages, and thus I ended up spending more money than I am comfortable admitting for 12th row tickets.

But you better believe it was worth it.

There was a banquet beforehand, with a ridiculous spread... oysters, roasts, wine, cheesecake. Then, instead of waiting in line outside in the rain, we danced to a DJ with middle aged women in bustiers and an array of gay men.

The show itself was a spectacle and a half, especially considering I usually just go to smaller venue shows. The stage was bedecked by two huge looming Swarovski encrusted M's. She came out on a throne, made six costumes changes, was swarmed by countless talented dancers, drove a rolls royce around the stage, along with the moving boxing ring and stripper pole. And that body? Holy Christ. The woman is cut, and has endurance of an entire high school basketball team. I was sweating and exhausted just from dancing and singing along, and she was still going without skipping a beat. She played for two hours, and touched upon most of her career stages-- I went nuts when she played Like a Prayer.

Sure, she may be oversexualized and overplayed, but dammit, Madonna had me starstruck.

Mrs. Neocitran

One of my favourite critiques of same-sex marriages is that it will open the door to all sorts of heathen unions, such as people marrying their pet iguanas or their dead uncle. At the moment, I am wondering about the legality of marrying, or at least entering into a platonic life bond, with Neocitran.

Googling this delicious nectar informed me that it is apparently a Canadian exclusive. In a nutshell, it is medication for pretty much any possibly linked cold symptom in a tangy pseudo-lemon flavoured beverage. It is warm and makes you feel fuzzy and perhaps a little loopy.

But I swear the loopiness has nothing to do with the wedding proposal.

So, yes, your Princess is hermitting tonight. The rapsy throat, stuffiness, and heavy head have reared their ugly faces, and I know from experience that more usually follows. It probably didn't help that my job is woefully understaffed and I have been running around far too similarly to a madwoman for something that is only *supposed* to take up 12 hours of my week. Oh, and the lack of sleep thing.

If there's one thing that illness brings on in me other than pressured temples, it is short-term future-based anxiety. All I can think is "This cancellation of my Friday plans must have appeased you, cold demon, as I really, really need you out of my system by Monday, because I have that morning assessment, and Tuesday we are finally training new staff and appointments are backed up for months so I don't know what they would do if I call in sick, and I have to make the decision to call in sick a few days before when I don't know if I will be better or worse by then and... and... and..."

*cue my head exploding*

Ruminating is good for your health, yes?

As hopefully is cold pizza in bed. 

The one in which I befriend marine life

Before we begin...

I know my posts located on other sites have been getting less love lately, but I feel compelled to tell you that my all-time favourite post is published over on Lauren's wonderful Testament series today. (just one click away... seriously!)

***

To continue on the warm and fuzzy theme...

By Friday afternoon, I have convinced myself that my chosen profession is rife with pompous jackasses, after a rather unfortunate professional workshop-- although, granted, the day was nearly made worth it, not due to exciting new information on the latest version of the IQ test, but rather as a result of large platters of free cheese.

Still, when I see the Duke waiting at a bench outside the venue, I sprint across the walkway in sheer excitement... for all I know is that he is picking me up to drive somewhere mysterious for our anniversary, and that he had forced me to pack and/or point out clothing for nearly every plausible occasion so as not to clue me in on our intended destination.

He leads me to a beige rented Corolla, stocked with all the trip necessities, including suitably convoluted Google Map directions and five cent candies. The map only leads us on the first half of the trip, to the ferry terminal. We manage to be one of the first cars on the ferry and are located at the very front, so, instead of joining the masses upstairs amongst screaming children and overpriced chicken fingers, we remain in the car, listening to the Beatles, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, and watching the lights of the port slowly approaching.

As our tires rolled from the ferry dock to the road, and we struggled with nonsensical directions, I gradually became aware of our destination-- a small, rugged community on the opposite side of the island, known for its forests, surfing beaches, and wildlife.

The road there is one of the crazier highways I've been on-- full of twists and turns, fringed by enormous trees. As we edge closer to our destination, the fog grows so thick that we have to forego headlights and inch along. One of the first things we see once the mist cleared were signs warning us of the possibility of tsunamis. Welcome to the open ocean.

We pull into our hotel around midnight, the air thick as we stepped out of the car. As we open the glass door in our room, we can hear the ocean below, though the fog prevents us from seeing it. We walk towards the water, the orange glow of a beach fire glowing in the distance. It is almost eerie how far we walk, with the blurry view of the waves still crashing distances away.

Shockingly, the Duke, the king of lazy mornings, suggests that we set the alarm the next morning to make the most of the day. I have my morning coffee looking onto the misty ocean. Breakfast is Eggs Benny with delicious local ingredients, like smoked salmon and dungeness crab.

We then take a walk along the ocean shore. It is funny how the lack of sunlight, something I would find depressing in the city, somehow adds to the mystique of the area.

The shores are oddly smooth, so smooth than the sheen of a millimitre of icy water acts like a mirror.

We drive the five minutes to town, which is more aptly described as a village, free of traffic lights. Wandering around it does not take long.

The fog is starting to peel away, so we decide to book a late afternoon whale watching trip. We are lucky to only have to share our yellow ship, the Miss B Haven, with two other people, and our captain, Tim Tom, who has an natural ease on the ocean. We skim across the water at first, wind whipping through our air, sailing by green islands and rocks piercing the water. Gradually, we start hopping over waves.

We near two other paused boats. Between them is a school of sided dolphins, frolicking in the waves. As the boats slowly skip along the ocean, the dolphins leap about in their wake.

TimTom, a grin on his face, simply states "Pretty cool, eh?"
The dolphins gradually bore of us, and scamper away.

It is, however, only about ten minutes later than we see the next fellow on our list... a grey whale.

We first detect him by the spray of his blow hole. He swoops up and down multiple times. Another one joins him, surprising us by his rapid surfacing mere feet away from us. Tim Tom tells us that, were they to use their blow hole too nearby, we would be greeted by a tremendous stench.

It is hard not to be overwhelmed by something so monumental and exotic.

Next, it is the island of stellar sealions. They are the true stinkers, massively lolling about on the rocks, roaring at us passerbys. 

 Seals great us as we float by, bobbing in the current. We drift by a rocky island rife with seabirds, and a family of otters cavorts amongst the seaweed, their heads barely distinguishable.

And, as a final farewell, we catch site of a juvenile humpback whale. He moves quicker than the grey whales, swimming through the water at speeds that seem impossible for a creature so gigantic. But, just before he disappears from sight, he dives below the water with his tail reaching towards the sky.

As we make our way back to the harbour, the rocking of the ship nearly lulls me to sleep.

The evening was capped off by an amazing meal, and drinking red wine out on the beach.

(Oh, and maybe watching E! True Hollywood's story on the New Kids on the Block. Shut up.)

The next morning, we check out of the hotel set ourselves off to exploring the nearby national park, stopping every few kilometers to see a new sight.

There were boardwalks running through the temperate rainforest...

Yet, somehow, a few minutes down the road, the landscape of a bog felt like nearly another planet, with broccoli like trees with pallid grey limbs spurting from the spongy moss.

Soon afterwards, to finish where we started, an open beach.

After that, it was back on the open road, with stopovers at random small town restaurants and to ogle more looming trees, pulling back into our apartment at midnight to alarm clocks and a backlog of emails. Still, it is the escapes like this that make that day-to-day tedium so much more bearable.

And me? I'm still in awe that someone likes me so much to plan something like this. And I'm one hell of a lucky girl.

The one in which I give Skeelo a run for his money

This weekend was just flat out wonderful.

One reason?
I spent it here:


Another reason?

I spent it with some of the most fantastic people I have ever had the fortune of knowing.

(which one do you think is me?)

And, most importantly, I witnessed an amazing friend make the most beautiful bride, and I saw in her groom's eyes that he recognized it, too.

Lest you think I am just some concentrated form of sap, I am not one of those generic "I-wuv-weddings" type of girl. In fact, after the last wedding we attended, I found myself wondering if I had perhaps became a little jaded, for outside of some more detached appreciations of certain moments, I wasn't having the typical warm and fuzzy emotional pangs. However, even the stoic Duke himself noted that this was a particularly lovely wedding. And he was one of the only dry eyes in the house during the speeches.

Other highlights and lowlights of the weekend?

The weekend kicked off with eight of us poured into one mini-van. While some would have sulked at the prospect of being forced to wait for a ferry in such close quarters, we celebrated by drinking red wine out of to-go coffee cups while in line.

Most of the tiny island was taken over by visitors for the wedding. Not only did we have every hotel room booked, but we also took over the local bar the night before the wedding, where someone plugged in their musical disgrace of an iPod, leaving us to dance the night away to hip-hop AC/DC remixes and Whigfield's Saturday Night. My guy, however, was impressed by my lyrical knowledge of Welcome to the Jungle.

Songs officially banned from my wedding? The Chicken Dance, the Macarena and the Hokey Pokey.

The lyrics to "I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller" and "Shoop" are pretty much permanently imprinted in my brain. However, even better is the interpretive dances that accompany them when I have drunk multiple glasses of wine.

Sometimes gender contrasts are way too stereotypical. Exemplary of this fact is the 40-something woman who literally dove and collided with other people's ankles to frantically grab the bouquet, while the men had to be herded onto the floor to catch the garter.

Asshat of the wedding award clearly went to the fellow who was actually doing a running commentary of shit-talking during the wedding. Not only did he let out overexasperated sighs during certain portions of the ceremony, when my friend stood up to do a reading, he snarkily whispered "How much do you want to bet it's from Corinthian?" I also learned due to forced eavesdropping that he came down the aisle for his own wedding to "Eye of the Tiger". Seriously.

Warm and fuzzy part of the weekend? When the bride gave me and our close friends special engraved wooden boxes, and told us that they contained the key to a box we would get for our own wedding, which included a special garter that we were all to wear on our special day.

Quote of the weekend? 

The scene: Three of us discussing the incarnations of bacon in different countries.

J: Bacon strips taste different in the US than they do in Canada.

The Duke: That's because bacon from Canada is made from children's dreams.

Me: Mmm, I taste unicorns!

(Psst... ummnowwhat.com. Do it.)

Grand Opening! (or the one in which I try my hand at shameless self-promotion)

Remember how I oh-so-cryptically promised Big Bloggie News?

Today is the official grand opening and world premiere of Umm... Now What?

What is this I speak of?

Umm... Now What is a new group blog about life as a twenty-something.

Why should you care?

Because it features the writing of five fantastic, brilliant and hysterical ladies:

Brandy of It's Like I'm.... Mmmagic

Chelsea of Chelsea Talks Smack

Jamie of Oh, How Lovely!

Jess of Jess Writes

And, of course, yours truly!

We're going to be trying our hand at a variety of topics relevant to our current decade of life, some with a more tongue-in-cheek spin than others.

In fact, I may have a new post up there as we speak... so go visit, say hi, show some love, add us to your reader, all of that happy stuff!

Anecdotin'

Baby birds have decided to set up residence in our bathroom vents. Initially, I was a little confused at the twittering noises that provided my showering soundtrack. Given that I live in an older building, I wrote these cheeps off as remarkably animalistic squeaks-- but after a few days, I consulted the all-mighty Google, who informed me that birds often have a special affinity for bathroom vents. I confirmed this by standing on my toilet, and tapping the slats, to which I was responded to by a flurry of tweets. Although friends have deemed them creepy, I've grown a little fond of these winged chirpers... and I'm exceedingly happy that my vent does not have a fan.

***

A new Asshat of the Week has been declared...

Beer Pilferers.

As we bagged our alcohol for Saturday's house party, the Duke suddenly reminded me of a category of asshat I had forgotten for a long while (due to the sad lack of house parties since the whole graduating from high school thing): the beer stealer. This individual lurks by the fridge, where s/he scams unsuspecting people's beers, drinking them furtively in a corner, before grabbing another brand. We laughingly plotted a sting operation if we noticed any of our alcohol mysteriously disappearing, with plans to upload our confrontation of the beer stealer on YouTube.

A few hours later, we watched as a woman reacted to her beer being pilfered. 

"You know what's funny, guys? How we were the only people drinking Pilsner tonight, and somehow, we are missing four cans, and you two are sitting beside the fridge with cans of Pilsner in your hands."

The two men in question simply stood there, mouths agape and faces blank, and mumbled something about the host offering them free rein of the fridge's contents.

Apparently shame didn't serve as too substantial of a motivating factor to them, however, as it was only an hour later that I heard another friend's eruption over a missing six-pack.

Beer pilferers... as the winners of this week's prestigious prize, you are sentenced to a lifetime of consumption of warm non-alcoholic beer. Enjoy! And don't worry... no one will steal it from the fridge on you.

***

File this one "That was TMI, Facebook"....

Perhaps you remember my rant on the internet phenomenon that is My Free Implants (aka. the world needs big breasted women more than it needs to cure AIDS and famine)?

An old high school friend is a proud member of this site, and uses her status updates to fill us all in on her monetary progress. A recent one celebrated a large donation by declaring "Yay for compassionate, generous people". 

It makes me a little sad, honestly, because she is a beautiful girl with a phenomenal body, especially for having had two children, and she is having to chat with and send photos to rich men in order to get herself the surgery to convince herself that she is beautiful.

***

I just went to Costco for the first time in years, and had forgotten how wonderful the notion is of getting everything in jumbo sizes. I was in awe of 20 litre buckets of margarine and bags of sugar I could use as a sleeping bag. I was giddy over my ridiculous purchases when I arrived home, shouting things like "Do you have dirty hands? That's okay because I have 3 litres of liquid soap!" and "You want a granola bar? Have two! We have forty of them!" 

My best purchase? A 4 litre jar of pickles. 

It literally takes over a half of a fridge shelf.

The oddest thing about this behemoth is the fact that it lists 3/4 of a pickles as a serving size.

Food on sticks, ghost gum, and other camping hijinks

With the realization that July was nearly over, it is decided that a rapid dose of summer is needed. As such, five of us pack our flashlights and hotdogs, and shuttle over to a nearby lake for an express outdoors vacation.

It is easy to forget sometimes what lays in your backyard. We tend to think that in order to relax and really experience the outdoors, one needs to hop a plane or spend many hours behind the wheel, rather than the less than an hour it takes us to reach the shores of the lake, away from the prying eyes of skyscrapers.

While the sky overhead is layered by more clouds than preferred, we hurry to the shore to slip the boat into the lapping waves.  There is something about gliding my hands into the water below as we skim along, and about the slow rocking motion while at rest, that just leaves me feeling at ease while in a boat. The Duke, being a Prairie boy of sorts, has never been on any sort of watercraft outside of a ferry and a rowboat. He jokes that he feels like a dog sticking his head out of a car window, as he leans slightly over the edge with the biggest grin I'd ever seen in the midst of his windblown hair.

We go tubing, our arms holding desperately onto the side of the inflatable tube skipping over the waves, our legs flailing about uncontrollably as we catapulted over any ripple in the water.

(The Duke's power bail)

I, being admittedly a bit of a wimp, request to be spared the "trying-to-make-the-tuber-go-flying" experience, preferring to be dragged behind the boat in a fairly predictable manner. Our driver happily obliges, and even though the winds had already kicked up a few waves, making even the most basic of rides somewhat precarious, I manage to keep my butt within a six inches of the seat at all times.

That is, until my ride was over, and I attempt to hop from the tube to the boat, and promptly tumble over backwards, water shooting up my nostrils at record speeds, the tube capsizing over top of me. Apparently everyone is destined to fall, one way or another.

After spending the bulk of our daylight hours on the water, we move over to our campsite. S, in the hopes of reliving her childhood memories of "a man wearing moose antlers singing campfire songs", drags us to the interpretive centre for the nightly event. It turns out to be a talk on bats and other nightly creatures by the park's exceedingly awkward resident naturalist. We sit on wooden benches amongst the six year olds on their father's shoulders, where we learn that squirrels and trout have a tendency to dine on bats, and other such tidbits. 

We also experience the very sad spectacle of a naturalist heckler, a woman in the front row who has seen fit to challenge the naturalist's knowledge in the most snarky manner possible, despite her own lack of knowledge.

For instance:

Naturalist: Contrary to what you may have heard, bats actually have very good eyesight.

Heckler: That's not true! Why else would they say as blind as a bat?

(ah, yes, because if you can't trust proverbs to be true, what meaning is there left in the world?)

Naturalist: As we talked about earlier, the myth that bats drink blood also is not true.

Heckler: What about the vampire bat?

Naturalist: If you remember, the vampire bat actually only licks the blood from cuts.

Heckler: But when the blood is in their mouth, how does it get to their stomach? By drinking it! So what you said isn't true!

(Wow, you sure stumped him there. Or maybe you forgot the definition of the word swallow)

To avoid getting into a full out brawl at a provincial park's family event, we sneak away before the talk's conclusion. It is now time for drinking and cooking food on sticks (fact: hotdogs and marshmallows taste exponentially better when cooked on sticks).

As night falls, and we bask in the glow of the jumping orange flames. For inexplicable reasons, Enigma starts playing over the Jeep's stereo, and I treat everyone to my rousing version of "Return to Innocence". We watch moths commit ritualistic suicide, drawn to the brightness of the fire. We dine on Jiffy Pop, which is described as "A beautiful tin foil flower, filled with delicious popcorn nectar". We reminisce about childhood camping rituals, and S demonstrates the technicalities of ghost gum, squeezing and pulling marshmallows through her fingers, like taffy. After a short walk down a dusky path, three of us somehow fit in an enormous outhouse, and it is only afterwards that we realize how ridiculous we must have sounded to any eavesdroppers, as one girl peed, another giggled, and I frantically cranked my new self-powered flashlight, shouting "This flashlight is so bad ass!" And, eventually, we all climb into the single enormous tent, ostensibly for a "super tent slumber party", although, in actuality, we all pass out in a matter of moments.

I wake up to the frenetic pitter-pattering of rain on the canvas roof, and groan. The world outside our zippered doors is soggy, including my shoes. Sitting on our sleeping bags, we solemnly dine on mini boxes of Fruit Loops and Corn Pops, as the sounds of the deluge outside teases us about what we have in store. Feet are slipped into sodden footwear, hoods are pulled tightly over our heads, and we are quickly smeared in mud, raindrops and pine needles, as we gather garbage and fold up the tent. It seems more the anticipation of the rain than the actual experience that is negative, as it is hard to stay bitter when you are surrounded by dirt-splattered friends. With the odor of dampness permeating us, we hop into the van, and head back to the city.

The Island Diaries- Part 1

There are vultures circling above me.
Five of them, to be exact, with bedraggled tails, feathers askew, and conspicuous bald red heads.

This leaves me a little uneasy, in all honesty. Despite being assured that they are but scavengers, and thus unlikely to bother me unless I appear particularly carrion-like, I am not entirely reassured. Their imposing manner of swooping leaves me convinced that their talons may be perfectly Princess-sized, and thus I wince a little each time their shadow darkens my view.

While the question of why these scraggly birds of death have shown a sudden interest in our deck seems like the most evident one at the moment, I also find myself wondering what strange forces of nature brought vultures, of all creatures, to this little island in the Pacific Northwest. The eagles, falcons, seals, deer, tree frogs—those all fit within my image of a woodland sanctuary of sorts. But vultures? These are the scavengers of the lion carcasses of the savannah, not the vacation homes of Canada.

(And, in all honesty, I am hiding indoors right now. Every one else is fast snoozing in their afternoon nap, and thus would not be able to hear my cries when I was scooped up to be brought to a cliff-top nest to be wedded to the Vulture King.)

***

Other than the circling vultures overhead, though, this truly is a bit of paradise. We are located on the crest of a small mountain, with a sprawling deck that the trees open up perfectly for, framing the bay and the ocean below like a sort of stage, with foliage serving as the side curtains. It doesn’t hurt that the soundtrack is the twittering of the baby swallows in a nearby birdhouse, who are apparently due to attempt their first flight in the days to come.

After so long in the city, one almost forgets what the stars look like. We sit on deck chairs with our necks thrown back, our eyes a little unable to process the millions of specks above. I am able to point out the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, but the remainder are sort of like playing connect the dots to make up one’s own constellation, complete with legend and moralistic ending, such as “Don’t have sex with Zeus if you don’t want to be turned into an alligator”.

The oddest thing, though, is how the stars fade away as they are overtaken by the glare of the city across the water. At night, its orange-ish hue overtakes the horizon, surrounding it in an almost toxic looking bubble. It doesn’t look like a series of skyscrapers or filled with ant-like swarming people, but rather one massive tinted entity. It is odd to realize that I am usually situated smack-dab in the middle of that haze, and that, looking out from that end of things, I cannot even see this island, without the telltale markings of streetlights and billboards.

***

PS. In case you can't tell, paradise tends to be an internet-free zone... hence why I am sitting on the side of the road with my laptop right now, scoring some free wifi, like the classy tourist that I am.

Toot toot goes my own horn!

So I was in the midst of concocting a very symbolism-filled broody post (y'all know how I roll sometimes), when, in my ruminative state (you know, convincing myself that no one really reads me anymore anyways), I decided to check out my SiteMeter.

And discovered that my blog is featured on the new twenty something section of AllTop, a site dedicated to, in their words, "collecting stories from 'all of the top' sites on the web"! As are the blogs of several of my Bloggie BFFs!

Eek!!

So forgive me if suddenly am shocked out of my mopey state. I can try to get back there, if you all *really* did want to hear about vines as metaphors for adversity. But you would all rather do a happy dance with me instead, right??