How I know I have great taste.

Know how I know I have great taste? Because every time I go to pin some great outfit/look/style/hairstyle/item of clothing/cute animal on Pinterest, and it pops up with, Psst! Looks like you already pinned this,” I’m all like, “Yeah I did. Of course I already pinned it. I have such great taste.” Look at me, finding affirmations all over the place!

What I was going to do this weekend was take a photo of my shoes. Well, one of the things, anyway, was to write a blog about shoes. A topic, as we all know, that is very near and dear to my heart. In order to do so authentically, though, I felt like I need to take a picture of the shoe collection, which means I’d need to take them out of the closet(s). Obviously, in order to do that, I’d need Adam to not be here.

A birthday card from my aunt, uncle and family. I wonder if I need an intervention. What shoes would I wear to it...

A birthday card from my aunt, uncle and family. I wonder if I need an intervention. What shoes does one wear to an intervention…

I mean, it’s not like I’m hiding shoes, you guys, but I do have a lot of shoes and it very closely borders on what one might describe as having “a problem.” Adam is very much aware of this, but there’s no need to put it all over the living room floor loudspeaker. So, my plan was to do it this weekend, but then I got all busy HAVING WAY TOO MUCH FUN. This resulted in nary a posting by me. You probably noticed. Or maybe you didn’t. I don’t sit and stare desperately at my blog stats from which I determine my worth as a writer know whether or not you wait with bated breath for my next post.

I will do it, though. I could also do it with makeup. In fact, I will. If I broadcast it, then it’s not a dirty little secret, right? Nothing to hide = No problem. I saw a friend’s photo of her lipgloss collection and it was way worse than mine. Granted, she used to work for MAC and is a makeup artist, so as far as excuses go, she’s way up on me, but still. STILL, IT’S FINE. I’M FINE. I JUST LIKE THE PRETTY PRETTY COLOURS OKAY?

Moving on.

i love autumn

It is decidedly fall-y outside. No prob for me, since I’m all “I LOVE FALL—FALL IS FAVOURITE.” I actually like “autumn” better than “fall”, because it is a pretty word, but hey, they both refer to a season of pumpkin-spiced EVERYTHING, so it’s all good. Speaking of pumpkin spice, I know I’m not the only one who counts the first day of fall not on the equinox, but this way, instead:


That being said, it didn’t seem too autumn-y yesterday morning when I did swim across Shawnigan Lake, with my friend Gillian and her friend Mary. Gillian’s dad simultaneously kept speedboats and water-skiers from running us over and kept reminding us that if we reduced our conversation, we might actually reach the other side before next week. It was a valid point.

It was lovely and gorgeous and a perfect thing to do on a Sunday morning towards the end of summer. So was the BBQ afterwards (Gillian’s parents are da bomb!). 😉 And so will these be, whenever they show up:


The problem with sweaty forearms.

I practice Ashtanga yoga. I have followed an Ashtanga practice for about nine or ten years. In case you aren’t well versed in your yogas (what? c’mon, guys, there’s only about 90 zillion kinds!), Ashtanga is really old, really traditional, really demanding and really awesome. If you’ve ever taken, or heard of, power flow or vinyasa flow, then you have actually experienced some of Ashtanga (it’s the basis for a lot of “power” or “vinyasa” classes).

Ashtanga has six series and I practice the first one. Have done for nine or ten years. It’s not easy, either (in case you think I’m just being a slacker). I think there is probably maybe one ninja yogi who can do all of them. I’m not really exaggerating, either. You need to be pretty in touch, physically and spiritually, to get there. But, hey; that’s why it’s called a “yoga practice” and not a “yoga perfect”.

Ashtanga is a six-day-a-week practice, with four days of self-led, or Mysore Style (named after the place called Mysore in India where the yoga originated), and then two led Primary (or first series) classes: One on Friday and one on Sunday.

So, now you know about the style of yoga I practice/study/teach.

You sweat a lot in Primary. It’s not hot yoga, per se, but it does get pretty hot. Today, in headstand, I had an issue with sweaty forearms. Actually, I had issues with sweaty limbs throughout the class, because it’s tricky to twist yourself into a pretzel if you’re slick like a body builder who’s oiled up for the “after” photos.

Headstand looks like this:

This isn't me. In case you think I'm a man. I am not.

This isn’t me. In case you think I’m a man. I am not.

Now, imagine your forearms are sweaty, as is your mat. You can probably guess what happens when these are the conditions for the basis of your headstanding. If you guessed that your elbows start to sneak out, slowly but surely, then you are correct. The problem with this is that I’m nowhere near ready to practice this pose:

I think this might break the law of gravity. And my neck.

I think this might break the law of gravity. And my neck.

I figured I had about 0.0002 seconds before I went over and took the whole row with me, à la Bambi:

So, I slipped down, literally but safely, and chilled out in Child’s Pose, which is pretty comfy. I actually used to sleep like that, when I was a kid.

Nothing like a swift kick of adrenaline before Savasana (or Corpse Pose).

Okay, I’m out. My sister is taking me to the RCMP Musical Ride, which I love and try to see whenever I can! If I’d stayed with the RCMP/joined after graduating, I’d totally have aimed to be in the Musical Ride. So cool.

Icing on the cake.

I realize I’m writing about dessert a lot lately. Weird. (not really)


Have you heard about Mr. Cake? This guy is quite the inspiration.

The way he quit his job became world news and I love that he did it in style, in integrity and in cake:


I love it. I mean, obviously, because it is cake, so of course I love it, but also that he’s following his passions and creating a life where he is doing what he loves to do. More of us should do that, I think. Which is why I’m working on it, too. It’s hard work, though (I know, “If I say so, right?”). If I lived over there, I’d buy his cakes and talk to him a lot, because I think it would inspire me.

No one ever said doing what you love is easy. I suppose if it were, a lot more people would be doing it. And I don’t know about you, but I find that if you are determined to find a way, people really love to remind you of all the things you should be worrying about, if you aren’t already, and as if you don’t have enough of your own stuff to get a handle on, too. I guess that’s their way of caring about you, but I suspect it also serves them by reinforcing the reasons to support the choices they’ve made.

Alan Watts talked about this in his clip “What if Money Was No Object”. This video is not new and I’ve posted it on Facebook often, usually when I’ve needed the reminder that I’m not crazy for wondering about the way we spend our lives (you know, the only lives we get).

Here’s what he said:

“But it’s absolutely stupid to spend your time doing things you don’t like, in order to go on spending [money on] things you don’t like, doing things you don’t like and to teach our children to follow in the same track.”

I mean, you guys? You get to live once. You don’t know how long you get, either. Unless you have some kind of inside track on living more than once and/or living forever, in which case, can you tell me how? Is how you’re spending your days what you dream of? I know there’s a disconnect for me in what I want to do and what I’m doing. Sometimes it makes me sad, other times frustrated, but lately in addition to those sentiments, it makes me dedicated, driven and committed to creating something different.

Just in case you needed some inspiration (and because I needed some today):

Raspberry filling. You’re welcome.

Do you even need to know what I’m referring to in that post title? I submit that you do not. But, just in case you really, really like raspberry (as do I my friend, as do I), I would like to tell you about a magical treat with which I have recently decided to eat in great quantity fallen in love.

Okay, you guys, get ready for it. You know Tim Horton’s raspberry-filled jelly donuts? YES YOU DO. DON’T EVEN TRY TO TELL ME YOU DON’T KNOW THEM, BECAUSE THEY ARE DELICIOUS.

raspberry donut

Imagine that the delicious filling (c’mon, I know the filling’s really the only reason we eat the donut) has been tapped by the horn of a unicorn, sprinkled with pixie dust and fairy wishes (and also swirled with chocolate dreams, of course) and turned, as though by magic, into ice cream. That’s right. I said ice cream.

Yeah. RASPPLE-BERRY DELICIOUSNESS IN MAGICALRISHICAL ICE CREAM WONDERMENT (with a chocolate swirl, but who cares about that when there’s raspberry filling in your ice cream?).

Thank you, Island Farms (I think their dairy products taste better, because their cows are island cows and therefore happier cows. It’s like you can taste the happiness.).

Without further ado, I present to you Rocky Raspberry (though just in the picture, because I’m totally not sharing any of my ice cream. Sorry, but it’s too good and I already have to compete with Adam.):


You should get some of this. And then invite me over to “help” you with it.

Try it. You won’t be disappointed. Though I sort of hope you are, because then maybe you’ll give it to me… I would take it off your hands, because I’m a good friend and that is what friends do: They take it (“it” being ice cream) for the team.

Also, on Sunday night, something happened that’s never happened to me before: A pair of my Havaianas broke. Unwearably. Luckily, I wasn’t out walking in town or anything, because how gross would it be to walk barefoot downtown? (Clearly not so gross, according to a surprisingly high number of readers on my work blog who think it’s just fine to prance about with naked feet, whereas I think it’s decidedly Hepatitis C and lockjaw-inducingly not-fine)

Luckily, I have an unusually vast quantity of these kind of sandals (what? WHAT? HOW ARE YOU EVEN SURPRISED? THEY ARE SHOES, ARE THEY NOT?). But still. Still! That’s a first!

broken sandals

Where I’d like to be today.

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Not that I’m wishing away where I’m at, but doesn’t this look lovely:


The answer is yes, yes it does. I’m very much loving lakes and cottages lately. When I wander off into my head and dream about places I’d like to be (as opposed to sitting for eight hours at a desk, inside/away from the summery, sunshiney beauty that is the world around us), I keep finding myself wandering here:

lake_dock Oh, lakes. I have a sneaking suspicion that Adam and I will not be the owners of lakeside real estate, because we have other priorities (for example, going to France ALL THE TIME AND THEN BACK TO FRANCE AGAIN). And I’m okay with that, UM BECAUSE FRANCE IS AWESOME.

But still. That dock. Those chairs (and hopefully not those weeds and leeches, because if I can’t see them, then they aren’t there, right?). Speaking of leeches, do we know what service they provide to the ecosystem? Surely it can’t be just grossing out children who squeal as they are pulled off <<barfs>>. OMIGOD I JUST LOOKED THEM UP ON WIKIPEDIA TO SEE IF THEY SERVE ANY PURPOSE AND THEY DO NOT BUT DEAR GOD DO NOT READ THE PART ABOUT REMOVAL AND TREATMENT (I know you will anyway, because you are a rebel and because I hyperlinked it so you can defy me with greater ease).

Ew. Gross. Why did I read that? I need to chill out. Here I go again:


Spiders and car accidents.

Hey, so I totally forgot to share with you a disclaimer with you yesterday:

In service of my not kowtowing (look, a word-of-the-day for you!) to my survival mechanisms, all of which are aimed at glossing things over with a glaze of perfection (who me? a perfectionist? Pshaw. <<this face>>), I’m setting out on a new practice of not revising posts for a while. This means that there will be some mistakes.

Believe me, this will hurt me more than it does you. Leaving mistakes in my writing makes me want to throw up. Or at least cringe. Anyway, there you have it. Feel free to let me know there are errors, so I really learn my lesson (about letting things be and being with things as they are, including myself).

Okay, moving on. Last night, I was at my sister’s place and it was really warm, so I left my windows open. This, by itself, is not so extraordinary, but I had earlier read a Facebook status by a friend who was commenting on this year’s crop of early-bird and abnormally large wolf spiders that are beginning their fall migration into the homes and imaginations of arachnophobes like myself.

I do not like spiders. I do not like them one little tiny bit. I don’t care what purpose they serve in the grander scheme of things: They are freaky and gross and disgusting and have way the hell too many legs and eyes and they creep and they crawl and they get into places and they’re gross (needs to be said twice) and I hate them. This image nicely sums up how I feel about spiders that have trespassed into any space that I may at any time inhabit:



Why this matters is because while I was driving home, I thought to myself, just for fun, “Hey, what if a spider crawled in here while the windows were open?

And then I promptly felt as though there were spiders all over me and thought about how I would likely cause a massive accident when it crawled up my leg and wouldn’t that look stupid on the police report. I wonder if insurance covers acts of God Satan (because spiders are clearly evil and therefore NOT God’s creatures)…

So, because I’m a rational and responsible adult, I put my indicator on and pulled over so that I could inspectigate my potentially spider-ridden scenario. This is when I discovered that the interior light in my car doesn’t really light up very well below the seat and the only possible remaining solution was to drive home quickly (though safely) and abandon the car and never drive it ever again.

What other solution could there be? I need a new car…

Just for the record, I did not burn down my car.

Just for the record, I did not burn down my car.

Also, in case you were worried, I did not have a car accident.


And so the mystery continues…

Heyo! I’m hitting a bit of a writer’s block, it would seem. Mostly because I spent most of the last month completely overwhelmed with what I’ve got going on (all my own doing, but still—it’s a lot) and when I get overwhelmed, I have a tendency to react like this:

rabbits-play-deadIt’s not the most super-productive strategy, I’ll admit. The best part is when I decide to roll over and get back to accomplishing [any]things, the stuff that inspired me to play possum in the first place has become bigger and more pressing. Awesome.

So, I’ve got a whole bunch of drafts started that I haven’t finished and I’ve been looking for a handful of poems I wrote in my first year of the creative writing program. I had been looking for them for ages, wondering if they were any good, since a great way to find out if your poetry is half-decent is to read it five-to-ten years later. If it doesn’t make you want to barf and then hide under a rock, you’re doing alright.

I found them, maybe sometime in the last twelve months. I remember being stoked to find them. Unfortunately, I do not remember where I was at the time. I feel like I’ve searched the condo, which leaves the storage unit downstairs. Ugh. The problem with the storage locker is that it is a) very creepy down there, and b) very, very full.

Me not finding the poems (and to be honest, not really looking for them physically—it’s been more a thing I think about from time to time, which is clearly not all that effective) has been a pretty handy excuse for not posting. Weirdly, though, it hasn’t helped with my writer’s block.

On that note, I’m going to sign off, because it’s beautiful outside and I want to enjoy the sunshine. I’ve been off this past week and the sorrow of having to return to work is starting to set in. I’m going to go play outside. You should, too.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Yeah, so I’m way, way, waaaaay behind here. I’ll explain tomorrow. I know, you can’t hardly wait. That’s why I love you.

I’m in the TeamBucks again, this time with Jay, so I’m not making up the antics of the players. Not as many of the key characters, though: No wizard, no Bottom’s Up.

I was about to write about how my pets don’t get along and compare it to high school drama, but then it made me think of Glee (how am I not on that show?) and then I thought of the recent news of Cory Monteith’s passing (so sad to see a light go out so soon, regardless of why). He lived in here in Victoria while he was growing up, too. Somehow, that seems even more sad.

Sadness aside, I just saved my draft of this post and WordPress logged me out and the entire rest of this post was deleted. Awesome. Grumble, grumble…

So anyway, it occurred to me that I didn’t really explain the political part of the oft-disgusting ecosystem that is our condo.

Quick aside: This is the litterbox freshener I use. It’s pretty good, at least at the moment I put it in. But let’s inspect the scientific evidence of it’s effectiveness, as depicted on the back of the box:

Science is amazing. This graph tells us nothing. What are the units? "Smell-metres"?

Science is amazing. This graph takes significant liberties and yet tells us nothing. What are the units of odour? “Stank0metres”?

Look. As the odour rises (in height? smell units? THIS MAKES NO SENSE.), the blue bar wins by racing to the top faster than the red bar. Or something like that. This is not science, you guys. These are just words. This proves nothing, except that marketers make things up and people will buy anything. I am proof (of both of these facts).

It occurred to me that my previous post had less to do with the politics of the pets in our household and more to do with the disgusting and surprisingly renewable pet-waste ecosystem that our pets have created in our living space. Our condo isn’t particularly small, really, but two cats, one dog, two humans can get lively. And quite frankly, two litterboxes too many.

Now, I will do my best to refrain from using the word “poop” as much as possible, though, it is a really fun word (I am four years old, it would seem) and it is also kind of central to the political climate in this ecosystem. Just for the record, Adam gave me the idea of using the term “ecosystem” to describe the poop (see? so much fun, right? the fun is all in the second “p”). I do like to give credit where credit is due.

Anyway, so Maui is afraid of everything and Hermes takes full advantage of this fact. He used to skulk around the litterbox and ambush her when she exited the box. Her fragile emotional/mental state can’t handle that kind of stress. Clearly. Because she now poops on the floor, beside the litterbox. Thanks, Hermes. You asshole.

Grimby makes matters worse by loving the cats (which is completely unrequited, sadly, for him). He shows his love by chasing the cats anytime they move and anytime in between the times they move. In case you didn’t catch it, that is roughly 110% of the time. All the time, he chases cats. It isn’t appreciated by the cats.

Well, huh, it took less time than I thought to really delve into that political system. Turns out it’s not as complex as it seems.

Pets. It’s a good thing I love them.