Buying Shoes in the Desert.


We set our clocks ahead this weekend and, well, I’ll be: Didn’t it just turn to spring overnight. Apart from the annoying way that losing one hour of sleep seems so much worse when you weren’t staying up doing something fun and possibly regrettable in the morning, it’s nice to have the sun up for so much longer. Summer’s a-coming, people!

I do realize that spring is coming first, but since I find spring to be a mostly soggy affair, and an allergy-ridden poor cousin to my favourite other seasons (read: all the other seasons), the fact is that it is getting decidedly warmer out. While out running today, it occurred to me that I may need to switch to shorts soon.  And I have a serious spring-cleaning thing going on, too. Our friends, Ben and Ashley, are clearing out their stuff so that they can sail off into the life of their dreams. This is inspiring in about a thousand ways. Follow your dreams? Okay!

Additionally, it’s inspiring to think of asking myself if this will fit on a boat anytime I contemplate making a purchase (this is the question Ben and Ash ask themselves all the time). Currently, I’m not making purchases, because I gave up buying stuff for Lent (food doesn’t count because I need food and also because I make the rules). Normally, I give up dessert and candy and sweets and joy-flavoured foods, but as Adam pointed out, that’s not particularly hard for me to do. I have pretty strong willpower when it comes to food, except for kryptonite chips. I briefly contemplated giving up chips, but thought to myself, “that’s crazy talk.” Then I weighed myself at a friend’s place and, well, sigh. I should probably give up chips, too… For now, I will give up shopping. Jesus couldn’t buy shoes in the desert and neither will I.

But I digress. I’ve long wanted to clear out about 90 percent of our material belongings (my shoes are not a part of this exodus. Obviously.), but I get so overwhelmed by all the stuff. OMIGOSH ALL THE STUFFS.

How did we get this much stuff? And why is it so hard to part with it? We don’t even use most of it, most of the time (and some of it, any of the time). It seems so easy in my head, or whenever I’m looking at small home designs on Pinterest, which is pretty frequently (they’re so cute and tiny!). As soon as I’m face to face with the endless piles of stuff we’ve accumulated, however, I start to wonder if maybe we might need it at some yet-to-be-determined time in the nondescript future. For example, the punch bowl: We have one. Why, I don’t know, since we’ve never, ever needed one. Punch is not really a thing people drink these days. I don’t know when I’m going to make a blend of juice that sits in a bowl and people ladle out into matching glass cups. I think it might be never.

In fact, our buffet is filled with stuff we don’t use but feel we can’t ditch. Actually, that’s not true: Adam would gladly huck it all out the window and then I have to remind him that windows are not places through which we chuck things. No.

So far, I’ve been reducing my makeup and nail polish collections. I haven’t enough faces, fingers or toes to EVER USE THAT MUCH ever in seven human life spans. It’s ridiculous. No seriously. It’s ridiculous. I can’t even tell you how much I have, because then I’ll be institutionalized or put on that Intervention show. DEAR MAC/OPI/SPARitual/CHINA GLAZE/BUTTER LONDON: PLEASE DEAR HEAVEN ABOVE STOP MAKING MORE STUFF WITH CUTE NAMES THAT IS SHIMMERY AND NEARLY/TOTALLY IDENTICAL TO A BAJILLION MAKEUPS/NAIL POLISHES THAT I ALREADY OWN. Stop it. Please. Help me help me. It’s unethical. I’m a colour addict and you are an enabler. You should be ashamed. I am. Mostly of myself, but still. Still. You, too.

The closet was hit next. I’ve got laundry baskets full of clothes that are being donated and I still want to get rid of more. I even have some shoes in there. Some. More like a handful, or very few pairs. But still, you guys; it’s some shoes and that’s a big step for someone like me. Because I love shoes more than I love makeup and nail polish (take THAT, cosmetics industry!).

Anyway, that’s what’s been going on. Oh, and this:

photo 4

I have waited for this moment forever. I’ve always wanted pets who’d snuggle. Granted, Hermes was sleeping here before Grimby sidled up to share the sunbeam, and it’s distinctly possible that Chubbs Hermes was too lazy to move, but whatever. It’s a snuggle and it counts!


Picture this (and then pin it).

First, just picture it.

No seriously you guys, you’re really gonna need to actually use your imagination, because I haven’t figured out yet how to add tabs on my blog. I mean, yeah, I have a couple of pages, but I haven’t sorted out the logistics, so anything I post is just added onto the existing post, thus creating The Longest Post in History. But you don’t care about all these details, do you? Nope. You don’t. I don’t blame you. I almost don’t, or at least I don’t care quite enough to do anything about it.

Yet. Just wait. No really, you’re probably gonna have to wait.

See, what I want to do is have this be all awesome and my website. I want a page dedicated to clothes and style and, of course, shoes. I very much enjoy these things (especially shoes) and would like to pull together some style notes. I have many Instagram photos of my lower outfits. It’s hard to take a full-body selfie that captures my outfit, so generally, it’s a photo from my middle down. Hey, you do what you can, right?

On another note, do you know how much I love Pinterest? I do. Hint: It’s a lot. 7,198 pins a lot. Oh, wait—7,199. See? See what happens? What a great site. I love that I can be a hoarder of beautiful things without actually hoarding them. This site has literally changed my life. Or at least my style. I will happily admit that between Pinterest and my trip to France last year, my style has evolved into something that is definitely Bay (and whoever else has pinned my gazillion same pins).


I sort of feel like anyone who has gotten engaged, gotten married, decorated a home or ever done pretty much anything ever, prior to the dawn of Pinterest, should get a redo. Not because I would change my wedding—it was perfect!—but I would do other extra crafty things and it would be amazing. I would paint chevrons on my office walls and add glitter to my bathroom paint. I would bake cake pops and decorate them like miniature pumpkins and I would finally know what to do with my hair.

I love it. Though, one thing I don’t love is the misguided, but probably well-intentioned weight-loss motivation. “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” is lame. Come on. There are lots of good ones, but I wish my Pinterest peeps would just can it with the weight-loss pins and all the “amazing” before and afters.

Now I’m going to go look at my Creatures board. You might want to, too. If you like The Cutest Animals in the World. Or not. Your choice (what’s wrong with you? Look at the cute animals I have pinned!).


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

Wearin’ Mah Princess Pants

I have a dirty little secret, apparently. Or maybe it’s a pretty one. Who knows. All I know is that somewhere along the way, it has become wrong to like Disney princesses, or so I’ve been (repeatedly) told.

Oh yes, I’m on a soapbox. And, oh yes, this soap may smell a little bit pretty.

What’s wrong with a little princess (pun intended)?

Everywhere I look, there’s some article or person telling me that liking Disney princesses further solidifies the objectification of women and our shocking adherence to culturally specific (or non-specific) ideals of beauty. I’ve read that little girls have become negatively impacted by these idealized and impossible to attain concepts of beauty.

The debate rages with some fairly aggressive opinions, as though Disney is a reaper of souls, hell-bent on collecting little girls’ impressionable young minds like the witch in Hansel & Gretel’s gingerbread house collects children for dinner.

Good grief. I like Disney princesses because they are fairytales. Movies and stories I grew up with. They’re familiar and nostalgic and what? I LIKE FAIRYTALES OKAY? LET ME LIKE MY STORIES. GEEZ-AAAAH!

And Disney didn’t make them up (well, not all of them): The Brothers Grimm did (well, some of them). And, just for the record, while I have heard people complain that Disney took all the reality out in the same breath as complaining that the heroes and heroines are too attractive, I will assert that people would have a lot more to complain about if their precious Jennys and Johnnys were aghast at images of Cinderella’s stepsisters looking “more normal” while they CUT OFF THEIR TOES AND HEELS, SHOVING THEIR LITERALLY BLOODY FEET INTO THE GLASS SLIPPER TO FOOL THE PRINCE. Yep, I went there.

It’s a bit confusing to me. I mean, I grew up with these movies and fairytales, which I read in books (the scary originals—egad!). I lived in the ballet world, which is culture, right? So this Sleeping Beauty is okay, but this one isn’t? Guess which one messed with my body image and positive self concept (hint: It isn’t Disney). These movies were interpretations of stories. I don’t roam through my life wondering why I’m not actually a royal (well, maybe I do, but that didn’t start with Disney). Sure, I also wish I could fly, but I’m not in therapy because I’m angry at Peter Pan.

I mean, seriously. Do we honestly have so little to worry about these days that we are now attacking fictional characters? Because, here’s the thing: These are make-believe people. It is very clear to me that they are cartoons. Somebody DREW them. With a pen. I liked to watch these movies when I was little (okay, I watch them now), but I didn’t expect my pets to start conversing with me (at least not in English) and, unless I’m here and I’m wearing mouse ears, I don’t walk down streets expecting to see this:


Two points:

  1. I have noticed that increasingly, we worry that TV, movies and video games are causing people to distort their reality.Just for the record, billions of people have watched cartoons, movies and played video games without misunderstanding that what happened on that screen in front of them was, in fact, The Real World.
  2. While people insist that people are being swayed by the fictional images they see, we are ignoring the fact that we are all responsible for our actions, and when we are children, it is OUR PARENTS/TEACHERS/COMMUNITY, not Disney, who we should be depending on to teach our children real-time, real-life values.

    Maybe if we stopped pointing the finger and blaming others for not doing what we should be taking on and took some responsibility, we wouldn’t let so much rest on screen-based entertainment and we could just let kids enjoy them. Gasp.

The cartoons, movies and video games are ENTERTAINMENT, not babysitters or teachers, though I do think we can learn from them, too. I also think we get to choose how we react (much like with the Dove commercial) and I guess I tend to go with the positive, instead of actively seeking out more crap to be upset about (call me simple; I call me happy). Those people can feel free to keep picking something to be unhappy about, but I’ll go with this:


I can’t help but think that perhaps there are bigger issues with which we could wrestle. Like, oh, I don’t know, WORLD HUNGER/INEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF FOOD AND WEALTH, FIGHTING IN THE NAME OF RELIGION, LACK OF MEDICAL ACCESS (after all, we can thank greed for the fact that TB is now back with a vengeance)… You know, just to name a few.

But no: We’re going to take down some colourful cartoon characters, who are, ahem, MAKE BELIEVE. Like Ewoks (no one says I can’t like an Ewok, but they’re not realistic, either. Just sayin’…).

And honestly, I can’t help but sniff out a little bit of hypocrisy: Are those that tell me I’m obliviously ascribing to what society tells me is beautiful really telling me I am wrong for liking them? Oh, tell me more about what I should like instead. So, I can only like what they say is beautiful, as opposed to what other “theys” say? I’M SO CONFUSED: WHOSE DEFINITION OF BEAUTY AM I MEANT TO BELIEVE? Oh, right: Mine. I can also find different things attractive (in case you thought I only find beauty in Disney characters).

What of these angry (annoyed? frustrated?) people who dislike Disney princesses for perpetuating stereotypical concepts (made by, um, us): Do they dislike real-life people who fit that same mold? Are typically attractive people bad for our children’s impressionable young minds? Are they nothing more than their looks? Wouldn’t that be a negative and narrow-minded way to interact with people. How shallow. You see what I’m doing here, right?

Do I think Disney princesses are pretty? Yes. Do I feel miserable because I don’t look like Cinderella? No. Though, I do like her shoes (more to come on that, my friends. I know you can’t hardly wait.). And I wish all animals were my BFFs, like Snow White’s. And sure, maybe my hair would be more organized if a bunch of little birds styled it.

Besides all that, I kind of think each of those princesses embodied some pretty cool traits: Loyalty, Honesty, Optimism, Bravery. I could go on. And don’t get me started on Merida’s makeover and the controversy over how she looks (SHE’S A DRAWING, PEOPLE—RELAX).

You know why cartoonists draw sexy or attractive characters (they do it for the males, too, by the way)? BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT WE, AS CONSUMERS, WANT. It’s a two-way street. We get what we ask for, like so much else in life.

To be honest, all the people I know (girls/women specifically) who really love Disney or did when they were younger, are pretty impressive women. They haven’t sat on their tuffets and cried that they needed a knight in shining armour. They’ve gone out and made this world a better place. So did the Disney princesses, in my opinion. They made me happy, too.

So, I’ve decided that I get to choose what I like, regardless of why. How backwards of me. 😉

Thank you, Disney: I love your stuff. Thanks for making make-believe so fun.




I’m on a boat!

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?

Being all important and stuff.

Tomorrow, I’m going to be hanging out at the Legislative Building. Uh huh. I’m a very important person, you see. So, accordingly, I will be doing such important tasks as—oh wait, I won’t be doing anything at all. Right. I forgot that I’m just taking a workshop and have no desire whatsoever to be in politics, ever. Ever. It doesn’t seem like a very fun job. I mean, if I’m gonna be on TV and in the papers and what have you, I’d rather be an actor. Kay, actually, I’d rather be an actor any day. That’s no secret.

But tomorrow, I will be at the Ledge. All the ding-dong day. Seriously; I have to be there at 7:45 am. That’s just wrong. And, I have to be dressed up. Sigh. And I can’t even blame anyone for this except myself, because I signed up for this workshop. Like two years ago. I just haven’t been able to make it yet. But tomorrow is The Day I shall. I Shall.

I’m not sure why I have to be all dressed up, but I do think I probably should’ve ironed something tonight. However, I was very busy teaching ballet yoga and then watching Game of Thrones. That’s right: This kid’s got priorities and they often include fantasy fiction.

Back to the dressing up, though: This is what I wore on Easter Sunday:

Yeah, them's jeans. And Toms. One for One and all that jazz. Actually, probably pretty good shoes to wear to church, come to think of it...

You know, the day they rolled the stone away. Kind of a big day for those of us who’ve been known to hit our knees/hit up a church now and then. But you know what? Jesus wore sandals and I’m pretty sure He’s down with my style. Pretty sure also that He recognizes there are bigger things to worry about. But the Legislative Assembly, however, does not recognize this point, unfortunately, so dress up I shall. Begrudgingly. I will look super, but not by choice, galldarnit.

I am kind of hoping this is like finding a leprechaun/visiting the Godfather on his daughter’s wedding day/finding a genie in a bottle. Because I’ve got my wish all ready: Please may I please have my student debt all forgiven. Okay thank you bye.

Something in the air.

Actually, I think it’s in my tummy and it does NOT feel good. There is a distinct possibility that I

  1. drank too much coffee today
  2. ate too many tortilla chips
  3. caught whatever everyone at work has had…

I hate to bring toilet talk into this, but I keep going to the bathroom, just in case. The problem is I hate throwing up. I don’t like to think about it and I don’t even like to write it. I know I’d feel better, but ugh. Barf. That was the wrong thing to write…

I’ll distract myself instead. Today at work I wrote a post about sneakers. I was looking for links about running shoes and I found pics of those Vibram 5 Fingers. You know those somewhat interesting-looking “barefoot” runners. The ones with the toes, which, coincidentally, cause me to look like this when I see them on feet downtown? Because they should NOT be worn, probably ever, but definitely not while walking about downtown. In public. Not exercising in the pursuit of fitness.

So wrong. Here are my runners:

"Work appropriate" is a state of mind. As long as the state of mind isn't those weird toe shoes.

Okay. I’m off to stare at the toilet and feel sorry for myself.