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:


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:


Spring. It’s so hot right now. And The Shower Incident.

So maybe “hot” isn’t quite the right word, but whatever! It was GORGEOUS outside today! Working from home, which, by the way, is favourite, means getting out for a lunchtime run is a bit more simple than when I’m at the office. This is because when I work from home, I wear sweatpants (which I call my “creative pants”. Jeans are “happy pants”, just for the record).

I can run and not shower and I don’t have to get all dressed up again afterwards, like I would at work. Okay, so I don’t really get all gussied up for work, but from the home office, I can just put the sweatpants back on (sweat is in the name, so it’s fine to do so sans shower). Hey, at least I wear pants when I work from home: From the sounds of it, I’m doing better on the wearing of clothes at home than some others I know. Or at least according to their purported home-working ensembles, which tend to involve degrees of partial nudity, or so they would have me believe.

Here is a thing about me:

I do not like shared showers. Never have, and am fairly certain I never will. If there’s not a shower stall, I’m not showering. I don’t feel comfortable prancing about in my birthday suit. Oh yeah, that reminds me, I still haven’t told you about the Shower Incident. <<shudders>> I will do so below. Read on, brave souls. You’re in for a treat.

Honestly, though, I’m just not into it. I wear deodorant and shower at least once every day, so I really don’t think I reek of feet or armpits. Plus, I’d have to lug in even MORE stuff every day and life’s too short. I have yet to hear someone around me say, while quizzically sniffing the air around them, “What’s that stench?” so I think I’m doing okay.

Also, I like my shower. It’s got all my stuff. I have a prescribed order of shower-related events to which I adhere, so my bathroom is the place to be. Plus, Hermes sits on the toilet and waits until the shower’s done, then jumps into the tub to lap up the tub juice. Then he jumps out and leaves cute little paw prints on the tiles. I don’t get that at the pool, though it would be a nice touch. Pool cats. Aww!

Here, in a nutshell, since you’ve waited so patiently, is the Shower Incident:

Once upon a time, which was roughly 2 years ago, I was at Crystal Pool for my morning swim, when, whilst showering as per the pre-pool regulations—in my bathing suit, of course—before entering the pool area (this seems to be optional for many pool goers, but it’s really more of a rule than a suggestion, so COME on, people: Read the rules! And then follow them!), I turned around to find a naked woman surprisingly close to me.

As you may know, I’m particular about my personal space and a bit of a prude, so you can imagine my discomfort at being in close proximity to a stranger who was naked as a jay bird not wearing any clothes, let alone any feathers. Not even a smidgen of modesty. Shame on you, Jay Bird. Shame.

Egad! I thought, what does she think she’s doing? And then she smiled and asked me, “Would you mind getting my back?” At which point, she held out a pouf that was manufactured during roughly The Dawn of Time and vigorously used ever since.

Here is where I calmly said, “I’m sorry, but I’m really just not comfortable with that,” and left to go for my laps. Because that’s what an adult would do who did not wish to do the thing requested. Because it is my prerogative to say no.

Except I didn’t say no, because the first thought in my head was: “Aaaah! There’s a naked lady here, talking to me!”

The next was: “EW EW EW! I don’t want to touch her scaly old back!”

Followed by: “I really need an adult! I want to say no, but then she’ll think I’m a weirdo freak with boundary issues (which I one hundred percent do have).”

So, I said sure (and threw up in my mouth) and gingerly accepted the disgusting pouf and lightly ran it on her back, letting the water from the shower hide my tears of horror while I gagged and shuddered.

You guys. Do you know what happened next?

No, of course you don’t. So, let me tell you. She said, “Harder.”

And I died inside, after dry heaving and fainting cold on the disgusting tiles of the shower room floor.

When The Horrid Event was over, and I turned my shower to scalding to wash away my feelings and clean my soul, she said thanks and winked conspiratorially at me, saying, “It’s just so hard to reach your back!”

You know what, you guys? It is not actually that hard to do. Reaching your back, I mean. And you know what else? This lady is A FIT WOMAN. She could probably kick my arse. She can for sure reach her own back. I was so ashamed of myself. Seriously. Who does something like this when it makes them retch and squirm? This girl, that’s who. Yeah, the girl who is technically bilingual (I’m a little rusty) and knows how to say “no” in no less than five languages, except in moments when she really needs to.

Thing is, this woman is at the pool every morning I am, same time, same channel (different lane, though). So, you know what I did to avoid this unpleasant scenario? Like the big, grown-up and independent woman I am, I changed my schedule to ensure that I wouldn’t be in the shower with her EVER EVER AGAIN.

So sad. If you’ll excuse me. I need a shower.

This will do nicely for me.