the playlist

My darling and brilliant friend Erin used to write a weekly music review in the Guardian online. It generally focused on music from the Caribbean (reggae, dancehall and soca) with insights into society and culture. She intelligently assessed pop culture to both entertained and informed. This is not that. 

I've had two weeks of chrysalis bursting, resulting in the need for a really fantastic "I am woman hear me kick my own ass and bust some serious moves" playlist. I put out a call for song suggestions to one of my favourite groups of powerful women, and the variety of responses was interesting. A bit Lilith Fair singer-songwriter angsty and/or hipster way too cool for me, but also some great "oh ya I love that song" moments.

Since crowd-sourcing was a bit of a miss, I decided to do some digging on my own. A week later, I think I've got a starting point. HA! Two insights I've had falling down my youtube rabbit hole of female power pop: 

1. It is a naïve surprise to me that almost all songs that purport to be female empowerment songs are really about getting a man, keeping a man, getting over a man, showing a man what he lost, etc. Perhaps it's time to come up with a Bechdel test for music - it can't be about the boxes his stuff is in, or what you're going to do to his truck, or, really, about him at all. The songs that pass the SCWink pop music test are just about how awesome it is to be a woman. How powerful we can be. How resourceful, and creative, and loving (as mothers, daughters, friends, and THEN lovers). A part of what I love about being a woman is the alchemy that happens with some men, but that is not the totality of who I am, and until now it has not been the part that designs and creates an awesome life full of adventure. In short, the SCWink pop music test looks for songs that speak to the 93% of a woman that isn't her vagina.
2. In the end, I had to embrace the fact that I am not one of the music elite. I love pop music. If I could only listen to one genre of music the rest of my life it would be R&B. I have a secret corner of my heart that only certain country songs speak to. There's little room for bitter irony on my list. We're wearing hot pink sundresses for this one, not slouchy hats and worn out flannel. 

This is not a list about cheating lovers or lowered expectations. This is not a playlist about him, or them, or I'll show you. It might be my running list as I train for the first race I've competed in since high school. It might be what plays as I apply the defibrillator pads to my writing intentions. Heck, it might just be what pours out my car windows as I roll out on a random adventure. It is, as I am, a work in progress. It's 100% ALRIGHTY - HERE WE GO! It makes me tap my fingers, throw my hands in the air, sing and dance. 

Wanna know what 20 songs currently make the "SCWink Unlimited" cut?

the crabs in the bucket

Back when K'os first emerged on the western Canadian music scene in the early 2000s (I imagine he was already known in eastern Canada before then), I thought little of his song 'Crabbuckit' other than 'It's got a good tune and I can dance to it' (some of you are too young to get that reference; get offa my lawn).

It's still a catchy tune, but lately I've been more and more aware of the metaphor - it seems in a bucket full of crabs you don't need a lid because any brave crustaceans that try to rise above will be pulled back down by the other crabs, or so the story goes. 

I like crabs. They are intriguing, adaptable, tasty creatures. But you wouldn't want to be in a bucket with a bunch of them. 

Ever since I returned home from Jamaica, I've been slipping around, having trouble finding my feet. I was light and glowing when I returned - the experience, the sunshine, the healthy diet, the fabulous friends, the freedom, the opportunity to make a visible difference. It all had an effect I thought would last. 

In fact, much of the growing and learning I did in Jamaica has lasted and will last, though the glow has gone. For the last two months I've been in one of the deepest depressions I've experienced in years -  it's acute and circumstantial. It's a lack of sunshine and freedom and pineapple and clarity. This too shall pass and is already lifting. 

But in the midst of that were the crabs. Those people who wanted to downplay my experience. Those whispers of 'oh shut up about Jamaica already.' Those accusations of narcissism and self-obsession and expressions of disinterest. And the crabs in my own head asking whether I have any worth back here in Canada, whether I'll ever be able to break out of the bucket again, whether any cute crab will want to join me on the outside. 

I was talking to my friend Mr. C a week or so ago and explaining to him how the slide had started, and what had accelerated it. What we were really talking about was my lack of writing since I've come home - here, there, or anywhere. When I relayed some of those whispers, at first he was indignant on my behalf. Mr. C is a great encourager of mine - he reads and responds to my writing, and he and Mrs. C kept me good company in Jamaica via Skype and Facebook. I like to tease him, and I love that he's in my corner. 

And then he interrupted me, as he is wont to do, and said, "and how DARE you listen to that bullshit?!" 

He has a point. 

Crabs are good for eating. And watching on the beach. And taking funky pictures of. They are not good for conversating with.

You can stay in the bucket if you want, but I've got more adventures to have. And if you're not interested in them, feel free not to read what I write. 

The Happiness of Pursuit: Review & Reflection

I've gotten away, of late, from reviewing the books I've been reading. I have a considerable back-log of reviews waiting to be posted, but I wanted to get this one up first since I have a feeling that finishing this book is a line in the sand of what life looks like moving forward.

The book in question is Chris Guillebeau's The Happiness of Pursuit, the second of Chris' books I've read since returning home from Jamaica clear that my sleepy hometown isn't going to be enough anymore. In The Happiness of Pursuit (THoP) Chris hangs a framework of lessons from his own quest (to visit all 193 recognized nations of the world by the age of 35) and the quests of many others. Within that framework Chris inserts questions and lessons that have you pay attention to life for what your (my) own quest might be.

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THoP is a relatively quick read that I purposely slowed down. I wanted each lesson to sink in. I wanted to really learn from Chris, from the woman who created a meal from every country in the world, from the man who refused mechanical transportation for 22 years, from the other creators and explorers. What about what they did called to me? What in their stories was inspiring? What might my version of that look like?  

Chris is a very readable writer - intelligent, self-deprecating, pleasantly insouciant, and very very relatable. He often answered my questions just as they were forming, and he leaves plenty of room for people to create their own lives rather than imposing his ideas of life on his readers. 

As I read I was repeatedly reminded of something that I've often felt is a weakness of mine - not having one singular passion that pulls me forward. I like variety. I am interested in many things. And the idea of hitching my chariot to one questing star feels limiting rather than inspiring. As I read THoP I paid extra attention - what in life holds my attention? Where and when do I feel myself getting excited about an undertaking? What activities make time disappear? What circumstances outrage me? The answers are a mixed bag. 

Obviously, travel is and will continue to be a theme for me. But as I pondered the various forms a quest can take, travel seemed like - pardon the pun - the vehicle, not the focus. I'm going to travel anyway, but what can that travel be about? What happens in the life I have at homebase? Where do my sons, my parents, my health fit in in a life focused on travel? 

And then, I came across this blog post on  Facebook: Don't make a bucket list; make a list of 100 dreams. I was on my iPhone, and I don't enjoy reading articles on that screen so I simply saved it and moved on. I had pondered the headline the last few days - a list of 100 dreams. I detest the concept behind bucket lists, but a list of dreams inspires me. In his books Chris calls these kinds of lists "Life Lists" and while that's an improvement, it's really the dream list idea that moves me. So imagine my surprise when I finally went back to see the article I'd saved and it links to Chris' website. Oh, serendipity, you charmer. Of course the ultimate link is not Chris' blog but this sample list.

Which is all just to say: 

• read any and all of Chris Guillebeau's books. They are accessible and inspiring and there's something in there for everyone (review of The Art of Non-Conformity coming soon). 
• I found my quest not in the book itself, though reading the book plowed the earth so that finding the list of 100 could land in fertile soil - this week I'm working on my creating my list of 100, and then I'll begin crossing things OFF my list of 100. A quest of plenty - what fun! 

white pants

I own one pair of white pants. I cannot remember at any prior time in my life owning a pair of white pants. I bought these only and specifically for my choir uniform a couple years back, having seen pictures of myself on stage in a tragic and too-short skirt. Nobody needs to be distracted by their own chubby knees while singing and clapping and trying to focus on the audience. I quit that choir two years ago, but never got rid of the pants. Or of the horrid itchy choir orangy-red polyester shirt, for that matter. 

Lately, due to severe wardrobe limitations, I've taken to wearing my white pants off stage. The first time was in desperation after shopping for a week for a white dress to wear to Diner en Blanc. I finally settled for just buying a white tunic and pulling the pants out of the back of the closet they've been collecting dust in. 

It turns out, my white pants are flattering - slimming, sharp, perfect length, perfect shape. For so long I've associated them with the hideous choir shirt I wore them with that I'd never evaluated them on their own. For even longer (maybe my whole post-pubescent life) I've believed that only skinny girls should wear white bottoms. Even my khaki linen shorts are pushing it. 

You know that feeling you get when you put on a piece of clothing and instantly you feel taller, slimmer, longer, stronger, fitter, and more chic? That's what these pants do for me. There's just something inherently cool about wearing white pants - they are a luxury afforded only to those who don't have to work too hard. They are sassy and reckless and somehow daring. Wearing white pants all day and not get them dirty is a challenge I find decadent - it requires an awareness of what I am near, what I am sitting on, what I am eating that is entirely self-indulgent. 

Yesterday, at the end of a two-week road trip vacation, most of the clothes in my suitcase were wrinkled, a touch stale, some had lingering smoke smell from the wood fire in our cabin in Jasper. They lacked freshness. But I pulled those white pants from the bottom of the suitcase, and the wrinkles fell out of them before we even left the hotel room. Sitting in the car all day, I felt fresh and light. As it turns out, somewhere along the way I sat in something that left what looks like a bite-mark on my bottom. I guess that's just part of the white pants mystique. 

now starring ...

A few days ago at work The Boss was joking (with someone else entirely) about who would play a colleague in a TV comedy based on my place of employment, and I butted in and said "as long as you don't cast Rosie O'Donnell as me, it'll be okay."

I was joking. And not. But she graciously said "oh no, not her, I'm not sure who I'd cast as you. Who would you want? Think about it. I'll watch your blog for the answer."

And so, here is my answer: Megan Hilty. Lovely, vivacious, blonde, buxom, curvy and capable Meg Hilty. She's one of the stars of one of my favourite guilty pleasure shows "Smash." She's the me I picture when I picture a me who had chips fall in a different direction. She's who I might have been had I been willing to put the effort in. Singer. Actor. Bombshell - and we all know how I feel about bombshells. I'm not saying I in any way have her talent ... just that that was the dream.

I have 50 (or 80) pounds and 20 (+) years on her. But still ... I'd be okay if Megan Hilty was cast as me. I mean, c'mon. Look at her. LISTEN to her!

tropical

I gotta say that as pleasant as our winter has been sitting here in the cozy cradle of Canada's left coast, I am craving the hot sun, cool water, warm breezes, fruity drinks, and sandy toes of a real holiday. One that requires my passport and a whole lot of sunscreen.  

Fueling this hunger is my mom’s blog, complete with pictures of their current two month residence in Mexico - with a lap pool, and a deck overlooking the Pacific. My parents are adventurers; they love to immerse themselves in the countries they visit. They take unusual, off-the-tourist-track holidays. And they taught their daughters to do the same.

All the imported coconut, pineapple, and mango, all the spa visits, all the submerging myself in escapist fiction can’t make up for the feel of sun on my face. Soon. We will meet again soon, sunshine.

we've come a long way, or have we?

I tend to stay away from political conversations on here, not because I'm uninterested or unaware, but because I'm no more interested in foisting my beliefs on anyone else than I am in having your beliefs foisted on me. And, because so much of what we consider political debate is really just opinionated rambling that makes no difference. But I just have to get a little something off my chest ... I've been feeling a little more feminist than usual of late 

<tangent>... actually, is it possible to be more or less feminist? Is there a degree of feminism one can adopt, or are you always either feminist or not, like pregnancy or marriage? </tangent>

Okay ... well then ... I've been more aware of late of how many inconsistent messages women are bombarded with about what it means to be a woman - many of those messages are about mothering, and what to do/not to do, and for the most part those cancel each other out like the careless cacophony they are. Sometimes we're told we can have it all, and sometimes we're told to that we don't have to - that not having it all is perfectly fine. 

But what has really struck me, partly through an online conversation with Jill over at Gear Gals, is this noxious conversation about who is or isn't a woman based on body shape, some of which is meant to be empowering, but which always somehow pits us all against one another when we need each other more than ever. 

To be specific, this unrelenting marketing idea that 'real women have curves' gives me the heebie-jeebies - an itch that Jill, as someone who has been called a bitch for being fit, confirmed for me. Is Jill less of a woman because she's careful about balancing her caloric intake and her exercise? Or because her metabolism/frame (and hard work) combine to keep less fat on her? Taken to extremes, am I more of a woman because I've regained some weight and now have not just curves but rolls? Or am I less of a woman, because the curves are no longer in 'all the right places?'

I will admit, I like having curves. I didn't have them for a LONG time - those are some late bloomin' curves, as I've mentioned. And every time I lose weight, I bemoan that fat goes from all-over, not just from my belly (though it does only seem to come back there ... what's with that?). These are not sour grapes - that whole stupid 'real women' phrase is designed to help women like me feel at peace for not being a size 0. But it doesn't - it's reductive and condescending and just plain silly. 

Body issues are body issues, but why are they so often gender issues? Ya ya ya - I know about magazines and male gazes and feminist rhetoric, but what really alarms me is the female attacks on each other. 

At first I was going to combat the 'real woman have curves' line with 'real women have uteruses.' But what about the millions who don't? What about the women who have given up ovaries and wombs and breasts in order to preserve their lives? They are still 'real women' - maybe even more so, since adversity has such a strengthening effect and tends to crystalise for people what really matter to them. I found myself when an full on mental quandary - I know that real women may or may not have curves or uteruses or breasts; they may love men, or other women, or both, or neither ... I couldn't put a finger on what it is that really identifies us as women.

And then, in a completely unrelated conversation, it became clear. I work at a charity that runs a transition house for women, and I learned this week that that transition house is transgender friendly. As Miss C, one of the managers said, 'if you identify as a woman, you are welcome.' 

As women I know were are often individually told we are our own worst enemies, and I believe that's true corporately as well. But what if we took on the transition house approach - what if we weren't constantly comparing ourselves to sister X who breastfed forever or sister Y who climbed the corporate ladder or sister Z who is always just so put together and ranking each other on arbitrary scales of femininity, womanliness, success, attractiveness, etc. 

What if we stopped taking offence at every conversation about women and started new conversations instead? What if we were valuable not for the children we rear (or don't) or the businesses we lead (or don't), or the size we wear. What if instead of attacking each other's lives, bodies and choices, we were as welcoming as the transition house is? You are a woman, and you are welcome. 

And yes, men are welcome too - but in my experience they are far less likely to be the ones attacking us. And yes, there's an argument that the whole conversation about gender could be thrown out and we could just treat each other humanely. But, you know, we don't get into politics on this blog. 

more than the sum of my parts

I saw this quote on Pinterest yesterday, and at the time I thought - hellz ya, that's right! I choose not fat!  Yee haw!! 

But this morning I had second thoughts ... I've fought my weight most of my life. I've done more diets than I can count - doctor recommended, maternally supervised, ridiculous, reasonable, and everything in between. And yet, despite all that time money and food weighing, I've spent the vast majority of my time since puberty hating my body. I've picked up sports. Sworn to exercise regimes. Bought gym memberships and yoga passes and sporting equipment. And I know I'm not alone in this. I'm not even an extreme example of this. 

My perspective on being fit and healthy and feeling great about my body is that it's at best a life-long struggle and at worst an exhausting, self-depleting wild goose chase fueled by self-loathing. That even in those rare moments when I actually like my body, I will live in constant fear of losing that control, gaining back the weight and fat, and going back to hating myself and my body. 

So, what if I just refuse. What if I refuse to weigh my food? What if I choose not to count my calories? What if I don't track my exercise calories? What if I eat what my body wants when it wants it? What if I don't assign moral quality to the foods I choose and to myself for choosing them? 

Here's the really radical idea ... what if I accepted that the man I love loves me as I am. That my body does it's job pretty well despite some wiggly bits. What if - dare I say it? - I just enjoy my life and my relationships and the rest of who I am and stop thinking quite so much about the space I take up physically? What if I just enjoy my life. That can't be that hard, right? 

Maybe it's even as easy as riding a bike :) 

Riding bikes makes me smile.

all booted up

I don't know when I became a boot wearing girl. Heck, growing up in snowy frigid  Northern BC I wouldn't even wear snow boots in winter. Between inheriting my dad's muscly calves, and adding my own layers of fluff over the muscle, stylish boots haven't often been an option. 

I tried to pretend for a long time that I was fine wearing ankle boots but ... really ... we all know those are just for fat girls who can't wear real boots. As a young mom, and then a returning univeristy student, there wasn't a lot of money or need for stylish boots, and I wasn't a particularly stylish person.

But somewhere, somehow, over the last 10 years - maybe it's living in Victoria, or maybe it's losing some weight, or maybe I've just come into my own in my 40s - I have become a boot girl.

Ankle boots, yes, because they are blue suede, and lovely, and remind me of Glasgow where I bought them, and they are now a style statement rather than a consolation prize
But also calf hugging black stretchy boots that massage gently with every step and whose solid square heel and kicky square toes say "Heck ya, I'm tall, and I'm wearing these boots - deal with it!"
And sexy blood red boots with fun polka-dot seams that look like trouble
And comfy almond toe brown boots that do nothing for my ankles but everything for my spirit with some fantastic curves and buckles.
Delicate grey suede boots that murmur gathered femininity with the click of each kitteny heel.
and now I'M A PIRATE YOU BETTER WATCH OUT over-the-knee/fold-down boots in black leather, with laces that shiver his timbers.
Oh, by the way, I finally own winter boots ... now that I no longer live where real winter happens.

Yes, I am a boot girl now. And a shoe girl. And a bags girl. I don't collect any of them indiscriminately. I don't have insane piles of them that people comment on. But I have them. And want more of them. And each pair and each bag says something different about the many sides of me.

That was fun! 

constancy, change & getting back on the board

I just got home from a four day weekend with STG and his friends to our wild west coast. I've only ever been for mini-trips before and I was so amazed - again - by the ocean. I've lived near the Pacific coast for 10 years and I'm still blown away by its power, its constancy and its constant change. The south island is lovely; Pacific Rim National park fiercely wildly stunning. 

It was a great weekend. Four days of adventure with STG and a brand new first - surfing! I'm a water baby,  so I'm not surprised that I loved surfing (though really I think what I did was called bobbing in the water), but I am constantly amazed by the things I am open to and the fun opportunities I have with STG. Every new experience is a new chance to be myself - to revive the adventurer in me, and to rise to the challenge. 

And then there are those other things - the intricacies of sharing a space with five virtual strangers, the unnatural intimacy of it, and the expected and unexpected reactions and interactions with individuals and the group. 

Like our adventures, in these things, I surprise myself sometimes. And disappoint myself other times. There's this thing about surfing when you're learning to just be on your board where a momentary lapse in focus finds you under a wave. A longer lapse and you might just find yourself being pulled beyond what's technically safe. Getting to know new people, it seems, has some similarities. Lose focus, or belief in who you are, and the next thing you know you're under a wave and wondering which way is up. 

It was a fabulous weekend. I hope we can do it again. I'm proud of myself for getting on a surfboard for the first time and for getting back on it the second day when I could barely lift my arms. And I'm continuing to learn. Getting back on the board. Seeing what I can do differently - on the water, and in my head. And seeing the beauty and the fun in it all. 

crazy, redux

I'm watching Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time tonight, which of course reminds me of my lovely time in Manhattan oh so forever ago now, which in turn reminds me of the other things I meant to say in this morning's post. 

I know those of you who've been around a while have already heard/read this story, but indulge me just one more time, there's newness at the end: one of my favourite memories of my time in the Big Apple was standing in the MOMA soaking up an exhibition of the Brontë sisters embroidery (seriously), when a lovely, if petite,  man spoke earnestly to me in French. I apologized and said I only speak English, and through the course of a few sentences he proposed marriage and invited me to return with him to live in Paris where he was a diplomat for his homeland (I can never remember if it was Mauritania or Chad or ... well, it was some former French colony in Africa) and I blushed and declined and allowed him to kiss me gallantly on the hand and cheeks ... 

I thought of him again this morning, reflecting back on the Oprah couple. And as I sat at China Beach today I wondered, what would life be like if I'd thought then that someone could just say yes and make something work because they said it would. 

Of course it couldn't really have happened. I had the BBs and their dad wasn't about to say 'hell ya, take them to Paris to live with strangers' (partly because he didn't swear much, and partly because we were already fighting for custody) and well, there's crazy and then there's crazy. But what if I'd at least had dinner with him? What if we'd stayed in touch? What if when things were settled and I had my MA in hand I'd gone there instead of here? It's fun to think about. To speculate on those roads not traveled. I'd have made a great diplomat's wife. Or a great diplomat. Maybe I still will, what with not being dead yet and all. 

But that's not the point. It's just, that we never know how things are going to go until we say so. And also, I still love New York ... I need to get back there. Soon would be good. Sooner would be even better. 

Who Can Turn the World On With Her Smile? (A TI♥T Special)

I had a little glitch in an otherwise ordinary day that made me wish for a great many things, momentarily. And then I remembered that deep down inside, I've kind of always been a Mary Richards kind of girl - the kind who might be bawling her eyes out one moment, but then has a chat with her girlfriends, gets out into her city, throws her hat up in the air and gets on with living the life she created.

And, as a little reminder, I found the opening credits & theme song on YouTube to share on my Facebook (social media addict that I am) ... only the theme song I found wasn't the one I always sing to myself. Oh no, the first video I came across was this one from the first season, which has very different lyrics indeed:

These lyrics say ...

How will you make it on your own?

This world is awfully big

And girl this time you're all alone

But it's time you started living

It's time you let someone else do some giving

Love is all around

No need to waste it

You can never fail

Why don't you take it

You might just make it after all

You just might make it after all

And as much as I love being the girl who can turn the world on with her smile, and as much as I love taking a nothing day and suddenly making it all seem worthwhile, today these are the lyrics I needed to hear, and to share. I hope they make you smile too.

V - Vivacious

I meant to write this last night, but by the time I thought of it I wasn't 'feeling' vivacious. And then I remembered, vivacious isn't something I feel, it's something I am - lively, energized, attractive and animated. 

I noticed it yesterday while I was doing a little Christmas shopping. Other people in the stories looked harried - particularly the service clerks - while I was just excited to be out on a beautiful blue afternoon looking for tangible expressions of what the people in my life mean to me. 

I went to a 'village' - as stand-alone shopping areas are called in Victoria - I haven't visited before and popped into the most charming cupcakery, where I actually giggled and exclaimed at their delightful Christmas creations. I shopped local quality toy stores and stocked up at my favourite green grocer all without that draggy desperate feeling that seems so often this time of year to be just around the corner. 

It's three days before Christmas, and yet I can shop and explore full of glee because if you can't be lively and animated at Christmas, you are REALLY kind of missing out :) 

The Bombshell Strides Again

Just toodling along this afternoon running some work errands, and since one errand was right beside one of my favourite consignnment stores I thought 'why not just pop in and see what they have in nice dresses.' Just to look. Maybe get some new ideas for New Years Eve. After looking at picture after picture of gowns but mainly trying on cocktail dresses, I just didn't know what I wanted.

And, I wasn't feeling particularly like my fabulous Blonde Bombshell self after some unsuccessful shopping on Sunday and a disappointing trip to the scale this morning. But jaded and cynical with a piquant hint of hope, I went in. Quelle surprise! There were 5 gowns in my approximate size. Not all of them were stunning, but you really can't tell until you put them on so into the tiny change room I charged while the excited shop lady handed me more stuff through the curtain.

Item the first - black georgette slip dress with beautiful shimmering black beadwork flowers and a scalloped split front hemline to die for. It was soft and drapey and feminine. Sure, it needed a nip here and a tuck there. A little lower neck line. Some different support. But it could have worked. And been lovely. And 're-wearable' which I really don't remember being a criteria, but the shop lady thought was worth mentioning.

Item the second - flowy navy georgette with spaghetti straps and top band beading and a front slit and full A-line skirt. It was long and flowy even when I slid into in-store shoes to test for height. It cried out 'that lady's going dancing' (that a quote from the last time my 2 yo nephew saw me in a dress). Elegant, but understated. And let's be honest - we hate understated as much as we love dancing.

Item the fourth - when you step out of the dressing room and the only man in the store says "WOW" you don't keep looking. And when the va-va-voom gown comes matches some very NEW YOU va-va-voom shoes you say thank you very much I'll take it all. .

No description. You'll just have to see it when it's time. And don't even try to guess - it's not at all what I was expecting and exactly what I want. Funny how life is like that.

I want to squeal. And do a little chair dance. And especially I want to wear those shoes and that dress and see jaws drop. Eeeeeeeee! The bombshell is back baby, top to tail!

that girl & that boy

When I was a young girl, and even into my teens, it never occurred to me that I couldn't be or do whatever I wanted to be or do. That thinking just didn't exist. My parents were very clear that my sisters and I could have any future jobs and lives we wanted. They encouraged us to be open, to explore the world, and to try anything that interested us.

For me, that often looked like disappearing into the worlds created in books, which had me excel at school. But I also played a wide variety of team and individual sports with fair-to-middling success. I took piano lessons. Played the flute. Acted. Sang. We hiked and did farm chores and pretended to drive Dad's Willy's Jeep. I skiied at 5, and fished at 7. If I wanted to try something, by and large the access was there, and I was encouraged and supported in making it happen.

In all of those amazing experiences though, one was always missing. There was never a time in my life when I got to be 'that girl.' In grades 10, 11, and 12 I spent much of my social time with a group of three guys (Snake, Mongo and Blinky - seriously!) who treated me like any one of them. I was never sure they knew that I was there because I wanted Snake to notice me. Like, really notice me. We'd hang out at each other's houses. Cook dinners en masse. Study. Act/direct in the senior play. Snowmobile in the winter and hit the lake in the summer. And the whole time I was just one of the guys. Being 'that girl' in that environment wasn't an option. I graduated High School having never been on a date.

You'd think that'd be something you get over eventually. Snake and I reconnected a few years ago and he apologized. He said he knew, that he'd wanted to be with me to, and that he had his own things going on back then that kept things the way they were. It was a great conversation that cleared a lot up for me. And yet, it's been a lifetime (or at least several decades) and I still wonder - will that story that I'm just 'one of the guys' ever go away? 

I know who I am. I know I can be and do anything I set my mind to. Some people think I should be happy with that. But I want to be and do everything AND be the girl who gets the boy. Not just any boy - THAT boy. Until this week it's never occurred to me that I could be THAT girl and get THAT boy. I thought it had to be one or the other, and that even then he probably wouldn't be THAT boy.

But guess what. I want to change the world and come home at night to someone who makes me smile and laugh and sometimes cry and who finds me in his sleep every time he moves. And when THAT boy is ready, I guess I will be as well.

How To Rock a Snow Day, and in the Process Fall in Love

1. Preempt the snow day by getting an infection and creating a sick day. Go back to sleep.
2. Wake up only when darned good and ready. Listen to the wind howl for a while from the warm nest of your bed.
3. Have a long, hot vanilla-spice scented bath. While you're there, finish a novel you've been reading forever. Frequently add more hot water.
4. Create an urban-bunny snow warren: weather-proof an open-ended box by putting it in a garbage bag and lining it with a towel you never intend to dry human skin again; place beside his outside pen; shelter the whole thing with a bath mat. Spend a moment being glad you're not the rabbit.
5. Bundle up (long wool coat, fleecy snow boots, mitts, scarf) and sally forth into the world. Trudge through snow, uphill both ways to drop-in and get a prescription from the doc. Since you're now only a block from Home Depot, pop in and buy stuff to weather-proof your very drafty bedroom window. Find and drink something hot and steamy (and preferrably spicy)
6. Buy a really cute hat and prove to your BBs that you are so a hat person.
7. Have a conversation or two with people you love and adore and who love and adore you right back.
8. Stock up on victuals - you never know how long this weather might last!
9. Flirt with and be flirted with by the charming pharmacist you didn't know worked just a block away. Decide you have a new favourite pharmacy.
10. Bring bunny in early to thaw out. Replace his ice with liquid water.
11. Fall in love with your city, your life, and yourself all over again.
12. Turn off all electronics, open a bottle of pinot grigio & cuddle up with a steaming bowl of chicken veggie tikka masala and a steaming TV of Mad Men.

The B Word

I just had a bit of an epiphany. And, like so very very many of my epiphanies, this may occur to the rest of you like 'she's only figuring that out now?' None the less, here it is:

I can't be anyone but myself (more on that in a minute) - if that doesn't work for you, you should spend your time with someone else.

I have been twisted up in knots all week trying to figure out what I'd need to be less of, and more of, who to emulate and who to expunge to be happy, loved, cherished, honoured and wanted. It's been pretty tiring - both for myself and for the people around me. And, these knots being of the Gordian variety, it's been an insolvable riddle.

And then I read something just now cleaning up my bedroom that untangled the whole mystery. What I read said "Remember, when you get right down to it, there is no real you." In this usage, real means essential, unchangeable, universal. Which, unlike so many existential quandries, is good news, because it means I get to say. And, this is what I say...

I am a bold, beautiful blonde bombshell.

That may not always be easy for people to take. But I love being front and centre. I love making an entrance and shaking things up a bit. I love that I have a sharp mind and a quick wit. I love being creative and adventurous. And I love playing up my bombshell assets. It's no accident that one of my two favourite outfits is my corseted ballgown, or that I have more than once been Mae West for Halloween. I can be a bit of a bodacious broad.

And, even all of that is not always true - I can also be bookish, or balanced, or a b*tch. Or I can be breezy or brazen or a total basket-case and sometimes even bashful.

The thing is, you don't get to choose, because one B word I am not is a buffet. You don't get to just pick the parts of me you like and forego the other bits. This babe is Prix Fixe. No substitutions (though if there's something you're REALLY allergic to, the chef might be able to work something out if you let us know ;-)  - you get to choose me as I am and accept what you choose.

And, at long last, I get to choose me as I am. And, that is a huge relief.

And, while we're at it, kudos to The Catch who had the wisdom to tell me this week (not that this is the first time I've heard this) 'it's pretty hard to cherish someone who doesn't cherish herself.' And to DivaMoe, and ShellBot, and SC2 (and extra thinks for 'bodacious!), and Miss Lady for their corporate wisdom and unflagging patience.

A belated thing I like: Fashion blogging

My friend Jodi has just burst out of the blogger closet, and she's doing so with style, verve, and a little advice. Jodi is one of the most stylish people I know, mostly because she holds herself with such confidence. It's not just the impeccable and complete outfits, but the way she wears them.

Check out her pics, tips and guest posts (yes, I do love pink!) at http://day2daywear.blogspot.com/

The Best of Times

It's February 1999 and I'm strolling down the avenue in New York City. No, not strolling - something more chipper and intentional, less quirky than prancing, more energized than ambling. It's my fifth or sixth day in Manhattan, and I am in love with life. Having raided Freckle's closet and that of at least 2 girlfriends before taking off, my outfit is the perfect combination of fashion-forward and comfortable - a black leather biker jacket, a long boho chic skirt, a soft feminine sweater, the uber long & muppety burgundy scarf I bought on arriving in frigid Greenwhich Village. I am present, in my skin, happy, and free in the most alive city in the world.

A man I barely notice until I can see the white of his smile is approaching me in the opposite direction. As we pass he says, "you are gorgeous - thanks for making me smile." And I laugh, and say thank you, and we continue on our divergent paths - he back to an office, or home for dinner (no, it's too early for that), or to meet friends & colleagues for lunch, and me on my way to the New York Public Library to be hushed and awed and moved.

That crystal moment is one of my favourite memories. I relive it like I'm still in it - feel the crip Eastcoast air in my nostrils. The blush warming my cheeks, wondering who heard our exchange. The leather squeak of my jacket as my arms swing freely. The swish of his wool coat as he turns to speak, and turns again to carry on. The only detail that's missing for me is what I was wearing for shoes. Did I have knee high black boots then? I imagine that I did.

Whenever I feel that memory coming upon me I know it's a good day - a day to savour. A day to celebrate being. Today is one of those days. I need nothing. I welcome everything. And I am free.

Slaying the swimsuit dragon

Never in my life have I looked forward to wearing a swimsuit. NEVER. I've been 40 pounds lighter than I am now (and 30 pounds heavier, but let's not think about that), and even at my thinnest I was awkward and self-conscious and a swimsuit was just something I had to wear to do one of the things I love to do most - play in the water.

I would buy a new suit when I absolutely had too - when chlorine had eaten away essential bits, or when the lycra to girth ratio was over-extended, or when I arrived at my summer holiday destination only to find I'd forgotten to pack the dreaded garb. In fact, the last suit I bought was in 2000 at a sports store in Jasper, with the BBs anxiously awaiting so we could head to our resort pool, and then up to Miette hot springs. And, as always, I bought something utilitarian - something I could do water sports in without thinking too much about the over all look.

Ever since Cowboy surprised me with our impending trip to Mexico, I've had one nagging, inescapable thought (as previously posted) - I need a new swimsuit, and I want to look and feel AMAZING wearing it. I've looked online and off. I've done research about the best suits for my size, shape and age. I've planned and schemed and dreamt, but never really believed one suit could do everything I want and need it to do.

And yesterday, with my always super supportive (and cash ready) knight-in-shining-denim Cowboy and the undauntable page/customer service specialist at Beachrags, I sallied forth into the change room, armed with 6 suits all had-picked to lift, tuck, cinch, highlight and generally make the most of my assets and the least of my deficits. The first suit was it. A magic moment. Excalibur in lycra. I wanted to walk out of the store in it. To throw on a floppy hat and langorously extend my hand for a fresh martini. I felt long and strong (svelte ansd sexy even, thanks Coach!) and glamorous and secure and WONDERFUL. In the spirit of due diligence I tried on the other 5 suits (that's hard work!), but nothing else even came close. In fact, of the 5 others, I only showed Cowboy 1, and he was pretty clear it didn't even come close.

It's quite the breakthrough for me. I cant WAIT to wear it.

I was going to try to find a picture of the suit online, but then I decided that you can all wait and see a picture of me in all my glory, lounging in a beach-side chaise in Puerto Vallarta.

6 sleeps!