Retreat

December is probably one of my most anticipated months of the year. It signals my birthday, Christmas, and the New Year. But, for all that, it doesn't make for much of a genuine break. I came straight from exams (or, more accurately, my post-exam party, hangover in tow), and was whisked immediately off to a much needed appointment with my hair dresser, the mall for last minute shopping, my aunt's Christmas party, a visit with my Grandma, and suddenly it was Christmas. With errands and jet lag and two days of -20 snow storms, I have yet to see any of my beloved friends, in fact. If all these flurry of activity weren't enough, between Christmas and New Year I always find myself overwhelmed with the pressure of New Years plans. So, for perhaps the fourth year in a row, I have simply opted out. For true relaxation and an unequivocal break, I have escaped to the Rockies. 

 

My whole family has escaped to our cabin in Waterton Lakes National Park. I plan to do little more than laze by the fire, get a leisurely start on my readings, and allow the clean air and fresh water to cleanse my skin and my soul. Here's a glimpse. Get ready to get jealous.

Being at the cabin means sweaters and leggings and afternoon naps, not concealer and mascara.

So, however you choose to spend your New Year, surrounded by glitter and bubbles and friends, or snow and deer tracks, enjoy it. Tabula rasa everyone. See you in the brand spankin' new year.

I Survived the Apocalypse

I am not speaking of the Mayan apocalypse. I'm talking about the apocalypse that is a law student's first round of exams. Ah, what fresh hell it is. For over a month I felt the constant nagging guilt of feeling as though any energy not expended on the law was energy poorly expended. So you have my apologies. I know I am always apologizing. But, though it was a conversation fuelled by gin and tonic, I made a blogging vow with a classmate of mine. It may even lead to a cool collabo. But first things first - to nurture and love my once and future blog. 'Tis the season, isn't it?

Speaking of, have you seen a more idyllic Christmas picture? An argument could perhaps be made for switching the wine for egg nog, and hanging some additional stockings above the fire (there is my cat's stocking up there, hardly in the frame. It's white and reads "Cats love Christmas too." Which is funny, because my cat could hardly be said to love anything at all, except most certainly sleep and food, and occasionally me, but I suspect that is in large part because I facilitate the latter of her two most constant and unerring loves).

But this is exactly how I envision spending my Christmas break. Blowing off commitments to go out and socialize, which would require trekking into the cold and braving trecherous roads in horrendous weather, in favour of staying in with a glass of truly fabulous red wine, Bernard Callebaut chocolate cherries and a roaring fire. I am aged before my time.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Like a Devil's, sick of sin

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

--Wilfred Owen 

Remembrance Day does not glorify war. Remembrance Day is an opportunity to reflect on war, its horrors, its losses, and the sacrifice of those involved. It is not political. It is reverent.

#4 - Shake It Off, or, Taking up the Mantel

My lovely friend Kathy had a blog, once upon a time. I feel like we are the generation of people who will have "had blogs." Because we are, if HBO's Girls has taught me anything, the generation of self-indulgent prima donnas who want to talk about our feelings and our emotions and try to leave behind a relic of our humanity. Or something like that, right? And then we are all going to get hit in the face with the concrete brick of reality, with real life deadlines and commutes and relationships and commitments. And thus, we abandon our navel-gazing revelry and get to work. Well don't you fret - while I completely understand my friends' abandoning their blogs for real life - I am too big a narcissist and too poor at prioritizing to give up blogging for anything less than being, meh, just too lazy. But as long as there is work to do and a library for me to sit in fruitlessly, there will be blog posts.

The point that I have been dancing around is that I am going to take up the mantel of one of Kathy's last, abbreviated, blog projects. She found a moral imperative to provide law students with tips for surviving law school. She only got three tips in, which should probably leave me with a sense of foreboding, but I find myself wanting to pick up where she left off. Because law school is overwhelming, and taking a step back to re-evaluated and decide what is important and what paths need to be taken strikes me as helpful for me and hopefully illuminating for others.

I do this, however, realizing that I begin this undertaking with the optimistic view that I will survive law school, and the humility that I almost certainly don't have any actual answers. I am no pro at law school. But I am prone to navel gazing [see above] and so occasionally am given a moment of clarity where things that are self evident become so again, after being crush by my Torts textbook or my Legal Process deadline.

Shake it Off

As you will hear, law school can be cut throat. Take every smarty pants who did well in school who you ever knew, put them together in one class, and tell them that an A (and therefor a prestigious 1st year internship that could very well lay the groundwork for their entire career) is entirely contingent not on how well they know the subject matter, or how hard they've studied or even how well they do on their exams - that A is entirely contingent on you doing better than your fellow smarty pants.

I'm not Jewish, but let me just say; Oy.

My experience has thus far not been the horror story that Selma Blair painted for me in Legally Blonde (my personal quintessential law school film). A lot of people in my classes are really supportive and helpful, and virtually no one goes out of their way to make sure their classmates don't understand a concept. 

But there will be comments. "Oh, well if that works for you, then I guess go ahead." "Do you have all your summaries done yet? Because I do, but I'm worried they aren't thorough enough." Just the other day, after trying to assure a friend of mine that she had time to eat lunch, I was on the receiving end of "I'm behind. You're really behind, but that doesn't mean I'm not behind."

Excusemewhat? I'm sure I looked like I had been slapped. It hurt. It was mean. But I have the confidence that it wasn't intended to hurt or come across as mean. It almost certainly came from a place of insecurity and stress that had exactly nothing to do with me.

And that's when and why you need to shake it off. You can spend all day freaking out about whether or not you're behind, or you can just go ahead make sure it's not true. Mind games - and whether mind games are actually being played, or we all just read way too much into other people's actions, is an assumption I would certainly contest - are not going to help you.

what is more likely to help you is this picture of a Puli jumping. Or "shaking it off," if you will.

We all (hopefully) are going to go be lawyers, and that probably means some of us will work with each other. So don't be a douche. But if some one is a douche, don't vilify them. Shake it off, and realize that we're all probably a little stressed.

The Wildly Obscure Halloween Costume, Well Executed

There are a number of ways that you would be able to deduce that I went to a liberal arts school. I have been known to espouse the virtues of the oxford comma. I tuck my pants into my socks. Just this week I made a bell hooks joke. But I feel that at no time is my socially-crippling liberal arts background as cogent as it is at Halloween.

The rest of the year I can avoid engaging in debates about the relevancy of Hegelian historical theory, or restrain myself from suggesting we move to a political system that honours a philosopher king, but at Halloween my desire for a witty and unique costume makes these engrained ticks unavoidable. I will wear a wildly obscure costume, well executed.

This became evident in just my second year of liberal arts education. Two friends and I, based on a ludicrous rant about over zealous leftists, went as communist cats.

Chat Guevara, Chairman Meow and Fidel Catro, here to empower the proletariat and look just adorable. Now gimme candy.

This was well received at my university. We were all stars! The wittiest! This costume, in its absurd specificity, was topped only by my friend Geoff, who one year went as a Beatle in a box. I think he was Ringo. Wittgenstein joke - get it? No? Congrats - you're a normal, well socialized individual. I'm jealous.  This sort of reception, of course, set a very unrealistic standard for my young malleable mind; I was left with the impression that this sort of vaulted humour would enshrine me in social scenarios as the charming and hilarious heroine, here to turn life into an HBO comedy. Notsomuch.

I have endeavoured since then to make my costumes related more directly to pop culture icons. You know, something to avoid coming off as an ivory-tower elitist. A costume relatable to the every-man! The self realization of my Chat Guevara facade, as it were. However, liberal arts has clearly gone so far as to taint my mind as to what exactly qualifies as an icon.

My point? My Halloween costume:

Robert Palmer Addicted to Love Band Member! Duh. My mum and dad and 38-year-old former colleague Shannon got it. And Heather (the lovely little kitten in the middle, who, incidentally, went as  Kim Kierkegaardashian this year. "My wild hair, black ensemble, popped blazer collar and general ruffled and mournful demeanour are the Kierkegaard elements. My fake lashes and amazing ass are the Kim Kardashian"). That exhausts the list.

But, seriously, this is not a bad likeness. But familiarity with the original is a prerequisite to appreciating a likeness, and this costume just did not have a large enough fan base for that. But check it out!


The curse of the upper middle class dedication to meaningful, not pragmatic, education rears its ugly head every Halloween. I'm just a misunderstood victim of circumstance, really.

Next year I should probably just be a Spice Girl.

Law School Ladies Look Bomb

Today proved the first ideal opportunity to capture a phenomenon that I have found both surprising and awesome about law school.

Namely, the girls here are babes.

Or, to be more clear, are sartorially brilliant. So many of the girls I go to school with have distinct personal styles, and you very rarely have anyone in class roll in in yoga pants and a t-shirt (sorry girl in the front row who rolls in daily in yoga pants and a t-shirt - no jibe intended). While some may find this standard a daunting one, I have personally found it inspiring. The freedom to express myself with clothing without worrying that I may be made to feel overdressed has inspired me to be ever more creative in constructing a morning ensemble. I have been plumbing the depths of my closet with an increasingly perceptive eye for possible outfit constructions, making use out of old and new garments alike. And it's fun!

I discussed my fascination with the fashion law school studies has seemed to evoke with a couple of my girlfriends here, and the sentiment was mutually felt. We did, in fact, decide that it would be a great idea to start immortalizing some of our favourite outfits.

Today was a less formal photo shoot than certainly what I had in mind (see: trans-friendly bathroom backdrop), but the hilarious coincidence of nearly identical outfits seemed like fair grounds for a picture. Let me present to you Law School's "Who Wore it Best?" Black and Blue edition:

So, some notable differences here. Caroline opted for a Victorian-style high-necked lace top, a structured blazer and, not clearly captured, a distressed-gold flat. This amounted to a much more classic look, though her more brightly blue pants serve as an edgier element in light of these classic pieces.
My interpretation of the blue-pant-black-top-black-blazer phenomenon was much more rockabilly-cum-rock star. My pompadour bouffant, black leather booties and slouchy blazer, paired with a low cut leotard which, yes, bears my bra, made for a much less professional, and somewhat less conventional, take on the look. Less See Jane, more Wheredidugetthat, Street or otherwise.

What should this installment be called? Law School Looks? Sartorial Solicitors-in-training? Attourney Attire? I'm going to go with Vestiary Capacity for the time being. Because it's like testamentary capacity! Getit??

The Short Hair Debate

It is that time of year again. No, I don't mean autumn. And no, my midterms just passed actually. It is the time of year when I realize I have put no effort into a Halloween costume and it's right around the corner, yes, but that is also not what I am talking about. It is that unanticipated and entirely unpredictable time of year, coming approximately twice per annum, that I am in the throes of an insatiable desire to cut off all my hair.

No, not G.I. Jane style. I don't think white girls can get away with that in every day life, certainly not without prompting questions about what cancer society you were fundraising for and how much your femininity earned them. This time around (because, as I say, I fight this urge every few months) I find myself adoring Miley Cyrus' cropped cut. It's so versatile - it can be edgy and modern, or subdued and classic. A friend of mine even suggested that if I do it, do it all the way and go blonde. That one is probably not in the cards

Whether or not this particular cut would suite me is beside the point, however. It is less this particular cut that I crave, than simply short hair itself. However, I have found myself torn by other considerations.

First, and deplorable as I find this to be in myself, I am very concerned about what people would think if I were to have short hair.

I should say, short hair again. I wore my hair in a pixie cut for well over a year, almost four years ago now. The growing out process has been taking place ever since, and has included all sorts of eccentric behaviour to encourage long and healthy locks, including, but not limited to, taking a weird American hair-thinning supplement, the box of which warned that the contents may contain traces of shark. So, given those endeavours, I find myself trying to remember why I decided to grow my hair back out at all.

I have friends who rave about my short locks. Some friends even tell me things like "you have such a good face for short hair," which really just feed my ego unnecessarily. I may cut my hair just so that people will compliment my face. But I also love what having short hair says about a woman. To me it says that she is not concerned with traditional notions of femininity and sex appeal; she's self confident, stylish and modern. And I like to think that those are all things I see in myself. But, while I gaze at model shots like the one of myself on the boat there, I know that, in reality, a lot of my life with short hair resembled:

I'm the one on the right, just to be clear.

Less appealing. But, altogether I put more effort into my appearance, I justify to myself. I could avoid looking like a boy! I will not ever again try to grow in my eye brows! So when I find myself trying to justify cutting my hair, even when confronted with truly unflattering pictures of my beloved pixie, I realize that how I think I look with short hair is really not what gives me pause. What bothers me is the opinions of ignorant people.

I know that sounds truly ridiculous. Why would anyone care about the opinion of ignorant people? Because I have friends who, in this regard, are ignorant people. To be clear, I do not for one second assume that everyone who tells me that they like my hair better long is saying so because their opinion comes from a place of anti-feminist woman-shaming. That is totally a legitimate opinion, and one that I must at least in part share - if I thought I looked like crap with long hair, I hope I would not leave it long just because I put the time in. Like eating an entire plate of food you ordered even though you aren't hungry, because goddamnit it's there. But, there are people who I love and respect who, nonetheless, have very entrenched and traditional notions of femininity. Men and women. And I just hate to imagine facing people for the first time since the cut, knowing some would commence trash talking my new "butch" style the moment I exited the vicinity. Short hair automatically excludes you from the ranks of beautiful people in the minds of a lot of men and some women. I have a hard time convincing myself that I don't care about that.

However, and more alarmingly, do I perhaps need to consider how short hair could impact my career? Would a young and edgy hairstyle read as immature and unapproachable to an interviewer from a more conservative law firm? Is it possible that looking as common, or at least as uncontroversial, as possible will be the safest avenue to help ensure future employment? Law hasn't been unaffected by the recession, and new lawyers are having to fight hard for jobs like everyone else.When I hear about articles advocating and explaining why female lawyers should be wearing skirts or just generally how high the standard of professional appearance (I say euphemistically) is for female lawyers, I realize that these are factors I probably need to consider. Could cutting my hair be a career killer?

When I asked my mum what she thought about me cutting my hair she immediately began listing advantages of long hair, citing the time I had put into growing it, how versatile it was now, and the like. It was as though I had proposed the idea of dropping out, or moving to Nebraska - my mum's speech made it seem as though it was her motherly imperative to dissuade me from this simply foolish course of action. When she realized that these arguments were seeming to have the opposite of their intended affect - as strongly felt parental opinions are wont to do -  just short of actually making me promise, she pleaded with me to wait to cut my hair until I come home for Christmas, telling me that she would call my hairdresser once we were off the phone to make me an appointment for the day after my plane lands. I think she's hoping that this fever for Farrow-length locks will abate by then. And maybe it will. But there's something about that possibility that makes me a little sad.

Maybe I'll just start smoking like Mia Farrow instead. I mean, look how cool she looks. And that sort of live-fast-die-young attitude seems entirely consistent with what I hear of the alcoholism and cocaine habits that run rampant in the legal profession.

But short hair? That's probably pushing it...

Wedding Bells Ringing

A very warm congratulations to my beautiful friend Aly and her very lucky new husband on their nuptials! The trip to Halifax may have left me a little worse for wear - what can I say, I found myself overwhelmed and, accordingly, over-imbibed - but I could not have been happier to have made the trip.

I got to see my brilliant life-role-model, Kathy, who, finishing her third year of law school, is a shining example of someone who I hope I can come even close to emulating. I also spent so much of my weekend with the amazing and kind Genny, who always overwhelms me with her consideration, hospitality and hilarity. I wish I could have spent so much more time with them, but alas, all three of us are in professional school (Genny is on her way to being the most kick-ass nurse) and therefore time is not something any of us have.

And Aly. Holy smokes. I knew I wouldn't get to see much of her this weekend, aside from staring adoringly at her in her happiness and her dress (which was stunning!). The weekend made me very excited that she and Mr Aly will be my relative neighbours here in Toronto in not too long.

I have some truly amazing and lovely friends.

Grown Ass Woman?

The facebook status of a friend of mine recently read:

You are what you eat. That's funny, I don't remember eating a fucking legend.

Hilarious, right? But also, this reminded me of my deeply held opinion that you are what you eat. Not quite as literally as my friend, but just that what you eat says a lot about you. But what it says about you may be just as irrational as the literal "I am spicy lentil soup."

Illustration: I am of the opinion that grown ass women should eat salad. Well, more accurately, I think that society expects grown women to eat salad. Ok, ok, lets refine this even more: society holds that grown women should want to eat salad.

I don't know that on any criteria - external to the eating of salad - that I qualify as much more than a conspicuously old, large child. I spilled lunch all over myself today, for instance. Pure toddler move. However, if I did, on some narrowly defined and strictly age-based definition of "grown," qualify as a "grown woman," on the matter of salad I would undoubtedly fail. I occasionally eat salad, yes. And I want me to want to eat salad. But do I get out of a stressful class and think "I really just need a kick-ass salad right now"? No. "I really need a muffin," maybe, or, more likely, "I really need a drink" sooner come to mind. I need mashed potatoes or peanut butter cookies. I do not psychologically need romaine.

I see girls bring sliced, raw vegetables - the to-go salad, if you will - to class as a snack, and it makes me feel ashamed that not only do I not have sliced veggies of my own with which to flaunt my mature femininity with, but I don't even want to eat sliced veggies. I want sliced veggies only insofar as I want to give the entirely false impression that I enjoy eating barren cucumber slices and carrot sticks. I want the status of vegetables.

Furthermore, when I do try to eat salad the delicate grace expected of, not just grown women, but functional adults, eludes me, and I end up with obscene mouthfuls that my lips can't quite entirely conceal. Or I end up wearing it, as per my lunch today. Trying to ensure the proper ratio of delicious salad elements in a manageable bite is quite outside my wheelhouse, it would seem.

So I add this to the ever growing list of reasons I am not a grown up. Salad.

Five Senses Friday: Trois

Feeling:

Content. The long weekend is underway, and I am spending it recooperating and nesting. My apartment is clean, my garbage taken out, and all my missed readings caught up on. While other people will go home to their families, I'm cuddled with She Ra and looking forward to watching a rugby game with the incomparable Heather. I got myself to the gym today. I went grocery shopping. I had a glass of wine at lunch and a dirty martini with dinner. It has been a fabulous start to a promising weekend. 

Smelling:
brownies that I fully intend on giving away. I just wanted to bake them, eat two, and be the generous brownie gifting stranger.

Hearing:

Macklemore. I downloaded his album Language of My World, and I'm in love. As you know.

Tasting: 

I had a fabulous array of food today, courtesy of a much needed Costco trip. I enjoyed falafal with hummus for dinner, brownies for dessert, and the indulgent dirty vodka martini. I do, however, need to purchase myself a shaker and actual martini glasses - this stirred-martini-in-a-juice-glass nonsense will do the trick for now, but I DEMAND THE BEST.

I had not anticipated that a google image search of "dirty martini" would result in quite so many pictures of strippers.

Seeing:

This amazing video, courtesy of The Spartan Warrior. What a great message. It really spoke to a number of adventures I'm in the beginnings of in my life.

Macklemore & Ryan Lewis

I just stumbled across this truly beautiful and relevant piece of contemporary hip hop on facebook this morning. I don't know much about the artist, Macklemore, but I intend on changing that. Not only does this song show uncharacteristic sensitivity to a politically and emotionally charged issue - that of gay marriage and equality rights - but it brings hip hop back to its politically charged roots. Macklemore points to the hip hop of the 90s, of the Fugees and Nas, when artists used hip hop as an accessible medium to convey political messages, as a medium to fight for racial equality. Hip hop has not been that, as of late. Hip hop has been Boom Boom Pow and Rack City, Bitch. I applaud this truly beautiful effort to bring hip hop back. The video and message are beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes (and cheeks)

Five Senses Friday, round II

Feeling:

Excited - I made the last minute discovery that tonight is Hip Hop Karaoke Toronto, AND that it's a competition. I haven't had the pleasure of going to an HHK show since I performed in one in MTL, so needless to say, I can't fucking wait.

Smelling:
Autumn. My window is open letting some fresh air circulate through my inexplicably humid apartment. It's still crisp and fresh out, and I love it.

Hearing:

I took a break from my morning hip hop routine (post work out I'm so wired that nothing seems more appropriate than Wu Tang) to remind myself of the Staves. I saw these girls open for Bon Iver and I absolutely love them. They are such exceptional vocalists. Give 'em a listen

Tasting: 

Coffee with a generous splash of rice milk. I tend to drink my coffee black, but I had a dream I drank a sweet and creamy coffee, and on the way back from the gym it was all I wanted. Success.

Seeing:

an apartment that desperately needs to be cleaned.

The New Furby and Why I'm So Deeply Upset By It

I have been unable to hide my penchant for all things 90s from many of my new law school acquaintances. Given this reputation, on a day that should have been spent ceaselessly reading case briefs, I found myself in the library, staring open mouthed in horror at my laptop screen when a classmate sent me this clip:



Being in the library, I watched this clip on mute. I don't think my reaction was entirely different to that upon most people in the 1940s seeing clips from concentration camps; my jaw dropped, eyes went wide, I looked around for someone to help me make sense of what I was seeing, and clapped my hand over my offensively slack jaw. Ok, furbies aren't the moral equivalent of a concentration camp - I'm certain furbies have not been used to commit war crimes. Yet. But, that was my reaction, nonetheless.

Having watched the video in its entirety, my horror is not abated, but, rather, solidified. It doesn't bother me that Hasbro has opted to reincarnate a cult-toy of my late childhood. I narrowly escaped having a furby of my own due only to my parents deep sense of unease with the toy. Or maybe their desire to be less indulgent. I was, after all, a little shit, if accounts are to be trusted. Do I think it's kind of a sell out? Yeah - Hasbro, you had your chance with this in 1998 (and again in 2005? Seriously?). And you did well! Let it go. However, my personal childhood favourite, Littlest Pet Shop, had a reboot of its own, so I can't entirely begrudge Hasbro for giving it a try with one of their own highest earners. After all, have kids stopped liking furry dependents any more than parents have despised cleaning up after neglected Christmas pets? If Homeward Bound II taught me anything, the answer is no.

their eyes just got SO MUCH BIGGER!

However, some of the elements of this new, reconceptualized furby, give me more than a momentary pause. On silent viewing, I was immediately struck by the one very obvious physical change made to the toy. Let's take a moment and compare, shall we?

circa 1998 furby

Here is our original (classic, if you will) furby. This is the being that first elicited the wikipedia description, an "electronic robot toy resembling a hamster/owl-like creature." Sure. Now here is the 2012 furby:

I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY DE-FUZZED HIS EARS!

Ok. So, what do I find distressing about the new furby? You need not be a film study major to pick up on my not-so-subtle emphasis on eye imagery. Hasbro forfeited the glassy, psuedo-life-like, googly eyes of the classic furby in exchange for an arguably more expressive pixelated digital eye. I will concede that I find their expressions creepy (particularly that one that I managed to find a picture of above), but my discomfort extends beyond that mere esthetic dislike. I couldn't help but be saddened that our world is one in which small children are more comfortable with furry little monsters which are quite clearly fused with technology than the ever-so deceptive furry little monsters of my childhood, rotating eye balls and all.

It means that that stupid Futureshop commercial where a kid claims to be "born on the internet" is less a hilarious impossibility and more a political statement on the sad boarders of reality the define (dare I say it?) kids today. A child, "ages 6 and up," is not at all disquieted by the fact that their teddy bear has achieved the Singularity. They are more concerned with what sort of ipod burgers to feed it to make sure it loves them the most! (You'll know it loves you when it sounds like a Sims character achieving orgasm)

What happened to Barbie Dolls, Mighty Max, Lego and, I don't know, actual hamsters? I had one! Of all of those things, actually, but specifically a hamster. If you want your child to love and care for something while learning vague vestiges of responsibility and stewardship, is this the best we can do? My preliminary research shows that one of these furbies goes for $69.97CAD. Yahoo! Answers indicates that, with the current rate of global inflation being what it is, hamsters go for anywhere between $6 and $20CAD. I spent more than that last Friday on vodka shots. I may have spent the amount necessary to buy a furby as well, but that is beside the point. I just hope that parents will think long and hard before they pander to their kids, but more specifically to toy and marketing companies, on this one. Think of all the shelter kittens that could use a home, or consider the value you, as a child, put on the first pet you had that [you perceived] was all your own. Can we please just reject the insidious research that has gone into marketing this crap towards kids and refuse to technologically indoctrinate our children when they are as young as 6-years-old? In this regard, I guess I'm pro-life, anti-technology. Send me to Georgia. Or Quebec, where the furby website has been banned for children 13 or under.

I don't like kids, and certainly don't want any of my own, but I still think they deserve better than a digital-burger eating owl/hamster that's a shitty dancer. Don't you?

Om/Ow

This weekend I had planned on gushing enthusiastically about my renewed embrace of a regular yoga practice. I was probably going to be sanctimonious, waxing on about the peace of mind and sense of self it instills in me, how it helps me arrange my priorities in a way that helps me achieve a more balanced life. Blah blah blah. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again. I have an awful habit of falling in and out of my yoga practice. I would say that the entire past year that I lived with my parents I went to yoga only very occasionally, and that self-definition as a yogi was entirely absent. So yeah, it's always exciting to rediscover something that you love, especially if that thing also happens to be really good for you.

But, God damn, does my body ever hurt. Between gym dates with law girls and my own stubborn commitment to yoga (motivated in no small part by a desire to get my money's worth of a month unlimited pass), I am virtually incapacitated. I'm trying to read my text on the law of contracts, but all I can think about are my hip flexors! And my shoulders. Triceps. Low back too.

Yoga; I love you so much, and all you do is hurt me. I think I'll stick it out though. Unlike an abusive boyfriend, our relationship will actually change.

They're Here

I had some very well laid plans for blog posts this weekend. I have a couple mid-way drafted, in fact.

However, after putting in some requisite hours at the library yesterday and returning home to make myself dinner, I found my laptop to be rather tragically unresponsive. No vital signs, save the blue glow of my power button. No screen, no characteristic whir of responding mechanisms, no sounds, not even the will to shut off said power button light. Oh crumbs, as my mum would say. I removed the battery, twice, in fact, let the battery recharge. Nothing. I called the IT guy who had equipped me with this laptop no more than four weeks earlier, and started hashing out some post-mortem options. Not pleasant.

It did mean that I got much more reading done than I would have done otherwise though, I'm sure.

At nearly midnight, while I drowsily slogged through Torts, my apartment was cast in a rather eerie light.

kinda like that, yeah.

My laptop, which I hadn't touched for hours, roused itself from the cold clutches of apparent death. As those few remaining soldiers who endeavour on with PC are probably familiar, the start up screen which follows a crash reads something along the lines of; Do you wish to start up in Normal Mode, Safety Mode, etc, etc? A little baffled, I started to get out of bed to prompt the computer's start up, because apparently I learned nothing from my past obsession with horror movies, when it proceeded to start up in normal mode all on its own. I don't know if this is maybe just a default that results from leaving the start up screen unsupervised too long, but my logical conclusion was "Poltergeists! My computer is haunted by poltergeists!" You can ask my dad - I left him a voicemail to that effect.

So, if some truly uncharacteristic posts start appearing on this blog - regarding, say, the ease with which I read about Tort law, or my disapprobation of the vulgarity of hip hop music - it's probably my new lap top gremlin friends. Don't worry. They mean well, I'm sure.

I

hope

...
.................................................................................................................

Five Senses Friday, the next episode

La di da di da, it's the muthafuckin' Five Sense Friday Post. Thought I forgot about Five Senses Fridays? I did! But I was feeling pretty pleased about a number of things today, not least of which was that it was Friday, and I thought "oh. yeeeeeaaaaah." (clarification: that is a revelatory 'yeah' not a 'dayum girl' variety 'yeah'). So, without further ado...

Feeling:

slothful. I finished my sole Friday class and proceeded to lie in my bed watching Law & Order for an embarrassing number of hours. Or not embarrassing, if you consider Dick Wolfe's development of a pop culture understanding of the legal system an important contribution to consider during one's legal education. Which I do.

Smelling:
my nose. No, I'm not being flippant. You know that feeling when you get this sort of stringent smell which seems to just be the smell of the inside of your nose? Like right after you blow your nose? No? Well. Never mind then.

Hearing:

The Notorious "Biggie" B.I.G., Warning. I've been on a 90s hip-hop/rap exploration as of late and it has been just lovely. Makes me feel so fucking legit at the gym. And in life.

Tasting: 

I'm mentally tasting all things pumpkin. There has been a distinctly autumnal feel in the air lately, which has me rather pumped. Pumped about pumpkin. Earl's pumpkin pie and Howe Sound Pumpkineater ale. It's a little premature, but I'm salivating in preparation.

Seeing:

a shame-inducing Aritzia bag. I'm currently gauging the degree of give that will occur with the wearing of my new faux-leather leggings before I commit to taking off any tags. There may or may not be some degree of a muffin-top situation developing north of the belt line BUTTHEY'RESOPRETTY

Sneak-Sneak-Sneak

Law School Walk of Shame: sneaking back to your apartment at 11:00pm on a school night after going shopping and having dinner (at which you actually had a glass of red wine - gasp) with lovely, charming friends when you should have been locked away doing your criminal law reading like all the other good kids.

JUST like this, but instead of Meech Munchies and Paramite Pies, shopping bags and purple lips

So, I'm in Law School

And I feel like that's an excuse for not blogging. Though, generally speaking, "excuse" is kind of a pejorative. But, in this case, maybe not. It's pretty valid that law school is a bit of an overwhelming commitment. Take, for instance, the workload I have tonight:

35 pages of Torts

450 words left on an Ethical Lawyering paper

30 pages of State & Citizen reading

2 case excerpts for Legal Process

The validity of my excuse is, however, null and void in light of the reality that while vaguely attempting these things, I also;

sauteed onions I didn't eat

napped

read while in downward facing dog

researched the history of cat mayors

had a bath

danced to the longest Avicii song I could find

I'll try not to ever leave you again over such paltry excuses...

Why Does it Smell like Fear in Here?

Law School starts on Tuesday. I have already been assigned readings.

Spent my first night in my prefurnished apartment. Will be acquiring additional mattress toppers for my charming twin bed or else I'm dropping out. My energy will be focused on project:BED rather than project:obtain law degree.

Bonne Fête, mon Feir

Happy Birthday Aly Feirest. I love and miss you! 

(sorry I've been bitching about marriage - I'm pumped for yours)

-Love Sydney & She Ra

Engagement Hiatus

Receiving the news of my friends Aly and Baker's engagement in September, and finally receiving the actual wedding invitation in the mail a month or so ago, served as a brusk confrontation with my looming status as adult. You may recall.
Hearing about friends getting engaged births all kinds of contradictory emotions in me. I'm surprised: my utter lack of marriable qualifications (boyfriend, job, parent-free residence) just leaves me operating under the assumption that no one my age is considering marital bliss as a viable life choice - at least not right now.
Then I swiftly realize that everyone is not me, and that this is fabulous news - I'm ecstatic that my friends have found someone they love and respect and can spend their lives with.
I'm super jealous that they don't have to date anymore. They never have to hear their grandmother lament how she would like to see all of her grandchildren married before she dies, so what is wrong with you and your brother? Cough.
I'm a little scared of what it potentially means for our friendship: the plot of many crappy rom-coms features the incompatibility of married friends with single friends. Half go out clubbing and on shitty blind dates while the other half stay at home perfecting their ossu bucco recipe and watching Castle on the sectional. Is that going to be me and my friends??? I hope not. I don't think I'm friends with anyone who would watch Castle. Only my parents watch Castle.
And, I'll admit it, selfishly, hearing about friends getting married makes me feel like crap about myself. Just for a second. I realize how far away I am in my life to anything like that. I've always been a bit ahead of the pack for my age - when I was in grade one I read at a third grade reading level, and damn it, I was young for my grade. I don't really take well this feeling of emotional and social stuntedness. Like I'm getting lapped by Bowser in Mariocart. This feeling is amplified, I've had the misfortune to find out, when you hear former boyfriends are getting married. I usually rouse myself out of this ridiculous ennui fairly swiftly. Since, you know, I have a cat to cuddle and bars to go to. And because my life is really not so bad.
So, this is to say, it's kind of emotionally exhausting to hear about friends getting married. And since the first of my friends announced their intention to wear a white dress/suit and kiss in front of a bunch of us, I have had three more friends get engaged. One has already been married.
So, dudes, can you please stop proposing. Ladies, don't be feminists and do it yourselves. Just for a couple months, so I can settle into law school a little more stress free? Thanks.

Amendment: Sydney would like to encourage women to be feminists. Just not women proposing to boyfriends. Just for a couple of months please.

The Regime

A year in the service industry has meant a year spent chatting with other 20-something girls about their grooming habits. Let's face it, half of what a server can do to ensure a quality dining experience is make sure that they look groomed, professional and put together - the other half is to not fuck up. This may sound superficial, but it is true of most professions where you spend much of your time interacting with other people, and the pressure to make sure you don't look like you crawled out of a recycling bin is amplified in an industry where the majority of your profit is based on how much strangers like you. For this reason, conversations around the hot window or the computer systems over where to get the best shellac manicure, whose ombre has turned out best, and what products everyone uses were commonplace. This led me to reflect on what I realize is my rather intensive skincare regime. That said, I have pretty good skin. Sure, I suffer from the occasional breakout, but I take care of my skin and it shows. So here it is - my skin care regimen.

The Products

Ok, so I use a lot of Kiehl's, you may note. I really do find most of their products to be very high quality for just shy of luxury brand prices.

I have recently been converted, during my stay in Paris, to Bioderma's sensitive skin cleanser. I use it primarily as a makeup remover, and for that, it is phenomenal. Bioderma is available in Canada, though it is much more expensive (I bought two of those 500ml bottles for €14.50, or $18.02CAD - Shopper's Drug Mart sells a 250ml bottle for $22.00CAD). However, if you're looking for a quick and gentle makeup remover, it is one of the best I've ever used. However, I don't use it as a substitute for my regular cleanser.
I use an exfoliating pad and either Kiehl's Ultra Facial Cleanser or their men's line's Facial Fuel. The salesperson may have hesitated when I told her I needed the Facial Fuel - their men's line is, after all, specially formulated for men's skin, which, on the face, is supposedly thicker - but the menthol and caffeine in the face wash is irresistibly refreshing. I usually use the Facial Fuel if I desperately need external stimuli to wake myself up. 
The scrubbing pad was a gift from my mum, who has picked up a whole array in varying sizes, and after at least 5 minutes of internet research, I discovered the brand: SpaCells, by Supracor. One side of the pad is soft enough for daily use, and the other side serving for a firmer
exfoliation. It may or not provide the stimulating massage it's website claims, but I find it to be a lot simpler to use than facecloths.

Post cleansing, I tone. I know a lot of people find toners to be unnecessary, but the older I get the more prone I become to breakouts (my mum suffered from pretty severe adult acne, so it's in the genes), so I opt for the extra step. And because my concern is blemishes, I use Proactive. I loathe Kiehl's Gentle Facial Toner. I've used it many times, but I find that, rather than leaving my skin with the tingly clean feeling of most toners, I feel like there is a film of milk left on my skin.

Post cleansing, I use my anti-aging battalion. Too young to be concerned about aging? Exactly. I am doing everything I can to preserve my skin's current condition. I know that many people find anti-aging serums to be at odds with blemish prone skin, but I haven't found a correlation between anti-aging creams and breakouts personally.

I use Kiehl's again, this time their pricier dermatological line's Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. It boasts the highest concentration of vitamin C found in any over-the-counter [read: dermatologist prescription free] face cream. I love that it is lightweight and even warming. And the texture it leaves my skin is just lovely. I follow that up with their best-selling Midnight Recovery Eye treatment or Creamy Eye Treatment; the former is an anti-aging treatment I use at night, the latter, strictly a moisturizer applied in the morning.

Final step? I wait a couple minutes and, in the morning, slather on the SPF 45; at night, apply a liberal amount of moisturizer to seal everything.

And Carmex - because lips are important too.

Pet Peeve #4: Bathroom Etiquette

I preface this with the promise that I am not going to talk about bowel movements.

I was just reading an article about things people get too wound up about, which prompted a moment of reflection, followed swiftly by the realization that I had to pee. I know - I am profound. While in the restroom, I used the last of the toilet paper. Shame on me. So I reached under the sink, grabbed a new roll, and replaced the empty tube. I even put it on so that the paper comes up over the top!

I do really hope that people get this. But most apparently don't.

So, basically, I am the spitting image of courtesy and consideration.

No. Wait. That's wrong. Is it just that I'm doing the bare minimum of what is considered reasonable, given the utter lack of time and exertion required? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Granted, I may go above and beyond by endeavouring to do this even when in public restrooms, peering around for back up rolls, or by informing staff when it needs to be done by someone with access to their toilettery stock (restaurants don't generally appreciate finding patrons squirreling through their dry storage, funny enough), but it just seems not only courteous, but logical. I mean, I don't have abundant faith in my bladder capacity necessarily - I could very well be the next person in this stall which, abhorrently, has no toilet paper.

Especially in restrooms where the toilet paper is visible from the toilet, how much lazier and self involved could someone be to just peace out post toilet paper erradication? I mean, you're already sitting down.

Vacances

Bonjour mon amis. Have you missed me? I have taken an extended sojourn from blogging to finish up my tenure at Earl's Tin Palace and enter some indulgent unemployment, riddled with travel and wine.

That is to say, I have whisked myself away to gay Paris (because I am my own hero in the so-called fairy tale that is my life). It has been an interesting trip, and is, sadly, almost at its close. I have done all the requisite tourist activities; I have toured the Louvre, enjoyed a picnic on the Sienne, dined in Montmarte, soaked up the beauty of the Musee D'Orsay, and picnicked at the Eiffel Tower (yes, ample picnics - baguette, cheese, sausage and wine abound). I was courted by a French man, walked the canal and sipped noisette in cafes. I have shopped. No where near as much as you would probably expect - my French diet has not instantly granted me a French figure, surprise surprise - but I have wandered kitschy Colette, briefly perused the enormity of the Galleries Lafayette and dug through the Friperies (vintage clothing boutiques) of the Marais.

It has certainly made the prospect of going home less than appealing. Going home only to move, again, and start in on intensive education for a career path which will not allow for any 10 day trips to Europe until I've earned at least a few years hard-worked tenure? Prospects look downright grim. Hopefully I can take some of this amour de la vie I have acquired in Paris and import it back to Canada with me.

Gary Clark Jr.

I'm loving Gary Clark Jr. right now. If you haven't heard anything by him, I would highly recommend giving a listen to the Bright Lights LP.

I am starting to slowly pull together a playlist in this vein - maybe alongside Adele and Esperanza Spalding? Any suggestions?

It's Happened...

I have been warily looking out for hallmarks of adulthood for a couple of years now. I fear the responsibility that seems intrinsically linked to the title of "adulthood." I celebrated my 19th birthday two years in a row under the truly dilusional impression that society expects more of twenty-year-olds than of teenagers. I have a degree - or two, in fact - but am not economically self sufficient, so dodged a bullet there. I work at a restaurant, and I am at turns pleased when people are surprised to hear how old I am and then offended when patrons are shocked that I could possibly be a manager (though, I will confess that the latter may have nothing to do with age, and more to do with my general demeanour favourite leather studded ring).

However, despite my cautious surveillance for hints that I could be approaching adulthood/self-sufficiency/independence/crowsfeet and fighting off all signs on the horizon, an indisputable indicator that boat races, costume parties and 3 am Wednesday night trips to Singapore Sam's for 7$ ginger beef may no longer be exactly age appropriate activities arrived on my doorstep.

Dun Dun.

Dun Dun......Dun Dun...Dun Dun. Dun Dun.

DunDunDunDunDunDunDunDun

DUN!

I have friends getting married. My friends. Friends I made binge drinking and bar hopping and playing rugby with. Not family friends. Not friends I was friends with when I was four and saw once every half dozen years since. Aly Feir and MudMaker. Friends who courted eachother by pretending they were going to go LARPing with me. Friends who have seen me go to the bar painted gold. Friends who I've quoted Jason Segal with. Friends I compared bruises with, ranted over America's Next Top Model with and kicked it in the quad like cliche liberal arts students with.

I knew this was coming before the invitation was tossed unceremoniously by my mother at my bathroom door. But it means it's real. It's not like my friend Alex and his boyfriend with the bluetooth plugged in his ear despite having had a brain tumour operated on at the age of 24, who, after dating for 3 months, swore "No, we're, like, for real getting married. We're going to have rings and a cake and a party and everything": the marraige about which I never heard of again. Aly and Baker are going to really get married.

And while it may not keep me from going to Kaskade straight after my 11:45pm flight from Paris lands, it does mean that 24-years-old is starting to look very different from 24-year-old to 24-year-old.

And it means that a wicked party is coming up.

 

And I am very, very happy for them.

Hey July

The clock is ticking. Not biologically. Literally. Yesterday was not only Canada Day, but the first day of my last month in Calgary before I depart on a series of adventures, most daunting of which is law school in Toronto. Oh sorry. By Toronto, I mean York. If you're wondering what the difference is, the first photo of "Toronto" that comes up in a google image search is:

Whereas the first photograph that comes up when your search criteria is "York Ontario," is:



That Comfort Inn is making me vastly uncomfortable with this upcoming relocation. Revel in that irony.

So time to make things worth while. More gym, more yoga, more time with friends. Bring in on July.

Shellac Pedicure - you are the bane of my existence

A little while ago I decided that I was going to really indulge and book myself in for a manicure and a pedicure at one of Calgary's fancier spas. When I booked, I told myself I wanted a shellac manicure, and just a regular pedicure to save myself 10 $. But I, ladies and gentlemen, am the biggest sucker, so when the woman on the line asked me if the pedicure was going to be shellac as well, I said "sure." She didn't offer me a deal or anything, I think she just misunderstood and I didn't bother to correct her, hanging up and thinking "What the hell? May as well." Because I think in rhyme.

That was in April.

I bought pure acetone and had to remove the shellac myself last night. I finally decided this was necessary after someone at work, marvelling, asked, "do you have a frech manicure on your toes? Just with grey polish?" I knew my toes were looking bedraggled for a while - a coworker of mine, who owns all her own shellac equipment, would hassle me every time I wore open toed shoes. But I have been wearing shellac on my nails (an attempt to keep them from peeling), so I haven't wanted to go around touching pure acetone. I rigged an ingenious system last night however, wearing dish gloves and weilding acetone-soaked bandaids around each toe. It took some serious time, and I looked ridiculous hobbling around my house on my heels for the 20 minutes it takes the acetone to dissolve the polish, but the shellac pedi is gone.

Let my experience serve as a lesson; no shellac pedicures ever.

Sick Suck

Oh team. I am on the verge of sick. I usually claim to be "on the verge" of being sick long after other people would throw in the towel and claim full "sick" status, but I stubbornly try to fight whatever I clearly already have from the front lines for weeks. I'm like Czechoslovakia when other people are more like France. Which is to say, I think I'm probably already well and properly sick. Sore throat? Check. Watery Eyes? Check. Slight fever? Sigh. Check.

And I am breaking true character, not only by quickly admitting defeat and waving the white flag for these invading forces, but by being a complete and total suck about it. I'm being a baby. I am typically one to soldier on through a cold with very little complaint. Not today.

So rather than complain, I started thinking about all the awesome things to heal what ails you. Literally. My favourite "remedies" are...

1) Soup.
Played out? Maybe, but warm broth or classic chicken noodle, maybe a creamy tomato, on that raw and ravaged throat is the best shit in the world. I just scarfed down an epic bowl of cauliflower soup, and it was nearly a religious experience. I wanted to be baptized in that soup.

2) The Cold Side of the Pillow
I strongly believe that the cold side of the pillow is probably one of life's nicer treats under normal circumstances, but when you're sick, it is that life raft that helps you cling to sanity. However, the desire to occupy the coldest part of my bed also leads to what is quite literally my least favourite thing about being sick; the messy bed. When your top sheet is torn out, wrapped around the bottom of your feet in a bundle, the feathers of your duvet are all shoved in one big pile in your comforter, and, most loathed of all, when your fitted sheet rides up, exposing bare mattress. Whenever I find myself lying, sweating and dribbling on my exposed mattress in an illness induced haze, I feel like Johnny Cash going through withdrawal in Walk the Line. Overreaction? Maybe! But I'm sick! My rational capacities are greatly hindered.

3) Ice cream
Serving the same function as soup, but from the opposite end of the spectrum, who doesn't love some ice cream for a sore throat. Is it awful and countereffective when trying to heal your illness? Very possible - I have an M.A., not a fucking MD PhD. But it feels so nice.

4) Back. Rub.
Whether I drank too much and am puking while a friend is holding my hair and doing it, or I'm fighting flu symptoms and it's my mum, having my back rubbed in long gentle strokes is, bar none, the best feeling when I'm sick. It is the true height of narcissism, but being doted on is all most people want when they're sick, and physical comfort is the most selfish but satisfying kind of TLC a sick person can get. My back always gets so achey when I'm sick, and the long compassionate back rub is the perfect gesture of sympathy and concern. I want to cry thinking about how awesome some back stroking would be right now. But it's ok - my cat will totally cuddle with me.

5) Rain.
I feel like the karmic balance is in my favour when it rains when I'm sick. It's like the world is sick with me. Overcast days make me want to lie in bed and hibernate regardless of how hearty my immune system has been, so when I'm conducting biological warfare on my insides, it's all the better. Not convinced? How much shittier is it to be sick when it's beautiful and sunny out? So. Much. Shittier. And being able to open a window and get that fresh, cool, rain smell into your sick room is a treat.

Alright - pyjamas, a glass of water and my bed are beckoning.


Ps - no pictures? Because all pictures of "sick" are of made up healthy people pretending to be sick, or cartoons. And that's bullshit.

I Like Your Nails...

"Thanks! I wasn't sure about the colour; it's called 'Princesses Rule.'"

"Oh [subdued scoffing laughter], I don't know about that..."

"Well, monarchically speaking it's patently false. But the colour's not bad."

"No, the colour's cute."                                                     

Five Favourite Things Friday!

Because alliteration is fun. And because I kept thinking this week, "man, people need to know about this." AND, it serves as an excellent exercise to look at your life and decide some things about it that are awesome. Some things are mundane and most likely specific idiosyncracies of mine, while others are actual "gettin' the word out" examples of the general excellence circulating society these days.

And we begin with...

one: making my bed

Ok, I am braced to be utterly alone on this. I feel like it's a lost art. When ever I used to strive to clean my house or apartment, it was because someone was going to see it. And more often than not, that would not include the expectation that anyone would be seeing my bed. Right? However, after I moved into a couple of bachelor apartments, where all was visible, I conformed to the external expectations of cleanliness and made my damn bed if I thought people were coming over. And then I just started doing it. And now I love it. My room is tucked away in the least accesible corner of my parents' house - no one will see it but me. Ever. Seriously. But isn't there just something really awesome about crawling into a bed that has been neatly made at the end of the day? You don't have to scrounge at the foot of the bed for your top sheet, and your duvet is all fluffed. In fact, in my internet searching, I found that this was high on the list for the Happiness Project, an endeavour started by author Gretchen Rubin to make small changes in your daily life to make yourself happier. So I'm not alone!

dos: Game of Thrones

The book! This is one of the qualities that I suspect will land me amongst the outliers of weird fantasy-oriented nerds who covet all things Lord of the Rings to most people, but haters, step off.

First of all, if you've bothered to watch the HBO drama, it is exceptionally well done. The plot is less concerned with dragons and witches - though they're certainly there - than it is with the complications of political battles, honour, and pride. Peter Dinklage, who plays the "Imp" Tyrion Lannister, has said in an interview; "I think it's more reality-based than fantasy, personally. And maybe I'm a little bit biased because I sometimes see people of my size, how they're represented in fantasy, they're comical." The themes are universal. And the book actually has me avidly reading before bed. I will head off to bed early so that I can get through a chapter. If you haven't seen the show or picked up the book, you really ought to; if nothing else, it will be a marker of your pop-cultural awareness.

three: Wolf Gang

I have recently, courtesy of my friend Kirsten, been exposing myself to way more music than I used to. Hence Coachella. And at Coachella, the first band we saw - 11 am on the Friday - was Wolf Gang. And their performance may have actually been one of my favourites. It is certainly the band that I have carried with me most since returning from sunny Cali.

f-f-four: healthy omelettes

When I go on a health kick, omelettes are my immediate go to. It is so easy to get yourself a ton of veg and make it taste fucking amazing. And, if done properly (in my humble opinion, of course) you can even have the outside a little crispy, eliminating the desire for some toast on the side. They have become an inextricable part of my morning routine. Today's went awry - just because I was going to take a picture of it, I'm sure - so it was a flat omelette. But, seriously, bask in its glory

I use one whole egg and then a 1/4 cup of egg white, and then I shredded zuchinni (and normally chiffonaded spinach, though I was out this morning). While I am prepping that, there is onion sauteeing away. Once it's soft, I add asparagus, and today I went with some broccoli, a sprinkle of bacon, and a bit of shredded chicken. After letting that cook up a bit, I set it aside in a bowl, add my egg base, sprinkly it with smoked parpika, salt and coarse cracked pepper. I like to add my filling before the egg has cooked all the way through, so it gets incorporated. I polished it off with some low fat cottage cheese. Seriously - try it. It adds that much more lean protein, and the savoury sensation you expect from cheese without being pure fat.

And, appropriately last, as it tends to be how I end my day...

FIVE: Dreaming Tree Crush

A year ago, a favourite wine wouldn't be found anywhere on my blog. I have enjoyed wine for a long time. I was considered my rugby team's resident wino in my first year. But a discerning palate, and experimenting with various wines didn't happen. Now I have a glass (or two) almost every night after work. And when I finally abandoned the stricter rules of the 17 Day Diet, it was to have a glass of wine. And it turned out to be this wine, Dreaming Tree Crush. And it was totally worth it. I picked it up because I liked the label. And I've bought a couple bottles since (can you spot one?).
Described as a North Coast Red, this wine, it turns out, is the result of a collaboration between winemaker Steve Reeder and none other than Dave Mathews. And it's brilliant. Very drinkable, full-bodied and smooth; the bottle reads that it "pulls you in with notes of smoky berry and a pop of raspberry jam." Raspberry jam?? Damn. So good. And a whopping 16.00$. I would love to open a bottle right now, but that would confirm suspicions that I have acquired a drinking problem while living in Calgary.

I'm the Morningest

I have a bunch of grand plans for exciting posts - fur realz, they're all drafted and EVERYTHING - but my parents' impending return home has forced my attention on more domestic affairs, like hiding as best as possible that the house hasn't been vaccuumed for over a month, the fish have been fed biweekly at best and the towering pile of evidence that indicates that my broher and I drink a bottle of wine a night.  Sigh.

But for now, I would like to share an alarming revelation of adulthood: I fucking love mornings. I'm a goddamn morning person! Case in point: It is 7 am. I have gone for a run, stretched, showered, dressed, had a cup of coffee, checked my personal and work emails, paid a parking ticket and, basically, conquered the slothful laziness of youth.

I used to be a person who would sleep until 2 pm and rejoice. Like it was some great accomplishment: give me my I'm-cool-I-don't-give-a-fuck-sleeping-in trophy nao plz. However, such boldness should probably be tempered with some sort of abundently active post-2pm life. Which I hardly posses now. My job has me rather tuckered by the time I get the hell out of there at 6:00ifI'mlucky. I usually want to dive straight into a glass of wine (see above). So exercise, household chores, etc, simply don't happen as is. So if I want to get shit done, it's got to happen before I leave for work at 8:00. So, basically, the flipside of conquering Spain before most people have had coffee is that you have to sacrifice the standard night life enjoyed by most.

I care not. I rock the Kasbah. And I beat my best 1 mile time this morning (the crowd goes crazy).

Love you.

When I Dip You Dip, We Dip

Ok, I just stumbled across a blog post on "hip dips." This is a phenomenon which I have bemoaned under the title "my 3 inverse-3." Ever since I went through puberty, I had marvelled and cringed over the fact that I don't have hips; I have love handles and saddlebags and this flat indented portion in between. I had attributed this to going through puberty at the turn of the millenium, when low slung Silver jeans were my uniform, adhered to my body with thick riveted black belts. Seriously -what were we thinking? But no - this is not some obscure poor-fashion-induced phenomenon I would learn to rue (more than the photographic evidence that I really dressed like that): it's a thing, and others call it, much more articulately, hip dips.
This post on The Skinny tumblr made clear this most loathed part of my body (and my friends' bodies - Aly! It's a thing!) is all nature, not nurture. It is an unavoidable part of our physiology. Which means everyone has it. Even. Ryan. Gosling.

Ok, now go read that article right this instant.

Surviving Calgary Summer, Aid 1

For those who have not had the distinct pleasure of spending time in Calgary Alberta, I will let you in on a mixed blessing of this city; it is dry. This means that the hot weather that sent me scurrying for a/c in Montreal is simply blissful in Calgary. It does, however, mean that you dry out. Hands, hair skin; there is a lot to be said about the benefits of humidty.

With my schedule in flux, and trying, still, to get myself into a sustainable routine, moisturizing was not top priority. However, as I started to undertake a health revolution for my body - eating better and exercising more - I stumbled across a solution to that problem as well.

Walking in the doors of Planet Organic, I saw a display for this half-off organic coconut oil. I think the discount was because the label happens to be in French, which as far as skin care goes, actually makes it more covetable (if L'Oreal, L'Occitane, or La Mer are any indication). As I contemplated the jar, I remembered that at my highschool sweetheart's home, there had always been a jar of coconut oil in their shower. His brother had often suffered from dry and ashy skin, despite living on the West Coast, and nothing rehydrated his skin better than coconut oil. I had always skimmed from his supply when I had the chance, but after high school I had made one solid attempt at bringing coconut oil into my skin care regime: the Body Shop will sell you a rather miniscule bottle of oil for an arm and a leg, and as an all-over body moiturizer it just didn't go far enough for my student budget. Real coconut oil, however, is more solid, and can be applied so easily; it's a creamy solid when you are scooping it out of the jar - this helps to make sure it doesn't simply run through your fingers like astraight oil tends to - and melts once you start applying it to your skin.  And if you find the right brand, you will smell subtley and deliciously like coconut. Real coconut. Not an overwhelming coconut-perfume - just a hint of sweetness that will disappear into what ever fragrence you wear.

Oh yeah. And it works. My skin, particularly on my hands, is softening right up. The downside is that you need to give it some time to soak in - I always slick myself down straight out of the shower (but tie your hair up!), throw on a robe and pop to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and some breakfast before getting dressed. If you're strapped for time, stick to Aveeno and avoid ruining an outfit with oil stains.

I love that it was nice enough out for a natural backdrop for my photoshoot. She Ra loved it too: