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.