the lost gift of giving

I used to be, like, THE best gift giver. Back in the day, everything I picked was right - unique, personal, a demonstration of the fact that I really knew the person I was giving to. They were the kind of gifts no one else really thought about, but everyone, deep down, would want.

Then something happened. It seems to have coincided with my return to Canada from Korea five years ago (where every gift was an event because of the cool cultural distinction). Either I used up my power of discernment/good taste/creativity, or else I just don't know people like I used to. Or all the perfect gifts have been found, I've covered all the basis and now there's nothing left to give. Or, even more likely, my "gift" for giving has gone to my head and I've weighed myself down with the emphasis on perfection and IT'S TOO MUCH PRESSURE ON ME IN THE STORE!!

Whatever it is, I'm in a gift giving slump.

I was plagued by this today, as I flitted from specialty shop to specialty shop looking for THE best-ever wedding gift for some friends that are getting married this weekend. Add to the challenge the fact that they already have everything, including the coolest decor, and definite ideas on style.

While I was at it, I thought I'd keep an eye open for a friend who's birthday passed by in July. Since she lives a ways from here, I want to send an entire birthday package, which by its nature includes more than one thing. I have several things already. What's missing is a focus - the main event. There has to be a main event in terms of packages or else it's like taking a picture with someone's head cut off.

I found nothing. Nothing for Shazza and Dean, and nothing for Dionne. I did find a great, handcrafted ring at Funk-tion-al ($21), a small cabinet at Tangerine Trading Company (on sale half price for $100!!) and a gorgeous painting at The Water Garden for $130 . . . for me, I mean. No, I didn't buy them (yet). That would be a-moral.

I did shop that way, once, in Korea. I was in the Garden Department Store, looking for a gift for my brother-in-law, when I spied this really gorgeous, Art Nouveau style Ichinoo belt. I bought it, and had no money left for Rob, who ended up going giftless. I still can't wear that belt, to this day, though I do admire it whenever I see it hanging in my closet. Perhaps I should gift it (maybe even to Rob).

Anyway, the lesson I've learned in all of this is to buy gifts right away, as soon as you see something cool. Then tuck it in the magic gift closet until a birthday or Christmas - or live spontaneously and give it right then and there. An un-birthday present. Why not?

I think Denys Finch-Hatton (Out of Africa) had it right in his approach to giving: generous throughout the year but don't expect anything birthdays or Christmas. It's more meaningful, in a way, to give that way instead of when you're "required" to. It's also more fun.

Of course, that doesn't help me with Shannon and Dean. I have three more days left, and not a lot of time. Eh bien, that's what registries are for, I suppose. Sometimes it's better to just give something (anything!) than to hold off because you don't have "the best."

off with her head

For years, now, non-Imperialist Canadians have been talking about shaking up our monetary artwork by using genuine Canadian figure heads - people who have actually contributed to the development of this weird and wonderful landscape - instead of the dowdy and not-so-Canadian queen.

For a fleeting moment, just this morning, I thought they got somewhere. There, on the new $20 bill, I would have sworn I saw Yoda. Yoda! Cool, I thought, Yoda's the new face of the $20 bill. How . . . Canadian?? Except, of course, he's not really Canadian. And why's he got his hair all coiffed and primped like that? Then it hit me: Yoda, it is not. Queen Elizabeth, it is.

I'll bet she's not amused. I know I wouldn't be, all done up and looking like a 900 year-old swamp-dweller. "Off with my head," I'd demand, before putting the artist in stocks and feeding him tiger prawns from the new Joey Tomatoes. "There," I'd taunt. "How do you like being green?! Doesn't feel so good, now, does it?"

It's not that I think that royalty should be placed upon a pedestal. But if you're going to make a statement about not wanting to fall under the scepter of an old woman who thinks that dropping a puck on centre ice once during her reign makes her an honourary hoser, replace her with someone who matters - Bob and Doug Mackenzie, for example, or Red Green, or Bubbles. Don't portray her as a fictional character from the planet Dagobah. Passive aggressiveness accomplishes little. I know. I'm passive aggressive, and it doesn't work.

What did amuse me was the way the CBC on line reported the change as a "facelift"
http://sympatico.msn.cbc.ca/story/business/national/2004/08/25/newtwentybill_040825.html In the portrait, she needs a facelift.

Apparently, artist Bill Reid, an internationally known sculptor, carver and jeweler often credited with the revival of Northwest Coast Native art, has his work featured on the back (no word on whether or not he's also responsible for the front). I haven't seen that side of the bill, yet, and probably won't until it's released Sept. 29, and so can only hope it's got a little more eye appeal. After all, the value of a bill runs deeper than just what you can buy with it. It speaks to a culture. What is this bill saying? The Force is with us??

Anyway, I think it only appropriate to give the last word to the green one (Yoda, not Liz): "Sick have I become. Old and weak. When 900 years old you reach, look as good you will not. Hmm?"

kickin' ass

Ahhh, caffeine.

I feel it penetrate my veins as I perch in front of my computer screen, green cup firmly in hand. A smile passes, unexpectedly, across my face.

Mellow, warm, inviting, the aroma of freshly brewed joe is one that's been foreign to my abode these last, oh, three weeks. It's always an ordeal for me to buy coffee when I'm out, because the specialty stuff that I prefer is off the beaten track and I only remember that I want it first thing in the morning when I reach for the round, white canister that's supposed to hold it . . . and it's empty, again. That, and I suppose life would just be too simple and enjoyable if coffee was always at hand and that would be no fun.

This time was different, though. I had just spoken to Leo Johnson from Kicking Horse Coffee in Invermere, B.C., and was inspired to try one of his coffees for a change. I think it was his edgy-cool-guy-meets-coffee-snob approach that lured me in. He refuses to "just grind out coffee" like everyone else (i.e. they only sell whole bean and insist it be ground by the serving for optimum freshness), and their primary focus is on blends. "That's where the art is," he stressed.

But I have to admit, the biggest attraction was the idea of offering some conservative, unassuming visitor (like my mom) a cup of Kick Ass coffee. "No, really," I'd say when her mouth fell open, "That's what it's called. That's the name." Johnson says that the novelty factor is high: "I get a lot of seniors calling up with, 'I just love that Kick Ass.'" Other cool names, all inspired by the Rockies where they're located, are Three Sisters, Grizzly Claw, Cliff Hanger, Hoodoo Joe, 454 Horsepower and Rundel Rock. Oh, and their coffee is also fair trade and organic - and, the clincher, available at IGA, right behind my house.

Without missing a beat, I went and bought myself a bag - $17, I think it was - and brought it home. Never mind the fact that I don't have a coffee grinder. Like that's going to stop me? I'll just buy one, I decided. Yeah, three weeks and $30 worth of coffeeshop quick-hits later. It was either that or start gnawing through the whole beans with my teeth.

Yesterday afternoon I broke down and hit our local London Drugs for a decent grinder - A Cuisinart, brushed metal one that matches my brewer. $50! I bring it home. Wash the bowl and blade and grind away. Put the coffee on. Wait. Pour. . . and it SUCKS big time. What did I do wrong? Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale?

I dumped it, on my way out the door to an event I was already late for, in favour of a Caramel Macchiato from you know where - which made me even later but this was about priorities.

This morning, I decided that it was the grind - or perhaps lack of it - that was to blame, not the coffee or the actual grinder per se. The Kicking Horse "Rules" ("1. Grind Kicking Horse Coffee just before brewing. This way you get the most flavour out of your coffee. Pre-ground deteriorates rapidly;" "2. The proper grind is very important. If you grind too fine the result will be a bitter cup of coffee and too course will make the coffee weak" - yeah, guess which one I did) were thoughtful, but threw me off (why do I always overthink EVERYTHING?!). This morning, I whizzed the life out of it, not caring if I made it bitter as long as it had a taste.

It was - is - as I already described, perfect. And with an added bonus - my entire house smells like a coffee shop from the grinding AND brewing of the vice. Heaven in a cup.

Oh, and there was an advantage to be had in going without for as long as I did, in the elevated pleasure hit when I resumed. Just hearing the coffee poured into my cup, gurgling joyfully all the way up, made me want to weep with the pleasure of it.

And now, as I sit and slurp, and words again flow easily out of my fingers and onto the screen, I feel that all, again, is right with the world - or at least my corner of it. It is, indeed, a Kick Ass day.

bringing home the gold

"Lori-Ann wins gold in Olympic cycling sprint" the headlines proclaim. I so love seeing that, even though they forgot the 'e' ... and I wasn't actually in Greece this week and I've never won a race on my bike in my life except maybe with my niece and nephew (age 10 and 8 respectively).
Still.

I used to dream, when I was in Grade 10 and newly enamoured of the Tour de France (back in the Greg Lamond as king of the road days), of being a cyclist. I even bought myself a black, top-of-the-line Canadian Tire 10-speed to train with. At $98.95 plus tax, that was more than two days wages from this draconian part time job I hated more than death itself. Blood, sweat and tears, let me tell you. My training regime at the time consisted of riding like a bat out of hell from my home to the "100 Stairs" behind Hollywood Road, running up them, walking down and then peddling home totally knackered. I think I did it once. Then the bike got stolen and that was the end of my potential as the future female Lance Armstrong.

I still love riding, though (strictly for pleasure, mind you), and consider Queen's Bicycle Races song to be a bit of an anthem. There's nothing like getting on and working the legs, breeze in the hair (no, I will not wear a helmet), gliding in strides down the road. "I like to ride my bicycle; I like to ride my bike. I like to ride my bicycle; I like to ride it where I like. . . "

You don't hear of many Lori-Annes (with or without the "correct" spelling of an added 'e'), so it's kind of cool that the one who wins a gold at the Olympics does it for cycling. And she's Canadian to boot. Come to think of it, I think I read she's 38. That's five years older than me. A person could accomplish a lot in that time . . . some serious training, nose to the grindstone, . . . perhaps it's not too late after all. Hmmm. . . I think Canadian Tire might even have a sale on right now - and those 100 stairs are looking pretty appealing. . . !

fcuk rain

The current favourite in my not-small umbrella collection is a bold red one I bought a year ago last April, with the with words "FCUK Rain" emblazoned around the circumference. Yes, it's blatant branding (FCUK is French Connection United Kingdom, one of my favourite stores despite the fact that I have to pay them to to do their advertising), but it spoke to my attitude toward the rain this particular morning. The plan was a long-anticipated bike ride to my favourite Sunday morning breakfast spot and I was rained out. I used the umbrella to get me to and from the car to drive there, instead. Still good, but not the same.

Most of the brollies in my current collection have been favourites at one time or another, for various and diverse reasons. The coolest was one I can't use any more because the first time I went out with it, it disintegrated in my very hands. I think it's because it was old - I mean really old, from an antique shop somewhere, possibly London (a gift from a best mate who lives there). After about three minutes in Vancouver's polluted rain I heard a "shup-shup" sound and two seams were torn from bottom to top. Thus, the FCUK purchase. A pity, really, as it was a cool, classic Asian shape - flat across the circumference, coming to a dangerous point at the top, and with a v. cool giant metal ring for a handle. I still have it. May even repair it some day.

My green umbrella is a left over relic from a relationship in Korea. It's really nothing out of the ordinary as far as style is concerned, but sheltered a number of very good memories. For the longest time after I came home I wouldn't let anyone else use it - a weird little superstition I nurtured, but now all sentimental value has gone from it and it's just another way to keep the rain off.

Also from Korea is my "dungle-dungle" umbrella (the expression in Korean my friend used to describe what I was looking for to store clerks). It's black with a white edge around the bottom and it's gloriously round ("dungle" means something along the lines of "round and fat"). It always gets comments when I use it.

My all-time favourite, though, was my Ralph Lauren brolly, with leather handle and quality, cotton fabric sporting a rich-looking green polo plaid and golden metal tip, which was getting really scratched up before it was maliciously stolen and pawned by someone I know when I wasn't looking. I used it a lot in England, and when it wasn't raining (which it inevitably didn't do whenever I brought it along on excursions to London) I used it as a designer walking stick.

People don't use umbrellas much in Kelowna, which really gets me worked up when I see them walking like hang-dogs through the pouring rain, sometimes with a soggy paper over the head (how does that help the white t-shirt you're wearing, miss?). I'm not sure what they have against umbrellas. Maybe its because we refuse to believe it really rains here in the California of Canada?? Whatever.

Not that I've never been caught short (it really is sunny, usually - sometimes even while the rain is coming down). But even when that happens I refuse to adopt hang-dog position. When you walk through the storm, hold your head up high, the song says, so that's my approach. Sometimes, doing so is even more fun than using an umbrella - but only on occasion, otherwise you just become one of the pathetic, ill-prepared and that would never do.

Columnist Russell Smith just had a great rant on brollies in yesterday's Globe and Mail. For a good (and relatively short) read click this link: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/ArticleNews/TPStory/LAC/20040821/RUSSELL21/Columnists/Columnist?author=Russell+Smith

starting somewhere

There's an absurd little word I picked up living in England that I used to joke about often and continue to be intrigued with. It's the word, "innit." It's not a real word - it's actually a lazy way of saying "isn't it" - but I think the people who use it most have forgotten this along the way and it's created a definition, and indeed an entire life, of its own.

I say this because only rarely - and usually by accident - is it used with anything even resembling grammatical correctness (which, of course, is pointless anyway since it's not a real word). It would be one thing to say something along the lines of, "It's hot out today, innit?" Lazy, yes, but at least we're clear. How you'll more often hear it used, though, is tagged on to statements or questions that have nothing to do with the key defining word "is." "Well, that could take a while, innit?" "You have to put it back where you found it, innit?" I could go on and on.

I later learned from my British mate, Pete, that there's a formula that can be employed if one wants a bit of street cred (still not sure of the importance of tying in with the word "is" in this instance).

P: It's going to rain today, innit?
L-A: Is it?
P: Yeah.

Just like that. It's actually really catchy when you start to get into it. But I digress. I tell you this because, since I have to start this blog somewhere I thought I might as well let you in on the enigmatic name (I know, "innit" enigmatic? Whatever!). I like it because it's about breaking the rules, doing things your own way and having fun while you do. This is me. This is who I am - as long as I'm not in anyone's face about it. Why do things have to be a certain way? Why "isn't it" and not "innit?" I think we could all use a little more "innit" in our lives.

This is my second blog, now. The first one locked me out after I messed around with the password. It was a jog blog, chronicle my steps toward an October marathon that I finally quit (so it's just as well the blog ended). It's still there, I think - www.thejogblog.blogspot.com if you want to have a look. It was focused, for the most part, on that part of me - the runner, or wannabe runner part. I think this one will explore other areas of my life. I don't know what, just yet - I guess whatever comes along.

After all, that's the beauty of a blog called "innit." Innit?