downtown

The request was made on Kyle's blog, for a sampling of our recently received engagement photos, but I've decided to answer it myself on this blog.

Some background: We had an awesome time with our ingenue photographer, Melissa (who will be floating around during the wedding as well, capturing our visages to their best effect), last month, taking prewedding/engagement pics downtown and at Mission Hill Estate Winery. Obviously, I can't show you all 509, so I've selected just a smattering of my favourites.

Since my CD drive is overwhellmed by the volume, I've only loaded the first 100 or so shots onto my computer. So today's blog entry features only our rainy day pics from the downtown session. Enjoy, and feel free to gush!

never too late to take off your clothes

They’ve been dubbed “the Scandalwood girls” by some, but the women of Sandalwood Retirement Resort in Kelowna are unfazed. This week, they celebrate the release of their first ever “girly” calendar – a fundraising project with a lot of skin that proves the old gals have still got it.

Like the calendar girls in the 2003 British flick, 25 otherwise conservative women from Sandalwood exchanged their straight-laced apparel for something a little bit more risqué during a day-long photo shoot in September.

“We may be old now, but we have young ideas,” said Norah Simpson - aka Ms. March - one of the spearheaders of the idea.

The project came about after a group viewing of Calendar Girls. Simpson was having tea with co-conspirator Dodi Redmond (Ms. January) a day later, when the conversation turned to the movie.

“We said, ‘we could do that,’” Redmond related.

So they went to activity director Susan McQuoid and shared their idea. She said she’d organize it if they could get 12 women, one for every month, willing to show some skin for the camera.

“We had 25 signed up, and another 50 said they wished they had,” McQuoid said.

While they didn’t take it all off, like their movie star counterparts, the flirtatious girls of Sandalwood may have set a new precedent with their age. Their youngest model is 77 years of age; their oldest is 97.

Doris Bafford was the senior model of the group. She posed in high heels and something purple for the calendar’s cover.

“It shatters the stereotype of retirement facilities,” said Kristin Kornell, the facility’s director for enhanced living.

“A lot of times people have the idea that retirement means slowing down. This just shows retirement can be the spice of life. These ladies are more confident, more sassy, now than maybe even when they were 20.”

Most say they would never have dreamed of posing for a calendar like this in their 20s.

“I wouldn’t have posed in a bathing suit when I was younger – never,” said Pat Gibbeson. “We weren’t allowed to be this way when we were 20 – to put your shoulder out and your leg up.
Now, we’re free to express ourselves.”

For her Ms. May shot, Gibbeson appears as a sexy scholar, in a micro-mini, bandeau-style graduation gown and cap, behind a stately desk.

Other months feature naughty maids, bathing beauties, rowdy cowgirls, and the busy bees knitting club sporting only strategically placed knit blankets.

According to McQuoid, the women had no inhibitions. Simpson, who posed as a sassy leprechaun in a short skirt and feather boa, playfully threatened to wear only shamrock pasties.

“You get more daring when you get older,” Redmond said. “This may be our last chance.”

McQuoid is quick to point out, however, that there is no pornography going on in Sandalwood.

“Everyone is still prim and proper,” she stressed.

All the models had the support of their families and friends.

“My family can’t wait to see them,” Gibbeson said.

“They all say, ‘good for you guys,’” Redmond added.

The fear now is that the 1,000 calendars initially printed off may not be enough. Close to 350 were pre-sold before anyone even saw the pictures.

Money from the sales will go to Sandalwood’s staff bursary fund, to assist staff members who want to continue their education. Last year, residents raised $2,000 by selling snacks in an on-site tuck shop. This year, they expect to triple that, thanks to the calendars.

But while the money goes to a good cause, the bigger value will probably be the memories made by those involved. It’s not often that the girls get quite that gussied up. Jewellry was provided on loan by Fifth Avenue Jewellry, and Sandalwood’s official Mary Kay consultant donated the make-up.

“They were feeling classy and sassy,” McQuoid said.

“It was a fun, great day. We felt like we were in this world – come on, let’s go! – and not in a retirement place,” explained Redmond.

“I felt proud to be 84,” Gibbeson said. “I saw those bare legs, the net stockings, and thought, ‘wow!’”

They’re now making plans for next year’s issue.

“Of course the guys need to do one next year,” Gibbeson noted.

“Yeah, in the full Monty,” added Redmond.

Yes, they assured me, they’ve always been this cheeky.

booked

An unwritten but much talked about resolution for this year was to stop buying books. No, it wasn't an attempt to reach out to my Neanderthal roots. Quite the contrary.

You see, I have a problem. My name is Lori-Anne and I am a book-a-holic. I love buying books. So much so, in fact, that in recent years I've bought and bought and bought without ever finding the time to read my purchases.

This year, I decided to sit down and actually start to read what I have accumulated - starting with Ulysses, which I blogged about more than a year ago (still haven't cracked the spine on that one) and then maybe venturing into A Star Called Henry (Roddy Doyle), The Skystone (Jack Whyte) and the old Canadian classic, Who Has Seen the Wind (W.O Mitchell).

Mark me 0/4. I have read, though - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Mark Haddon), The Song Beneath the Ice (Joe Fiorito - although does it count if it's been over a year and I still haven't finished it?) Why I Hate Canadians (Will Ferguson) and, oh, The Bible (which I started with Kyle, in April. We're now into Leviticus).

There are stacks of books, all over my house. Stacks and shelves of unread books. It's shameful, really. Yesterday I broke my resolution and ventured into a second hand bookstore on Pandosy - one of Kelowna's only decent ones (thus this blog entry). I heard that Memoirs of a Geisha was coming soon to a theatre near me and decided I really had to read the real thing before seeing someone else's hacked-up interpretation of it. I'm about to start Chapter 4, so at least it hasn't gone straight to a shelf.

There's something about bookstores, though, that makes me desire more books. Maybe it's the tall towers - sometimes arranged maze-like, full of knowledge (or at least ideas) and adventure. Each package of bound-together pages is a door into another life or a world that the reader can inhabit. Sometimes it's almost overwhelming.

I've tried, in my purchasing habits, to stick to a theme - classics, Can Lit, music, art - and then I come across a crazy gem such as A Last Diary, by W.N.P. Barbellion (don't know who he is but think of the possibilities - "March 21st, 1918. - Misery is protean in its shapes, for all are indescribable. I am tongue-tied. Folk come and see me and conclude it's not so bad after all - just as civilians tour the front and suppose they have seen war on account of a soldier with a broken head or an arm in a sling. Others are getting used to me, though I am not getting used to myself," he begins. So I buy it, even though it doesn't fit into any theme).

I still haven't read beyond that, of course.

If I had more time, I'd read all the time. I know people who read on the train or the bus, on their breaks or after work. I'm not going to break down my schedule for you, but it seems there's always something else to fill that spot. So I buy, rationalizing in some crazy way that to own is as good as to read, and if my shelves are well stocked and my room nicely furnished with interesting books, I will be a better person for it.

I'm still not convinced that's altogether far-fetched - a room full of literature and music and art is still balancing, even if it isn't dwelt upon.

Why do you think book stores are so cool?

Someday I'd like to open my own secondhand book shop (with an adjoining tea room), and just be surrounded by great books - novels, diaries, history books, art anthologies, travel journals, the list goes on. And then, oh yes, I might even have a chance to sit down and read, between customers.

Until then, I might just keep on buying, pointlessly. At least until I find a more productive hobby.

election coverage

As I write this, I'm waiting for periodic calls from my Province editor, Shannon (for those of you who haven't yet, you'll meet her at the wedding), clarifying stuff on the Okanagan election coverage I provided this evening. Kelowna, Vernon and Penticton. Her last call was checking on whether the new mayor of Penticton is Jake Kimberly (as I dashed off in a maddened frenzy) or Kimberley (with the second 'e'). Answer: the second 'e' should be there.

It's craziness, this election business. My deadline, for example, was 9:50 p.m. to get results of all three cities, AND pics of the Kelowna winner. The polls only close at 8 p.m., and then not only do we have to wait for results to be announced, we then have to track down the winning candidate. To help us, there's this requirement called "zzz copy" (or "zed copy," which I accidentally called "dead copy" because I didn't hear right and I'm not up on all the newsroom jargon. Yeah, Shannon loved that one). What it is, is writing the story ahead of time, with the important stuff (names, numbers) left out, to be added later.

Well, Shannon told me to write all my dead copy as though Walter Gray had won in Kelowna, since he's been mayor for three terms/nine years and hasn't actually done anything to piss anyone off. I suspected Sharon Shepherd could be the winner, but it was a long shot since incumbents usually win because people hate voting in municipal elections and those who do vote usually pick who they know - those who are already in office.

So I write the copy, and submit, then head to Gray headquarters for a pic and comments on winning, plans for the next term (are you bored yet?) etc. As I'm leaving, the numbers are just starting to come in, (it's after 8 p.m. now), and show Sharon Shepherd in the lead. $#!+.

So I RIP down to Shepherd's constituency office, where she's already making the speeches. It's about 8:30 p.m., and I start shooting pics (stupidly I had my flash on so there are cookie cutter shadows around her which looks bad). The reporters are all there, already, taking pics and notes (although, talking to one photog I know I found out the Daily Courier made the same mistake and angled everything in favour of Gray).

As soon as she's done, before she's even off her little platform, I'm in there, asking Shepherd how she feels about being the first female mayor of Kelowna. Just as she starts to answer, this ignorant CKOV guy sticks a phone to her ear and starts asking her questions for a broadcast, leading her away to a quiet area. MY DEADLINE!!! Remember, I now have to start from scratch (practically) on this story and still be done by 9:50 p.m.

Finally, CKOV Guy is done with her and I ask her a couple of quickie questions before running (literally) from the building and tearing home (well past the speed limit since I live across town) to write what I have. Along the way, Shannon calls, and I update her.

I get home just before 9 p.m. and start pounding the keys. Check the results for Vernon and Penticton, and the long shots in both those towns also won. Ga! More revamping. Fortunately, Shannon's done some zzz/dead copy on Vernon, so all I need to do is insert names.

Penticton arrived after 10 p.m. (giving Shazza less than 20 minutes to edit, question and have ready for her own, page deadline. No sooner was that finished and she had to jump to the Victoria/Nanaimo page, which was supposed to be to her by 10:20 so she could have the page done by 10:50. (addendum: she didn't get Victoria until after 10:40 p.m. which makes me feel a little better)

And within all this madness they expect you to also be accurate! I just hope it's intelligible.

The things I do for money ($250 in about three hours tonight!) I'll never understand. I'd really rather open a tearoom/book shop somewhere and write fiction. Oh - and vote for Pedro!

me-ow!

Rudyard Kipling had a great understanding of cats. "I am the cat that walks alone and all things are the same to me," he made the first Cat say, repeatedly, in his classic short story, The Cat That Walked Alone.

He could have been writing about my car. A Jaguar - named after a species of cat for reasons appreciated only by those who have owned both cats and Jags. Like your average house cat (or even the feral kind - why limit it?), my car has a mind of its own. If there's something in it for it, it might decide to cooperate. If not, don't even ask. Some days it loves you, others it's happier pretending you don't exist.

I took it in to the only British car mechanic in town last week, to get it wedding ready. I figure that, now that I have the thing, I might as well use it for one of the most important days of my life. Make it worth the investment.

When I stopped driving it, the front driver's side triangle window had been taken out by vandals. The brights went on automatically when I turned my driving lights on, pissing off everyone I passed at night; the back brake lights didn't work (I used to turn the parking lights on whenever I stopped so some sort of light would come on in back to warn people of my stopping), and, oh, billows of smoke appeared from under the hood within seconds of starting it.

I had pretty much sworn off cats as cars, and the thing has been languishing in my mum's garage (much to her chagrin) for the past three years.

Well, it's back, now, and my affection for it was renewed whilst driving it home - "motoring" through the curvey roads of East Kelowna, gliding through the town traffic (turning heads all the way) and pulling up to my house. I then drove Kyle to the airport - or rather he drove himself - for his bachelor weekend in Vancouver. So to my Grandma's, to collect my supper, and home (it's home; my mum's).

The thing drives like a dream. It's like riding a cloud. Because it's so wide and solid, you just float over bumps, feeling practically nothing. Turning heads as you do is just the icing on the cake.

Still, it takes premium, 94 octane petrol ($1.13/l vrs. $.99 regular), gets only 15 miles to the gallon (20 on the highway - makes Kyle's SUV seem environmentally friendly), and goes through motor oil almost as quickly (question: how do you know it's time to add oil to a Jag? When it stops dripping).

According to Kyle, who drove behind me on the way home from the mechanic's (who's name is Mike, so Mike and the Mechanics), the brake lights were working fine, as were the signal lights. Then again, my lights seemed to work fine on the way home from the airport - but as I left my grandma's, they were back to brights only - - Cats!

But we'll use it for the wedding. Get our $244 of work worth out of it (supposedly we shouldn't have to add any oil before then), and then retire the beast back to the garage. Maybe in the future we'll have the engine overhauled (we being me and Kyle - he probably didn't realize he was getting THREE high maintenance divas out of the deal - Me, Sarah, Jag), and have the interior redone.

That's the other thing about cats - they tend to grow on you to the point that, just when you think you've had enough, they start to purr, and your heart just melts all over again. And, oh, you should hear my Jaguar purr!

minute of silence

I was sitting in a coffee shop called Second Cup (yes, a chain - - but at least it's Canadian???) drinking a chai latte with Kyle when 11 a.m. rolled around. Being 11 a.m. (according to my watch), we decided to take a moment of silence, while everyone around us chatted, laughed, and continued slurping their coffees.

I thought about that - that there I was, in a coffee shop, drinking chai latte with people all around me, chatting, laughing, slurping coffee, while veterans gathered around cenotaphs to remember their fallen comrades, and their own experiences at war.

Is this what they died for? I pondered to myself. Yes, ironically, I think it is.

I'm so fascinated by these men, and their stories. I want to call them stories of bravery and courage, but in fact many of them didn't have a choice. They were kids, a lot of them, on a battle field, fighting someone else's war. Their stories are, in my opinion, stories of survival.

This year, leading up to Remembrance Day, I interviewed a Japanese PoW who helped build "The Death Railway" (because the soldiers that died on it were as many as the ties they put down) from Malaya to Burma, and an infantry vet who was nearly decapitated after his tank took out a German Panther tank in Italy and the two anti-tank guns beside it fired back (the last words his gunner spoke were "I got him, sir!" It's him this sgt remembers every Nov. 11). I also spoke with a Korean War photographer and several war brides. Their stories are riveting.

But before I get too deep, my minute finished on a rather light, amusing note this year. You see, the coffee shop didn't forget to remember after all, and at c. 11:01 (obviously their clocks are not set to the CBC) a barista got everyone's attention and announced she was going to set the timer for one minute, and would everyone in the crowded shop please respect our veterans with silence. The whole shop - those at the full-up tables and the long line in front of the counter, did so. The chatter stopped. The blenders and grinders behind the counter were quiet, as everyone began to reflect.

And then.

A man walked in, unaware of what time it was. All eyes fell on him, as everyone continued their micro-vigil of quiet. He felt the awkwardness, and didn't know how to respond. It was like the room went dead upon his entry. No one moved. Everyone watched.

"Wow, that's one hell of a line-up," he offered.

Silence.

"I guess I'll just get in line."

More staring.

Then, I think, he realized what was happening, and fell into step. When the timer sounded and the barista said thank-you, he was the first to speak - "sorry, I didn't realize at first what was going on," he said to no one in particular and everyone in general.

I'll bet that's one Remembrance Day he'd just as soon forget.

commercial break

In an attempt to continue to keep you, my audience, rapt, while actually delaying my next entry, I've decided to quickly jot down some of the things I WANT to write about, and would, in fact, post ... if only I had the time. Before you accuse me of copping out, try working full-time whilst planning the wedding of the century. It's not as easy as it sounds.

If it helps, think of this as a commercial for future blogs. Coming soon to a blogspot near you:

*Trying to plan aforementioned wedding of the century when you have no time to wash your own dishes never mind get a wedding dress dry cleaned or, um, fitted, because all you do is work, work, work - and trying doing same without turning into bridezilla

* Missive on obtaining marriage license, yesterday morning (Yay! I think that makes us half married!)

* Something on having engagement photos taken with Kyle, yesterday morning in downtown Kelowna.

* Why oh why did I buy a 1971 Jag, and the madness of trying to have it wedding-ready

* Conversations with veterans I interviewed for Remembrance Day stories and what I got out of it

* FINALLY watching Napoleon Dynamite and how it's flipping sweet.

Stay tuned . . .

(and feel free to post comments on these blog ideas now just in case they don't get to see the light of day once I'm institutionalized and not allowed near electronic - read computer - equipment)

little miss independent

One of my favourite bloggers recently posted accolades for the return of Starbucks Eggnog Latte (you know who you are Amanda). Almost as though a bell went off, I began to salivate a few words into reading. I love eggnog lattes and I can't wait to indulge in one (I'm pretty sure they're not here yet - we're still on pumpkin spice and friends). Ditto gingerbread lattes. More salivation.

This year, however, I won't be buying mine from Starbucks (insert group gasp here).

The other night I went to the premier of a documentary made by some friends of mine, called Independent America: The Two-Lane Search for Mom & Pop (http://www.independentamerica.net/). Hanson Hosein and Heather Hughes, two journalists from Kelowna, drove across America with their dog Miles last summer, avoiding all interstate highways, corporate chain restaurants, motels and stores. Along the way, they interviewed customers and owners of Mom & Pop shops and documented the growing retail insurgency and its effects in little towns (and even ghost towns) along the way. Who knew shopping could be so political?

It was facinating to learn the havoc large corporations wreak on communities economically - not just because they take business away from the independents, eventually forcing them to close, but in terms of wages (low), and the percentage that's put back into the community (miniscule).

I've always preferred independent restaurants to chains (everything from McDonalds to Olive Garden), not only because it's nice to support local endeavours but because you get something different. Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse but it's never not an adventure.

I've also lived quite hapily hating Wal-Mart and McDonalds and their ilk, although mostly for reasons of sheer snobbery. Watching Independent America, I realized there's a deeper issue at stake than the proliferation of tacky living and cheapness. It's like a corporate conspiracy, destroying all remnants of originality. Every town in North America looks essentially the same. Of course there's the obvious - McDonalds, Starbucks and Walmart, but who out there doesn't have a Safeway? or a Costco? Is no one immune? Then there's Pier 1, Home Depot, Chapters (in Canada) or Borders (in America), HMV, Gap, Blockbuster Video . . . where does it end? Why do we need to travel? Why step beyond the city limits?

Admittedly, there are flaws to independent shopping. You have a smaller selection, higher prices, less flexibility, and sometimes, yes, crappy service. But you also get something different. something unique. Tomatoes fresh from the garden, an original work of art, an out-of-print book. And the knowledge that your money is going to a person that lives in your community, who will then spend it in your community, and not some wanker at the top of the corporate food chain.

So I've decided to try the 10% rule. At least to start with. That's the amount of purchases I'm going to aim to make local. Only 10%, at least for now. It's not much, when you think about it. It's picking the Bean Scene over Starbucks, Mosaic Books over Chapters (they have a coffee shop inside as well), Blonde (clothes) over Le Chateau or the Oriental Supermarket over the "exotic" aisle at Stupid Store.

I realize I need big box stores for some things - especially as the mom's & pops become fewer and farther between. But if I can shop there when I can, I know it will make my life more rich (if more expensive at times) and definately more unique.

And I like the Bean Scene's eggnog latte - even if it's served by a girl with more rings in her nose then I have in my entire jewel box. Perhaps I'll treat Amanda to a cup when she gets here.

waxing etymological

I just read this article on language trends for 2005. Yeah, think “cruncked-up” and “bigged-out” because, according to a book called Fanboys and Overdogs: The Language Report, by Susie Dent, those are two of the hottest new words in the English language.

The word “crunk” is just stupid, not to mention unimaginative – it’s a combination of crazy and drunk – and it’s not hard to guess what country it originated in (hint: its president thinks that “nucular” is a word). The sad news is, it’s supposedly catching on in Britain, too.

A “fanboy” is a guy who is absorbed by a passion for comic books or computer games. I like that one. Don’t know what an “overdog” is, except maybe the opposite of an “underdog?” Please enlighten if you know.

In the meantime, let's reminisce on some of the language trends of old. No, not your near-old phraseology – the “rad,” “ex,” or even “bodacious” days that send a combined shiver down the backs of anyone who grew up in the 1980s. Think a little further back, to “hep cat,” “groovy,” “far out” or (my favourite) “hot dog!” Why don’t people say “hot dog!” anymore? What, it’s not edgy enough??

Going even further back, I really like the word the “rapscallion.” And “cockamamy.” And lest we forget the classic “egad!” There are so many!

I recently learned of another great word, “bloviate,” on CBC Radio. Apparently, an interviewer used it in reference to someone (someone discoursing at length in an arrogant or boastful manner I assume, in keeping with the meaning) and all these people started calling in complaining because they didn’t know what bloviate meant because it’s so old it’s fallen out of use. All the more reason to use it, I say, to bring it back into mainstream use: “bloviate” and “hot dog!”

Who wants to help me start a movement? The Friends of PAWP, we’ll call ourselves – Preservation of Antiquated Words and Phrases. We won’t try and stop our language from evolving, just keep alive the words and phrases that were once not only “stylin’” but down right “jolly good.”

belief-o-matic

Something fun (click on today's title). I got this off my friend Amanda's blog, who got it off her friend Torbjorn's blog. Thought I'd try it, to see if I'm on the right track, religiously, or if deep down I really am a Taoist, Neo-pagan or other and have been going to the wrong church all this time. Well, turns out I won't have to change religions - at least if Belief-O-Matic has any divine accuracy. And if that doesn't work out, and Orthodox Quaker, Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant or even Eastern Orthodox somehow disappoint (although I must say I could live like I'm from the 1800s, at least for a couple of weeks) I did reach totals of 9% in Taoism, 22% in Neo-Paganism and 34% in Jainism, putting them in the 27th, 20th and 15th spots respectively. Shoot, I don't even know what Jainism is!

Here were my Top 10s.

1. Seventh Day Adventist (100%)
2. Orthodox Quaker (93%)
3. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (90%)
4. Eastern Orthodox (89%)
5. Roman Catholic (89%)
6. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (59%)
7. Orthodox Judaism (57%)
8. Hinduism (56%)
9. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (48%)
10. Jehovah's Witness (48%)

found

I had a dream, way back in July, that the wedding was about to start and I was in a back room, alone, in my underwear. It seems to me I was wearing these cute little bloomers, old fashioned style, and a matching camisole, but no dress. Why? Because I didn't have one.

I could hear the music start. My music. Here Comes The Bride. All eyes, I knew, would be on the door, watching for me. But I wouldn't be appearing, because I was in a back room in my underwear, with no dress.

I looked around. Frantic. What could I use? It didn't even have to be a dress at that point - just something white and drapey. A curtain, perhaps? A sheet?? There was a chest of drawers in the room, and I looked through all the drawers and all I could find was a doily. Not quite enough for anything.

Then the music stopped. Silence, for a moment, until it started again. Why? Why would they start it again? Can't they see I'm not coming out?? What am I going to do?!?! It was frustrating because I was there, I was ready, but couldn't, under any circumstances, appear without a dress/in my underwear.

I awoke, knowing without a doubt the meaning of my dream. I needed to get serious about finding a dress. The next day was when I had the sleeves conversation with Mr. I'm Too Sexy for this Wedding dress designer. Things really didn't get better after, but I won't start the diatribe yet again, on what I think of modern wedding (prom) gowns.

So, I decided to have my dress made. I even found a dressmaker, who can work without a pattern. But do you think I could find the right kind of fabric? No! That would make things too easy, and apparently finding a wedding dress should never (ahem) be that. Short story: I've come to believe that sewing is a thing of the past because all the manufacturers source the decent material and leave only the dredges for fabric stores. Don't know which one is the cause and which is the effect, but there you go.

But then, just as I was ready to give up hope and break out the fancy bloomers for the walk down the aisle, my mum says she knows this lady who used to have an antique shop in Summerland, who thinks she might have some vintage dresses - if I want to see them. Not expecting much (it is Summerland after all) after encountering so much vintage junk in my travels, I agreed to stop while we were going by one day last week.

And there it was, in the centre of a back room, on a dressmaker's form, my dress. It really was mine - I knew this, before I even tried it on. A bride knows. It fit like it was tailor made - except the hem and sleeves, which must be lengthened. I was in love. I had to have it.

Apparently, the woman's husband had picked it up while antiquing in New York. He usually looks for furniture, but thought he'd make an exception when he saw it, because it was so beautiful. His wife, the woman who sold it to me, first thought she'd like to use it to make lamp shades out of. Just the thing, she thought - MY WEDDING DRESS!! But no, she decided, she couldn't cut up such a beautiful gown.

She almost sold it, once, to a lady who adored it. But then, before exchanging money, the lady let it slip that she wanted to make doll dresses out of it. The horror! So Farideh (the lady's name) said "No." It had to go to someone who would keep it whole. Several times after, evil doll dress lady asked Farideh, "when are you going to sell me that dress?" But she stood firm. She waited for the right one; she waited for me.

Monday evening I drove down to pick it up. $350 later, I was in my room, modeling my dress (MY dress!) in front of a mirror, with the veil and headpiece, imagining what it will be like on The Day, when I walk down that aisle toward Kyle, toward this different, new life. I think it will be OK, now. I've got the groom, got the church, I've got the dress and the friends and family to share the day with. Everything else is extraneous.

I'm a happy Bride!

let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

I have fond hopes for fresh snow this Jan. 1. Not so much that driving to the church in far-away Glenrosa is a risky proposition - just enough to give a winter wonderland backdrop to my wedding. Being, you know, Jan. 1 and all, it seems somewhat appropriate. As Billy Idol so poignantly put it, it's a nice day for a white wedding.

Those of you NOT native to the Central Okanagan are probably thinking, "Well, duh, you're in Canada - don't you have snow about 10 months of the year?" Ah, no. Some years we're lucky to get any at all. I think it was about three years ago that even the ski hills were struggling to stay open for a lack of white stuff. Brown Christmases - and, yes, New Years - are not rare in these parts. Last year came pretty close but, in storybook-like fashion, we all woke up amazed Christmas morning to lashings of white all around.

I have a really good feeling about this year, and of course I'll tell you why. Despite the fact that summer seemed to hit early - in, like, April - and spring decided to grace us closer to June, it's been a quintessential July and August in the Okanagan - beautiful days in the low to mid 30s C, without actually reaching that dreaded 40 C mark like it does some years. There were a few days of rain, but not enough to mar the season - just enough to keep the forest fires down.

Aug. 30, though, something changed. Just like that, it seemed like fall was in the air. I put my duvet back on the bed, and pulled the socks back out of storage. No Indian summer for us this year - which must bode well for winter.

Even if I wasn't getting married this year, I must admit - I like my seasons distinct. Crisp, colourful days in autumn, snowy days in winter where you have to bundle up, rainy days in springtime and long, lazy, balmy days in summer. Sometimes I think the seasons are getting themselves mixed up - what, with global warming and etc. Last year's summer hardly showed its shining face - not just here, but all over Canada. That, after a scorching summer that almost destroyed select areas of my town with wildfires. But this year we seem to be on track. That gives me hope that maybe - just maybe, I'll get my wish for a white Christmas. A white wedding day.

time to get a life

For your reading amusement, I've cut and pasted the most bizarre and obnoxious email conversation I think I've ever had with a stranger. It's based on an eVent story that appeared Aug. 31 (will be posted at www.eventpub.com for the next week - or two if they get lazy about updating). I won't argue that I'm right, just that this man needs to find some more relevant activities to occupy his time. I believe (or at least hope) it's all over now, since my "fuck you" attitude is shutting the dialogue down. Only one question remains: Am I on Candid Camera???


From: Rudy

tell Lori-Anne Charlton that Judith Forst is NOT an alumnus of UBC. She's an alumna - in other words, a FEMALE grad. Having sung with her at the Vancouver Opera in the sixties, I can assure you that this is the case.
Rudy

My response:

Sorry, but . . . I didn't call Judith Forst an alumnus, I called her an almuni, which is acceptable for both sexes. Quote: "Coeducational institutions usually use alumni for graduates of both sexes." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Lori-Anne

Rudy replies:

Gently now, Lori-Anne... you didn't call her an almuni, 'cause there ain't no such thing. If you meant alumni (as per your quote of the American Heritage Dictionary), you would still be wrong because that dictionary (for coeducational institutions) refers to grads of both sexes as alumni in the plural. Meaning Judy is an alumna but (in their new usage) one of the many alumni. Since you write of her as an individual, you can't use the plural. I think you may have an issue with your copy editor, because both the headline, and your reference in the text body at the start of line 5, very clearly say alumnus. No matter which way you want to explain it, an alumnus is male graduate of a school. I did, and enjoyed, 4 years of Latin study, and both the American College Dictionary and the Concise English Dictionary agree with me. But I really don't want to quarrel with you.
Rudy

I say:

Ok, my fingers were too fast on that (almuni was not what I meant) but so was my response - after firing off that email I checked the paper and saw that what I had written innitially was not what was printed. Appologies for the confusion.
Lori-Anne

So he ends with this:

Fair enough, Lori-Anne, but it seems to me you still don't acknowledge that the use of "alumni" for one "alumna" is unacceptable. That is, unquestionably, a result of, both, the total neglect of education in the humanities, including Latin, in our society, and the "fuck you" attitude of your generation. My own treasured arrogance, on the other hand, stems from 50 years of writing for international publications. Obviously, you couldn't have known this. And I don't blame you.
Rudy

the one

All these years, I just assumed the hardest part of putting together a wedding was finding the groom. And believe me, this was no easy task - not the least because I refused to date or even acknowledge any of the male gender who didn't immediately strike my fancy, and those who did were never interested back.

Now that I've found and been blindsided, smack you upside the head smitten in love with my husband-to-be, Kyle, and the groom part is nicely taken care of (some 15 years after turning a socially acceptable marrying age I might add), you'd think everything else would be paltry in comparison. But no.

Let's start with the issue of where to hold the blessed event. I've now ascertained the Westbank SDA Church, which is lovely (if somewhat quaint). Prior to this, however, was an ordeal that would raise the ire of even the most placid bride (i.e. me).

The ONE church I liked in Kelowna - the ONE with even a hint of cathedral-esque charm (dark, stony, old-style stained glass, etc) had a prick for an administrator who wouldn't let us bring our own pastor to marry us.

First, let me point out that the Lutheran and Anglican churches are in full communion - which means they can officiate in each other's church. St. Michael's Cathedral is Anglican. Kyle's pastor is Lutheran. Where's the problem?? The problem is, Mr. Very Reverend Administrator (he's not a bishop) wants a cut of the cash, so he refuses to cooperate - even after we went over his head to a real bishop who, if nothing else, can at least make Mr. VRA's life difficult now that the whole money-grubbing approach is exposed (there's more to the story, other people, other stories, I'll spare you, gentle reader, the gorey details).

Other options, until the light bulb went off in my head about the Westbank Church, included a tiny and even more quaint heritage church that has no centre aisle, and only enough walk space to accommodate "da-dum-da..." before the bride reaches the front. Oh, and did I mention - no organ (just a keyboard), a honky-tonk piano and a podium the size of a postage stamp.

This is the problem with my stupid "city" (really, a town). There are no decent churches. Even St. Mike's, let's face it, is a faker Cathedral, with electronic, sampler bells and few gorgeous details (being less than 100 years old). At least the Westbank Church has a real bell. What's wrong with church builders today? They're houses of worship, non? Why not make them beautiful?

Anyway, fast forward to my current dilemma: The dress. Or rather, the lack of one. Like the church builders of the last half century or so, it seems that wedding dress designers have lost all sense of creativity, style and/or inspiration in going about their job - which is supposed to be making people like me look jaw droppingly fabulous. Has anyone out there actually GONE wedding dress shopping lately? Anything new is strapless or held up with spaghetti straps, or sports a plunging neckline. And let's not forget the perfunctory ornamentation (the token sparkles and frills). This is why brides today look more like they're off to the prom than anywhere else. Where's the mystique, the untouchable queenly beauty that brides used to exude? This. This is what I want, and can't find anywhere.

Case in point, is this conversation with a dress designer in Vancouver, who came highly recommended by a friend/former bride:

Me: I'm looking for something different. A vintage style. Something with sleeves, because it's going to be a winter wedding.
Him: Sleeves? You cannot have sleeves on a wedding dress.
Me: Why not?
Him: Sleeves destroy a dress. You cannot be sexy as a bride when you have sleeves.
Me: I don't want to be a "sexy" bride. I want to be a "pure" bride.
Him: Well, . . . (and then speechless, with a look of confused horror on his face).

Oh where are the Grace Kelly, the Princess Diana dress designers now? Why can't someone find me a REAL wedding dress? Something simple but stunning? Something different? Something me?

It took 15+ years to find The One to marry. I finally found The One to hold the wedding but I have only 139 days left to find The One to wear. Stay tuned as the drama unfolds. . .

ice ice baby

Every couple has their toothpaste issue. That would the dumb, trivial, minute - yet incredibly important and relationship defining - conflict over where to squeeze the tube, or whether or not it matters if the cap goes back on after you're done. Of course, it's not always toothpaste - that's just the stereotype. It could be whether the toilet paper rolls over or under, or whether or not the dog is allowed on the bed. Point is, there's always one; usually more.

Mine and Kyle's, we discovered just this week, is the size of ice. He likes the ice trays brimming with chunks so big, you could take the Titanic down with one. I, on the other hand, would rather fill my glass with several, smaller cube-ettes.

The difference was brought out of the freezer into the cold, harsh light of day last Sunday, when he was getting some drinks ready for friends. Taking out a tray of ice, he pronounced the cubes "much too small," dumping the contents brazenly into the sink as he did. My mouth dropped open as I watched him refill the tray so full of water that the ice would obviously freeze into one large sheet at the top.

Up to that point, during the year-and-a-half we've known each other, we've never really disagreed about anything. No, really. Maybe, you know, one likes strawberry better than chocolate, or one doesn't see how Costco could really be the coolest place for a date and challenges the other one on it, but never this polarization - this strong feeling of rightness at the other's expense. This, "no, really, we HAVE to do it my way." It's definitely a new level in the relationship - which is actually kind of cool when you think about it (and not just because we're talking about ice). Because no two people are ever going to be exactly the same, and now it's like we're really getting to know each other - and finding ways to cope with these kinds of differences.

Fortunately, I have two trays. They're now marked "His" and "Hers." Perhaps down the road we can buy some smaller trays, and then he can fill them as full as he wants and I'll still be happy because the cubes are small and that's all I really want. Whatever. The point is, we had our first little "what the hell?!" moment and that's important in a relationship, too. As long as you get through it, which, of course we did because - come on - it's only ice.

In a few months (five-and-a-half), I just know there will be more toothpaste issues - maybe even with the toothpaste itself (For the record, I squeeze from the middle but keep the contents pushed to the top, and the lid ALWAYS stays on except in use. And the toilet paper roll, if you're going by 5-star hotel standards, is always over, not under. Not that I'm starting anything here).

The point is, it's kind of like our relationship got a new dimension as a result. After all, people can't agree about every single thing every single time. And I don't want him to never have his own ideas about things - as convenient as it might be for me sometimes. That would just be boring. And that's a thought that really leaves me cold.

up up and away

A word of caution: if you ever have the opportunity to float around over your city in a Bell Mobility blimp, and the temptation hits you to drink, like, lots of water chased down with a grande Mexican coffee just because it's there and it's free and you haven't had a good coffee in a while, think twice. A thousand feet up is a long way to be without a loo (there is no lieu), and they don't just land those things on command.

Don't worry, I survived, and it wasn't until I got to my car after the hour-long ride that my eyes were really floating. But such a minor thing in the grand scheme.

Yes, I went up in a blimp - although the Bell crew prefer "Lightship" (sounds cooler, plus the ship illuminates from the inside) (I prefer blimp). Whatever. Got a call from my Westside Weekly editor, Pat, on Monday afternoon, asking if I would be interested in a ride Tuesday afternoon. Despite the fact I knew I was doing election coverage for the Province that evening, I said "sure" (come on, like you wouldn't?). With Tuesday came another story from the Province, plus I forgot I still had to vote, so I had to cancel my ride (this is starting to feel like one of those story games I played as a kid - "oh, that's good!" "Oh, that's bad!"). But then they rebooked me on a flight the next day (Oh, that's good!). Before which I drank all the water and coffee (oh, that's bad!). But I digress.

The ride was indeed uber cool. If you're OK with heights, that is. It's a little unnerving going up, and down, and it takes some getting used to sitting in a little box dangling 1,000 feet over the city. Add to that the thrill of dangling your $900 camera out an open window (strap wrapped several times around your wrist of course) and you have yourself a real little exploit!

Some little known blimp facts I picked up along the way:

-> There are more astronauts than blimp pilots
-> You cannot buy a ticket to ride a lightship anywhere in the world
-> The aircraft cruises at an average speed of 76 km/h
-> The balloon part is fed with 20-30 bottles of helium, every two or three weeks in order to lift.
-> The aircraft's passenger bubble - the gondola - can hold six people in addition to the pilot.
-> No one but the pilot is needed onboard, but the ship has 15 crew members that keep it in the air and help to bring it back down to earth
-> While there are all sorts of fancy gadgets in the open cockpit, the pilot basically controls it with two foot pedals (left and right) and a big wheel attached to his seat like a wheel chair wheel (up and down)
-> The world record for a continuous flight was made last September by Carl Harbuck, one of three pilots that was in Kelowna with the Bell blimp this week. He wasn't my pilot, but I talked to him afterward. He said he was up for 24 hours, 39 minutes and 55 seconds, just circling Los Angeles over and over and over again

Anyway, the view from above was fantastic, and I got all sorts of excellent pictures out of the deal, including some of the Greenway, my apartment building and the soon-to-be-replaced floating bridge. My favourite, though, is a shot of the so-called "Cultural District." Upon examination later (once I knew to look), you can JUST make out two figures on the roof of the Kelowna Art Gallery - - Kyle and his co-worker Richard, who went out to try and see me when they heard I'd be floating by. Just sorry I missed the cartwheels.

So that was my great blimping adventure. Highly recommendable, I must say. Just wait on the coffee until you're back on the ground.

now we are 100

So Kelowna turned 100 today. Happy birthday, yawn.

Yes, everyone's excited about Kelowna's centennial, and raving about what a wonderful place this stupid town is. We are so blessed, they say, to live in this paradise. This four-season playground! Cliche, cliche, cliche. Come on, people!

Yes, it's a step up from, say, Saskatchewan, from whence the majority of the population has sprung, but let's analyze a little.

We'll start with summer: It's dry and dusty because we're a semi desert. Drive across the Okanagan after May and all you see are parched tumbleweeds dotting the bland, brown hillsides. Yes, the lake is nice, if you don't mind the motor oil, beer and pee, but shall I start on the immense boredom I'm hit with spending any amount of time on its shores, baking on the flaming sand surrounded by hundreds of bikini clad sex objects (and I use the term loosely, since most of them are several trips to McDonald's beyond being fit enough for even a one piece in public)?

Then there's the wine industry. Great, we have a wine industry, and it's internationally recognized! Except, if you visit anywhere outside the Okanagan, THEY HAVEN'T HEARD OF IT!! Maybe if we stopped calling ourselves "Napa Valley North" we'd get some recognition for who we are instead of trying to ride some other region's shirt tails. Ditto "Silicon Vineyard" and "Hollywood North."

Shall I start on the Cultural District? Who tapes off a few blocks of city and says, "now, this is where our culture will reside." Especially when the "culture" is comprised of a handful of contrived, wannabe arts that I don't believe even the residents of this land buy. And I mean that literally. According to one local potter who has taken the bait, someone from Kelowna purchased her work in Calgary - - but wouldn't buy it in their own "CD."

Segueway to our low self image. I could expand here on a Canadian trait, but let's stick to Kelowna. We don't support our own artisans, artists, craftsmen, musicians, talent. After all, if they're here they must not be very good. So the Okanagan Symphony Orchestra will bankrupt itself bringing in musicians from Switzerland or England or Chicago or wherever to perform, but keeps its own, equally talented performers, in the background. Stigmatized.

Don't get me wrong - we want to be a big, grown-up city. Well, some of us do. But we don't want to give up our small town mentality. When Skyreach Place opened, for instance, everyone wanted to go check out the big arena - but then called into radio stations and wrote letters to the editor complaining how expensive the tickets and drinks were. Hello, this is what it's like in a big city. If you don't like it, stay small.

They're also lazy. No aspirations. Just contentment with being here. Existing. La-dee-dah! Sunshine and lakefront and flowers in hanging baskets down Bernard. It's kind of like the Wizard of Oz. You know the part where Dorothy and the Scarecrow and the Tinman and the Lion are approaching Oz, so the Wicked Witch has to throw them a wrench? She spreads a poppy field before them. A beautiful, expansive, colourful field of poppies. But poppies are a narcotic. So when they get in the middle of the field they want to fall asleep. Upon realizing it they run like mad things to escape. That's Kelowna. You have to run, run and don't look back or else you'll fall asleep. You'll loose your edge, your creativity (after all, who do you have to challenge you? Alex Fong? Jock Hildebrand? Geert Maas, perhaps?). Your stories will suck and your opportunities diminish. You'll fall blissfully asleep and become like everyone else here.

Och, I could go on. And on. And on. Most of you, dear readers, have heard this tirade before. And yet here I am, still located in Kelowna. Fighting sleep with every fiber of my being, yet getting weaker and weaker about running away (what can I say, my family's here!). And so I shake the others, wake up, wake up! We're 100 today - let's try and get real!

tv turnoff week

I just learned that this week was TV Turnoff Week. It's a campaign that started in Canada 11 years ago that encourages families to kick the boob-tube habit for one entire week. Since its inception, it's been picked up by advocacy groups in the U.S. and 11 other countries.

What a shame I missed it. Not that it would have particularly rocked my world - the only time my TV gets turned on is when Avery or Liam come over to be babysat, get bored and want to watch a video. This happens every, oh, six months or so. Its most frequent use is when I have a Korean roommate who wants to polish their English by vegging in front of the idiot box instead of getting out and actually communicating with people.

It's a funny thing, really. I used to be a TV addict. Growing up, all I did was watch TV. We're talking first thing in the morning - Romper Room and Captain Kangaroo. After school it was Happy Days and Little House on the Prairie reruns and - - I'm sure there was something else in there. Flinstones? But there was more - so much more, I can't even recall it all. Three's Company, Love Boat, Fantasy Island, The Gong Show, Sha Na Na, . . . I think I was the only kid in Grade 3 who watched Saturday Night Live.

Oh, then there were the soap operas. I grew up on Another World, then branched off into General Hospital, Days of Our Lives, All My Children and One Life to Live when I got into high school. When they switched Days over to 9 a.m. the schedule ran so that I could effectively watch TV from rising to sleep time during holidays. After the soaps, of course, there was (cringe) Oprah, then a series of reruns and then the evening line-up would begin - Growing Pains, Family Ties, etc. etc. etc. repeat until nauseous. And let's not forget about Much Music, which would bridge the gaps when nothing else was on!

I remember once, when I was about 15, my grandfather offered Kelly and I $100 each if we could go an entire year without watching ANYthing. I made it six months or so in, but fell off when I was at a birthday party and they watched a video and my grandma told me that, yes, it counts. Kelly stuck it out to the end, however, and to this day (I just checked with her now) says it was a jip. It didn't do her any good, either. I remember coming upstairs during commercial breaks and seeing her staring blankly at the radio dial, trying to block out the laughter she heard coming from downstairs, over the antics of Sam and Diane and the gang (interestingly, though, she says she no longer watches much TV now, either - just don't ask her about Survivor. Or Friends).

My next break came when I went to school in England and there were actually interesting things to do and see. Ok, I was a faithful fan of Neighbours, and still had my little list of favourites, but we're talking minutes a day, not hours. It was only at home that I'd reaffix myself to the television. Seinfeld, Friends, Mad About You, ER . . .

Again, I left for more exotic locales (Korea), where TV watching detracted from living. It was when I came back six years ago that I finally clued in - The time I invest in watching TV is equal and opposite to the time I could be, um, living. Doing things. Interacting with three-dimensional people, who see me and feel me and can talk back directly to me. And I started to hate the TV.

I can live through the very rare show, on occasion. Monarch of the Glen, for example, the Osbornes, The Office (BBC version) . . . If I'm at someone else's house and it doesn't go on for too long. Otherwise, I'll vacate. I have a lot of more important things to do.

Too many memories with my sister involve "remember how we loved that 7-Up commercial?" "Remember when Frisco came back from the dead the third time?" "Remember how we used to get Tony to pick the lock on the television cord so we could plug it in when mom went to work and continue watching TV all day? Och, those were the days!"

So, yes, I missed TV Turnoff Week, isn't that a shame. It probably would have given me a sense of satisfaction to turn the sucker off. An official click. The funny thing is, I would have had to turn it on first.

dear daphne, this one's for you

I've heard there have been complaints. Little gripes and grievances that I have been shirking my duty as master of this blog. Just because I've failed to post anything for, what? Two months? And 10 days?

I won't pretend I'm not flattered. To be honest, I just assumed that no one was checking. Ok, that and I've been busy. Too busy. But that soon may change (more on that later). In the meantime, here's a small sample of what you've missed:

* I started jogging again, about a month and a half ago. Made it through the first week (30 seconds jogging and 4.5 minutes walking) then stopped for three weeks than started again for one week, skipped another week but graduated myself to Week 2 (one minute jogging and four minutes walking) this week anyway, and actually did all three days! Should be up to 1.5 minutes running and 3.5 minutes walking on Monday . . . if I can keep the momentum up.

* I've packed on the weight since Christmas, which should effectively encourage me to keep said momentum up.

* I've more or less chucked eVent, my main source of income, to pursue freelance work with the Province, which has started assigning me photos and stories for double the fee and half the time consumption. Thus the comment (above) on becoming less busy. The big worry now is getting enough work with the Prov (and who ever else) so that I can still pay the bills without having to come grovelling back to Andre (eVent editor) to please, please let me work myself back into the ground for pennies - PENNIES! It's a scary place to be, believe you me.

* My top eyelid mysteriously swelled up two days ago and continues to reside fatly on the left hand side of my face. Interestingly, it's the same eye that swelled shut three years ago for, similarly, no apparent reason. That one, while more horrifying in its extremeness, only lasted a day. This is Day 3. Oh when will I be able to take the sunglasses off?!

* I gave up buying coffee to save for the aforementioned (see New Year's resolutions) trip across the country. And yes, the plans are in motion for a June 17 to July 19 drive across Canada - YAY! The plan is to sleep in the back of Kyle's sunshine yellow SUV (aka l'auto de soliel) for most nights to do it as economically as possible. The idea behind the self imposed coffee lent was that if I could scrimp on coffee I could scrimp on ANYthing. Hasn't really worked, I'm sorry to relate, since I only have about $700 currently saved. Estimates for overall cost are $2,300. Guess that's what credit cards are for . . .

* Oh, I met Duran Duran!!! That was a big one, actually, and I meant to do a whole big ranting blog just on that (again, no time). Do you know what that meant to my inner 12-year-old?!?! I was, like, their biggest, biggest fan! Of course, that was 22 years ago. Flippin' eh! Today, they're pot bellied and wrinkled and I have the pictures to prove it. Still, my inner 12-year-old can finally be put to rest a happy, happy girl.

Oh, there's more, so much more, but I don't want to overwhelm you in one sitting. We've got to break ourselves back in slowly. But I promise to be more diligent with my postings in future, detailing the innits of my life. Stay tuned for more . . .

In the meantime, what's been going on with you all? Remember, share and share alike. . .

shacking up is hard to do

Just found the funniest blog while perusing other blogspot sites this evening. It's called ihatemyflatmate.blogspot.com, and you'll get why it's so funny if you've ever had a roommate that pisses you off on a daily basis. I have, and more than one (it's amazing what a person will put themselves through in order to save half the rent). So, yeah, I totally relate. In fact, I wish I had known about blogs back in the day, because, man, it would have been good to go off on a semi-public forum. As it is, I chronicled a lot in personal journals, which are interesting to go back and peruse as well - but not as interesting as a daily blog dedicated to the torment, because then you capture everything.

There's no end to the examples I could draw from, to be perfectly honest, since I've had, literally, dozens of roommates over the years - some of whom I actually co-habitated quite peaceably with. For your reading pleasure, though, I'm going to pick two of the most extreme examples - - and hope neither of them stumbles across this blog. And if they do, what can I say? I still like you both, and respect you as people . . . I just don't want to live with you ever again!

Let's start with the one that wasn't really a roommate. Technically, he was a visitor, here for one month in the summer of 2002 (so no rent paid in recompense). But I'm lumping him in this category because we shared close quarters for as long, and the stories would make ihatemyflatmate's hair curl:

- First, the towels. Taking up to three showers a day, he expected to use a fresh towel every time. When there were none, which was often because he'd use them all as soon as I'd wash them, he'd ask in an irritating voice, "So we're out of towels, are we?" Gbjilfk!!!

- Next, there was the toilet paper issue. Never worked out what he actually did with all the toilet paper, but between him and the roommate I will chronicle next (who moved in the same month he stayed with me) we went through a freaking roll a day.

- Never, during the entire length of his stay, did said friend cease moaning about work and how they're so hard on him (expecting him to actually do what he's paid for, the draconians). To add to that, he'd call - practically spam, but via telephone - these hapless companies in his home country to question why on earth he hadn't been called yet for an interview. The slayer was when I would try (since I wasn't on vacation myself) to get some work done during the day (instead of listening to him moaning YET again), and he'd comment, "Wow, you're sure into that, aren't you?"

- Complaints about the smell of cat food when I'd feed poor, hungry Sarah, twice a day.

- Constant pawing, hitting on me, asking to have sun tan lotion rubbed on his back, and questions of "how's a guy supposed to get romantic with you?" when none of the above worked. If you have to ask, you're not in the running.

- Monopolized my computer all night (after distracting me from work during the day so I was getting effectively NO work done the entire month he was there), despite my several hints that I really needed to finish some stories. This, after tying up the phone all afternoon, actually booting me off when I was - hello?! - working, just so he could harass said companies who obviously would have contacted him along with his two friends who got interviews a couple of weeks before, if they were at all interested.

- The frequent (two or three times a day) calls to the operator to ask what time it was in Australia, AFTER I explained I don't know how many times that you add five hours and jump forward 12. It's not that complicated.

- Parading about the house in a towel, and sometimes a small towel. Still can't, for the life of me, figure out why he wouldn't take his clothes with him to the bathroom instead of coming downstairs (in towel) from the upstairs bathroom, getting clothes from suitcase and taking them back up stairs to the bathroom to put on. The lowlight was the day he came down in towel, rummaged through his luggage to find a particularly skimpy/skanky pair of black underwear, held them up in front in a "how's this for size" way and then gave them an obnoxious little flick before attempting to actually put them on, under the towel, IN FRONT OF ME!!!! I didn't wait around to see if he'd actually succeed - I think I had some lunch to loose.

Ah, yes, the memories.

My last roommate (a homestay student) lasted a year and a half before her parents worked out that she was basically on an extended vacation and finally stopped financing her. She never cleaned. She broke everything she could get her hands on. She couldn't understand anything I told her, but always pretended she did. And here's what else:

- I had to keep a private roll of TP in my bedroom because the stuff in the bathroom was always sweeping the floor, every time I went to use it, without fail. It's the floor! Did this not bother her?

- Kept bath towel in bedroom as well, since she seemed content to USE IT when it was there.

- Toothbrush also had to reside in bedroom. No, she didn't use it (I sincerely hope!) but she made such a mess with the water washing her face I couldn't bare to put the thing in my mouth. The bathroom counter was ALWAYS flooded with water (what was she DOING with it??), and the toothbrush holder always had a centimetre of sludge as a result.

- Don't know if this had to do with any sort of paranoia about an empty fridge, but there were always empty containers in both the fridge and freezer. Just, why?!

- All bags from purchases were unceremoniously dropped on the floor when their contents were taken out, left to languish (often a few feet away from the receipt, which was also left where ever it happened to land) until I got tired of seeing them there and threw them away.

- And let's not forget the watermelon fiasco. All freaking summer long, she'd buy watermelon, cut it up and store it ineptly so that it would drip all over the fridge and everything in it. And don't get me started on the seeds, which magically seemed to turn up everywhere - on and under tables, chairs, sofas, cushions, under my desk, in my bedroom (?!) in the bathroom - - EVERYWHERE!!

Och, I could go on. Other incidents, other roommates, but it's getting late. Only so many hours in the day to chronicle the mishaps of shared residence. Again, if only I had blogged it then... but what's past is past, and I seriously don't hold it against them now, despite how it might sound in this tirade. But see, there's always an upside to everything. This? It's given me a wicked collection of stories. May have to do more with them someday - - if ihatemyflatmate doesn't beat me to that, too!

here we go again

Wow, it seems like just two weeks ago that I celebrated my birthday - and now it's my birthday AGAIN!!! No, really - it's my birthday again today. Would you believe I had such a good time on the last one I wanted to do it all again??

Actually, today is my lunar birthday. As luck would have it, I was a New Year's baby - Chinese New Year, that is. The day I was born, 27 Jan. 1971, it was Chinese New Year's day. That makes it easy for me to track my lunar birthday as it jumps around on the solar calendar, since it's a somewhat famous day. I know, who knew?! I didn't, until I moved to Korea a few years ago, where the majority of people celebrate their lunar birthdays, not solar birthdays. Don't get me started on Korean birthdays, though. That's a whole other, convoluted topic.

The point is, it's my birthday and I'm a pig - a metal pig, I recently learned, but still a pig. That's my sign. I know, it's horrible. I didn't choose it. One day earlier and I could have been a dog. I blame my mum for this.

Actually, it was upon this discovery (the me as pig thing), about 10 years ago, that I realized the possible source of all my problems. I understand that pigs may be somewhat revered in China or wherever, but really. They're undeniably one of the most repulsive animals on the planet. And not only was I born in the year of the pig, but on the big day, the very heralding in of the pig. Me.

Och. Or should I say oink?

But where was I? Oh, my birthday. For my birthday today, I recieved a bracelet from Darcie, assembled by her with lampwork beads her sister made. Kewl. And a huge, funky ring from Sharon, the lady that runs the bead store where we ("we" meaning Darcie) put the bracelet together. It wasn't Ozeki's and laser tag, but it was not bad considering it was my second birthday in as many weeks. I could get used to this - as long as the aging process doesn't keep up. Just keep lavishing me with presents, attention and happy returns of the day.

Oh, yeah, I know what you're thinking - - "you're starting to sound like the pig that you are!" Well, you know, if the hoof fits . . .

update

By special request, I post a post-birthday post (say that 10 times fast), admitting that my birthday this year was not nearly as traumatic as I predicted. In fact, it was rather nice - thanks to the creative efforts of a certain rather nice team of individuals, to whom I wish to say thanks.

Grandma. Kyle. Kelly. Rob. Avery. Liam. Darcie. Dean. Uri. Ivan. It wouldn't have been the same without you.

So, the day started off well when I awoke and realized I was still alive, which is always a nice way to start a birthday I'd say. Then a bunch of work stuff, which went fine (which I wouldn't have expected, it being my birthday and all).

Lunch at Manteo with my grandma followed (we share the Big Day) and - surprise of surprises, she actually loved the venue, tolerated the food, AND had a lovely time, all at the same time, which is (believe me) rare when it comes to going out to eat anywhere with her.

Kyle showed up just after 5 p.m. with a shroud of secrecy about what the evening would entail. At close to 6 p.m. we headed out - where? I wasn't supposed to know - - although I guessed accurately that it was Ozeki's when we turned Right on Spall. Didn't guess, however, that the whole gang would be waiting there for us, ready to gorge on apple and yam sushi (my two favourites), green tea ice cream and other yummy things, and just be together and have a good time. Which we did.

Then we parted. I thought we were done. But - SURPRISE! - where am I taken (the veil of secrecy continues) but to Planet Laser for a rollicking couple of games of LASER TAG!!!! And yes, I totally kicked butt (with the exception of "Jetboy" Liam).

I only found out later that, while I was slurping coffee with Kyle at Starbucks afterward, Rob and Kelly and the kids were hiding in the dark in my house, thinking there was ice cream cake - which would have been kewl as well.

But it was a very good evening, with an exquisitely memorable end. No mishaps, no tragedies, no disappointments or regrets. In the words of a new friend, Adeja, "I'm sure you are on a new cycle of happy, wonderful, lucky birthdays."

I have a feeling she's right.

it's my birthday and i'll whine if i want to

It's not that I hate getting older. Age is relative. It really means nothing, except an indication of how many years we've walked this planet - which counts for little in terms of how much we've actually learned from it. I don't believe all people are supposed to act or look or do a certain thing at a certain age unless they want to - and I don't. So what does this new number mean? Precious little. That's not why I dread birthdays.

The reason I want to escape into the nearest cave whenever 27 January comes around is based on something completely other. You see, it's become a sort of tradition that, inevitably, something unfortunate WILL happen on my birthday. I'll hit a car. I'll slide off the road into a snowbank twice in one day and end up having to pay nearly $100 for an industrial towtruck (because the regular one isn't strong enough!) to pull me out. I'll get SARS and almost die. What can I say - at least it's never dull!

It's noon, right now, and thus far I've been okay. My house has NOT burned down (yet) and inanimate objects have resisted the urge to explode as I walk past them. In fact, it was off to a rather good start, with calls and emails and birthday greetings from friends around the world. Of course, the day's not over. There is still a lot of havoc I could wreak. Hope springs eternal and all that.

I must say, though, I'm kind of sorry to be turning 34. Again, it's not the aging thing. It's just that 33 was such an interesting age to be. I mean, it was just another year for me, but a lot of profound things happened to a lot of other people at 33, which makes it kind of a significant age (uh-oh, now I can be depressed about not accomplishing anything important like the rest of them!). Jesus died when he was 33 (luckily, that didn't happen to me), which is probably the most important event in history for those who believe in salvation.

Umm, there were others I found on my journey through the year - novels written, clever things invented, awards won and history made by one 33-year-old after another. Can't remember a single one of them now (help me??). Must be old age. It seemed like it should have been a good year at the time.

It wasn't a bad year. Two nice round numbers. A three and a three. What else can I say. Life is what you make it. Every day is a new year (where have we read that before?).

And now I'm 34 (although, it's not official until 5:14 p.m.) Yay! Or whatever - I really don't care. As long as I make it through the day relatively unscathed, I think I'm up for another year.

lassy mog anyone?

I bought the Lassy Mogs for my mum. I bought them because they have a thoroughly insane name and I knew she would love them based on that fact alone.

You see, she simply adores these British biscuits called Jammy Dodgers ("gooey, stretchy jam SPLODGED between two shortcake biscuits," the box explains in the most unappetizing vocabulary possible). I'm going to be honest with you, as honest as I am with her - they're nasty, stale, cheap tasting rubbish and the target market only buys them because of the name, which is completely and unabashedly daft. I know she doesn't like them - who would?? But she likes to say the name. She likes to say to herself, and anyone within the vicinity, "Hmm, I could really go for a Jammy Dodger just now," or "Care for a Jammy Dodger?" or, her favourite, "What? You haven't heard of Jammy Dodgers??"

Now I could see if she developed a thing for Tangy Twiglets. At least they're good, and without the need for a stupid name (stupid name, in this case, is pure bonus point). Unlike their predecessor, Original Twiglets, which are basically stick pretzels with Marmite on them (did you see the Mr. Bean where he ran out and put the Marmite on real sticks?) Tangy Twiglets are coated in heavenly Worcestershire sauce. They crunch. They tang. What more could a person want?

But this was about the Lassy Mogs.

I was shopping, the other day, in Stupid Store as always, when my eyes fell on this package of biscuits. For the record, I despise store-bought biscuits (Hobnobs and Tesco Ginger Creams and Lemon Creams being the exception) and never even look at them when I'm passing down the aisle. But somehow, this time, the name jumped out at me. Lassy Mogs. Say it once to yourself.

The package describes them as soft fruit and nut cookies, made with butter, dates, raisins, molasses, pecans and a blend of spices. What a lark, what a plunge, I thought - - for my mum, I mean, NOT ME! So I bought them.

Now the irony: I meant to take them to her last night, when I visited for tea. I forgot. Saw them sitting on my counter when I got home from church. Thought about taking them to her then, but then remembered the snow. Decided I'd better sample one first, to make sure they were an appropriate enough gift (not too hard, crunchy, stale, nasty - not that she'd object, she loves the Jammy Dodgers after all). It wasn't hard, or crunchy. It was moist, spicy and totally tasty! So I had another. And another. I think I've now had FOUR!! Lassy Mogs are really good!!! I LOVE Lassy Mogs!!! I even like the name!!

Further investigation reveals that the Lassy Mog hails from Atlantic Canada, a classic home-baked treat. The "charming" (according to President's Choice) name is derived from the local dialect for the region's widely used sweetener, molasses ("lassy") and small, low-rising cake ("mog").

We now know more than we ever wanted to about the crazy things.

And I now have become a Lassy Mog fan. Not because of the name (although I'll admit it's fun) but because they're so flipping good! It just goes to show, yes, once again, you can't judge a biscuit by its moniker. Well, except in one case - a Jammy Dodger is still a Jammy Dodger after all. Give it a miss and go straight for the Lassy Mogs. You'll thank me for it, I know.

every day is a new year

Well, the brain freeze is starting to wear off, after two weeks of not writing a word except the occasional (brief) email. Apparently, cramming an entire month's worth of work into a scant two weeks just doesn't inspire me to put fingers to keyboard for any reason. Loved the last two weeks of the year, however, without any work related responsibilities and nothing but time to do whatever. With whomever, except when they, poor souls, were working.

Other things that stood out about 2004:

* Getting paid a dollar a word (yes, that includes the word 'a') for a story for a magazine called Pure Canada

* Being published in The Globe and Mail

* Training for a marathon, to raise money for the Arthritis Society

* Quitting marathon half-way in because money wasn't raising

* Discovering blogs

* The Canadian Association of Journalists conference in Vancouver, which introduced me to numerous styles and approaches that had never crossed my mind before

* Finding the motorbike chick that lurked deep, deep within

* Kyle

* A madcap weekend in June with Dionne and Alicia

* A most excellent daytrip adventure to Vancouver and back with Adeja and Kyle

* Shannon and Dean's Mayne Island wedding weekend

* The True Connections experience and learning to open up

* Opening up

* Kyle (Yes, again. That was before, this is after)

I've omitted the couple of bumps and jolts interspersed between the good stuff, mostly because I'm not THAT open yet. But fortunately the good outweighed the bad last year (can't believe it's already "last year") and I'm looking forward to a bright and buoyant 2005. Here are some resolutions that I hope will get me there:

* Limit working hours to 8-10 a day (as opposed to, oh, 16)
* Start every morning with 1) a devotional and 2) some form of exercise
* Focus this year on relationships (romantic as well as friends and family) and spiritual growth, not just career
* Stop nickel/diming and save for something big, like a trip
* Drive across Canada, all the way to St. John's, this year for SURE
* Put things away where they belong as soon as I'm finished with them - or at least at the end of the day

Well, that's enough to break me back in - at least for now. Anything you'd like to add?