Paris - Tuesday

The Eurostar is a great way to get anywhere, I must say.  The seats are comfy and there's every kind of amenity you can desire.  I was happy to just sit with my headphones on and listen to music as the English countryside whizzed by.  The tunnels were pitch black and made my ears pop, but we went through them so quickly it was painless.  Once we reached the actual crossing, there was no announcement, but it was evident in 5 minutes that we weren't coming out of this tunnel anytime soon. The pressure was evidence of how deep we were, and twenty minutes later, voila, we were in France.


Which looked pretty much like the other side, at the beginning.  Slight architectural changes started to emerge.  The houses were further apart.  Church spires in every village differed in style and height were surrounded by low row houses and such.  Farmland spread all around.


We got about 20 minutes into France and there it was.  A friggin rainbow.  Big, too.  I had a good chuckle to myself and thought "Yup, welcome to France, the pot of gold, girl."


We pulled into Gare du Nord and I dragged my luggage out, following the crowds toward the terminal.  I had looked on a map and thought I could take the Metro to my hotel, but was suddenly nervous that I didn't know where I was and opted for a taxi.


Error.


The queue for the taxis was a good 40 minutes long.  Around 35 minutes in, I asked and English speaking guy behind me if the taxis take credit cards here, recalling my London experience.  He had no idea, but thought most did.  Great.


Most don't.


And of course, I had no Euros purchased yet.  SO after my 40 minutes of waiting, I headed back into the station and bought some cash.  When I got back ot the queue, it had expanded to a good hour wait.  Oh well.  I wasn't in a rush, right?


Finally I get to the front of the line and head to the next available car.  Destination, madame?  I gave him the address, twice, and the arrondissemnt and he shook his head.  Non, madame.  Pardon, I said?  Whaddya mean "non"?.  I will not go to zat place.  Why not?  It ees not far enough.  Are you fucking kidding me?  At this point I'm tired, hungry and pissed right off.  We start to argue, partly in French, all the swearing in English ("Je ne donne pas un flying fuck qu'est ce que tu dis...").  The taxi queue is entertained as I inform the driver that his face resembles his own ass, and so does his mother's.


Another driver shows up and amusedly taps my shoulder and swishes me away in another car.  He informs me that the cab company that I was dealing with "ees very bad".  No shit.  We very slowly distance ourselves from the train station. Traffic is insane.  I should have taken the Metro.  I could have walked, actually.  Faster.  We arrive at the hotel, I am wished a good day and I step up to the front desk to check in.  


Some American man who speaks pretty decent French is standing there, telling the clerk about his shoe purchase.  Now we all know, I'm one for celebrating new footwear, but I just wanted to get to my room and have a cup of tea.  He finally noticed I was standing there and moved on.  I was checked in and pointed to the elevator.  The elevator barely fit me and my luggage, and was ancient and slow... sooooo slowwwwww. 


Off on the third floor and I opened my room door.  It was tiny, but clean with a desk, bed and closet and two bedside tables with a small shower only bathroom adjoining were brightly lit, with a Juliet balcony over looking the courtyard.  I dumped my suitcase on the bed and unpacked.  The kettle quickly came to a boil and I sat and updated this blog for an hour, as well as texted to Loic that I was in town.


I laid down for a nap, still feeling a bit jet laggish.


The phone woke me up, loud and piercing.  It was Loic, let's have wine later, yay.


I got up and started to get ready for my first night out in Paris.


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Le Cave de L'Insolide


Loic had given me pretty clear intruction on how to get to the restaurant.  It seemed prety straight forward.  The only point of concern for me was the Metro.  This would be my first outing on transit, and I had heard it could be fairly complicated.  I had a Metro map and felt fairly good that I knew where I was going.  I actually didn't do too badly.  I got on the right line, just headed the wrong way. I relaized this before I had even goneone stop, so I was quick to turn around.  I had to transfer lines at Strasbourg-St Denis and made sure I was going the right direction.  Once I exited at St Ambroise I had to guess left or right, and luckily guessed right.  Up the street a few blocks and there was Loic, smoking outside with a few of his friends, both girls, Mathilde and Akisi.  I was introduced and we all headed inside.


The room was brightly lit, even though it was evening.  There we four large tables with at least 6 chairs around each of them, all different heights and sizes.  The front corner was packed with wine of all makes and sizes.  My hosts had already been there for a bit, as the 1.5 l of wine sitting on the table was already 1/3 in.  I was offered a glass and smiled as I recognized the varietal - Cahors.  My recent favorite!  Have I had this before?  Ohhhh yeah.  Tasty.


So then the conversation progresses in both French and English.  I was told my French had no accent, which I took as a compliment.  I realized by the topics that were coming up that I was with youngsters, but they didn't seem to care, so neither did I.  They asked my what my favorite DIsney movie was. Loic suggested Snow White, I assume because he actually knows how old I am, dink.  I thought back and said I guess it would be The Little Mermaid.  They hadn't heard of it.  I had a flash of the title in French and said La Petite Reine?  Oh my sweet lord.  They both started singing "Part of your world" but in French.  Loudly. Loic blamed me for starting this.  I mean they sang the WHOLE song.  Which sounded like a pretty close translation to the English version, but anyway...


Once the song was over, we ordered another bottle of wine and some charcuterie and cheese,  They also had a gorgeous Iberico ham leg (hoof attached) on display and I nodded vigorously when asked if we wanted any.  Loic had a minor rant on eating Spanish ham in a French establishment, but the ham won. 


The restaurant, it turns out, retails wine all day, then opens for service in the evening.  Two slate plaques have the days meat and cheese selections printed on them and are presented when you want to order.  You can wander over to the win and pick your own, which is then opened and brought over to you.  They charge 1 euro for corkage.  The 1.5 litre of Cahors, which was ridonk good, was 21 euros.  By the end of the night, after 3l s of Cahors and a 750 ml of Saumur Champigny, cheese, charcuterie plus Iberico ham, each of us paid around 40 bucks.  This is my kind of place.  The owners were sweet and informed me I didn't need to go to any other place, I should just come back there every night.  They were cute enough to tempt me.  I'll definitely be back before I leave.


We closed the place down and headed out to our mutual Metro stations, but not before Mathilde asked me if I wanted to come to a party Saturday night.  A surprise party of a friend of theirs who lives in St Germain de Pres and has a gorgeous old apartment I just have to see.  One night in, invited to a party already! I accepted and we exchanged contact information.  A dress up party no less!  This may call for shopping!


I got to my hotel around 1 am and hit the hay with little ado.  I was planning to take my first excursion to Sacre Coeur the nexy day and wanted to be rested.  I had no idea how much rest I would need...

London - Monday

So to go back a bit, the flight over wasn't as cramped as it could have been - I had an aisle seat and the other guy had the window, so the middle seat was empty. We had a bit of leg room to stretch out, which helped a bit.  My hip almost popped out a couple of times from cramping and flexing, but alas, cheap seats are what they are.


The jackasses in front of me were two young boys on their way to London and Manchester.  They were brothers, I think, and both rude, ignorant idiots with Justin Bieber hair and pissy outlooks on life, which they were loud and vocal about.  They made fun of people within earshot, the laughed at the staff's accents, and, in my opinion were just all around shitwits.  But the kicker for me was that they had an iPad and insisted on watching videos at full volume.  I asked them numerous times to turn it dow or use headphones, each time getting an eye roll and "yeah sure, lady".  The worst of it was when, during the night when everyone was sleeping, they turned on some program that involved building a generator.  From scratch.  Expolsions, people yelling over equipment... it was completely ridiculous.  SO I did what anyone would do -- I tattled.  I went to the back and brought an employee up to their seats and had her threaten to confiscate the device if they didn't turn it off.


Well, of course, this immediately pissed the boys off and they started to opine on my nature in a vocal way, until the man sitting next to me, a quiet British dude with bad socks and worse teeth, finally snapped. He slammed the backs of both the boys seats, told them to sod off and if they didn't shut up, he was going to have them arrested once we landed.  I'm not sure how he thought he was going to manage that, but it scared the boys enough to shut them up.  The lovely man then turned to me, and, bless him, apologized to me for his outburst, and went back to sleep. Rule Britannia.


The rest of the flight was as noted above.


-----

View from my hotel window - St Pancras Station

London - Monday


My day in London was shorter than anticipated.  Due to the lack of sleep on the plane, I was completely exhausted by the time I got to my hotel and checked in.  I fell asleep hard for 5 hours and woke up at 7:15 feeling better, but still groggy.  I got dressed and hopped on the tube to Leicster Square, which was closest to the bar at which my friend Geoff worked.  On the map, it looked easy enough to find, but once I got above ground I was completely blown away and hadn't the foggiest clue in London Town as to where the hell I was supposed to go. The lights were dizzying, the crowds all seemed to have destinations that I was in direct conflict with, and I felt like a little kid at the 149 day Tuesday sale at Woodwards.  I saw a taxi waiting at a light and hopped in, knowing I was fully about to sound like a tourist (which is stupid, because I AM a tourist, but whatever) -- "I need to get to 13a Gerrard Street.  I know it's right around here, but I have no idea where."  He smiled politely and drove me less than 2 minutes away to Chinatown, which is one street, walking only. For 4 euros, I was happy to be in the right place.  I never would have found it on my own.


I walked up Gerrard Street, counting numbers up the right hand side, looking for the Far East restaurant.  There were all the typical Chinese restaurants, with ducks in the window and the familiar acrid and savoury smells I've grown accustomed to back home.  I found the door - an unmarked, non-descript black door with a peep hole.  A man in a bow tie in front of it asked if I had a booking.  "No," I said, "But I'm here to see Geoff."  FOr a second I thought he wasn't going to let me in, but his eyes suddenly lit up and he said "You're the Canadian?" Yesirree, that's me, the only Canadian in London and in I went.


Up a narrow flight of stairs and I was in a charming bar, not much bigger than my living room.  A decent size marble bar, with Geoff coming out from behind it, was stocked with all things familiar and new.  A hug and kiss and scoot onto a bar stool had me at Geoff's whim, as usual.  The entire "club" itself is on three levels.  The main bar, in which I sat, a third floor bar, slightly smaller, upstairs, and the fourth floor with a small kitchen for charcuterie and cheese and the toilets.  The decor was anything but Asian, which I had envisioned.  Instead it was comfortable and slightly Victorian.  Well-apoointed, but not stuffy.  And of course, the drinks were lovely.  All 5 of them.  


I sat and chatted with Geoff about back home, his plans and such, when I suddenly saw a menu being passed and realized I was in the Experimental Cocktail Club.  I didn't know the place even had a name, but the ECC boys have a great reputation, the owners being from such places as Milk and Honey NYC and the like.  AND they have a bar in Paris, or so I was told back home.  But no, they have three bars in Paris, I learned.  By the end of the night I had a list of names and addresses for all three, in case I need a break from wine and have a hankering for a decent drink during my Paris stint.


I took a taxi back to my hotel and had no problem falling fast asleep.


I awoke the next morning early.  I had wanted to sleep more, but my body was against the idea.  I packed, got dressed and headed down to the basement for breakfast.  Two sips of bad coffee and a few mouthfuls of yogurt later and I realized I did not feel well at all.  I went upstirs and laid down, feeling nauseated.  I was worried - I didn't want to be ill, and this wasn't a hangover, so what was it?  I tried to relax and rest for an hour when it dawned on me.  It was nerves.  I had been in transit and getting from here to there that I hasn't stopped to acknowledge that I was really on this trip, that I was heading to Paris in less than 2 hours and that I was doing it all on my own.  Fancy that.  I laughed to myself and got up, still feeling a bit off, but relieved that I wasn't really sick, just jittery.


A short walk to St Pancras Station and check in to Eurostar left me waiting in the waiting area for the train.  Once our platform was announced, we all herded up the escalator and sorted ourselves into our coaches.

Vancouver to London

So here I sit at YVR.  Bag is checked, security passed, book bought, mp3 player figured out (now I know why people buy ipods - waaaaay simpler to use than this thing).  My flight has been delayed an hour for some unknown reason.  Why do airline employees get so mysteriously defensive when you ask them about delays?  I'm not BLAMING you lady, I just want to know why I'm stuck in the land of duty-free temptation for another hour.

It seems like a week ago that I was sitting at The Diamond with Sumiko, Lindsay and Courtenay, blithering about nothing in particular and snacking on gyoza.  I had mentioned I was thinking about going to Paris for a visit, and all three of them chimed "ohmygod -- gooooo!".  Lindsay then insisted I look at flights to London the next day - cheaper sales than direct to Paris.  Well.

At 38 years old, and never been to Europe, I decided the next morning that I would just look and see if there were any seat sales out there.  Just in case.

Yeah.  Was booked by 11 am.  Has a hotel booked in Paris by 1 pm.  Clicking the online the "proceed with payment" button had never been so thrilling.

So off I go.  Finally.

----------


On the plane - they sure know how to pack people on these things.  I just finished dinner, which was barely edible, of course.  The tiniest piece of chicken (which was, at least, white meat and real chicken) with soggy, gross potatoes and carrots.  Everything had the same texture.  Thankfully the meal came with a slice of aged cheddar and crackers.  And they have a deal on wine - so I'm happy.

The flight is staffed by Brits, which I wasn't expecting for some reason.

I managed to sleep the first leg of the journey, with some help from a sleeping pill.  I slept from Vancouver to Great Slave Lake.  We're presently over Hudson Bay, moving over Foxe Basin.  We'll soon zoom past Baffin Island and start to head south. At a speed of 966 - 1040 kph, we should make up for some of the time we spent on the ground.

I was tempted to get snarky regarding the delay, but I reminded myself of the Louis C.K. bit on sitting in a chair in the sky and instead took the time to start my new book.

It was recommended to me by one of the other regulars at Boneta, Richard.  It's called Guns, Germs and Steel by Jarod Diamond.  SO far, its quite intriguing.  He makes a valid point in that in modern parlance, we think of history as devloping primarily in Europe and the Americas, as well as parts of Asia.  How Autralia and Eurasia became populated isn't often a topic of conversation.  Very fascinating stuff.

Once I land in London, I'll be taking the Gatwick Express into town and getting settled  I heard from Geoff (aka The Kid, formerly of The Diamond, currently living in London), and will be heading to London's Chinatown to pay him a visit at his bar, which has no name or signage and is located above a Chinese resturant.  Sounds mysterious and slightly dangerous.  A perfect first night, methinks.

I'll update again once I'm on my way to London.  I'm sure Gatwick will be massive and terrifying and I'll have tales of panic and lunacy.

-----

Gatwick is a disaster zone.  It was boiling hot and no one seemed to know where they were supposed to be.  When I got to the customs official she looked down her nose at me and asked "Are you travelling alone?" in a way-too-matronly tone.  I got my 6 month visa (ha!) and went off in search of my luggage.

The Express train is amazing - gave me a whisking view of the London suburbs, which are quaint and eerily uniform. Straight into Victoria station, where I merrily hopped in a cab straight out of a Benny Hill episode.  We headed into London traffic, passing all the squares and Buckingham Palace and all that jazz.  I will NEVER drive in this city.  Made my head hurt just to watch.  We drove quite a ways then finally found my hotel.

Stupidly, and very much like an amateur traveller, I did not ask the driver if he took Visa.  He didn't. So we drove a few blocks to find a bank machine.  It was across the street and I discovered jaywalking is frowned upon by the general driving public.  I have flipped the bird for the first time in my personal history on British soil. Dumb lorry drivah.

Once I had cash in hand, we went back to the hotel, where I checked in and dropped my luggage.  My room won't be ready until 2 p.m. and it's only 10:30, so I am presently sitting in a Starbucks (so lame, I know) in St Pancreas Station, where I will be heading to Paris tomorrow morning.

By the way, Starbucks is not the same everywhere.  I asked for a drip coffee and the guy just stared at me.  FILTER coffee.  Oh right.  And unless you say "for take away" they assume you're parking your ass in a chair.  My first "for here" Starbucks.

So far, my impression of London is good.  It's certainly vibrant.  The theatre district had me drooling.  There are pubs on every corner and tons of restaurants of every shape, size, price point and decor.  The clothing shops look fabulous, though I was expecting a bit more of the locals wardrobes.  Around here, people look about the same as they do back home.  Minus the yoga pants.

I'm going to finish my coffee and go for a wander, though I must admit, a nap is going to be required.  I'll tell you about the shitwits that were sitting in front of me on the plane tomorrow.

Ta ta and toodleoo!

Summer 2011

Allo again, blogland. I'm sitting in my living room with my laptop, listening to the hum of the city and the radio blend together into a pleasant drone. My hair is standing on end from sleeping with wet hair. I do not care.

Today I am going to a funeral and wake for my friend Jess. He passed away a week ago-ish. He was young. He decided to take his own life. For what reason, I do not pretend to think I will ever really know. All I know is my community is shaken and bruised, and my heart is sore. I hope today will give us all some sense of closure, some lifting of the gloom. It's beautiful to see everyone come together as friends and support each other. Lots of hugging and comfort. Not a lot of words.

The rest of my life is fine internally. Externally, my friends are going through nine levels of personal hell. Each of them is handling said hell to the best of their abilities. It's hard to watch people hurt, with no magic wand to wave, no pithy comment to make everyone feel better.

I had a thought the other day while I was talking to a friend. I was explaining my week - Jess dying, friends' lives in crises, my computer hard drive exploding (seriously - not a good thing) and how all of this stress was stacking high in my life, but yet I felt only sadness, not panic, not anxiety, not "Oh god NOW what am I going to DO?!" My ability to manage life has come a long way int he past five years. No more victim-y whinging and finger pointing. Just a sigh and a heave and a ho and go get it fixed, listen intently and allow the feelings to process in their own due course. There's nothing to DO other than BE. This may be as close to zen as I get.

I have not been on a date in 5 months. I'm not sure why, but I suspect I may have something to do with this. I am getting far too comfortable alone. Or maybe that's just the way things are meant to be. I certainly have nothing to complain about, other than a distinct lack of male company. I have only met one man recently that even sparked interest. And I highly doubt anything will come of it, and that's not a heartbreak.

Ah The Doors. Memories. I never listen to them anymore. I used to lock myself in my bedroom and sit in the dark and absorb every note, even intonation of Jim Morrison's voice into my being. I was not terribly happy, obviously.

I have been taking Pilates with my former roommate as my instructor. Mylene and i have always gotten along well, and I'm glad we've reconnected. Pilates seems to be a good fit for me. I'm 25 classes in and still enjoying it - have another 20 sessions on the docket. Haven't exactly lost weight, but I feel a lot stronger. I think if I were to go back to doing some weight training, I'd have better success. Not that I'm doing that. At all. For now.

My sister, her boyfriend and I are buying a sailboat. This makes me very happy. It's on a mooring pin over in Telegraph Harbour on Thetis Island. It's a 22 ft Catalina, in great shape and ready to sail. I haven't sailed in years, but I'm eager to take her out and get my chops back up. That's her in the picture. She's currently called WindSong, which I do not like at all. There's debate over renaming her, but I think we should. Something more "us" and less "WindSong".

Further details on boats, etc to follow.

X out.

Suburban Call In

My toes are painted. The kids (not mine, my best friend's), are in bed. Laur and I are planning, singing, toasting and moving our lives forward, as always. We are deciding who would sing what. "When I die, this is the song I want..." "I love this song, this is my song..."

Music has always been mystical in my life. Not integral in the typical sense. We all love music, it affects us all. Music has had its mundane moments - sing for church, sing for family, sing for popularity. But this, tonight, is just for me. Just for my inner critic, and my inner ego. I reach higher notes, feel deeper breath, extend longer legato for just me and my friend. No audience. Just song for the sake of song. For the sake of the emotion is reminds or evokes. For the beauty of the music. Just cuz I can hit it. I think this is where true music lives for me. Not on a stage with hope of fame, but holding my dear friend's hand, sharing a tear over the realization that we know another part of each other through song.

That is all.

Autumn Leaves Me Hanging

Yes, yes, it's been awhile.

Another season is upon us, and my favourite one at that. Pumpkin spice, cider, scotch, dragon's blood red wines and all things autumnal make me happy. Falling leaves, warm sweaters layered under swooping wool coats that sashay with every step made in fabulous boots, boots and more boots... All in historic, tree-lined Gastown.

It's been a year since I moved down here and I absolutely cannot imagine living elsewhere. Not only because it's central and easy to get around town. Not only because the brightest new culinary and bartending stars are all within a 4 block radius. But because there's a sense of real community here. Neighbours talk in the elevator, comisserating about last night's party in suite 1906. Business owners wave you down as you pass by tho show you that special something that made them think of you. The staff of aforementioned restaurants and bars blow kisses out their windows as they prep for their nights work, making you mouth promises to return later that night. The tourists are gone. The locals trundle through the streets, dodging wind and rain, umbrellas lifted as you pass. (I hate umbrellas and never carry one. Yes, I live on the Wet Coast and always have. I just don't like having my hands full. Makes me batty. Hats are good enough.)

Fall always tends to make me want to change something in my life. More-than-a-hair-cut kind of change. It usually revolves around work, and this year is no exception. After five years with one brand in particular, I wonder if it's time to move on to something else, and if that something else should look like what I've done in the past. Back to school? Retrain for something new? Relocate? So many options.

The reality is that I'll likely make no change whatsoever and muddle though another year. Change is getting riskier these days. Not really harder. Just less certain for success. And god knows I hate being out of my comfort zone.

-----------------------

I just got back from the doctor. My regular yearly check-up. This year was the first time I was actually aware of the different things he's checking now. He asks more questions than he used to. There are less tap-tap-"good" mutterings and more note taking. Blood work is now required at every check-up, and this visit he mentioned mammograms. Not that I'm technically old enough to worry about this, but larger-breasted women have to be more award of this stuff, evidently. My breasts are moving from asset to liability as I edge toward 40.

More on this later...

C

Week Four: Ass Sweat and Other Related Humiliation

Is it week four already? Thank god. Time has gone by quickly, but I'm glad to know that I've actually stuck to this for a month. I don't stick to much for a month, as my dating history and shoe impulse purchases will illustrate.

I was thinking about being motivated, staying positive and all that rubbish the other day and I came to a realization about myself. I hate being motivated. I'm not motivated by motivation. I'm motivated by motives, certainly. Vanity, as previously discussed, is a major motive. Fear of cardiac arrest before turning 50 is another. Basic self-respect is in there somewhere. But the happy, sunshine-up-my-ass "staying motivated" isn't a me-thing.

The reality is I'd rather be sitting on a deck drinking beer or a bottle of Riesling, or stiletto shopping, or eating a barrel of potatoes, or dying my hair or really doing any of my normal hedonistic activities, but not working out. Not drinking another protein shake. Not swallowing another chicken breast. The brutal truth is this - I do it because there's no other option. There's no pill (trust me on this - I've looked into the pharma-angle) and I can't afford surgery or a regular cocaine habit.

As Bill Maher put it so succinctly, "Ask you doctor if getting off your ass is right for you." I'm off my ass because I have to be, not because I WANT to be. And yes, the endorphin and adrenaline surge helps make up for the grueling pain and panting and wheezing in the moment, but you must realize, lovelies, that all biological pleasure is for a reason. Procreation, for example. If sex was menial and even mildly painful, we'd have died off eons ago.

So, we get a little happy feeling after we almost have a heart attack. I am neither fooled nor impressed. Because it wears off. And left behind is PAIN. Like oh-crap-I-have-to-pee-but-that-means-getting-up-so-I-guess-I'll-get-a-bladder-infection-instead-pain. Costco-sized Ibuprofen-pain. Can't-wear-stilettos-pain.

Another non-motivator is sweat. I've never been a fan in general, but dripping from places that should not be dripping is out-right humiliating. Why does my ass need to sweat? Can't it be re-routed to a normal sweat place, please? Getting off one of the medieval contraptions I have to shove around, only to leave a wet impression of my butt on the seat is no way to make me think highly of this business. And there is no way, especially as a red-head, to sweat and look sexy. I go beet red from the neck up, and look like I'm either suffering from heat-stroke, or imitating a freshly cooked lobster. Combined with the beads of sweat, the lack of breath, and the muttered cursing, this is simply not a pretty picture. Oh, and the sweat stained ass crack on my yoga pants that are now sticking to me in places that cause yanking and twisting in a most unattractive manner. My mid-workout mannerisms make Elaine from Seinfeld's dancing look like a Janet Jackson routine.

But... the biggest cause of ill-will toward my trainer, the machines, and skinny people in general is plain old lack of results. Or evident results. Remember when I was excited about losing 6 pounds? Scale was off, it was only three. And I have since gained all three back. Trainer says "It's muscle, that's a good thing." Oh reaaalllly? A good thing? I almost threw the scale through the mirror (hoping for a Labyrinth-like dream sequence), but refrained. I mean, if I don't lose weight, what the sweaty &$@# am I doing this for?

My reaction? Thirty minutes of cardio, everyday, no exceptions. No booze Monday to Friday. No eating out during the week. No cheating.

Finally, I get it. I'm motivated by anger. Whatever works.

A small aside on workout wear

There is something uniquely humiliating about buying work out clothes. I've never done it before now, but it's comparable to swim suit shopping, though in some ways, even more degrading.

Step one is always admitting you have a problem, and buying clothes specifically for the purpose of absorbing sweat denotes you have something to fix. So even before the gun goes off, you feel like a twit.

Designers of these togs obviously have mastered schadenfreude. If I need to buy these things, I need to lose weight. So then why are all the designs skin tight and low waisted to sit right under the gut I'm trying to lose? And these wee jackets I can barely get one boob into? Come on now.

And, you'll forgive me for saying so, I hope, but if you are a size XS, what in sweet sweaty hell are you doing buying yoga pants? Go eat the poutine I can't have and screw off. Just seeing XS work out wear is demoralizing. They should have a separate section for small work out wear. Like they do for Plus size in regular wear. I'd be happy to be surrounded by women bigger than me, I'd love to pull a pair of capris off the rack and say, loudly, out loud, for all to hear "Oh these are WAAAAAY to big!" Throw the plus size workout wear in my section, keep the skinny bitches over there, next to the candy aisle, along with the small dog accessories and Hello Kitty purses.

Yes, I'm stereotyping. Get over it.

And no, Amber, I did not buy Lululemon yoga pants. I don't care how great they supposedly make my ass look, my ass is 35 pounds overweight, and I seriously doubt that a pair of pants, no matter how well marketed or designed they may be, can alter the fact that it is what it is - large.

And in the financial scope of reality - I'm not going to fit them for very long, so I'll just go to Army and Navy or Costco and buy the cheap stuff. Maybe once I thin out, I'll join the skinny bitches in the Thin People's Workout Wear Section at Lululemon. Right after I carry Peaches the Precious Pooch home in her Hello Kitty doggie-sac.

Working things out

So, I gained a whack of weight a few years ago. The cause is irrelevant at this point, but I will say it was a combination of a physical state and a mental state. It got worse, I got worse, I got fat.

Now, my friends, god bless you, will say "not fat, just a bit overweight", but I say, no, any 5'3" woman in good health should not weigh close to 200 lbs. This is where I maxed out.

(Thankfully, the only person I think who has pics of me at this weight is Joe, and I hope he's deleted them by now, because, well, he's married, and that's what you should do with old pics of old fat girlfriends.)

Life improved, and I dropped considerable pounds just by liking myself again. I got down to 160 and stayed there, seemingly forever. Well, it has been three years, at least. I've toyed with the idea of losing more weight. In my twenties, I weighed 115 lbs bloated, so I know what thin feels like. I like what thin feels like.

And before I go into a whole disclaimer on why women should feel good about themselves at any weight and why we're all lovable, let me explain something about myself that is base and true.

I'm vain. Vain as a fucking peacock. I like to look good, at all times, bar none. I like to stop traffic, make an entrance, take breaths away, you name it, I'm in. It's not an insecurity, either. I don't feel unattractive now - I walk into rooms and turn heads now, too. But not like I used to. I want that "Holy Shit" look to some back in the eyes of the beholders. And not just men. To get a dirty look from a woman is a stroke you can't replace. These days, I get comments about my shoes, my outfit, even my eyes, but not my smokin' hot bod.

This is because, my friends, my bod ain't smokin'. It's really not even steaming, and that a nasty thought anyway. The only assets I have, and largely due to the weight I've gained, are my darling breasts. They keep my vanity assuaged these days. I may not be my skinny bitch self, but I usually have the best rack in the room.

But I digress.

I want to lose weight for a plethora of very good, very healthy, very Oprah reasons. But really, let's be honest, I want to be thin, attractive and energized. Not passable, middle aged and tired all the time.

So I have embarked on a new journey. After denial and procrastination, I called a personal trainer and have started this horrible thing called working out. I have paid in advance, I'm committed for at least 8 weeks, and while I was excited and jubilant last week in my first two sessions, after sessions three and four, which just ended, I am sore, cranky and not thin yet.

I assume writing about this will serve me some purpose, if not for the exercise (hyuk hyuk) in itself, but to keep my wits about me as I torture myself with protein intake, epsom salts, work out wear and the like.

Welcome aboard the good ship Just One More Rep Then We'll Move On To Cardio.

A Letter to the Gekko Population of Costa Rica

My dear Gekkos,

I know that most people think you're all quite cute and harmless. As humans, we have animated you with British accents and made ad campaigns with you. Surfers and other outdoorsy types have bumper stickers of you in quasi-ethnic motifs. My niece thinks you're the cat's ass.

I'm an open minded woman, gekkos. I try not to judge. I give second chances, perhaps even when I shouldn't. So I'll let last night go. But I hope you take the following advice to your cold gekko hearts, lest I become a redheaded woman scorned.

First of all - if you have sticky feet and can hang upside down, please be consistent. If you're feeling tired and think your sticky powers are failing, stick to the ground. Or at least try to avoid the large white blocks under you that humans use as beds. I don't know, perhaps my visitor last night was a gekko at the end of his life and just wanted to end it all, but regardless, if you MUST fall from the ceiling, please pay attention to the following:

The long, stringy stuff on top of our female human heads is HAIR. It's attached. It can be straight or curly, it comes in many lengths and colours. The curly variety, as my nocturnal halo diver can attest, tends to be tangled. Again, avoidance is the best policy, but if your unstuck self hurtles south into a pile of hair, please, don't panic.

The twitching and scurrying that said panic induces has a particular affect on a sleeping female. We're likely dreaming, and the incorporation of critters in our hair into any dream will only result in a rude awakening for all involved. There will, at least, be utterance of vulgarities. Some may scream. (I did not.)

Once you have been fished out of the hair, for god's sakes (and yours) stay still. Flicking about in the hand of a now irritated female is a bad idea. This makes us want to splat you against a wall.

The act of throwing generally involves bringing the arm toward the body, then thrusting the arm away to achieve some velocity and distance for the object being thrown. The moment when the arm is closest to the body is NOT the time to engineer your escape.

The resulting flailing upon your arrival on the bosom and torso of the female is not a celebratory dance, nor is it a religious ecstasy. It is fear, disgust and hate.

Once you are recaptured and thrown, take the hint. Don't land on the bed. If You do, and you are kicked at from under the sheet, LET GO OF THE SHEET. This is not the time to reclaim your sticky feet.

Once you land on the tile floor, make your way to the nearest exit. Please note that the female will spend an hour looking for you to ensure her sleep will be uninterrupted, even though it's more likely that she'll move out to the couch rather that risk another "visit".

I thank you in advance for your cooperation.

Christina

Days Two and Three

I slept in Wednesday morning til about 11 and woke up a bit groggy. I ordered the Costa Rican breakfast, which was tasty, though the rice was undercooked. A couple of cups of coffee and I was ready to go. I changed into a bathing suit and hit the pool with Aislinn. The water was refreshing and the pool shaded by giant palms, so I was happy to float around for an hour or so.

Sufficiently prun-y, I towelled off and sat with Mom and Dad for a beer. I was fully intending on spending the day at the hotel - I had no desire to go on a wander quite yet. Aislinn went off and found a boogie board, so watching her was excerise enough. The sand on the beach was ridiculously hot, and sticky. The tide was strong enough to give her a good ride, and tricky enough to catch Mom, Dad and I all off guard at least once.

After a rinse and a short nap back at the hotel, I got dressed for the weekly BBQ dinner the hotel hosts. A margarita to start while I waited for the rest of the fam set the mood, though the waiters were nervous that I had sat at a four top alone. Whatever, buddy. I get it.

We ordered. Caesar salad to start which was surprisingly good, Dad ordered a T-Bone (well-done. eek.), Mom ordered shrimp, Aislinn, filet mignon brochette, and I ordered a whole red snapper. All of the dishes came with baked potato and veg. The fish was juicy and perfectly cooked, and everyone else seemed happy with their choices. I found myself quite tired by the end of dinner, and after a brief walk alone on the beach, I went to bed. We had an early start planned for tomorrow - a day at Playa Coco up over the hill, so I wanted to get enough rest to handle whatever the morrow was to throw at me.

Thursday morning I woke up with no problem at 6:45. (Yeah, me. 6:45 in the morning. I know.) I got dressed and had an early fruity breakfast. Lots of people were up at that hour - the temperature was still mild and the tourists were all out running their dogs or riding bikes along the beach.

Mom and Dad eventually came out, long with Aislinn, and our ride to Coco arrived on time.

Cresting one of the hills on a winding road, Coco spread out beaneath us. A stunning little cove full of boats and choppy waves breaking on small clusters of rock, I was duly impressed. Mom and Dad were dropped off for a condo sales pitch, and Aisy and I headed into town for the town's reputed shopping.

Some of the shops were open, and we started scouring for trinkets, sarongs, flip flops and hats. The souvenir shops were huge, and most of them rather repetitious. Aislinn picked up a frog thing that I knew was going to drive me mental. It was hollowed out and had a spiny ridge on the back. You ran a stick over the spine, and it made a frog-like sound. Pretty realistic, too. She got a medium-sized one, and proceeded to play it incessantly, all through the town-o. I threatened to take it away. This is as effectual on a thirteen year old as an umbrella in a monsoon.

We waited for Mom and Dad at the agreed upon spot. They were running late. We were waiting in front of a real estate office, and the owner stepped out to chat. He was from New York, and you could tell. Got some interesting information from him about properties and such. Mom and Dad arrived, so we hopped in the van and were driven back to Hermosa.

A quick pack and check-out and we were picked up by another driver to take us to our condo in Flamingo. Carlos was pleasant and early, two things I appreciate.

While I was checking out, an older man stepped up beside me and asked what part of Canada I was from. When I told him, he snorted and said "All Vancouverites are arrogant. You think you've got it all." Well, fuck you then, why are you continuing to talk to me? I was very annoyed. He was one of these old geezers that obvious;lt would take negative attention over none at all. In my annoyance and hate to get the hell away form his cranky self, I forgot my camera at the front desk.

(This is why I have no pics up right now... but don't worry, fearless reader, Puck will make amends.)

We headed ou in the tour van for Flamingo. It was a longer drive than I had expected, but we go a glimpse of the farms and rural life around us. Small houses, large sugar cane farms, occasional bars and nightclubs... with very very little advetising or commercialism at all. Barely has signs on the bars.

We passed thorugh Huecas and Brasilito, two fairly substantial hubs with souvenir shops, grocery stores, gas stations and restaurants. Finally turning into Flamingo, we wound up a small alley to a locked gate.

The woman at the gate wouldn't let us in. No reservation, she said. Oh lord, is this a scam? Have we been duped? As we argued our way into the lot, I knew we were in the wrong place. The Condo is called MAISON BLANCHE, not Maison-every-colour-under-the-sun. As I rounded a corner, I spotted our building up on a hill. I pointed this out to the driver and he seemed to know how to get there.

Another driveway, another gate, another gate-keeper who had no idea who we were. AT this point, I was getting pissed. Where was the condo owner who was supposed to meet us? We finally go communication straightened out and headed up to the uliding, where a mess of baggage, facility tour and related stupidity gnawed at my patience. I unpacked to avoid confrontation and got ready to head out to get groceries. This would be fun, and I was looking forward to getting my hands onto some local food.

The Massai, our local grocery store, is two doors down from our front gate. It has pretty much everthing you can imagine. It's geared for visitors, and they keep fairly "normal" foods around. Mom and I stocked up on food, I grabbed rum, vodka, beer, wine, mix and juices. A few packages of frozen chicken, some potatoes, etc. We were set. All in, 117 USD. Not bad.

I sauteed the chicken and made a rough potato salad, served up with bread. I love cold potato salad.

A couple of Vodka Tonics later, we all sat and watched some Olympic coverage. (NBC, so not a lot of Canadian stuff - just the Yanks).

A relatively early night to bed - I was beat from all the running around and slept well, considering it was the first night in a new place.

Ginger2 out.

Well I actually did it. I got on a plane and have now departed on a two week holiday. Last time I took a two-consecutive week holiday I think I was in college. And I have been looking forward to this rather desperately. I'm drained, worn and in need of recuperating in a bad way. I have been taxed in energy to the point that even seeing my most favorite people was getting to be too much. Family, friends. Not good. It was time to treat myself to the same kind of holiday that would make me green with envy when my friends would share their experiences.

This is where I'm writing from...

This is how I got here...

Sometime last year, my mom approached me and asked if I was planning to take any holiday time this year. I missed out on my family's holiday last Xmas, which was upsetting for all of us, so I was hoping to get some time in with the kids and my parents as much as the rest. I told her I was planning to be away during the Olympics, wouild that work? Yup, it would, but where? Costa Rica was decided upon,but little detail work was discussed until close to December of last year. Where did we want ot go? Who was coming? For how long? My schedule was flexible, but the Olympic dates made the most sense from a client-management point-of-view. So, blah blah blah, emails sent bcak and forth, and TADA - Mom booked a condo in Playa Flamoingo for three weeks. It was actually coming together.

Sunday, Feb 15 was a daze. I had spent the weekend participating in Olympic fever, as well as my usual weekend debauchery. That weekend the impending departure gave me new vigor for getting in as many bars and restaurants as I could... after all, I'd be gone for two weeks. I had done nothing to prespare for my trip, and had work that absolutely had to be tied up before I left.

Through a true hungover fog, I managed to get it all done. Monday morning I was up at 7 to get a project delivered to a client (I kept Sunday night light... was only out til one). Then I had to pack. Yes, i left this to the last minute. But a jammed everything sunshine in a suitcase and was out the door at 11 on my way to New West to meet the parents and my niece, Aislinn. The travelers.

We left New West a bit longer than I had expected, due to last minute prescription drop offs for Grandpa and a return over the Patullo bridge to get Mom's ac cord for her laptop. But then we were on our way across the border to SeaTac Airport.

We had purposefully given ourselves tons of time, anticipating Everett and Seattle rush hour. We stopped at Everett Mall and chowed down and Famous Dave's BBQ. If you haven't been, make a point of finding this place. Amazing. We ordered the feat for 2, if you can believe that. And any place with 23 oz beer is fine by me.

All of us now in full pork and brisket comas, we managed to get to the parking place close to SeaTac and in the shuttle. Check-in was a breeze, and we found ourselves at the gate a full 1.5 hours early. I didn't care. We spent the time in crosswords and laughing through the Lonely Planet Latin Spanish phrasebook, which includes a whole dating and "getting closer" section. My 13-yr old niece now knows how to say "Easy Tiger!" in Spanish, as well as "Piss off!", which I'm pretty sure is really saying "Eat Shit", as the word mierde is pretty recognizable to me.

The first leg of the flights was SeaTac to Dallas Ft Worth. The pork coma was still sitting heavy, so it wasn't hard to just fall asleep. I woke up about 30 mins out of Dallas, and as we flew over the city, I remembered how much I hated that town. I was glad to be over it rather than in it. Memories of being chased home from school, being mocked by student and teacher for being Canadian, church embarrassment, and general I-hate-being-13 crap sifted through my head as we went in search of our next gate. We had to take the Skybus, which was an efficient way of getting around an otherwise labyrinth of an airport.

We got to the gate as it was boarding... off to Miami. There was an older gentleman sitting in the aisle seat, wearing a navy sports coat, very neatly pressed grey slacks and the shiniest black shoes I had ever seen that weren't actually patent leather. The baseball cap on his head explained it all, Air Force. He looked like Donald Sutherland, and sounded a bit like him, too, but with a deep southern accent, and the manners to go with. After we sat, he asked if we were heading home. I informed him of our home town and that we were on route to Costa Rica. "Well, ma'am, there's no better way to get anywhere than through America." I smiled and suppressed a chuckle. I hadn't been around blatant American patriotism in a long time. "Now wher'd you say you were from?" he asked. "Vancouver," i repeated. "Why do I think that's familiar?" I'm sure my eyebrow wiggled as I tried not to sound to huffy. "Well, the winter Olympics are there right now." "Oh, right. That's it." Not a winter sports fan, I guess.

It was only a two hour flight, but I managed to sleep a bit. I awoke to the sunrise coming over the low lying clouds, which was spectacular. Aislinn and I did a couple of crosswords, oohed and aaahed over Key West, then watched in awe as we spun around over the ocean and landed in the middle of the city. Last time I flew that close to buildings was when we landed in Hong Kong. Well, there was a trip involving mushrooms, superpowers and New York, but that wasn't really real. I've never been to New York.

American Donald Sutherland wished us safe travels and thanked us for flying American. We were on American Airlines, but I doubt that's what he was referring to.

A one hour layover in Miami gave us time to grab a quick sandwich. It 11 a.m. our time, and we had been travelling 11 p.m. the night before. I was tempted by a bucket of beer at the coffee shop, but decided against it, knowing my bladder's relationship with airplanes. The woman screeching into to mic at the gate was so annoying I actually felt like punching her in the face, so i tried to concentrate on the sandwich. i was actually pleasantly surprised by the quality - most airport food is shite. This was fresh, and the coffee had real coffee in it, not the watery excuse for caffeine they were serving on the plane.

The news was on. Not a smidge of Olympic coverage, which I suppose isn't too offensive considering we were in Miami.

Once on the plane, both Aislinn and I were suddenly pooped. I crashed out for a good two hours, and when we both dragged out eyes open, we were flying over what I think was Nicaragua. OR Honduras. We pulled out the map and tried to figure it out, which we thought we had until we began out descent into Costa Rica. I have now idea what direction we were flying in from, and we both had the map turned in all different directions. So many coves with beautiful, pristine beaches were passing underneath us.

We landed in Liberia. I shed my cardigan and shoved my leather jacket in my bag. Aislinn unraveled her layers as we got ready to step out in to the heat. The wind was up, and as we stepped off the plane, it felt like a million hair driers had just been turned on us. I'm sure I swore out loud.

We met up with the parentals inside the "Arrivals" building, which was an open air truss-structured barn with customs immigration desks. We zoomed through Immigration, got our bags, and then through customs. Both processes involved handing over paperwork and being waved through. I could see the gaggle of transportation people hovering outside and had a pang of nervousness. I was reminded of China and the Change-Money's (if you ever traveled to PRC pre-one-currency, you know what I mean).

My nervousness was assuaged as a lovely gentleman in an official looking green shirt approached me and quickly asked where we were going, did we have a reservation and how many of us were there? Boom, in a cab. An air conditioned cab. Flat rate, dropped off to the hotel. Yes, please.

Off we went, heading for a twenty minute trek to the coast. I must say, i was happy for the trip. We got to see a bit of the interior, with huge sugar can farms, road-side "sodas", or lunch shacks, and more real estate signage that the Westbank in Kelowna. One such sign advertised beach from property for on 25K. I knew I was going to like it here. And a giant Home Depot type store with a very full parking lot. A promising sign for investors.

We pulled up to the hotel, found rooms and literally dropped all of our belongings, grabbed the bikinis and headed straight for the pool. Well, I headed straight for the bar and downed two ice cold Bavarias before Mom made it out.

Aislinn and I went for a quick walk down to the beach and saw a beautiful hammock, empty, hanging between two trees. I beelined for it and we jostled our tired bones into it. We managed to grab a couple of pics before...

Aisy in the "borrowed" hammock

... I heard a female voice behind me... "Pardon, senorita..." I turned my head. Surely you can't reserve the hammock. "Dees ees my ammock." "Oh, you're next?" I asked, trying to get my bearings as Aislinn and I wrung out of the fabric. "No, senorita. Ess my ammock." Oh. Like literally. I apologized and Aislinn and I giggled back up to the hotel. Another beer and a bite of salad and I felt normal enough to get in the pool. It was cool on our very warm skin, but quickly became just right. The pool is shaded by giant palms, and so is kept at a decent temperature instead of getting too hot under the sun.

It was three p.m. local time. 34 degrees, windy and a touch more humid than I'm used too.

I wandered down to the beach with another beer and sat watching the tide come in. There were boogie boarders, wave jumpers and beach bums, but not too many. Not a sign of commercialism... which was remarkably refreshing. Nothing to remind me of work. Nothing to remind me that the tide was coming in.

Flip flop and Bavaria in the grey sand

Swoosh.

I managed to save the camera, but my flip flops wound up waaaaay down beach, and my hotel towel, covered in black sand and beachy goodness. I sheepishly traded it in as i headed to my room to rinse off my sarong.

Mom and Dad wanted to go for a walk, so we all shoed up and started a trek up a road we didn't know. There was a group of seedy looking young men with scrawny dogs at the intersection, obviously there to "guide" strangers about. I was offered a map to buy by one such ambassadore who's sunglasses looked like Ray Parker Jr's in the Ghostbusters video. I wanted them. I didn't ask. Nor was I overly enthused about the map.

We walked past and headed up a dirt path, past a cement school with soccer field and cow... then we realized we couldn't really walk through anywhere to get to the beach, so we pulled the dumb tourist move and trespassed through another hotel, coming back out to the beach-side path to make out return. We found a shop that rents boats and boogie boards, and the owner was pleasant enough to offer his sons as instructors. Which would have been great if any of them were over 14. But they also ran a seafood restaurant three, and the menu looked promising. We decided to go there for dinner later.

Dad and Aisy on the beach... no one else seems to be around...

Mom and her shadow at the shore line

Sun starting to set over the hill

Upon return to the hotel, I realized I was in much need of a siesta. The rooms are ac'd so I quickly fell asleep for 20 minutes, and woke up feeling rested and cooled off. I dressed for dinner (because I believe in that sort of thing) in capris and a light olive tank, with a wrap and some bangles for style. Wrap lace sandals. (yes, I will be reporting my wardrobe during the trip, as well as shopping and meals.)

Mom and the sunset

We walked down to the restaurant and sat. And sat. And sat. Now I get "Island Time", "Indian Time" and even "Hammer Time", but you all must know I hate waiting for food and drink service. I did a lot of breathing. The owner's wife is American. She spies us and rushes over with menus. A Spanish speaking waiter comes over 15 minutes later and we figure out drinks and order food. Aislinn is suffering from massive low blood sugar and naps with her head on the table. The food is taking forever. There are six tables out of twenty possible. This should not be a problem. I hear the server explain to another table that it's "busy". Oh dear.

Once the food arrives, we're more than happy. Dad's breaded shrimp is hand down the best i have ever had. Most breading makes the shrimp tough and it's so easy to overcook, but this was very fresh shrimp, and was so juicy. Seriously. Best evar. (that was for you, PBE) I had a mixed grill that was over-cooked, but still tasty. Aisy devoured her Hamburguesa con papas fritas before we could ask how it tasted. We assume good things.

Aisy and I headed back to the hotel first. Dad settled the bill. Which was 40 bucks, tip included. 250 g shrimp, mixed grill, huge veggie salad, burger. All with sides. Two beer, one glass wine, one coffee. Love this place.

The walk back ot the hotel was mild and dark. A few random "Hola"s came drifting to us. the stars were huge, bright, and close, with the sliver of moon already gone. The surf crashed next to us as we walked silently by starlight.

And then to bed. A long, solid dream-fuelled sleep awaited us.

Yeah yeah, i'm here...

I can't believe it's been this long since I've posted.

Ok, that's a bold faced lie. I've been NOT posting for this long quite intentionally. I have had a year, nay, two years, of expressing myself, letting people know what's what, getting my way or complaining that I haven't. Writing it all down has just seemed daunting. Or possibly could come of as braggery. "Thing are so great - I'm wildly successful, have a loving group of friends and family, live in Vancouver, eat, drink and make merry more than is religiously tolerated. News at 11." Really. To make up any cynical "woe-is-me" tale would be ungrateful and just plain bad karma. But then, as I was sipping on a glass of wine tonight, I realized that I have this blogging thing all wrong. I don't have to complain. I don't even have to be terribly witty. God knows I can string words together in a sensical fashion without sounding like a third grader, so maybe that's all I need to do. Nonsensical blathering, even if it's happy blather.

Not to say this year hasn't had it's relationship drama. Of course it has. It's me, for chrissakes. Well, maybe not Drama. Just little bumps in the road. THAT'S RIGHT FUCKERS - THAT'S ALL YOU ARE. BUMPS IN MY HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL, FABULOUS-SEX-LIFE ROAD!

I'm fine now. Onward and upward as they say.

So, let's have some fun and play character assasiniation. Last time I mentioned any boyfriend type material it would have been... hmm... July 2007, really. Hell. That's a while ago. I think I'd better grid this out...

August 2007 - online dating. Sucks. Hanging out with Peter a lot, as Neil is still in Florida.

September 2007 - Meet who we will call The Dirty Irishman. Fireworks, wine and some of the most ribald text messages I have ever recieved. Still get them, though on rarer occasion.

October 2007 - Erin go bragh, but still online dating. Nothing sticks.

November 2007 - Peter's birthday party. Meet The Lads. Hook up with one of them, whom we will call... Red Faced Heart Attack. I may one day explain why, but not tonight. RFHA and I begin to spend fairly regular time together. Still visit the Emerald Isle from time to time.

December 2007 - Between admisnistering CPR to RFHA and dancing with the leprechauns, I am a happy, sated woman. For once. RFHA and I plan and execute a smashing New Year's Eve Party.

January 2008 - RFHA and I cease to see each other over a drunk fight that, to this day, I do not recall or understand.

February 2008 - Mia introduces me to her former co-worker, whom we shall call The Rugby Player. We date for four months, do NOT have sex, I attempt to eat my way out of horniness, and it all ends with him literally disappearing off the face of the earth.

So that takes us to Late April. Oh, somewhere in March I hop back to Ireland. I plead insanity due to lack of sex.

So... April 2008 - I actually took a substantial break after Rugby. I was heart-sore and had other issues to deal with... I don't think I dated another soul for almost a year. I spent a fabulous summer hanging with Petey this year, lots of deck parties and silliness. The Irish showed up every once in a while for more wine and debauchery. Good times all around.

And now it's October. Fall has set in and I'm feeling like nesting and being cozy on a couch with someone. Met someone recently that shall remain unidentified for now. It's new and I'm not sure where it's headed. I have to remember not to over-think things.

I'm moving to Gastown, which makes me very happy. To be within walking distance of my favorite haunts will be lovely and expensive, but hey, I'm young and single, right? That's how we roll.

So there. A blog post for 2009.

Enough already

I'm exhasuted. I realized this about an hour ago. I feel a tired that has been settling into my bones like an ancient sorrow. I am tired. I am repeating myself. I am not new, there is little vital left in my brain. I need a jump start and I don't have the cables in the trunk. Hell, like I even know where the battery is anymore. What drives me? Does anything anymore? Where did the passion and desire go? I don't even ask that with any intention of answering it. Because I don't care. I don't care where they went or who they went or why. I just want it back.

I sense an impendings elf-inflicted drama.

Something has to change.

I have to change.

For George Carlin

shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.

rest in peace, George. thanks for all the laughs and the ouches.

2008

So a year ago I wrote down a whack of things I wanted to accomplish in '07. Let's see how I did...

Did I...

get paid what I'm worth... Sure I guess so. I'm self employed now and doing very well, so yes. Accomplished.

take a real vacation... See self-employment. I took a week off to visit family in the summer. And a week for Xmas with family, too.

spend more time with my friends, and less with my work. (yeah, right)... I did see a lot more of Laurie, Peter and the lads, as well as Amber, Tobias and the kiddo. Done.

meet a man over 35 that isn't psychotic, messed up, married, desperate or angry that can string together 5 words and doesn't eat like a pig, hump my leg in public or smash beer cans on his head... Met plenty that had one or all attributes. Still single, though.

buy a real couch. Like a new one... Nope.

go to the art gallery once every three months. And the theatre, too... Nope and nope.

start my sommelier training. For real.... YES!!!

learn to not take crap personally and take power from being inoffensable... I think I'm getting better at this.

drink better wine, not more wine. (Who am I kidding?)... I drank some fantastic wine this year. And a lot of it.

get my wisdom teeth pulled out, instead of bearing the pain so I can work more... Still got 'em.

eat well everyday, not just the three days after payday... Yes. I cooked more, ate out at will and generally did not starve.

lose 20 pounds and get some muscle tone back so that carrying groceries up the stairs doesn't give me a coronary... I've lost 15 so far, and still more to come. Walking everywhere works.

stop looking for greener pastures and make the best of what I have, without being bitter or ungrateful... Well, I left my last job, if that's what I'm referring to. And I'm happy with my position in life. For now.

start writing my book. Not just taking notes, but like putting the damn thing together. Absolutely not. No where even close to this one.

Next post I'll set up my '08 goals...