Waiting

Here we are, sitting on the couch, mid-afternoon of a cold, grey & miserable Wednesday. Odd how the weather so accurately reflects the mood around here today too - for some reason I remember an old college lecturer describing that as 'pathetic fallacy' in literature.

Today's waiting is for what we anticipate to be news we've been dreading but have known it's on its way nonetheless - sometimes you just can't stop the freight train. Our eldest and much-loved, wonderfully snuggly and heartwarmingly tactile cat, Kramer is at the vet for an ultra-sound to determine the cause of his intense pancreatitis - and we are not kidding ourselves about the prospect of it being anything but sad news. He's 18, has a variety of health issues - including kidney disease and a heart murmur - all of which has been quite manageable up until now, but the pancreatitis has knocked him sideways and despite an initial round of meds that greatly improved his overall health and well-being, he has since crashed during the last week or so, to the point he won't eat or drink. The most probable cause, which will be determined by the ultra-sound, is a pancreatic tumour - leaving little chance of any miracle recovery.

Until the past couple of days he was still a very happy, super-snuggly and content cat who likes nothing more than to nestle into Lorne as close as he can possibly get, moulding himself right into Lorne's neck or chest. And if Lorne isn't around, I'm honoured that Kramer deems me to be a suitably loving substitute to snuggle into. Never, ever have I seen a cat so full of love and absolute adoration of anyone, but Lorne is truly everything in Kramer's world and it works both ways. And from my side too, Kramer is an absolute treasure, the most unique and tactile cat I ever thought I'd meet. I'm privileged to have shared the past 10 years with him since I first witnessed that magical bond between him & Lorne when we first met in 2001.

And here we are, expecting a call any moment that will give us the definitive answer, even though we are under no illusion that this chapter will have a happy ending. While we've truly done everything we can for him and firmly believe that his welfare - and the welfare of any of our furry family - has always been #1 priority, the hardest part is knowing that, at the end of the day, you are nonetheless powerless to change the inevitable and it becomes a question of how happy is Kramer? Is it fair? Is his quality of life what he deserves? And you know it's bad when even the vet starts crying as she tries to explain. She's a lovely doctor - Dr. Kramer at Vancouver Animal Wellness Hospital - who, perhaps because of her namesake, has a real soft-spot for Kramer. Well, anyone who meets him instantly falls in love with him - how could you not, he's just such a big smooch - and that's just the way he likes it.

I love all our cats - even the two new ones I haven't even  written about yet - and as each one passes another piece of our hearts go with them, hopefully keeping them safe and loved in the next world.

When I lost Lucy in 2009 I physically felt my heart break - deep inside my chest something broke and while it will never completely heal, time has helped make it somewhat 'bearable', mainly because it has to be. The pain slowly filled once more by the overwhleming love and heartwarming fondness of our precious years together.

I am incredibly sad about Kramer and sadder still that Lorne will feel that same level of devastating pain and suffocating sadness that I felt with Lucy.....and not-forgetting Molly and Otto. I wouldn't wish that on anyone but it's testimony to the depth of our unreserved love and amazing bond with these incredible, wonderful and magical animals with whom we are very blessed to share our lives.

Why am I writing this before Kramer has even gone? Because he deserves this while he's still here - a message of our deep love and admiration for being the most extraordinarily loving and endearing cat and for all the sunshine he has brought into our lives. And because it is only in being fair to him, that the kindest thing we can do is to love him enough to know when to let go - and to let go with all the love in the world for our little boy.

We love you Rama.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Boobage: a "tourist's" perspective

In German you can add a diminutive "(s)chen", pronounced shen, at the end of a noun to imply its smallness or endearing quality, such as: Haus (house) = Häuschen (cute little house/cosey cottage), Katz (cat) = Kätzschen (kitten), Hund (dog) = Hündschen (small dog), or even Mädchen (little girl). With that in mind, I wondered if I shouldn't re-title this post as 'Boobschen'.

Boobs, bosoms, knockers, tits, twins, hooters, jugs, kahoonas, Bristols, cup cakes, fun bags, doorknobs, beamers, mambas.... Whatever you want to call them - for someone like myself, who's never really had much....okay, anything!... to boast about by way of boobage, I have to say that, wearing a push-up bra and catching your Boobschen with an actual cleavage is really quite intriguing. In fact it's rather an odd feeling indeed.

Courtesy of Calvin Klein*, who (amen!) happens to make very good bras for the mammory under-nourished among us, I've not only managed to catch crumbs between my boobs this lunchtime - something that NEVER happens - but I've also felt oddly exposed in the 'rack' area all day. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not saying it's a bad feeling per se, far from it, but for one who's spent the best part of my 43 years watching the occasional dropped food glide, blissfully unhindered, straight down into my lap, having it suddenly land 'higher up' is just, well....quite a novelty really.

Similarly, to look down and see two gently rounded baps (or 'dirty pillows', as Carrie's mum would call them) poking ever-so-slightly above my deep-cut, v-neck top feels almost cartoon-like....à la mode de Jessica Rabbit - to me anyways. Even though it would take a lot more than a couple of chicken fillets to give me that much cleavage.... heck, I'd need the whole flippin' coop!

I'm honestly quite satisfied with the boobs God gave me, despite the fact I clearly got short-changed in comparison to both my mum and sister and ignoring the more demoralizing bra-hunting excursions where - to my horror - I've managed to turn a 36B bra into a stereo echo-chamber with my pitiful cries, "How can this be too BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG?"

And, for the record, I actually did try the ol’ chicken fillets thing just once, a few months ago….and wasn’t sure whether to shriek or laugh out loud when, as I walked across the restaurant, one of them decided to go AWOL, sliding all rubbery-plastic-y right down my ribs and very nearly landing on my left shoe. Thankfully I managed to grab it lower abdomen and kept it in a not-so-discreet stranglehold till I could at least get to the bathroom and figure out what to do. There I was, one boob bigger than the other and shuffling all bent up with a vice-like grip on the runaway fillet just left of my crotch. I can only imagine the shocked/amused/perplexed expression on my face at the time!

Funnily enough, during my single years, I was hesitant to invest in any kind of ‘enhanced/padded’ bra since I genuinely feared the ‘what-if’ of being caught in the throes of passionate undress and the sudden loss of my bra revealing the unflattering truth of the two marbles dwelling therein….the horror…. the horror. Of course, when I think about it now, any guy in the midst of a passionate embrace with a bra-less woman is hardly about to recoil in shock, grab his clothes and run the hell away, is he really?

And there was the time my niece, Bronwyn, was leaning against me on the couch while I read her a bedtime story and adoringly (or so I thought) nestled her head against my ribs. She nuzzled a little more as I continue to read, then ran her hand from my shoulder down my front - and suddenly sat bolt upright exclaiming, "Aunty Trini, why don't you have any boobies?" The look of utter shock-horror on Vicky's face in the background was priceless! Reeling from the blow, I managed to utter, "I do have boobies, you just don't see them so much in this sweatshirt." And with another blow, Bronwyn was quick to fire back, "But where? I can't see them. They must be small then, not like Mummie's boobies." Bless! Out of the mouth of blunt, cutting and brutually honest babes, eh?

So while my boobs are each a polite (though hardly over-generous) little handful, I nevertheless get a kick out of it during the couple of days each month when they're hormonally 'pumped' and actually have a presence - albeit that often comes at the cost of them feeling a tad sore and uncomfortable. Similarly, for the few years I was about 30lbs heavier than I am now, I also remember being a little bigger up top which, along with the overall extra padding, pushed me to needing Large and X-Large tops. Of course, the moment I lost a few pounds that was always the first place to show any sign of shrinkage.

And there you have it. I am of a chest that could certainly benefit from a gentle East-West shove from time to time. (You'll notice I didn't say Northerly, given that they've never been sizeable enough to warrant an argument with gravity.) And I have to say, the odd times I might pull out one of my more enhancing bras, I definitely feel like I've strapped prosthetics to my ribcage. Quite simply, I'm just not used to the feeling of cleavage and ampleness, nor the accompanying oggles from the opposite sex. Suddenly any eye contact noticeably drops a little lower down.

So while I always get to comfortably peruse the small/medium tops and occasionally feel deflated (excuse the pun) when there’s too much fabric that I can’t possibly fill, I at least get to try the other side of the coin too and squish those bumps into a rounder, cleavaged little cushion whenever I like. Though it’s odd when you think that, despite all these women with real and incredible chests and those out there getting breast implants etc., the average clothing market is still geared predominantly to shapeless females with boy-like, boobless bodies – telling us to be rail thin yet still thrust around a decent bundle of boobage. Nothing like mixed messaging and exploitive duplicity.

All in all I really am just an occasional tourist in Boobsville - trying to blend in with my clever disguise. And for some reason, on the days I visit, wearing my somewhat prosthetic bras, the oddness of feeling more ‘ample’ never ceases to amuse me.


* Thanks to Winners (or TJ Maxx as it's known elsewhere) I enjoy my boob-tastic Calvin Klein 'Envy' bras at a much more reasonable price of $16.99 as opposed to $45.99!

When I am anxious it is because I am living in the future. When I am depressed it is because I am living in the past. ~Author Unknown (but could have been me!)

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.
Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.
One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.
~Mary Jean Iron


While there are three tenses to life, I realize more and more that I spend most of my time living in just two of them - the past and the future - but not nearly enough time in the present. I'm not even sure how it started yet I seem to have spent most of my 43 years living that way - meandering with a head full of questions between the ghosts of coulda, woulda, shoulda and nostalgic revisiting of the past or else trying to weigh up all the unknowns, uncertainties and yet-to-come moments that sometimes quite literally paralyze me about the future.
It's not that I harbour an overwhelming sense of regret about the past, not entirely anyway. Nor is it that I plan with excitement, or dread, towards the future and where my life will go from here. In one sense I don't so much 'live' in the present as, dare I say it, stagnate and procrastinate - glued to the spot wondering about the paths I might have taken coupled with a reticent intrigue and underlying anxiety about the future. But surely it's a crime to live my life as if the present is a no-man's land.

Either way, I've determined it's not the best use of my time and, if anything, is considerably detrimental to my present. There are times I get sucked into the vacuum of my own head - devoured by questions, wonderings and doubt or reminiscing with fondness, melancholy or a sizeable mix of both. Always wondering if what I'm doing - or have done - with my life is good enough. (Good enough for who?)

It's not that my reflections upon the past are always negative, far from it. I have done many wonderful things and accomplished much in my life thus far of which I am proud, grateful and definitely more the wiser. And I am fully aware of the immense and unique gift that I get to live this life and not that of so many millions of people in a much, much worse situation - facing poverty, sickness, devastating hardships and unimaginable horrors as a matter of daily life. Although I sometimes fear the 'what if' of that becoming my future.

And I certainly don't always look to the future with underlying apprehension, because I know from previous experience that, even when the present has sometimes felt like too much to bear, the future has nevertheless brought better, happier and remarkably fulfilling moments into my life. Moments that I sometimes feared I wouldn't see.

So why then do I waver constantly between one and the other but so rarely within the here and now? Or if I let myself soak up a lovely moment in the present, a little voice of negativity will often sneak in with its subliminal whispers of 'what if this all gets taken away'? I can be laughing and enjoying a walk, a holiday, a movie, a meal or a beer with Lorne, and suddenly it's like I catch myself with a shadowy foreboding of 'what will I ever do if something happens to him?' Borne of the fear that maybe I'm not worthy or entitled to such happiness? Or the guilt of, 'how can I be laughing and feeling this good while half the world's suffering or in turmoil?'

When I really get into it, I can even find myself thinking, 'in the future I might really regret having lived my life this way in the past'. For heaven's sake, why won't I just let myself off the hook? The past - for better or worse - is what has shaped me into the person I am today and has brought many wonderful people, experiences, challenges and accomplishments into my life. No I didn't move to France (yet) like I always thought I would - like everyone thought I would. But I did take a completely different path that has brought me to enjoying the past 10 years with a wonderful man, living in a great city and a great country - and with my sister and her family nearby. I've had some amazing jobs (and some complete doozies - same could go for relationships too come to that) and in all honesty I wouldn't change that either. Maybe it's normal to look back over your life and wonder about the paths you didn't take, or wonder about the lives of people you once knew and how different things could have been. But there's really no telling if you would have actually been any happier, more successful, wiser, wealthier or otherwise.

However I don't think it's all that healthy to feel a greater sense of anxiety about the future than I do excitement or positive anticipation. Most of that stems from my worries of the world we live in which is directly proportional to the amount of news or twisted american crime shows I watch - hence I try to avoid them, even if a lack of political and socio-economic knowledge significantly inhibits my worldly awareness and limits more in-depth dinner conversations and debates.

And while I still have a problem accepting that I'm in my forties - seriously, I don't know why it is after 3 years already, but it still chokes me - I should really just a) be grateful that I got this far :-)  and b) suck it up because, in my 50's or even 80's I'll no doubt be kicking myself that I wasted the full enjoyment of my forties feeling old!

Basically, since I'm unable to change the past, although I do frequently learn from it, and I'm somewhat limited in what I can really control about the future, except what is within my powers to effect, I should consider it 'open to possibilities' - a blank page whereupon any number of things remain to be written - and focus perhaps on making those possibilities into realities.

One thing's for certain, if I don't do more and live my life more in the present, then my future will almost certainly be tainted by melancholy and regret about the past.

Mayne Island getaway

While we normally avoid leaving town on a long weekend, since it usually implies fighting one’s way through loooong lines of traffic & overcrowded ferries etc., Lorne and I broke from tradition for last week’s Canada Day (July 1st) long weekend and booked ourselves a little camping trip to one of the nearby gulf islands – Mayne Island.

Mayne is just a 90min and very scenic ferry ride from Vancouver and thankfully we’d booked well in advance so we didn’t get caught in any delays, in fact it wasn’t a bad trip at all both on the way out and coming back 2 days later.

It’s only the second time we’ve been to Mayne Island, despite having talked about it often since our first trip there back in October 2002. At that time we rented a cheap but comfortable little cabin that we’d heard of through a colleague and went there for Thanksgiving with a couple of friends (which, now that I mention it, further negates my earlier mention of ‘avoiding’ travelling over long weekends).



Georgina Point Lighthouse
& park - perfect picnic spot.

Unfortunately that cabin was sold off since we last went there - replaced by two much larger houses - but that’s just fine because we have our trusty and much-loved camper van and had booked at Mayne’s only campsite – Seal Beach in Mariner’s Bay, on the northwest of the island. Not a bad little campsite, except for the horribly smelly outhouses – they seriously need to de-stench them, it almost made your eyes burn - and the incredibly dithery guy who runs the site had neglected the fact we’d booked for a camper van not a tent (since all the tent spots are apparently walk-in only). We ended up having to camp in what was actually the grassy parking lot, amid other campers cars – but as the only campsite on the island, there wasn’t really any other choice. Thankfully it didn’t turn out too bad after all, despite the somewhat limited privacy, and we at least still had a full picnic table and were only steps away from the pebbly 'Seal Beach'.

Seals chillin' out at Seal Beach, Mariner's Bay

Before breakfast next morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find several seals hanging out sunbathing on the rocks off the campsite beach, only visible at low tide. I managed to get in fairly close (thanks also to my 300mm zoom lens) but my philosophy with wildlife is to photograph without intruding, so I didn’t want to get too close and disturb them. Besides, seals have incredibly bad breath.

Young black-tail deer.

At only 21km2, Mayne’s a fairly small island with a delightfully rustic charm, a lovely community feel and its 1,100 inhabitants are low-key, laid-back (dare I say it) hippies who were just as pleasant this time around as they were the last. I’m not sure if deer outnumber humans on this island, but there are certainly a lot of them about – so you really have to keep your eyes peeled when driving - and they’re quite comfortable around people, just like this guy who nonchalantly grazed within feet of our camping spot.

And talking of rustic charm – we were intrigued by the campsite’s only shower – an open-air ‘tree shower’. Basically a minimal, 3ft high, wide-slatted fence around the base of a large tree which left you exposed to the lower parkland and beaches. No room for modesty in this shower but something very freeing about it nonetheless. Thankfully there was hot water, piped directly from the main house.

View from the shower facing towards

the woods/water.



I did birthday suit not bathing suit

when I showered. Ooops. (And, for
the record, this pic's off the website.)

Unfortunately, being an island, there’s always a high risk and fear of fire, since it could potentially obliterate everything. Despite the fact this year’s been generally cold and rainy up till now, there were no campfires allowed and even the site’s communal fire-pit was closed. That said, the weather had thankfully warmed up enough for it not to matter too much, though it’s still always a great part of any camping adventure. And, oddly enough, there was very little traffic around, people or vehicles.



Note the strategically placed bald eagle for added effect.

The highlights to the weekend were definitely the relaxation, gorgeous weather (despite a little rain Saturday night, at the exact moment we decided to light up an after-dinner cigar) and the outstanding Gulf Island views from our long hike at Mount Parke Park – which we’d never even heard of on our single previous visit. A peaceful forest trail topped off by stunning views at the summit. I could have happily sat there all day, just breathing in the silence, tranquility and incredible landscape across the islands.

Pender Island in the foreground with....others....behind.

Since the lock on our relatively new bike rack on the van is broken AGAIN (it's hardly worked since we bought it) we couldn't bring our bikes over with us and the tidal currents around Mayne are far too strong for our inflatable kayaks, we did most of our touring on foot and in the van. We also made a point to stop by the Saturday morning Farmer's Market which is a small and casual affair - more of a community gathering place really, where locals catch up and trade foods, recipes and family news. The market itself comprises largely local veggies, homemade baked goods (including incredibly delicious bread buns!), jewellery, art and handicrafts. (Note to self: this would be the perfect place to sell my cards and photographs!!!)

On the whole, Mayne Island is so naturally pretty, unpretentious and endearingly low-key that everything was a pleasure – including the delicious lunch at the heritage building in Mariner’s Bay now home to the Green House Bar & Grill (which was a kistchy, overly knick-knacked nautical-themed restaurant called Mayne Mast last time we were there). Delicious home-made food and friendly service. 

All in all I was pleased to soak up the same serenity, rustic charm, down-to-earth vibe and friendly community feel to Mayne that had appealed to me so much on our first visit. That and the incredible views, diverse wildlife and beautiful beaches, bays, coves and parks all around this small island make me seriously want to consider moving there in the future. Not forgetting the fact it’s also generally warmer and much sunnier than on Vancouver’s mainland, which was certainly the case this past weekend too.

Yup, I can definitely see myself living there one day. Dog, chickens, kitty-cats n'all. And maybe even Lorne too, hehe!


(For more photos of Mayne Island and our mid-May visit to San Francisco, visit my Flickr site.)

Stanley Cup; that was then, this is now...

So the Vancouver Canucks, our local hockey heroes, are hoping like hell to score that Holy Grail of hockey the much-coveted Stanley Cup - tonight here in town and it's been a long (very long) ride to get here, not just because the hockey season itself runs from September thru June, but moreso because this is first time in 17 years that the Canucks have even made it to the actual finals of the National Hockey League's Stanley Cup Playoffs. Tonight is do or die and all of us in and around Vancouver will once again be excused from work early to flood the buses, skytrain, roads and highways in an effort to beat the decidedly madding crowds racing to snatch up every last seat at the nearest bar to bow (praying and cursing) before the great honking big screen TVs - of which there are now a gazillion in Vancouver - too many in fact. For me personally, I’ll be headed home where I’m guaranteed a prime seat, the beer's better, the food's good and cheap and the company’s not quite so likely to smash the place to smithereens in the event we don’t actually win (least I hope not anyways).

I'm actually not a huge hockey fan, in fact I'm fickle at best despite the fact there's something I've always found quite hunky about all that energetic over-padded testosterone on skates. Which almost certainly goes back to one of my earliest crushes - on a blonde-haired freckly kid called Mark who played hockey at Grimsby Leisure Centre right after our Monday evening figure skating sessions. I'd purposefully dilly-dally, taking forever to dry off my blades and neatly pack away my skates into their navy-blue and white triangular bag (a gift on my 11th birthday, I was always so proud to carry that skating bag!) in hope Mark would arrive before I had to leave.

First competition ca 1980

- One of the great skating

dresses Mum made.

How could he resist me in all my short-skirt, lean and long legged figure skater glory??? Quite easily it seemed, especially since he always turned up with about 15 other pals equally pumped with their Lord of the Flies adolescence, ready to hammer the opposition into the ice. They all but slammed me into the boards as they rushed their way in. Admittedly not quite the 'body check' I was looking for. And, since I couldn't get Mark’s attention rink-side, I'd resort to 'casually' watching him from the upstairs cafe while we waited (for what often seemed forever) for my Mum to come pick us up.

Anyhooo, I find it's hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm of all this Stanley Cup excitement - the city's awash in a sea of blue & white Canucks jerseys and the ever-increasing array of associated t-shirts. The air is truly buzzing with Canuck fever as everyone's talking (and dreaming) Stanley Cup - will they or won't they?

While I confess I've jumped on the bandwaggon somewhat, since we're so close to actually winning for once, and I’ve got 10 mangled fingernails as my witness, I haven’t yet parted with the $20 or so to buy a Canucks t-shirt, does that make me a cheap skate?  Haha, get it? Cheapskate? Hockey? Boom! Boom!

For me the whole buzz around these particular playoffs and Vancouver reaching the finals takes me right by to my very first visit (at this time in 1994) to this incredible city that has been my home for the past 15 years.

Vicky had, quite reluctantly as I recall, moved out here in August ’93 with her then husband, Robert. I missed her terribly - she's always been my best friend and the only person to whom I've ever told everything. I felt like I'd lost my right arm and yet, being left to stand on my own two feet without her, I was forced to think for myself, realizing how much I'd always relied on her thoughts, opinions and ever-sage advice. While we furiously wrote each other long and frequent letters, it had was the longest period that we’d ever been separated, physically and emotionally as well as by that anti-social 8-hour time difference, so I was very excited about coming to visit. More importantly, so much had happened for both of us in the time we’d been apart that the trip represented quite a milestone for us both.

Despite the breakdown of her marriage and all that came with it and the struggle to establish a new home, job and network of friends amid the cold and often harsh ‘slap-in-the-face’ reality of being a newcomer to Canada, Vicky had maintained her dogged determination to stay in Vancouver, taking it on an hour-by-hour, day-by-day basis, and I was in awe of how she’d persevered through moments where even the best of us (especially myself) might have seriously just given up. A remarkable inner strength that held on tight for what must have been one hell of a rollercoaster – and her resilience inspired me to keep marching as I too tried to come back from a breakdown just a couple of months before my visit. An accumulative and spiraling series of stressful events in my work, personal and love life had, in the space of a few short months, not only eroded my emotional and physical state into a post-tornado ruin and undermined the somewhat fragile foundations of my self-esteem, but also shredded my normally resilient and outwardly stoic coping strategies (read ‘façade’) to the point that I’d had to take a few week’s leave of absence (Dr’s orders) to just stop, breathe and endeavour to pick up the pieces. It was not a happy time for so many deep-seated and anxiety-laden reasons but I'd started to come back and had even quit my job the night before my flight out, which did not impress my boss one bit. That first trip to Vancouver was truly the light at the end of my dark tunnel despite it being paved with a certain amount of trepidation on my part, since Vicky and I had spent so much time apart with so much going on, at a profound level, for both of us, that I feared the distance might leave us in a bit of a no-man’s land with one another.

Thankfully, while my memories of those two weeks are very fond even if the first few days were a little mixed due to all that had gone on prior, Vicky and I are two halves of one island and thankfully we reconnected on a new and possibly even stronger level. All this while hanging out amid all the contagious city-wide - nationwide even - excitement about the Vancouver Canucks hockey team gunning towards finally winning the Stanley Cup.

The day I arrived in Vancouver I (foggily) remember Vicky taking me downtown to some Japanese noodle house for dinner, seated at the bar, after which we wandered around a few shops and where I'd deliberated about buying a dress that I’d completely forgotten about by next day. I remember a heady haze of activity around me while my scrambled (jet-lagged) brain tried to figure out why on earth shops would still be open at 2 in the morning  - which of course it wasn't.

I love it that she took me to The Yale, where said jet-lag really started to get the better of me after my first beer and I began nodding off, head-bobbing (and no doubt drooling), in my bar seat. I can still hear people laughing and saying, “She’s had a few too many, eh?” to which Vicky jumped to my defense proclaiming, “Nooo, she’s just really, really jet-lagged. That’s my sister and she only arrived from England today.”

Funnily enough (or maybe not) it was a couple of days later that, just in front of the Yale’s seedier neighbour, the Cecil strip club (which has just recently been demolished to make way for yet another concrete condo tower), I saw some shirtless and bedraggled drunk guy literally passed out, star-shaped, in the road. Traffic simply slowed down and drove around him as if it was quite normal he’d be lying there, until an unmarked cop car came on scene. I remember feeling like I was caught in an episode of Kojak – sleazy blues bars, strip clubs, drunken hobos lying in the street and the TJ Hooker-looking cops who knew them only too well.

Typical Vancouver tourist pic

Over the next several days Vicky took me out and about around the city, showing me so many of the tourist things with the ease of a long-term resident already – including Vancouver Aquarium, Granville Island, the Seawall and Kits Beach, which became our regular meeting point after she finished work at the accountant’s office in the decidedly seedy Yaletown as it was back then. And yes, straight from Vancouver Tourism 101, chapter 3 ‘Gastown’, I even joined the bajillion worldwide tourists who’ve had their picture taken in front of the famous Steam Clock on Water Street. Even though I’m committing a huge What Not To Wear faux pas and wearing pleated-front pants, something I would NEVER do now.

Aside from all of the above, the things I distinctly remember about that priceless time together are;

• Vicky taking me for sushi at a bamboo-fronted sushi joint (on Cornwall Ave?) with a speed-talking friend of hers at that time who seemed so ‘american’ to me for all her talk of therapists and her twice-weekly ‘Overeaters Anonymous’ group therapy. I didn't like sushi then although I muddled through and, much to Vicky's constant (friendly) frustration, I still hate the stuff and can't  even attempt to eat it
• The skinny, dodgey looking guy who stepped out of a 7-11 on Granville Street right in front of us, leant against a small tree, threw up on the sidewalk, then nonchalantly peeled and ate a banana as he walked off  like nothing happened. We stopped dead in our tracks, scared to look down in case there was pewk on our shoes
• The odd awkwardness of the few hours we spent with Robert, by then Vicky’s ex, after they picked me up at the airport and took me for a bite to eat. Such a mix of feelings hanging in the air over the three of us - similarly on the afternoon it took us forever to go out briefly to his new place (I can't even remember why) which was a long, very hot walk in the sun beyond the very last skytrain stop. Their lovely dog Sheba was there - I remember when they adopted her back in England - and I met Johnny-Cat, the handsome yet feisty feral cat that had adopted Vicky. It still makes me sad when I think of how she told me how Johnny had tried to follow her down the street when she moved out.
• Going for a beer with Vicky's good friend who laughed his head off when she came out with a mish-mash english-canadian expression saying, 'You think you're hot boogers on a silver plate' instead of 'hot snot on a silver platter'
• The hot, sunny evening we took the Aquabus water taxi from the beach at English Bay to Granville Island where we couldn’t help but notice a party atmosphere on the newly opened patio of the Arts Club bar. Feeling spontaneous n’all, we joined them and drank several Corona’s from the bottle with a slice of lime, which Vicky thought was to wipe around the rim of the bottle as a disinfectant….till we realized everyone else had actually squeezed and stuffed theirs into the beer (doh!)
• The grey day we decided to walk across the Granville Bridge but got hit half way by heavy rain and a strong cold wind – we hopelessly fought with our inside-out ‘brollies’ till we gave up and started yelling “AAAAAARRRGGGHHHH” at the top of our lungs instead, right the way across the bridge.
• Having to go to an actual ‘liquor store’ to buy beer, which we dropped into the barrel-shaped ‘chiller’ of cold water while we went next door to buy a few groceries, then came back to pay for our nicely chilled cans ….unfortunately it was Kokanee, which can hardly be described as ‘beer’ per se, but hey, we were still on a Canadian learning curve back then.   

And many, many more…..

And of course, my original theme for this posting, the excitement around Vancouver being in the playoffs at that same time was incredibly infectious – cars honking each time a goal was scored while people held handwritten signs out the window showing the score, buses with ‘Go Canucks Go’ signs in their windshield, office and apartment buildings with the Canucks flag and, similarly each window showing a letter of  ‘Go Canucks Go’, buses crammed to overflowing at 4pm as people left work early to get home to catch the game, shouting, yelling, cheering, cussing and a lot of ‘ooooohs’…and ‘YESSSSSSS’ ricocheting around the open-windowed apartment buildings that surrounded Vicky’s little bachelor suite. (We took the above picture while watching the game on TV.)

Even now, as I’ve walked home from work this past week and heard the same kind of unison cheering and yelling at TV’s, I’ve smiled as I’ve thought back to the thrill I felt that everyone was so unified in their enthusiastic excitement about hockey here in Vancouver. It seemed such a stark contrast to the boarded-up shops and houses, the violence, hooligans and over-zealous police presence that have typically surrounded football games back in England. In Vancouver everyone was in favour of the playoffs, not in fear of them.

Sadly my trip came to an end just days before the actual 1994 Stanley Cup finals. Back at home (where I lived in the small, crappy town of Kettering at the time) I tried to find anyone who might have satellite TV that could possibly dig up the finals, but to no avail. With no internet back then and only 4 TV channels to choose from, my chances were big fat ZIP. I wanted to keep the energy of a trip that had meant so much to me for soooo many reasons, but alas ‘twas not to be. No-one knew what the hell I was talking about……”Stanley what?.....Cup? Ain’t got a clue, love. What’s that then when it’s at home?”  I heard later from Vicky that the Canucks lost and there were riots downtown – something I definitely hadn’t expected from the friendly, euphoric fans I’d seen during my visit.

Most importantly Vicky and I hadn’t missed a step with each other and the distance (till I finally moved to Canada) would still never keep us apart.

That initial visit was also my scouting trip of Vancouver, since I'd already applied for Canadian immigration (truly exasperated with life in England but warned by employment agencies in Bordeaux - where I really wanted to live - that unemployment was too high there at the time and I'd be better to stay put). Admittedly, during those first few days in this city I actually wasn't convinced this was a place I wanted to live - I didn't feel that, "wow, I want to live here" that I've always had about France and many other places, but my immigration papers were already in process and, by the end of my two weeks, I knew that moving here and being closer to Vicky again, even if I tried it for just a couple of years, meant so much more to me for many, many reasons, than feeling totally smitten with Vancouver per se. That said, it still took me close to 2 years to move here, thanks to a 1-year immigration process, a 7 month diversion in the Maldive Islands and a further 5 months of plain stupidity moving to Calgary (which is a-whole-nother story in itself).

But - here I am, 17 years later, a Canadian citizen, perched on the couch watching Vancouver playing in the actual Stanley Cup Finals….with my Canadian hubby and our two cats, living just blocks from Vicky and her family and still with cries, yelling and – hopefully soon – honking & cheering – from surrounding apartment buildings, cars and passers-by. The city is holding its breath for a goal…..and ideally a win.

Bringing home Baby

The new addition, Mazda 2

In honour of Mother's Day (May 8th here) Lorne and I became proud parents to Mazda 2 GX, our brand new baby.....car! Well, almost. While we did sign the adoption papers we actually didn't get to take the new addition home with us right away - in fact we've had to wait almost 2 weeks - but finally picked it up today.

Wahoooo. It's a manual/standard/stick-shift too, so I have to get used to that again, after driving only automatics over here. In test-driving this car it was bizarre how my muscle memory had me reaching down the door panel with my left hand to change gears, since the gearstick would have been to my left when I learned to drive back in England. Old habits die hard - hopefully I won't also revert to driving on the left, or that could be a bigger problem. Eeeek!

It's a great little 4-door hatchback (very much a european size/style car) and should be a little more economical on gas - which is presently sitting around $1.40/litre in Vancouver. So compact that we can even park her in the driveway with room to spare.

Nissan Altima, the loyal old family dog

As silly as it sounds, I can't deny I feel incredibly guilty to our old car, like we're giving up the devoted old family dog for a sprite new puppy. :-( Our 14 yr old, ever-faithful Nissan Altima has served us so well for the past 6.5 years - trouble-free (despite the fact I just about reversed it down a staircase during the first week - long story, but seriously - who puts a basement loading bay in a single-level parking lot?) and with less than 130,000 km on the clock, she still runs incredibly well and has never been a problem nor a huge expense. Yes, it'll be a sad day when we say our goodbyes to the Altima - though perhaps still not quite as sad as the day we left Lorne's funky old massive 1977 cadillac (aka couch on wheels) at the scrap yard to meet it's fate with the crusher. We were both pretty choked-up that day and didn't hang around to watch.

Anyway, I have to end here and get packed because - we are go-ing to San....Fran....Cisco.

A week or two of things that did and didn't happen

While I'm in this long-overdue 'post' mode, I thought I'd also do a quick summary of other recent events - good, bad and painful - in hope that I can finally get a little more caught up on this blog.

Did: Resign and leave the Big Brother environment of a certain downtown architecture, engineering, interior design company, after just under two years. I'm surprised it even took that long really - considering there were many occasions during the masses of never-ending overtime there last year, that I came oh-so-very close. I'll spare the gory details but, apart from having a pretty decent direct boss and quite enjoying the company of my marketing co-workers (even though personal pleasantries and conversations were limited and often felt frowned upon), it was an excessive and thankless task - but hey, I learned a lot!  And in resigning, I also learned to enjoy the sense of empowerment that goes with choosing to leave because I simply can't support their gun-ho strategy of sleeping with the oil sands enemy across Alberta - while triumphantly touting themselves as 'sustainable'. Greedily wringing your hands with $$S signs in your eyes & saying you're designing 'LEED-based' buildings for the massive worker's camps/towns at these environmentally disasterous facilities, does not a truly 'sustainable' company make. In fact such claims are what's more commonly known as green-washing.

Anyway, it came as no great surprise that I didn't get a single word of thanks from any of the principals (ie Directors/shareholders) for whom I repeatedly slogged myself ragged at work, making sure the hundreds of proposals, for projects they claimed to want, looked great and were sufficiently researched and well-written to meet the endless stream of hard and intense deadlines. Of course it also didn't help that the wide-eyed puppy in HR waited till the day before I left to actually send out a company-wide email which was so vague that it actually made it sound like I'd got fired. Cheers!

Anyway, who cares? - I'm just pleased to have escaped from that particular workhouse where fun, personality and warmth were to be checked at the door upon entry.

Didn't: Get to enjoy my first ever simulated sky-diving adventure courtesy of Vancouver's FlyZone on my birthday. Lorne's so good at booking surprises and, being the luv that he is, had secretly booked us both at Fly Zone, but when the confirmation came with accompanying Rules and Regulations, he knew he had to let me in on the surprise.... First thing on the "Cannot participate if..." list? If the participant has ever had a shoulder dislocation. Nooooo!!!!  Since I had 7 dislocations and eventually surgery on my left shoulder and my right shoulder is loose and unpredictable at best, there really was no way we could ignore this one. Bummer! I would LOVE to do this skydiving - simulated or for real. I could not believe my bad luck and calling them just to double-check didn't tell me anything different. Un-bloody-believable! I would have just gone for it anyway except that I have been getting odd twinges of instability in both shoulders. Potentially dislocating both at once on my birthday just didn't sound like such a fun idea after all. :-(

Still, in its place, Lorne's going to take me zip-lining in Victoria - something else I've always wanted to do. He did it with some friends last year and had a blast, so I can't wait!

I did unfortunately encounter my first ever bout of strep throat. Wow, it's nasty and I hope we never meet again!!! I've never had such a painful and incredibly swollen throat and glands - my neck was starting to look more like a mountain range. Of course it kicked in full-force the night I finished one job and was hoping to enjoy 4 days off, including my birthday, before starting the new one. Timing, eh? That said, praise be to penicillin, my new superhero - I was thankfully feeling much better within 4-5 days.

Anyhow, despite the strep throat saga, I did nevertheless have a lovely birthday - Lorne completely pampered me with the most amazing breakfast in bed; big fat croissants, pastries/tarts, fruit, bread & yummy cheese. Had I felt better, I would have happily supped a bucks-fizz too, but I wasn't quite up to it at the time. Such a lovely brekky, it was very reminiscent of the outstanding spread that they put on at the delightful B&B "Casa D'Obidos" where we stayed in Obidos, Portugal 5 years ago. We've reminisced often about the wonderous breakfast-fairies who seemed to sneak in overnight and decorate the enormous dining-table with an endless array of tantalizing treats and heavenly goodies.

And on the birthday theme I did receive a surprise ticket to see Ray LaMontagne with Vicky on Sept. 2nd. Wohooo. What better excuse to continue my birthday in another 4 months? I've seen him perform a couple of times before, and really enjoyed it. We're going to make a night of it - go for dinner, see the concert & stay at a hotel downtown just for the hell of it. Can't wait - thanks Vicky, Mark, Bronwyn and River xxx. Thanks to Mum too, for the delicate little silver locket, which thankfully didn't get kicked around or smushed in the post. xxx

I did also start back at running - for the first time since last Summer when I was suffering severe and ongoing muscle spasms/stress in my bum cheek (of all places) and finally had to give up altogether. Albeit I've only done 3 short  runs so far and they have felt like hard work plus I'm presently running a few minutes slower than last year and still a long ways off from the 90-100mins I had worked up to previously, but so far so good.

So now that I'm in week 2 of the new job, the weather's finally picked up, I had a lovely birthday, barring the strep throat which is thankfully now history, and I'm heading into a few days off AND a long weekend to visit San Francisco for the first time - I'm feeling pretty darn good!  :-)  Plus I just had a few days home alone while Lorne's been off touring bourbon distilleries in Kentucky with a couple of friends. It sounds like he's had a fun trip and I look forward to more details - and ideally some Duty Free - when he gets home tonight.

Et voila.

Thanks to a little help from my friends

I've never really been one for having a wide circle of friends. A posse. A gaggle of girlies. Or going out in a crowd - except when 7 of us shared a house during my university years and we'd each pour our booze of choice into a single mixing bowl and then sit around it, each armed with a straw, slurping up whatever potent cocktail would get us drunk quickest so that we could spend as little money as possible actually in the bars. The pangalactic gargleblaster was often a post-nuclear blue or luminescent greeny/yellow in colour. Both going down and...sometimes....coming back up. But whatever mix we concocted, there was always vodka in it...somewhere.

From what I remember (if I spin myself around 20 times and cover one eye), we always had fun...and came home blurry, slurry and craving a toast party, raiding the cupboards of every last slice of bread. (Is that just a British thing I wonder? To demolish a whole loaf of bread as you ricochet between fridge, cupboard, fridge, couch, fridge, toaster, plate cupboard and back to couch again.) Yes, it was all fun, games and toast massacres - till the hangover kicked in anyway.

But apart from that, I've always preferred to keep just one or two close friends, friends that mean a lot to me, rather than flutter around in a complex and catty network of Sex-in-the-City-wannabes. Well, that probably sounds more derogatory than I intend (or did I?), but I've experienced a couple of examples of the latter...and decided to keep my distance. Hard to be heartfelt honest with someone whom you know simply can't resist the urge to seek the 'worldly' perspective of her 40 or so nearest and dearest cohorts

Anyhow, on the note of good friends, I'm eternally grateful for the 3 wonderful women in my life (aside from my sister, who will always be my number 1), who have recently - and successfully - given me a prod in the right direction. A gentle, and in one case perhaps unintentional, shove towards new endeavours (not naming any names or anything Linda).

So without further ado, I'd like to pay homage to them.

Firstly there's Jo - who just made my week, my month, my year and quite possibly even more! Jo and I first met in 2006 when we did Basic and Intermediate Digital SLR photography courses together at Focal Point. We've stayed friends and have shared many a personal, creative and career dilemma. I've always admired her humour and down-to-earth nature as much as her creativity and artistic eye, which is different to my own but that's what I like - she sees things differently, physically as well as metaphorically and it comes across in her photography and other creative endeavours. I enjoy her easy and spontaneous company.
I have Jo to thank for the excitement of having my first ever photograph published!!! Wohoooo - as a poster (left - click on it to enlarge) and accompanying leaflet for an upcoming art event that she's organizing as part of her job with the North Vancouver Community Arts Council.

She was kind enough to suggest I send her some of my photos, knowing that I've done a fair bit of macro photography too. She also said wonderful things about the pictures I've posted on Flickr and from that, and with a little help from her own graphic artistry, this beautiful poster was born. I'm honoured and really, really excited about it. It looks great, even if I do say so myself and I'm ridiculously pleased that this is one of my very own photographs - and put to such great use!

It makes me think a lot more seriously about what Vicky and other people have said on many occasions - I should display/sell or otherwise do more with my photographs. Heck, I make cards all the time - why not even use my own photographs for them, take it in a different direction?

Then there's Linda: whom I have to thank wholeheartedly for the inadvertent push and inspiration to seeking pastures new and for being hands-down the best person I've ever had the pleasure to work with; lovely, funny, warm, sarcastic, caring and an ever-patient sympathizer and co-conspirator against the Orwellian austerity of life at the proposal workhouse and the egotistical architects, designers and salivating, money-hungry oil/tar sands megalomaniacs that dwell therein.

For the most part I hated the job. The few months Linda was around (a short while before and after her maternity leave) was the only time it was ever bearable and the only times I felt like I could actually be human again rather than the humourless robot that was expected of me most of the time; less chat more work, where the vacuous, pin-dropping silence was broken only by the profuse, echoing clickety-clicks of keyboards.

The return of my ally, the only person to utter more than two words every 9 hours, was the only thing that kept me from resigning sooner - so when she was kind and honest enough to share with me one lunchtime just a few short weeks ago that she was thrilled to have been accepted onto a Masters program (to become a Notary) starting this Fall - I was truly happy for her....at the same time I heard a definitive death knell. Without Linda there was simply no way I could ever face going back to the soulless, thankless life of relentless deadlines and life-sucking hours of overtime that has overshadowed and even consumed my life for the best part of the last 2 years.

While it had crossed my mind beforehand (and as a New Year's resolution) to start looking for a more normal job, ideally in the non-profit sector, Linda's announcement that she'd be moving on, to something much more exciting, rewarding and personally fulfilling was inspirational, admirable and a massive kick in the pants to get MOVING. I was so happy for her (and still am, I might add) but my heart also sank at the thought of the endless grey drudgery that would once more be my day job if she were to leave.

So thank you Linda - for trusting in me enough to share your wonderful news :-)  and for brightening the days at that horribly impersonal place that shall remain nameless. If it helps any, I do feel guilty that it happened so fast, meaning I had to abandon you back there - but you're on the home stretch!!!

And that brings me to my next great friend, Deb, who - by some sixth sense perhaps - called me up the evening of the very same day Linda had shared her plans to ask if I'd ever applied for the job with the Canadian Cancer Society that she'd been kind enough to send me a couple of months earlier. I'd read it at that time but felt maybe it wasn't right, I was unsure, things at work had been marginally better & with less overtime (because Linda was back) and ....well....in my usual style of procrastination, I held off. Deb informed me that they'd gone through the interview process, even short-listed candidates, but didn't feel confident with the person being what they were really looking for. In her unwavering faith in my personality and abilities, Deb had the tenacity and goodwill to poke me a second time around and encourage me to apply. Besides, she's been working for CCS in Victoria for several years and I've always admired/quietly envied the fire and passion with which she talks about her job and the people she works with. I'd be crazy not to want some of that for myself - or so you'd think. Apparently it took waving it under my nose a second time around to finally light a fire under my bum....and here I am, two days in at my new job, working for the Canadian Cancer Society in Vancouver! I have every hope that this is indeed the start of something wonderful - and definitely more fulfilling, inspiring and I love that it's non-profit rather than sloggin' myself stupid for greedy corporate bigwigs who couldn't give a damn about what really matters - except for ruthlessly fattening profit margins and planning their next yacht purchase or 5-star vacation.

Not only that, but – for obvious reasons – the amazing work of the Canadian Cancer Society (and similar counterparts) is close to my heart for the most important role it has played in making sure Vicky received such fast and outstanding medical attention in her recent fight against breast cancer. A powerful, life-changing journey for which I cannot help but feel I was personally and emotionally inadequate and sadly less of a support to her than I truly wanted to be. I only hope that I can one day more than make up for that.

So here I am.....just days into a new job, just got my first photograph published, enjoying a fresh start in a new direction - and thankful to the sprinkling of incredibly wonderful, thoughtful, caring and fabulous friends who support me in the nicest possible ways! And not-fogetting a sister who's all that and more!

So I might be able to count me friends on less than one hand, but they are close to my heart, caring, fun and amazing and their friendship means such a lot to me.

I'm very lucky indeed.

All the better to see you with.

I remember feeling utterly horrified when, at 8 years old, the optician told my Mum I needed glasses. I cried secretly for days and, when we picked them up a week later, I cried all over again. I simply hated the thought. They were brown. They were ugly. They made me look ugly. And everybody would notice.

Spending the majority of my formative years (well, up until about 28 as it turned out) feeling horribly self-conscious, I distinctly remember the near crippling sense of dread I felt that first day in class, knowing I'd have to put on my new and much-hated 'specs'. And sure enough, kids being the blunt, insensitive creatures they are at that age....they pointed, they laughed and echoes of "four-eyes" ricocheted around the room. Silently and choking back tears, I bowed my head over my schoolbook and hoped my long-hair might at least hide the hideous scaffolding on my face. I think I stayed that way for about the next 20 years.

If there was anything to be 'grateful' about, it was being diagnosed as long-sighted not short-sighted, which meant I'd only need glasses for reading, schoolwork and maybe watching TV. Despite my self-consciousness, I dutifully stuck with it in hope that my eyes would one day improve enough for me to triumphantly dump the specs and be able to read in class without actually missing words or whole lines of text in one go. (And for anyone who pushed me too far with the jokes, I also discovered the protective metal case the glasses came in was great for giving a swift whack upside the head.)

Besides, as much as I hated those first glasses (and I've had some hideous, fashion-deprived glasses over the years) they were still infinitely better than the geekier and even more ridiculed 'NHS glasses'. The ugly, thick blue/pink/brown glasses provided free of charge through the National Health Service to low-income families. Those poor kids who had to wear permanently wonky NHS specs always seemed to get beaten up, tripped up or were otherwise so uncoordinated that their glasses would soon be cracked, broken, missing a lens or else held together with bandaids. It just seemed to go with the territory.

Crazy thing is, the NHS-style glasses of the 70's (of which this was the best picture I could find), have become a much sought-after fashion accessory. NEVER would I have thought fashion-conscious, cool and trendy kids would be wearing NHS specs! How things change.

Anyhoooo, surprise, surprise my idea of miraculously fixing my long-sightedness didn't work. I still wear glasses for all the same reasons although I've been increasingly bad for wearing them, not least because I feel compelled to take them off when talking to people - they feel like a block, same as sunglasses do.

I've definitely always made a point to buy glasses that would be as inconspicuous as possible; plain, discreet, unremarkable, bland and even 'blendy-blendy' as the sales assistant described my last pair this week. When I bought them 2 years ago I thought I'd actually stepped out a little but looking back on it, I still went for frames that 'blended' with my hair colour and which I hoped no-one would really notice.

So, since there was money sitting unspent in my extended medical coverage at work, I decided to replace my glasses. As it happens my prescription has changed very little, if at all, for the last several years. I didn't 'need' to get new glasses this week but heck, if the money was there and about to go unused (since I'm changing jobs - thank goodness), then why the hell not get new specs? So I did. And I actually pushed the envelope a little and went outside of my regular comfort zone - mainly encouraged by the fact that glasses really have become such a major fashion accessory. Even people who don't need them are sporting funky or vintage and even NHS-like frames as a personal fashion statement.

The new, funkier pair

The 'blendy-blendy' pair

Okay so I didn't go to any extremes here, but - for the first time - I do have a couple of photos of me actually wearing them and, while normally hiding away my glasses, I even ventured so far as to put these pics on Facebook (admittedly after some gentle prompting). And now that I look at them, I actually don't even mind the blendy-blendy pair. I also have another pair where I previously tried to jazz it up a little, since I found some funky frames at a Dollar Store and got prescription lenses put in for a great discount - but I don't have a photo yet.

Anyway, that was an incredibly long-winded way of saying, after 35 years, I seem to have finally come to terms with the fact I wear reading glasses. Maybe this is all part of that wonderful sense of 'self-acceptance' your supposed to get in your forties.....is it? (Even if I do still choke on accepting the word 'forties' in terms of myself.)

Argufying and Grumbulating: What's with this April-uary weather?

Here we are, April 28th already and if Spring is in the air, it certainly hasn't shown itself here in Vancouver.

Can’t deny my pangs of envy upon seeing the floods of pre-Royal Wedding news coverage from England. NOT because I’m a royalist (which I’m not, in fact I care very little about all this gushing over the Royals and ye olde “Wedding of the Century” mallarky) but rather because everyone in England is clearly dressed in summer clothes, merrily basking in the sunlight and unseasonably warm temperatures they’ve been enjoying for the past several weeks.

And where are we at in Vancouver? Oh yeah, right on target for the coldest April in more than 75 years, that’s where! - averaging 8C when we should be nearer 14. Boo-hoo and WTF!!!

My birthday is a mere 3 days away and I’m just a tad grumpy about still wearing my Winter clothes, heavy coat, gloves & scarf and constantly feeling chilled – something is seriously wrong with this picture. (Although they do say you feel the cold more as you get old(er)….sniff!) 

If I’d ever got off my bum and learned to ski, I’d no doubt be much happier – since even the local ski hills have fresh snow…which is way more than they had during the whole of last year’s 2010 Winter Olympics. But wouldn't you know it, the one day Lorne and I were all set to lose our snow-shoeing virginity on his birthday (April 10th), things warmed up enough that particular day that non-stop pouring rain completely foiled our plans. Ohhhh, the bitter irony.

Hopefully things will soon begin to improve because mostly I'm fed-up of hearing myself sound so completely fed-up about it.  :-)

I take it back....

So those who know me - and are quite likely on my Friends list - will appreciate that my last post Facebook Schmacebook is now.....errr......water under the bridge. Although it's not that my FB page lies dead and buried, gathering dust under a pile of incomplete posts (like my blog seems to have been for the past few months), but rather that it is surprisingly alive and well thank you very much and I'm actually not even sure why or how it gained momentum.

The most surprising advantage is that I've had more frequent and regular contact with family in the UK - albeit in short, sarcastic, piss-taking bursts - than I have in years, it's great! I'm even bouncing back and forth with friends I know well, quite well or simply commenting sometimes on the comments of friends' friends. Plenty of that great British humour and it's so incredibly refreshing, as well as nostalgic. Heck, I'm in danger of becoming a Facebook Bunny - or whatever the true FB insiders might call it. Or maybe not, since my decidedly anorexic list of friends must put me firmly in the 'saddo' category but I'm fine with that. I actually have no desire to rally up a bunch of names of people I hardly know and care about even less, just to appear 'popular'.

I still find Facebook somewhat freaky and I'm not entirely comfortable with the fact I've started using it as much as I have. While I'll never be as bad as a certain friend that I've actually had to block, since he posts almost as often as he blinks, I can't deny I nevertheless catch myself briefly logging in to start the day with a quick update on who's said what and what stupid comment I can post, while I get ready for work. The time difference keeps it interesting too, with half of my family/friends finishing their day as mine begins and vice versa. Anyway, that's all I'm going to say on the subject for fear of sounding like the FB nerd I dread to become.

One unfortunate side however, is wanting to 'friend' a good friend on FB, but I don't want to be inhibited about what I post seeing that some of her friends are people I've worked with but don't know all that well. I don't want to be their friends too, just by virtue of sharing the same sterile 8-5 drudgery in a place I can't wait to leave behind. (Well, in my case and for the most part it's been more like 8am-10pm, no breaks.)

Funnily enough I still find I hate the thought of Twitter in much the same way as I steered clear of FB. AT the end of the day life's really too short to get sucked into another vortex of endless connectivity, eating voraciously into my aspirations of creativity. Huge downside to Facebook? It swallows up time!

I need to back off from Facebook and get to writing some new posts here...or at least finishing the oodles of postings I've started.....but haven't finished.

Status update?: Get a life!  Besides, spontaneity, creativity and conversations with family & friends should be presented in something greater than 120 characters tapped out mid-breakfast.