Sarahbration

Good Idea, Bad Idea

2011-05-05T21:21:00.004-04:00

Good idea

Bixi bikes have finally arrived in Toronto!

A brilliant alternative for those of us who would rather trudge all over town on tired feet than have to try to store a bike in our closet-sized third story walk-ups and a little added incentive for drivers to leave their cars at home.

I have yet to brave one on any actual roadways (I'm still terrified of city traffic and don't have a helmet). But I'm pretty sure I was the first person in the city to sit on one thanks to the Bixi delivery man/taker of this photo!

Bad Idea

An ad for Claritin written across the sky.

By jets.

Thanks Claritin, for adding more pollutants/irritants to the atmosphere, helping to ensure that we all remain nice and congested and itchy-eyed until the end of time.

Good stuff.

Monkey Love

2011-04-10T10:38:00.005-04:00

When I was born, one of my first outings was a trip to the Toronto Zoo. One of the orangutans had just had a baby and when she saw my mom holding me on the other side of the glass she carried her baby over to show him off to my mom. Sparta and I made our first trip there since moving to the city last April this weekend and the Orangs were no less charming. I could have visited them all. day. long.

They are so bright and engaging that it actually feels quite strange to photograph them, at least without getting their permission. It's like coming across a really uninhibited colony of furry nudists.

Lucky for you, I got past it and took some fun shots to brighten up your work week. Enjoy!

Overheard on the TTC

2011-04-07T22:46:00.004-04:00

"I've always wanted to get a tattoo of something coming out of my vagina. Like bats! Out of the batcave! But then I figure I'd eventually get sick of it, or my vagina would get sick of it."

Vaginal bats.

Just one more thing you might want to consider discussing in private.

Slutwalk

2011-04-04T22:23:00.008-04:00

This weekend I was fortunate enough to attend Slutwalk, a march inspired by a Toronto police officer's recommendation that in order to avoid being raped, women shouldn't dress "like sluts."

While the comment may not be reflective of the views of the entire police force, it was a stark reminder of a victim-blaming attitude that is still all too prevalent in our society and of the importance of training law enforcement to deal with sexual assault cases in a sensitive and educated manner.

It was so inspiring to be surrounded by a group of men and women who not only understand that a woman's choice of dress or sexual history is never, ever an excuse for rape, but who will stand up and shout it out until that message is heard.

Apology Accepted

2011-03-26T15:36:00.004-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, (yes, I'm a million years behind on my blogging) I was waiting to cross the street at a large intersection on my way home from work.

A car had pulled into the intersection and was sitting there with its left turn signal on, the driver apparently oblivious to the large, no left turn sign hanging from the traffic light ahead.

Not so oblivious however, was the woman seated on the passenger side of the car directly behind. Down came her window.

"There's no left turn, ASSHOLE!"

Up went her window, leaving those of us a couple of feet from her a little shell-shocked having absorbed the full blast of her words while the driver of the offending car continued to enjoy their airbag-equipped cone of silence, turn signal resolutely blinking on.

That's a little harsh, I thought. Everyone misses a sign now and then, it doesn't necessarily mean you're an asshole...

As though she'd read my mind (or my face, more likely), down again came the automatic window.

"He's been driving recklessly this whole time!" she yelled, by way of explanation to her stunned audience, who smiled and nodded and haven't-we-all-been-there-ed their understanding from the kerb.

Window up.

Window down.

"Sorry for using profanity!"

Window up.

And scene, I thought.

If she'd checked the rear view as they finally drove away, she would have seen me laughing my head off.

I don't know why exactly it struck me as so funny. Maybe you had to be there or maybe you'd have to hear me tell it complete with my impressions and car window noises to get the full effect. But I just love that this woman not only felt the need to explain but to apologize for her choice of words to a group of complete strangers.

It was a good reminder of what a little communication can do to change your perspective.

Or maybe just a reminder of how hilariously polite Canadians can be, even when attempting to be rude.

Dear men

2011-03-17T21:56:00.002-04:00

Dear men/that guy behind me on the way home,

I'm sure many of you already do this, but in case you don't, just a thought.

If you are walking close behind a woman at night on an otherwise deserted street, it would be a kindness to either slow down or cross to the other side so that she knows she's not being followed.

I know that women are perfectly capable of crossing the street ourselves, as I did tonight, but it's so much nicer for everyone if you do this out of courtesy so she doesn't have to cross the street or speed up out of fear.

xo

Sarah

What would I do with a gift horse anyway?

2011-01-16T19:00:00.004-05:00

When you work in a front-line administrative/customer-service oriented position, it's easy to feel under-appreciated now and again.

In my current position, I am often the first live person callers have been able to get through to after trying to navigate the labrynth of the school phone system or website. This means that as a rule, they're annoyed before I even have a chance to try to help them.

Heaven help me if they don't like what I have to say.

On the other hand, I've been told I should "go home every night to a husband who rubs my feet," (yes,please) that I'm "such an angel, you'll surely be present at the next birth of Jesus," (?) and other various and sundry sweet things from people grateful to have dealt with a friendly face or voice. These people make my day.

There is even the odd person who insists on buying me a coffee.

Then there's the guy who brought me a coat.

Apparently he owns a business purchasing overstocked items from companies and selling them in Africa or something, but I still felt pretty uncomfortable accepting such a substantial gift, especially as I barely did more than my job. He insisted, however, and as I couldn't think of a way to decline gracefully quickly enough, well, I added a ski jacket to my icy weather wardrobe.

I had hoped that would be the end of it, but recently this person popped by for some more information, and despite my protestations, promised to bring me a purse in return.

Sure enough, last week alongside the pens and sticky notes on my desk, was a new handbag.

Once again I was unable to dissuade this generosity, but I really don't feel like I can or should be accepting these gifts.

So what do you think? Is it ever all right to accept gifts at work, and if not, how do you decline without appearing ungrateful or offending the prospective giver?

The Barter Babes Project

2011-01-10T22:34:00.008-05:00

With the exception of a lucky few, there is one thing that is a perpetual source of anxiety for young women (and men): money.

Unfortunately for 20-somethings, when it comes to getting the financial advice many of us desperately need, we are stymied by another 20-something: a Catch 22.

While we might be the demographic most in need of personalized budget counseling, we certainly can't afford it without the benefit of (oh, hey) budget counseling.

Enter Toronto's Certified Financial Planner with a heart of gold, Shannon Simmons.

I chatted with Simmons recently after a coworker raved about her. After hearing what she was up to, I had to meet her for myself.

While working at a high profile wealth management firm, Simmons noted the gap between the access to financial information available to her peers and the people she was helping on a day-to-day basis. "Hanging out with my friends I started noticing that money was coming up again and again. There was a lot of worry and people would say, 'Oh you're so lucky that you just know that stuff,' and I started realizing that I really am lucky to know this stuff because there is such a huge information gap. You can't really access that," she explains.

"There are investment and finance blogs, but they are intimidating and overwhelming even for me and I know my way around them, but I find it's just too much information."

And here is where things take a turn for the fantastic.

Rather than simply accepting this information gap, and this Catch 22 as inevitable, Simmons has decided to do something about it. To that end, she has thrown caution to gale force winds and set herself the daunting challenge of helping 300 young women get their finances on track through a little something she likes to call The Barter Babes Project.

The best part? In return for access to her wealth of financial knowledge and personalized advice, Simmons is accepting payment in the form of anything from lasagna to belly dancing lessons.

"I'm providing financial advice to young women starting out one barter at a time," she explains. "If I were to charge a fee, a lot of the people I want to help wouldn't be able to afford me and I would either be out of clients or they would be right back where they started."

Clients contact Simmons via her website, agree on the terms of the barter (which Simmons is extremely flexible on), and then provide Simmons with their financial information and goals to help them formulate a personalized plan using something called a money map which Simmons describes as "a customizable financial planning tool that's actually fairly basic but it's very telling and there's really important information that's there."

Along with this document, clients include their short and long-term goals and what they are hoping to get out of their session with Simmons, who than completes a full analysis based on the numbers and the goals she is given before meeting in person to go over the analysis together.

In dealing with the 20-something demographic, Simmons says a big challenge is helping people prioritize. "A lot of time people our age go 'I want to do this, this, this, this and this,' but our constraints are small because at this point in our lives our incomes are not as high as they will be in ten years and we're also struggling with debt," she notes.

"Sometimes you have people who don't want to pay the debt. they just want to travel. So what's the compromise there? And that's what you get meeting with someone face to face with an adviser versus going onto a blog."

According to Simmons, part of this challenge comes from the fact that this particular generation was given access to debt without being properly educated about the consequences of it.

"We're OK with our debt because -and I've actually done research on this- it seems to be age 24 where you go, 'Oh shit' and realize you're not going to get that $84000 job when you graduate, and if you want to move out of your parents' place you're going to have to sacrifice but what we do is we don't say 'OK, well I'm going to have to just live in this shitbox for a couple of years,' we go , 'you know what? I really want 800 sq. ft and my own balcony, so I'm going to do that.' because that's the lifestyle we're comfortable with," she explains.

"So that's where I like to come in and help, and provide some comfort that it's not all lost."

Providing that comfort is one more job for her money map. "I think a big thing is that people think 'Oh I'd only be able to save $50 a month, that's never going to do anything.' So on my money map I can say, look what that does...and then it provides motivation and that's the biggest thing that I want to provide," Simmons stresses.

Her golden rule? "Give yourself enough financial flexibility on a weekly basis for fun, and that's it."

While that might sound counter-intuitive to those trying to save money, Simmons likens having a fixed cost of living (ie, the things you can't live without: rent, car, etc.) that is too high to allow for any flexibility in your budget to someone on a lettuce only diet.

"When you see a pizza, you're going to binge," she sums up.

While Simmons' family and friends were immediately understanding of her ambitious plan to live off $35 a week and help 300 women rather than sticking with her rather comfortable former gig, Simmons laughs when recalling the initial reaction of some coworkers.

"When I went to my office everyone was like 'what are you going to do for money?' First question. But then once I explained why and that I was only doing it for a year and that I was doing this because I feel like I can't stay here without doing it, then they were really supportive. So I have had support from everyone but there was definitely that initial jaw drop," she says. "People are like, why would you do this? The job market's tight, why are you leaving? And sometimes at 3:00 a.m. I'm like, "I don't know why!!!"

Still, Simmons is very obviously enjoying what she's doing. "I love working with this demographic. I do," she says. "There's something about coming in at the beginning and building that foundation and building a plan together that is way more exciting...There's just something about getting in the trenches and getting your hands dirty."

You might even say she wouldn't trade it for anything.

For more information about the Barter Babes Project, visit http://barterbabesproject.com/

Simmons barters on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the GTA and skypes with out-of-town Barter Babes.

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T11:43:00.004-05:00

I survived my first Bikram class to ring in the new year with a lovely group of old and new friends. I hope you all had a chance to celebrate whichever way you like best. I have a feeling 2011 will be a good one!

Feeling hot, hot, hot?

2010-12-29T21:41:00.004-05:00

I've always been a little skeptical of deals that seem too good to be true. So when a friend told me about Groupon, a website that emails members daily deals for activities, products etc. for specific geographic regions, it took me some time to get on board.

Since jumping on the bandwagon, I've had a blast checking out new restaurants, buying half-priced gift certificates for friends and family and trying out some hilarious (and crazy cheap) Lindy Hop lessons with Sparta.

The latest deal that was too good to resist, however, might really be too good to be true, if only for the fact that it will probably kill me.

For $35, Sparta and I scored 25 hot yoga classes.

Now, at first I was very enthusiastic about the prospect, but now that the bargain-induced high has worn off, I have some concerns.

First there is the little matter of my utter inflexibility, despite about a decade of gymnastics. I'm picturing being surrounded by lithe lulu-clad pretzels glowing with health and zen-ness, whilst I drown in a puddle of my own sweat whilst reaching futily for my toes. So. There's that.

Then there is the fact that, obviously hydration is imperative to hot yoga so I'll want to drink up. No problem, except that I'm pretty sure my bladder is the size of a six-month old's and as soon as I know I won't be able to "go" for a set amount of time, it's all I can think about.

Seriously, I had to run to the restroom twice during the previews for the new Harry Potter. Partly because I was just a wee bit overexcited, but also because of the knowledge that I would probably be viciously attacked by Potter fans were I to clamber my way down the aisle for a bathroom break mid-movie.

I can just imagine how I'll feel when they close the door to begin this 90-minute game of twister in a sauna.

Advice from any hot yogis out there would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise, wish me luck!

Making Christmas

2010-12-27T20:33:00.008-05:00

It's all in the details...

The games...

The nostalgia...

The food...

And the laughter...

And the laughter...

And the laughter...

Reverb10

2010-12-20T18:13:00.005-05:00

As usual, I'm a little late to the party, but I've really enjoyed reading other bloggers' Reverb10 posts, so I thought I'd give this one a whirl:

What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011?

Well.

To think about what has healed me this year requires me to do something I have generally been avoiding, and acknowledge that while, as years go, I've had worse and I know people for whom this year has been next to impossible to bear, this year has been difficult.

It began ominously, with the unexpected passing of one of Sparta's University friends. It seemed no sooner had we returned from his wake than I was downsized from my cozy small-town reporter gig.

A couple of months into unemployment, we moved to the city and my grandfather passed away. It was a bittersweet goodbye. Not entirely unexpected and even a relief on one hand as Alzheimer's was rapidly stealing him from us, but of course difficult to come to terms with nonetheless.

No sooner had we returned from the funeral than we were rocked by the news that Jim, a very close family friend had passed away suddenly, just days past his 50th birthday.

The last time I saw him was the night before my grandpa's funeral. He and his amazing wife had come over to give my dad a hug and raise a glass to my grandpa. When they left, I said to my mom (not for the first time), "I'm so fond of Jim. If I could choose an extra uncle, it would be him."

Months later, I still don't know what to say or write about this, except that our hearts are all broken by the shocking loss of this good, good man.

There have, of course, been plenty of fantastic bright spots and my overall love affair with the city has been a balm to my raw nerves, but I have spent a lot of time, especially during my six months of unemployment, feeling sad and uncertain and a little like a lost kite: cut loose and buffeted from tree to tree, until I could hardly fly at all.

While I don't know that the healing process is, or ever will be complete, what has started the healing, has been laughter and hugs, proximity of best friends, baking, creating a new home and planting my little feet back into solid, nourishing earth while I wait for an emotional tax return in 2011.

A Crafty Christmas

2010-12-16T21:36:00.005-05:00

After an overdose of crochet projects, this year, I've come up with a couple of new experiments to foist upon friends and family this holiday season.

You'd be amazed at how many of my lovely friends are self-conscious about their profiles, but I managed to coax a couple of them into letting me snap a couple of photos for the sake of making these:

I always love the look of old-fashioned framed silhouettes, and thought it would be great to create some modern ones featuring people I know.

And, my greatest baking triumph to date:

That's right, Parisian macarons. Eat your heart out Martha Stewart.

...I mean, happy holidays!

Bursting the Bubble

2010-12-10T14:40:00.009-05:00

It had been a while since I had marked International Human Rights Day with anything beyond a minute spent reading and signing an online petition, but when a flyer for Amnesty International's Write for Rights day landed on my desk at work, I took it as a sign that this year, I should do a little bit more.

While I like to think that I'm still more informed of and involved in human rights issues than the average bear, I must admit I've sadly become a bit of a lapsed activist. It's been easy to pretend to myself that with work, or looking for work or working on my hair, I simply don't have time to devote to any worthy causes beyond myself right now.

Flyer in hand I almost dismissed myself from duty once again, thinking about how my precious half-hour lunch break would be eaten up, but a little voice in my head (who sounded suspiciously like she was rolling her eyes) told me, "Oh just get over there and do it. People are dying and suffering and being wrongfully imprisoned, the least you can do is take a three minute walk and pick up a pen."

So I did. And despite the sad and unjust cases I read through before selecting two to address in my letters, amazingly, I left with a smile.

Part of my smile came from the other people writing letters, a tiny band of dedicated letter-writers, overjoyed to see me, a stranger, come to help with their campaign. And part of it came from the hope that, however slim, there was a chance that the letters I was writing might reach, might really get through to someone who could make the world a little better. If nothing else, at least the odds are better than when I simply fume and rant to Sparta about the state of things.

It was an excellent way to burst the isolating bubble I've felt growing up around me. It's so easy to blame it on time, or futility but I think really it's just that we're too frightened, too overwhelmed by what is out there. Too terrified to have our world get a little bigger and ourselves a little smaller in it.

My mom is dismayed by the direction our country is headed under our current government. Like many people, she's angry and sad and discouraged by what's going on, but unlike many people, what she is not and simply could never be, is complacent.

While most of us whine and shrug our shoulders, she identifies a problem and doggedly pursues a solution, sending emails, posting articles and signing petitions talking to anyone who will listen about the deceitful and appallingly undemocratic way our Prime Minister and his cronies are running our country. She performs tiny acts of rebellion each day in an effort to get others to start paying attention.

The thing that keeps her going, is not hiding from or closing her eyes to the evils of the world, but doing something, any little thing that she can to fight them.

I'm pretty sure I know whose voice it was in my head.

This blows

2010-12-09T19:10:00.005-05:00

This might seem a little out of season, given that in my little corner of the hemisphere, it has been snowing or threatening to snow for a number of weeks now but I've been meaning to write about this for weeks, and I guess, given my woeful lack of inspiration to write lately, I should take my muses where I can get them.

So. I would like to take a moment to make an appeal to any of you folks still lucky enough to be enjoying the crisp air and brilliant colours of fall. Or to those of you who plan to continue residing on the planet next fall:

Please. Oh pleasepleaseplease. Please do not use leafblowers.

There are few things that make me a hissing, spitting little ball of angry Sarah like hearing that obnoxious roar, "I'M HERE AND I"M BLOWING THE LEAVES AROUND! BASICALLY DOING THE WORK OF A WINDY DAY! LOOK AT MEEEEEE!"

But it's more than that. To me they have come to represent every awful thing about North American attitudes towards...everything.

If you ever want to express your laziness and disregard for the environment and lack of common sense in one go, just schlep around your driveway with one of those monsters.

Heaven forbid you keep your muscles from atrophying once a year by weighing them down with a rake and the terrible burden of leaves.

I do understand that some people might genuinely be too old or infirm to operate a rake or rake/broom combination, although my neighbour managed to do this and much more well into her 90s, but in that case, hire a child! Neighbourhood kids love earning a shiny toonie.

Heck, hire me! I could probably use a little fresh air and subway fare.

And to all a good night

2010-10-19T23:23:00.006-04:00

So today was one of those days when I get stupidly caught up and dissatisfied with my appearance. I spent my morning doing battle with my hair to no avail and realizing only halfway down the block that I had forgotten to put on even an iota of makeup.

The flourescent light over the bathroom mirror at work cruelly confirmed that the hair/face situation had been in no way improved by the brisk walk in. I was so battily insensed by my own reflection that I almost didn't notice this:

"Well that's...festive?" I thought, stopping mid-growl and letting go of my tortured locks to take a closer look at the blissful little mouse gracing a card leaning against the wall just below the mirror as though on a Christmas mantle.

Oddly enough, it was not a complete surprise to find something like this in the ladies room. There is some sneaky sweetheart who, for whatever reason, from time to time leaves what we assume are meant to be little gifts to whoever finds them. So far I've seen cute little notebooks and pencils, but I've heard tell of toonies being left on occasion as well. To be honest, I've never been sure whether or not to find the whole thing quirky and nice or creepy, especially as some of the gifts are left not on the counter but on the actual toilet tank. Like presents from a really mixed up tooth fairy.

That uncertainty didn't have a chance against my insatiable curiosity however. So I immediately opened the card to find this:

Another gorgeous creation from the beautiful minds at Papaya Art cleverly shrunk down to fridge magnet size.

And this:

Well.

Let's just say the hair didn't seem so important after that and my face was vastly improved by an ear-to-ear grin.

Thanks Santa.

Ooh child, things will get brighter

2010-10-11T22:40:00.005-04:00

Sometime around my secondary school graduation, I recall one of my elders telling me he hoped I'd enjoyed high school, as it was probably going to be the best time of my life.

While for me, the teen years were nowhere near the hell I know they were for some, I was nonetheless alarmed by this statement.

Fortunately I have come to find that in my case (and in the cases of most everyone I know) that dire prediction has proved to be about as accurate as my theory that I'd be blissfully wedded to Leonardo DiCaprio by age 25.

The promise that things vastly improve for the majority of people after high school, and particularly for victims of bullying is the focus of the It Gets Better project, started by Dan Savage and his husband Terry in response to the recent rash of teen suicides in the U.S.

It is a beautiful and brilliant attempt to reach out and provide support to teens who are the victims of bullying and persecution because of their sexual orientation.

Despite being lucky enough to have had a supportive family and amazing kindred spirits for friends making my four years of purgatory at worst, bearable, and at best hilariously fun, there's just no way I'd want to relive the blind, fumbling, hormone-infused, insecure and angst-ridden over-capacity IKEA ball room that was high school.

Take away those friends and that family, throw in homosexuality or any one of the factors on the seemingly endless list of things that can make you a target of unabashed cruelty in high school, and things could have gone very differently.

So this Thanksgiving, my gratitude goes to those friends and that family and to every person who has contributed to the It Gets Better project.

Now if we could just get an equally viral "Quit being a closed-minded, bullying ass, seriously, there's no excuse for that garbage." project to take care of the other side going, we'd have the problem fixed in no time!

Weekend Smiles

2010-09-13T20:30:00.006-04:00

Beautiful friends

Beautiful dancers in a beautiful cafe

This kid tormenting his sister with his googly-eye glasses

Bears on cel phones

less cars, more cozies!

Treat of the week

2010-09-11T23:04:00.007-04:00

The sudden break from the summer heat combined with my newly expanded budget can only mean one thing.

I am eating everything in Toronto.

Today, after a month of gazing wistfully through their open floor to ceiling windows at the delectably decorated morsels on offer, we treated ourselves to a luxurious lunch at DT Bistro.

While their specialty is clearly their gorgeous and dainty dessert selection, they are no slouch in the savory department either.

For $14 Sparta noshed on tender and delicately spiced curried chicken on brioche with a crisp and colourful side salad while I devoured two lemon shrimp crepes garnished with sauteed asparagus and red onion.

So. So. Good.

The bright and airy space is simply furnished with whimsical and pretty accessories making it a casually elegant and comfortable setting for a friendly brunch, a romantic evening or just some quality time with creme brulee.

I will most certainly be back.

Ice cream and scavenger hunts

2010-09-01T19:36:00.002-04:00

A study I came across a few months ago found that who we are is essentially determined by the time we're about seven.

While I scoffed a little upon first reading, I may be coming around to the idea.

As a kid, I was goofy, imaginative, inquisitive, (too) talkative (for my own good and the good of others), and friendly, with a pretty strict moral code and intolerance of injustice. I'm pretty sure anyone who met me would agree this is still an accurate description.

I also used slightly warped "logic" to attempt to get my way.

For example, somewhere there is a home video of me at age six, trying to convince the family to drive the three hours to the nearest IKEA.

With an extremely wounded look, I make my case to the camera: "But I'm all dressed!"

"No Sarah, the trip is too long."

"We go today and we're there by tomorrow?"

An admirable attempt.

I'm sorry to admit it, but Sparta may or may not be familiar with this exact tactic.

Oh, and I still get overly excited about trips to IKEA.

All this plus the fact that I just spent a terribly enjoyable evening with my best friend of 20 years, eating gelato and scouring the neighbourhood for free curbside treasure.

That's right, we ate ice-cream and went on a scavenger hunt. Granted, these days we're allowed to do so unsupervised, but still.

What do you think, have you really changed that much since your childhood, or do I just have a serious case of arrested development?

At least my hair is (slightly) different.

The Best Things in Life are Free

2010-08-12T19:21:00.005-04:00

One of the delightful things about living in our particular part of the city is the number of little (and big) treasures you can come across just out for a stroll.

While it can be disheartening to come across a beautiful or useful piece of furniture left by the sidewalk for the elements to destroy, few things are more fun than discovering some little gem that has clearly just been waiting for you to come along and pick it up.

It is understood that items left at the curb or at the edge of a lawn are free to a good home.

At least I hope that's the understanding.

Otherwise I totally just stole someone's sweet vintage Palizzios!

P.S. Those of you who are concerned at my scavenging ways will be happy to hear I am finally, (finally, finally) employed!

Some people's children

2010-07-27T17:14:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I faced a dilemma.

Sparta and I were enjoying our monthly pilgrimage to stock up on essentials from the No Frills an hour down the road, debating the nutritional merit vs wonderous deliciousness that are rosemary and olive oil flavoured crackers, when I noticed two little girls in a nearby cart.

Their mom was paying for groceries while the two of them happily slorped away at some kind of grody-looking refrigeration-free yogurt drinks (don't even get me started on those).

Anyway, poor choice in beverages aside, they were adorable. Just as we were passing them to begin the trudge home, I noticed that one of the girls was enthusiastically popping the lid of her drink in and out of her mouth.

As I watched, her eyes got big for a second and I froze for an instant, worried she was about to choke before she spat it out and continued unconcerned with her game.

At this point, I had two choices: point out the potential choking hazard to her mother, who was all of two feet away, or just mind my own business.

On closer inspection I was 80% sure that the thing was large enough not to actually fit down her tiny asophagus, so I decided rather than risk telling someone else how to take care of her kids, to give her the benefit of the doubt and just trust that she was paying closer attention than I was.

Still, I couldn't help feeling a little uneasy as we headed to the parking lot. Shouldn't the safety of a child outweigh my need not to be seen as a judgmental busybody?

Then, as we were returning our cart, we came across two women who had "rescued" a dog that had been tied up in the parking lot. The two claimed the dog had been crying and that they had no choice but to untie him and bring him inside for a drink of water.

The owner was seriously upset by their assumptions, saying that she knows how to take care of her own dog and that she should call the police and report them for stealing her dog; It was exactly the kind of scene I had tried to avoid seconds ago.

Granted, I wouldn't have taken it upon myself to confiscate the little girl or something, but there you go.

So what do you think? Where do you draw the line when it comes to giving advice to strangers?

Victory

2010-07-13T18:46:00.005-04:00

Oh Canada

2010-06-27T20:46:00.002-04:00

This kind of breaks my heart. One of the things I love the most about living in this country is that I've never felt afraid to voice my opinions and exercise my right to peaceful protest. Now for the first time, thanks to a combination of violent and cowardly "anarchists" and overzealous riot police like those above, I am.

More frustrating is the fact that the thousands of peaceful protestors with legitimate grievances and messages to get out will not be heard and the ones making the most noise really have nothing to say.

I'll be watching The Girl in the Cafe if anyone needs me.

That's Amore

2010-06-23T12:00:00.004-04:00

I spotted these two from my rooftop perch
overlooking the local Italian street festival this weekend.
Too romantic, no?.

Guest post

2010-06-22T22:05:00.003-04:00

Hey lovelies,

The (also lovely) ladies over at BeautyGirlMag are featuring my thoughts on going gray. Check out my post here if you're interested!

What would you do with $1.9 million?

2010-06-18T14:29:00.003-04:00

Apparently, if you're the Canadian government, you build a fake lake.

While it's just a drop in the bucket when compared to the total budget for hosting the G20 summit this month, the construction of the indoor "lake" as an effort to impress visiting journalists and increase tourism is just too preposterous to ignore.

Did I mention this construction is happening a stone's throw from an ACTUAL lake?

Evidently, it is a project that few will get a firsthand look at as the security surrounding the summit promises to be more elaborate than anything seen in the country to date.

The government has made damn sure to let protesters know they are not welcome, putting out warnings early on that security forces will be equipped with not only the usual gear, but sound cannons, which they will not hesitate to use to subdue a crowd deemed unruly, damaging the hearing of demonstrators in the process.

While I understand that of course there needs to be some level of security, I find the whole thing ugly and threatening, with the attitude the government has taken, immediately setting protesters and police up for confrontation. Nothing like a good dose of fear to ensure things get hysterical.

These issues have got me thinking about whether or not these vastly expensive, security heavy international meetings are even necessary, fake lakes notwithstanding.

With such a range of "skype-like" technology, is it even responsible and/or necessary for world leaders to be jet setting around the world to discuss economic issues, when they could surely set up an online conference at a fraction of the (environmental and financial)cost?

*Also, for anyone who is interested in these issues (or even if you aren't) and has not seen the movie, The Girl in the Cafe, I can't recommend it enough. Be sure to let me know if you watch it and what you think!

Food, glorious food!

2010-06-15T21:09:00.005-04:00

It took years of my mother explaining, "this is not a buffet," in response to my seriously ungrateful requests for a peanut butter sandwich to replace whatever delicious and nutritious meal she had slaved over, but I eventually developed a real appreciation for a variety of food.

When I lost my job, it took us about five minutes to decide to move to the city. It took me about six to start thinking about what I would eat upon our arrival.

Our neighbourhood has not disappointed. With everything from cheap and cheerful falafels and sushi to the treasure trove of fresh produce, mouth-watering cheeses and fragrant breads that make up the nearby market, despite our budget these days, we are feeling seriously indulged.

Here's a taste:

Homemade cornmeal muffins
with berries and greek yogurt,
drizzled with honey

Smoked applewood cheddar,
tomato, avocado, mayo
and corn relish on fresh focacia
(I could eat this every day)

Pad Thai on the patio

Teeny, tiny homemade lemon, vanilla cupcakes
with butter cream frosting

And we thought ants were bad

2010-06-03T13:58:00.004-04:00

One of my favourite features about our little apartment is our very adorable terrace. It's a simple wooden affair that extends our over the roof of the back of the house. It offers both a view of the city skyline and of similar decks across the quiet alleyway behind the houses. At night it looks like something out of West Side Story, with the zigzag of fire escapes connecting the cozy glow at each little window.

It has, however, on occasion given me pause in terms of the security of our little nest as the series of decks on the surrounding houses are all on about the same level as ours. I have unnerving visions of some kind of ninja-burglar parkour-ing their way into our apartment.

So, despite the recent heatwave, I insist on keeping the door to the deck closed and bolted when we go to sleep. At least we have a little window by the stove that lets some air flow through that part of the pad.

It was this obsession with locking the door nightly that kept me from having a colossal meltdown this morning when I was awakened by crashing sounds coming from the kitchen.

Despite assuring myself that surely I would have heard an axe-wielding lunatic hacking his way through the steel door before he made it into the kitchen, I was out of bed like a shot, alert and wary while Sparta blearily peered at me from beneath the duvet, asking the very good question, "What is that?"

Having convinced myself it was probably nothing more than some kind of pantry avalanche caused by my precarious stacking techniques, I bravely peeped around the door frame.

Directly in my eyeline was the counter where we keep our toaster, microwave and cutting board. On top of the microwave was our paring knife, garlic pot, loaf of bread and live squirrel.

Fortunately, he was an astoundingly rational squirrel, and shortly after making eye contact with me, slithered right back out of the hole he gnawed in the window screen without incident while I tiptoed back into the bedroom to fashion some kind of anti-rabies, squirrel wrangling gear.

It may be time to stop bragging about living on a beautifully tree-lined street.

City Critters

2010-05-25T11:57:00.015-04:00

While I have yet to come across any city-dwelling llamas, there has been no shortage of creatures, both two and four-legged, here to keep me entertained over the past month.

The question

2010-05-22T10:53:00.004-04:00

I'm currently embroiled in a discussion over in the 20sb forums with a gentleman who was looking for advice on how to get publicity for a pin-up contest the green technology company he works for is planning on running to raise awareness and "make renewable energy sexy, literally."

Whenever something like this comes up on the forums I struggle a bit with whether or not to get involved.

There are times when it just seems futile to respond or to attempt to get a thoughtful dialogue happening, especially when the thread title is something as ludicrously offensive as "Which brown race is the most attractive?"

(Sadly, that was indeed a real topic. The expanded version also referred to Canadians as a race. So.)

The pin-up topic had a couple of positive responses from women who thought this contest sounded like a great idea, none of them posing the question that immediately came to my mind:

Why does attention for green technology have to come at the expense of women?

Another commenter asked how it could possibly be at the expense of women when the women featured will be volunteering and wondered if having a male competition as well would make things more fair.

While I suppose on some level that would make things more balanced, the solution to the problem of objectifying women, is not to objectify men too.

I have no doubt that there will be plenty of willing participants.

There is, unfortunately, no shortage of women seemingly eager to be judged on their ability to cram themselves into a pre-fab mold of physical attractiveness, reduced to their waist - hip ratios and tacked up in back offices to be ogled by strangers.

Brains, personality and achievements be damned, they want recognition for their looks, and they'll get it. They'll get it far easier than they might gain recognition for just about anything else.

The pressure on women to fit that mold is so monstrously great, and competitions based on looks are just what that monster loves to feed on the most.

The thing with sexism and objectification is that we're so used to them that most of us don't even recognize it or question when these issues come up.

There's a prevailing attitude of "Oh well, sex sells, might as well use that to our advantage rather than challenge it or come up with something more innovative and interesting."

It's shameful and it's lazy and it's boring.

Sometimes though, all a shift in attitudes needs to get started is for someone to ask the question.

Bird's Eye View

2010-05-17T10:39:00.004-04:00

In case you're curious about what an unemployed Sarah in the city does with her copious amounts of spare time, wonder no more.

When not out distributing resumes, I obsessively watch this:

The Hornby Island Eagle Cam.

There are two cameras positioned in and above a gorgeous eagle nest in British Columbia and I've been watching the live stream since the week the sweet little fuzzball of a baby was hatched.

Now he's getting kind of big and creepy prehistoric looking, but I still check in on them on a daily basis. Even when they're not doing anything, it's surprisingly calming just looking at them.

The Haves

2010-05-14T19:43:00.003-04:00

Today, as I put my resume through it's scrillionth reincarnation and prepared to pavement pound with the best of them, Sparta and I got to chatting about our budget, which of course, has been tightened significantly since I lost my job.

In fact, Sparta described us as "have-nots."

I thought he must be kidding, but he insisted that our existence of living from pay cheque to pay cheque puts us squarely in that demographic.

I beg to differ.

I offered to take him for a walk and point out a few of the "have-nots" living on the streets of our fair city.

He reminded me of a recent visit with some extremely wealthy acquaintances of mine and their jet-setting ways.

It's true we don't have the cash on hand to purchase a couple of vineyards and a mid-sized island at any given time. We don't have a six bedroom house in Florida and one twice the size here. We don't have drivers or personal assistants or catered soirees.

And sure, I would be more comfortable to be in a position to start bulking up my savings, but I don't doubt for a second that we're very, very priviledged.

We live in a peaceful country where treating our health problems doesn't mean going into excessive debt.

We have a(n adorable) place to sleep at night, we have food (and wine!) and an amazing support network who would certainly never allow us to go without.

The things we don't have? We don't need.

City Girl

2010-05-10T16:40:00.004-04:00

My parents have always described me as a city girl. While both my brother and I technically grew up in a city, I was born in a far larger one and I guess the three years before we relocated had a pretty profound effect.

At 15, I was the one whose genius plan to escape from any form of hiking on a family trip to British Columbia (I know, I know, who doesn't want to hike in BC?) by quietly refusing to bring appropriate footwear was neatly foiled by my mom loaning me her sensible sneakers and teetering her way through the woods on my KISS-worthy platform heels.

Our family trip to Paris, however? A drastically different story.

Try as I might to blend in with the small-town locals, they called me on it every time. I think it was all the earrings.

Every time I've stepped off the train and into the city to visit friends over the years, I've felt a sense of coming home.

Today when I stepped off the train, I was.

It's been less than a month since we moved into our adorable little third-floor nest, but already my life in the small town seems like ancient history, or a really lengthy dream.

I mean, I know it happened. I've got the newspapers to prove it, but really? Did I really move to the middle of nowhere, not knowing a single friendly face or what precisely I was getting myself into? Did I really stick it out with no social life to speak of to write about giant mutant turnips, 100th birthday parties and bean festivals for two years? Did I really fly an airplane??? haha. Who does that?

This girl, apparently.

And while I will never forget and am hugely grateful for that rare experience, I am so happy to be where I am now. Despite things not turning out the way I might have hoped, and despite the fact that I remain, for the moment, dishearteningly unemployed, I am so excited to be here.

Suddenly, my calendar has changed. Photo exhibits, parties, and dinners with friends have replaced council meetings, donation photographs and interviewing the new minister.

About once a day, when we pass a fruit stand, or explore Chinatown or turn down our gorgeous street, or just sit people-watching from a sun-drenched patio, I turn to Sparta and exclaim, "We LIVE here! We live HERE!"

He just smiles at me, the preposterously happy city girl.

In other news...

2010-04-01T10:00:00.007-04:00

For most of my life thus far, my hair has been some incarnation of this:

Every so often though, I get the urge to completely change it up. Usually I just talk myself out of it by reminiscing about the time i had it chopped into that super popular mid-90's flip with bangs which, when not styled meticulously looked suspiciously like a mullet, and not the punk rock joan jett kind either.

Of course, other times, I just spontaneously do it anyway a la yesterday when I hit the stylist's chair and decided I could not possibly walk out of there with hair past the bottom of my ribs one more time.

Ta-daa!

It feels aahmazing. I walked home in the wind yesterday and while it's still long enough to get in my eyes, it can no longer viciously attempt to strangle me.

And! One of the benefits of having a rapunzel-gro mane that isn't dyed is that when you chop it off it can be reincarnated as part of a wig for a cancer patient.

Win, win!

My friend from the internet

2010-03-31T09:57:00.004-04:00

Photo stolen from Andrea's flikr stream

As a semi-anonymous blogger, there is little overlap between my blogging social life and my real life social life.

Some of the people I've come across through blogging seem too good to be true. Like, to the point where I've been convinced they were manufactured by some kind of keyword deciphering googlebot.

Last week I had the opportunity to put this theory to the test when Kempt creator Andrea wandered into my new neck of the woods.

Andrea, for those of you remiss enough not to already read her blog religiously, is fabulous.

Her talent for writing and photography paired with her sense of humour and adventure make her more than worth reading.

Beyond that, despite never having met me face to face, she's become an incredibly kind and supportive friend.

Naturally my first meeting with this particular brand of awesome left me a little apprehensive. I mean, I like to think that I come across pretty accurately through my blog, but the truth is, for every lame joke I make online, I make about a scrillion more in person. Annnd I say things like "a scrillion."

I tell stories so lengthy that eventually I forget the point or just get bored of them and stop. Oh, and I have hyperhidrosis, so I sweat about 90% of the time and I make weird faces about 100% of the time.

I tried to keep my nerves at bay by telling myself there was no way she could be as bright and hilarious and stylish in person as in cyber space.

Colour me corrected.

No sooner had I popped up from the subway like a nervous, brown-haired little gopher, than a clever, quick-witted little pixie with perpetually perfect hair was dashing across the busy street to greet me with a hug.

After dragging her to the funhouse mecca of low-priced goods, or "old lady heaven", as she quickly and accurately dubbed Honest Ed's and then to a sushi restaurant where apparently someone recently died by stabbing (who knew?) we headed out for drinks.

Naturally I wanted to show her off to all my friends, some of whom looked at me strangely when I'd excitedly explain, "She's my friend from the internet!!!" prompting me to reassure them that I did not order her from Amazon's Russian Bride department.

Fortunately as well as being cool and fun, she was just crazy enough to venture out with me a second time. In daylight no less. I was just crazy enough to try the Vietnamese coffee she recommended at lunch. It was delish, and ensured that I was a giggly jitterbug for the remainder of the afternoon while we tromped around under ludicrously large umbrellas and completed a whirlwind tour of nearby vintage shops.

All this to say, there are times when I'm not sure why I've kept up this blog, times when it seems like nothing more than a vanity project. Sure it's therapeutic to write, not to mention good practice, but I could easily do that in a diary.

Meeting Andrea solidified the best part for me.

Making connections with the potential to become real and lasting friendships makes it all worthwhile.

It's where the signs are

2010-03-27T18:31:00.004-04:00

I've mentioned previously that I tend to err a little on the superstitious side when it comes to "signs".

After the first apartment hunt fiasco and subsequent whining blog post, I dove back into obsessively searching online listings from the comfort of my parents' place while poor Sparta continued to work and couch surf in the city.

After sending him umpteen links to listings and persuading him to go take a look at any he could get to on his own with less than thrilling results, I came across a listing I could not believe.

It was a cozy little one bedroom on the top floor of a big, beautiful old house in a fabulous neighbourhood around the corner from several of my best friends. And somehow, it was in our price range.

I told Sparta about it immediately and insisted that he give the landlord a call as soon as possible while I tried not to get my hopes up two and a half hours away. When he called back, it was with bad news. The landlord, Grace, was showing the apartment that night, but he had to work. She had agreed to call him on Sunday if she hadn't given it to anyone yet but he said she didn't sound too enthusiastic about that.

I tried not to feel too dejected as I got off the phone with him and stood there staring at the scrap of paper where I'd scribbled Grace's phone number. As the numbers floated into focus, I realized they looked very familiar.

I bounded up the stairs to grab my address book, and sure enough, the last four digits of Grace's phone number were the same as the last four digits of my last landlord's phone number.

It was enough to make me pick up the phone and call her myself on the off chance she might respond better to me. While she basically told me the same thing she had Sparta, she actually asked that I give her a shout Saturday evening rather than waiting for one from her Sunday morning, which I thought might be a bit more promising.

The next day as I anxiously whiled away the hours until I could call, my mom got a facebook message from a woman she had been friends with while working in Germany but hadn't been in touch with for over 25 years. Her name? Grace.

Sure enough that night, just after I had given up hope that she would answer, Grace phoned me to say that if I could get to the city on Sunday I could come by and see the apartment.

I hastily arranged to stay with one of my friends in the area. When I called her to ask where to hop off the streetcar, her answer? Grace Street.

My hope took another dive when we arrived to find several other upstanding looking potential tenants touring the place. Still, I clung tight to my signs and my instincts and made sure we were the last to leave so we would have a chance to chat with Grace alone and so that she might remember us.

I was secretly hoping I might be able to just cram a cheque into her hands then and there, the place felt so right to me, but no such luck.

And then I was sure I had ruined our chances completely by not adequately explaining my current unemployment situation. I can hardly remember what I said I was that nervous, but Sparta had to acknowledge that he had noticed how I stumbled through that, so I knew it was bad.

But.

Sure enough, those signs were pointing to something, because later that night, Grace called and offered to rent us the apartment.

So. As of April 16th, I will once again be a city girl.

This time, with a very cute apartment.

Home is where the rats aren't

2010-03-11T21:07:00.003-05:00

Despite no luck to date in the job department, earlier this week I trundled off to the city to join Sparta in undertaking round one of The great apartment hunt of 2010.

On the train ride up I read Cormac Mcarthy's heartbreaking, soul-sucking, post-apocalyptic downer, The Road.

The apartments we spent Tuesday visiting? More depressing.

For example, for $1000 a month we learned we could live in a tiny ramshackle bachelor walk-up.

The place was insulated with a healthy coating of grime and the previous tenants were clearly hippie/Christmas elf hybrids who loved red and green so much they even took the trouble of painting the 300 year old fridge to match the walls.

And a friendly, jauntily behatted cockroach carried my bag up the stairs for me...Actually, that sounds kind of cute. It probably would have been one for the pluses column at that point.

To be fair, it did have a pretty nice balcony...with an excellent view of the parking lot of an establishment Featuring "NUDE! INTERACTIVE! DANCING!"

It didn't get much better from there.

Next trip up I'm leaving McArthy at home and reading something about a sumptuously furnished Parisian flat. Any recommendations?

Purgatory

2010-03-04T20:11:00.003-05:00

All right, perhaps that's a little dramatic as far as titles go, but there is most certainly a sense of floating around untethered and uncertain of my direction these days.

Not to mention trying to keep a handle on the days themselves. I've been without employment for all of one week, and already the lack of deadlines has left me unsure if it's Wednesday or Thursday. (Don't worry though, I hear there are these devices called "calendars" that can really help with this kind of thing, so I should be all right).

Really though, there's not a lot to complain about. I mean, I spent the most active hours of my day wandering around the river in the sunshine and making delicious cous cous salad for my folks while watching Modern Family.

The problem is, the last time I moved all my things home and took my parents up on their very generous offer to let me stay with them while I sorted out jobs etc. I didn't leave for a year and a half. Granted, my situation now is vastly different, but I'm still wary of all this insidious comfort and relaxation attempting to seduce me.

To that end, Sparta has gone on ahead to the city to couch surf with friends and take on some shifts at a restaurant he used to work at and I plan to join him soon to at least get started at viewing apartments, if not for my own job interviews.

I feel like having that one thing to anchor me will work wonders at dissipating that little frowny-faced cartoon storm cloud that's been following me around like a helium balloon on a string.

In other news...

2010-02-23T17:38:00.004-05:00

Why yes I am handling the news of my departure from the newspaper remarkably well! Thank you for noticing, local radio host!

How can we miss you if you won't go away?

2010-02-18T14:31:00.003-05:00

Today I covered my last council meeting. You'd think that being the last one would make it special and make me want to soak up every last drop of small-town politics while I had the chance.

Incorrect.

I was as hard-pressed to keep my eyes open as ever.

But.

The Reeve (mayor) and a few staff members apparently got wind that this would be my last meeting, and over the lunch break, several council members approached me to offer their help if I need references for work. The Reeve gave a little speech thanking me for my honest but fair coverage over the past two years and the staff presented me with a bouquet of flowers.

Considering that I've spent much of the last two years afraid to show up at meetings or, you know, walk around out of doors for fear of being tarred/feathered by some kind of Beauty and the Beast-style mob, I've been blown away by the reactions from people when they find out I'm leaving.

My editor held a little going away shindig for me at her place earlier this week. I figured it would pretty much be just the two of us, as two of the people from our tiny office were sick, and one was on holidays. Instead, pretty much everyone I've worked with, and some who I never worked directly with but got to know while covering events, since I got here drove into town to say goodbye.

Two weeks ago when I first got the news that I would be busting out of here, like it or not, I've been walking around with a chilly lump of fear in my stomach and coating my internal organs that no amount of jalapeno soup can take on.

Realizing that I've been a bright enough spot in even one or two peoples' days that they're actually sorry to see me leave, well, that's some powerfully warm and fuzzy stuff.

And of course, I couldn't help but crack a smile at this month's animal control report:

- 2 dogs taken to the vets
- OPP called me once
- Black Lab got caught in a 22 degree connibear trap The owners of the dog thought that the dog was dead. They cut the trap off with bolt cutters and did mouth to mouth on the dog and the dog came back to life.

"And the dog came back to life."

Well then.

Llama kisses for all!

2010-02-16T18:39:00.007-05:00

I just wanted to say thank you so much to all of you for your seriously lovely and encouraging comments on my last post. I feel like I'm climbing a wonky staircase blindfolded, and there is this little army of voices shouting encouragement from their own staircases, and being disappointed for me when I'm knocked off. Pretty amazing.

I've been veering back and forth between nervous excitement and downright panic, but to be honest, between frantically packing house, sending out resumes and mapping out potential plans in my head, I haven't had much time to absorb what's happening.

This weekend however, I did make time to say goodbye to everyone's favourite Llama family. Between soft, winter-woolly llama hugs, and the most supportive blog friends ever, I'm definitely veering back towards being a very happy young lady.

How my life got flipped, turned upside down

2010-02-05T14:11:00.005-05:00

You know when you've felt prepared for something for such a long time that when it finally happens, it shocks you anyway?

For months the editorial departments of the area small-town papers have been an anxious hive of arched eyebrows and dark smirks every time the publisher or other upper management announce they'll be stopping by.

Print media is not exactly the place to be at the moment. We've seen what's happened to other papers across the country and we don't have to ask for whom the bell tolls.

As one of the newest additions to our little group of papers, I've never felt particularly secure.

And yet, finding out that my position is to be the collateral damage in the latest round of cutbacks still came as the kind of shock that makes your blood roar in waves behind your ears. I could only nod and smile and make jokes as the management-types apologetically slid an envelope across the desk to my outstretched hand.

They could have at least delivered the news via fortune cookie or something.

While there's no denying I've heard that little whisper urging me to move on to the next thing, I intended to do so at my own pace, hopefully with a new job and a place to live secured.

The best laid blah, blah, blah.

Believe me I know that things could be far worse. When I look back it will be clear that this was just one more opportunity in a (fairly thin) disguise.

I will be determined to land on my feet.

But for now, I'm just reeling.

When life gives you snow,

2010-02-01T09:52:00.005-05:00

make tiny snowmen!

I made this little guy a few nights ago to greet Sparta from the front porch when he got home from work. Now when I wake up and it's freezing, I think, well, at least the snowman made it through another night.

In other news...

2010-01-29T11:23:00.004-05:00

It's time for the latest report from my favourite small-town animal control officer. I think this might be even better than last month's. As usual, he kept it short and sweet, with no unnecessary (or possibly necessary) details.

-2 dogs taken to the vets
-Had a meeting with the OPP about two situations
-Dog bit a woman and was put under quarantine
- I received a call from the OPP on Christmas day. I spoke with a woman about a milk snake that was in her kitchen. I told her there could be more in her home. (Milk snakes are not poisonous). I tried to contact her later, however, there was no answer.

I'm picturing a far side comic with the woman held captive, perhaps tied to her Christmas tree, by milk snake bandits while her phone rings in the background.

Necessity is the mother of adorable headbands

2010-01-24T18:29:00.007-05:00

One of the downsides of this small town reporter gig is the distinct lack of ready made entertainment available.

After spending much of last year eating my boredom while working my way through all ten seasons of Friends on DVD about four times, I decided this year I should really develop some new hobbies.

So, this year one of the things that's kept me from going stark raving through the rural winter months is crocheting. That's right. Your grandmother and I could totally be BFF.

After giving myself a refresher course via the internet, I began churning out hats like nobody's business. So many hats in fact, that at one point Sparta accused me of having a secret hat sweatshop somewhere in the apartment. Clearly he missed the memo about it being nobody's business.

In any case, he gave up on the wild accusations after I gave him a hat of his own.

So, now that I have acquired an army of toques, beanies, berets etc. I've moved on to hair accessories.

I whipped this bad boy up after checking out the amazing creations from the talented young lady over at the aptly titled Creative Yarn

I didn't exactly follow her pattern but I love how it turned out. In fact, I am considering wearing it to tomorrow's Reading Rainbow adventure, if only to use as a distracting conversation piece should the children start booing after I read a sentence or two.

Brilliant, no?

Just a girl who can't say no

2010-01-19T09:50:00.003-05:00

I have done something stupid.

Last week, while at work I got a call from a teacher at one of the local elementary schools asking if we could come out and take some photos on family literacy day.

No problem.

Oh, and would the editor or reporter also be willing to read something to the kids?

Ever unable to say no to children, (even indirectly, apparently) I said, "Sure!"

How could I not support literacy day?

Stupid.

It's not like I've never read to a child before. During my babysitting heyday I knew all the words to Goodnight Moon, Mighty Machines and several other fascinating pieces of literature.

However, my audience was confined to between one and three tiny critics, whom I could ship off to bed if they weren't enthralled with my choice of reading material.

Recently, the only little ones I interact with are small enough that they are equally, if not more interested when I pretend to chomp their ears off than if I were to attempt to read them a story.

Monday morning, not only will I be reading to a group of Grade 1 and 2 students, because I was so damn cheerful about the whole thing on the phone, when that horror is through and they've finished throwing rocks at me or whatever, I'll also get to do the whole thing again with a group of Grade 3 and 4 kiddos, and of course, their teachers. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.

Stupid.

Anyway, what's done is done and it wouldn't be fair to back out now. The problem is, while I have gazillions of favourite books from when I was little, I can't for the life of me figure out at what age I loved them.

I was hoping to read something short and sweet, with lots of distracting pictures, like The Lucky Old Woman or The Lorax or something (except The Lorax makes me cry, so that might be a no go) but aren't Grade 1 and 2 kids already kind of beyond that?

So, my dears, this is where you come in.

Know any reading-inclined 7-year-olds? Remember being a 7-year-old who liked books?

Leave an awesome recommendation and help save me from the eternal shame nightmare of being booed by elementary school kids.

In other news...

2010-01-13T16:14:00.006-05:00

Sadly, our little town lost some lovely buildings and vital services this week.

It was strange to stand there, out in front of the crowd, snapping away from my spot in the no-man's land between the firefighters, doing their best to keep the destruction from spreading and the people watching from the cordoned off sidewalk, some of them still in their PJs from a swift and unexpected evacuation.

What dreams may come

2010-01-07T15:30:00.001-05:00

Image from displaystatues.com
(apparently these babies are for sale)

In a bit of a take off of my fairly common stressful dreams about spitting broken teeth into my hands (after all that money spent on orthodontia, I suppose I should classify them as nightmares, really) two nights ago I had a dream that i was growing a second row of teeth in my upper gums just behind my regular teeth. You know, like a shark.

Last night I had a dream that I was losing my hair.

Today, I had an assignment where I photographed a bunch of senior high school students. After a couple of shots, one of them realized he was holding his water bottle the wrong way.

Naturally, my response was to exclaim "Fail!" and continue taking pictures.

This got a big laugh from the group, which made my day for all of three seconds before one of the smile line-free twerps chuckled,

"haha. That's awesome! I've never heard an adult use that expression."

My urge to protest, "We're practically the same age! I JUST graduated from high school myself!" or "Shut up! I'm eternally youthful, current and hip!" died before the words made it past my lips when I realized, that is no longer an entirely accurate statement, and that for all intents and purposes, it is not unreasonable for someone to refer to me as a grown-up.

Maybe this guy just put plainly what my dreams have been trying to remind me. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

Either way, I'm totally photoshopping that kid some extra acne come production day.

Sense and Sensibilities

2010-01-06T11:38:00.003-05:00

A couple of days ago, Sparta was skimming facebook when he came across a rather cryptic status update from one of his contacts that read simply: "grief." She had also posted a photo of one of Sparta's friends from university as her profile picture.

After making several phone calls and urgently searching the internet for any clues as to what this could mean, Sparta discovered that his friend had indeed passed away.

Obviously there is no easy way to hear news like that and I know I've appreciated the convenience of having details of the time and place of a memorial service included on a separate page dedicated to the person.

However, I'll admit I can't help but cringe a little when news of someone's death or how a person feels about that death is delivered via the same 140 character box from whence 20 minutes later will be broadcast the details of said boadcaster's hangover, their love for kittens or OMG how they are totes bloated and gross from too many cheetos.

I know it's unfair for me to judge people for expressing their devastation when, where or however they see fit, and I guess it's funny that this kind of thing bothers me more than the photos of acquaintances in various states of undress, intoxication or borderline illegal activity which most of us are desensitized to at this point.

But even though I'm clearly having a hard time pinpointing exactly what bothers me about the subject, it undeniably makes my admittedly delicate sensibilities grumble.

I think what really got me about this particular case was the vague reference leaving other people confused and worried.

I have several contacts whose status updates I can't stand to read because so many of them often similarly leave some vague message or emotion which they are clearly hoping to be questioned about.

Feel free to tell me if I'm being old fashioned or ridiculous, and believe me, I do realize this viewpoint might be completely hypocritical coming from someone who writes down her feelings in a blog, no less, but I can't be the only one who feels a little, I don't know, squidgy? about this kind of thing, can I? Maybe I just need to be a little less judgmental.

What say you, blogfriends? Am I crazy, or does this leave anyone else with a bad taste?

Happy New Year

2010-01-01T21:28:00.004-05:00

I hope you are all cozy and happy and safe and have enjoyed a lovely holiday season.

As for myself, rest assured that I am currently occupied by eating leftover Christmas baking and playing in the snow, happy (and fat) as a backyard squirrel, and will be back to blogging in no time!

Seriously. The resemblance is striking.

All the mmmagic we can muster

2009-12-28T11:02:00.005-05:00

Brandy's was one of the first blogs I came across and I've been hooked ever since. She is funny and clever and kind and at least once a month makes me want to stop everything in my life to go work with children because she makes it sound so worthwhile.

Unfortunately right now she is living proof that bad, scary, awful things do happen to good, lovely, wonderful people and she is reaching out in every direction for help and hope.

Let's reach back.

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He's a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He's the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He's the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He's a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He's made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He's listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He's recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He's the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I'm overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren't sure what's happening. He'll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what's going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as 'brandy's hot awesome dude'). If you don't pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven't seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I'm throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn't a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It's just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven't already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

Birds are jerks

2009-12-23T09:28:00.007-05:00

Once in a blue moon the parking lot behind the newspaper office actually has more than six cars in it and I'm forced to park far away from the doors at the edge of the lot.

This was the case yesterday when I arrived back from lunch. So I found a spot and made a tip toe dash across the icy lot to the warmth of my desk.

No problem.

A few hours later I began making my way back to the car when I stopped in my tracks and burst out laughing.

There is a line of trees that grow along the perimeter of the lot and they were all completely bare save one.

In the tree directly above my car were no less than 60 birds. The tree to the left? Empty. To the right? Nada. All of the other trees within sight? Bird-free.

They watched me quietly, snickering to each other under their bird breath, as I gingerly made my way over to the Hot Pursuit (my grandparents named my vehicle).

Sure enough they had clearly spent a productive afternoon redecorating my car.

I honestly can't think of any bad karma I've put out there lately. I've been a busy little elf, making hats and cookies and hand-painted Christmas cards, conducting myself admirably, or at least not terribly at holiday parties and you know, just generally spreading the good cheer.

So it's safe to assume that I've either annoyed a Disney villain who has semi-incompetant minions or I'm being punished for being such a lackadaisical blogger lately.

My sincerest apologies either way.

A little dab'll do ya

2009-12-14T15:06:00.004-05:00

This morning on my way to work I noticed a hint of a tickle lingering in the back of my throat. Now, it's entirely possible that this was solely due to my woefully bad decision to attempt to match Kelly Clarkson note for note in the car at top volume. But I'm not taking chances.

Therefore as I type I am in the process of consuming a heaping bowl of liptons chicken noodle which I've garnished with a revolting amount of garlic and red pepper flakes. Next, I will eat a giant orange and drink as much tea as I can in a two-hour span. While I may have to empty my bladder 40 thousand times during my coverage of the local council this evening, it will all be worth it because this tickle will have been frightened back to whence it came by morning.

Or so I am convinced.

I'm a big fan of home remedies for all sorts of things. As a rule, they're usually cheaper, more environmentally friendly, and arguably healthier than whatever brightly packaged fix you could pick up at the grocery store.

Except on rare occasions, I don't find it necessary to clean my bathroom or kitchen with anything more than various combinations of water, vinegar and baking soda depending on the surface.

I use nylons to rub deodorant marks out of dark clothing and gargle salt water any time my gums act up.

The other day after discovering too late that the batch of jalepenos I was cooking with was more potent than usual, and lying awake thinking my hand was about 8 seconds away from spontaneously bursting into flame, I learned that vegetable oil is quite soothing on pepper burns.

I know I can't be the only one who likes to eschew a store bought solution when possible. Any other helpful home remedies I should add to my list?

At least the day ended with cupcakes

2009-12-05T10:34:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of interviewing a local author who recently had her second book published and wanted a little publicity for her upcoming book signing. We chatted about plot, inspiration and how she became a writer and then I just had to ask,

"And how old are you?"

"I'm nine!" she beamed up at me.

It took everything in me not to drop my pen and curl up under my desk in defeat as a strangled, "Annnd I'm 24" made its way past my lips.

"What?"

"Cough, Aaah, so you were saying you're mostly focused on fiction at this point in your career?"

Nothing like an overachieving nine-year-old to throw your life's work sharply into hi-def.

Her book was about a girl who is obsessed with pink and has to be put on a colour diet.

I came home, put on a pink t-shirt and baked myself some pink (ok, technically red velvet-yum!)cupcakes in protest.

Take that, adorably precocious, single digit aged kid. You may be a successfully published author, but I can use an oven without proper adult supervision!

Win.

In other news...

2009-11-27T10:32:00.003-05:00

I am far too busy crocheting hats and feeding books to babies (Mmm, De Profundus) to blog today.

Therefore, I recommend that you check out my friend Rob's new blog. His life would make an excellent sitcom, and I've finally convinced him to write bits of it down.

Enjoy!

Cats and ducks and chickens, oh my.

2009-11-24T14:23:00.004-05:00

One of my duties as a reporter is to sit through grueling, infinity hours-long sessions of municipal council. In case that isn't exciting enough, I also get an agenda package for read-along fun.

It's mostly comprised of department reports that for all their wordy detail, are as interesting as stucco. Now maybe it's just by comparison, but I find the formal, written report from the local animal control officer hilariously refreshing. Also, just hilarious.

It's usually about five or six point form lines long, and reads a little something like this:

4 dogs taken to vets.
1 cat attacked a woman. It was sent away to check for rabies and came back negative.
Ducks, geese and chickens on Winthrop Road. The OPP thought it was a traffic hazard.
A fox was in town acting strange.

Conciseness. It's a good thing.

Try a little tenderness

2009-11-17T15:01:00.004-05:00

When I set my sights on a career path winding its way through the flowery field of journalism, I pictured myself sallying forth, pen and notepad in hand, on a daily quest to bring important truths to the attention of my fellow citizens, inspiring change with my ever improving prose and taking photos of the fascinating and adorable on the occasional slow day.

Yeah.

While I am ever the optimidealist, my current position doesn't exactly line up with my aspirations.

Obviously that's fair enough. If I started at the top there'd be nowhere to go but to make my way to where I am now. I'm extremely grateful that not only do I have a job, but I have a job that I trained for and that I actually enjoy.

But one of the things they fail to highlight in J-school is that for every person who invites you, the small-town reporter, to their grandma's 140th birthday party, there are 50 more cursing the day you were born at any given moment. And about half of them are going to call you and tell you so. A quarter will wait until they are a nice shade of purple rage and then show up at your office.

And hey, some of their complaints are even legitimate.

More often though, they are annoyed that the photo of their giant mutant squash or possibly rare bug didn't make it into this week's edition.

What gets me though, is the depth of some people's anger over things that, in say, two days time, they will probably have forgotten forever. I mean, is your life really so amazing that a typo in a newspaper is the worst thing that's ever, ever happened to you, your family or a close friend?

Of course, I don't take lightly our job as editorial staff members to make sure that the articles we run contain accurate information to the best of our ability. And believe me, there are few things more humbling than seeing your mistakes in 12pt Helvetica and knowing that not only did others see them, but that they all have the option of framing each one and starting their very own hall of shame gallery dedicated to you.

However, we are human, and with fewer and fewer people, doing the work of more and more, being employed in editorial departments, mistakes are bound to slip through.

The smug superiority and/or venom with which many people choose to bring such mistakes to our attention, indicates to me that rather than taking this into consideration, they have determined, without taking a moment to try and understand how something as evil and appalling as a misspelled name could possibly have made it past us, they have already determined that we are a) Weird, malicious practical jokers who love to spread misinformation, b) Pathetically stupid, or c) both.

Last week a woman actually asked my editor if she owned a dictionary, and then informed her that it was impolite to brag, when my editor mentioned that she studied journalism at University, while defending her use of the word in question.

Everyone thinks they could do it better.

It's not all bad news (heh). Watching how people choose to state their case, and the reactions they elicit from myself and my co-workers is always a good reminder to take a second and re-evaluate in situations where my first instinct is to fly off the handle and denounce everyone in sight as morons or evildoers.

And, if upon further reflection, that initial diagnoses seems to hold true, even morons and evildoers respond better to a smile.

Medusa, MJ and Mystery Science Theatre 3000

2009-11-02T12:56:00.003-05:00

Rather than stay in and pre-emptively eat our shelling out candy on Friday, Sparta and I took our bad selves to the nearest town with a movie theatre and checked out This Is It.

My Michael Jackson love can be traced back to when I was 2 years old, being pushed through the Eaton Centre in my stroller and gasping "Mom! It's Michael!" My parents couldn't believe it when they walked a little further and realized that sure enough, a store was playing Michael Jackson.

I highly recommend any MJ fans go and see it on a big screen somewhere. It's fascinating to watch him in his element, and to see the way he was always in motion. It's like watching one of those visual soundwave screensaver things. The miniscule perfection and detail in his movements just kills me. And I admit, I spent the duration of the rehearsal footage of "I'll be there," wiping away tears, but for the most part, it was just nice to see him lighting up that stage one more time.

Sparta compared him to some kind of beautiful little tree frog, who couldn't live outside of his natural habitat. A pretty apt description, I thought.

Anyway, he was clearly inspired by the movie as the next night, his strategically pinned bed sheet of a costume kept coming undone as he Thriller-ed his way around the kitchen, waiting for trick-or treaters.

We started the evening as Medusa and some kind of Perseus/Hercules/Jason hybrid and ended it as two licorice and Caramilk bar-filled pinatas laughing ourselves to tears over Mystery Science Theatre 3000 before collapsing into sugar-fueled comas.

All in all, a lovely weekend.

Ghost of Halloween past

2009-10-30T12:07:00.007-04:00

Someone over at 20-something bloggers started a thread asking people what their best Halloween costume has been. Three years after coming up with it, I'm still pretty proud of mine, despite the fact that it required explanation everywhere I went in it. The photo's not great, but basically I'm wearing an EVENING gown made of NEWSpaper.

I'm the evening news!

This year, Sparta came up with the equally clever idea of wearing revealing clothes and a pig nose to go as the Swine Floozy. However, I'm pretty certain that karma would ensure I was immediately stricken with the virus upon putting on that outfit. Plus, it's probably not appropriate for shelling out candy to children.

So now it's a toss-up between Medusa and Rosie the Riveter.

We'll see how many snakes I can get at the dollar store.

If living is without you

2009-10-28T16:19:00.006-04:00

I don't often find myself using the phrase "I can't live without...". I guess it's because I can't help but think of it a little too literally and so it always seems insincere.

I mean, really, short of food, water and certain major organs, I'm hard-pressed to think of anything that would actually cause me to become instantly deceased were it to be taken away from me (with the exception of maybe having all of my family and friends removed from the planet while I was forced to stay behind -that might kill me).

I most often hear the phrase from other people if I happen to mention that I'm a vegetarian or that I don't have cable. Then it's all feigned (or real?) horror and "Oh I couldn't LIVE without ground beef/Real Housewives of Whatsit).

You could. I promise.

So, with the understanding that I'm not always so dramatic, here is a list of mostly materialistic things I "couldn't live" without:

- My white noise machine. I am a freak about noise. If somewhere in the same building as me, a TV is on, or a tap is dripping, or a mouse is whispering a bedtime story, I will hear it, and be unable to sleep. My mom bought me this white noise thing when I was living in a seriously horrible dorm in Toronto one summer. While nothing short of pumping sedatives through the water supply there would have made the place quiet, at least my noise machine blocked out the worst of it.

-Good books. I can't count the number of hours I've spent since I was little, snuggling up to and subsequently losing myself in a good book.

-Access to the internet. One of the things that made the last year and a half of living alone in a new place without much going on for entertainment or socializing bearable has been the internet. It's hard to feel disconnected with so much at your fingertips.

-Chocolate. Too easy?

-Indoor plumbing. Well, I mean, really.

-Laughter. If I'm not laughing, I'm probably dead. Or asleep.

-anti-perspirant. Sparta insists that I use too much of the stuff, but he never had to endure the embarrassment of being a 14-year-old girl with hyperhidrosis. "Why yes I am sweating through my shirt in the middle of winter, thank you for noticing, sensitive and mature teenage boy. I trust you won't mock me in front of all of our peers." Wrong.

-Cheese. Not a day goes by when I don't have at least one little slice of some kind of cheese. I could live on cheese, wine, chocolate and fruit. No problem (aside from maybe an iron deficiency).

-My debit card. If I ever lost that thing, I'd be screwed, I never carry cash with me anymore.

-Physical contact with other people (preferably ones I know). I'm definitely a snuggler (unlike some people), and I firmly believe that touch is like sunlight. We need it to keep from turning into shriveled-hearted little teeth-gnashing monsters. A regularly snuggled Sarah is a calmer, happier Sarah. Consequently, if you ever find yourself on the same couch as me, I apologize in advance for tucking my feet under your thighs or butt to keep warm.

This post is a part of 20SB’s Blog Carnival: Can’t Live Without, and Alice.com is awarding prizes to lucky bloggers and readers!

The Play's the Thing

2009-10-26T17:06:00.003-04:00

The weather as of late being fairly miserable, I've been trying to come up with some things to keep Sparta and myself entertained through the winter months. While I've been having a grand old time beading necklaces and attempting to crochet hats, and he has fun playing guitar and torturing his bod in the makeshift gym he's set up in our entryway, it's harder to find activities beyond say, napping, that we both enjoy and can do together.

I'm at the point where I'm actually considering ordering (gasp) cable (or satellite, or robot moon rocket ship or however quality television programming is delivered to homes now) for the first time.

Once totally anti-boardgames, I am now an ardent supporter. We spent a hilarious Friday night this past weekend playing Hoopla.

Me: "Computer Internet weirdos!"

Sparta: "No." (gesturing wildly at his drawing).

Me: "Computer....Internet weirdos?"

Sparta: NO! You're just making the same guess over and over with different inflections!

Me: (amid tears of laughter): Computer, Internet, WEIRDOS!!!"

OK, so the hilarity might not translate unless you've played the game, but I assure you, good times were had by all.

The only problem is we've been having a tough time finding games that are suitable for two. Clue? for example, not so mysterious. Well, it wasn't me, so I'm going to go ahead and accuse...you?

So my Internet advisers, I turn to you. Any suggestions for fabulous 2-player games to keep us from excessive napping this winter?

Grey Matters

2009-10-20T10:18:00.004-04:00

When I was 20, I discovered my first grey hair. I was totally fascinated, if a little freaked out, and insisted that my roommate at the time come and check it out.

She was horrified and promptly yanked the offending alien being from my scalp, squealing, "WHY do you have grey hair???" before I had a chance to decide what I thought about it.

Since then, slowly but surely, that first tinsely strand has been replaced by a steadily growing number of grey hairs.

My boss and I were chatting about hair the other day and I mentioned that I don't think I'll dye mine to hide the grey. She refused to believe me, telling me about a friend of hers who went grey early and looked terrible, and demanded that I send her a photo of myself at 40 to prove it.

While I guess I should never say never, after all, I did go through that month-long purple manic panic phase in high school, it's just not something I see myself doing. For one thing, just the thought of having to keep up with maintaining my rapunzel-gro mane over time exhausts me. I'd have visible roots every other day. As it is, I'm lucky if I manage to schedule a trim more than twice a year.

I'm not crazy about dumping a bunch of chemicals on my head (that's where my brain lives!) and into the water supply on a regular basis either. It's bad enough that I wear makeup with who knows what in it at least a couple of times a week. While my vanity and insecurity does win out more often than I'd like, for the most part I figure the fewer chemicals leeching into my skin, the better.

My mom started going grey at my age and to this day has never felt the need to try to somehow fight a futile battle with time. She looks natural, lovely, and comfortable in her own skin.

I think having an example of aging gracefully (mom, I don't mean to insinuate that you're vastly aged, I just mean aging in the sense that everyone is, from birth on), so close to home is probably one of the main reasons I'm not devastated at the thought of losing my current hair colour.

Most of all, I think for me, being expected to hide the grey hair healthily growing away on my scalp is just the straw that broke the camel's back.

I already spend god knows how much time, energy and money shaving, waxing, plucking, pinning, curling, straightening, most of which are not terribly fun activities, and some of which are downright painful.

I deeply resent being told, whether by advertising or the people who buy into it, that now there is one more thing I will inevitably have to add to that already ludicrous list if I don't want to be cast out of society as some kind of deeply unattractive leper.

And on that farm he had a...

2009-09-21T12:44:00.010-04:00

There is something about fall in the country that reassures me I wasn't completely insane to move to what can sometimes feel like the middle of nowhere. For one thing, everywhere I drive it feels like I'm floating around in a painting. Then there is the never-ending list of scarecrow festivals, fall fairs and other excuses to eat homemade pies. Here are a couple of countrified things that have charmed me recently.

Sleepy, snuggly, baby sheep! My mom pointed out that these guys look like they should be posing in some kind of Jesus portrait.

Giant horses!

Friendly (hungry) goats!

Baby pigs!

Impromptu rural jam sessions!

And, last but not least,

overalls and unicycles!

Staying positive

2009-09-16T14:00:00.006-04:00

Rogue sunflowers growing out of a downtown flower basket

A recent fantastic and touching post over at Just Playing Pretend, and a couple of conversations with friends lately have got me thinking about how we all cope with life's major and minor disappointments and how we choose to face our more challenging days.

A friend of mine recently described me as "hilariously positive" in the face of heartbreaking situations. It's not that it just comes naturally, but making the choice and doing the work that makes it possible seems to, if only because I've been forcing myself to do that work for as long as I can remember. Even if the only thing to latch on to is a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel, or even just the fervent hope that there is indeed a light there at all.

About two weeks after I arrived at the newspaper here for my very first job as a reporter, both the reporter and editor took off on maternity leave, leaving me the sole member of the editorial team for the month until the editor's temporary replacement could arrive, and I spent every morning before work miserably retching and heaving with stress.

And while there was certainly some acknowledgement of the fact that it was overall a miserable time, in the form of the occasional (daily) rant to my mom, for the sake of my sanity (and so that mom would keep picking up the phone) I tried to find the humour in the situation, brainstorm some kind of solution, or just remind myself that things could be worse. That even when one or two things in my life are truly terrible, there are billions of people in direr straits. Knowing this, I stuck it out, and I got through it and I'm really glad I did. Every time I do something like that, it's just one more little victory to prop me up when the next challenge comes along.

I guess it's just about grabbing on to anything at all you can be grateful for, even if it doesn't seem like much. There are few things so terrible (knock on wood) in my life, that I can't find some part of them to laugh at.

All of this is not to say that I'm a rabid rainbow sparkle purveyer of warm fuzzy giggles, flitting around like some kind of deranged tooth fairy (although, that would be sort of awesome) and demanding that people going through some serious depression or tragedy just look on the bright side already. I understand that it is healthy and important to acknowledge when things are unbearable, and I understand that what those unbearable things might be, differs for everyone. And yes, sometimes I get stuck in a funk that is especially hard to climb out of for no particular reason at all.

I just know that in my life, for the most part, I can't justify spending my time moping. If nothing else, I'm alive. I'm safe and (relatively) healthy and there are people who love me. There are times when I feel, in short, like crap, but what right do I have to go around scowling at people? What good would that do?

Sure, misery loves company, but so does happiness. And she's a much more accomodating hostess.

*Please bear with me. Sarahbration is experiencing technical difficulties. IntenseDebate or blogger has once again swallowed a bunch of your lovely comments and I can't figure out how to get them back. I'm set to try one last thing and then it's goodbye IntenseDebate, which is a shame because I liked being able to reply directly to your comments.

Enjoy

2009-09-14T12:20:00.003-04:00

My mom is always turning up interesting things on the internet and passing them along to me. Last week she sent me a link to this video with this note: "Somehow there are so many things that remind me of you - teeth, hair , earrings, bicycle, smile, closet -in this funny little video - I love it!"

I loved it too, so I thought I'd share it with all of you. (If I'm way late to the Lenka bandwagon, forgive me. Having no exposure to tv can leave me a little behind once in a while)

It's true, especially when she's on the bike, if I squint, that could be me circa every morning riding downtown to the dress shop two years ago.

Anyway, I've been bopping around singing this in my head almost nonstop since she sent it. And really, uncanny resemblences aside, you can't go wrong with muppet tomatoes in your music video.

A snapshot (and my 100th post)

2009-09-11T08:42:00.004-04:00

I turn around from the mirror in time to see Sparta's eyes wander the kitchen cupboard contents and light up upon spying a packet of those long "cigarette" cookies.

I whip my toothbrush out of my mouth long enough to exclaim, "ONE cookie! Not two cookies! My grandma gave me those and we have to make them last," as he reaches for them a little more enthusiastically than I am comfortable with.

I'm not always so possessive about food, but Sparta can take down a bag of cookies faster than I ever thought possible. We tried buying a bag each recently, which only resulted in him finishing both his bag, plus half of mine before I had time to say, "mmm, chocolate-chippy."

I give him a toothpaste-y glare to let him know I mean it.

He responds by shoving two of the cookies in his mouth and protesting, "but baby, I'm being a walrus!"

How can I argue?

In other news...

2009-09-10T08:58:00.006-04:00

While taking a stroll with the fam recently, I turned around to find three baby ducks following me around. My mom says they probably imprinted on my laugh. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, they were hilarious and still small enough that they made little "peep! peep!" noises instead of quacking. Feel free to commence with the "aww"-ing.

*For some reason, IntenseDebate or Blogger seem to have eaten all of the comments for this post. Has anyone else experienced this?

Say, Cheese!

2009-09-09T09:17:00.001-04:00

Poor Sparta had to work for most of the long weekend so Monday when he finally had the day off, I was determined to take advantage. After a brief consult with google maps, we set off up the coast in search of a new beach to explore/nap on.

The drive was lovely, gold and green fields, lovely old stone farmhouses and a Suessical landscape of whimsical wind turbines and monarch butterflies as far as the eye could see.

The beach was cute and clean. It was busy but not over-crowded and we quickly found a spot to set up camp.

However, in my planning this idyllic day at the beach, I forgot one thing. Sparta? Not exactly a beach person.

While I emerged from path through the dunes, beaming right back at the sun and humming happily to myself while getting down to the business of whipping off my clothes and making a Sarah-shaped indent in the warm sand, Sparta greeted the sun and surf with a suspicious squint and the keen observation that: "There's sand everywhere. And children."

And once he had spent about five minutes reclining on his beach towel, he wanted to know "What exactly do we do at the beach?"

My suggestions of swimming or relaxing, listening to the sound of the waves and basking in the sun were not met with enthusiasm. See his attempt at relaxing:

So, I tried to entertain(torture) him by making him play Victorian Parlour games with me until the Minister's cat became an angry, beligerent, child-killing cat and I realized he was longing for the time when sand in his shorts was the most annoying thing he had to deal with.

Fortunately he perked up when he remembered that I had packed us some snacks, and although he adamantly refused to jump in the lake with me, he was cheerfully skipping stones by the time I finished splashing around and tackled him with a soaker of a hug.

At that point, I would have called the day a success.

Little did I know, it was about to get 84-thousand per cent better, because on the way home, we discovered this magical place:

where I purchased no less than four fancy, locally made cheeses for under $20. Smoked havarti, carmelized onion cheddar and Thai curry cheese? Where have you been all my life, cheese and butter co-operative?

In case you're wondering, The Clash CD cover makes an excellent impromptu cutting board, and it is never a silly idea to carry a cooler with crackers in it around in your car.

*I've added Intense Debate to the blog to try and make replying to your comments easier but I'm not sure if it's too much of a hassle for people to sign up etc. I'd love your feedback, so comment or shoot me an email at sarahbration@gmail.com. Thanks!

Little brother's big weekend

2009-09-08T12:09:00.001-04:00

This weekend my baby brother turned 19. He also moved 8 hours away from home for the first time and got ready to start his first year of University.

I'll miss being greeted by various and sundry affectionate insults when I head home for a visit every week or so, and I know the house must feel strange with both of us gone now.

I realize he's technically been an "adult" for a year now, but I can't help but think of him as the little moon-eyed ball of energy he was at say, age 8, getting up from the dinner table to entertain us all with his own very original choreography, consisting of him pulling the bottom of his shirt up over his face, sticking out his belly and flailing his arms to whatever music happened to be playing.

Now he's taking law. The mind boggles.

Anyway, Happy birthday Lemur! I love you, I'm proud of you (Ew! Blech! Disgusting! Get it off me!) and I'll come visit soon.

P.S. I totally recommend reviving that t-shirt face dance for frosh week. What better way to become instantly popular (or, you know, wind up viral on Youtube...either/or).

I've got a feeling...

2009-08-25T09:15:00.000-04:00

I think it's called fury?

All right, it has dissipated somewhat since the other night and actually, I'm not nearly as mad as poor Sparta was, knowing he had to get up for work in a few hours and listening to this plus many other instances of our next door neighbour being particularly obnoxious and boorish the other night.

We would just have managed to drift off to sleep when he would come back outside to yell choice phrases like "We can't do it that weekend, that's your bachelor party, BITCH!"

At one point, I'm pretty sure he was setting up beer cans and throwing things at them so that they clattered to the pavement ever so soothingly.

I've gotten used to the charming renditions of Nickleback songs this guy spews into the silent night air every so often, and frankly, I'm usually just happy not to be witnessing a screaming match between he and his wife. Before 11pm, I actually find his singing hilarious. At 3:00 am? Not so much. But for Sparta this is all new. And he is not impressed.

Fortunately as the hours ticked by, punctuated by this guy's shrieks, profanities and occasional retching outside our bedroom window, Sparta managed to keep from leaping outside and whacking the fellow into silence with his own beer bottle.

So now the question is, how do we deal with this if it keeps happening? Go outside and confront the guy? He is really not a friendly sort, despite his carefree serenading. I've actually nearly reported a domestic disturbance at his place more than once after hearing him bellowing at his wife.

Write him a note?

"Dear ridiculous neighbour,
Do you know you're being a jackass? Check yes/no.
Also, stop it.
Sincerely,
Your sleep-deprived nexties."

Or do we call up the closest law enforcement types and make a formal complaint and let them act as mediators in the hopes of keeping things anonymous and avoiding confrontation with this guy?

Maybe we're better off just giving him some singing lessons and a book of lullabies.

* the sound bite above was actually taped earlier in the day, so you have to imagine that but with no cars or birds in the background and after several more alcoholic beverages.

** If you listen carefully, at the end you can hear him spit! Delightful!

Tiny Wings: Part 2

2009-08-23T16:40:00.000-04:00

Today, during my umpteenth assignment at the local racetrack, as I stood at the rails, idly fiddling with my camera and waiting for the horses to make their way into the starting position, I heard "You getting focused?" and realized that I was standing next to this man and his wife. Sure enough, no sooner did I see them, then a monarch once again fluttered by onto the track.

It was so strange to run into these people. These two characters who in my mind became confined to what I wrote down a year ago, a blog post come to life and standing in front of me.

Strange too because I'm sure the brief encounter we shared, though significant enough for me to want to record a snapshot of, wouldn't have stuck with them in the same way.

Beyond his comment about the butterflies, which made me feel worlds less alone at a time when I was more lonely than I could afford to admit to myself, both he and his wife were so generous and kind in their encouragement, urging me, a new and still shy reporter to "get in there and get the shot."

And yet, they did remember me, and today was no different. "There's a nice shot. Here, step in front of me, Kiddo," she said as he enthusiastically nodded from his walker.

We chatted a bit about how my job is going and they seemed genuinely excited to hear that I'd been asked to stay on at the newspaper. The woman remembered that the day we met had been my first time covering the races, and she noted that I seemed less nervous. I seemed to have a handle on it now. It felt good to realize she was right.

Seeing them was a reminder of the kindness of strangers, the kind who notice a butterfly among thundering hooves.

And, it was a reminder that those monarchs aren't the only ones. I've come a long way on my own tiny set of wings.

Bonne Fete a moi

2009-08-20T09:15:00.001-04:00

That's right, I am starting my 24th year by putting on my party clothes and...going to work! Is it just me or have birthdays gotten significantly less exciting then when I was eight and my friends and I got dressed up rode around town in a horse and buggy like so many squealing princesses?

Ah well, it's what you make it I guess. At least this year, if I so desired, I'd have an excuse to drink an entire 2-4*.

*Never happening

Baby, it's cold inside

2009-08-19T09:19:00.000-04:00

After several weeks of eating questionable food from my adorable little (about a foot shorter than me) European refrigerator, and having no access to the freezer since it froze itself shut most determinedly about a month ago, yesterday, Sparta and I became proud caretakers of a brand new fridge.

I am pleased to announce that we now have a drawer just for cheese. Mmmm, cheese. What luxury!

However, I am not pleased to announce that Sparta thought this would be a good opportunity to reassess how many condiments it is necessary for me to continue housing.

At the moment, the answer is 25.

I am of the opinion that you can never have too many. I mean, you just never know when a tahini/sundried tomato/artichoke/peach habanero sauce craving emergency might sneak up on you! As long as they're within the expiry date, I fail to see the problem.

He may have muttered something about "hoarding" and "mess" and "when are you ever going to need an eighth of a jar of tapenade?"

I may or may not have muttered something along the lines of "YOU'RE an eighth of a jar of tapenade."

"What?"

"Hmm? Oh... nothing. What?"

If anything, with a larger fridge, I should be stocking up on MORE condiments, yes?

My beeswax

2009-08-17T13:09:00.000-04:00

One of the charming side-effects of having a massive clot take up apparently permanent residence in your leg (along with the whole constant threat of imminent death by P.E.), is that blood has a hard time travelling back up to your heart which results in some rather uncomfortable swelling of the leg in question.

Fortunately, compression stockings (combined with drugs) go a long way towards easing this.

Unfortunately, I hate them.

Because really, any garment that requires a daily battle involving textured rubber gloves to get me into it is bound to cause some resentment.

In cooler weather they tend to fall down, which just feels wrong (think stepping into a still wet bathing suit), unless I wear snug pants. Trying to discreetly adjust thigh-high stockings while bundled up in public often results in antics worthy of Mr. Bean in church (in a wet bathing suit).

Worse than that however, is the summer, when the rubber that keeps the damn things up, bites into my upper thighs and leaves seriously irritating blisters all the way around them.

This, and the fact that my legs aren't the same size, is the reason why I generally only wear one on my bad leg. Unfortunately, the "flesh tone" of the stockings I wear in the summer is not particularly close to the tone of my actual flesh and so, when I go out in a skirt or shorts, it does catch people's attention from time to time. What shocks me, is how many of them are vocal about noticing. I've had strangers do everything from visibly pointing out my leg to their friends, to stopping in their tracks to quiz me about it.

This weekend I braved a pair of shorts and told myself it was just too hot to care whether people were staring. Sure enough, people were. I'd like to assume it was because I just look so damn cute in shorts, but a young woman at Sparta's rugby game neatly burst that bubble by asking "why the stocking?"

I try to laugh it off. I generally throw on a bright smile and explain that it's a medical thing, I try to remember that most people just haven't encountered a young woman with my particular brand of medical mystery but the temptation to respond "Oh damn, I must have been drunk when I got dressed again" or worse, to say "I have a life-threatening condition that requires me to wear this, thanks for bringing it up," is strong.

Because as much as I can, for the most part, convince myself that it's no big deal and things could be so much worse than having people look at me and think "Fashion moron," a little self-consciousness creeps in. As does the more depressing reminder of why I'm wearing the thing in the first place. I have yet to come up with what I feel like is a satisfactory response for complete strangers who feel they have the right to know why I'm attired so outrageously.

To be honest, I'm not sure that I wouldn't ask someone my age the same question, and I'm usually not offended if someone asks me once we've already struck up a conversation but I can't help but wish people didn't feel quite so free to comment on my appearance just because I look young and healthy.

Twisted sister

2009-08-13T15:48:00.000-04:00

When I was little, I really wanted a sister. My mom had four of them and it seemed only fair that I should get at least one. When I was 5, my brother was born. I was mildly disappointed, but quickly got over it. And by "got over it" I mean, dressed him in skirts and called him "Leah."

Over the years, this grew increasingly difficult as by the time he was 14, he dwarfed me by about a foot. Since he started going to this thing called "the gym" in fact, forcing him to do anything at all (such as, give me a bite of whatever he's eating), has become nearly impossible. Braiding his hair, I'm sad to say, is out of the question these days.

So, what with his (selfish) insistence on being a guy and my parents being perfectly comfortable with the emptying of their nest, it seems safe to say assume I am not about to acquire a biological sister any time soon.

Recently I had a visit from one of my cousins. We were superclose when we were small, and climbing under the covers with her on the pullout couch when Sparta went to work in the morning brought back memories of lying awake and driving our parents insane with our incessant chatter and giggling. The time I accidentally bit her hand through the duvet while trying to muffle my laughter so we wouldn't be separated -a threat which I'm pretty sure had to be used every single time we had a sleepover- still makes me cackle.

I've been lucky enough to meet girls, now women, who more than make up for any number of sisters I could have imagined. Women who I admire and respect for their loyalty, brains, and creativity and can still be my face-pulling, weird-talking self around. Women who will by turns, embarrass/crack me up by yelling "Bad friend! Bad friend!" across a bar, or throw a drink in a creep's face for saying something insulting to me, or be my plus one while dancing with the elderly.

They are the ones who assure me I'm not crazy, for whatever crazy feeling I might be having, and who understand my passion or outrage concerning whatever cause I happen to be championing at the moment, because they have passion and drive to match it.

I've always felt perplexed and insulted by women who claim that they don't get along with other women, and prefer to be friends with guys. So often (not always) it sounds to me like code for "I prefer not to have to compete for attention" or "I don't think women are worth making the effort to find things in common with." I mean, give me a break, you can't find ANY women who you share interests with, or just like despite the fact that you have very little in common?

Maybe more than insulted though, I feel sorry for them. Their prejudice means they are missing out on the opportunity to connect with approximately half the population; the half that all of my amazing, hilarious, and supportive adopted sisters belong to. And that's just sad.

Watch out, they're adorable!

2009-07-31T15:19:00.000-04:00

One of my favourite people in the cast of characters I've been introduced to since moving to the small town, is Karl the egg man.
Karl comes in to the newspaper office every Friday to deliver fresh eggs from his farm.

Along with the eggs, Karl always brings his special brand of charming friendliness and gentle comedy. He bowlegged-shuffles his way through the office and says hello to all the "girls." He's so sweet and unnassuming that I can't even be offended that he refers to me as "Darling," it would be like being annoyed at a happy little gnome.

If his perpetually sweet disposition wasn't enough to make me part of the Karl the egg man fanclub, today I learned, that along with chickens, Karl has a family of llamas living on his farm.

AND last week, the female llama had a baby.

I don't know about you, but a baby llama is something I always consider newsworthy.

So, to that end, meet Peaches, the baby llama. She is the softest thing in the entire world.

Her one-year-old brother likes to give kisses.

Unfortunately, in all the excitement, I forgot to turn the flash off while photographing the white llamas, which is why they look like ghosts here, but you get the idea.

In other news...

2009-07-08T14:09:00.000-04:00

From what I can tell from the two times I've had to cover dog shows, people who own show dogs may die early due to ridiculous amounts of stress.

I heard one woman whose standard poodle had just picked up a blue ribbon complaining in near hysterical tones that "He didn't look very good!" (which I'm pretty sure is always true, due to the fact that the poor creatures are given such preposterous haircuts). Meanwhile, another be-blazered dog owner was fit to be tied when she heard the distant sound of a ringing cel phone, which was apparently driving her dog insane. He had all the symptoms: sitting quietly, tongue lolling, tail waging. Just terrible.

Although, pets are supposed to make you live longer, so maybe it evens out.

Fortunately Sparta pointed out this oasis containing enough tiny adorability in the middle of it all to compensate for the crazy:

(I'm really jealous of that little girl's butterfly tights and pink headband)

Also, today I learned that small white dogs can fly.

It's even worse than I imagined

2009-07-06T10:34:00.000-04:00

I gave Sparta this Anne Taintor card to celebrate our first week of living together sans killing each other. While it maybe wasn't a typical week, what with the mid-week Canada Day celebration and sleepover in my hometown, I still feel like we deserve a pat on the back for not immediately getting all up in each other's space.

It's definitely going to take some getting used to having someone to consult about what to eat/watch/listen to in the evenings, but the clever fella has already set himself up with rugby two nights a week and I'll be off to dance at least once a week, so I think we'll survive.

One major plus to the end of this long-distance thing is that when I tell him all about my day, I don't feel the urge to fly into a rage when he greets some anecdote by nodding silently because I can SEE him and know that he's not watching TV on mute or something.

And so far? No horrifying discoveries. Although I did notice one new little curiosity.

Despite being all over wiping down the counters and the stovetop and doing the dishes, he is bizarrely strongly against drying or letting me dry said dishes. He likes to pile as many items as possible on the dish rack and then leave them to air dry. Apparently that's how you know the dishes are done: when nothing more will fit on the rack.

All these years I had been labouring under the misapprehension that the dishes are done when they are all clean, dry and in the cupboards. Nice try, mom and dad.

I, meanwhile, continue to be delightful and charming and completely quirk-free.

This weekend we had a chat about how long we've been "dating seriously." It turns out he has a very organized hierarchy for dating, and apparently was not aware that we have been in a "serious" relationship for as long as we have been. After trying to set him straight, I gave up and asked in exasperation if we are at least in a "serious" relationship now.

"It's even WORSE than that," he said. "We live together."

It's even worse.

He does know just what to say to a girl.

A blast from the past and a glimpse of the future

2009-06-25T12:30:00.000-04:00

Sparta, stabbing bubbles at the church. Maybe "grownup" isn't the right word.

The past few days have been a strange juxtaposition of my past and present.

It started on the weekend, when I attended the wedding of a girl I was good friends with in elementary school.

To be honest, while i was delighted to receive an invite, I was a little surprised as I hadn't actually seen her for a number of years. Most of my memories of her are from around the time that Barbie with the rollerblades that shot sparks, setting the occasional hapless child on fire, came on the market. I remember because she got one for her birthday.

And yet, there she was a couple of months ago, hand-delivering an invite to my parents' house. My mom said she knew who it was the moment my dad answered her knock and that familiar little voice came twinkling through the doorway.

On Saturday, as she stood there in her wedding dress, I couldn't help but see her as the little girl in a bride costume I knew so many Halloweens ago. It was so hard to wrap my head around the idea that this is all for real. There we were, making toasts and drinking wine, wearing bridal gowns and party dresses, high heels and makeup and none of it was stolen from our mothers' closets!

Monday, I felt a similar jolt when I went to see another friend from elementary school and to meet her baby daughter. When we were 12, she lost both of her parents to cancer within three weeks of one another.

We were best friends at the time and I was with her at the hospital when her mom passed. She moved away shortly afterwards and we've lost touch over the years, with the occasional update or chance meeting. To see her with her own daughter, a mom herself now, well, neither my brain or my heart knew quite what to do with that, beyond smile. Wide.

It's not like it's the first time I've been to a wedding or been friends with someone who had a baby, but for the most part, the people I know who've done these things were either not people I knew particularly well, or they were suitably beyond me in years. Last time I checked, my friends and I were all still pretty much adolescents.

With my own impending leap into adulthood, in the form of the great cohabitation caper, set to commence in four days (thanks again for all of your wonderful advice!), I'm beginning to wonder, is this what being a grownup feels like?

In other news...

2009-06-24T15:12:00.000-04:00

Meet my ghostwriter.

As we are both far too warm (due to a sudden heatwave and no air conditioning) to form coherant thoughts, let alone write them down today, we hope you enjoy this little story from June 24th last year.

So you can ballroom dance, but can you YMCA?

Better together?

2009-06-13T12:42:00.000-04:00

After almost four years of long-distance dating, Sparta and I are finally closing the gap. Not only are we going to live in the same city for the first time since the summer we met, we are going to live in the same apartment.

The plan has been in the works for a while, but I haven't wanted to write it here for fear of jinxing it. That and I've been pretty skeptical about the whole thing as I've been waiting for the timing to be right for some time now, and it just never seems to work out. But, knock on wood, it's official.

Not only is he moving in at the end of the month, he's applying for a job at the paper. That's right, after four years of barely seeing each other, it looks like things are about to get extremely cozy.

What? That looks suspiciously like a recipe for disaster, you say? Well, you might be right, but after four years, I've kind of taken the attitude that if we're going to drive each other crazy and we can't stand to be around each other for lengthy periods of time, we might as well find out.

At least that's the cool as a cucumber line I've been repeating to myself and anyone else who cares to hear it. However, yesterday I had a moment of panic when it occured to me that I don't really want to find that out.

Suddenly, this cucumber started to sweat.

Oh. my. god. What if I leave my wet towel on the bed or the lid off the whatever and he leaves me for someone who looks just like me only taller and fitter and who doesn't roll her eyes and lunge for the remote whenever UFC garbage is on and always, always hangs up her towels properly?????!!! WHAT IF HE EATS ALL MY CHOCOLATE OR MAKES NOISE WHEN I'M TRYING TO WRITE AND I HAVE TO KILL HIM??????!!!!!!

Once I regained consciousness I figured I should share these concerns with him.

"What if I do things that drive you crazy?"

"Like when you leave wet towels on the bed?"

"YES! Exactly!! See? I already do things that you hate! What if I do that by accident and you break up with me and..."

"If you leave wet towels on the bed, I will move them...And make fun of you."

So, at least that's settled. Now to purchase some earplugs and a combination lock for my chocolate stash...I mean...learn to share?

Meanwhile, my towels are hanging neatly on the hook I installed on the back of the door. For practice.

Any advice from experienced cohabitators?

In other news...

2009-06-11T12:16:00.000-04:00

Ever wonder what your favourite small town reporter looks like while chasing a story?

And speaking of sneakers

2009-06-05T14:37:00.000-04:00

Guess who will be attending a fabulous cocktail/auction/dance party at the Bata museum this weekend?

I know, I'm practically jealous of myself.

Happy weekend!

Funboy and the Golden Sneakers

2009-06-04T08:44:00.000-04:00

About a month ago I started taking a class at this cute little dance studio one town over. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I've really enjoyed it so far. Each class is different, so if I have to miss one for an assignment, I don't have to worry about catching up on what I missed.

The classes are being held at the local YMCA over the summer while the new studio is being renovated. So last night I strolled into the Y for my first class there and asked a woman at the front desk to point me in the right direction.

Before she could finish pointing out which way to go, a young man, who I swear materialized out of nowhere beside me, shouted "I'll show her!" and bounded toward the stairs like a puppy, looking back to see if I followed.

As we chatted on our way up the stairs, It became clear that he was maybe a little developmentally delayed.

As soon as the music started, it also became clear that he is, without a doubt the most joyful dancer I have ever seen. Although he wasn't necessarily getting the steps down, he was damn sure moving and grooving.

Now, I always enjoy the dance class. I feel fairly energetic and by the end I've usually loosened up enough to really let myself go and enjoy.

This class was different. it was like he stepped in and gave us all permission to relax and laugh and have a little more fun. His enthusiasm was just so infectious.

Every time there was a lull in the music, all you could hear was "bahTAH ba ba!" as he scatted along, with the occasional "Yahoo!" thrown in for good measure. I had to give up on suppressing the giggles that were almost constantly bubbling up happily from my stomach, and when our eyes met in the mirror, he just laughed right along with me.

It was like someone came into the room and set up a bubble machine or upturned a box of fuzzy, playful kittens. Sure it was just this side of ridiculous, but you'd have been hard pressed not to feel just a little delighted.

And then, just when I thought I couldn't be any more entertained, I glanced over during our water break to see him reach into his little backpack and pull out, not a water bottle, but a pair of gold shoes.

He sauntered proudly over, looking at me, and down at his shoes. "What do you think of my shoes?" he asked.

"I think your shoes are amazing!" I replied.

"Yeah, they used to be my school gym sneakers" He shot me a look like, can you believe it? "But I spray painted them gold."

"Well they look great!" I smiled.

"Yeah, my nickname's Funboy. And I sell t-shirts."

Funboy.

For a second, the universe made sense.

Writing's on the wall (Very Superstitious)

2009-06-03T15:52:00.000-04:00

I've never thought of myself as particularly superstitious. I can never remember which shoulder to throw the salt over or why (besides the obvious reasons involving hygeine and sanitation) I'm not supposed to put my shoes on the table.

However, I can NOT walk by a penny on the ground without picking it up and preferably giving it away (thanks for that one, mom) and I'm definitely one for signs and omens. Sure, perhaps it's a tad narcisisistic to assume that nature or whatever would take the time to arrange itself into my very own magic 8 ball, but hey, in a moment of decision making paralisis, where both sides seem equally stacked with pros and cons, I'll take all the help I can get.

If that help is nothing more than narcisism, irrationality or my overactive imagination, so be it.

I swear part of the reason I decided to go ahead and uproot my life to move here a year ago was because the day before I got the call telling me about the job and asking if I might be interested in applying, I had impulsively bought curtains and couch cushion covers. It's like I was pre-nesting for no apparent reason, until the call came and gave me one.

On the weekend, as I dragged my drowned rat self back from an assignment I had shown up in the rain an hour early for, I was doing a nice job of fretting myself towards hairloss over whether or not I'm spending my time where I should be right now. Should I be moving on to something bigger and scarier? To something in the city?

Then, as I turned onto the road home? This:

That rainbow might as well have been my very own bat signal, shining directly out of the top of my house, from the looks of it.

So I figure I'll stick around a little longer.

In other news...

2009-05-27T16:02:00.000-04:00

Turns out the grass really is greener, or at least tastier, on the other side.

Sorry fellas, you've got the wrong girl

2009-05-25T23:35:00.000-04:00

When I was 15, I realized, to my surprise and delight that I had grown out of my awkward ugly ducking phase.

The braces were gone, and although I was still experimenting with my eyebrows, they at least no longer made me look like the sister of Bert (of Bert and Ernie fame).

Sure I still had excessive sweating to try and keep under control, but I had solved most of the more embarrassing issues surrounding my hyperhidrosis by wearing tops made of as little black fabric as I could get away with wearing to school.

Midriff baring v-necks with a push-up bra, red lipstick, high heeled platforms and skintight black velour lace-up fly pants ensured that by the time my sweet 16 rolled around, I usually looked anything but. My parents did their best to discourage all this, but I was a teenage girl on a mission. Sure, I didn't know where exactly I was headed, but I knew one thing, I was sure as hell NOT going to put a sweater over my tube top, and yes I am aware that it's winter, thank you very much.

For a while I was completely addicted to the little thrill I got every time some guy tried out his best pick-up line on me. I felt powerful. A smile would get me a free slurpee, or free candy. Older guys wanted to date me. Friends recognized me by my strut from blocks away.

Objectification, smectification, I was finally one of those all powerful "hot girls" we were all supposed to aspire to be, and loving it. I wanted to be 20, independent and grown up, and I guess, in my mind, that meant clothes that only fit the workplace dresscode of a pussycat doll.

Eventually, due in no small part, I'm sure, to my mom wishing on every star, rainbow, eyelash and turkey bone in the vicinity, the novelty of superficial attention wore off and I grew out of this phase. Now, i cringe at the memory of how much energy I spent looking for attention from people who just wanted to ogle a teenage girl. Of how I hid my insecurities by working hard at being over the top, in your face sexy. It was exhausting.

This weekend I went out to meet this girl for a delicious Indian feast in the city followed by a glamourous evening of staring at her ceiling fan and groaning about how much we ate.

I had gotten a little dressed up for our date, mascara, heels, an actual attempt to brush my hair, but nothing over the top. However, apparently I looked worthy of notice to some, because as I walked to the streetcar, a group of guys started catcalling, making kissing sounds, and barking -yes, I said barking- from the top floor of a townhouse I was passing.

As I walked by, pulling my sweater/wrap thing securely over my chest and doing my best to pretend I was deaf, I thought about how much my attitude has changed. There was no little thrill. Only irritation and indignance. I mean, that's so gross. "Ugh, really? barking? REALLY? Is that supposed to be a compliment? Who the hell taught you guys it was ok to harass women on the street? Don't you have mothers or sisters?" I felt suddenly naked and uncomfortable in the clothes I'd been perfectly pleased with a moment before.

While there's no way I'd go back to being 15 or 16 for anything, for a second there was a part of me that wished for that delusional superficial confidence that would have seen me swing my hips a little more, grin and toss my hair as I breezed on by.

But only for a second.

The gory details

2009-05-20T11:12:00.001-04:00

One of the things I dread most as a reporter, more than the day long town council meetings, or the disapproving sniffs , real or imagined, of the elderly when I'm the only one who doesn't know the hymns at the myriad of Christian-type events I cover, even more than the prospect of interviewing someone whose longest answer is a two syllable version of the word, "Nope" is the sound of the air raid-like siren that can be heard all over town whenever the fire department is about to head out.

You might think it would add some excitement to my day, but I'll take any of the above assignments over chasing the fire truck.

In fact, in the year that I've been here, I've only ever done it once. It was during my first few weeks here and I was the only reporter in the office when our scanner went off.

The ladies in the office all looked at me expectantly until I broke down and asked, "So, um, should I be doing something about that?" They insisted that I should go investigate.

So I drove out, whispering "Please be nothing, please be nothing, please be nothing" to the steering wheel, picturing myself all the while as a vulture with a car and a camera where wings and a beak should be.

It turned out to be an accident on a private farm. My mind instantly conjured up all the horrible things various types of farm equipment could do to a person and I knew, job or no job, there was no way I was going near it, so I circled once and flew back to the office.

Since then, I've actually managed to avoid chasing the fire truck altogether but it's amazing to me how often people think I should be on the scene of an accident, getting pictures of wrecked cars and broken bodies.

It's a strange responsibility, deciding what people should or shouldn't see. I remember when my neighbour was killed in a car accident, photos of the twisted and barely recognizable vehicle made the front page of our local paper. Maybe what we imagined happened to him would have been worse, but I don't think so. Seeing what he must have been trapped in was really horrifying.

I suppose it might have sent some people a warning, but I feel like we're so used to images like that, that the only people that image would have really effected where the people who knew the victims. I feel like it might have done more harm than good. If the paper had just run the story without the picture, I would have seen the headline, and maybe chosen not to read the gory details, but with the photo staring me in the face, there was no way to avoid them.

I know a picture paints a thousand words, but sometimes I don't think they need to be painted.

Into the Woods

2009-05-13T10:30:00.001-04:00

Last week I got lost in the woods

I was supposed to be taking pictures of some students who were supposed to be doing some kind of nature-type activities at a dam. After getting lost multiple times while trying to find said dam for over an hour, I finally arrived only to find that the students in question had abandoned the dam in favour of one of a zillion nearby trails into the woods.

I was slightly irritated (fuming) as I picked a path at random and stomped off into the stupid woods to find the stupid bunch of stupid kids.

By the time I came across this tree, I could only assume that the names carved in it were of other reporters who had made the mistake of being lured into this apparent child-swallowing venus flytrap of a labrynth.

I half expected David Bowie to arrive and tell me he'd stolen my baby brother.

However, it's hard to hold a grudge against the world when you find yourself dappled in sunshine, surrounded by trees, flowers and scampering woodland creatures.

My outrage finally gave away when I found myself directing the question of "Seriously, whose life is this?" at a perplexed squirrel.

From seething to laughing in 8 seconds flat.

I never did find those kids though.

Just me and my hairbrush

2009-04-28T13:24:00.000-04:00

I used to be quite the social butterfly. My previous lives as a copy intern in the big city and a shopgirl in my hometown lent themselves well to painting the town red at least a few nights a week.

Since moving here, I seem to have metamorphosed in reverse. At the end of a day comprised of attending various community events, introducing myself and making conversation ad nauseum, I'm often content to keep myself company. Of course, once in a while it's a bit lonely, but from what I hear, you can't have everything.

However, someone recently decided to drag me out of my cocoon. Far out. Not only did this person have the audacity to show up at my house and insist that I not change into my p.j.s and crawl into bed with a book at 9:30 on a Saturday evening, she also insisted that I try out her karaoke system despite there being two whole other people (besides my lovely hostess) present.

Unfortunately, two other people were not enough to keep her distracted as I tried my best to melt into a puddle of perspiration and slide under the door in liquid form.

So I picked out a tune I figured I could handle passably and I sang. And sang. And sang. Five songs later and my very accommodating hosts couldn't have pried the mic out of my hands if they had tried.

See, the thing is, I actually love, love, love to sing. I love music and lyrics. I always have. When I was still in my stroller, I could identify a Michael Jackson song playing two stores away in the mall (seriously, ask my mom). I used to sit in front of the armoire in our livingroom and gaze into the mirror while dramatically crooning "Don't Give Up" by Peter gabriel to myself. My fisher Price tape recorder finally died with my mom's Celine Dion cassette inside.

In high school I took lessons for a couple of years but certainly wasn't the most dedicated of students (social butterfly, remember).

My instructor used to have me compete in the Kiwanis music festival. Every year he'd ask, and every year I'd say yes, because even though the day of, I'd be right back in sweat puddle form, he was so kind and encouraging that I hated to disappoint him.

And somehow, each time I managed to force my legs to carry me onstage and my teeth to unclench and let my voice out. And of course, by the time I got through my performance I felt all warmed up and ready to keep on belting out the tunes just in time to take my seat and sit quietly through the rest of the songs.

I finally stopped the lessons and competitions after, at 16, I found myself so nervous that I became dangerously close to losing my lunch in the parking lot just prior to singing. It seemed pointless to have to muster up that much bravery when I wasn't actually doing anything life-saving or world-changing.

Of course, the recent example of Susan Boyle proves that there are certainly people who should be collecting their courage and sharing what they can do with the world.

While I'm light-years away from being comparable to her, both watching that unforgettable clip of Boyle and finding myself super glued to my friend's karaoke mic, made me wonder how many people there are in these little towns, singing into hairbrushes, dancing like no one's watching (because no one is) or painting their own little piece of the Sistine chapel on the back of a cereal box.

A tale of two siblings

2009-04-27T15:21:00.000-04:00

For this weekend's bi-weekly city visit I brought along some extra luggage in the form of my 18-year-old brother. On Saturday he wanted to go to the zoo and I wanted to visit the art gallery, so as a compromise, we checked out the Royal Ontario Museum.

Here he is, attempting to look cool and bored outside the ROM.

Not bad.

My attempt at this look was slightly less successful. "OK, just let me get my pout in place-Oooh! a dinosaur!"

However, rest assured, he later regretted his decision to look less like a huge nerd than yours truly, and attempted to hug a t-rex.

While we clearly would not survive Jurassic park, all in all, good trip.

Happy Earth Day my pretties

2009-04-22T10:34:00.000-04:00

I highly reccomend watching The Story of Stuff if you haven't already, or you know, if you just need a reminder.

And you should all seriously consider ordering some solid shampoo from Lush.

I started using it as my newest environmentally friendly thing on Earth Hour weekend. It cuts way down on the number of plastic bottles I buy and makes my hair look and feel awesome! Seriously, people have noticed.

I guess it's spring

2009-04-21T14:19:00.000-04:00

I wasn't entirely convinced that the Robins and Canada Geese weren't a little premature in their return to this area.
However, these pretty little purple flowers have sprung up all over the place here AND I spent half an hour on the weekend throwing a toilet paper roll at a mosquito that found its way into my apartment and kept landing just out of reach on the walls. So I guess I'm convinced. Not convinced enough to put my parka into storage, mind you.

What else did I do this weekend? Well, I'm glad you asked. Along with mosquito extermination and having a lovely visit with my parents and some sandwiches which they ever so thoughtfully brought from the best little sandwich joint in my hometown, I got to talk with this gentleman about electric trains for about 10 hours:

It could have been annoying since I typically like to keep my weekend assignments as short and sweet as possible, except for the fact that I'm such a sucker for enthusiasm. I love how passionate people can be about sharing their hobbies.
Even if that hobby is collecting toasters.

Sarahquarium

2009-04-15T17:34:00.000-04:00

Living on the top floor of a house as I do, I have a fair amount of privacy.

From my Rapunzel perch I have little fear of being spotted doing those things that just have to get done in the course of my day, such as prancing about and belting out Regina Spector tunes in my underwear and muppet fur slippers or eating bizarre and disgusting-to-others food combinations.
And despite there being no curtains in my bathroom window, which is directly in front of my clear glassed-in, shower, the frosted glass on the bottom half of the window does a perfectly adequate job of protecting my modesty.

So last Tuesday when I stayed home sick from work, I felt perfectly comfortable lounging around in my jammies, ignoring the dishes and the mess of watercolours in my living room, secure in the knowledge that I was invisible to the outside world.

Eventually I figured if I wasn't going to shower, I could at the very least, get some laundry done. This meant dumping out the contents of not one, but two large hampers chock full of my dirty clothes onto my living room floor/couch/coffee table. No sooner had I transformed my livingroom into the great Pacific Garbage patch of clothing than the doorbell rang.

Thinking it was probably the food fairies downstairs, eager to show me a rainbow, or a white squirrel or the latest and greatest in pet coffins (that's right, they now make pet coffins in the basement), I sighed, zipped up my food-stained hoodie, and shuffled downstairs to answer. It wouldn't be the first time they'd seen me looking like I just rolled out of bed, or off of the mammoth hair rug in my cave.

However, I was dismayed to discover upon opening the door...some guy. He blinked at me for a second before saying, "Um, you're getting work done on your roof?"

I tried to appear friendly and coherent instead of completely nonplussed. "Oh, ah, yes? I think my landlord might have mentioned something about that. If you go around to the side door, the neighbours probably know more about it than I do."
He quickly clarified that he just wanted to let me know there might be people on my roof.

I mumbled something like "Oh, right, great, thanks." before turning and bounding back up the stairs, whipping off the hoodie as I went, thinking I'd do a quick change and tidy up the laundry hurricane aftermath before the roofers had a chance to climb up and peer into my second floor aquarium.

Too late. Apparently by "There might be," he meant, there are. Currently. And by "people" he meant several large men. So after doing a comically speedy about-face, I spent the next hour or so held hostage in my own hallway.

I had just about forgotten the entire incident until a couple of days ago. I had just stripped down and positioned myself under the faucet for my morning waternap or "shower." I turned around to sleepily blink at the nearby treetops and found myself looking at a human head. A human head which was attached to a human man in a hard hat and a bucket that was rapidly lifting him up to Sarah shower level.

Fortunately as far as I could tell, he didn't look my way as I furtively finished my shower and leapt into my bathrobe. Although, it almost would have been worth it to see the expression on his face. Almost.

Anyway, as a result of all this, you can add one more quirky behaviour to that list of things I do alone in my apartment: showering in my swimsuit.

Miss me?

2009-04-03T13:35:00.000-04:00

Since Sparta moved to the city, I've spent every weekend that I wasn't working dashing off to visit him. I've been having big fun catching up with friends, eating, shopping, dancing and dodging flea-ridden pigeons like there's no tomorrow, but it seems the nonstop revolving door of country/city/country/city I've been living has finally caught up with me in the form of symptoms that line up suspiciously well with those of pneumonia. Although I'm sure if I actually had pneumonia I'd feel worse.

Anyway, mom is heading down for a weekend sleepover and I'm sure she will use her magical mom powers and I'll be feeling better and back to tell you all about the man who smacked me in the subway station and my new solution to the issue of gropey dancing in no time.

Have a lovely weekend!

In other news...

2009-03-26T15:15:00.000-04:00

They say that turning into our mothers is inevitable...

... I'm ok with that.

Happy birthday, Mom!

It's not easy being green (or is it?)

2009-03-24T15:50:00.000-04:00

Last week I wrote a column on getting used to the new local mandate that garbage bags must be clear, or they will not be collected. The rule, which has stirred up plenty of controversy and resentment, has been put in place to ensure that people aren't throwing recyclables in the trash.

In my column I poked fun at myself for being so set in my garbage bag ways that I resented having to eliminate kitchen catcher bags from the equation and just toss everything in one large clear bag. I talked about how quickly I will undoubtedly get used to the change and how if we were all a little more willing to let go of some of our habits, such as the use of disposable plastic water bottles, to form new ones, we could have a huge environmental impact, a positive one for once.

This week, the negative response, arguing that the blame for excess trash should be put on manufacturers, and that we poor little citizens should bear no responsibility, being printed in our paper comes from none other than my editor. She also argues against the fact that we have to pay for garbage tags, and the fact that we have to sort our recycling.

I don't fit in here.

But then, I'm used to it.

Growing up I was one of two kids who brought their lunch to school in reusable containers and depending on the meal, a cloth napkin, and stainless steel cutlery. I'm not sure what elementary school is like now in that regard but at the time it was so unusual that I received an environmental award.

We were hardly a radical environmentalist family. We lived on the grid and played with plastic toys. But compared to my peers, it seemed I was always having to sacrifice more for the sake of the environment.

I remember whining to my mom that it wasn't fair when she refused to use the car to take us places we could walk or ride our bikes. "Why does it always have to be us? Why can't someone else ride their bike so that we can have a turn doing what's easy?" I asked. "Why can't I bring plastic packed lunchables and fruit snacks to school and let some other kid try to remember to bring home her damn tupperware in her backpack?"

I get it now. For too long people have been leaving custody of our planet and our resources up to someone else. We just choose not to think about it, so we don't have to take responsibility. We've taken the easy and shortsighted route almost every time we were offered a choice.

You don't have to look far to see the impact of our refusal to think beyond ourselves. Don't believe in Global Warming? Here's something you can see with your own two eyes.

It's easy enough being green. It's not so easy being the pain in the ass who brings up issues that no one wants to think about and even has the audacity to suggest that we all have a responsibility to deal with them.

For my part, this week I'll be continuing my one-woman crusade to get the local post office to quit throwing thousands of flyers a week into the trash instead of recycling them.

It's not easy when you don't fit in. But, depending on your surroundings, sometimes it's kind of awesome when you stand out.

This is my entry for the March Blog Carnival over at 20-something bloggers!

Out of my depth

2009-03-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

The other night I was invited to head out with some people from the town I'm living in. The woman (whom I'll call Lisa), who invited me very kindly offered to come and pick me up so I could ride to another nearby down where she, her boyfriend and some other locals were going for dinner and drinks.

While I'm always hesitant to turn down any offer that might result in some kind of actual social life here, I was reluctant to put myself in a position where I was in any way dependant on people I don't know for getting home. While I like this woman, from what she had told me, I really wasn't sure if the people she hangs out with are ones I would be able to tolerate completely sober.

So I took a rain check.

As it turns out, I couldn't have picked a better night to follow my instincts.

Apparently, the person who ended up driving was a friend of Lisa's boyfriend. Once upon a time, when this guy was over at Lisa's house, he hit her 5-year-old son. He has since not been welcome in her house, so don't ask me what she was doing double dating with this guy.

He had brought along his new girlfriend, who he was horrible and rude to all evening. They had just started to drive home, when Lisa decided to tell him he shouldn't be talking to his girlfriend like that. So naturally, he pulled over and made Lisa get out of the car, leaving her to walk the 20kms of midnight country highway, where drinking and driving seems to be a given, home.

Her boyfriend? Stayed in the car.

Lisa started hitching and was picked up by a car of high school boys who decided to take her on a tour of some backroads instead of driving her home until she insisted they let her out of the car. Fortunately they did let her out and she was free to walk the 10 or so kilometres home.

When she finally arrived what must have been close to three hours later, her boyfriend was asleep in bed. When she woke him up to confront him, he just held up her cel phone, which he broke recently when he was mad at her, and said "See, this is the kind of thing that happens when you act like that."

I heard all of this secondhand, but it falls completely in line with other stories she's told me about problems with her boyfriend. From what I can tell he's a real prize who sponges off her, lives in her house for practically nothing while she struggles to pay her mortgage and feed her kids. Oh, and of course, he frequently threatens to leave her and makes her feel stupid or crazy any time she gets up the courage to ask him for anything.

Every time she says his name it makes me feel ill. I'm at the point where the next time she brings up something horrible he has done, I'm ready to tell her that as much as I want to support her, unless she's ready to seek some counseling (in which case, i will happily drive her/watch her kids/pull her there in a little red wagon) or leave him, I just can't hear about it anymore. I can't know what a creep he is and then have to smile and act like I have no idea the next time I run into the two of them. There's a reason I didn't go to theatre school. I'm just not that good.

I don't know how it could be any clearer. If he leaves you to your fate alone on the side of the highway and goes home to sleep? He does not love you. Oh, and as a bonus? He has no idea how to treat a fellow human being.

In other news...

2009-03-19T14:42:00.000-04:00

Sometimes my job is really tough. Photograph pirates and adorable children? Blech. Just make me walk the plank already.