Tuesday, September 30, 2008
No more Stealin'
Now that I have my fancy new camera... I am going to try my darnest to only use my own photos- I am going to quit jackin' them from Google images.
A Prayer for Tears
As I was running, I had a thought:
Of all the tears that fall down my face, I pray that my tears for others far out-number the tears for myself.
The world will always have heartache, but I pray that I never become blind to other people’s pain.
Of all the tears that fall down my face, I pray that my tears for others far out-number the tears for myself.
The world will always have heartache, but I pray that I never become blind to other people’s pain.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Broken.
Yesterday the job got to me.
After working a 24 hour shift, I called Scotty on my drive home to see what he was up to. Little did I know, I would barely be able to choke out a few sentences before breaking into full sobs.
Last time it happened I was on my way to my nieces 5th and 7th birthday’s last August. I was just finishing up my shift and one of the girls was in a real sour mood. Before I headed down to the office to do shift change-over, I said goodbye to her. She was sitting on the floor painting her toenails. She didn’t even look up at me and only mumbled something, so I walked over to where she was brooding and I placed my hand on the top of her head. I turned her face upwards, looked her in the eyes and said goodbye again (I always want the girls to know that I care, and that no bad attitude is going to change that).
In that moment, it hit me like a ton of bricks: I was staring into the eyes of a child.
It can be very difficult to see these kids as their actual ages because they’ve been through so much, and many of them live so hard (mainly as a result of what they’ve been through).
I managed to get through my debrief with the next staff, but as soon as my keys turned in the ignition, the tears started to pour down my face.
16 years old. She had lived on the street in Toronto with her grandmother as a small child. She doesn’t know mom (she believes she lives somewhere in the downtown eastside). Dad has a mental illness. She’d been forced into “recruiting” (putting other girls into the sex trade), and dealt with a lot of guilt over that. Two years ago her friend (whom she recruited) was picked up by a trucker and his son… her body was found three days later. She had been drugged and then raped at a party, and a month later a pregnancy test revealed that she was carrying a baby. She tried so hard to “clean up” so that she could keep it, but she had been struggling with alcoholism for a few years, and it got the better of her. It seemed like this poor kid had been kicked down before she had ever learned to walk, and the blows just kept coming.
My sister, Tracey, found me on her doorstep in a puddle of tears. I had to sit on my nieces bunkbeds for 40 mins before I could gain control over my emotions.
Last night. I huge sense of desperation came over me. As much as I want to solve their problems, I can’t. A lot of the time I feel like little more than a witness to their hell. I can be fairly good at “turning off” and just trusting God, but then it happens… I fall in love.
Scotty handles it like a pro. He doesn’t offer any advice or verbal encouragement except an “I love you” whispered into my ear as he hugs me. He lets me cry, and knows that there is nothing to say. So many of life’s problems and pains cannot be reduced to words.
Sometimes it is hard to trust, but I am comforted by the fact that God will be there alongside them long after they move out, that His heart has broken for them before mine ever did, and he won’t give up on them. My love for these girls is but a glimpse of His and my role in their lives will be that too.
I don’t have the answers. I can’t see the bigger picture. I am just as confused and frusterated by the inequalities in life as anyone else, but the tears dried last night as they always have in the past… and I take comfort in living it one day at a time.
After working a 24 hour shift, I called Scotty on my drive home to see what he was up to. Little did I know, I would barely be able to choke out a few sentences before breaking into full sobs.
Last time it happened I was on my way to my nieces 5th and 7th birthday’s last August. I was just finishing up my shift and one of the girls was in a real sour mood. Before I headed down to the office to do shift change-over, I said goodbye to her. She was sitting on the floor painting her toenails. She didn’t even look up at me and only mumbled something, so I walked over to where she was brooding and I placed my hand on the top of her head. I turned her face upwards, looked her in the eyes and said goodbye again (I always want the girls to know that I care, and that no bad attitude is going to change that).
In that moment, it hit me like a ton of bricks: I was staring into the eyes of a child.
It can be very difficult to see these kids as their actual ages because they’ve been through so much, and many of them live so hard (mainly as a result of what they’ve been through).
I managed to get through my debrief with the next staff, but as soon as my keys turned in the ignition, the tears started to pour down my face.
16 years old. She had lived on the street in Toronto with her grandmother as a small child. She doesn’t know mom (she believes she lives somewhere in the downtown eastside). Dad has a mental illness. She’d been forced into “recruiting” (putting other girls into the sex trade), and dealt with a lot of guilt over that. Two years ago her friend (whom she recruited) was picked up by a trucker and his son… her body was found three days later. She had been drugged and then raped at a party, and a month later a pregnancy test revealed that she was carrying a baby. She tried so hard to “clean up” so that she could keep it, but she had been struggling with alcoholism for a few years, and it got the better of her. It seemed like this poor kid had been kicked down before she had ever learned to walk, and the blows just kept coming.
My sister, Tracey, found me on her doorstep in a puddle of tears. I had to sit on my nieces bunkbeds for 40 mins before I could gain control over my emotions.
Last night. I huge sense of desperation came over me. As much as I want to solve their problems, I can’t. A lot of the time I feel like little more than a witness to their hell. I can be fairly good at “turning off” and just trusting God, but then it happens… I fall in love.
Scotty handles it like a pro. He doesn’t offer any advice or verbal encouragement except an “I love you” whispered into my ear as he hugs me. He lets me cry, and knows that there is nothing to say. So many of life’s problems and pains cannot be reduced to words.
Sometimes it is hard to trust, but I am comforted by the fact that God will be there alongside them long after they move out, that His heart has broken for them before mine ever did, and he won’t give up on them. My love for these girls is but a glimpse of His and my role in their lives will be that too.
I don’t have the answers. I can’t see the bigger picture. I am just as confused and frusterated by the inequalities in life as anyone else, but the tears dried last night as they always have in the past… and I take comfort in living it one day at a time.
Monday, September 22, 2008
$57
My "old" self would be confused.
"But you hate politics..." it would say.
Today I spent $57 on a 3 month subscription to the "Globe and Mail"
Starting Wednesday, it will be dropped off at my door, and on days that I don't go to work, I will spend the early morning struggling to make sense of all the political editorials (and perhaps recognize the bias). According to my political science course, the "Globe and Mail" is the least partisan of all readily available media (including tv news) followed by the National Post... I wouldn't know. I had to look up the word partisan.
I am officially in my second week of school, and more importantly, I am taking my second political science course (Canadian Politics). I really don't understand why politics isn't part of grade school (aside form the danger of presenting it along with bias, which would be hugely damaging).
Living in a democratic society means that being politically active is one of the most important things a person can do, but what if we have no clue what the issues are and how the system works?
I am on a journey: to become more politically aware.
Hopefully that awareness will give birth to political action.
Women like Tzeporah Berman help to give me a butt kick in the right direction. She's seriously cool- mainly because she's full of passion. There are so few people in today's society who are truly passionate, and it is passion that will change the world.
I plan to continue to take courses until something sticks and I begin to stay informed on my own (or be "engaged" as Tzeporah would say). Perhaps I will post a little bit here and there of what I am learning, but don't expect it to be non-partisan (I'm learning!)because this it my blog dammit!
"But you hate politics..." it would say.
Today I spent $57 on a 3 month subscription to the "Globe and Mail"
Starting Wednesday, it will be dropped off at my door, and on days that I don't go to work, I will spend the early morning struggling to make sense of all the political editorials (and perhaps recognize the bias). According to my political science course, the "Globe and Mail" is the least partisan of all readily available media (including tv news) followed by the National Post... I wouldn't know. I had to look up the word partisan.
I am officially in my second week of school, and more importantly, I am taking my second political science course (Canadian Politics). I really don't understand why politics isn't part of grade school (aside form the danger of presenting it along with bias, which would be hugely damaging).
Living in a democratic society means that being politically active is one of the most important things a person can do, but what if we have no clue what the issues are and how the system works?
I am on a journey: to become more politically aware.
Hopefully that awareness will give birth to political action.
Women like Tzeporah Berman help to give me a butt kick in the right direction. She's seriously cool- mainly because she's full of passion. There are so few people in today's society who are truly passionate, and it is passion that will change the world.
I plan to continue to take courses until something sticks and I begin to stay informed on my own (or be "engaged" as Tzeporah would say). Perhaps I will post a little bit here and there of what I am learning, but don't expect it to be non-partisan (I'm learning!)because this it my blog dammit!
Thursday, September 18, 2008
She's Only 17.
After a late night sipping champagne on the beach with some girls that I truly adore(typing that I realize I am an old lady because I was in bed by 12:30), I woke up early, downed a couple mugs of coffee and a steaming bowl of oatmeal and jogged out into the suprisingly warm September morning.
Several minutes later, I could hear the music thumping as I approached the start line.
While crossing through the Thrifty's parking lot, I saw a group of four young teen girls, all wearing bandanas, crowded around the passenger door of a grey car.
As I got closer, my eyes welled with tears.
The fifth girl had only a scant covering of downy hair left on her head as she adjusted her bandana from her wheelchair.
I took a deep breath as I walked on to the registration table.
After filling out a form, I was handed a participant ribbon.
15 minutes until the gun. I pinned the ribbon with a silouette of Terry Fox to my hip and began stretching, trying desperately not to give into the tears that welled up again as I watched people pin dedications to the "In Memory" board.
There were a couple speeches, somewhat inspiring.
Then I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye: a wheelchair moving towards the front of the crowed followed by four others, all with matching bandanas.
Her name is Angie. She loves to sing. Less than a year ago (last December) she was diagnosed with the same kind of Cancer as Terry Fox. Last spring they amputated her leg.
I bit down hard on my tongue as the crowd gave a heartfelt clap... I stared at the crowd, some with forced smiles as if to offer sympathy, others looked extremely uncomfortable-their eyes begging to move on to something, anything, else. Others embarassingly wiped the tears from their eyes.
In any case, a strange feeling fell upon me. I felt as if time was slowed, and I knew that we as a crowd could not have been further away from Angie and her pain. As my eyes passed over my fellow runners- I knew that we would leave this moment no different than we were before "meeting" Angie.
And that bothered me.
As I settled into the race, my mind went back to Angie. While the main race organizer thanked the crowd before sending us off on the course, she spoke of the importance of the Terry Fox foundation, and how it had raised millions for cancer reasearch. She said that while we've come so far, there is still so much that needs to be done, so much that needs to be learned...
My eyes fell on Angie, her tired body heaved as she sobbed unto her hands.
As I neared the first water station, I could feel hot tears streaming down my face. Drinking was much more difficult with the huge lump in my throat.
It was inevitable, I would go home after the race, and in time, I would forget about Angie.
Seeing her body shake as she cried would stop haunting me, and I would fall back into my own little self absorbed world. My legs felt weak as the realization struck: I would feel sorry for myself for the insignificant.
Angie is fighting for her life, and I will go on as I always have.
My mind flooded with questions centering on when we'll be woken up, what would it take to snap us out of our egocentric tendencies beyond the end of the day?
We can have the best intentions, but are we capable of being changed unless it strikes us personally?
I pray for Angie... may she never lose the will to fight.
Several minutes later, I could hear the music thumping as I approached the start line.
While crossing through the Thrifty's parking lot, I saw a group of four young teen girls, all wearing bandanas, crowded around the passenger door of a grey car.
As I got closer, my eyes welled with tears.
The fifth girl had only a scant covering of downy hair left on her head as she adjusted her bandana from her wheelchair.
I took a deep breath as I walked on to the registration table.
After filling out a form, I was handed a participant ribbon.
15 minutes until the gun. I pinned the ribbon with a silouette of Terry Fox to my hip and began stretching, trying desperately not to give into the tears that welled up again as I watched people pin dedications to the "In Memory" board.
There were a couple speeches, somewhat inspiring.
Then I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye: a wheelchair moving towards the front of the crowed followed by four others, all with matching bandanas.
Her name is Angie. She loves to sing. Less than a year ago (last December) she was diagnosed with the same kind of Cancer as Terry Fox. Last spring they amputated her leg.
I bit down hard on my tongue as the crowd gave a heartfelt clap... I stared at the crowd, some with forced smiles as if to offer sympathy, others looked extremely uncomfortable-their eyes begging to move on to something, anything, else. Others embarassingly wiped the tears from their eyes.
In any case, a strange feeling fell upon me. I felt as if time was slowed, and I knew that we as a crowd could not have been further away from Angie and her pain. As my eyes passed over my fellow runners- I knew that we would leave this moment no different than we were before "meeting" Angie.
And that bothered me.
As I settled into the race, my mind went back to Angie. While the main race organizer thanked the crowd before sending us off on the course, she spoke of the importance of the Terry Fox foundation, and how it had raised millions for cancer reasearch. She said that while we've come so far, there is still so much that needs to be done, so much that needs to be learned...
My eyes fell on Angie, her tired body heaved as she sobbed unto her hands.
As I neared the first water station, I could feel hot tears streaming down my face. Drinking was much more difficult with the huge lump in my throat.
It was inevitable, I would go home after the race, and in time, I would forget about Angie.
Seeing her body shake as she cried would stop haunting me, and I would fall back into my own little self absorbed world. My legs felt weak as the realization struck: I would feel sorry for myself for the insignificant.
Angie is fighting for her life, and I will go on as I always have.
My mind flooded with questions centering on when we'll be woken up, what would it take to snap us out of our egocentric tendencies beyond the end of the day?
We can have the best intentions, but are we capable of being changed unless it strikes us personally?
I pray for Angie... may she never lose the will to fight.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sleepless in South Delta
In a pinch to figure out what to wear?
I wish I could take credit for this... I really do... but I can't.
I was flipping through my Nylon magazine last week. Aside from all the other reasons to love it (less commercial, witty articles that make one laugh out loud, solid music reviews of artists that aren't so mainstream etc.)- there is always a "Do-It Yourself" section that features ways to make things you already have at the back of your closet into something with more edge/style with minimal-to-no sewing.
This month's was mind blowing.
The ghost designer behind the Waldorf clothing line featured on Gossip Girl was in charge of this month's diy.
Take a pillow case, cut whatever neck line you want (be it boat neck, v-neck, off the shoulder, racer-back etc.) in the top- then cut arm holes (tear-drop shape look the coolest... so you should aim to have the arm hole come to a point at the bottom).
VOILA!
You can sew around the raw egdes or leave them to fray.
What is truly brilliant is that you can buy any length of pillow case (and widths differ too if you go for european sized pillows vs standard) AND you can cut it off shorter if you want it to be a cool shirt. I took the hem down after this picture so that I can comfortably wear it as a dress, but at this length it would look amazing over tights or stovepipe jeans.
I wish I could take credit for this... I really do... but I can't.
I was flipping through my Nylon magazine last week. Aside from all the other reasons to love it (less commercial, witty articles that make one laugh out loud, solid music reviews of artists that aren't so mainstream etc.)- there is always a "Do-It Yourself" section that features ways to make things you already have at the back of your closet into something with more edge/style with minimal-to-no sewing.
This month's was mind blowing.
The ghost designer behind the Waldorf clothing line featured on Gossip Girl was in charge of this month's diy.
Take a pillow case, cut whatever neck line you want (be it boat neck, v-neck, off the shoulder, racer-back etc.) in the top- then cut arm holes (tear-drop shape look the coolest... so you should aim to have the arm hole come to a point at the bottom).
VOILA!
You can sew around the raw egdes or leave them to fray.
What is truly brilliant is that you can buy any length of pillow case (and widths differ too if you go for european sized pillows vs standard) AND you can cut it off shorter if you want it to be a cool shirt. I took the hem down after this picture so that I can comfortably wear it as a dress, but at this length it would look amazing over tights or stovepipe jeans.
From DQ to GQ
There is a section in Men's Health Magazine called the "Belly Off Club." It features regular guys who have gone from couch potato to gym rat.
I was looking at my sister in law's (Tiana) photos this morning, and I really think my brother Thayne should send in a before and after to the magazine.
Apparently getting older AND getting married means getting in the best shape of your life... according to Thayne.
This picture was taken just over a year ago at his wedding.(Not to Scotty... he married the sweetest little button of a girl named Tiana. She's gotten incredibly fit too, and should send in before and after pictures to Women's Health, but at the same time, I think she has always looked incredible)
This was taken this past week.
I was looking at my sister in law's (Tiana) photos this morning, and I really think my brother Thayne should send in a before and after to the magazine.
Apparently getting older AND getting married means getting in the best shape of your life... according to Thayne.
This picture was taken just over a year ago at his wedding.(Not to Scotty... he married the sweetest little button of a girl named Tiana. She's gotten incredibly fit too, and should send in before and after pictures to Women's Health, but at the same time, I think she has always looked incredible)
This was taken this past week.
Monday, September 8, 2008
I Loved to Run.
Once upon a time, I loved to run.
I ran 5 days a week.
I read about it. I talked about it. I even taught a little on it.
I liked to run from town to town (Ladner to Tsawwassen; or Ladner to White Rock).
I bought powergels, goo, cliff bars and powerbeans.
I liked powerbeans the best.
I enjoyed carbo-loading three days before a race.
I ran a few 8-10 km races. I ran two half marathons, and I cursed at km 17 both times.
I felt good, confident and strong. I decided to face my fear and commit to the full-marathon training schedule.
At first, it went well. I set aside more time for my higher weekly mileage. I made my shuffle playlist longer, and packed more powerbeans. I ran all over town during the day and slept like a log at night. I never got sick, and I wasn’t affected by the decrease in hours of sunlight in the winter.
Once upon a time, I loved to run.
Not rain, snow, ice, wind, humidity or lightening would stop me. I ran in all seasons, in all weather conditions, at all different times of the day. I watched the sky turn blood red two years ago on an October morning- it was so beautiful that tears began streaming down my face. I leap over puddles and skidded on ice. I breathed deeply as I ran past freshly mowed lawns, the ocean, and hayfields that had just been cut in late summer. I ran past bright orange fields, full of pumpkins.
I got bugs in my mouth, my nose and my eyes. I stepped in dog poop. I crossed the street to avoid unfriendly looking farm dogs.
Sometimes I made phone calls on my cell during my walking breaks. Sometimes I had to make pitstops at a friend’s place or a business… to do… um… business. Sometimes I became “one with nature.”
I never felt more alone. I never felt more strength. I never felt more alive.
The jumble of thoughts untangled itself on those runs. Big issues shrank, stress melted and contentment grew.
I existed in that moment. Sometimes I tuned off my shuffle to be serenaded by my breath. To hear my feet rhythmically bounce from the pavement…
One Upon a time, I loved to run.
Then I got a burning feeling on the outside of my left knee. It came out of nowhere, without warning. I limped home and iced it. I rested it for a week, and felt a twinge of jealousy whenever I watched someone ran past my driveway.
I tried to run after waiting a week. I smiled as I settled into my stride. At mile one (practically on the dot) the burning came back. I turned around and limped home. There were tears of frusteration, but the jealousy faded over time.
Now it’s 1.5 years later.
I feel breathless, weak and slow, but there are these moments- these flashes of what it used to be before I felt the burn beside my left knee.
I ran a 10km last month with Stacey. I am doing another this Sunday, and another next month.
I’m hoping that my “Once Upon a time” will be my “Happily Ever After.”
I ran 5 days a week.
I read about it. I talked about it. I even taught a little on it.
I liked to run from town to town (Ladner to Tsawwassen; or Ladner to White Rock).
I bought powergels, goo, cliff bars and powerbeans.
I liked powerbeans the best.
I enjoyed carbo-loading three days before a race.
I ran a few 8-10 km races. I ran two half marathons, and I cursed at km 17 both times.
I felt good, confident and strong. I decided to face my fear and commit to the full-marathon training schedule.
At first, it went well. I set aside more time for my higher weekly mileage. I made my shuffle playlist longer, and packed more powerbeans. I ran all over town during the day and slept like a log at night. I never got sick, and I wasn’t affected by the decrease in hours of sunlight in the winter.
Once upon a time, I loved to run.
Not rain, snow, ice, wind, humidity or lightening would stop me. I ran in all seasons, in all weather conditions, at all different times of the day. I watched the sky turn blood red two years ago on an October morning- it was so beautiful that tears began streaming down my face. I leap over puddles and skidded on ice. I breathed deeply as I ran past freshly mowed lawns, the ocean, and hayfields that had just been cut in late summer. I ran past bright orange fields, full of pumpkins.
I got bugs in my mouth, my nose and my eyes. I stepped in dog poop. I crossed the street to avoid unfriendly looking farm dogs.
Sometimes I made phone calls on my cell during my walking breaks. Sometimes I had to make pitstops at a friend’s place or a business… to do… um… business. Sometimes I became “one with nature.”
I never felt more alone. I never felt more strength. I never felt more alive.
The jumble of thoughts untangled itself on those runs. Big issues shrank, stress melted and contentment grew.
I existed in that moment. Sometimes I tuned off my shuffle to be serenaded by my breath. To hear my feet rhythmically bounce from the pavement…
One Upon a time, I loved to run.
Then I got a burning feeling on the outside of my left knee. It came out of nowhere, without warning. I limped home and iced it. I rested it for a week, and felt a twinge of jealousy whenever I watched someone ran past my driveway.
I tried to run after waiting a week. I smiled as I settled into my stride. At mile one (practically on the dot) the burning came back. I turned around and limped home. There were tears of frusteration, but the jealousy faded over time.
Now it’s 1.5 years later.
I feel breathless, weak and slow, but there are these moments- these flashes of what it used to be before I felt the burn beside my left knee.
I ran a 10km last month with Stacey. I am doing another this Sunday, and another next month.
I’m hoping that my “Once Upon a time” will be my “Happily Ever After.”
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Good read
My camera instruction manual might be the best read of the year.
My Newyears resolution was to read one book a month for the entire year. To those who are voracious readers, I am sure that sounds pathetic, but to that I ask: how many books did you read while you were working part time and going to school full time?
Truth is, I am one book ahead of my resolution.
One of the great things about not shopping for new clothes is that we’ve got just as much money in the bank even though Scotty has pulled out of the work force and gone back to school (I am now full time and making a bit better of a wage now that I am manager). I have been to Valu-Village 3 times since making my commitment to buying nothing new (in clothing terms). I believe in total I have spent $150 on clothing in 6 months. That is not to say I haven’t bought clothes- I have come out of VV with approximately 10 new items every time (count 30 pieces of clothing), AND I have bought quite a few dishes… but that’s a whole other post.
This combined with the fact that I have been pulling mondo hours at the group home for the month of August has afforded me quite the treat: a new camera.
I love taking pictures, but have only ever had cheap cameras that are incapable to snapping night shots, or moving shots and the zoom as laughable. People have commented on my photos, but I have to give credit where credit is due: when I am taking pictures, I am channeling Angela Haugo. SHE is an incredible photographer. She is the definition of inspiration. I pay close attention to her work, and I am sure is it obvious in comparing my pictures to hers. Ang is the innovator, I am the immitator.
When I went to Pemberton with her, I was eyeing her camera, and Ang being the doll that she is, let me play with it (despite the fact that I had no clue about what I was doing). After only a couple shots, I was sold. It was obvious that a few extra bucks makes a serious difference. Her man, Domi (an accomplished photographer himself) swears by Canon.
A Canon Powershot S5 1S became my obsession. The problem is, it is an elusive camera to track down. After a couple extensive searches for this camera both here and across the boarder (even Bestbuy warehouses where out of stock) proved fruitless. At the peak of frustration, I threw up my hands and (loudly) gave in.
That’s when Scotty showed up at my work a week ago (during an interview… oops) with my new baby, and a 2 GB memory card. I have only gotten half way through the “quickstart” guide and my mind has already been blown- Domi and Ang did not steer me wrong, and for $350 plus tax, I have the most gorgeous camera rather than two pairs of over-priced jeans hanging in my closet.
I LOVE not shopping!
My Newyears resolution was to read one book a month for the entire year. To those who are voracious readers, I am sure that sounds pathetic, but to that I ask: how many books did you read while you were working part time and going to school full time?
Truth is, I am one book ahead of my resolution.
One of the great things about not shopping for new clothes is that we’ve got just as much money in the bank even though Scotty has pulled out of the work force and gone back to school (I am now full time and making a bit better of a wage now that I am manager). I have been to Valu-Village 3 times since making my commitment to buying nothing new (in clothing terms). I believe in total I have spent $150 on clothing in 6 months. That is not to say I haven’t bought clothes- I have come out of VV with approximately 10 new items every time (count 30 pieces of clothing), AND I have bought quite a few dishes… but that’s a whole other post.
This combined with the fact that I have been pulling mondo hours at the group home for the month of August has afforded me quite the treat: a new camera.
I love taking pictures, but have only ever had cheap cameras that are incapable to snapping night shots, or moving shots and the zoom as laughable. People have commented on my photos, but I have to give credit where credit is due: when I am taking pictures, I am channeling Angela Haugo. SHE is an incredible photographer. She is the definition of inspiration. I pay close attention to her work, and I am sure is it obvious in comparing my pictures to hers. Ang is the innovator, I am the immitator.
When I went to Pemberton with her, I was eyeing her camera, and Ang being the doll that she is, let me play with it (despite the fact that I had no clue about what I was doing). After only a couple shots, I was sold. It was obvious that a few extra bucks makes a serious difference. Her man, Domi (an accomplished photographer himself) swears by Canon.
A Canon Powershot S5 1S became my obsession. The problem is, it is an elusive camera to track down. After a couple extensive searches for this camera both here and across the boarder (even Bestbuy warehouses where out of stock) proved fruitless. At the peak of frustration, I threw up my hands and (loudly) gave in.
That’s when Scotty showed up at my work a week ago (during an interview… oops) with my new baby, and a 2 GB memory card. I have only gotten half way through the “quickstart” guide and my mind has already been blown- Domi and Ang did not steer me wrong, and for $350 plus tax, I have the most gorgeous camera rather than two pairs of over-priced jeans hanging in my closet.
I LOVE not shopping!
Damaged Art.
There is a fantastic line in the movie “The Breakup.” In it, Jennifer Aniston (my lovely), works at an art gallery and is speaking with a client about how one goes about picking art. She said, “Never buy a piece of art that you don’t have to have.”
Even though it is a comedy, that line stuck with me. I would love to say that I know stuff about art, but truth is, I know nothing (I am, however taking my SECOND art course for Emily Carr this fall).
My mom and I were wandering around in Home Sense last week. I was clutching a rusty crow (for my fabulous Halloween dinner party that I want to have every year but never get around to having it), and a set of 600 thread count plum-brown sheets (another fall tradition: new sheets) when I came upon a 6 foot black and white photograph of the Eiffel tower taken from below. I just stopped and stared at it.
As cheesy as it may sound, I actually felt emotional looking at it. Not sad, not happy, I can’t really explain it, but I honestly couldn’t turn away from it.
The thing is. If asked, I would have said a photo of the Eiffel tower doesn’t really suit my style (I’m much more of an eclectic flea-market bohemian taste), but standing in front of it, I pictured it on my wall.
I pointed it out to my mom; she pointed out the 16-inch scratch across the top where the dark brown paint gave way to the white canvas. I saw the opportunity for a price reduction; she said “where on EARTH are you going to put that monstrosity?” (oh bless my mom for ALWAYS saying what she means… hahaha), I shrugged and thought, “I’ll put it in my bathroom if I have to because I love it!”
I inquired about the scratch to the lady setting up a bedroom display. Five minutes later the manager said “55 bucks” and I said, “DONE!”
My mom said, “what are you going to do about that scratch? It’ll never look right” and I said, “I dunno, I just love it, and that scratch is what is going to allow me to walk out of here with it because I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”
Its flaw is the best thing about it.
I ditched the sheets and rusty crow and bought it.
Once I got it home, it inspired a whole wave of redecorating in a room I despised.
My downstairs livingroom is now black, white and red… a Parisian-rocker vibe complete with leopard print, black candles, an antique record player, guitar, pearls and wine coloured drapes (all stuff I already had, but never would have thought to combine it the way the Eiffel tower picture had inspired).
It’s now my favourite room- I am sitting in it right now!
Even though it is a comedy, that line stuck with me. I would love to say that I know stuff about art, but truth is, I know nothing (I am, however taking my SECOND art course for Emily Carr this fall).
My mom and I were wandering around in Home Sense last week. I was clutching a rusty crow (for my fabulous Halloween dinner party that I want to have every year but never get around to having it), and a set of 600 thread count plum-brown sheets (another fall tradition: new sheets) when I came upon a 6 foot black and white photograph of the Eiffel tower taken from below. I just stopped and stared at it.
As cheesy as it may sound, I actually felt emotional looking at it. Not sad, not happy, I can’t really explain it, but I honestly couldn’t turn away from it.
The thing is. If asked, I would have said a photo of the Eiffel tower doesn’t really suit my style (I’m much more of an eclectic flea-market bohemian taste), but standing in front of it, I pictured it on my wall.
I pointed it out to my mom; she pointed out the 16-inch scratch across the top where the dark brown paint gave way to the white canvas. I saw the opportunity for a price reduction; she said “where on EARTH are you going to put that monstrosity?” (oh bless my mom for ALWAYS saying what she means… hahaha), I shrugged and thought, “I’ll put it in my bathroom if I have to because I love it!”
I inquired about the scratch to the lady setting up a bedroom display. Five minutes later the manager said “55 bucks” and I said, “DONE!”
My mom said, “what are you going to do about that scratch? It’ll never look right” and I said, “I dunno, I just love it, and that scratch is what is going to allow me to walk out of here with it because I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”
Its flaw is the best thing about it.
I ditched the sheets and rusty crow and bought it.
Once I got it home, it inspired a whole wave of redecorating in a room I despised.
My downstairs livingroom is now black, white and red… a Parisian-rocker vibe complete with leopard print, black candles, an antique record player, guitar, pearls and wine coloured drapes (all stuff I already had, but never would have thought to combine it the way the Eiffel tower picture had inspired).
It’s now my favourite room- I am sitting in it right now!
Newyears.
I am sure that all those years of school has engrained this feeling of newness and possibility that always comes with the beginning of September.
For me, September is my Newyears. I begin to make plans for the coming year, I give myself a little “back to school” makeover, I give my home a few tweaks because I’m sick of the ‘same old” décor, I make new goals (school, fitness, social and hobby), and I shift my music preferences to more thoughtful vocals and bittersweet melodies.
I actually have quite a few traditions, some of which I have already fulfilled. I do these things every year, something about it just feels right.
*I always get blunt bangs. Over the past four years I have let my bangs grow out for the summer (because I refuse to do much styling when I know I’ll end up at the beach or in a pool), but then I begin to crave the fringe as the nights get cooler. Don’t know why, it’s weird, but I love it.
*I buy the September Vogue. I might purchase it one other time in the year, but to be honest, I prefer my “Nylon” magazine (I’ve also begun to enjoy Harper’s Bazaar because I actually read it rather than just look at all the pictures). Somehow the September issue is different (aside from it’s noticibly thicker size)… perhaps it’s just the ads, they help me get into the autumn mindset.
*I watch the SATC episode where Carrie speaks of the time of year that you can feel the seasons “click” from summer to fall… I don’t know what it’s called, but I may watch it after I finish typing this.
*I buy a new blanket: something soft and cozy for the couch. This year it is a burnt orange fleece throw from Costco.
*I hit the Body Shop or Bath and Body Works for autumn scented home fragrance oils. I love that they always come out with new ones every year.
* I buy spicy scented candles for my home. I love Peir 1 candles the best, they cost more, but they actually give off scent as you burn them, and they last forever.
* I buy a couple new outfits. This year, however, I can’t. I am still sworn to my “no new clothes for one year” rule. I can’t believe it’s already been 6 months! ... but that’s a whole other post.
* I rearrange my furniture. This is where I really miss my basement suite- grandma’s place is so huge. I love how simply moving a couch can give a small space an entirely new look. This year I gave every room a bit of a makeover by clearing all the bookshelves and surfaces, mixing it all up and then putting everything away in different rooms. I shuffled stuff around in the kitchen too and it honestly gives it a breath of fresh air. I used to drive my poor mom crazy because I would rearrange my bedroom every two months- I just got sick of looking at the same stuff all the time. From the moment I figured out that I could push my heavy desk around my room by propping myself against something sturdy on the ground and pushing it with my legs, my room was never the same (I think I was about 8 years old). What can I say? Change fuels my creativity.
*Summer is just way too hot to do any real damage in the kitchen, so as the weather cools down, I flip through all my cookbooks and stick post-its on everything I want to try (I remove them as I get around to cooking it)… and I dream of laughter-filled dinner parties (Grandma’s place is perfect).
* I change all the playlists on my IPOD. I get rid of those named “CocoCabana” and create ones called “Rubberboots”, “Chai Tea” and “Used Bookstore.” Perhaps Matthew Good will become one of my tradition playlists. Last September, Keira and I went to his concert. It was amazing (no surprise there), but his latest album (“Hospital Music”) was on replay for the entire month because it fit so perfectly. I think I am loving it even more this year given the way I am feeling right now.
For me, September is my Newyears. I begin to make plans for the coming year, I give myself a little “back to school” makeover, I give my home a few tweaks because I’m sick of the ‘same old” décor, I make new goals (school, fitness, social and hobby), and I shift my music preferences to more thoughtful vocals and bittersweet melodies.
I actually have quite a few traditions, some of which I have already fulfilled. I do these things every year, something about it just feels right.
*I always get blunt bangs. Over the past four years I have let my bangs grow out for the summer (because I refuse to do much styling when I know I’ll end up at the beach or in a pool), but then I begin to crave the fringe as the nights get cooler. Don’t know why, it’s weird, but I love it.
*I buy the September Vogue. I might purchase it one other time in the year, but to be honest, I prefer my “Nylon” magazine (I’ve also begun to enjoy Harper’s Bazaar because I actually read it rather than just look at all the pictures). Somehow the September issue is different (aside from it’s noticibly thicker size)… perhaps it’s just the ads, they help me get into the autumn mindset.
*I watch the SATC episode where Carrie speaks of the time of year that you can feel the seasons “click” from summer to fall… I don’t know what it’s called, but I may watch it after I finish typing this.
*I buy a new blanket: something soft and cozy for the couch. This year it is a burnt orange fleece throw from Costco.
*I hit the Body Shop or Bath and Body Works for autumn scented home fragrance oils. I love that they always come out with new ones every year.
* I buy spicy scented candles for my home. I love Peir 1 candles the best, they cost more, but they actually give off scent as you burn them, and they last forever.
* I buy a couple new outfits. This year, however, I can’t. I am still sworn to my “no new clothes for one year” rule. I can’t believe it’s already been 6 months! ... but that’s a whole other post.
* I rearrange my furniture. This is where I really miss my basement suite- grandma’s place is so huge. I love how simply moving a couch can give a small space an entirely new look. This year I gave every room a bit of a makeover by clearing all the bookshelves and surfaces, mixing it all up and then putting everything away in different rooms. I shuffled stuff around in the kitchen too and it honestly gives it a breath of fresh air. I used to drive my poor mom crazy because I would rearrange my bedroom every two months- I just got sick of looking at the same stuff all the time. From the moment I figured out that I could push my heavy desk around my room by propping myself against something sturdy on the ground and pushing it with my legs, my room was never the same (I think I was about 8 years old). What can I say? Change fuels my creativity.
*Summer is just way too hot to do any real damage in the kitchen, so as the weather cools down, I flip through all my cookbooks and stick post-its on everything I want to try (I remove them as I get around to cooking it)… and I dream of laughter-filled dinner parties (Grandma’s place is perfect).
* I change all the playlists on my IPOD. I get rid of those named “CocoCabana” and create ones called “Rubberboots”, “Chai Tea” and “Used Bookstore.” Perhaps Matthew Good will become one of my tradition playlists. Last September, Keira and I went to his concert. It was amazing (no surprise there), but his latest album (“Hospital Music”) was on replay for the entire month because it fit so perfectly. I think I am loving it even more this year given the way I am feeling right now.
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