Sunday afternoon the sun was shining and it felt like spring was actually finally officially on its way. We decided to go for a walk and do some window shopping. (Somehow we managed to go the entire trip without buying anything! An impressive display of willpower!) In a flash of brilliance I thought of the perfect ending for our little jaunt. Freshly made lemonade from one of the coffee shops.
We went in, ordered our lemonade and sat down to enjoy it.
I love lemonade. I think all facilities serving food and/or beverages should be required to serve lemonade. While I was explaining this to my sister, I wondered why I so adore lemonade.
I adore lemonade because it is so happy. You can't be anything but happy when you are drinking lemonade. The name itself is so pretty, evoking images of parasols and lovely hats and lazing about on verandahs. The drink is so refreshing, cutting through your thirst and quenching the dryness in your throat almost immediately. Slightly sweet. Slightly tart. Decked out in pretty pinks or yellows.
Lemonade is pure joy in a glass. And that's why I can never get enough of it.
March 28, 2006
Email and Etiquette
I've recently received two invitations for more traditional events (bridal shower and a wedding - different people) that had email addresses in the "Please RSVP" section. (The shower invitation also included a phone number and the wedding invitation included the address of course).
And I started thinking... I obviously don't mind communicating using computers. But something just seems wrong with RSVPing for such traditional events via email. Somehow, it seems like we're taking the convenience too far. Making it too informal. Too impersonal. I don't like it.
So what did I do? I RSVPed for the bridal shower. Via email. Because I didn't want to talk to anyone. And just because I have that much strength of conviction. Not fickle at all. Nope. :p
And I started thinking... I obviously don't mind communicating using computers. But something just seems wrong with RSVPing for such traditional events via email. Somehow, it seems like we're taking the convenience too far. Making it too informal. Too impersonal. I don't like it.
So what did I do? I RSVPed for the bridal shower. Via email. Because I didn't want to talk to anyone. And just because I have that much strength of conviction. Not fickle at all. Nope. :p
March 23, 2006
How big was the committee?
Was at the grocery store tonight. Looking for Craisins. They're normally in the produce section yet I couldn't find them anywhere. Finally asked one of the employees if they had them. He says "yes" and starts walking me over to where they used to be. As we approach the spot, he sort of pauses and seems to remember something.
He turns to me. Completely serious and matter-of-fact. "We used to have them here [in produce]", he explains, "but there was a big decision. So they're in Aisle 4 now."
The location of dried cranberries. A big decision indeed.
He turns to me. Completely serious and matter-of-fact. "We used to have them here [in produce]", he explains, "but there was a big decision. So they're in Aisle 4 now."
The location of dried cranberries. A big decision indeed.
March 22, 2006
Stand by your man?
Apparently I'm not the only one who had
this thought.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060322/sp_nm/nfl_vinatieri_dc
Adam's going to the Colts?! Leaving the Patriots? For the Colts?
When one's love for a team is tightly linked, or moreover, partially rooted in, one's love for a player, what does one do when that player leaves that team? The situation is further complicated when one's love decides to move to a team one really doesn't like (not that one has ever been able to discern why one so strongly dislikes the team - except it's Indiannapolis. And they're called the Colts. I mean, really.) Cheer for and support the man, yes. Yet it results in a completely counterintuitive and foreign feeling of cheering for and supporting the team. Confusion of mind and heart runs rampant.
It's a good thing the season is so far away. I think I'm going to need that time.
Perhaps these are the times to which Tammy Wynette was referring?
this thought.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060322/sp_nm/nfl_vinatieri_dc
Adam's going to the Colts?! Leaving the Patriots? For the Colts?
When one's love for a team is tightly linked, or moreover, partially rooted in, one's love for a player, what does one do when that player leaves that team? The situation is further complicated when one's love decides to move to a team one really doesn't like (not that one has ever been able to discern why one so strongly dislikes the team - except it's Indiannapolis. And they're called the Colts. I mean, really.) Cheer for and support the man, yes. Yet it results in a completely counterintuitive and foreign feeling of cheering for and supporting the team. Confusion of mind and heart runs rampant.
It's a good thing the season is so far away. I think I'm going to need that time.
Perhaps these are the times to which Tammy Wynette was referring?
March 20, 2006
The End of an Era
My mother has always played this little game with us, around this time of year, that she used to play with her own mother. As winter thaws and one yearns for spring, we know it's time to keep our eyes peeled for that all-important sign that spring really is on its way... the first robin.
Upon seeing the first robin, one must stamp it to win. Lick your thumb, press it to the palm of the opposite hand, form a fist with the first hand (that you licked) and bang your marked palm with the fist. (This is usually followed by unsportsmanlike screaming along the lines of "AHA! I saw it! I saw it first! I win!" but that part isn't necessarily required :p).
My mother has won this game every single year of my life that I remember, with the exception of maybe one where my grandmother might've won. (I suspect, as my mother was growing up, that my grandmother always won. Must be a maternal thing).
Until this year.
At my parents a couple weeks ago, I was standing in the driveway on a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Not a cloud in the sky and a lovely 50-something degrees. Suddenly I felt it. I heard it. Birds chirping. I could sense that robins were about... somewhere.
I was determined to win this year. Enough of the dynasty! It was my turn! I was going to win! My senses were on full alert. The robin game was ending this weekend.
Went back inside. Did some stuff. Was getting ready to go out with my sister. Heard her scream from the front hallway. Ignored it. Finished getting ready and headed out to the main part of the house.
Turns out what I figured was a scream of frustration/annoyance was a scream of joy. Of victory.
My mother didn't win the Robin Game this year. But then, neither did I.
This year, victory went to my sister. Congratulations on bringing down the Robin Game monarchy.
Next year, however, will be mine.
Upon seeing the first robin, one must stamp it to win. Lick your thumb, press it to the palm of the opposite hand, form a fist with the first hand (that you licked) and bang your marked palm with the fist. (This is usually followed by unsportsmanlike screaming along the lines of "AHA! I saw it! I saw it first! I win!" but that part isn't necessarily required :p).
My mother has won this game every single year of my life that I remember, with the exception of maybe one where my grandmother might've won. (I suspect, as my mother was growing up, that my grandmother always won. Must be a maternal thing).
Until this year.
At my parents a couple weeks ago, I was standing in the driveway on a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Not a cloud in the sky and a lovely 50-something degrees. Suddenly I felt it. I heard it. Birds chirping. I could sense that robins were about... somewhere.
I was determined to win this year. Enough of the dynasty! It was my turn! I was going to win! My senses were on full alert. The robin game was ending this weekend.
Went back inside. Did some stuff. Was getting ready to go out with my sister. Heard her scream from the front hallway. Ignored it. Finished getting ready and headed out to the main part of the house.
Turns out what I figured was a scream of frustration/annoyance was a scream of joy. Of victory.
My mother didn't win the Robin Game this year. But then, neither did I.
This year, victory went to my sister. Congratulations on bringing down the Robin Game monarchy.
Next year, however, will be mine.
March 15, 2006
Turning the page?
Those of you who check this page every morning, with bated breath, to see the progress I've made in my literary endeavours will notice that I've made some changes to the clutter on my coffee table.
I am now, no longer really reading anything. I was sorta liking The Zahir. Really. And yet, there was nothing compelling me to read the next page. Or, even, really, the next sentence. My obscenely slow progress on that book resulted in never really starting The Other Boleyn Girl. And I hit a point where I was looking at having to renew the books for a FOURTH time, having only read 10 pages since the last renewal.
So I decided to do something I have only done once before. I didn't finish a book I started. I have this rule that states I have to finish every book I start. And, with the exception of Accordion Crimes, which, thank the heavens above I lost before I could be guilted into finishing, I have. Until 3 months ago. And last week. And I've decided two books makes a pattern and that I'm allowed to break my own rules if they're no longer serving my purpose or fitting in with my life. (Even if I'm still trying to convince myself that all it shows is an evolution, a growth, a desire and a willingness to change the way I live my life when it isn't suiting me anymore, and not that it's some glaring example of how I'm no longer the person I thought I once was. Really, it's okay. :p)
So I've made some decisions:
1) I'm no longer forcing myself through things I'm not enjoying. Especially when they're supposed to be relaxing distractions. Life is too short and far too busy.
2) I will stop trying to force myself to like something and put the onus back on the artist to entertain me.
3) Non-fiction gets ONE MORE SHOT and THAT'S IT for at least 8 months. This isn't so much related to the above books but I'm so sick of starting non-fiction to educate myself and then having to sit through some narcissist's self-indulgent babbling. Instead I will read blogs! ;) (Not that I am extremely judgemental or harbour strong feelings against non-fiction or anything. :p)
So, right now, I am bookless. Except for the two books I currently have on the go. :p I will finish those! And then, free from all encumbrances, I will go out in the sunshine and feel the wind on my face and know that I am free to select any book I want. And often, that feeling of freedom is all I need to get me back on the right track.
I am now, no longer really reading anything. I was sorta liking The Zahir. Really. And yet, there was nothing compelling me to read the next page. Or, even, really, the next sentence. My obscenely slow progress on that book resulted in never really starting The Other Boleyn Girl. And I hit a point where I was looking at having to renew the books for a FOURTH time, having only read 10 pages since the last renewal.
So I decided to do something I have only done once before. I didn't finish a book I started. I have this rule that states I have to finish every book I start. And, with the exception of Accordion Crimes, which, thank the heavens above I lost before I could be guilted into finishing, I have. Until 3 months ago. And last week. And I've decided two books makes a pattern and that I'm allowed to break my own rules if they're no longer serving my purpose or fitting in with my life. (Even if I'm still trying to convince myself that all it shows is an evolution, a growth, a desire and a willingness to change the way I live my life when it isn't suiting me anymore, and not that it's some glaring example of how I'm no longer the person I thought I once was. Really, it's okay. :p)
So I've made some decisions:
1) I'm no longer forcing myself through things I'm not enjoying. Especially when they're supposed to be relaxing distractions. Life is too short and far too busy.
2) I will stop trying to force myself to like something and put the onus back on the artist to entertain me.
3) Non-fiction gets ONE MORE SHOT and THAT'S IT for at least 8 months. This isn't so much related to the above books but I'm so sick of starting non-fiction to educate myself and then having to sit through some narcissist's self-indulgent babbling. Instead I will read blogs! ;) (Not that I am extremely judgemental or harbour strong feelings against non-fiction or anything. :p)
So, right now, I am bookless. Except for the two books I currently have on the go. :p I will finish those! And then, free from all encumbrances, I will go out in the sunshine and feel the wind on my face and know that I am free to select any book I want. And often, that feeling of freedom is all I need to get me back on the right track.
The beginning of something good?
So we met. And I think it went well. She was really nice and she asked about my hair and how I wear it and tried to get to know it and me. The wash was a good wash. Comfy and yet powerful. (A good wash is so important). And she knew what she was doing and my layers are just how I like and she even brought out thinning shears to deal with my mane. She didn't offer to blow dry my hair straight (just did an overhead dryer so it stayed curly), but I can just ask for that next time. And the 'do was pretty much what I was looking for. Definitely worth trying again and fairly certain we're on the right path. Yay!!!
Now I just need a doctor, and a dentist, and a will, and a garbage disposal and a storm door and to learn how to use my water softener! But at least one thing's done!
Now I just need a doctor, and a dentist, and a will, and a garbage disposal and a storm door and to learn how to use my water softener! But at least one thing's done!
March 11, 2006
Set the first meeting
I just made the first appointment for the first step of this journey to discover and develop what is easily one of the most important relationships a woman will ever have - that with her hairdresser.
My criteria for a hairdresser:
1) Must be geographically close by
2) Must be available within a couple days (for basic cuts)
3) Needs to be reasonably priced
4) Needs to know how to layer properly and in a natural way*
5) Preferably knows something about curly hair.
6) Someone who can read and understand me, and my hair, and the complex relationship my hair and I have as we lead our independent, but extremely inter-related existences. (This one might be a bit harder to find, I admit)
I spent the last 3 years of life in my previous city looking for a hairdresser (my old one moved across town and the 25 minute drive, and her week long wait times made her "completely unaccessible (inaccessible? unaccessible?)" to me - especially given my need to have my hair cut within about 3 hours of deciding to cut it. Because I only cut it every 4-6 months, as soon as I decide it's bothering me, it needs to be cut RIGHT NOW, if not sooner. The fact that, I decided 3 weeks ago it needed to be cut and it hasn't been yet is a testament to the difficulty in finding the courage to put yourself out there and turn yourself over to a complete stranger - well that, and, an obvious sign that despite my attempts so far this year, my new year's resolution of getting my life under control isn't really working :p, but I digress). I moved out of town. Went back for Christmas. Went to a salon with my sister because she needed moral support to get her hair coloured. So I had to get my highlighted. Of course, after searching for 3 years in vain, I found the perfect hairstylist, who gave me the most amazing cut EVER, after I had moved out of the city. Lovely.
So, even though I've lived here 1.5 years, I still have no hairstylist. (I have no doctor or dentist either, but obviously getting a hairstylist is more important. :p) Last summer, in an impulse moment I went to a random salon in the mall and had some girl cut my hair and while it wasn't a tragedy, it certainly wasn't anything I would call "good". Someone else is required.
I've also been a bit nervous about finding a hairdresser here because I look around at some of the hair hack jobs* in this town, and, well, I actually honestly get scared. So I knew I had to carefully seek out recommendations.
Started with a coworker's wife. Lovely hair. She recommends her salon. I spend several weeks attempting to call, attempting to stop by on weekends, attempting to get an appointment. (I, of course, never call during the day, only evenings and weekends). The place is never open. I finally come to the conclusion that, as much as I would like to try the place, it certainly doesn't seem to fit my life. I can't be taking off work every time I need my hair cut.
So I was lost again. Until, one day, I was talking to a coworker in the hallway and she mentioned how long my hair was getting and how it looked good. I mentioned that it desperately needed to be cut. She asked who I go to. I told her how I was lost and confused. She gave me the name of her hairdresser. I thought, this one has potential! Coworker has curly hair! Coworker has lovely style, great layers and pretty, natural looking colour! Mentions hairdresser is a bit expensive, but is worth it. After some of the stuff I've seen, I'm willing to take my chances on the price and give it a shot.
So I called this morning for an appointment. It's Tuesday at 5:30. I'm excited. Yet nervous. It's a small step and yet a big one. Is this the one? Could this be the beginning of something beautiful and long-lasting? And yet, I don't want to put too much pressure on this one meeting. There are other fish in the sea. It's just that I've been waiting for this for so long, it's hard to keep the butterflies in check. Allowing someone to take scissors to your hair, even just once, is a big commitment. I think, though, I will find my cutest hair accessory, pull my hair up for the next 4 days, and just enjoy the excitement as I contemplate what the future may hold.
*It's as if there's a blind hairstylist out there layering by grabbing handfuls of hair and chopping a straight line across the bottom, at different lengths, and calling that layering! So that the hair looks like farmland on a hill that has been terraced to prevent erosion! It's horrific! As part of my civic duty I feel like I need to find this hairdresser and stop this behaviour immediately!
My criteria for a hairdresser:
1) Must be geographically close by
2) Must be available within a couple days (for basic cuts)
3) Needs to be reasonably priced
4) Needs to know how to layer properly and in a natural way*
5) Preferably knows something about curly hair.
6) Someone who can read and understand me, and my hair, and the complex relationship my hair and I have as we lead our independent, but extremely inter-related existences. (This one might be a bit harder to find, I admit)
I spent the last 3 years of life in my previous city looking for a hairdresser (my old one moved across town and the 25 minute drive, and her week long wait times made her "completely unaccessible (inaccessible? unaccessible?)" to me - especially given my need to have my hair cut within about 3 hours of deciding to cut it. Because I only cut it every 4-6 months, as soon as I decide it's bothering me, it needs to be cut RIGHT NOW, if not sooner. The fact that, I decided 3 weeks ago it needed to be cut and it hasn't been yet is a testament to the difficulty in finding the courage to put yourself out there and turn yourself over to a complete stranger - well that, and, an obvious sign that despite my attempts so far this year, my new year's resolution of getting my life under control isn't really working :p, but I digress). I moved out of town. Went back for Christmas. Went to a salon with my sister because she needed moral support to get her hair coloured. So I had to get my highlighted. Of course, after searching for 3 years in vain, I found the perfect hairstylist, who gave me the most amazing cut EVER, after I had moved out of the city. Lovely.
So, even though I've lived here 1.5 years, I still have no hairstylist. (I have no doctor or dentist either, but obviously getting a hairstylist is more important. :p) Last summer, in an impulse moment I went to a random salon in the mall and had some girl cut my hair and while it wasn't a tragedy, it certainly wasn't anything I would call "good". Someone else is required.
I've also been a bit nervous about finding a hairdresser here because I look around at some of the hair hack jobs* in this town, and, well, I actually honestly get scared. So I knew I had to carefully seek out recommendations.
Started with a coworker's wife. Lovely hair. She recommends her salon. I spend several weeks attempting to call, attempting to stop by on weekends, attempting to get an appointment. (I, of course, never call during the day, only evenings and weekends). The place is never open. I finally come to the conclusion that, as much as I would like to try the place, it certainly doesn't seem to fit my life. I can't be taking off work every time I need my hair cut.
So I was lost again. Until, one day, I was talking to a coworker in the hallway and she mentioned how long my hair was getting and how it looked good. I mentioned that it desperately needed to be cut. She asked who I go to. I told her how I was lost and confused. She gave me the name of her hairdresser. I thought, this one has potential! Coworker has curly hair! Coworker has lovely style, great layers and pretty, natural looking colour! Mentions hairdresser is a bit expensive, but is worth it. After some of the stuff I've seen, I'm willing to take my chances on the price and give it a shot.
So I called this morning for an appointment. It's Tuesday at 5:30. I'm excited. Yet nervous. It's a small step and yet a big one. Is this the one? Could this be the beginning of something beautiful and long-lasting? And yet, I don't want to put too much pressure on this one meeting. There are other fish in the sea. It's just that I've been waiting for this for so long, it's hard to keep the butterflies in check. Allowing someone to take scissors to your hair, even just once, is a big commitment. I think, though, I will find my cutest hair accessory, pull my hair up for the next 4 days, and just enjoy the excitement as I contemplate what the future may hold.
*It's as if there's a blind hairstylist out there layering by grabbing handfuls of hair and chopping a straight line across the bottom, at different lengths, and calling that layering! So that the hair looks like farmland on a hill that has been terraced to prevent erosion! It's horrific! As part of my civic duty I feel like I need to find this hairdresser and stop this behaviour immediately!
March 10, 2006
Chapter 2
So it turns out yesterday I had some inaccurate information.
When I made the pottery discovery I called my friend to tell her about it. She called me back today. Turns out she didn't buy the mugs at a small store. The artist (what do you call a pottery-maker?) is her boyfriend's uncle's neighbour! They were visiting his uncle and his uncle says "the neighbour makes pottery and we really like it - we should go visit". So they did. And that's how they bought the mugs! Right from the guy! Who made my bowls! And it turns out, yes, he did just move from the town etched into the bottom of my bowl to the town etched onto my mugs.
Freaky!!!
When I made the pottery discovery I called my friend to tell her about it. She called me back today. Turns out she didn't buy the mugs at a small store. The artist (what do you call a pottery-maker?) is her boyfriend's uncle's neighbour! They were visiting his uncle and his uncle says "the neighbour makes pottery and we really like it - we should go visit". So they did. And that's how they bought the mugs! Right from the guy! Who made my bowls! And it turns out, yes, he did just move from the town etched into the bottom of my bowl to the town etched onto my mugs.
Freaky!!!
March 09, 2006
My pottery destiny
A couple years ago I was in Nova Scotia. We stopped in a tiny little town near Peggy's Cove for lunch. The restaurant was this wood-sided building, run by two older women. Chalkboard menu of the day's offerings. Small dining room looking out onto their patio and, beyond that, a little canal. Ordered the seafood chowder (it was a very chowder-y trip) which was absolutely amazing. Served in deep royal blue bowls. Large chunks of seafood and fish in a tasty, opaque broth. Every bite, almost too big for the spoon, was a treat. The best part was the end. As I made my way to the bottom of the bowl, I started seeing this orange colouring. I was curious and yet, didn't want the chowder to end. Torn between rushing and savouring. Finally the soup was gone and the surprise was revealed. Shaped into the bottom of the bowl was this bright orange-red lobster! (Nostalgia kicks in as I remember my childhood cereal bowl with The Three Bears on the bottom - matching plate even!) The bowl was so adorable I had to have it. (I adore bowls. Not as much as shoes, but definitely still an adoration. Can there be degrees of adoration?) Bought four. Artist's name and location etched on the underside of the bowl.
Fast forward to tonight. I'm (finally) doing some tidying/cleaning. I'm putting away birthday gifts. A set of mugs my friend bought for me when she was in Nova Scotia over Christmas. I flip them over to see if there's any information regarding dish-washer suitability. There is a name and location etched into the bottom. Why does it look so familiar?
I go to the cupboard. I pull out a lobster bowl. Same artist! Oddly enough, though, different location.
What are the chances I wander into some random lunch place, which happens to sell the bowls it uses and buy them, and then, years later, my friend wanders into some other small store and buys mugs made by the same guy (in the same colour as the lobster in my bowl even!)?! This man is my pottery destiny! And I am, unwittingly, following him through the various chapters of his life.
This can't be a coincidence. One wonders if I need to take another trip to Nova Scotia. I could use some plates.
Fast forward to tonight. I'm (finally) doing some tidying/cleaning. I'm putting away birthday gifts. A set of mugs my friend bought for me when she was in Nova Scotia over Christmas. I flip them over to see if there's any information regarding dish-washer suitability. There is a name and location etched into the bottom. Why does it look so familiar?
I go to the cupboard. I pull out a lobster bowl. Same artist! Oddly enough, though, different location.
What are the chances I wander into some random lunch place, which happens to sell the bowls it uses and buy them, and then, years later, my friend wanders into some other small store and buys mugs made by the same guy (in the same colour as the lobster in my bowl even!)?! This man is my pottery destiny! And I am, unwittingly, following him through the various chapters of his life.
This can't be a coincidence. One wonders if I need to take another trip to Nova Scotia. I could use some plates.
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