Merry Musings and Hot Chocolations

This post read goes well with Sufjan Steven’s I Saw Three Ships and drinking mint tea bag steeped hot chocolations. Hot picks derived from the writer as this is what she is doing as she contemplates this Holiday Season with virtual pen.

Like when opening a present and the next thing you know you’re debating whether or not to recycle wrapping paper packages that have been ripped to shreds. That’s somewhat how I feel when I try to gage how rapid the holidays will and have flown by.

This year’s Christmas letter came and went. As did the house gatherings, the excessive endorsements for egg nog – a concoction I have never truly understood, the mad dash around the local shopping emporium. The baking, the wrapping, the singing, the counting. The candlelit Christmas Eve Service. Reflection on Christ’s birth: everything.

What I most look forward to most every year are what is said when my family gets together. There are always gems of entertainment in what is said.

The best quote sample of the Hagglund Holidays 2009:

“Mom, if you don’t march upstairs right now, I’m going to write about this in my blog.” - The activities in question will be omitted for her sake.

“Do you know how long it’s been that I haven’t been able to grate cheese?” – Joel Hagglund as he proceeds to open a much needed cheese grater for his new kitchen.

“That’s the finest sifter I have ever seen.” – Mary Ellen says upon enviously inspecting her son’s dollar store purchased sifter.

“How come it’s not ringing anymore?” Mary Ellen says upon her iPhone connecting to the number she had dialed on her Christmas present.

“I have no more room for any more new technology.” – Mary Ellen after a few lessons on learning how to use her new cell phone. December 27, 2009 Mark it in your calendars folks. The day my mother decided to not learn anything new. It’s going to be another rough 50 years from here on in if this is truly the case.

“I think I would have to be Jewish and male to truly appreciate that.” – Kelsey Hagglund in reference to watching a skit called Tur – Mohel’s Evil League of Evil which involved plenty of jokes about circumcision. Highly recommended by Barry Hagglund.

“My plan to spite Kelsey isn’t going so well.” – Joel Hagglund as he proceeded to be beaten at Bohnanza.

To name a few. Merry New Year. Bring on 2010 for more fun, friendships and funny quotes.

Snooping Through the Epicentre of Chaos

Who would have thought that cleaning your room can revolutionize your life?

All those years of tuning out when my mother reached the shrill octave - a frequency that young dogs and small children in trouble tune into - I now have a grand appreciation for the perfected reminder in a song that I wasn’t willing to listen to.

For the longest time I have been living out of a suitcase not literally but as a state of being. The suitcase ready-to-leave-for-my-next-adventure state of being. I am not one to ever settle down anywhere in particular. Up until recently I have always just had things in a state of slight disarray to a point where I am never entirely too comfortable in wanting to stay wherever I reside. That's just it: I have never been one for total comfort to the point where this situation would inevitably force me to charge over to the nearest coffee shoppe because I didn’t even like my own space.

I think it partially has to do with the fact that I haven’t lived anywhere for more than 4 years of time. Yes, I have lived in certain neighbourhoods, certain countries for entire decades but never in the same locations or under regular circumstances.

My wise roommate one day sauntered into my room. The Epicentre of Chaos would have been the title of the movie my room would have starred in had it been personified as la vedette. Tina stood in the doorway and quietly waited as it took me a few minutes to appear from behind the stack of papers I had going on for one of the clients I was working with.

“You know what we need to do?” She asked.

I knew full well what was going to come out of her mouth next but I wasn’t ready to hear the words breathed into existence just yet. Silently I was cringing in the nest that I had created in the corner. The we was really singular.

Pieces of paper for shavings, a little spinning desk chair, there I was, caught on the hamster wheel of life.

The we that Tin Tin was referring to was meant to be me and I knew that I was going to have to conquer the self-perpetuated mess.

Then, she started to describe how it needed to be placed and suddenly my room – in the context of how it should be in theory - just made total sense, an utter lightbulb moment; it allowed for a sense of freedom to overcome me.

So a month later after I managed to clear my schedule there I was, going through a spacial makeover. Everything changed places. Not a thing stayed the way it was.

When it was done, it was a masterpiece – in fact it still is. I want to be in my room. I desire to be organized and to know where I put things. I am busier than ever before in my life it just took that extra push to get me to reach that next level of efficiency.

Sam Gosling wrote a book called Snoop, what going through someone’s stuff says about them. He’s a psychologist that follows social behaviours and essentially he talks about what you can learn about a person by the state of their personal space before you meet them.

A good friend of mine and I were discussing this recently because he came out to visit me a long time ago and my room was in utter chaos. Like disgusting, I never wanted to be in it, didn’t really feel welcome, wanted to put my bed up for sale and sleep on the streets, kind of messy. A Massive State of Embarassment – one bigger than Alaska.

I watched Sam’s lecture recently and this put my life into a new perspective. There are three types of people: those that are organized, those that are unorganized and those that want to be organized.

I think I fall under the category of those that want to be organized. Although, I am more organized than I always gave myself credit for. And I attribute this to something that I learned while watching the lecture.

Sam made an interesting point to evaluate homosexuals’ spaces while they were in the midst of announcing their lifestyle to the world. His observation was that each space had no continuity. His attribution of this observation was that their lives are in a state of transition.

That’s when it hit me: I have never actually moved in anywhere because I am in constant assumption that my life should be in transition. Not in a lifestyle choice kind of way, but more in when’s-the-next-adventure kind of way - that I won’t be staying anywhere for long. It all makes a little more sense amongst this symphony of chaos. Who knew me and my proud friends that parade would have that in common? We are all human after all.

Check out the lecture. Fascinate your senses: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfRgjW4hFcU

The Material Rapport with the Cashier

I stand, mouth gapping open. Lost in thought. Rather out of it, dazed but not confused. Or at least until the cashier brings me back to reality. I'm trying to decide whether to pay with Debit or Visa.

Typically I'll look up to find a kid with contoured zits that would make the local ski hills jealous. He'll respond in a squeaky voice and ask me if I want a bag. I know if he were Jewish, the barmitzfah has not happened yet.

Everything from a cashier's mannerisms to the phrasing of the question screams the general consensus of the public; plastic bags are an evil evil thing. So evil, that the word needs to be emphasized by writing it twice.

"Do you want a BAG for that?" They inquire.

Of course, I stand empty handed and I have to calculate. The output of energy over the amount of items needed to juggle divided by the number of doors I have to open singlehandedly to the weight times the amount of residual patience. I say yes please.

I know deep down they have taken the piece of chalk and gone up that wall of primitive tally of bags used and wasted that very day. I hate to remind them that there is someone behind me that is going to buy yet another clothe bag that apparently breeds bacteria to somehow save the planet. It will make them look more eco-friendly while making them one more unit of spending closer to being in debt. But it's a small price to pay for having an ego the size of Alaska when you know that both you and the cashier know that your eco footprint has the "inferred" suggestion of being smaller than everyone else's. But it's a well-kept secret because your neighbours know that you live in a mansion that is lit up 24/7 and that your Hummer is the older model that is more of a gas guzzler. But don't let anyone know. They might miss that huge tank of a vehicle barreling down the road side-saddling the curb and the road.

But really it is only suggested by the fact that you bought another clothe bag. That clothe bag was also used to purchase only frozen foods that are all individually packed and processed. The bag is quantifiable.

It will make its way also to a dump site.

However, you have just built a fifteen second friendship with the cashier because they are the ultimate environmental consultant when it comes to reminding you just how bad of a person you are for having purchased a 20 cent plastic bag.

For a fraction of approval if the item that you are purchasing is smaller than a bread box, you'd rather make the cashier smile and look like a total bafoon cradling the items under your forarm and your armpit out to your car, than risk the scathing stare when you reply that you will need a plastic bag. You mine as well have suffocated their goldfish.

So to end on a positive note and just point out merely an observation more than anything, that we hate to be hated at the check out, either shop at a store that still does paper bags - after all it is still a renewable resource (a shout out to Thrifty's) or never buy anything that you can't carry out of a store if you happen to forget that stack of bags from home.

Good Employees Don't Fart

Have you ever noticed that there are unspoken rules in society? Like, no skateboarding on the front lawn of the Empress Hotel in downtown Victoria. You don’t really need to put a sign up. Society just kind of intuitively realizes that when there are hedges that are 20 feet high with not a blade of grass out of place, chances are there is something that you shouldn’t be doing or be touching for that matter.

My roommate from China once informed me that one of the unspoken rules in China is that if there is a patch of grass you are just forbidden to walk on it. I think it has something to do with the fact that there are so few pieces of green space and lots of people to quickly trample it.

I work in a place where there are such unspoken rules. Not about the grass mind you.

Perhaps it is chalked up to that it is the original Mayor’s house of our little community from when the town was first started in the early 1900’s. Perhaps it is the folk lore of the ghost that lives in the women’s washroom. Perhaps it is the wainscoting, the cherry stained woods used throughout the décor, the chandeliers that remind of past high society events, or the creaking of the floor boards. But the overall ambience of such an atmosphere creates a certain sense of untold propriety.

I truly don’t work in an office. I work in a communal home of small businesses. Prime example, I ran up the stairs up to the third floor one day and the front receptionist chastised me by saying, “No running in the house.” Granted we’re good friends and this was a joke, but everyone else sort of follows this unspoken rule and then it was spoken into reality when she said that. It hit me, no one else runs. Hence, I should probably follow their unspoken rules even though I don’t feel like it.

But what I realized yesterday is that these rules are all made up by the individual’s perception of what is proper. Everyone else thinks it improper to run but will do other improper things in my mind, like the unspoken smoker in the downstairs washroom – Nancy Drew is still trying to figure the pieces out to that one. Perhaps it was the ghost. Wait – wrong bathroom.

Yesterday I wasn’t feeling that great and I out of no where let out a horrible sound. My coworker next to me heard it, and I knew she had heard it. My face had distorted in discomfort, more from complete embarrassment than anything else. My boss didn’t hear the sound obviously but she saw the contorted facial expression that went along with it.

My coworker murmured under her breath, “It’s alright Kels, nothing to be embarrassed about.” My boss on the other hand started laughing and asked, “what was that face all about.

I sheepishly paused waited and said, “I flatulated.” I couldn’t even bring myself to even mention the four letter F word in the house. It seemed like one of these unspoken rules in such a proper house that people just should have utter control over all body functions at all times.

Some people think that we shouldn’t run in heritage homes. Perhaps because the infrastructure is old??? But my quirky perception on farting??? The jury is still out on that one.

I attribute it to my overall perception on farting. When I lived with my family I was always so disgusted by how often they would flatulate. To the point where for my 17^th birthday, my parents bought me the book by Robert Munch called Good Families Don’t Fart. I was a little old to be recieving a children's book as a gift but they got their general point across.

Although it may be true, flatulance is a part of life that I suppose I’m just going to have to accept. Although I have to admit: if you're looking for a comical way to cut tension in the room, just save up some gas for the perfect improper moment.

Menacing Unibrows and the Ugly Green Swirly of Truth

I looked down at the green swirly and sighed. Why does history repeat itself? I suppose because bad habits sometimes die hard.

Lately I have been contention with imperfection in my life.

As a part of the mosaic of humanity it is understanded that I will fail, but facing failure is hard to look straight in its’ one eye. It’s a rather ugly eye. It has a menacing perfectly arched unibrow overtop. I’m not sure which I am more fearful of – seeing the hairy catepillar of a brow or the eye itself.

Anyways point is, there I stood overtop of our toilet watching the mess in the toilet swirl around and around. Not only had I killed our herb garden due to lack of maintenance but I had decided it was time to do something about it and had given it a sever growth cutback. I thought, now where should I put the dried out basil leaves. I went straight to our toilet.

The logic should hopefully be more than self-explanatory. I would flush and the problem would be no more and shriveled up basil is small. Well I didn’t calculate the branches getting stuck. They were withered and completely small enough to go down that pipe but apparently not to cooperate. So there it swirled. This mass of droopy green and brown mess. Tangled much like the logic that had brought me to this predicament in the first place. Suddenly a flashback to a particular dinner party came to mind. I have a habit of thinking that the toilet can be used like a garborator.

I had been in a rush to clean some stuff out of the fridge before guests came. I had seen a bunch of containers that needed to be cleaned out. I rinsed them out, barely glancing to see what was inside them and rushed to the toilet to dispose of the nasty water. Went on my way cleaning the house and thought nothing of it. The guests arrived for a lovely dinner and just as we were cleaning up, someone emerged from our bathroom with a perplexed look on their face.

They directed me to find molding tortellini floating in the toilet bowl. The whole party gathered around to see what the kaffufel was all about. Embarassing moments are bad enough without an audience. Our rubber gloves had ripped recently and so not only did I have to wear a plastic bag over my hand to fish them out, it was captured on someone’s camera.

The roar of laughter was enough to even put me in a good mood. Even if it was happening to me, it was hilarious. We tried to flush after the tortellini was safely in the garbage.

Unfortunately it backed up again. I dove my bagged hand in again. This time to my horror I fished out a full piece of lotus root. The laughing subsided to questions of “what the heck is that?” and “how did that end up in there?” How I hadn’t noticed the lotus root go into the toilet bowl is beyond me. Even to this day I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Above and beyond that, I know eventually I’ll learn from my mistakes. The green swirly I think was enough of a reminder to hammer the last nail in that coffin of my memory on that.

What Would Captain Planet Do?

So my car has been on bed rest for the entire week. As a result I have been walking everywhere. The good weather during this wonderful fall has been a blessing despite the frustrations with a cantankerous automobile.

It's surprising what we miss when we're on the rat race of the congested autobahns of our cities. Today I was walking from the car shoppe to my work place and watched as a gentleman let his dog go to the washroom on a lawn that had not been properly maintained in a very long time.

He fished around for a few moments for a bag in his pocket and pretended to pull out an imaginary bag while I watched him. I'm not entirely sure how bad he truly thought my eyesight is. It's bad, but that's what the glasses are for. And if I remember correctly, they have been on my head all morning.

Then he quickly ran ahead of me with his dog. I looked over in the patch and his little Shitzu had made the number that I had predicted.

I sighed and walked past. It's funny how we are supposed to play by unspoken rules wherever we live. Who comes up with these rules other than the grumpy collective.

The man ran ahead and then when he realized he had to turn around he quickly scuffled past me with his head tilted down looking at his feet. I had to smile on the inside.

Yes. Dog poop is unsightly. Yes. It stinks. Yes. No one wants to step in it. But in a society so hung up on saving the planet, I am convinced that we should be a little more willing to let nature take its course and bio degrade and watch where we step more often. Cheers to Captain Planet.

In other countries it's your fault for not watching where you're going if you step in someone else's dogs remnants but that would interfere with our North American sense of self-entitlement.

So what would Captain Planet do? Save the planet, kiss David Suzuki, tell me I'm ridiculous for having a car. I think most of all he would draw the line at picking up after other people's dogs.

Reading Between the Adult Lines

Be back in 10 minutes.

I read the sign and took a sip of the stagnant pumpkin spice latte reproduction in my hand. There was something so comforting about those organic words scribbled on a taped piece of paper in cursive. Who uses cursive anymore?

I could have cared less for the drink in my hand. Sustenance for the immediate and not necessarily something that produced longterm comfort.

The house in front of me exuded a welcoming atmosphere despite being confined by lock and bolt. I was standing on one of the more sleepy busy streets of Port Moody. I say that because the busy portion of that oxymoron comes from the rushes of traffic that plague the commuter corridor onto the highway. The sleepiness comes from all the quaint treasures that await finding in the forgotten houses turned into businesses. Yep, this would be my neighbourhood.

Few stop to look and pay attention. The used bookstores, a forgotten place tell a story of their own: stories of people taking home library books and being too embarrassed to turn them into the library so they sell them to a used book collector; stories of university students burning the oils of the midnight hour furiously trying to figure out what Shakespeare meant in his witty quips in olde English; stories of those who pride themselves of having a collection of classics that never get read; stories of young children eager to learn to use their budding artistic talents, loaded with more potential and less confined by the conventions of drawing within the adult lines.

Lately I have found that the adult lines is an interesting concept. Ones that we fit within not necessarily by choice but by necessity of survival and the nature of how old our physical beings are. I had a really interesting conversation with one of my friends recently and we were talking about the concept of being a teenager. They pointed out that being a teenager was a concept that didn’t exist in previous timeframes in history.

I thought about it for a while and realized just how accurate this observation is. Many different cultures have rites of passage to define being young and old but that’s just it: what defines a teenager. It’s a moderate adaptation to the fact that we don’t want to grow up and we don’t necessarily have to if someone else is going to do the adult thing for us.

Some will live as forever young at heart and grow up. Some will live as forever young in every aspect of life and choose to never grow up. Others were born grown up and there was no going back. The old souls and the fresh souls; we all make up the orchestra of life.

The choice is ours to step up and embrace age. To age gracefully is a beautiful thing. I hope that I can accept the wisdom with the tides of time yet still honour my memory of what it was like to be young, just so that I don’t pigeon hole my relational dialogue with others. But as I stood there in front of that monumental home turned business with the chipped paint, partially sealed windows with the warped glass and the worn stoop and the wood framed door with the bell hanging over head, the comfort washed over me.

The comfort of knowing that despite the fact that at one point this store was brimming full of people and was something different at one point in time, it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It wasn’t trying too hard. The character was ingrained into the wood. It was a used bookstore and it was just exactly that. It would always be simple and I now know the gravitational pull of that.

A book will always be a book. And although the denouement occurs, it stops when you close the cover and you can come back to it another day. So, yes, I will resume perusing with the hardcovered classics section in 10 minutes.

I turned on my heel and headed on my way knowing I wouldn't be able to resist coming back.

To Fan a Fan

I have a little bit of a shout out to make.

When I originally started this blog, it was solely came with the intention of keeping my good girlfriends laughing. That was my only aim. When we get together we essentially pick situations apart and over analyze and do what girls do best. But with the mandate of the bond of sisterly love at the true heart of why I wrote, the purpose didn't go much further beyond that.

My roommate's mom recently updated her status on facebook -- an account that she really doesn't use all that often and to her surprise -- people actually responded. I believe her actual words were, "I didn't think people would actually read it."

I sit here, amused by my rommate's mother but very much in agreement. When I set out to air my thoughts to the world, I didn't think they would get read. Or that I truly had anything beneficial to say. More or less, I don't but I got an interesting facebook message from one of my facebook friends that took me by surprise.

The person had added me because they had read my blog. I realized that I need to do a little more research before I add randoms on facebook. I had added someone that I didn't know at all. But at the same time, the person had the courage to write me to let me know that they really liked what I had to say. This really was flattering because I truly thought that the only people that would want to hear the verbal diahrea that came out on paper would be people like mom and dad. Ya know, the ones with the camerecorder in the front row at the recital - even if you aren't good at what you are attempting to do but by the very nature that you're trying, they think you're the best for doing so. Those were who I thought read my blog.

So here's to the imaginary, the incognito fans as well as my two known fans out there. You're part of the reason I keep writing. Plus, it's a great stress reliever.

The Real, The Plastic: Needing a Swift Kick to the Feet.

I have a pair of boots. I love wearing them. I am aware that the more I wear them, the more I’m wrecking my feet. Sometimes I just wish my feet came in plastic molds like Barbie just so that I would have an excuse for the orthopedic surgeon when I have to explain why my feet are so screwed up someday.

I had to go to court yesterday and I was brilliant and decided to take public transit in the described boots. For some reason, when I put these boots on weird things happen. Or standard Kelsey thought process happens and I end up having to walk all over town in 6 inch heels. So smart and yet so not.

So there I was, getting off the skytrain at the Granville station passing and weaving in and out of foot passenger waves of traffic. Whenever I get downtown, my living out east in downtown Ottawa and having-to-play-dodging-games-to-stay-warm-in-40-below kicks in. I turn into someone that belongs in New York. I am irritable, crabby and downright rude to others. And yesterday was just proof of it. Not proud of it, it’s just an observation I made about myself and realized it’s something that is a work in progress.

So I came flying out of the underground and charged up the sidewalk. Two men were hogging the sidewalk, walking about as relaxed as you could be. One of the gentleman took notice of the click click click of my heels right behind him and gestured to his friend to get out of the way. I don’t even think I muttered thank you as I breezed on past.

The man that got out of my way, had that charmed nature about him. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. The guy that walks as if he’s discovered the secret as to how to treat woman and masters the art of not looking overly arrogant about having figured out this secret. The dashing looks and the polite nature made me pause. It was as if he belonged in the movies. He had an Australian accent and reminded me a lot of the lead male role in The Devil Wears Prada. But he was too short to possibly be him.

So I sailed on past without giving it much more thought and literally passed everyone else to reach the corner of Georgia and Hornby. The light was red and I had to join everyone at the corner. I was freaking out. I had to be at the court in 10 minutes and I wanted to grab lunch. Being caught at the light with every other business person on their lunch break made me realize it just wasn’t going to happen.

Out of the corner of my left eye I saw the two gentleman that I had passed saunter up at their snail pace to stand right behind the crowd gathered at the corner of the busy downtown Vancouver spot. They had to cross there as well. The Charmer took one look at me and threw his head back in a deep laugh.

Somehow that relaxed my nerves slightly. I went on my way, got to the hearing and went home still plagued by the memory of that man. It was rather amusing that I had made all that effort to get somewhere faster and it just didn’t happen. You had to give him that.

I was talking to my roommate upon getting home and realized that perhaps it could have been that actor. We looked him up. Such a stalkerish thing to do. Sure enough, he is 5’10. Sure enough he is Australian and I found out his name is Simon Baker.

Whether or not it truly was Simon Baker, it’s too humorous that he stars in The Devil Wears Prada. I am a Personal Assistant in everyday life and after having read the book, I always did feel like I could totally relate to Anne Hathaway’s character as an EA. It was an uncanny moment to run into Simon Baker. It just goes to show you what the movies can do to ordinary looking people. I always thought that he would be taller. Makes him more likeable for being a normal height.

Not that I care all that much other than the fact that I totally acted like Meryl Streep rather than Anne Hathaway. That’s more embarrassing than anything. I know, I’ll blame it on the boots. There is a song that talks about boots that are made for walking. And that’s just what I did.

A Comedy of Errors

Family. You can't live with them and you can't live without them.

I moved out recently and this adage came to mind when my folks arrived for a feast of Italian excellence put together by my roommate and me. The older I get, the more evident the role reversals with my parents are that seem to play out in the theatre called life. This night was a prime example of this observation.

Upon the arrival of said blood relatives, a sudden vibrant sense of energy filled the room. Something to do with the prospect of payback for all those years of free loading from my end. They entered the room excited and talking over one another. Not even paying attention to what the other was saying.

My mother immediately sauntered over to talk to my roommate while my dad came into the kitchen to show me something. With gusto my dad started wild exclamations over a really hilarious song he heard. I smiled politely trying to verify if the spaghetti noodles were ready to join our digestive systems.

Suddenly an all too familiar blaring sound filled the kitchen. Country music has a place in the world but I would never have made the suggestion of my father's iPhone.

What's that? I asked knowing very well what it was.

He fiddled on his PDA and paced the kitchen - actions more commonly associated with this man - while crooning "honey, I'm still a guy," somewhat less familiar.

Meanwhile my mother looked at me and asked,"Is supper ready?"
I shook my head and returned to tending the corn.

She mumbled something to the effect of finding a couch to crash on and disappeared into the deep recesses of my basement suite.

Suddenly this vision of me flopping down on my mothers couch flooded my mind numerous times when she invited me over for dinner. I couldn't help but smile.

I turned to say to my dad, "since when have u liked Country???"

"Since I borrowed your car."

I rest my case.

Still trying to figure out what play I'm stuck in. Something Shakespearean perhaps? 5 ticks say tragedy 20 ticks say comedy. Perhaps Comedy of Errors??

Cellular Detoxification & the Real Harry Potter

Could the real Harry Potter please stand up? Please stand up! Please stand up!

So I recently did a cleanse-- not of Harry Potter. Not the kind of cleanse where you have to do anything incredibly strange such as stand on your head and drink milk through a straw up your nose or drink fruits and veggies only or meat only or well, you get the point.

This cleanse was quite satisfying. At first I was a frantic skeptic. I had the signs of being an avid junkie. My fingers itched for T9. I kept wondering what everyone was up to. Somehow meeting up with people seemed a lot harder all of a sudden.

What if they didn't see me next to the big clock in Gas Town?? Or what if I had a big contract coming through and no one could reach me.

About halfway through the second day of no cell phone service, most of these ridiculous questions subsided and I started to relax. All of a sudden I became almost invincible. To have a power to disappear in a crowd and no one know that I was there. Captain-Fly-On-The-Wall.

I started to like this newfound freedom. It detoxified my constant need to be in the know. To be available 24/7.

How this all came about was my cell phone no longer held a charge. And convenient too. I had been practically sanding the sidewalk with it when no one was looking, dropping that Motorola from such great heights but it was very much "the cat came back" the very next charge. I truly despised it because it was resilient. It had girth. All the sexy sleek machines all came out on the market right around the time that I had to settle for this craptastic piece of machinery called a phone.

Then it happened. The charger was shot just like that. Within minutes I was on the phone with my cellphone provider negotiating. Granted the iPhone 3GS is sold out across the country at the moment and I didn't want to pay the full price for it but I guess I could settle for the 3G considering what I had before this. Then the salesperson hacked my daydream with those dreaded little words. "That'll take 'bout 5 business days ma'am."

Excuse me? Me without phone for 5 days.

So there I was. Contemplating several options, none of which were rational -- I'm sure. I thanked her and got of the phone. Thus, started minute one of the cellph detoxification process.

Gradually I got used to it and came to terms. After a while I embraced it.

Finally the little package arrived in the mail and the front desk clerk at our office handed me the prize.

Startled I asked her, "What's this?" Almost a subconscious refusal of the anticipated goods.

I opened it. Shiny, sleek, and so much information at my fingertips. Oh no. I was available again. My heart sank. I was getting used to the solitude.

Today I took my baby down to the Apple store to get proper coverings for it so that I could protect every inch of equipment. I love these field trips because I finally feel at home with Mac users. It's like one big marketing cult. Not that I buy in completely but I've sure branded myself accordingly. It's not just the commercials I promise you. The interface is totally designed for me in mind. Hey it even rhymed. See how washed out my brain cells are?

I caught a sample conversation of what it was like in this wonderful abbyss of electronic goodness.

One Genius Bar employee was excitedly telling another genius bar employee that he was excited when the colour shuffles first came out. He quickly explained that it was his dream to collect every single colour in order to colour coordinate with his wardrobe. When the eavesdropping hit this high point I had to look over and at least get a load of the speaker's outfit.

And there you had him, could the real Harry Potter stand up? Oh wait, he was standing in front of me. Pen in hand, poised as if a true quidditch wizard. Somehow I felt like this was a telltale sign of home. The crisp and ripe conversation of geeks and genius side by side.

I have inaugurated the purchase of the iPhone - inspired by the Genius Mr. Harry Potter to name my phone. It has a name and I am intending to tend to it as if it were a child so that it will outlive my last phone. And in honour of a fine family tradition it shall be given a name. Not after a colour mind you -- as my close cousin has done for hers, but the most bizarre name that could come to mind first so that it fits in with the strange breed of apple marketing junkies such as Sir Harry. I introduce to you my Myrtle. She could be your crazy aunt thrice removed or she could be my phone, but crazy Aunt Myrtle is quicker than a turtle or quite a lovable phone at that.

Ape Wild: Going Guerrilla

The checklist:

- Ski mask
- Ninja outfit
- Gloves
- Flashlight
- Location map
- Stake out
- Meeting time
- Anonymous team
- Bucket
- Shovel
- Water
- Soil

Check. Check. & Check.

I sat in the Canadian Tire parking lot and waited for the crew to arrive. Death sounds eminent just based on what I was preparing. Whether it was to be my own or someone else's, it was rather foreboding. From the sounds of what I had to prepare I very well could be a “hit person”. Yes, it is illegal, yes, there is a plan of attack, and yes it calls for an army of help. Give up as to what I’m referring to? It’s Guerrilla gardening.

I read about it on a blog recently. Thought it was a fantastic concept and decided that certain neighbourhoods in the area could use this rigorous regime.

I announced my plans to several friends. The blank stares in return made it quite clear that not all understand the point of this exercise or feel that it is necessary. I updated my facebook status and boom a couple friends jumped on board. (They knew what I was talking about!)

The most PC and cumbersome title for this new movement is the “Volunteer Community Beautification Project.” A friend of mine came up with this mouthful. That’s what we are prepared to tell the cops any time we are caught gardening on private property. The point of it is to make an ugly space pretty. Tracking my course? If not, it's alright.

It all started in London England’s grand metropolis where someone one day woke up to the fact that there are no green spaces. So they decided to add them to any place possible. In cracked sidewalks, abandoned mailboxes etc.

Granted we have lots of green, but sometimes there are spaces that could be spruced up. Plus it’s fun to get dirty and learn a skill that I am not particularly aware of with my friends. Although I have to say that I don’t recommend stealing the plants to beautify any square footage. Buy them and then find a space.

Now that I rent my pad, I don’t have the luxury or heresay as to what adorns the space in front of house. It was a blast last time, and this time, for all of my skeptical friends, I encourage you to come out. Message me on facebook if you want to join the rebel recruits.

What do they call organized anarchy?

I'm know, I'm so not a rebel.

Thought of the morning

I was sent a long list of generalizations about women that men hate as a humorous email forward. There were a couple of questions that men hate and I just thought I would pose the observation that I have been stewing over.

The one that stuck out the most was when a woman asks a man if she looks fats.

Now the response given in the email was that we as women should never ask a man this question. Too true, but the women actually should ask is "do you like me the way I am." Ultimately, we don't ask this question because the resulting answer, if it's no, is not an answer that we want to hear. The guy just comes off as heartless if he says no. If he says yes and he means no, you have bigger issues at stake. The point is one rhetorical question is posed in the hopes of receiving an expected answer back and you have no control over that rhetorical question.

I guess it comes down to, don't ask a question you don't know the answer to.

Keeping the Peace Lily

I made a mandate a while back to keep a plant alive at work. Equipped with the proven prediction that this would be a challenge for me, I set out to landscape the office with a robust plant.

I ended up at a florist shop speaking in a foreign form of English trying to explain my predicament to a blank faced individual. I sense second languages aren’t a strong point of his.

The florist gestured at a scrawny Peace Lily. I read the tag instructions. Sounded like it could be robust.

The single petal bloomed and turned green almost immediately.

Each week I vigilantly watered it. Observed subtle changes in growth, or lack thereof.

Petals started to go yellowish. So much for being robust. Although even in the toughest of conditions – like the Sahara, nothing grows.

My coworker suggested that I get it plant food. I thought that water was enough?? As much as man cannot live on bread alone, apparently plants need more than water.

I read the silly little tag. Sure enough the plant needed fertilizer twice a month.

So I went out in search of plant food. Shortly after getting into the rhythm of feeding the plant its’ food, it grew 4 more petals. The petals shortly thereafter turned green.

I knew I was doing something wrong. Cacti have been a problem for me from time to time. Having a cacti farm was not going to be my calling in life. Nor was a landscaping business.

My coworker took one look at it and said, “Perhaps it needs more soil and a bigger pot.” She must have been right because when I came back from vacation the leaves had brown tips. The fact that my boss was gone on vacation and no one watered the plant while I was gone might have had something to do with the situation.

A diseased plant had gone from bad to worse.

My coworker sort of poked the yellow leaves and suggested a few problems that it might be experiencing. All of which required more gardening tools so I set out for the florist shop down the street on Friday. This time ensuring that I didn’t go to my previous stop.

I got there to find a startled florist when I explained the fact that I had by observation tortured our Peace Lily almost to extinction.

“How on earth do you kill a Peace Lily?” She asked while gathering bunches of babies breath for a purple bouquet. She was the expert so I figured that it would be best to listen to what she had to say.

I explained the situation.

“It’s almost impossible to kill those plants.” She said. “Have you been over watering it?”

I shrugged. I don’t think you could drown that plant. It absorbed a lot of water.

“Don’t let there be any access water. You don’t want the roots to rot.”

She then asked if I pinched off the flowers. Startled I realized therein lies my problem. I had not done that.

The clerk then pointed at the Peace Lily that she was in the process of selling. It was in worse shape than mine. This gave me satisfaction to know that my Peace Lily was not the ugliest to grace this earth.

All of the symptoms that my plant was experiencing were signs of distress in heat but it was fine and I had not killed it.

A spring in my step, I headed back to the office.

I gave the plant a manicure by pinching off the dead growth. I felt bad doing it but it was necessary to make room for the new growth.

I am now watching new buds unfold and to my relief I can keep at least one robust plant alive. It makes sense that by not pruning a plant it in fact hurts the organism. Useless energy is being wasted on a dead portion of the plant so it zaps the proper nutrients from the necessary parts of the plant hence creating discolouring at the very ends of the foliage.

Maybe I can truly become a botanist after all! Hydroponics here I come.

Sorry, 4got. Stppd 2 watch Dscvry Chnnl.

I watched seals fornicate for the first time in my entire life this morning. To my initial horror I wanted to tear my eyes away. Strangely enough I didn’t.

I had just befriended some hardcore diehard sporty folk who were willing to bust moves on the dance floor to the wee hours of the morning of an awesome Ukranian wedding the night before to be willing to arise early to glide the water of the inlet with me. Sheer enjoyment/soreness ensued the day after. I might add – we were not facebook friends at this point in time.

The wakeboarder bobbing in the water behind the boat had never wakeboarded in her entire life and only a few yards from where she sat ready and awaiting to discover the joys of wakeboarding, the joys of animal indecencies were taking place. On a positive note, she got up on the first try. A high level of motivation to get herself out of the water that she was sharing with the precarious mammals.

Let’s just say seals aren’t graceful about the act of recreating their spawn. There is an upset in the water as if a huge salmon has been caught and needs to be beat into submission. At first I thought that it was a fight in the water. But as I quietly observed for a few more seconds longer, it was definitely not a fight.

Sometimes life is like watching seals fornicate. It’s such a tragic comedy of an event that you can’t tear your eyes away as if you have the best seat in the house on real life Discovery Channel experiences. Someone pop the popcorn and get the Nibs out. A slap stick train wreck is playing.

I recently correlate this with my newfound hatred for social networking that gets out of control. I don’t despise Facebook, but it is a dangerous tool that can kill common courteousy in our relationships among real friends.

It fakens relationships in a lot of ways rather than enriching them if people are not reminded that there are unspoken rules to follow with any relationship. The same ones that we follow in showing love and care towards one another. But it seems that sometimes when life becomes a popularity contest people tend to forget basic rules that we should follow. And it somehow makes it alright to disregard all common courteousy with people. We can ignore, say maybe, and even say yes and then turn around and “forget.” It is a scape goat for when people don’t feel like being polite. Perhaps it is not a new concept. It's not as if caller ID was invented yesterday.

This has become incredibly apparent to me and has opened my eyes to the great symphony of a calamity of the shmozzle of events that can occur from creating events to attending events to trying to keep events intimate.

Recent events amongst friends of mine and hearing about the fact that Facebook really can create foes faster than clicking the send friend request has made me stop and think about my own level of curteousy with this social networking tool.

I send out a heartfelt apology to people that I might have offended at one point or another. There is sometimes rhyme or reason or none at all to the way I invite people to things. If you haven’t been invited, don’t take it personally. If you have been invited and you really don't know me, I might have misclicked the wrong name. I've done that before too.

If you have ever been excluded from an event and wanted to come, it hasn’t been on purpose and all you have to do is ask to come. I will try to follow up and invite you unless there is a specific reason as to why I can’t. They are general related to spacial issues, proximity or the general purpose/nature of the event. The net result is that I never intend to create a popularity contest. That’s all I can say. I’m careless and forgetful.

For those that have also taking Facebook as a serious planning tool, do remember that others are also careless and forgetful. Remember to err is human. But this is not a justification for behaving poorly.

For those of you who also find you have a hard time juggling this social networking tool. Do one last check of facebook before you head out for the evening. If there are a couple of events that you have the opportunity to attend, sometimes it’s best to try to fit them all in rather than creating a popularity contest. Or just be upfront about the fact that you aren’t going to attend and follow up because you can't go. Keep in mind that Facebook has a way of reminding others that they weren't invited. Once the event is over, many people tend to plaster their photos of their great times.

On the flip side, collaborate. If you find out that an event is occurring, be courteous to the person that is planning an event on the same night you want to have something. Plan your event on a different night.

If you’re missing a once in a lifetime party for an excited house owner for a birthday party and you all happen to be in the same circle of friends chances are someone is going to get hurt in the midst of carelessness. There in lies watching seals fornicate. It makes you want to tear your eyes away but at the same time, the nature of humanity and wildlife is being aware of the good, the bad and the ugly. I suppose it’s what we do with what we learn from watching mistakes, miscommunications, train wrecks and horny westcoastern seals go at it that is most important.

The Bright Side of Atomic Slurpees

Crap. I’m late. I haven’t packed everything. I have a lot of loose ends that have not been taken care of. I thought as I raced out the door for a week-long getaway missions trip to Squamish. Oh, and I didn’t get my dad a birthday present.

Sometimes life just does not go the way we envision and we have to deal. It’s how we deal with the situation that I suppose is the measure of where we are at and what we need to reflect on and look to improve upon.

I felt like this entire two weeks was a test in pushing me to my limits. A lot has happened and I have pulled through, but I somehow feel like I’ve been tumble dried, starched and ironed.

Then it happened, a slurpee spilled. It really wasn’t a big deal. Granted the entire slurpee spilled and all over a vehicle that wasn’t mine.

Kids hopped out of my vehicle left right and centre as I sat stunned in the driver seat of the borrowed SUV from my gracious parents.

I knew the spill had to be bad just by the sheer fact that everyone seemed to be doing a firemen’s drill. The adrenaline pumping through my temples sedated me for a few seconds.

Finally I lifted a heavy hot tub soaked limb up to unclick the seat belt. Each step took me closer to a reality I did not want to face. The place where I would have to confront myself and refrain from just about every reaction in the book. The point in my life where being an example was not going to be easy.

I looked on at the toxic spill in the van. Why do we consume things that look like a nuclear waste explosion? Atomic slurpees cannot aid digestion. I’m pretty sure that the human waste from neon slurpees glows in the dark.

I scooped the pile of oozing green onto the pavement and went through the motions without saying a word.

I looked up and saw my youth kid quivering in the far corner of the backseat. I really wasn’t mad. Just incredibly weary. By not reacting I think he felt worse.

We arrived back to the camp site and I related the story to fellow people and it dawned on me that I finally had a present for my dad. The man that has everything under the sun – A professionally detailed vehicle.

Thanks to disasters and the mess in life, there is always a bright side. Plus there is no use in crying over spilled slurpee.

Being Allergic to the Opposite Sex

Growing up in Ottawa the general progression of the events in the sand box were throwing dirt in Nick’s face. Scaling the hedges of my mother’s well-kept garden before dinner to pick snow peas and uproot carrots to ruin my dinner – with Nick. To trade Pogs ® and stickers and smacked the pinnata’s at my birthday parties with Nick and friends. To chase garter snakes on the playground with Nick and his buddies.

My discovery of the terrible chemicals that make up the fine specimen of JELL-O were discovered on the back stoop of my house as Nicholas went home with a tummy ache, broke out in hives from head-to-toe immediately upon return to his house and the simple but confusing explanation from his mother that he could no longer come out to play etches itself in the memories of my mind. I stood there with a blank stare and thought, "Was it something I said?" More or less it was something I served.

Similarly I had a difficult time running with the girls while Nick was on bed rest. From an early age, I was informed that boys had cooties. I didn’t understand that. Nick didn’t have cooties. If anything the snakes we chased did. I couldn’t get along with the girls in my circle. I remember distinctly punching one of them in the face in front of my mother. Not my best moment in life – but it happened and she was being incredibly annoying. It didn’t justify my ridiculous reaction. I have since repented from this dirty deed of mine, spent a long hard night that night without dinner in my bedroom wondering why I didn’t wait two blocks to be out of sight of my mother before I made a connection with her nose.

It’s probably was best she saw it. I never hit a girl again and I didn’t have to go through the explanation of two sins rather than one. Punching is one thing, breaking my mother’s trust for lying about it just digs a bigger hole.

Fast forward a couple years and I’m sitting in my Communications Theory course at Trinity. I was studying the gap between communication between men and women. This subject fascinates me. Because no matter how we slice and dice it, there are differences. Our textbook even went over the whole theory that the movie, When Harry Met Sally covers. The premise is this:

That men and women can’t be friends because the sex factor always gets in the way.

Now is this true? I spent the latter half of my university career pondering this message and starting to believe it. Granted I was surrounded by a ratio that did not lean in my favour to securing any male friends. They had all paired off while I was busy at rowing practice. And since there were 4 girls for every guy, they secured what they thought was the cream of the crop as “friends”. Conveniently the vast majority of those people got married or dumped one another. Who knew friends would dump one another. Oh, right, they must have dated while I had my nose stuck in a book. Alternately the less than stellar with the ladies ran the other direction screaming. Incensed by the fact that a girl called to “hang out.” Happened a couple of times to me. Was it something I said?

I remember this one time when someone that I grew up with, forgot that we had grown up together. We had him and his roomies over for dinner because his roommate had suggested it in the first place. As usual, I somehow planned the event. And thus, at the dinner party, I simply asked how things were at their church and the guy literally was hanging from the rafters with fright.

“How d-d-do you know that I go to CAC?”

His roommate just looked at him, rolled his eyes and said, “Dude, she grew up with us.”

And I sat there and thought, had I changed that much? Was I giving off a desperate vibe by asking how church was going? I wasn't even interested in this guy. Should I be? He was constantly playing the banjo until like 4 in the morning on the other side of the wall that we shared. Was I insane in thinking this situation odd?

Fast forward a couple of months. I’m in Ottawa. Where I had met Nick growing up. I’m back in the sandbox of memories. I meet up with my friends that I grew up with. It’s fabulous. I hung out with guys and it truly restored my trust in the fact that I could in fact befriend guys and we didn’t have to go through an awkward Define The Relationship (DTR) moment. And I’m sorry, those moments are stupid because if you’re questioning every person in your life, you can’t actually get to know them.

Similarly, if you DTR and you fall for them later, it’s just all the more complicated on your end. In Ottawa they don’t really know what DTR is. In fact, I went out with a lot of them in what by BC standards are questionable circumstances but because no one questioned, it was just normal. Coffee wasn’t seen as a date. It was just an avenue for people to better get to know one another in good company.

In fact when I do go out with a guy, he usually has to stop me in my tracks and smack a frying pan over my head and say, Kelsey, I like you. I want to get to know you better. And then I go, Oh. Imagine that. Why on earth would you want to do something like that?

So I came back to BC. –Coquitlam rather. And I am back at square one. I’ve been banished to the same stupid mentality that everyone shares around here. Which baffles me because how do you truly get to know who someone is and befriend them when you’re constantly in a huge group of people?

I made a wrong move in asking someone out for coffee last year because I made an incorrect assumption of their character and wanted to remedy that assumption that ultimately made an @$$ out of me. I’m back to that stupid theory that men and women can’t be friends because the sex factor always gets in the way.

I know this is a gross exaggeration and that there are a lot of individuals that can think beyond the box. Not every guy is suffering from having eaten green JELL-O. Nick took that excuse years ago.

Now I know every theory has holes. So the guys that I am friends with? Well? If you’re going based on the theory, I think you can fill in the blanks. That's why I’m at square one. Just as soon as I think I’ve figured out the opposite sex, they change the rules -- even in regards to friendship. Which is why I think that stupid movie, He's Just Not That Into You is a testimony of how there are no rules. Because the rule becomes the exception and the exception becomes the rule. At the end of the day, I just think to simplify the theories, differences and complexities, the boys are just allergic to girls instead of lime green JELL-O. There. They somehow make sense.

Laughing With...and Learning With

Please read these lyrics written by Regina Spektor.

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God when they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God when the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God when it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from that party yet

No one laughs at God when their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God when they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else and they hope that they're mistaken
No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door and they say "We've got some bad new, sir,"
No one's laughing at God when there's a famine, fire or flood

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say he hates us and they get so red in the head you think that they're about to choke

God can be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious
Ha ha
Ha ha

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God when they've lost all they got and they don't know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God when they're saying their goodbyes

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say he hates us and they get so red in the head you think that they're about to choke

God can be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one's laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war

No one's laughing at God when they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God

No one is laughing at God when they’re starving or freezing or so very poor. This line resonated with me when I heard this song for the first time on the radio the other day. It brought to mind the warmth and recognition of presence I felt the minute I walked into the community on the Downtown Eastside. I started volunteering with Potters, a hole in the wall that provides for the people in every way possible. And, as much as I was serving them, they were truly teaching me.

Potters has had a very special place in my heart and this song and this blog post are devoted to all the memories that I have had the honour to be a part of at the Mission that relentlessly serves a community that is starving yet eager to embrace their recognition of the prevalence of evidence of our Creator. It rendered me speechless but ultimately reminded me that agnosticism is lost in times of need. The sheer raw depth to humanity that Regina Spektor presents is astounding. The simplicity of the message hits so far home I recommend just looking it up on YouTube. Does a better job than I ever could. Kudos to Regina.

Taking a Stand for the Hotdog Man

As I’ve previously stated in another blog I am a loyal Superstore fan. TO THE BONE. I refuse to shop at Costco or Safeway which is another story for a rainy day but the point is I love to shop at Superstore. After all, it’s what I know. And what do people gravitate towards?

What they already know.

Doesn’t always work in our favour because sometimes what we don’t know truly is what we need to know. Like the fact that most detergents are filled with a ton of formaldehydes which are absorbed into our skin from our clothing. Ya, like that sort of stuff. And I’m suddenly realizing that this tangent has nothing to do with me shopping at Superstore but at any rate. We continue to return to Tide and Snuggles, because its what we know and we don’t know wouldn’t hurt us right? I was going to try to go somewhere amusing on that tangent but it just didn’t happen. Not to scare you or anything.

Moving on.

My love for Superstore started in university. I started cooking on my own in 4th year when I lived in a cozy little apartment with two other lovely individuals. We split the grocery bill and decided that shopping at the most economical place possible would help lessen the load of worry about student loans and dwindling savings.

The local Superstore in Langley has this monumental individual that sort of became a landmark in my mind. His name is Miguel and he runs a hotdog stand in front of the shopping Mecca. Each time I shopped, he stood there like a beacon in my memory; tanned skin, crazy wild hair, beanie hat and hobo gloves. Dark framed glasses dwindle his big eyes and his 1,000 watt smile is hard to miss at the back of the monstrous parking lot that you think—that man’s face is all teeth.

His smile makes your day. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ll buy a hotdog, but you feel like you’re at home when you step inside that store. Like, I’m here. They know me here, because I know them. But really, you’re there because you need the barebone necessities out of life. The store is there to suck your money and Miguel just wants you to buy a hotdog. Plus, You’re out of toilet paper and in reality, you just want to avoid the circumstance of running out.

The pleasantry of an illusion is that it seems so real sometimes, remaining predictable. At any rate, Miguel became a friend that I had never met.

One day our life group gave us $20 each to go spend on the community. To give back, listen and share with others. To connect on our understanding of what Christ has done in our lives.

Alexa my roommate and I were shopping one day at the Superstore and she turned and asked me what I had done with my 20$. I had gone for quantity over quality. I had given my 20 dollars to the foodbank down the street from our house.
I reciprocated the question and she just stopped. “Do you know what the hotdog guy’s name is?”She asked me.

Suddenly the illusion came crashing in on me. I had created a friendship with an imaginary individual. “No. I don’t.”

“Well I think that’s what I’m going to do with my 20 bucks.”

“You’re going to change his name?”

She looked at me with that undisturbed maturity that she always carried like a graceful goose. I knew what she meant.

So after much planning we picked out a card and a huge starbucks coffee and approached the hotdog man. I fished into my hole ridden pocket for some spare change for a hotdog for us to share. It only seemed appropriate seeing as we couldn’t just go up to him and not buy a hotdog.

So there we were. We heard about his life in South America. We had to put our sunglasses on when he saw the coffee. He radiated with astonishment. As much as he is all teeth, he is also all voice. He yelled his thanks across the expansive parking lot as it echoed through the Valley.

It was there and then that the point behind of the 20$ clicked with me. Quality over quantity is all that we can achieve as a grassroot individual in friendship and connection. What do you choose? Everyone or one?

This came to mind this morning. A while back I got a Facebook invite to a group to Save Miguel the Hotdog Man. My first thought was that he had had a gas explosion from his gasoline tank and was requiring skin grafts. I clicked on it because I actually had a personal connection to the cause through a cup of coffee. It turned out that Superstores out East were getting rid of their hotdog stands. With the conglomerate Subway inside starving for business, external vendors were pushed out.
I joined the group in a furious rage and send Galen Westen, the president to the monumental President Choice brand a rant the length of my forearm explaining that they could not get rid of Miguel because it wasn’t going to solve the solution to the problem of finding food tenants for the inside spaces at the Langley location. As one of the 5,000 individuals from Langley that spoke up, I can safely say that I stood up and spoke. And as a result, Miguel has kept his job.

It takes a lot to provoke me and to get me to the point where I feel that my response is needed means that I actually care. Which a lot of times, I don't feel that it is warranted. From a purely good business perspective, getting rid of Miguel just didn't make sense. So I wasn't just wasting air.

Perhaps it was all a wild and crazy rumour but I was willing to take a stand to keep what keeps the Langley community unique. Who knows if his job was ever in jeopardy.

Galen Westen responded to my lengthy diatribe the other day. I had to re-read my email to him. I doubt it was truly the President of President’s Choice but who knows. I’m sure he has an assistant paid full time to respond to the amount of fan/hate mail he receives. Maybe it was Galen. It’s been 4 months since this whole thing happened. But the point is that Goliath responded to David. Perhaps I'm just a sucker for PR.

But the point is that Miguel and I are actually now on a first name basis, I feel like I somehow made a difference in his life through joining in the collective choir and I have renewed assurance that Superstore is truly Super.

When the $#%@ hits your shirt.

As I look out my work window, I often think to myself, “I am so blessed to live and work in Beautiful British Columbia.”

For one, as I have been a Communications Coordinator setting off to find my own way in the industry and had a rough start of it experiencing job and then no job and then a job and then no job and now another job, I have come to appreciate the finer details about being employed and figuring out how to remain employable and on the forefront of the industry. Being an early adapter rather than the caboose so to speak.

Just the stripped down, barebone nuances that drive most people nuts about their jobs is a great starting point. For all that I have learned about the last 2 years of being out of university it’s almost 95% attitude and 5% hardwork. A few other points I would like to add to that:

1)Anyone can be a hardworker but if they are whistling while they do it versus grumbling they are to be noticed and praised and create an enjoyable atmosphere for everyone around them . I can’t keep track of the # of people that hate their jobs and get paid awestrucking amounts of money for what they truly do. Oh, and they also have a huge sign on their forehead that says, “I don’t care.” If you go into it for a paycheck, check the cheque at the door and hit the ground running as fast as you can. You may not continue to see that pay check if you can’t find ways to enjoy the smell of animal dung clinging to your clothing as a janitor for the zoo. Perhaps your reason for being there is that you’ll invent an odour eating invention that will make you smell like flowers while you shovel S*&$. If its money that you’re after its absolute misery ahead. Be forewarned. A study was conducted and the average price based on the survey on Canadian contentment is $40,000 a year. Anything above and beyond that doesn’t bring anymore contentment because it generally means more stress and truck loads of responsibility and generally lower job satisfaction.

2)Some things in life are just not fair. North American society – rather first world nations pander us, cater to our every whim and often our whims are to win. So everyone in competition is given participation ribbons and told that they are a winner. This is a lie. Accept defeat well and see it as a growth opportunity. You will get cut from the team for whatever reasons sometimes in all
fairness, in other times simply for reasons completely outside your control. This is nothing against you as a person. I’m sure you make up for it in personality what you lack in capability. Accept what you’re dealt in life and don’t try to be something you’re not.

3)Know yourself inside and out. I would be rich if I were paid for the # of times people my age tell me they don’t know what they want to do in life. Focus is one thing. Understanding who you are and what makes you get out of bed in the morning are truly the best career counseling advice that I can pass on based on what I have learned. The focus will come when you figure out what and how to motivate yourself.

This is just a few of many things I have taken into consideration as I embark on another day at work. As I clean the fridge this afternoon I remember the ideals I graduated with and sort of laugh at the naïve version of myself.

I adore what I do.

I think I have another stack of paper that requires shredding and another plant that needs watering. My lunch hour is over and I have to get back to it. But I smile because I have a job. And I enjoy every minute of it because I now know how to appreciate what I have because I won’t be able to when it’s gone. I never thought that I would be so happy with a watering can in one hand and a note pad in the other. I guess you could say the more I learn the more I realize the less I know.

Toe Maintain or Not Toe Maintain? That is the question

Maintenance is something I abhor. For numerous reasons. I always question things that take too much time. Perhaps that is why I have never been super keen on being a rather maintened woman. Things like pedicures, manicures, French tips, make up and shaved legs all fall under the category of maintenance. Don’t get me wrong, as due diligence to the code I’m given, I play the part, but not the most willingly. I view it as taking my Buckeley’s cough syrup in the event of a cold – a necessary evil.

Don’t get me wrong, I like feeling feminine. I hate the amount of time, effort and expended energy it takes to have a fresh coat on my nails and then the time afterwards while the colour sets. I pondered this a couple of weeks ago when I managed to summon up enough girlie desire to paint my toe nails a bright pink colour. I got two nails in and then my friend arrived and I had to stop what I was doing and leave.

I walked around like that until the polish virtually curdled off my toes. I even went to a wedding with the toenails painted like that. It drove everyone else nuts, but I was inwardly at peace because in my mind I had my priorities straight because others came before self.

At the end of the day, I figured you’ll accept me for who I am, you odd symmetric loving freaks because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter won’t mind. In other words, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.

Now, if only we could convince my car that maintenance was not required. Easier said than done. Anyone know of a good car whisperer?

sinking sand of self

So I have recently learned something very valuable. I feel like the information age with an overly active image focused hedonistic society has created us into over expectant monsters. When I say this, I heavily refer to myself. Don’t jump to the automatic conclusion that I think I’m better than anyone – because I’m not.

What I’ve noticed is that with selfish individualism sets us up for an unhappiness, a fundamental flaw of constant dissatisfaction with our past, current and future circumstances. I’m not entirely sure as many people have depression as clinically categorized as such so much as we fundamentally become so inwardly focused and from thereon in it is a pit of sinking quick sand.

We seem to be forgetting a huge thing. It’s not about us and there is a bigger picture. On top of it, we can’t save ourselves as hard as we try to.
And thus, because we are a bunch of geriatric slow thinkers on this profound aspect of life, we set ourselves up for constant self-induced dissatisfaction. In our relationships both pletonic and not-so-pletonic. In our evaluation of self, life, and others. In overall contentment of life.
AND, as this is not a complainer’s blog, I have come up with an equation to attempt to simplify a complex observation with an almost just as complex equation.
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Realisation(IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU) + Put others first

/DIVIDED BY/

Keep Expectations Low (for everything/everyone else)

= EQUALS =

Met*Exceeded Expectations in life giving way to understanding how to be more content

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I figure that if our unhappiness creates this spiral of unhappiness and dissatisfaction. Break the cycle. Re-evaluate why your expectations are so high. Keep a standard but recognize where you might perhaps be unreasonable in expectation and surprisingly if you were to not expect so much out of life, you’ll be more pleasantly surprised and content with what comes your way. Not to say this works in every circumstance, however, if you let go of a lot of high expectations, suddenly certain circumstances don’t seem like such a burden.

This is realistically an overarching theme that Christ came to hammer into our heads by dying unselfishly on a cross. If you’re truly curious about the Biblical principles that keep us grounded such as the themes behind this equation, you’ll dive into his word. I don’t have to preach at you in a blog. Just an observation for everyone.

refrigerated leather jackets and the warming oven of learning

You know the phrase you learn something new every day is incredibly cliché but true. I recite it to myself every time I learn something new unexpectedly. There is a difference between choosing to learn something new and the information catching you by surprise. And the more I learn, the more I realize that I don’t know.

Take these lessons I have learned recently for example:

DON’T leave the house with the oven on. You just may not have a roommate fortunately returning from a shopping excursion to save your egg rolls/apartment from a smoldering fate. As much as you may like them more on the golden side, ovens are unpredictable at the best of times. And so am I as I learned.

WHEN you try to hang your coat up in the refrigerator, you know it’s time to call it quits. Who knows what quits is, whether it is laying off an excessive consumption of something that makes you groggy, or if it’s just sheer natural exhaustion – the point is, I learned not to put our standalone closet next to the refrigerator and that I need more shut eye.

WHEN in Rome do as the Romans do – to a point. The locals are comfortable in their routine and stick to what they like. I stumbled upon my favourite restaurant period by asking someone at a store down the street where the recommended sushi place was. Ask me about my experience there sometime and try it out and you may just join the growing club.

HANGING out at sports stores like MEC is just a really pleasant experience. The general populace works at keeping fit and as a result everyone is naturally high on endorphins. Counted the most consecutive smiles in one place in my entire life. Similarly, if you constantly hang out at brooding emo musician’s concerts, chances are you could find yourself clinically depressed. Sort of proves my belief in the universal law of affinity.


LASTLY, I am happy to report that I learned that I don’t know everything and that humility lessons come in all shapes and sizes. Accepting responsibility for our words and deeds and taking the necessary course of action to repair and strengthen and continue to grow will forever be something that takes time to master and is as dynamic as life itself.

l'amour au banlieu de france

I decided a while back that I was going to shy away from relationship discussion. For this instance I have changed my mind. I’m not going to write an irate review of the opposite sex. Instead, I am going to tell a story as constructive criticism for all. It goes hand and hand with a Mark Driscoll video uploaded about how men have the potential to be cowards. Now, I never said men are cowards. I just think this story is testimony to what will happen if people choose to fart around in the field.

So once upon a time there was a country named France. And there were men that were native to this country. They were enjoying the good French life of baguettes and cigarettes, until many of them became enticed by foreigners that came to their country. They began a feverish pursuit for these exotic beauties that would come from far away lands to vacation and enjoy the romantic French culture. They had a gay old time drinking wine by the Seine, going for long moped rides with their lovers and running out of gas far from home and picnicking and making out near the Eiffel tower.

In the meantime, their French female counterparts started to wonder what was wrong with the men from their country. They began to get impatient and annoyed with the men’s silly games. They didn’t have to play 2nd fiddle to loose women from far away lands.

During this time, there were many men from across a channel in the country of England. They decided one day to take the train to their neighbouring country, France, and discover hidden adventures that awaited their arrival. Upon stepping foot on French soil, they discovered love starved French women in all of their prowess. They swept them off their feet and took them back across the channel where they lived happily ever after for the most part.

Meanwhile the French men became sick of the pursuit of unattainable, unrealistic and inconsistent foreigners. They came home from their gallivants around the country and returned to their villages to discover that in fact all of the women that they were excited to kindle true love with had in fact been snatched in the night. The French men threw baguettes in the streets and kicked the gypsies when they walked by.

This story is translated from the original French version told by a very dear friend of mine who has a daughter who married an English bloke and moved to England. As much as gross exaggerations are gross, there is an element of truth to it as I encountered living proof of the situation.

The moral of this story is multi-faceted. If you’re a female that feels like a French woman, don’t worry there is hope and don't act impatient. If you’re a French man, wake up and smell the French Roast. If you’re a British dude, you sly dog.