Ahoy.

Sailing. Who doesn't love it?

That's right. Me.

I think in my life I've had two enjoyable sailing excursions. And by enjoyable, I mean tolerable. From an early age I have experienced colorful degrees of motion sickness varying between semi-queasiness to full blown projectile vomiting. Planes, trains, automobiles and naturally; boats. Growing up on an island water travel was inevitable, and dreadful. However one of my earliest memories was heaving into a paper bag as our plane touched down in Cape Town. It's less embarrassing when you're 5. Kids are always doing disgusting things like throwing up.

Since reaching what they say is adult hood, I've learned to manage those feelings of nausea. I can generally struggle through it in cars and on planes. But boats are a different story. Read: Maui. After that most recent and horrifying experience I was a touch apprehensive about setting out on a sailing adventure a few weeks ago on the Sunshine Coast. As it happened, the water was like silk, so it was literally smooth sailing. That is if you ignore the part where I jumped off the side of the boat in lace underpants then panicked as the boat drifted away from me. It was toasty warm and I needed to cool down. In theory it was a great idea. Boyfriend was with me and tried to tow me back to the boat, but I got fussy and in a classic movie rescue scene, kicked him away. This is why people drown.  

Fortunately I did not drown. I just showed a boat full of men my underpants. It could have been worse. And then it was. When apparently my underpants became increasingly revealing when wet. However the sailing part was great! I got to drink cold beers and soda pop and eat fried chicken. I got to jump off the side of a boat and go swimming. All good things. When a few weeks later we were invited to go on another friend's boat for the evening I was totally up for it. I survived my last trip, plus it was boyfriends birthday and he loves this crap. The craft seemed sea-worthy and was bigger than the last one we were on. What could possibly go wrong? 

The ocean. That's what.

Turns out last time I wasn't actually sailing. In order to sail there must be wind. There wasn't. That's why I had such a great time. As I would soon find out wind changes things. Boats tilt, pitch and bounce around like crazy. It seemed okay at the beginning, I was even steering, and didn't hit any freighters or wind surfers. Then we hit open water. Open water being a few more hundred feet off the shore. That's when everything went sideways. Literally. The boat tilted (heeled) and one side of the boat was 6 feet in the air and the other was within inches of the water. I clawed my way to the "not so bouncy" part of the sailboat. But within 15 minutes or so was told to shift position because the wind needed to be on the other side of us or whatever. I was being jostled. While friend #1 was white-knuckling it back to a non boom-y spot friend #2 was trying to feed me dry crackers and make me laugh. Boyfriend was asking me if I had taken good photos of him captaining. I told him to stuff it, then proceeded to scramble to the starboard side where I vomited for 15 minutes straight. 

I felt awful. I looked awful and I had successfully ruined my boyfriend's birthday, as well as my friend's sailing adventure. Boyfriend was great and convinced Cap'n to ditch us on a near by dock as we were likely going to be on the water for another 2 hours. We drifted into a super fancy marina thing and without slowing down were told to jump off the boat onto a rickety looking dock. "I hope the gate's unlocked!" yelled Cap'n as the boat gently sailed off into the sunset. Our friends waved to us as we stood on a dock in the middle of nowhere.

We found a cab about an hour later and were back at our car about 45 minutes and $70 later. We exited the cab to see a lit mast floating into the marina in the distance. I ate nothing but soda-water and saltines for about 24 hours, and text boyfriend mid day the next day. "remind me I hate sailing"

Gag Me With a Battered Spoon

I'm not a sweets fan at the best of times. But recently I've found them even more repellant. Why? Because it seems Red Velvet cupcakes, pancakes, cookies, brownies(?) waffles and (gagging*) red velvet lattes are the latest revolting rage. Pinterest is filthy with pins of baking that looks like scabs. 

Cupcakes are barely tolerable as it is particularly with their trendy unhealthy icing to cake ratio. Frothy butter cream sits menacingly on top of sad excuses for cup cakes. The only thing that can make these little blobs of diabetes worse is when they are the color of type 'O'.

I don't understand the fascination. You know something is seriously wrong when IHOP gets on board with the fad. How do they get that vibrant red anyway? I've tried to make icing for cookies using red food coloring and it just ends up pink. What sinister goings-on produce that blood red that people apparently find so attractive in deserts? Let's all take a minute and remember the groom's cake from Steal Magnolias. It was in the shape of an armadillo, complete with grey scaly icing, and when it was cut into it was red velvet cake. Absolutely nauseating. 

Others seem as uneasy as I am when it comes to violently colored baking. It is far from appetizing. Having put forth my rant, I can say I have tried "velvet things" primarily in cupcake form. They taste like half-assed chocolate cake. Along with questionable color, vague taste is also a deterent. 

To illustrate my point about Pinterest and poor taste I searched Red Velvet. Out of a few hundred "pins" 3 pertained to fabric. Another disturbing discovery is Blue Velvet. Apparently an unholy shade of blue is also achievable and equally horrific.

In my opinion any food that is the color of absolutely nothing in nature should be avoided. Also things the color of your insides or curtains from the 1500's should also be avoided.

Heed my warning people. 

Moths: An Infestation

Moths: An Infestation

There are a few different kinds of moths. There are the gigantic flappy terrifying moths that hurl their bodies into light bulbs, windows, walls and passers by, which seems to be the only thing they are good at. Then there are the epicurean moths that feast on bits of wheat germ and grains. And there are fashionable moths that nest, eat and crap in pretty much anything. The last two species described are excellent at their jobs. They are dedicated, disgusting and efficient.

I think I was in denial for the past year. Despite holes in cashmere and an increase in sitings, it wasn't until a literally moth eaten cow skin rug was found that the heavy denial really kicked in. That new stage of denial lasted approximately a month. Then one day when I decided to make cookies and hauled out the brown sugar only to find squirming larva all the way through it. I could ignore the problem no longer.  I immediately began pitching dry goods. At first checking the contents of each item, until I began feeling nauseous and just started blindly throwing away everything in the pantry. 

Next it was time to go through the out of season woollen bins in the closets. This wasn't going to be as simple as pitching rolled oats. This required finesse. Over the span of two days there were roughly 10 loads of laundry done. There were several bathtubs filled with scalding water to drown babies and sterilize large items. There was actual nit picking done. Except the nits were in fact cocoons and larvae. With rubber gloves up to my elbows I'd  individually pick bits of moth excrement off of precious articles of clothing. It's true moths only eat wool, the bad news is; they nest in bloody well anything. Cotton, synthetics, straw, you name it. 

I'm scared to go into the storage unit. I know it's a building infestation. And I fear the fallout is going to be huge. Regardless of the type of moth they are basically flying silver fish. Except thank Christ they are much less speedy than silver fish. However when you kill either they turn to dust. This is creepy. So hurray, moths are easily killed when spotted. However they are sneaky and little and can hide places.

The final step was to strategically set up little sticky pheromone laced tents around the flat. These are apparently designed to attract the wretched winged insects and adhere them to the pheromone-y glue lining the inside of the traps. Within minutes of setting my traps the moths came out of the wood work. They went bananas for these things. The moths appeared to be all loved up on fake pheromones and fluttered around the flat all willy nilly. I flailed wildly for about 15 minutes charging around the apartment swatting moths with flip flop in hand. That was enough exercise for the day and I stopped the masacre, unless one came within arms reach of the couch.

By bed time the moth death toll was around 22, including the few trying without much success to release themselves from the sticky traps. The apartment looked like a house of horrors with brown and black smears peppering my pristine pink walls. 

In three months the traps will have worn out, and the apartment may need a fresh lick of paint, but hopefully the moths will be gone. Fingers crossed.

Did you?

Like the acquisition of a pacemaker isn't enough to make a 36 year old woman feel like a geriatric. With my vacation tan fading fast, and the crows feet clawing their way through my epidermis, I am reminded I am geriatric. Now, I didn't hit every single branch when I fell out of the ugly tree, but I no longer carry the blush of youth. I actually have to carry blush. What has begun to drive this point home is the following comment: "Did you used to model?" That's past tense.

Let's face it. I suppose there are worse things people could say. Like " I know what VHS is, I was born in '91!", "Who's Andrew McCarthy?" and "What's an encyclopedia?" I guess looking like an over the hill model is better than looking like a six feet under model.

I mean it's my own damn fault. I like the sun. Sue me. Actually don't. As well as being the wrong side of 30 I'm also penniless. Sunshine is my vice. Other people have different vices, gambling, drinking, crystal meth. To each his own. Mine is carcinogenic levels of Vitamin D. Perhaps booze is a better choice? I think it pickles you. Whatever, I don't have the cash to buy booze and I don't have a life savings to fritter away at the slots.

I suppose stress could be partially to blame for the "aging". It seems to be society's scapegoat. However I think there are stats to prove it may actually be a valid scapegoat. I wouldn't say I'm stressed. But I do my fair share of unnecessary and occasionally necessary worrying. This may not have anything to do with the threat of age-spots, but I wager it's got something to do with the wrinkles, not to mention the cynicism and crabby moods. 

A sure sign of old-age, and one that I'm entirely comfortable with: cantankerous-ness.

Maui Lassitude

Spotted: 11 rainbows, 1 thrashing marlin, 4 sea turtles, 1 stingray,  1 pacific ocean,  throngs of tourists and the sun.

We touched down in Maui at 10:00 at night. We were not immediately adorned with fragrant flower leis by Tom Selleck. But the good news was it was warm. Well, warm enough that when we fetched our little Jeep we could drive to our condo, roof and windows down. Try that in Vancouver in May. Heck try it in August. Arriving there at about 12am we hit the sheets right away.

In the blissfully harsh light of day I was able to observe my surroundings. The theme in our condo seemed to be pineapples and early '90's plantation style on a budget. I counted 6 decor pineapples and one edible one. After surveying the room it was time to venture out and familiarize ourselves with the wilds of The Island. 

In terms of sights, there were a few. High on my To-Do list were waterfalls. Other than that I really didn't care. Actually I did. As long as I got sun and sea in excess I was A-ok. Or so I thought. Within 5 days I would eat those words, then promptly regurgitate them. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Five hour boat ride to a secret snorkelling spot, on the way the promise of dolphins and breakfast. After snorkelling, an on-board BBQ and all the Mai Tai's you can drink. Unfortunately for me, a half hour in the nausea took hold and didn't let up until I was back on the dock. The parts I remember are the parts of papaya and pineapple I threw up over the side of the boat. As I heaved over the railing I watched a pod of spinner dolphins doing their best to make me feel even more queasy. I did not partake in the BBQ.

My other watery experiences over the two weeks were more controlled. They involved dashing from sandy towel to splashing surf and back to towel again. Sometimes with flippers, sometimes without, but always with a harpoon. 

Speaking of deep sea fishing. Because of a certain person's aversion to seafood of any kind, I tried to respectfully avoid the piscine items on the menu. Two days later I aborted that mission. Not because I wanted to see my boyfriend vomit in front of me, but because I fast realized that seafood is what Hawaiians do best. And by best I mean adequately. If you like Cactus Club you'll like Maui. Except the food is better at Cactus Club. I had more than one extraordinarily terrible meal. I had a handful of palatable meals. Maybe 3 good meals. And one great meal, and that was a BBQ the family threw together poolside at their hotel. To sum up, I found Maui food to be underwhelming and gave it an overall rating of 2 meh's and a scrunched up nose.

But then we were not there for the food. We were there for the booze. . . . Wait, no. We were there for a wedding. Which by the way was lovely. The bride wore white, and the groom wore his heart on his sleeve. Perfect, tasteful, warm and romantic.

While we're on the subject of perfection. Turns out not only am I prone to bitchin' tans, but my hair looks awesome in Maui. Humidity, sun and salt are my new BFF's. My hair waved, bleached and volumized itself. Had I not been very careful I could have ended up about 3 days away from dreads. But that my hippie friends is what shampoo and basic hygiene is for. . . What am I saying? I don't have friends that are hippies. 

Boyfriend and I saw those photoshopped sunsets, and a handful of the cliched Hawaiian rainbows. We both successfully burned portions of ourselves. But with a healthy slathering of Maui Babe, those pesky burns glazed over and became fetching tans.

To sum up the vacay and Maui in general: It does what it says on the tin. 

If you're expecting sunny warmth, postcard worthy beaches and relaxation, this is the place for you. Culture and food, not so much, although if you look hard enough there's a sprinkling of both. But you need to look pretty hard. Personally I came away with a tan and an unhealthy love of palm trees and 1960's resorts. As well coming back from paradise only to find your home city is still shrouded in clouds and gloom can be more than a touch depressing. Siiiiigh*

But, we'll always have Maui.

Gloom

Okay perhaps I'm exaggerating just a touch. But on this 20th day of June, the first day of summer mind you, I find myself bathed in goosebumps. I'm on the roof of my exceedingly fashionable modernist Vancouver apartment building. The sun is directly overhead and I'm . . . . chilly. Unacceptable. If I was an optimist I'd say there was a haze. Because I'm a realist I'll say there's high cloud cover. Did I mention it's June?

Only Born and Raised West Coasters would actually continue to live in weather like this. Mainly because they don't know any better, and the rest of the globe keeps blowing smoke up their asses. Meanwhile it's 16 degrees and I'm in very short shorts and a semi-tank top. I'm pushing the limits. The limits of what someone my age should be wearing as well as what's appropriate in sub zero temperatures. But because this could very well be the only vaguely sunny day we get until July I'm going to bloody well take advantage of it.

About 13 years ago my folks up and moved from the real estate gold mine they owned in Victoria all the way to Ontario. Thousands thought my parents had gone prematurely senile. And perhaps they had. However they packed up their life for a few reasons. A major one being: "Toronto has seasons."

And as the haze turns to 100% cloud, I realize they were on to something. 

(is that a rain drop?) 

Yes it still occasionally rains back East. Yes you have to rake leaves and shovel snow. But guess what, you can also sit outside after 6pm and not have to wear a chunky knit and drape yourself in an afghan. Which is exactly what I wore on the roof last night shortly before 8pm. Actually I think there may have been sun earlier today? Because just now as I padded over to the railing (so I could pitch myself over the side) I think I burned the soles of my feet on the paving tiles. But as the clouds continue to loom overhead I feel, rather than trying to soak up a couple of pathetic rays of murky sun, doing several loads of laundry would be a better use of this summer afternoon. 

The weather. This is the one strike Vancouver has against it. Oh, and the ridiculous cost of living, and the alleged unfriendly nature of most inhabitants. Other than that it's swell. 

I love this city. No really. I especially love my neighborhood of South Granville. If I didn't have the great boutiques, convenient watering holes or half of my friends living within a 6 block radius the totally crappy weather would upset me far more.

I've lived, worked and loved here for coming up on 7 years, and apart from a couple of near fatal hiccups, things keep getting better. With any luck so will the weather. Although lets face it, contrary to what the name implies the globe is doing the opposite of warming. Within 30 years I'll probably be complaining that the saber tooth tiger meat is tough, the eternal winter's wearing on my nerves, and I simply don't have a thing to wear to the ritual sacrifice a week from Saturday.

Burgers + Bikinis

Let's face it. It's probably obvious to others, but for reasons we're going to blame on the ol' "I was in a coma" excuse the following was not obvious to me.

First. I was anticipating a dreamy trip to Maui. This is exciting because:

1) I've never been to Hawaii.

2) I haven't been on a tropical, hot, do-SFA-while-lying-on-a-beach type vacation since the early 90's

3) I get to go with my dreamy boyfriend and get to do romantic things.

4) Finally, and most importantly I get to buy a new bikini.

Bathing suit shopping. Exponentially more horrifying than jeans shopping. It all began one afternoon, when I decided to head downtown and meet a girlfriend and her teensie toddler. We were doing our usual wandering the streets when girlfriend said we should get the baby some grub. Naturally my maternal instincts kicked in, and I enthusiastically suggested McDonald's. One salad, one happy meal and a super-sized two cheeseburger meal later, it was time for me to head to my next appointment. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. It's  a TWO cheeseburger meal. I still say they should do a THREE cheeseburger meal. Two is hardly enough. Anyway, we parted ways and I headed to my appointment to visit a bikini designer who is in fact worthy of the pages of Sports Illustrated. I mean I suppose a worse time to try on suits would have been a week earlier when I was on the rag, or if I'd ordered the apple pies for desert. But this was still a pretty bad idea.

In the end I did not look like Giselle Bundchen. I looked a touch bloated, definitely pasty and had come to terms with the fact that I am delusional.  The good news is I got a bikini. After being there for a solid hour and trying on what seemed like every suit they had I came out with a possibly too skimpy black crocheted bikini. There was extraordinary patience involved. Both by me and especially by my angelic consultant.

With that traumatic albeit successful experience over, it suddenly occurs to me that there is a more distressing twist to this mediocre story. Burgers. In particular the fact that I can no longer stomach burgers, unless they are of the extremely fast food persuasion. For several years the delicious burger was my go-to meal. At least when I was eating out. It's hard to screw up a burger . . . hard but not impossible. So when visiting restaurants that boast unimaginative or just plain unsavoury menus, a burger was always a safe-ish bet. As a result of a week jaunt to Vancouver island bookended with dinner time ferry rides and ferry food, my annual "Week of Burgers" was born. For roughly 5 years I celebrated August with 7 days of imbibing. That is until last year. My epiphany happened today when one another girlfriend invited me over for a pool dangle and burgers this week. A tremendous idea in theory, however the last time I did that with her I had a cardiac arrest 3 hours later. I realize now my residual anti burger feelings could be a direct result of that "last meal."

What a terrible thought. "I had a cardiac arrest and all I got was a lousy fear of hamburgers" . . . and a sweet bikini.