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.

Dim Wit

Like so many of my terrific yet consistently delusional ideas, this one too, was a colossal failure. Like the time I moved to London to seek my fortune, only to return two years later 25Lbs heavier with a cheese addiction and a significantly lighter wallet.

Anyway, lunch the other day was no different. Except that it was lunch and not a Pan-Atlantic move. Specifically it was Dim Sum. A great idea in theory. In practice however, pretty disgusting, except maybe for the shrimp dumplings.

I went with a work colleague (let's call her Trixie). On our lunch break we dashed across the street to Trixie's restaurant of choice. We sat down and she asked me what I like. I answered, shrimp dumplings and BBQ pork buns. I said "I do not care for chicken feet." And helpfully pointed to the table next to us and began mock gagging. Trixie asked if I ate meat. I almost said "I eat meat, not gristle." But sadly didn't. Should have, but didn't.

As the first selection of gristly knuckles on a bed of greasy rice arrived, I realized I had made a terrible mistake. My other mistake was saying "I'll try anything!" True, but a dreadful idea.

Turns out, save for custard tarts, the thrice mentioned shrimp dumplings and gallons of tea, Dim Sum is wholly, and on most levels disgusting. I don't know why I think I like it. I really don't

Dim Sum is an unsavoury medley of textures, of which I am highly sensitive. Taste I can tollerate. Texture I can't. Most everything was slimy, except for what can only be described as deep fried scrotum. If only it tasted as good. As someone who has in fact choked down (muffled snickering) prairie oysters, I can tell you, I'd take actual scrotum over this any day.

Taro: A root (I hope), had been mashed up into some pinkish paste, closely resembling sick, then moulded into a bizarre football/ball-sack shape, only to be flash fried to within an inch of it's life and in such a way that delicate, if not far too realistic hairs formed over the whole thing.

The only things I've eaten that were possibly more nauseating were . . . . and it's a toss up here (pun intended). Both French and both horrific. Traditional Andouillette (intestine wrapped vein "sausage") at the same time offal and awful. Secondly, Gristle and Mustard salad which did and exceedingly convincing impersonation of potato salad, but may actually be groins d'âne salad (literally, "donkey snout" salad). You can see my dilema.

Gross food is fine. As long as it's not on my plate masquerading as a meal.

Tumbleweed.

Another Oscars has come and gone. And all I got were these lousy pillow marks on my cheek. What a snore.

First. Hugo. Who cares? I sure don't. In fact I could give a rats ass about the nominees and winners. As usual it's about what people are wearing and the expected witty banter thrown between presenters and host. Billy Crystal was not good. The only amusing presenters were Robert Downey Jr. partnered with Gwyneth Paltrow (who by the way looked delightful) and the unlikely duo of Emma Stone and Ben "enough already" Stiller. For the 5 minutes those four appeared on stage I was entertained.

There's always the death montage? Oh right that. I was more than a little surprised to have found out Cliff Robertson had died. But I suppose that happens when you're old. Speaking of people knocking on deaths door, a spry and charming Christopher Plummer made a delightful acceptance speech. That was a good part. As well he looked dapper in a velvet smoking jacket.

Which brings us to men's fashion. In general the men were adequate, if not a little bland. Christian Bale's patchy beard from last year seems to have come in nicely, and he's returned to his smoking hot self. Everyone else was a barely worth looking at.

With the not so helpful fashion commentary supplied by the irritating Nina Garcia and the predictable Tim Gunn, we were walked through their un-inspiring opinions of the night's couture. I lost all respect and interest in those two when in her dreadful accent Nina Garcia referred to Roony Mara's look as "Audrey Hepburn gone punk" Meanwhile Givenchy is rolling over in his grave.

My commentary would have gone something like this: "Peplums are rubbish." Both Tina Fey and Michelle Williams tried on this terrible idea for size. It did not fit either of them. Yet the press seems to be droning on about how phenomenal Michelle Williams looked. I don't see it. That tired old bleached head of hers detracts from everything she puts on. Right. We get it, you cut of all your hair, you're a serious actress. Other hair that looked dreadful was that of Penelope "mutt-ly" Cruz who's head did an unfortunately convincing impersonation of a 1950's housewife who's hot rollers shorted out.

As I recount the evening's events I realize that the only thing worse than looking awful is being totally forgettable. Sadly 80% of the evening has been lost in the depths of the cotton and unicorns which happily reside between my ears. Apart from a few misguided attempts at glamor, the Event Of The Year was wholly UN-eventful.

J.Lo - The Cell came out in 2000. The dress should have stayed on set.

Sandra Bullock - Jane Torvill and Christopher Dean looked better in their startlingly similar 1986 Olympic Ice Dancing costumes.

Stacey Kiebler - (Kimmy Gibbler) I can't get past your name, I dont care how tall and blonde you are.

Angelina Jolie - Who gives a crap about her leg, when her complexion is waxy and her arms are skeletal? Where exactly are those 10lbs the camera is supposed to add?

Emma Stone - Giambattista Valli couldn't save you this time. Uninspired.

These snap judgements brought to you from my High-horse. The one I'm sitting on while wearing Ugg boots and eating rice krispie squares.

stink, stank, stunk

Perfume.

It's such a pleasant sounding word. Sadly it's rarely, if ever followed by a pleasant smell. More often than not it's a headache inducing, nostril offending pong.

Today I made the colossal mistake of hugging a woman I hadn't seen in about a year in a half. The hug lasted maybe 4 seconds. The stench is still on me. That was 3 hours ago.

I will undoubtably have to burn the scarf and coat I was wearing. I was hopeful that the smell would dissipate after I took them off. As luck would have it, apparently my hair came in contact with the stink. So I've got a disturbing fog of odor lurking right about nose height. I suppose I'm going to have to burn my hair off too. The smell would be an improvement.

I was trying to place the "fragrance", and after 3 hours and an epiphany I figured it out. Narciso Rodriguez. Dreadful. Tell your friends. Seriously, pass it on. The perfume reeks and should be labeled a bio hazard, along with patchouli (obviously), Angel by Thierry Mugler and anything Polo.

Perfume is tricky and very personal. It's safe to say patchouli is nauseating. And no matter how you dress it up or muddle it with vetiver or sandalwood it still, and will always gag of patchouli. Ask yourself: "Do I own a didgeridoo?" "Do I have dreadlocks?" If you answer "No" to both or either of those questions ask yourself "Do I want to smell like a hippie?" If that answer is also "No", then put the patchouli back on the shelf at the hammock store your shopping in and swiftly leave. A similar set of questions apply to higher-end but equally repellent fragrances: "Do I own anything Ed Hardy?" "Do I enjoy Pitbull featuring Chris Brown?" and "Do I want to smell like the inside of an Escalade limo?"

Here's a few helpful tips to follow when dousing yourself with your perfume of choice. This goes for guys too by the way. You're just as, if not more guilty of over saturation than women.*

- Don't spray directly on your person.

- If you've just callously ignored the first point, try to limit the spritz to 'once'.

- To reiterate, patchouli is total rubbish.

The only reason I can think of for over saturation is that the offender's nostril-buds must be chemically burned and unable to do their job. Which is to warn their body of excessive/offensive and dangerous smells. I guess I should feel sorry for these people and their obvious disability. But I don't. Because they are disgusting.

It took me years to fumble through ounces and ounces of fragrance to figure out what worked and what didn't.

1)White Musk by the Body Shop. LOVED it when I was 20. Now, I can barely tolerate it, perhaps because after trying to wear it for the duration of 1992 it continued to smell vaguely of mould when cohabiting with my particular brand of body chemistry. Nobody is perfect. Clearly I'm not (see second to last posting)

2)There was my flirtation with drugstore bought 4711. Which to this day although heavily infused with alcohol, I continue to love, for the nostalgia factor.

3)Then there was rubbish like Tribu by Bennetton and a host of men's colognes that never worked. Fortunately even as an idiot teenager I never succumb to the aromatic chaos that was Designer Impostors.

Several hours later: After an accident involving microwave popcorn and extreme smoke inhalation, the stink is subsiding. Or perhaps it's just masked? This is more likely. Just like a 17th century French aristocrat, I've managed to conceal a nauseating smell with another only slightly less nauseating smell. And I'll continue to pile on smells until I'm mistaken for a pile of fresh laundry. I honestly thought the cold would knock the pong off of me. Isn't that why people "air things out"?

* NB: Men. Just because it's cologne doesn't mean it smells good. Just because you can't see it spray out of the bottle, doesn't mean it didn't.

ThanksTaking

Thanks for the memories.

Just like any of your garden variety horror movies, it began with a group of wide eyed optimistic friends piling into a small motor boat (with a penchant for sinking) on their way to a secluded cabin in the woods. A cabin only really reachable by boat or logging roads, when the logging roads aren't blocked with the carcasses of burnt out trucks that is.

The 7 of us were excited about settling into a relaxing cabin weekend to celebrate turkey. With nothing to do but sprawl by fires and cook feasts, it promised to be a little slice of heaven and not a pilgrim in sight.

By around 3:00 on Day 1 we had all mustered just enough energy to finish lunch and then collapse for a nap. I woke up after approximately 2 hours along with the other girls, except I had apparently swallowed some fiberglass while I was sleeping. The pain was less than pleasant. So now I was sick. And now I would also be the go to person to blame when in about 4 days 6 of my friends all mysteriously come down with something.

" . . .well she made us eggs that morning and she was fondling the turkey an awful lot . . . ."

Not to mention all the door knobs I licked throughout the cabin. Anyway. I was feeling less than stellar. I hit the sheets first that night. And I think I fell asleep for a couple of hours until boyfriend crawled into bed. At which point I decided to become entirely awake. Mainly because of the erie noises coming from the corner of the room. In total darkness my hyper active imagination began thinking of worst case scenarios.

1)Zombies clawing through the floor

2)Ghost of small child scampering through the room

3)Animal of undetermined size or ferocity put on earth to irritate the be-jesus out of me (the most unrealistic possibility)

I'd hear sounds from various parts of the room and tried desperately to ignore them. This happend about 3 times until finally I was convinced whatever this ungodly being was, it was going to make it's way onto the bed. I lost my cool and shook awake boyfriend who proceeded to fling himself around the room like a crazy person trying to kill, what turned out to be a exceptionally threatening mouse. Thank god he didn't have the presence of mind to grab one of rifles resting in the corner by the bed. In the end we were pretty sure he didn't kill the mouse, just scared the crap out of it. By now we had become distracted by the mini masacre taking place on our windowsill.

Earlier in the evening there was a unseasonably large fly bouncing off lampshades and doing a very unsuccessful job of trying to get out of the house by slamming itself into closed windows. I'd totally forgotten about the fly until boyfriend pointed out that it just got caught in some of the spiderwebs in the windowsill. It was doing a similar unsuccessful job of freeing itself. Then like a page taken out of Beetlejuice, a particularly ferocious looking spider crawled out of what looked like a pin hole, unfurled itself to show off it's impressive 3 foot wing span, and proceeded to snatch the fly and drag it back to it's nest. The whole time the fly made a helpless humming sound with it's incapacitated wings. I had to look away. And then promptly fell asleep, or blacked out, I can't be sure.

I happily awoke the next morning not to find myself cocooned in spiderwebs. That would come later. That would come after a delicious Thanksgiving feast which I most likely tainted, and a delightful little boat ride. I've seen horror movies before, which is why I didn't venture to the empty hut behind the cabin. And why I didn't go to chop wood up the hill. Instead I decided to take a warm shower to knock the sick out of me. What could go wrong in a shower? (read: Psycho)

I climbed into the shower, and immediately noticed the cabin's regulation spiderwebs. What I didn't notice was the number of spiders. It was like I was rein-acting my own version of Arachnophobia. I mean, not 24 hours earlier boyfriend had been bitten on his neck by what could only be described as a horse with eight legs. We're still waiting for him to be able to shoot web out of his wrists. So there I am in the shower, and I realize I'm surrounded. I'm waiting for John Goodman to stroll in and take care of things, but I was alone. I did a quick head count and stopped at around 9, and I'd only looked to my left.

Spiders are useful I suppose. In my apartment I like them because I think they are killing the moths that are killing my cashmere. When however, on the final day of my long weekend I began packing and a humongous black hairy thing lurched out of my sweater I lost my cool again . . . this time entirely. I screamed like a girl, and boyfriend casually came in and killed it.

"That's EXACTLY how everyone in the town died in Arachnophobia! A stowaway spider!"

And that was my weekend.

Home safe and sound. Slightly worse for wear, as the boat ride in the pissing rain for 20 minutes didn't do the ol' cold any favors. But I'm hopeful the fever will break tonight. Otherwise we may have to perform an exorcism.

Happy Halloween!

Bionic Z

Aaaaaah mortality, ya can't live with it you can't live without it?

The other day I found myself trapped in a stairwell. Up until roughly exactly June 9 this wouldn't have phased me. I was paying a friend a visit in her fancy concierge patrolled apartment and I was buzzed up to the wrong floor. I walked down one flight of stairs to find myself locked in the stairwell. Panic did not set in, but I was reminded once again how isolated one is in such a situation, if for instance one didn't have a mobile with them or say . . . had a cardiac arrest and no one knew where they were.

The good news is that when I had my cardiac arrest on June 4th I did not make it inside my building and did not end up forgotten in a stairwell, or ultimately worse. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to let my heart stop beating in the parking lot of my building, where a mere glimpse of my blond hair on the pavement summoned an angel to come to my rescue. Renee from the 3rd floor (heaven) found me literally taking my last two breaths. Within minutes she had dialled 911, had begun CPR and the fire department was on its way.

There's a bunch of relatively frightening (fortunately I don't remember any of it) stuff that happened, just ask anyone who remained at the hospital with me during my intubation, coma and amnesia. I became fully awake on June 9th. Although I have not so pleasant blurry memories of the MRI the day before.

Distressing things that happen when you have a cardiac arrest:

- You get cut out of your clothes when they defibrillate you, and for me specifically that includes your favorite vintage sundress and totally boss neon undies.

- You scare the bejesus out of everyone you care about, and you don't even know it.

- You end up in hospital.

- You get sliced open and they put a mini defibrillator in you . . . FOREVER. Or until the batteries wear down and it starts beeping inside of you and you get sliced open again so they can change it.

- You meet a total ass-hat named Sebastian.

- You can no longer lift anything over 50lbs EVER AGAIN.

Delightful things that happen when you have a cardiac arrest:

- You realize how lucky you are to have friends like mine.

- You get A LOT of flowers.

- You get A LOT of visitors.

- You get A LOT of treats.

- You become really really popular.

- You inspire people to find their hearts again.

A whole bunch has gone down since early June. I only recently got the official go-ahead from the doc to go back to work. The past 2 months have been a most unprecedented and unwelcome sabbatical. All I have to show for it is a bitchin' tan. A tan I miraculously got in Vancouver during a Summer that has been doing a very convincing impression of late Fall.