a little bit, now....

Redirection

2009-06-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

Loyal Papermouse friends,

After attempting to juggle two blogs for the last little while, I have decided to retire Papermouse for a little bit.

I think it best to focus my blogging energies in one spot, so I would like to invite you to visit my other blog: Koo & Poppet, where you will find similar posts to those on Papermouse, with an additional focus on design, my home business, and recent creative projects.

Thank you!

p.s. Look who can sit up in her Eames rocking chair now! She's no slouch.

Au revoir!

Sadie and her uncle

2009-06-09T10:29:00.002-07:00

Sadie at seven months, having fun in the park with her favourite Uncle. He's even sillier than her dad.

Sweet as cherries

2009-06-07T17:48:00.007-07:00

Yes folks, we're just a fortnight away from that beauty of a day - June 21st - when summer officially arrives. We've been having great weather here on the west coast lately anyway, but there is something about the longest day of the year that just makes me happy.

I took this photo last summer and meant to post it then, but before I knew it, it was the winter solstice (this has, without a doubt, been the fastest year of my life) and cherries just don't have the same appeal in December...

The best place to eat breakfast

2009-05-31T21:48:00.002-07:00

The Vancouver Art Gallery Cafe, which I may have never discovered if not for my friend, Tina.

The egg salad wasn't to die for, but I'm glad I at least had my iPhone with me to capture these perfect moments of morning sunlight in the heart of the city.

To tell time by

2009-05-19T23:22:00.003-07:00

I am in love with these kiddy clocks by Decoylab! The only problem is that I can't decide which one to choose for Sadie's room.....I'm thinking bunny. I'm fairly sure it's her spirit animal, afterall.

And we shall call it......OVERDRAFT

2009-05-11T17:40:00.004-07:00

So last September I found myself dining with friends in celebration of my 27th year, and we came up with a glorious solution to a problem that affects all of us: in our group of a dozen or so girls, not one of us has an income that realistically supports reckless and frivolous monthly spending on luxurious items.

Wouldn't it be great, we thought, if we could somehow pool our hard-earned money together into some kind of lottery, drawing one name per month - a lucky lady who would be the recipient of a windfall of cash. And thus, OVERDRAFT was born.

Ironically enough, my husband actually came up with the name, because you see, the jackpot is essentially an interest free loan. There are twelve members and each one of us coughs up $50 per month (in the form of a post-dated cheque), so if you're an early winner you get the lump sum but have to continue paying each month even after your purchases have long been made. And if you're a late winner, you can look at it as saving $50 each month for a year and then blowing it all on yourself. And this, my friends, is the spirit of Overdraft: all purchases must be not only frivolous, but self-indulgent as well. We actually have an oath (it's laminated) (by Co-Founder Andrea) (who is an elementary school teacher) which states in part: "I will not purchase anything that benefits another human being." This is all a bit tongue-in-cheek, but the point is to treat yourself to a shopping spree without feeling the need to justify any purchases. Can you really afford this? Do you really need that? When it comes to Overdraft, those questions are obsolete.

Well guess what? Tonight was the 8th installment of our little enterprise, and it couldn't be going more swimmingly. We have really taken the idea and run with it. We have Co-Presidents, a Communications Department, a Creative Director (yours truly), a Food & Beverage Coordinator (because what is a girls' get together without wine and cheese?), and a Treasurer. The treasury is a key component of the game. The monies are collected and dispersed to the winner by the Treasurer, and stored in the "sacred clutch". The clutch must accompany the winner on all shopping excursions as she pays cold hard cash for the items she promises to cherish and covet. Some have purchased clothing. Some have purchased footwear. Some have purchased jewelry. All have purchased luxury.

We gather somewhere around the 15th of every month, at the home of the previous month's winner. It's kind of a "passing-of-the-torch" affair; the former winner displays her goods and presents receipts and then we choose a new winner by way of a reverse draw, and each person can only win once. The Creative Director (moi) designed name cards (also laminated) inspired by US one hundred dollar bills. The reverse draw is an excellent suspense-building procedure, as it ultimately comes down to two members, or rather, shareholders, who's names remain in the pot. There is total celebratory pandemonium when the winner is at last revealed with the final draw. The oath is recited and six hundred dollars are passed into the hands of a well-deserving friend.

There are many more rules and regulations that I won't get into here (for example, only 30% of the cash can be spent on "consumables" and "full-bum, run-of-the-mill granny panties are not an acceptable purchase and will not be tolerated by the Board of Directors." Afterall, that would defeat the purpose of Overdraft). But in truth, the best part of this entire enterprise is getting together with some of the greatest friends any girl could have, on schedule, once every month, and doing the things we do best: eating delicious food, sipping tasty wine, and enjoying each other's company. Oh, and spending money too, of course.

In business....

2009-05-03T21:37:00.009-07:00

I'm very excited to introduce my new business, Koo & Poppet. It's been in the works for quite a few months now and I've been crafting its beginnings from home, via pen and paper and needle and thread. I scavenged and upcycled wool from my mom's collection and gathered ridiculously cute japanese cottons from Mayumi in Tokyo. I designed a few patterns and the next thing I knew my living room was overrun with creatures. The more I make, the more ideas I have for others!

So far, there are Cute Bunnies, Odd Bunnies, Black Bears and XL creatures in the Koo & Poppet population. They are soft, misfit creatures meant for small hands, but they are perfectly suitable for adults as well.

I will be doing my best to keep Papermouse going, but I have also started a blog exclusively for Koo & Poppet. You can find my current projects at www.kooandpoppet.blogspot.com

Uh, we see you, Lenore.

Time away

2009-04-23T22:25:00.003-07:00

Departure, arrival. Take-off, landing. Swelling, cresting, casting, reeling. Resting. Union, reunion. Parting, departing. Reflecting.

Home, home.

Sadie in black & white

2009-03-11T23:37:00.003-07:00

I should really keep a notepad beside my bed

2009-03-03T14:42:00.007-08:00

Design ideas always come to me while I'm lying in bed at night trying to fall asleep. I can be completely without a creative thought all day, and then it's like a switch is turned on when the lights go out. Most ideas are lost by morning, like when you know you dreamt about something but can't quite remember what. Some ideas stick with me though, like these two designs for custom fabric that I will cyber ship to Spoonflower for printing. Graphic thoughts, essentially.

*loving grey and yellow these days*

Little treasures

2009-02-25T12:01:00.010-08:00

Believe it or not, we're still putting the finishing touches on Sadie's nursery. Furniture has been built, walls have been painted, curtains have been made, but there's always a little side project here and there that needs my attention. In the meantime, here are some great finds that make it to the top of my list of favourite things:

Fox silhouette pillow (Sprouts, Victoria BC)

Charley Harper board books

Farm animal mobile (Country Furniture, Vancouver BC)

Rabbit bookends (Sprouts, Victoria BC)

Vintage children's tumblers (Fan Tan Gallery, Victoria BC)

Oh, and this little treasure too, of course:

Sadie Danielle at 15 weeks

Part Three

2009-02-15T15:32:00.004-08:00

*continued from a previous post

So finally, the love story -- the little epilogue of the Barrington Street tale. It's a very simple one involving myself and Scott, who would eventually become my husband and dad to my little girl. He paints my toenails (although I suspect he does it mainly because it's a good excuse to wear a headlamp), he writes me notes in fresh jars of peanut butter, and he builds me rope ladders on the basis of "just in case".

After the whole fire department/axe through the wall incident, I expressed concern to Scott about how I would get out of a flaming third floor apartment, hypothetically speaking. It wasn't long before he showed up at my door with a Xerox paper box. Inside was a most expertly crafted handmade thirty-foot rope ladder, folded into the box in such a way that the top rung read "throw first" and provided you followed that instruction, the ladder would be launched out of a window sucessfully without having to worry about tangles or any other distressing impediment given the time-sensitive circumstances of its use. The last rung, which hung outside the box, was wide enough that it would catch in the frame of most residential windows, like a dog who can't quite fit an extra long stick through the door of his doghouse.

Luckily, I've never had to use the rope ladder and hopefully never will. But even if I live in single storey houses for the rest of my life I will never, ever get rid of it, even though it's just a bundle of wood and rope. Ironically, it might be one material possession I'd save in a fire.

midnight madness

2009-02-14T00:47:00.009-08:00

There is something about shopping impulsively online at 12:39 a.m. that gives me an adrenaline rush. Is that bad? Wait, who cares -- I've ordered a plethora of positively precious fabrics from Tokyo! (karaku's etsy shop)

Like this one:

Ahhck! How could I resist?? Seriously people.

ninety-six days old

2009-02-10T12:14:00.005-08:00

I'm saving the love story conclusion of the recent blog trilogy for Saturday the 14th - not only because it's Valentine's day, but also because it will mark the one year anniversary of this blog!

So today I thought I'd just post some cuteness.

Part Two

2009-01-18T10:46:00.007-08:00

*continued from previous post

It was a Tuesday night. Or maybe a Friday. Anyway, it doesn't matter what day it was -- it only matters that it was 4 o'clock in the morning on one of the seven days of a week. I was startled awake by....my alarm clock? No, I thought, I still had a good four hours of sleep left......as I came to I realized it was the smoke detector in the apartment. Because of the time of day, and because no one was burning toast, for the first time in my life I actually thought "Fire?!"

I jumped out of bed and met my roommate, Melitto, in the hall. Amid the shrill noise I found myself teetering on a swivel chair batting a broom at the smoke detector on the ten foot ceiling. Finally it stopped. What could have set that off? we thought. I wasn't able to fall back asleep after the whole episode, so I got dressed and left early for school.

I didn't end up returning home until close to midnight that night. As I reached the landing at the top of the stairs I began to realize that something was seriously wrong. The carpeted floor outside the apartment door was littered with drywall debris, which had clearly come from the gaping basketball sized hole that was in the wall. Which had clearly been put there (quite violently) by an axe. Stunned, I peered through the damaged wall into my apartment, sure I'd see evidence of some criminal act. A madman, I thought, A madman had hacked his way into my residence all "Here's Johnny" like. But I saw nothing. Slowly I turned the lock and entered. My roommate's bedroom door was shut, but I heard her faintly call my name from behind it. Oh dear God, the lunatic has her held hostage with a knife to her throat and I'm her only hope! My knees gumbied.

The truth is, friends, my life is simply not that thrilling or dramatic (thankfully). As it turns out that blasted smoke detector went off spontaneously again during the middle of the day when no one was home. Concerned neighbours called the authorities and a couple of fire fighters lumbered their way up the stairs to unit 5 and broke into the apartment by what means they had (so yes, an axe was involved afterall, and, I might add, they missed the fuse panel by about an inch). The reason they went through the wall was because it is apparently a lot less expensive to patch up drywall than install a new lock system. Too bad we missed the action. Although, I suppose there wouldn't have been any action had we been home.....

So all this excitement got me thinking. What if there really was a fire one day? The old building we lived in wouldn't stand a chance, and in fact there was only one exit stair to escape by. If it was blocked, my only option would be to jump from the third storey window and break several bones doing so. I really should have a rope ladder, I thought, and I mentioned this safety concern to Scott, whom I had just started dating (the love story).......

(to be continued......)

speaking of love, I'll sign off with a design for a Valentine's Day card I've been working on this afternoon:

Part one

2009-01-16T15:29:00.010-08:00

Halifax waterfront post Hurricane Juan, September 2003

I am compelled to share a true tale whose parts are threefold: it's part mystery, part horror, and part love story. Each takes place in an old Halifax apartment building on the dusty corner of Barrington and Morris, which, incidently, was also once the residence of two japanese fighting fish bearing the same names.

The mystery:

I lived on the third floor of this building from 2003-2005 while I attended Dalhousie University. My first roomate was Melitto, followed by the brilliant and lovely D'Alvey. Deana took my room when I left Halifax for Vancouver.

Just the other day, D'Alvey emailed Deana and I from her London locale where she is currently working for Foster & Partners Architects. Apparently, she had received a peculiar email from Steve, the tenant who had moved in post D'Alvey and Deana. The gist of his query was as such:

"You'll probably recall that shortly after I moved into your old place on Barrington I spoke to you about having found some things that appeared to belong to a fellow named Chris Duffet. Not being able to find him, I set the few things aside and forgot about them....One of the items I found (the only one of value) was a diamond engagement ring complete with appraisal info. I've tried contacting the appraiser and, since Mr. Duffet's Aeroplan card was included in the little bundle I found, I put in a call to them hoping they'd offer some help. I tried an address in East York from the woman I spoke to on the phone, but she said the email address they had for him was shown as inactive since 2005. The address was a dead end. So, there you have it."

Unfortunately I don't know anyone by the name of Chris Duffet, but more unfortunately I never found a diamond ring hidden in an apparent cranny of the house! My mind boggles as to where he came across it. The back corners of the upper kitchen cupboards? In the base of the pedastal bathroom sink? How could I have lived there for two years and not sniffed out the precious gem? It is not often I overlook a diamond. I wonder in what spot of the apartment I was ever in closest proximity to the hidden treasure? And of course I wonder of the stone itself. Princess cut? Cushion cut? One carat? Two??

And then I wonder of the owner's fate. I am interested by Steve's use of the word "bundle" in reference to his findings. Perhaps Mr. Duffet was en route to the airport to fly to Paris (and collect points) to meet his lover in Montmarte and propose (very Amelie, methinks), when on the eve of his departure he discovered evidence of an illicit affair she was having with a frenchman, so, never wanting to be reminded of his heartbreak again, he abandoned the objects in a secret place and fled Halifax for.....Yarmouth?

Or a more sinister theory is the possibility that the ring, etc. was stolen off Mr. Duffet's person in a violent encounter, and....what of him? No one can say....

I was telling my husband about the lucrative discovery on Barrington and Morris and he was at first skeptical: "Where could he have found it? What, did the guy take an axe to the wall or something?" I quickly reminded him that stranger things had happened in that place. Like, for instance, when a guy took an axe to the wall (the horror)......

*to be continued tomorrow.....

Baby Eames

2009-01-12T12:46:00.002-08:00

At just 9 weeks old, Sadie received this beautiful gift from her Uncle Ivan and the team at Meade Design Group. It's a children's version of the mid-century iconic rocking chair designed by architects Charles and Ray Eames. This is the best shot I could get considering it's difficult to conduct a photo shoot with a 2 month old who can't quite sit up yet. Give it time though....pretty soon she'll be rocking away in her chair, the most stylish baby on the block!

Recent project

2008-12-10T17:54:00.007-08:00

So.

I have been experiencing a lot of guilt for neglecting this blog for so long. I assure you there has been a good reason. A wriggly, sweet-smelling, pink and beautiful reason: Sadie.

Angel, peanut, bubba, miracle. All of those things.

Yes, autumnal is a word

2008-10-12T23:31:00.007-07:00

"Belonging to or suggestive of autumn; produced or gathered in autumn: autumnal colours."

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

Nautical triptych

2008-09-10T22:21:00.006-07:00

Tomorrow's promise

2008-09-05T14:51:00.010-07:00

What can I give you, Baby?
Tomorrow's charms…
Comfort and safety and shelter...
A father’s arms.

I'll give you grass underfoot, dear Baby,
paper and string...
Beginnings and What-ifs and Somedays,
grown from the simplest things.

You'll have earth-scented rain in April,

puddles and muck…

A search for a rare kind of clover,

timing and luck...

Watch as the leaves rust and redden,
summer to fall...
Seasons to measure your time by,
delight in them all...

I’ll give you laughter and kindred spirits,
four-legged ones too…
And hobbies and pastimes and passions,
a thing to create…
something to do.

Whoever you grow to be, Baby,

If you build, write, heal or teach,

Whatever your dreams,

may they find you

within your reach.

I want you to know the affect of all things
long after they’re gone…
After the shifting and swaying has settled

Hope flickers on...

Mostly I’ll give you this promise,

binding and long…

I promise you’ll always know you are loved…

Loved--

like a note loves a song.
There are people who love you already,
steadfast and true...
A family whose circle is waiting,
completed by you.

The moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon

2008-09-02T11:31:00.013-07:00

Visions in Poetry:

a series of books I'm very fond of as of late, from Kids Can Press.

Each book features a different illustrator and the artists capture the mood of the poetry perfectly (as does the typography).

Here's a spread from The Owl and the Pussycat:

and another from My Letter to the World and Other Poems:

"Because I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

The carriage held but just Ourselves--

And Immortality."

It would appear I have a bit of a poetry obsession lately. And also an obsession with organizing and cleaning. Scott thinks I should have the bottle of multi-purpose cleaner hanging from a lanyard around my neck. I spray. I wipe. I spray. I wipe.

Over the long weekend, I began the process of setting up the baby's room. For me, one of the most important considerations is the art on the walls. Some of it will be of my own creation, but there is a slew of stuff on Etsy that I just might have to have, like these autumnal forest illustrations from Kristiana Parn's shop....

It's also time to re-focus on my own art projects after a summer-long hiatus. With September finally here, I have no excuse to put off crafting any further. Afterall, the clock is ticking (or, more accurately, kicking) toward October and soon there won't be a moment to spare.

Duet

2008-08-29T11:48:00.005-07:00

My friend Sarah and I used to take turns writing four-line stanzas of little poems for kids, just for fun. We'd often pass them back and forth via email when I was living in Halifax and she was in Victoria. This one is from the archives, and is unfinished (we didn't get very far) so add a verse, if you please.....

Under a rosebush,
on top of a slug

sat little Jemima

a lone ladybug.

The slug was quite slimy

but Jemima don't mind--

the slime held them together,

a gluish-like bind.

Through rains of November,

while winter winds blew,

under hot July sun,

nothing unstuck the glue.

And when Slug was down-hearted,

feeling sad, feeling blue

Jemima summoned her wits,

she knew just what to do....

Degrees of separation

2008-08-27T10:10:00.007-07:00

Last week I had coffee with Michelle, a writer I just met, who happens to be someone with whom I have been otherwise unknowingly associated with for the past few years. Though she has not yet been published with the company I work for, we distribute her other published books to customers in the US. Further to that, her husband is an architect at a firm that Scott nearly took a position with last year, and also a friend of the principal designer at Meade Design Group which, incidently, I am doing contract work for right now. Even stranger, they lived in Boston during the same time period Scott lived there, and in Halifax during the same years I was attending Dalhousie University. They lived two blocks from my apartment. One of my instructors was their landlord. I finally met her at Ivan's studio opening party a few weeks ago and introduced myself.

Anyway, all these coincidences are not really the point of this post. It's the story of this writer's and this architect's meeting that had me dumbstruck.
When she was fourteen and living in Vancouver, she placed a classified ad in the international section of a newspaper. She wrote that she was looking for a pen-pal, someone to swap letters with about books, geography and any other matter of international conversation.
Somewhere in Argentina, a 17-year-old boy was scouring the classified ads for a second-hand drafting table. He happened to notice the pen-pal seeker's ad and decided to respond.
They never met in person until nine years of letter writing had elapsed. Nine years!
Then at 26, he had business in Chicago (and if you're going to Chicago, you might as well swing by Vancouver) and their first meeting was arranged. Since then, there have been brief periods of separation; once while Michelle was cycling across Canada and he was out of touch in the jungles of Bolivia and they had to phone her father to receive updates on each other's adventures (who may as well have been carrying out a stint on the Space Station, judging by all the astonishing footnotes in this tale).
And well, you know how it all eventually ends; a proposal, a wedding, a marriage.

Theirs is a story of soulmates if there ever was one. Which makes me think of my rope ladder, but I'll save that post for another day....

(having little to do with each other....)

2008-08-15T10:03:00.009-07:00

Shotbolt, July 2008

Design

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

-Robert Frost

Keeping Right Except To Pass

2008-08-06T21:28:00.013-07:00

Okanagan Valley, August 2008

Half a world away

2008-07-24T14:56:00.009-07:00

Roxy, '02

I took this photo almost six years ago on the Greek island of Ios. It's not your typical travel shot, but I love it. It perfectly captures the mood of our existence in that moment. I remember we were enjoying a bit of respite from the clumsiness of navigating our way through crowds on train platforms, from faulty phone cards, from blistered feet. All five of us with nothing better to do than read, rest, write, think. It was quiet.

Danielle was in and out of a nap, Steph was stretching. I was casually wondering how I was going to get the bag of laundry back that I'd forgotten on Naxos. There was mention of when and where we'd replenish our bottled water supply. Oh and there was a cat, poor thing (was it three-legged?... or one-eyed?...), who followed us back to our dwelling on a previous outing and waited outside our door for whatever edible offerings we tossed its way.

And there was Joey, a stray dog who was adored by travellers (and therefore travellers were wholeheartedly adored back) and really should have come home with us to Canada. When we left Ios he tried to get on the ferry with us and, heartsick, we watched him nervously pacing the dock while the boat pulled away. I still have his photo pinned to the cork board next to my desk at work. I hope that he has a family now and that his stomach is full.

Another reason I love this photo is that I remember what is beyond the limits of its frame. Everytime I look at it, I also see the rest of the room and the vistas beyond it. If the shot was just a little wider, you'd see that to Roxanne's right is a door opened onto a balcony overlooking a ragged, other-worldly landscape cluttered with white-washed domes, seen in miniature from our vantage point high above the waters of the Aegean Sea. There's a little palm tree silhouetted by a hazy October sunset, and a gradation of land masses fading, fading, fading into the distance.

Some things are clearer when left to memory, floating on the fringe.

One day soon

2008-07-23T11:23:00.008-07:00

Dallas Eve, a little imp

So I never intended for this blog to become any kind of pregnancy journal, but today I'm feeling compelled to write about some thoughts I've been having related to this whole birth thing. Just a warning: what follows is a personal matter (that I am not opposed to sharing) and significantly strays from the style of my typical blog posts.

Before I became pregnant, and even throughout these first six months, I was certain that I would ask for an epidural if the pain became too much to bear, and would have no qualms in doing so. Even though I think I have a high threshold for pain, I kept reminding myself that labour pain is in a completely different league and that I, as a first timer, might be totally unprepared for it.

But then I began asking myself: Why do I have to feel unprepared for it? Just because it will be a sensation (likely an excruciating one) I've never felt before doesn't mean I have to be completely blind-sided by it. I would like to think that there are effective ways I could psychologically and physically cope with the intensity of labour without surrendering to chemical interventions. And my rational for hoping to avoid drugs isn't necessarily because I'm worried about side effects or consequentials, but more because of a growing determination I have to do it on my own (or more accurately, with a team of drug-free people by my side). Why shouldn't I be able to own the pain? Why not have to suffer a bit to bring my son or daughter into this world? So my thoughts have shifted and I am now approaching this as a true test of strength, as a challenge of focus, of teamwork, of self-control. I want to feel it. As absurd as this may sound, I actually want to enjoy the pain. Afterall, the reward will be more than worth the effort.

In the past when I'd hear of expectant mothers who were adamantly opposed to taking drugs I'd wonder why they would choose to suffer. I'm sure everyone has different reasons for hoping for a natural birth, and for me it's not that I'm trying to be some kind of a hero, but recently I've had an instinctive desire to do as nature intended and I feel very secure in it. My yoga instructor is big on existing in and appreciating the present moment (shocking, no?) and she talks about changing our perception of things that we are conditioned to view as a chore or something we would rather get over with quickly. A difficult yoga pose, for example. Our muscles are straining to hold it, we're struggling to balance, we feel pressure. And we're waiting for the yogi to relieve us of the task of holding it and move on to the next thing. Counting, breathing, waiting, waiting. But why can't we just embrace the difficulty of the position? More like counting, breathing, listening. We are fortunate just to have bodies that are functional enough to allow us to operate them in such a biomechanical way. We have sensation, we are living. Why not confront the difficulty? Why not enjoy it? And truly, at least with yoga, as soon as I switch over to that mentality, the experience is completely different and becomes spiritual.

Now, I am NOT comparing downward dog to labour! I may have already exposed my naivety regarding some aspects surrounding childbirth, but I by no means attempt to convince myself that labour will be a little uncomfortable at worst. I completely acknowledge the possibility of it becoming so intolerable that I start to panic, shake, vomit, scream. And that, dear friends, will be the weakest link, if it comes to it. It will be in that moment when I will beg for pain medicaton. I have experienced significant physical pain before and it's when panic sets in that I lose both my control and my focus. But it's no secret that breathing helps. When I have a migraine, or when I'm at the height of anxiety during take-off on an airplane, I rely on my breathe and turn my focus inward.

But essentially, it's that breaking point that I know I will need help with if my wish is to not surrender to it. I have total faith that Scott will be supportive and wonderful, but I know it can be a challenging and exhausting experience for partners too. So after some thinking and discussing, we have decided to interview a doula, or labour coach. Using a doula statistically (and I like statistics) lowers the instances of Caesarean births, requests for chemical interventions, the likelihood of a long labour, and improves the active participation of the partner. Not to mention, I think I'll really need another woman there, someone who is very familiar with childbirth and can give me a play-by-play of what's going on. I want to know the mechanics of what's happening in my body. The more I can visualize, the more in control I know I will feel, even if unforeseeable events occur that are totally beyond my control.

And additionally, the more I educate myself and the more support I have, the less I fear and the stronger my confidence.

This has been more of a stream-of-consciousness journal entry than anything, a way for me to articulate in writing the crux of my resolve....so I don't expect many of you to have made it to the end of this post, but if you have, thank you for sticking with me.

One year ago today

2008-07-21T09:34:00.012-07:00

Love you Scotty, so much.

(photos by the extraordinary talents of Helene Cyr.)

Sunday beach dwellers

2008-07-13T22:50:00.002-07:00

A rose, a ring, a deer

2008-07-08T22:56:00.012-07:00

1) A lovely orange garden rose from Laurel. It smells like how summer should be and makes brushing my teeth in the morning that much more lively.

2) A recent acquisition found by my sister-in-law, Danielle, at Paradise Boutique in Victoria. We were on the hunt for just such a ring.

3) It needs a good pressing, but this is the fabric sample I ordered from Spoonflower. Recognize the deer? I'm satisfied with the results, although I think I'd be better off sticking with simple line-drawn designs, solid colours, and vector graphics. I'm not sure their printing system is sophisticated enough to produce sharp images of rendered drawings. But these little fawns will do for now and will certainly make a sweet throw pillow.

*an update on the quilt:
Quilting has been put on hold due to the fact that we are in the process of moving and everything is packed up, making crafting of all kinds slightly inconvenient. Or rather it's the moving and the packing that's the inconvenient part. That, and I've started a knitting project which is much easier to work on than a quilt while teetering atop a stack of boxes, watching Scott work his magic with a tape gun.

pink lemonade

2008-07-07T22:26:00.013-07:00

The infamous "Never-been-worn" quarterly clothes swap and auction returns.

a Sunday afternoon with some of my favourite girls....

....and a mini Carrie Bradshaw's first birthday xoxo

Skipping Away

2008-06-25T20:24:00.014-07:00

Once again, I find myself packing a suitcase.

This time I'm off to California, for a combination of work and pleasure. I'm attending the ALA mid-summer conference in Anaheim, so I thought Why not? I'll bring Scott with me and we'll go to the Magic Kingdom and pretend we're kids again.

I still haven't decided whether or not to torture him with a dose of the It's a Small World ride....

When I was thirteen I went to Disneyland with my parents and some family friends. I had never been before. And I had waited my entire life for that trip. We stayed with a houseful of family friends in Los Angeles, and planned the trip to the park for the second or third day after we arrived. I patiently kept my composure. The minutes ticked by each day until it was only one sleep away. I may as well have slept in the car that night so we could just start it up at dawn and hit the road. But a house of fifteen sleepy people does not get going at a respectable pace, especially at an uncivilized hour. Had I a whip, I would have done some cracking.

At approximately 2pm, just when I thought we were on our way, just when I could imagine hurtling through the darkness on Space Mountain as all of my friends had done before me, just as I could see sunlight gleaming off the embossed letters on the plaque that reads "The Happiest Place on Earth", and just as I could smell the Disney churros on the rotisserie.....

Everyone. Took. A nap.

Well, everyone but me. How could I possibly conceive of sleeping at such a time?!? On an unforgivingly hot August afternoon in southern California, while Disneyland tempted me with promises of soaks and splashes! Had the house guests/nappers been my own flesh and blood, I would have unleashed a fury so damning, so sinister, they would have taken me there by rickshaw if it were the only mode of transport, even if they had lost their legs in the battle. But, to be appropriately polite, I concealed my quivering reflexes and retired to the backyard pool. And waited. Waited some more. Waited until I was beginning to seriously wonder if everyone in the household had forgotten to tell me that the Hale-Bopp Comet was on its way and they were all catching a ride (in a lapse of sanity brought on by my wretched nerves, I checked the dozers' feet for black high-tops).

Eventually, the nappers began rising one by one from the most inopportune siesta there ever was. We had lost precious hours. Afternoon had become evening. Morning was a distant memory. But off we went. Finally.

You may think that as soon as my feet struck that magic pavement I would have bee-lined it for Thunder Mountain or the Matterhorn. Yes, one would think that. And bee-line I did - right after, that is - an unplanned detour into THE TIKI ROOM. Otherwise known as a sweltering tropical hut full of deranged singing parrots. The seats are just wooden chairs. And they're not the type of wooden chairs that are attached to a track that turns into a rollercoaster and flips you upside down or anything. They're just chairs. Kindling, even. I am sure, at that moment in time, I could hide my disgust no longer.

Luckily, I ended up having the time of my life, and my family and friends got to keep all of their limbs. All was not lost.

But the irony of this sordid tale? The Tiki Room is one of the few attractions at Disneyland that welcomes women who have babies in their bellies. I shall find myself there once again, no doubt.

*The sketch at the beginning of this post was inspired by the words of my friend Dean. She wrote: "...when life runs along, skipping away dragging some tattered blanket..."

For some reason that phrase got stuck in my head (I think it's beautiful) and transformed into this literal interpretation of its meaning. This one's dedicated to you, Deaner!

Make Every Word Tell

2008-06-20T11:28:00.003-07:00

Friday, playing with my camera and a favourite book

This is one way to get me to pick up a book on English language usage....illustrate it! The Elements of Style Illustrated (Penguin Press, 2005) is the third edition of the 1959 classic by William Strunk Jr., later revised by E.B. White. Maira Kalman's whimsical watercolour illustrations visually complement a sampling of gramatical examples and often incorporate a subtle wit. One of my favourite pages is an illustration of a mid-century Mies van der Rohe-inspired living space that accompanies the idiom People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

In other news, I am incredibly excited about an invitation I received last night! I am the newest member of Spoonflower. I had to request an invitation from their website and after a short waiting period they sent me an account confirmation which means I am now able to upload my own designs to be printed on a bolt of fabric. I've ordered a sample with my deer illustration (from a few posts back) on it and I'll let you know how it turns out when I receive the finished product in a few weeks. Maybe the next quilt I make will utilize fabric of my own design!

In other other news, I was lying on the couch last night paying attention to all the wiggling going on inside. I lifted up my shirt a bit to expose my bare skin and, poke! I actually saw something moving in there! Someone is using the inside of my belly as a punching bag. Who are you anyway, little one?

Quilting has begun

2008-06-18T19:20:00.006-07:00

I've started a crib quilt and thought I'd document the various stages here. So far all I've done is cut out the basic blocks 5 1/2 inches square. The next step is the appliqued animals.....I'll post my progress sometime next week....
I just loved neatly stacked fabric, don't you?

This chain of days

2008-06-17T17:08:00.021-07:00

I'm back from Toronto and Book Expo 2008. Before I left I spent two nights in Vancouver with friends and flew out early Saturday morning. Had coffee and a catch-up with Andrea, a fellow mom-to-be, on the corner of Davie and Seymour, then wandered around Yaletown for a few hours and revisited memories of living in Vancouver. The shopping, the dining, the Park, the dogs strolling along the seawall, the quality of morning light in mid-June. There are days when I sorely miss all these things.

And I always forget how stylish Vancouverites are. I've gotten used to the casual Victoria dress code, and it's not until I find myself walking down Granville Street that I realize I look like an urban pilgrim. What has become of me?!

The morning I left Vancouver was a comedy of errors that ended spectacularly well. I woke up at 5 a.m. and bid my hosts a sleepy goodbye. Only problem is, to get out of their building you need a scan key to use the elevator. So it was the fire stair for me and my 50 lb suitcase. Not an easy undertaking when you're pregnant! I hope the baby didn't mind the clumsy racket.

I opted for the express check-in at the airport and couldn't figure out why I didn't have a seat assignment on my boarding pass. Turns out, Air Canada down-graded the aircraft to a smaller one, so 17 passengers were without seats and likely to be bumped to another flight. I overheard one impatient traveller proclaim "I hate my life" in response to the situation. I, on the other hand, (looking for the positive) assumed the original flight must be doomed and that I had fatefully been spared from the impending disaster. Some of you are familiar with my flying anxiety, although lately it's been much better! Fortunately, of course, all flights departed and arrived without incident that day.

After walking a kilometer to gate thirty-eight I was given a credit for a future flight and also handed a boarding pass with seat 5E assigned. Row five, you ask? Business class indeed! And not just any business class. Nothing less than Jetsons-inspired aviatic pods with seats that recline into beds! And big screen personal televisions! and breakfast! and real cutlery and white dishes! and hot towelettes! two of 'em! phhhffftt. I am afraid there is a tragic flaw in all of this luxury....I am now simply too good for Economy class.

I arrived in Toronto that afternoon and Dayle, Andrew and I went to the CCBC Children's Gala at a restaurant downtown. It was a cocktail and appetizer affair, and an opportunity to put faces to dozens of emails sent along the cyber wires over the past few months; authors, illustrators, publishers, publicists, booksellers. I am learning how dependent the book business is on making connections.

A full day at Book Expo on Sunday, chatting up our frontlist to customers and setting up book signings with many of our authors. This is my favourite part, meeting the authors and illustrators; accomplished storytellers who I am innately curious to learn more about. I want to know about their life's bits and pieces that have ultimately lead them to this spot: sitting behind a stack of printed words, signing their name inside the front cover, sending a story out into the world. And truly, at last and without hesitation, when asked of their profession, they are able to say "I'm a writer." Which, for this reason and that, makes me think of Goethe's words:

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius power and magic in it. Begin it now."

We would all be wise to not forget this.

On Sunday night I had a fantastic French meal at one of Toronto's trendiest restaurants, Le Select. Myself, my co-worker, a Montreal-based author, and a bookseller from Victoria made for a lively and unique foursome. I missed my wine (do I ever miss my wine), and decided to avoid the Cock's comb dish on the menu (yikes!).

But it was the best kind of dining experience, long and drawn-out with just the right amount of attention to service. Most importantly, there was laughter, exchanging of personal stories and acknowledgment of those moments when you're enjoying the company so much that you don't want the hours to wane or the wine to dry up or the wicks to extinguish. And you can't help but feel grateful for whatever design caused otherwise independent paths to cross for dinner during a summer thunderstorm in Toronto.

And Monday, home...

West, through the quiet night, above the the congestion, beside the moon. I looked down upon the rivers and lakes of central Canada, the patchwork patterns of prairie fields and later, little flickering mountain towns nestled between the peaks of the Rockies. Over Kelowna and Vancouver, lower....lower, over a lone pair of headlights winding along a road on a Gulf Island which was surrounded by waters so dark and still, I imagined it was moonlit concrete.

Finally, Victoria. Dear, small, quiet Victoria.

I am privileged to have touched down in three wonderful and diverse places in three days, each offering equally wonderful and diverse people with whom to make acquaintance. And at the trip's conclusion, I am grateful to see it all from way above, all in miniature. All as if it is really that small, but also so immeasurable and total at the same time.

Bare-naked in Toronto and Vancouver

2008-06-12T08:56:00.011-07:00

I am fit to be crowned Worst Packer of this great wide land. Last night I was trying to fill a suitcase with necessities for a day in Vancouver and two days in Toronto. No matter the destination, the duration of the trip, the weather or the growing limitations as to what clothes can actually accomodate my bump these days, I stand motionless in front of my closet and stare vacantly at an abyss of clothes, shoes, bags, scarves. Scott has warned me that if I keep it up, he will need to refinish the floor at my feet.

I am a clothes sorter. I am a re-folder. I am an organize-my-closet-by-garment-colour-when-the-mood-strikes-me kind of gal. I banish spring clothes to storage in the fall, and fall clothes to storage in the spring. I like this kind of system. It keeps me calm, if not obsessive compulsive.

But packing is my wardrobial tragic flaw. Shoes especially. I usually take with me more pairs of shoes than days I am away. Add two different climates to the formula (a heat wave in Toronto and the perpetual winter of '08 on the West Coast) and I've really got a calculus problem to solve. Find: the derivative of white shorts raised to the power of two heels, multiplied by a maternity top, all divided by rain. I stand. I stare. Flies fluzz by. Chestnuts roast on an open fire.

And inevitably, the morning of my departure is an exercise in haphazardly adding last minute items to my suitcase (and purging four-legged stowaways). Boots. toothpaste. pjs. Shit! pjs!!!

strike three

2008-06-11T16:18:00.002-07:00

cannot write today. have abandoned two posts based on each one's ability to bore me into a catatonic state, and therefore also any reader who comes too close. have eaten all the chocolate I promised myself I would store in my desk for future 3:00 fixes. feeling like a sloth. writing like a marmot. like a marmot who rode from Princeton to Port Alberni in the engine of a minivan. ouch.

Fragments

2008-06-08T18:43:00.007-07:00

Saturday night. June in Victoria (read: cold and windy). Fisherman's Wharf for dinner; shared outdoor benches, malt vinegar, bobbing houseboats and the sun low in the sky. Backlit silhouettes lined up to order and seagulls scavenging scraps from discarded baskets.

Earlier that day: a painting gone wrong. unexpected visitors. goose-bumpy legs. and a nectarine overdose.

"We Can Bridge the Distance"

2008-06-06T10:21:00.002-07:00

This is one of my favourite photos of my best friend and I, circa 1992. Our version of a "talent" performance for our parents, sans batons and tiaras. Note my Bart Simpson pin which says "Don't have a cow, man." We're singing Tears Are Not Enough. I think Leah was feelin' it a little more than I was...

Rhymeswithjazz

2008-05-29T14:19:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes your mother or brother or friend or husband will frequently mention a colleague/acquaintance/sandwich artist with whom they converse with on a daily basis but you yourself have never met? And after enough passing references to this person, you begin to construct your own semi-unfounded, often stereotypical perception of what he or she might look like? Sometimes based on conversational description, sometimes not. Are ya with me?

And then occasionally, the informant will mention one physical characteristic that causes a metaphorical swarm of locusts to wreak havoc on your visual imagination? Case in point:

My husband is working on a project right now which requires him to meet on a weekly basis with City employees. There is one person in particular, a project manager who will remain nameless (however I will say that his name rhymes with the word jazz), who has come up in conversation several times, and I sense that my husband has a great deal of respect for the guy based on the pleasantry of his tone when he talks about him. " [Rhymeswithjazz] is paying a parking ticket for me since I was in a meeting with the City," "[Rhymeswithjazz] drives a really nice truck," and the observation that got this whole thing going: "I saw [Rhymeswithjazz] downtown today on his day off. He was wearing one of those hats that snaps together in the front."

"Wait...like, you mean one of those preppy pseudo-gangsta golf hats?"

"Yeah."

As in:

Only, in my perverse mental processing, I instantly pictured that it was baby blue nylon and probably matched a shiny, oversized one of these:

Are you beginning to grasp the twisted image I was manifesting for [Rhymeswithjazz]? Civic employee by day, hoodrat by night...

I began telling my husband that I needed to meet this guy, if only to clear up my misperception. Afterall, a snapped golf hat is in and of itself a perfectly innocent garment. Why should I associate it with an image of a badass rapper dude who, incidently, also wears dollar-sign bling around his neck in my evolving characterization?

Come on, Sarah. Snap out of it (pun intended). The guy is a suit. He sits at a desk in a municipal building. I highly doubt he loads the bypass tray in the photocopier one minute, and the next he's lip-syncing to Akon while he drives home in his lowered irridescent purple truck with the bed permanently covered, 'cause this dude ain't haulin no two by fours anytime soon. (Says something about my confidence in my husband's taste in trucks, doesn't it?) Not to say that gangstas don't have stuffy office jobs. Fo shizzle.

Because I guess he could be like one of these guys:

Especially the scene at the beginning when Michael Bolton is stuck in traffic.

Parenthetically, if you have not seen the movie Office Space, leave this blog now and never come back. KIDDING!!! but seriously....

Anyway, then my sister-in-law came for a visit. And I told her of this whole snappy-hat saga and how I'm sure I will be shocked and chagrinned when the day comes that I finally get to meet the real [Rhymeswithjazz] face to face, and all preconceived notions will be slain by locusts.

Then she met him.

She came home and exclaimed "I met [Rhymeswithjazz] on the street!"

"Well? Am I right? Am I RIGHT?!?!? Is he hardcore?"

"Mmmm....not really....I don't know."

Exasperated, and in an attempt at an iota of clarification, I finally had to draw a caricature of this phantom man who haunts my conscience. I have been told I missed the mark. Behold:

Do you get why I was dumbstruck when my husband mentioned that [Rhymeswithjazz] offered to take him charter fishing this summer?

Important note about this post: I have absolutely no issue with snappy hats, North Carolina jerseys, or even dollar sign bling. I also don't have a problem with lowered irridescent purple trucks, although I personally choose not to drive one. And hey, there was even an Akon song played at my wedding (albeit on an impromptu party bus). This post is simply a commentary on how we all sometimes imagine people a certain way, and it turns out they are nothing like we expected. Even if we should have known better, Shorty.

Twilight Zone

2008-05-28T22:57:00.001-07:00

Just a sketchy little experiment with charcoal, photoshop, and an afghan-knitting cat.

Hatch

2008-05-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

Here is my latest sketch, although I'm not sure where this little one is going to end up ultimately:

My process for this style that I often work in is to first sketch with a combination of pencil and charcoal, and sometimes a smidgen of ink on watercolour paper. Then I scan the drawing and play with it in photoshop a little, usually adjusting the colour balance to get a sepia tone:

And I know it is largely frowned upon to use photoshop filters, but sometimes I can't help it....

So there are three versions of this little hatchling....I can't decide if I'll incorporate him into my Animal Alphabet wall cards somehow, although "B" (bird) and "C" (chick) have already been taken by Bumble Bee and Chipmunk. Or maybe he'd make a really cute "Congratulations On Your New Arrival" card. What do you think? And which of the three versions do you prefer? All comments are happily received and appreciated.

Here are a couple of the Animal Alphabet wall cards I mentioned. Process is the same, except with these critters I stitched fabric onto the paper for some added texture:

Thanks for checking in!

Quoto

2008-05-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

"I hope I learn something from knowing the creatures of the Earth. I hope I learn something from looking a long way, from looking up, from being much alone. We simply need that wild country available to us, even if we do no more than drive to its edge and look in."
--Wallace Stegner

Friday's Favourite Phrase

2008-05-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

"Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon"

def.: so rank, it cannot be described.

Liable

2008-04-29T11:21:00.000-07:00

Scott being inducted into the Architectural Institute of British Columbia

Ode

2008-04-20T21:04:00.000-07:00

To old friendships renewed, to new ones eternalized. To sharing plates, one dessert and four spoons. To stiletto heel prints in fallen April snowflakes. To vocal shiverings in snow-covered parked cars and a slow journey home just before midnight. To Saturdays, to sunlight on awnings, to news of pending adventures. To hugs goodbye, with promises of next time.

And driving home, alone, with the volume up.

Pig has a secret

2008-04-02T15:48:00.000-07:00

I came across this whimsical piece on Foundling's Etsy Shop. The description reads: "A vintage bit of fabric and animals from vintage children's textbooks were collaged to create Pig Has A Secret." WELL. A pig after my own heart.

Logic

2008-03-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

A horrifying episode occured in Cuba when I witnessed Scott sleeping with his eyes wide open.

It was our first night there, and I was feeling sick. We fell asleep with the TV and all the lights on. I woke up about an hour later and turned around to find my husband staring right back at me....only...not. His head was tilted towards the ceiling, mouth half open (thankfully no trickle of blood coming out of it, although that would have completed the scene), and eyes WIDE OPEN. He was definitely sleeping though, because when I jolted him into consciousness there was a significant change in those eyeballs; they snapped from a vegetative glaze to a pair of lenses groggily registering visual stimuli.

"Oh my god! You were sleeping with your eyes wide open!"

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you were. That was so creepy! I thought you were dead! Do you see out of them when you do that? You probably do this every night and I don't notice because it's dark!"

"Well my eyes are pretty dry when I wake up in the morning...."

Good glory. And don't for a second think that I am exaggerating the openness factor. These puppies were not halfway there. There were no eyelids to speak of.

Then last night, I was already in bed but had to answer my stomache's cries to feed it. I brought my bagel and cream cheese back to the bedroom and commented on how I think it's great that we frequently leave our deadliest kitchen knives in plain sight on the cutting board, just in case the maniac who breaks in forgets his weapon in his brown van. This was the perfect justification for Scott to pipe in about his sleeping habits (oh god, of which there are so many weird ones, I cannot possibly describe them all in one entry).

"Well now you know why I sleep with my eyes open. I'm always on alert."

Yah. Well maybe we could just use a drawer and he could get some real shut-eye. But no, this way makes much more sense. While we're at it, we might as well turn on all the burners on the stove in the morning, and I'll run home from work every 10 minutes to make sure the place isn't torched.

21 days later

2008-03-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

Where have I been all this time? (This is more a question posed to myself, and not you, dear reader).

Answer: 1)A combination of Cuba and the couch. 2)Elbow-deep in a bag of Doritos one minute, on a quest for another gallon of organic milk the next. 3)In an ever-fluxing headspace: from anxiety and indifference to optimism and utter contentment. I have been incredibly lazy, but my doctor recently erradicated my guilt by allowing me to blame it on "progesterone". Don't force exercise for the next little while? Okay.

This growing a human business can really suck the life right out of you. A bit of a boost yesterday though, hearing the heartbeat for the first time. A sweet little fluttering of poppyseed-sized valves and chambers, having begun a lifetime of tireless work.

Last night, Scott and I went out for dinner. It was a drizzly evening and I was in the mood for a cozy neighbourhood pub (and, let's face it, something deep-fried). We sat down at a table that happened to be beside a younger couple who were dressed to impress and sharing the banquette seat so they could be closer to each other. There was a little bit of bickering and a lot of wine. I decided they were newly dating and ordered a rootbeer.

A few minutes later an older couple sat down on the other side of us. Retired. Both ordered a glass of red wine and while the 20-somethings swapped bites of an apple pie with melted cheese on top (there's a MOD if I've ever heard of one, all you ex-servers out there), the older man and woman clutched the stems of their glasses and stared blankly at molecules of air that occupied space a little to the left of each other's heads.

How poignant the juxtaposition of a new romance and one that is seasoned enough to endure an extended period of unawkward silence. These were two people who could have just as easily convinced me that they were both on the verge of a wine-induced coma, separate but together.

And then there was Scott and I, right in the middle, not noticing our own silence as we finished each other's meals and eavesdropped on our neighbours. Clearly one side proved more interesting.

On a final and fittingly unrelated note, I love my dear cat and have decided she deserves some blog publicity. The only time I feel otherwise towards her (although at 2pm I can't help but find it slightly endearing) is at 5am when there is a black purring mess kneading my ribcage and walking in circles around my pillow. She seeks out my hands and in my state of half-sleep I am treated to the familiar wet-nosed head-butting; a plea for some scratching at the most difficult hour of the day. If I'm lying on my back she inevitably finds comfort in Sphinx pose, the tips of her paws poised on my trachea. She does, afterall, fancy herself a calculating and fearsome jungle cat.

Why do we allow her to sleep in our room, you ask? Well, for one, I do love a warm animal body next to me. But most importantly, if we close our door, the 5am wake-up call is much more disturbing. It conjures images of the other side of the bedroom door splintered into kindling and claws ground down to the quick.

Thank you for reading, I now continue my clumsy and fog-headed journey through the day and will eat the chocolate cookie sitting quietly in a brown paper bag on my desk.

I have spilled my lunch on my pants three times and counting....

Missed

2008-03-06T19:21:00.000-08:00

This is Kilah, a beautiful girl with an arctic coat and a famous smile. She loved visiting the neighbours down the road because they always had a treat for her. But whatever it was, she unfailingly carried it all the way home to 3195 Cape Bear Rd before she ate it. Once I saw her cross the front lawn with an entire croissant in her mouth.

Everything around us begins as an idea

2008-03-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

There are fingertips padding keyboards all around me and I contribute to the plastic rhythm as I write this. I'm at that not-quite-lunchtime stage of the day, where I absolutely stop all productive work and basically zone out for a good 1o minutes.

I've learned a lot here. And I know that the book world is where I'm meant to be, in one aspect or another. But sometimes I miss the drawing I used to do for architectural projects. I am in love with the evolution of a hand sketch to a sophisticated computer graphic to a built environment, and the ability of a set of drawings to not only specify the accurate placement of steel studs, but to also be artful in its own ink-on-paper way.

I believe in art with a purpose; an expression of creativity that also communicates an idea.
I believe that form follows function.

I used to draw restored facades of heritage buildings and contemporary living spaces for forward-thinking urbanites; designs that in some way modified an existing urban landscape. Now I draw cats playing instruments on school buses and mice performing ballet recitals to The Blue Danube Waltz. It might be that I also believe in art for art's sake, or perhaps that I enjoy the visual telling of a story. Or maybe the whole while I was drafting up plans and sections there was a child inside me, just dying to get out, and asking me not to think so hard.

2008-03-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday L!

"And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed."

-Kahlil Gibran

Blast! A missed photo opportunity

2008-03-01T19:12:00.000-08:00

Ten fashion-hungry females and heaping mounds of neglected clothes on the verge of a renaissance. For three manic hours on a Saturday afternoon, the 2nd semi-annual "Never-Been-Worn" Clothes Swap and Auction Extravaganza returned!

This is how we do it: First, we gorge ourselves on boursin and crackers, homemade cookies and mini eggs. Oh, and of course quench our thirst with caramel apple martinis and white wine; nothing says NBW like a 3pm cocktail! Then each participant itemizes every article she has brought to the table.

Required details include: brand name, city of purchase, number of times worn, whether or not there is "a time and a place for it", and any deficiencies worth mentioning.

Once all has been seen the bidding begins. The try-ons begin. Soon there are half-naked ladies in every room of the house swapping goods, correcting postures in front of mirrors. More wine is poured. A secretary keeps track of monies owed.

"How much for the boots?"

"Fifteen."

"Done."

Transactions occur. And of course, bidding wars are inevitable.

It is worth noting that one woman's trash is another's treasure. Case in point: a "Leggo my Eggo" t-shirt actually found a new home today.

I am 3 tops, 2 pants, 1 jacket and eighty dollars richer than I was this morning. I only wish I had thought to capture the madness with my camera, bare bums and all.

A poem for the wee ones

2008-02-26T15:12:00.000-08:00

Paw prints on the sidewalk
two, four, six, eight, ten,
are the only concrete evidence
of some four-legged friend.

I inspected them quite closely
and began to track the trail.
"Judging by the clues" I said,
"the culprit has a tail."

Muddy marks were on the grass
(the sidewalk was still new)
Were they left by Pug or Labrador?
Saint Bernard or Cockapoo?

I combed the yard for further clues,
a leash, some drool, a bone.
My neighbours offered up some tips,
but I chose to work alone.

Then just as I was near the fence,
something caught my eye -
a path of mucky footprints
too dog-like to deny.

So I got down upon all fours
just like the wanted pet
and deduced the muddy substance
was indeed sand and aggregate!

The path continued through my yard,
my pulse began to race.
The mutt was on my property,
I'd nearly solved the case!

I traced the scent to my own porch
And braced for the arrest,
I expected confrontation
full of growls and protest.

But I'd found him now! I'd show that hound
Who had the better nose!
I crept sneakily up the stairs,
This case was almost closed....

"TRAIL LEADS SLEUTH TO SUNNY PORCH,"
the news reports would claim.
"SUSPECT SENT TO DOGHOUSE,
DETECTIVE CATAPULTS TO FAME!"

"Fugitive!" I proclaimed,
"Put your paws up in the air!
It's time you were brought to justice,
the law is tough but fair.

"If you cooperate and tell me who
released you from your yard,
a flea bargain will be offered,
your time will not be hard."

No answer came, no doggy bark
no yelping in defeat,
so I slowly opened wide the door,
not sure whose face I'd meet.

On a chair, warmed by the sun,
was a mound of light grey fur,
It yawned and rolled upon its back,
and that mound began to purr.

"George!" I cried, "so it was YOU!"
"Meow." was all he said.
I looked at him, he looked at me,
and nothing more was said.

The proof was on his guilty paws,
and smeared across the mat.
This case is closed, the dossier reads:
"Out-smarted by a cat!"

Ape Aspirations

2008-02-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

Maybe it was my Moshishi doll? In any case, my mom asked me at age six WHATIWANTEDTOBEWHENIGREWUP. Without having to think about it too hard, I pronounced that my life's ambition was to be hired as the warm body that dressed as a Gorilla and waved to drivers while wearing a sandwich board advertising a tire company. Now that is a job description.

I didn't want to be a teacher, or a movie star. Not even a CEO. I simply wanted to dress in a furry polyester ape suit and sell rubber. I am sad to report that this degree program is not offered at any Canadian university, and so, the dream has died.

I'm trying to think what it was about that particular vocation that appealed to me. All I remember is a sort of morbid curiousity taking hold of me as I gazed at THE GORILLA from the backseat window as we drove by. I remember the top of my spine and the creases behind my knees sticking to vinyl upholstery in the muggy Regina summer; the heat rising off the pavement like the breathe of a thousand snakes. And there he was on the corner, just waving and waving. My mind's eye still sees that primate as clear as a fishbowl.

Six was a strange age for me. Call it "6X".

That same year I also requested that upon cremation, my ashes be spread over the midway at the Regina Exhibition. Because I loved the Tilt-a-Whirl. And, apparently, lonely and vacant parking lots, since that's what it was 51 weeks of the year. Anyway, who wouldn't want one-eyed carnies trodding upon them for all eternity? Who, I ask you?! Sheesh.

a little bit, wow....

2008-02-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

Wow. Wow. I can't concentrate on anything productive at the moment.
I came across a bit of news today. Two lines. Pink ones. This is all I'll say for now. Infer what conclusion you like, but don't dare bring it up with me in person yet, because I won't be able to keep from smiling....

sweet n' sour

2008-02-20T12:14:00.000-08:00

My oldest and dearest pal, L, is a lover of candy. At least, she was when we were little and used to giddily tote our loonies to the corner store in search of a sugar fix. Her devotion to the stuff of gummies was so self-sacrificing that during an early 90s screening of a Macaulay Culkin film (was it My Girl?) she pounded back a bag of Sour Kids in the theatre until her tongue was raw and bleeding, and she could eat no more. Literally. Tongue. Bleeding.

The things we do for love.

She also has a mild undiagnosed case of obsessive compulsive disorder, which, as you will soon discover, was married to her candy addiction in the most peculiar of ways.

But first, a classic example. Throughout elementary school, L would arrive at my house in the mornings and become an innocent victim of what was (and still is) my chronic tardiness. As she waited patiently for me to finish getting ready, she always informed me of what she was "wearing". Allow me to clarify. L had a Sears catalogue in her bedroom and everyday, starting from page one, she "wore" whatever the model had on, left to right across the spread, until she had gone through the entire glossy tome. She even donned the accessories. Considering it was the 90s, her daily announcement was usually something like this: "Today I'm in a red double-breasted polyester blazer with a gold broach and gold earrings, black stirrup-pants, and faux snake-skin ankle boots." When I look back on this, I realize that when she told me about her daily outfit, I never actually pictured the clothes on her. I pictured them on Pat Benatar.

Back to the candy and the OCD. Back to that corner store. Can you guess? Working in a clockwise direction, starting at the immediate left of the front door (where the ice cream cooler was), L spent a good few months buying treats based on their consecutive positions in the store. This often included the consumption of things that were not altogether appealing to a sugar-loving kid - for example, a Royal Canadian Mint ice cream bar (even if it was January) which had "nuts". She did it not because she wanted to expand her candy horizons, but because she craved a systematic approach. If there were 687 varieties of junk-food delicacies in that store she would check each one off her list until, goddammit, she had hit them all!

Oh, L. You are the girl who insisted on reading out loud every Sweet Valley Twin book you owned while it was my turn to rescue the princess from King Koopa in World 6. You are the girl who introduced me to Def Leppard when we were seven. You are the girl who has kept every t-shirt you've ever owned, including a Hypercolour, a Vuarnet, and a Bodyglove.
I have been there to witness it all, and

I wouldn't

change

a

thing.

Finding love in all the right places.....

2008-02-19T10:33:00.000-08:00

...like in the delicious perfection of an otherwise unopened jar of peanut butter

Dear Blog,

2008-02-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

Beginning is difficult. But, it's a Monday morning (and the first sunny one in a while) so I might as well give some life to you today.

A bit of geography first. I've had the privilege of living in three beautiful Canadian cities - Victoria, Halifax, and Vancouver. And while I've never called it home, a little part of me will always live in Murray Harbour, Prince Edward Island, where my husband is from. Gabled roofs atop shingled walls dot the landscape and white dogs turn red from the clay earth. There is always something simmering in the slow cooker, and you wave to everyone you pass on the road because you know them. You don't go to June and Herb's, you go through June and Herb's. They are not cars, they are rigs. And when you buy a pack of gum at the store, chances are a neighbourly chap will point out that you've got some chewin' to do.

My father-in-law is a lobster fisherman and one of the greatest guys I know, second only to my own dad. I've gone out on the boat only once for business, and I have to admit I spent most of the morning sleeping in the warmth of the bunk as my husband and his brother hauled traps in their oilskins. They let me be, although I don't think I'll be hired as a deckhand anytime soon.

We spent last holiday season there, and played a mean game of spoons on Christmas Eve until blood was shed. We fell asleep in darkness; not a streetlight, not a headlight, not even the moon. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face as I lay in bed listening to the black waters of the Northumberland Strait, not a quarter of a mile to the south, across a frozen field.

It wasn't until a few days before we flew home that the last snowstorm of the year finally arrived and left everything it touched still and quiet, and the sky a silvery grey.

Love is.....

2008-02-14T16:11:00.000-08:00

....getting up at 6am to cook breakfast (a first by all accounts); preparing a favourite -- Scotch eggs -- which requires the man-handling of ground pork sausage and a subsequent coating in raw egg so the cornflakes stick. Did I mention I'm a vegetarian?