I think I have figured out this uploading photo business...

The real meeting... Dale shocked at my crazy self...lol..! Everyone ducking for the self portrait... and a dogpile of bloggers! As you can see, it was a wonderful meeting, and I had a wonderful time with Dale and Lesley! Sometimes the people on the blogsites really are every bit as wonderful as you think they are!

So this is Lindy and I at Passionista... I didn't take much for photos really, and while the one shot of us (of course, self portaits!) is out of focus, I prefer it to the more in focus one as it captured our mood so much better...

The meeting of the sisters.....

It was terrifying.
Not at first, mind you, but it did end that way.
You see, Lesley, AKA Lannio, was at her sister Dale’s home in Windermere this past weekend.
I most unwisely thought to contact Dale and suggest a visit with her and sister while she visited the fair Columbia Valley. I just thought meeting a couple of my blog buddies would be really nice. How very wrong I was. Dead wrong.
I bought wine, and with happy thoughts tripping through my head, followed Dale’s VERY SPECIFIC directions to her abode. That should have been my first warning…
When I arrived at the door, I thought, “Gee, what a nice tidy yard.” Even the snowman was immaculate.
Upon knocking, I heard the clopping of sensible Donna Reedesque heels approaching with quick, steady measures.
The door opened, and I beheld Dale. Her hair was in severe plaits (not loose braids, but tight, perfectly coifed plaits) and she was dressed in the most austere and tidy dress I have ever imagined.
“Stevie?” she inquired crisply.
“Um, yeah, that’s me… Dale? Is that you?” I replied, bewildered at the difference between her and her happy, carefree blog photo.
“Correct,” she said, before ushering me into her neat as a pin home.
Sitting on the couch, which was covered in clear, tight plastic, was Lesley, dressed in no less than Donna Karen and Malano Blahnik boots.
“This is Lesley, my sister,” announced Dale. “She is from the city.”
Lesley looked me and my carelessly bound hair, generic brand jeans and bargain basement top and home beaded jean jacket as though there were bits of poop attached to me.
“Oh, hello,” she said, before sniffing and turning her attention back to her glass of French wine, which I found out after is all she drinks. French wine, grapes crushed by the feet of virgins borne on the spring equinox.
Dale announced her children, who stood up immediately upon their names being spoken and curtsied and bowed in unison.
“May we retire to our bedchambers now, Mother?” the male child, Robert, inquired.
“You may,” Dale replied tartly, “but remember not to toss about as you sleep so the sheets will not wrinkle.”
The poor urchins made elaborate bows to their mother, aunt and father, who himself chose to head off to bed, but not before being reminded by Dale to shower twice so as not to soil the sheets.
I sat carefully on the pristine Louis XI high back chair offered to me and offered the bottle of wine I had brought, feeling like a bug under a microscope.
After Dale had poured me a glass of wine of her own choosing, which took some time as she had to rewash the glass several times and polish it twice more before carefully measuring our exactly eight ounces of the liquid into it, she placed it carefully on the coaster on the table next to me.
Then she arranged herself carefully on the couch near, but not too near, her high class, citified sister.
I reached for the glass, took a sip, and when I went to put it down was a few millimeters from the centre of the coaster.
Dale shrieked and lunged for the glass, putting it dead centre on the coaster, then walked smartly to the kitchen to get me a clean coaster as apparently a speck of dust had landed on my current one.
While she was doing this, Lesley gave me along, slow look, one that said, “oh Lord, I have arrived in Green Acres, and here is my fashion nemesis.”
I looked nervously around the house. Everything was in its place, not a speck of dust anywhere, and the scent of Orange Oil Pledge filled my nostrils. Even the cat minced carefully about in paper booties, with scotch tape around its ankles to keep them in place. It was so perfectly trained to be neat that when it accidentally brushed past my leg and left three strands of cat hair on my jeans, it stopped, backed up and carefully picked them off and put them in the trash can near the door.
By the time I left, Dale had polished the floor where I had walked in, and kept muttering “not clean enough” under her breath, forcibly combed my unruly hair into submission and kept glancing nervously at the floor near my jacket in case, I assume, one of the beads had landed on the floor. Lesley refused to speak in anything but French and Italian, the only English leaving her lips making reference to my horrid taste in wine in low but not inaudible undertones, while Dale smiled a tight little smile, and waited patiently for me to leave so she could steam clean the chair I occupied.
After 45 minutes, I simply could not stand the scrutiny any longer. I ran headlong out the door and rushed to my car, with the sound of Dale’s vacuum cleaner starting up in my wake.
The lesson: never meet your blog friends in real life. I start therapy tomorrow with Bob O. the therapist.
Dale recommended him.

Sunday, bloody Sunday

Well, with snow glaring at me from every angle, I have decided I am going on strike until spring shows her lovely head. BAH! I am done with this winter business, and have had quite enough of all this frozen precipitation and cold.
I admire winter, and those who worship it, but dammit, Dale, enough of your snow dances! My friends, I am quite sure this winter of endless snow, which admittedly will be a grace to our water table come summer, is all her fault. And that darn sister of hers just encourages this behaviour. The two of them were commiserating on the ski hill today, you know, and likely offering up bundles of jelly beans tied in knitted touques and raspberry sorbetto to the snowgods. Probably got it from Gerry's Gelato, too, the wretched women. I will try and dash their plans for endless runs on the ski hill by plying them with wine and brainswashing them to give up on their dastardly conspiracy, but should I fail, know I went down with shouts of "Spring approaches! Long live the begonias! All hail coconut sunscreen!"
My open toed sandals weep sad little shoe tears in the corner of my closet, and though today did boast a blue sky, I need to see more of that soon or I fear I will run away with the Ferrions forever!
I want to see green grass and flower buds and all that sappy sentimental crap, and I want it soon. Damn groundhog and his eight more weeks of winter. That was what he saw, right? I was frankly to afraid to read any reports on that subject, for fear it would drive me into a frenzied binge of malted milk balls and espresso.

Passionista

So I decided to make the 2.5 hour drive to Calgary the night prior to my three days off, so as to avoid doing the dull driving part of the event on my actual vacation day. Good choice as well, as it snowed a bunch the next few days. Arrived at Beaner's house about 2 a.m., snoozed on her couch with the cats a few hours and then set off to find the apartment I had borrowed from some friends in my favourite part of the city, just seven or so blocks from The Artists of the World gallery where the event was set to take place the next night.
The rest of the day was an orgy of nothingness, once I figured out how to not be on duty every second of the day... that took a couple of hours.
GORGEOUS apartment! An older building, circa early 1960s, with the predictable old style bathroom and kitchen, and the little cubbys that the milkman would have put the milk in the morning. Two lovely bedrooms, hardwood floors throughout, a decent living room and a wonderfully naturally lit sitting room left open with just a couple of matching armchairs and a lovely little art deco table. And art, art everywhere! It was simply perfect. Lindy was not able to join me until later in the day, so I spent a few hours checking out old haunts, wandering in lovely lazy fashion along 17th Avenue... ahhh.... then home for a soak in the tub (a treat as at home I have only a shower) and a leisurely cup of tea.
When my darling Teacup Girl Miss Lindy arrived, we settled her into her room (with a Maya Evantov on the wall... my favourite artist ever) and then it was off to The Unicorn to have drinks and nibblies. Introduced her to her first proper scotch, then we wandered along Stephen Avenue talking and catching up... me with life in general, and her filling me in on her couple of months long trip to Europe to soak in art as she readies herself to enter Emily Carr, an art school on the coast.
The next day we set out to capture photos for her to use in her portfolio, wander through Devonian Gardens, tour though Art of My Heart, one of my all time favourite Calgary shops, and talk talk talk. A quick bite at the Auburn Saloon, another favourite spot (Lesley, it is at the base of the Calgary Tower and has phenomenal pumpkin soup and spectacular hummus) a cab back to the apartment and it was time to ready ourselves for Passionista!
Of course, we were devastatingly beautiful, her with her dark hair and eyes and me with my red hair and blue eyes.
One thing we did not do, however, was plan on a cab being at the apartment at a pre-determined time. Called every cab company in Calgary... and then realized, open toed four inch heels and all, we were walking through the snow to the fundraiser! Had we been in jeans and boots, we would not have bothered, but in heels, we had not planned to walk! Giggling like mad women and mincing though inches of slushy snow, we managed to snag a cab within about four blocks, which ironically enough could not turn onto the one way street where our gallery was only a few away. So we circled around in rush hour traffic, arrived just in time to make a spectacular entrance (at least in our own minds!)
It was lovely... three floors of art, endless varieties of nibblies and drinks, two bands, one playing Sinatra and one jazz, body painters, dancers, and couches all over to sit and chat and absorb the evening. We fended of several creepy sort of rich men, and flirted with a several non-creepy and lovely rich men, and remained spectacular and sparkling throughout!
After things wound down and it was properly dark and cold outside, it was another cab searching adventure and back to the apartment... but not before a quick trip to the corner store for Red Bull and chocolate. Some Chinese takeaway, our red bulls and pots and pots of tea kept up going until the wee-est of hours as we crammed as much visiting in as possible before taking our sleepy selves to bed...
The next day was the drive home, and back to reality.
Photos to follow soon!

day two...

I survived the first day of my captivity... at least I think it was a full day... I found a small wedge of swiss cheese in a hole behind the cot I slept in last night and was able to use it to bribe one of the duller of the mice guarding my door... this ovaline sect is more brawn than brain I think.
Gyspy, the dullard mouse made a crude map of my whereabouts... with luck it will reach Bert, then you and the other intrepid bloggers... I will continue to save up marshmallows, though they have switched me to orange mini-mallows, and I fear they will make less effective weapons... no news yet from the ferrion sect... I will stay strong though and continue to moisturize for that dewy look in case any of them are feeling a wee bit frisky...

napping of the kid....

....please help... the ninja mice I have trained since their birth have betrayed me.... i have been abducted and spirited away to a strange land I do not recognize... all I know is there is a large pile of dandelion puffs outside the barred windows of the cell I am held in... I am being fed only strawberry marshmallows and ovaltine... don't know how long I can carry on... help...

For all you goddesses in my life...

I hate it.
I really do.
I hate the pigeon holing, the narrow little alley we, as a society, force our women into. We do it to men as well, but to a lesser extent.
I am, of course, talking about beauty.
You have to be thin-thin-thin, you have to have perfect teeth, you have to have perfect hair, you have to have designer clothes, you have to have mounds of make-up on at all hours of the day and God help you if you don’t have all these things down pat.
Well to hell with that, says me.
I am a firm believer that if you live a healthy lifestyle, and by that I mean eat food that is good for your body, get a little daily exercise (walk the dog, take the stairs, hell go to the gym or do a workout tape if that’s your fancy, just get like even just half an hour each day) and limit the really wonderful but really bad for you treats you eat, that your body will settle at the weight it is meant to be at, be that a size 6 or a size 16.
We see it, are force-fed “desirable body type,” in nearly every aspect of our society. Fashion magazines, television shoes, we glorify the likes of Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie (don’t get me wrong I like both those actors… or at least Angelina), the clothing stores all use, what, like size two mannequins, there are commercials in televised and print media that insist we need Relacor be beat belly fat, Slim Fast to drop weight quickly, and there are copious other lose weight pills and powders that we know just don’t work. Some of the best selling books these days are all hawking the best type of diet to achieve you desired body weight, but when you add them all together, you are still getting the same message: you, my dear, are not good enough.
It is in the shop at home catalogues like Victoria’s secret and even good old Sears.
And the really ironic thing is, we see what we are told is the perfect body and yet every other aspect of our lives is being directed towards sedentary lifestyles via computers and other electronic stimuli. AND ALL COMES FROM ESSENTIALLY THE SAME SOURCE!
We live in a society where we spend less and less time doing anything active in our daily routines, computers gobble up huge amounts of our time, we have put the nutritionally deficient bleached out food products on the shelves easiest to reach and afford, and yes, fast food is taking its toll.
Kids go to play at one another’s house, but instead of tearing around outside, they are more often than not inside playing video games. You know it is true… and while it is not true of every kid or even every kid all of the time, it is a sign of the times.
We are not going to be able to beat the age of laptops, X-Box 360 and PSPs, but we can try and find some way to balance it out.
Can you see the irony here? Our girls, and our boys, see what the societal version of perfection is and want desperately to have it, but at the same time, are spending more time on things like MSN messenger and Nexopia and MySpace, getting little or no exercise, and where were are they getting the messages about so called physical perfection? MSN, Nexopia, Messenger, yadda yadda yadda.
And we allow it. Have we given up?
I hope not. And while I am saying all of this I know there are some families out there who have not been sucked into the pit of unhealthy despair, so keep your pouty tut-tutting at bay for the moment.
The top and bottom of it is, we really need, as a society, to tell the small, and small minded, group of whoever the hell they, that we are no longer going to be sucked into their putrefac and harmful realm. And we need to tell our women and men that beauty is not in the lowest number on the scale or size tag, it is not in the perfect teeth (can you say laminates boys and girls?) or the perfect hair (please, as if it looks like that all the time) the buff bodies (it’s called having a private chef and a personal trainer, and that is in addition to the tummy tucks, breast implants and liposuction) and it is not found in a magazines or on television.
It is not in flawless, smooth, wrinkleless skin, it is not in your clothes or hair colour or style.
If you are a fitness buff, I applaud your self-discipline and drive, as long as you do it to be healthy and not to fit into a stereotype. And frankly, if you really feel a desire to go further and alter your body surgically, again, that is your choice and I will not hold it against you. Heck, there are times I wish that little fold of skin left over from my cesarean section would just disappear. It is a personal choice.
But we really need to ask ourselves, do we want to make drastic changes to our bodies for ourselves, or for others? Exercise to be healthy, and sure, sometimes being healthy really does include losing a few pounds, but lose the pounds YOUR body needs to lose, not the pounds some pigeonholing chart says you need to lose. Ask your doctor, if you have a good one, what your healthy weight should be. Choose healthy foods (and by the way, white rice, white flour, white sugar… all are so refined they have little if any nutritional value), and if you aren’t sure what those are, ask a nutritionist. Eat that donut or ice cream of slice of cake or pie, but make them treats, not staples. Don’t deny yourself the things you love, but try and make sure everything is in balance.
Beauty. It is in smiling faces, healthy people who try to eat healthful foods, do not deny themselves the odd indulgence here and there, who are not obsessive about weight and shape, who try and get out and be active every day they can, who celebrate life and love and laughter on a daily basis, even on those days that seem to just suck.
Beauty is in loving yourself for just who you are, and loving the people around you for just who they are.
I lost about 35 pounds in the past year and a half. I lost it because my cholesterol was too high and I could barely make a flight of stairs without wheezing. I am now a size 12. And I’m good with that. And I fully admit I am still trying to get in better shape, but I am doing it to strengthen my body, to give my back a little better chance, to keep my heart healthy so I can keep up with my kids and, one day many years from now, their kids.
I’ll tell you about my goddess women photo series I am working towards another day. Right now, I think I will have some tea with real cream and a little cake… and I’m going to eat it too.
xxx