I was cynical, and flip and smug and negative. And I was so, so wrong. I have thus been absent in a beer-clouded haze of wandering and cheering and high-fiving perfect strangers. This in of itself shows the extent of the celebrations that took place during the Olympics, as I personally equate the high-five somewhere up there with university beer-bongs and riding mechanical bulls in redneck bars;  I tend to avoid it more due to public humiliation as I always either grossly over or underestimate the distance of hands and inevitably it turns into an awkward half-arm-slap where both parties are forced to pretend that it never happened.

So yes – over the course of 2 weeks I had possibly the most fun of my life. I started waking up at 5:30 a.m. to avoid the commuting congestion, and in the process laughed more than I have in ages. I witnessed more incredible sunrises than I have ever seen before.

I made amazing new friends, watched the sky light up with a million fireworks and bright art installations, and the twinkle of lights on the mountains. There was live music on every corner, street entertainers and massive t.v. screens all over the place so thousands of people could stop their meandering and join into impromptu renditions of “Oh Canada” when we took yet another gold. I cried on several occasions, out of tragedy and pride for our athletes. The patriotism that filled this little city was overwhelming. It was thick in the air and everyone was just on their best behavior – helpful and friendly and ecstatic and wonderfully amazing.

I watched undoubtedly the most exciting hockey game in the history of hockey games (or rather in the history of *my* hockey games as I’m fairly new to it in the past few years). I ate no less then 284 pieces of pizza and consumed 681 pints of beer* (*numbers are approximate due to my inability to count when tipsy). On the last day, when Canada scored that unbelievable goal in overtime to win gold and the yell of an entire nation went off simultaneously we were so overjoyed that we dropped our aversion to the giant crowds and headed downtown. We bought Strongbow tallcans which we sneakily placed in paper bags and walked over the Granville Street Bridge. The people so thick, it was like nothing I have ever witnessed. Laughing and dancing on bus shelters and rooftops of hostels, celebrating in the streets, hugging  policemen and the aforementioned high-fiving happening EVERYWHERE. Top that off with a sunset on the beach, more Strongbow, delicious burgers, and still more beer, and it was arguably the best party Vancouver ever witnessed. Suck on that, you “No Fun City” naysayers.

The snow didn’t really make much of an appearance (until today, mid-March once everyone has planted their flowers), but we made due as best as possible. We wooed the media and travelers from all over the world with our gorgeous views and million cherry blossoms and huge magnolias on every street corner,  already in bloom. Yes, we will undoubtedly be paying for this party for a long, long time – but the collective well-being, and the unbelievable ability to stir up excitement in Canadians who are often known for their indifference, it was worth every penny. You did good Vancouver, and proved us all wrong in the end – we are more proud than you will ever know.

Dear Vancouver,

I am writing this letter to you because I need to get something off my chest. It has been bothering me for about 4 years now, and I tried my best to bite my tongue and let you do your thing. But seriously – it’s getting a little out of hand.  You are allowing your new friends to walk all over you. What about those of us who support you and have been around for years? We cheer for your achievements, and stand up for you when things aren’t going so well. Even though we may not understand the choices that you make sometimes, we still adore you anyway. I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to you, but you should know – some of those people don’t treat you very well. They trash talk you behind your back. I knew they were assholes when they started that rumor about you being a ”no fun city”. Don’t listen to them, Vancouver; they are just obnoxious, materialistic jerks who want to use you for your stuff. That 14-day house party that’s happening – although super prestigious, I hope you understand that you’ll be paying for it for years to come! And you don’t really make that much money, Vancouver. I don’t know why you felt the need to buy everyone sirloin steaks and truffles anyway? They are EXPENSIVE and so impractical! I know you just want to impress everyone with your worldliness, but seriously – what are you going to do with the leftovers?

I’m a bit concerned about your place. It’s really nice.  I hope they don’t ruin your stuff. I know they said they weren’t going to invite all that many people, but I think your friends invited their friends, and all of a sudden you may find yourself with so many people packed in your place you might have to call the cops. Are you prepared for that? Do you really even know these people? Admittedly, I was surprised when they shoved you out of the way and started putting random stuff around that doesn’t suit the vibe of your space at all. None of this new stuff really goes together. You know that cool Art Gallery that you were so proud of? Sure it’s an antique, but it was really striking! But they went and threw this giant floral art installation over the whole thing, and now no one will be able to see how neat it was. I also think it was a little audacious that they used your money to pay for all these expensive decorations. Sure, some of them are really pretty -  but can you afford them? I mean seriously, you could have just tidied up, threw on a bit of paint here and there, and arranged for some transportation to get people to the party… maybe put out some chips and beer. Isn’t that what you’re about? You are laid back! You are low key! That’s what we love about you!

Some of those people that are coming over look a little shady, Vancouver; I think they might be looking to take advantage of your good nature. Did you know that they are selling tickets to get in? I know originally you wanted to host this great party that was accessible to everyone – but now those tickets are so ridiculously expensive that most of the people who love you the most won’t even be able to get in the door. How did things get so out of hand?

Truthfully, the whole thing makes me a little sad. I’m feeling hurt and a bit betrayed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m still happy for you. I’m happy that you are finally getting your chance to shine, and meet some new people. Maybe I’m just being overprotective, but I just love you so much and don’t want you to see you hurt. You are fantastic just the way you are – you don’t need to put on that horrible dress – it’s not flattering at all, and you look really uncomfortable. When the party is over, and everyone goes home, what sort of impression of you will they come away with? Will your amazing personality have shone through? Did you really need all that shitty costume jewelry? You have incredibly breathtaking natural beauty, Vancouver! You could have just put on some lip gloss and brushed your hair, and people would have been smitten by your witty charm and wicked sense of humor. You look like you are trying to be someone that you’re not. If people wanted that, they would have gone and partied in Las Vegas, or New York. Honestly, if those people keep telling you to need to change to fit in, are they really your friends? I’m sorry that they told you that you weren’t good enough the way you were, Vancouver. But mostly I’m sorry that you believed them. I hope one day you will get some self confidence and stop letting people push you around.

I’m sure most of them are great people, who just want to come, hang out and get to know you. It will be fun! But don’t let all this attention go to your head; being humble is one of your most endearing features. Putting up pretensions – it doesn’t suit you. Just be yourself, and people will notice how amazing you are, don’t worry. I know you are feeling self conscious about the not having enough snow thing, but what can you do? You can’t control everything.

We think you are wonderful and amazing, just the way you are – even if we are feeling a bit pissed off at you at the moment. We’re not trying to prevent you from having a good time; we are just trying to look out for your best interest. After all, we’ll still be here long after the party is over… when you are exhausted, hung-over and feeling a bit used and regretful for spending all that money you didn’t have. We will stand by you regardless, Vancouver, and try our best to look out for you when your place is packed with people stepping all over your carpet with dirty shoes and stealing stuff out of your medicine cabinet. Don’t fret, in a month this will all be behind us and you can take off all that garish makeup and just go back to being you – natural, mountainous, incredible, you.

Love, Vancouverites

PS – GOOD LUCK CANADA!

Lately it’s been bust-out-the-light-jacket weather. I can only assume that this has to do with the fact that we are hosting the 2010 Winter Olympics in 3 weeks.  This makes me secretly smile a little on the inside, because although this is an exciting opportunity for a city, it simultaneously creates a lot of chaos and disruption and cost for those who regularly call Vancouver home. But that is an entry for another day. Currently there is hardly any snow on the normally white covered mountains… funny how the universe is, sometimes.

Today I decided to go on an adventure to Home Depot. I love hardware stores. There is a particular smell about them that makes me feel rather more handy and helpful when I walk through the electric doors. Like cedar and drill bits and sweaty domestic improvement. I like it. I went today to check out the plant section, because I have managed to kill about 1/3 of all my plants this winter, and needed to restock the troops. My problem is I love them to death.  Mostly the orchids – who try as I might to ignore them like I’m supposed to, I can’t help but stroke their tiny blossoms adoringly whenever I walk into the room (they are  smooth and warm and soft – like suede!). They despise this, and prove it to me by dropping their blossomed heads onto the floor in the middle of the night – a suicidal gesture of their hatred and solidarity. I keep hoping with enough perseverance I will find a particularly hearty one – a botanical masochist that enjoys being manhandled. It has not happened yet, and I have the 7 bare-stemmed plants staring me down to prove it. But I can’t help by try… I just love having flowers in my life.

In Home Depot I managed to ignore the magnetic pull toward the orchids and went instead to the outdoor plant section. Rows of metal orange racks, exploding with rainbows of coloured flowery goodness. I picked out several vibrant daffodils, tulips, and primroses in shades of reds, burgundy, yellow. I know it’s only 9 degrees out (for winter, that’s awesome) but as I stand in the aisles I couldn’t resist temptation. I made the rash decision that today- TODAY- was going to be window-box day.

I planted them in the middle of my living room – a dirty, messy endeavor that I always secretly savor because it reminds me that as an adult living alone, paying fairly high rent – this is one of the perks. It would have been easier to do it in the courtyard… certainly more clean and responsible, with less to messy aftermath. But then my apartment wouldn’t smell like rich soil for the next few days. No, no air freshener could ever replicate this scent.

If I have jinxed myself by trying to rush into Spring, I’m sure the universe will punish me with frost and flurries – a reminder to be patient and allow Winter to take it’s course.  If that happens, the Vancouver Olympic Committee can thank me for doing my patriotic part in aiding in the success of the 2010 Winter Games. Either way, it’s a win-win situation.

For example, of all the countless things I regret over the last year, so numerous to detail that I could write an epic novel about the blunders I have made, the opportunities I’ve missed, the things I’ve forgotten, the times I’ve fallen, and the things I’ve lost, I won’t mention even one. I won’t waste your time. I won’t waste my time dwelling for another embarrassing, sad moment on any of it (this is not to say that over the next year you won’t be subjected to multiple train wreck posts detailing my NEW blunders). It’s the 6th day of the year, and here I am – sitting on the floor of my darkened kitchen, drinking a sweet glass of white wine (out of a wine glass only slightly smaller than a giant fishbowl) and listening to fleet foxes. And I realized that this will be my new blogging habit (god help you all). Now I know that up until this point, “habit” could be one of the last things to describe my blogging (right up there with “coherent” and “remotely  interesting”), but I’m not dwelling on it. I’m going to try my best to do better. Not necessarily more coherent, or interesting, but hopefully a little more often. Because I remembered how much I love writing. And how much I love wine. It’s not a New Year’s resolution, as this year it’s been my resolution not to make resolutions in January, but I do want to take advantage of the beginning of the year and start now. Birthdays make for much better times to make promises to yourself anyway.

Incoherent side note: Have you sat on the floor of your kitchen lately? It’s marvelous! It helps immensely that my kitchen is AWESOME (albeit dirty… lalala *notdwelling*). There are no lights on at the moment, only the soft (obnoxious) glow of my laptop screen scarring my tender retinas (it’s ok, the wine will make them feel better) and illuminating the black and white checker pattern of the floor. There is a dark chocolate candle that is burning, giving the slight illusion to anyone who may enter my apartment in the next couple of days that I was actually being domestic and cooking something uncharacteristically luxurious of me, like truffles or Jello pudding. This mixed with the mello goodness that is the harmonies of the Fleet Foxes, and it makes for a pretty great Wednesday night; a night that I can’t help but be stoked for my life – exactly as it is – no changes or resolutions necessary.

Christmas has crept up on me again, the sneaky bastard. I have this terrible habit of buying calenders and then not turning the pages until 3 days before the next month arrives. I never know the date. I am stuck back around December 6th, and here it is, not a week left until Christmas A WEEK AFTER CHRISTMAS (thank you wordpress for allowing this procrastinator to save a draft!). This year, my family decided to put a $15 buying limit on gifts, but with a strong suggestion to hand-make presents. I’m thrilled beyond belief at this idea, not because I myself have any shred of creative ideas on what to make people, but rather because I’m secretly hoping that my parents are going to make me things. My parents are the most creative, talented people around, and although I largely took it for granted growing up, as the years pass my awe for them grows. With each new guy I meet who can’t change a tire, doesn’t own a screwdriver, and can’t singlehandedly construct a car  from steel and fiberglass (seriously, he’s doing this), doesn’t whittle tiny gnomes out of driftwood, or  who can’t build a robot out of nothing but string and bubblegum (ok, this wasn’t my dad, but rather MacGyver, but still…) I get increasingly more discouraged. Where are all the people who can DO stuff? Like real, hands-on stuff? This creates an awfully high bar, unfortunately and likely the reason why I’m 31 and still single, but those things are still very impressive, and important! Particularly if my desire to run away to a deserted cabin continues.  And I know, I know – I am just as capable of learning to do these things myself, and I am the slightest bit intimidated by power tools or getting dirty,but there are other things I ALSO would like to learn how to do, like cook properly, handsew quilts, sail a boat, become a beekeeper, tend a lighthouse, tie knots, grow a gigantic garden, crack safes, and solve world peace. You know, the simple things in life.

Christmas was quiet and homey. I love that my folks live here in BC, and that there are members of our extended family who also share the holidays with us. My dad made me a gorgeous jewelry box out of cedar, with lovely red lining – sanded until it’s surface is so smooth it is everything I can do to not sit with it in my lap and pet it like a kitten. My mom gave me an awesome book with all her favorite recipes printed in it, including those passed down from my grandmother who died several years ago. Although I don’t regularly cook (unless you consider opening the yogurt container and spooning it into my mouth while standing at the counter, cooking) I ASPIRE to cook more. I aspire to try to be a little bit more like my parents and learn how to do things the proper (old-fashioned?) way. The non out-of-a-box way. The non just-add-water way, the non confusing-swedish-diagram-deciphering way. I could come up with a gigantic list of things I would like to do this coming year, and I’m sure I will talk about that a little in the coming weeks, but until then I wanted to finish up this Christmas post. I raise my glass to you.

I hope everyone is having amazing holidays – whether they involve trees, candles, fat men, dradles, stockings, reindeer, eggnog lattes, babies in barns, or a combination of all of the above (fat men in stockings?). The best to you in 2010! A new decade begins!

Hard as I may try to make it otherwise, my face makes me look like I’m on the verge of lunging across the aisle, grabbing your baby and throwing it out the open bus doors. Or perhaps shank you when you were considering getting off at a stop to pick up some bananas. I KNOW this. But I can’t help it!  My normal “not-thinking-about-anything” face has a natural downturn that just makes me look pissed off. I am so painfully aware of this now, that I spend much of my time consciously trying to look convincingly like I’m not agro. This involves a lot of awkward half smiling and wide-eye opening. Which when written down like THAT makes me sound like I’m in dire need of some medication. But you know when you are thrust in front of a camera and ordered to smile – nine times out of ten, that smile looks forced and contrived (which is why I like to be on the OTHER SIDE of the camera). But I fear this is how I look all the time, unless I can scour my memory and try to recall things that have recently made me laugh (like me trying to act casual when falling up stairs, or seeing a pigeon eating a cinnamon donut) and in this case I’m able to actually smile my REAL smile – my dimpled, eye squinty, genuine, ridiculous smile. But on days when the rain won’t quit, and I’m feeling a bit lonely, this is hard to do. I have thought more than once that I wish I could wear a full face covering balaclava, or perhaps a brown bag on my head.  Neither of these options work well in aiding me to look more friendly and approachable, however…  more psychotic, yes – but at least my facial muscles wouldn’t ache from trying to appear cheery and helpful. Cheery and helpful – this is the look I’m going for. Unfortunately, pained and confused (and mildly constipated)  is likely more the look I’m pulling off. The whole thing is just so tiring – perhaps this is the same issue the sleeping people have had to deal with, and after 7 weeks of attempting to look like they enjoy being forced into the armpit of someone who hasn’t showered in five days, they are just so exhausted they can’t help it. Maybe this is their coping mechanism? I guess having my eyes closed and drooling slightly is  a better alternative than potentially getting my ass kicked because my mind has wandered off and I’ve been caught glaring at some gansta girl for the last 2 minutes, appearing to challenge her to a duel – Fight Club style – at the corner of Broadway and Granville. So if you should happen to see me out and about, and it looks like I’m about to haul off and shin kick the grandma in front of me, please know that inside I’m likely thinking about picking up yogurt at the store, or if I have enough quarters for laundry. I can’t help it. It’s just my face! (I need to get that put onto a shirt, I think).

I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to you, but the SWINE FLU has taken over the world, and here in Vancouver the delirium has reached a fevered pitch (literally). Every day the headlines get 30pt larger and bolder on the front cover–warnings to the ones who aren’t sick yet–it’s only a matter of time. Warnings to get your flu shot RIGHT NOW – except oops, there aren’t enough – sorry, you’re a goner. What, you aren’t dead yet? Any minute now, it’s coming – trust us. It’s probably best just to self diagnose any pain that you might have henceforth as the SWINE FLU just to be cautious. Knee hurt? It’s quite obviously the beginning joint aches of the SWINE FLU. Stomach sore? It’s not at all to do with the fact that you drank a flat of beer last night, smoked 2 packs of cigerettes and have eaten nothing but cheetos for 3 days, it’s the SWINE FLU (the fact you managed to pry yourself from your death bed long enough to type this – congratulations, you must be one of the heartier (temporary) survivors of the EPIDEMIC. Hell, epidemic doesn’t sound scary enough anymore – let’s try PANDEMIC on for size. That’s better… speaking of which, are your clothes feeling too tight? Yikes… you’re in the final stages my friend – your swollen extremities are an indication that you have but mere hours to live (so please spend those last remaining hours leisurely perusing the pages of our trustworthy and accurate newspaper). Coughing? It couldn’t at all be that  exotic mystery illness that rarely  descends the city in the winter months (yes, you know the one I’m talking about – the one that requires the stringent remedy of laying on the couch watching 80’s brat pack movies and drinking Nyquil by the gallon?). No, it’s undoubtedly and absolutely the SWINE FLU – best to make sure that all your worldly affairs are in order, like finishing your last will and testament and eating the rest of that 4-gallon tub of Rocky Road you bought on sale last week at Safeway. No one will care if you can’t fit into your pants in a few days anyway – it’s in poor taste to mock those who have passed on. Yes, you may have seen in the fine print on the 97th page of the paper (underneath the classified listings for farm machinery) that admits that far (FAR) (FAAAAR) more people die every year from the regular strain of the flu. But those people (those… scientists) they are underestimating the body count that is about to befall our city. It’s the best to sit here and give yourself a bleeding ulcer worrying about it, rather than to say, wash your hands like a civilized person and not hack phlegm directly into the faces of those who are sitting next to you on the bus. (SERIOUSLY – were you raised by goats? Where and when has it ever been socially acceptable to openly cough into a crowd of people in a confined space? To not even attempt to pretend like you are being courteous enough to care if those around you get infected and DIE?  The answer? Nowhere. Notime. It’s the polite thing here in North America ON EARTH to at least FEIGN that you give a shit enough about those around you to keep your diseases to yourself. No one cares if you secretly lick your hands and wipe them furiously on the bus poles AFTER you have politely covered your mouth and coughed gently into it like a dignified human being. Pretend. If nothing else than to quiet the mass hysteria that is about to bust out from the stampede of people who while attempting to flee this death pit of infectious germs will instead crush each other to death on their way out the door. But never, never forget – the SWINE FLU is lurking in the shadows waiting to overtake us all at any moment. In fact, just today in the paper “they” are predicting it’s going to be back… next year (but we’ll all be dead, so no need to worry about that).

My vision has become blurry while typing this post, and rather than assume that it has to do with the fact that I have repeatedly been pounding my own head into the brick fireplace mantle, I’m just going to go ahead and give my final word of advice to my loyal reader…

Wash your hands.
Don’t spit in strange people’s mouths.
Picking up gum off the ground may seem like a delicious and financially frugal way of saving a few bucks, but don’t.  It won’t have any flavour left, anyway.
… and most important of all – the most surefire way of keeping healthy?

Stop buying newspapers.

PS
**I feel truly sorry for anyone who has lost a loved on to this outbreak (or ANY outbreak of that matter) of the flu (or any other reason, death = terrible). It’s horrible, absolutely – and I’m not trying to make light of that fact. But this media hype is getting insane. At what point does the newsmedia step back and admit that they are contributing CREATING absolute terror among the general public, that is completely encouraging people to stop living life normally? When children are not allowed to trick or treat on Halloween, people are fist fighting in flu annoculation line ups, and paper masks are becoming more of a fashion accessory than tiny dogs in handbags, that’s when. It’s time to re-evaluate our priorities here in this city. Get your flu shots, by all means – but please, for the love of god, use common sense. If it sounds too sensational and tabloid-esque, well – it’s likely your brain rotting out from the SWINE FLU. Goodbye, reader – it was nice throwing words nonsensically in your direction.

I do however love the sudden splashes of orange that dot the landscape during October.  Last night I went to a small get-together with friends, where we drank wine and carved pumpkins while watching the original Nightmare on Elm Street. I don’t remember that movie being so ridiculous the first time I saw it. It borderlines more comedy than horror – although I must confess, it’s usage of 80’s synthesizer sound effects may have been the scariest thing I’ve witnessed in weeks.

I don’t really have Halloween plans tonight, which make me feel a little bummed out. What it is about the “fun” holidays that make being single feel extra lonely? Carving pumpkins, dying Easter eggs or beating pinatas senseless are just so much better when you have a sidekick. I’m trying not to dwell on it too much, but sometimes it still gets the better of me. This city makes it so difficult to meet people. I’m thoroughly convinced that there are 50 single girls to every one single boy. And that single boy is hiding under a rock right now, playing WOW in his mom’s basement. In all seriousness, though – how does a girl compete when there are so many attractive, talented, wonderful, intelligent single girls out there? It’s like being lost in a sea of  faces… the invisibility of it all so much worse than anything.  Today it’s made me feel pretty empty inside, and although I would rather be out in public enjoying the Halloween festivities, it’s making me feel more alone being around people then when I’m at home solo. I’m not entirely sure what I will feel like doing later tonight – maybe I will be inspired to venture downtown to the art gallery steps to check out the action, (sneaky wine-bottle concealed under my coat) but more likely than not I will just stay in and eat popcorn and Strongbow dinner, praying desperately for some horror-movie marathon on TV.

Speaking of horror movies, I’ve been fortunate enough to take in a few movies recently… both Where the Wild Things Are and Paranormal Activity in the last week. I had high hopes for Paranormal Activity, what with all the “THIS IS THE SCARIEST MOVE EVER MADE!!!!!!” hype on the internet and people mentioning “I had a friend who said he didn’t really need to sleep  for the next couple of weeks, anyway”. I could hardly turn down the opportunity to see a horror film THAT good – so I shelled out the $13 to see it in the theatre. My first mistake however, was going on a Friday night – to the Scotia theater downtown, arguably the busiest theater in all of Vancouver. In retrospect, I can’t believe I would have considered this as being a good idea, but I’m so accustomed to seeing movies alone, in cheap and crappy old theaters with decrepit balconies that usually contain only 5 other patrons, that I imagined it wouldn’t be that busy. But this movie was PACKED.
Full of teenagers.
Any sort of suspension of disbelief that could have happened during this movie was immediately quashed by the adolescent high-pitched screeching of girls throughout the audience, faces pressed tightly into the shoulders of their dates. Each time I found myself getting drawn into the heightened creepiness of the movie, the girl beside me would GASP and jump 1 foot out of her seat, squealing “OHMYGOD!!!” Seriously? This was during the scene that involved the understandably bone chilling and terrifying sequence of a door. OPENING… TWO INCHES. Yes, I said it – a door moved slightly open, and the audience of teenage girls went APESHIT. Which mostly just made me laugh out loud, destroying any feeling of dread that might have been building. I would imagine that if I was at home, in the dark, watching this movie with headphones on, it would have scared the living shit out of me. However, under these conditions, Johnny Depp’s hair from Nightmare on Elm Street was far more frightening than being in that theatre. Which is disappointing because unlike many horror movies, this film really is mostly scary in it’s frantic, inital unknown– and once you know what will happen, it’s unlikely that you will ever experience the same fright once you know what will happen. Curse you, teenage girls! But I imagine it was those very girls who gave it the headline of being the SCARIEST MOVIE EVER MADE… EVER. SERIOUSLY. Jesus, if a door opening has you peeing your pants I can only imagine what would happen if someone busted out a chainsaw…

… which reminds me – I also was fortunate enough to get to see Evil Dead the Musical recently! It was amazing, and hilarious. And there was copious amounts of blood. SPRAYING FROM THE CEILING! And singing! And sex! And self-arm-amputation! It was so great, I really can’t recommend it enough, despite it’s pricey ticket cost, it is really worth every penny.

Have a terrifyingly awesome Halloween, everyone! Watch out for the eardrum rupturing shrieking teenage girls who have desended upon the city… let’s just hope they have been considerate enough to do it while wearing costumes. And remember, the tiny nature of those little chocolate bars makes any caloric intake virtually nil, so feel free to eat at least 36 of them in a sitting.

I know that I’ve made countless snide teasing remarks regarding Main Street and the skinny-jean clad hipsters, and I’ve always, ALWAYS vowed I would never succumb to the mass delusional hysteria that is the extremely tapered skinny jean. Part of  the (entire) reason for this is, unless you are 6′2 & 107 lbs, skinny jeans just look well – BAD. Even on skinny people.

But then the boots came into my life. The gorgeous, work of art, make me drool, incredibly tall and sexy John Fluevog boots. Although I am a fan of shoes in general, I don’t usually get so hot and bothered over them. But with these, it was love at first sight, uncontrollable, insatiable, obsessive love… it was dangerous love.

Now, I’m a tall girl. I often tower over a lot of people in line-standing situations (guys included). So pair one 5′10ish girl with 2.5″ giant boots, and watch out! It’s like attack of the 50ft woman all over again.

But there was a problem looming with the boots. Try as I might, I could not force my regular boot-cut jeans into them without a billowing cloud of unsightly denim seeping out the top. Oh, and trust me – I tried. I tucked, I folded, I (shudder) power rolled (only children of the 80’s are likely going to get that reference). But it was all in vain. What is a habitually cold girl to do as winter approaches?

Should I? Do I dare? … really? Damn.

Ok, I reasoned, it’s not going to hurt anyone to try on some jeans in the safety of a dressing room, right? No one will know my dirty little secret except me. So I gathered up 5 different pairs of skinny jeans, and then casually placed an unassuming sweater on top to disguise my shame.  I assume that this is what happens when teenagers end up buying pretzels and boxes of kleenex when they purchase condoms. I felt equally exposed. I must admit though, the dressing room attendant did a valiant job of looking unphased at the horror that was the pile of skinny jeans draped over my arm. In fact, he may have been an aspiring thespian, as he didn’t even blink as he passed me my number ‘6′. A plastic reminder of just how much I was faltering in my beliefs.

I chose the dressing room furthest from the front. It’s larger and I have this superstitious hunch that when I step inside I magically become 8lbs lighter. Unfortunately this only remains true while in the confines of that particular room, but I will take it when I can get it. Once inside I gave my head one more shake as I unhooked the first pair of jeans from the hanger. It was difficult not to snicker as I pulled them up over my feet. Goddamn, these were tight… not don’t-fit tight, but snug-almost-cutting-off-the-blood-flow-to-my-lower-extremities tight. How do these hipsters do it? Oh yeah, they are generally too busy scouring the earth for undiscovered music to remember to eat. Perhaps this is why they often have that glazed over look that I always mistook as them suffering from ennui? But no. NO! It was the pants slowly blocking off the central blood circulation to their brains. Poor, poor hipsters. I’m so sorry for judging you.

So I button them up and they are every bit as horrible as I first imagined. I was actually fairly surprised that they buttoned up at all, being that I’m an averaged sized girl with some curves to her. Sigh. Skinny jeans make me look like I have a pair of chicken drumsticks for legs, dipped in blue paint.

Damn you, beautiful boots, you are contributing the the slow disintegration of any shred of self esteem I once had. The things we do while in the smoky haze of love.

I begin to dejectedly peel the pants from my legs, and they roll down slightly – but get a bit tricky when I try to dislodge my feet from their clutches. I try to stomp the jeans off – using one foot to push the pants off of the other foot, all while gracefully balanced on one leg (look, no hands!). But then I misjudge (underestimate?) their hold on me and I fall forward, legs a massively long and awkward tangle, and smash my head into the fitting room door. Smash may be a strong word, really, as the room itself is only 4′ square. Bump? Hit? Greet enthusiastically? The impact of the hit shook the entire row of rooms. Although there were other people trying on things in the rooms beside me, no one acknowledged the earth shaking, wall vibrating thud. Thank god I didn’t knock myself unconscious, as I would have been found 5 hours later by the nonplussed, aspiring-actor fitting room attendant, in my polka dotted underwear with my pants around my ankles, bleeding from a head wound. (Ok, I’m totally lying about that part, there was no head wound at all, but blood always makes for a much better story, don’t you think?). I started to quietly laugh (again, these embarrassing displays of uncoordination happen on a regular enough basis that I mostly get surprisingly amused (and secretly impressed) at their ability to unexpectedly catch me off guard. Curses! Foiled again! The saddest thing about it is this is a very similar situation to what happened to me on a bus a few weeks ago. Except not involving head wounds and pants around ankles (I have some transit stories, but none quite THAT good).

After a bit of pulling (read: a lot of yanking and peeling and swearing) I managed while sitting on the floor (tongue stuck out in concentrated effort) to extract myself from the skin tight torture glove of denim.

Did I quit while I was ahead? Walk away with the smug satisfaction that I was right – SKINNY JEANS WERE THE DEVIL? No. I would not have this ego crushing experience ruin me. I had to persevere for the sake of the boots. Forge ahead girl, FORGE AHEAD!  So I did. And 3 pairs later, I switched teams.

I made friends with a pair of skinny jeans.

Now rather than seeing them as vicious, leg eating death pants I view them (cautiously) as fairly acceptable, fitting-snugly-into-the-beautiful-boots, not reminding me of blue-paint-dipped-chicken-drumstick-legs pants.

I’m still keeping them at an arm’s distance. If you don’t hear from me again, they’ve likely silently strangled me while I was sleeping…

Or, I’ve just continued the long standing tradition of sporadic posting. Or died of an internal injury head wound while wearing tight pants and beautiful boots.

I never take landscape photos. I feel like I’m completely unable to do the scene justice, certainly not more than just holding the memory inside my mind. Sometimes being behind the camera is amazing and I can capture tiny moments for later. Sometimes it’s best to just experience the tiny moments and enjoy them for what they are. But my neighborhood is better than I’ve ever seen before, so I was hoping to post some pictures. They still cannot do the trees justice – but I tried.

A couple of blocks down the street are tree canopies that span over the road. Currently the sunlight bursts through those trees, lighting up the changing colors, making them glow. And if you stand in the middle of the road the leaves fall all around you, like snow. It’s pretty magical. Last year I literally cried because just as the trees were turning gorgeous, a gigantic windstorm came along and blew all the leaves off of them – in one night. So I’m enjoying it doubly this year. Tripley. (Is tripley even a word? Tripeliciously!)

I wandered to the nearby bakery yesterday to pick up a pumpkin pie for an urban family dinner I was going to (urban family being my close friends, and my actual family dinner is today). I could have attempted to bake a pie, but I lacked the proper ingredients to prepare it… like flour, pumpkin, patience, and remote understanding of reading recipes. Aside from those things, I would have made the BEST PIE EVER. But, the bakery pie was decent and it gave me the excuse to walk through the trees. I picked out a tiny pumpkin (they are running quite the pumpkin extortion racket over at the little market – $3 for a teeny tiny pumpkin? Way to gouge the kids and girls (me) who find small gourds irresistible, y’bastards ). Also I’ve discovered another excellent pleasure to add to my fall addiction – Happy Planet apple cider. Words cannot properly convey it’s awesomeness! I keep telling myself that because it’s apples it’s absolutely acceptable that I’ve consumed three 1 litre bottles of it. In 2 days. Vitamin C, right?

It’s getting cold at night here, and I’ve tried as hard as I could to keep the windows open as long as possible in my apartment. But sitting in my overstuffed chair at night by the open window (even with big mug of sweet steaming cider) it’s now necessary to wrap up in a blanket. But combine those things with Iron and Wine playing softly on the stereo, and autumn air coming in, I’m trying to hold onto it for a few more days before the windows get shut in preparation for frost, and winter.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada!