...mishaps, missteps and manecdotes...

Where in the world am I

2009-02-23T22:15:00.003-08:00

I grew up, I sobered up, I moved from flat to flat. Left jobs, found new ones. Found a little sense of myself and shed some skins. Dyed my trademark blonde hair a rich brunette and found something else. Wrote some interviews, spent some time in other cities and learned to tell stories in different ways.

But if you are at all interested, I am here www.twitter.com/julesjulesjules.

I'll be retiring Lady Miss M and finding my own voice again. Stay tuned. It's just another adventure to begin.

I'm getting political

2008-10-07T13:30:00.001-07:00

Some days are just like this

2008-08-13T21:58:00.006-07:00

It's been one of those weeks, of raging hormones and sleepless nights (thanks in part to my noisy student neighbors, their parties and the ubiquitous stench of the skunk permeating the West End) and work stress and budgeting needing to be balanced and forecasting analyzed, of rain and sun and no clear weather pattern, of boxes half unpacked and landlady's constant phonecalls to show my overpriced flat to unsuspecting students.

Sometimes, it's just best not to answer the phone but make blackberry pancakes for dinner, buy that new t-shirt, make lunch dates with crushes and take the dog for a walk to clear your aching head, and let him rest his heavy head on your feet.

And sometimes a kind word, or an unexpected email, an invite to a party can remind you that you are loved. And sometimes everything is shit, except for you. Love.

Davie Street

2008-08-08T19:10:00.002-07:00

He walks down the street, an aging briefcase resting over his shoulder. His gait is awkward, unsteady, angry. Filthy trousers and unkempt hair, he mutters at those crowding his sidewalk. Yelling lyrics to a song only he knows at the couple with the smiling faces.

A grey Saab pulls to the curb, honks, oblivious. He turns on one foot, unsteady but ready, his coat swinging, upturned arm holding his brown bag against an ear. Shouts, a string of curses around his lined face, alongside musical melodies.

Behind me, a young tourist turns to his friend. "I wonder if he realizes his ghetto blaster is a suitcase."

I smile. Cross the road and walk home.

Love stories

2008-07-20T10:10:00.002-07:00

A Scottish tourist named "Matt" takes a picture of a woman taking a picture in Japan. Girl finds the photograph, they write, they fall in love and 'lo and behold they end up in Vancouver.

As a tried and true romantic, I loved this story. It reminded me that we should always be open to love.

More meme

2008-07-12T17:28:00.005-07:00

Because my head is full of words spilling over each other and my heart is entangled in mazes... here is another meme, stolen from Devil Mood.

1. Your cell phone? Laying on my dresser, cracked screen.
2. Your significant other? My girlfriends
3. Your hair? Freshly cut, blonde, curly
4. Your mother? Shirley Bassey
5. Your father? Tom Jones
6. Your favorite thing? Days like today
7. Your dream last night? Unmemorable
8. The room you're in? My entire studio flat, so bedroom and living room
9. Your fear? Spiders, clowns, losing, rejection
10. What you're not? Consistently confident
11. The last thing you did before logging on? Spent a perfect day with Amelia
12. Where did you grow up? London, but I am still growing
13. Favourite drink? Champagne
14. What are you wearing? Black slip
15. Your TV? Abandoned and dusty in the corner
16. Your pet? Dreams of puppies
17. Your computer ? MacBook Pro
18. Favourite place? In the company of friends
19. Your mood right now? Content
20. Missing someone? Always
21. Something you're not wearing? Shoes
22. Love someone? Yes
23. Your favorite color? Rainbows
24. Kids? Undecided
25. Your life? Transitioning

Meme

2008-06-16T20:56:00.003-07:00

I blatantly stole this idea. Thank you, Degan.

I wonder how different this will be in 2 days or 2 weeks? My favourites change so very frequently, nothing is ever permanent.

1. Study in Red - for Jules, 2. spa bento, 3. Stafford - Locks, 4. Just a Orchid, 5. Jensen Ackles as Aragorn, 6. Saintpaulia 'Champagne Pink', 7. The World at my sons feet, 8. mango cheesecake, 9. Grace Paley, 10. bad luck, 11. Love XOXO, 12. Lady Miss Kier

Here’s how you play:

Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr search, then using only the first page, choose an image. Copy and paste each of the URL’s into the mosaic maker over at FD’s image maker.

What is your first name?
What is your favorite food?
What high school did you attend?
What is your favorite color?
Who is your celebrity crush?
Favorite drink?
Dream vacation?
Favorite dessert?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
What do you love most in life?
One word to describe you.
Your Flickr name.

Transience

2008-06-13T13:11:00.003-07:00

tran·si·ence (trnz-ns, zhns, -shns): The state or quality of being transient.

I realized the other day that I am approaching a milestone that I have not achieved in over 10 years. I will have resided in my little studio flat, with its white walls and hardwood floors, terrible burgundy blinds and its noises, its smells, its adventures, for 2 years this September. It is the longest I have lived anywhere for a very long time.

I never did paint the walls, or unpack all the boxes. But there are prints on the walls, bookcases stuffed full, clothes hanging in the closet. I have made love in this flat, cooked meals and laughed with friends in its cramped kitchen, consoled and counselled, changed jobs. Woken up with the sun streaming through the crooked blinds and been happy in this space, and stretched myself out on the sofa with heartbreak and whisky.

I have sometimes longed for the comfort of those white walls while I have been far away, but it has never been anything more than functional. A place to lay my head, to store my clothes, to escape. I realize how deep transience has taken hold, and I often wonder if I will ever feel just so, just right in one place or if I will always be searching for that next safe space? Or is it just as simple as finding comfort in your own heart?

Wondering

2008-06-09T21:55:00.002-07:00

As we get older, manage different relationships, forge new friendships, break up and make up, do we hurt more or do we hurt less? Or with each new heartache do we simply hurt differently?

Sometimes when we fly, we fall

2008-06-08T18:11:00.004-07:00

Some time today, in a crowded restaurant among strangers, I fell.

Sometimes we need to free fall in order to find ourselves back on the track we are supposed to. Sometimes our hearts need to be cracked so that we can put them back together. Sometimes when we find ourselves falling, all we need to do in order to break our fall is hold out our arms.

The trick is to know how to fall, so that we can never stop trying to fly.

Thursday

2008-04-24T19:08:00.005-07:00

Sometimes some days are better than others. Today has almost been perfect but I am grateful for all its little quirks and charms.

Sean's 2 albums of the week to keep me happy on the way to work

Chocolate cake from Absolute Sugar

A voicemail telling me I am loved

Animating my first ever scene and learning something new, hopefully these are the first few steps to new adventures

An unexpected coupon from Aveda when paying

A colleague winning a photography exhibition

All new Supernatural

My department's brand being accepted and recognized worldwide through a little networking

A glass of wine at the end of the day

Finding North: Volume 1

2008-04-02T17:47:00.001-07:00

There are times when you just know that it’s over, that the time for flogging that poor flayed horse, for making up excuses and holding on to something that just fell away is well and truly done.

You don’t even need to ask or sit in an uncomfortable silence, you don’t need to even hold on one last time. You just know that it’s complete, that whatever came before has simply faded out, that the feel, and breath and voice and weight of all that was moments before will just dissolve and leave behind its sticky fingerprints, its cloudy imprint, its irrevocable past.

Thoughts

2008-03-31T21:18:00.006-07:00

I tend to forget, sometimes, how much I love food. How I can simply while away hours daydreaming of the perfect recipe for pulled beef, or braised ribs. Reading Sean's blog from Bra reminds me of those Piedmontese lunches that go on and on, of wine ladened afternoons with Amelia over the last 2 decades. Revisiting notes from my travels brings back pungent memories of Hang Be market, dusty streets and bia hoi, inspires me to open cookbooks collected from around the world. Always there are stories, quesadilla and ices outside Tec de Monterrey, tortilla soup and lime beef in a shanty town in the rain forests, windswept hair and suntanned arms. Tom's Sunday evening kedgeree, bottled beer and chess in the conservatory. Warm, sweet baclava from the bakery melting in our mouths, legs dangling over the blue water of the Pelion peninsula.

Perhaps this is another way we tell stories, through our carefully measured ingredients. The food we serve, the restaurants we choose, picking our way across menus, leaning over to share bites. I am slowly finding my way back into Vancouver, through its food. Rediscovering favourite restaurants of my own and those hidden gems of my friends.

Perhaps I can find a place of my own after all, in this myriad of streets.

2008-02-17T00:22:00.000-08:00

He is not big on public displays of affection, he says. Outside in the real world we have never held hands, we do not kiss, we walk side by side laughing, our bodies close together. I do not greet him with a kiss as I slide into the car. He smiles his boyish grin and steals glances, I sometimes reach over and touch his cheek, run my fingers along his bearded jaw.

Sat beside him at dinner, he rests the palm of his hand on my rib briefly, makes the odd gesture to touch me in some way.
When we are alone, our legs entwined, he wraps his arms around me, his fingers closing around mine. I can feel his heartbeat, his breath on my neck.

Last night, he teases me and I steal a kiss in a crowded bar. When we leave, the February night on our cheeks, my hand finds his and he does not let go. I am tired, and just a little drunk. He is not coming in, he tells me as he drops me at my door and kisses me good night. I understand his fatigue, it mirrors mine. We have always respected each others' boundaries, yet tonight I am feeling small. My heart is big in my chest, the strain of the last 2 weeks laying emotions heavy. Sometimes my timing and my questioning are not well thought through.

His hands rest on the steering wheel. 10 and 2 o'clock. He is honest, brutally and direct. I concentrate on a pink scar on his thumb. I know the words before they come out of his mouth, and realize that the man I have wanted is more the man I know he can become, and less the man in front of me. And I realize just how far I have come, as I shut the door behind me and walk away.

Amelia says if you don't risk, you can't win. Life is about going out on a limb, climbing higher and sometimes falling down. Maybe I'm ready to start falling out of trees again.

Realizing

2008-02-13T22:14:00.004-08:00

...that after 5 years it is finally time to let it go and move on. And that my life now is better than it ever has been.

Timing

2008-02-05T22:06:00.000-08:00

Timing is everything, apparently. I have just never quite been that good at balancing mine.

Right smack dab in a mess of hormonal emotions, I decided to start blogging again.
Get back out there, I think, my monster endochrine system wreaking havoc with the world. I've been wanting to get back to writing for some time. And so it was. And here I am.

Smack dab in the middle of a project at work which is kicking the pants out of me and meaning my hours are long, my sleep is fairly non existent and my diet is consisting of mandarins, green tea and copious amounts of coffee.

The good news, however, is that I am less hormonal and a whole lot more rational than I was a few days ago. All is right with the world again. In all affairs, save the heart. The heart is getting there, it just needs to catch up with the rationale.

Wondering

2008-01-31T22:33:00.000-08:00

What happens when you leave a little part of your heart somewhere?
Do you ever get it back?

And what happens when you leave little parts of your heart everywhere, in every city you fall a little in love with? Does your heart ever regenerate, is it ever whole again or do you spend the rest of your life with a little something missing?
Can new adventures and new memories ever make up for those little bits of your heart you left scattered along the railings of Pont des Arts, on Soho's cobblestoned streets, amidst the dust and bia hoi of Ha Noi?

2008-01-30T13:58:00.001-08:00

There are moments in our life where a small gesture, a word, a simple smile can put us off our course. When we need to relook at the way we hold onto our armour, how we push away for fear of broken hearts and the sting of rejection, how we admit defeat and realize that our hearts can only be kept so close to ourselves and sometimes someone comes along and without our approval pushes past all those barriers and ends up getting too close.

Do we cut and run? Do we give up because all those little insecurities start pouring out of our carefully preserved facade and somehow we need to ask the questions. Are you ready to let yourself fall a little, to take a chance, to let someone in again? Or do we shut ourselves off and deny ourselves, purely because we are scared that the cards will all come tumbling down again?

I have spent the last 5 years alone, dating one man and then another. I have had lovers, but never let them get far enough under my skin that I couldn't walk away, have met men I could have fallen far if I had only put myself out there just that little bit, allowed myself to get emotionally invested in the man who was already committed to someone else and therefore never completely available, took pleasure in bodies and walked away without a backward glance.

Sometimes I cannot always see past all the layers I put up and it is the women closest to me who keep me in check, who remind me on a daily basis of all that is good and whole in me. The last few months have been a journey that began on days when I did not want to get out of bed, when self loathing drove me and a fear of never being good enough kept me from ever being able to look in a mirror until I just couldn't take it anymore, I knew things needed to change. Sometimes someone needs to be brutally honest, and sometimes you have to be brutally honest back with yourself. You need to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and see yourself for who you are. and slowly you begin to build yourself back up, find your way back into your body and feel yourself in your skin. Know that you have so much to give as long as you are willing to open yourself up to all these possibilities.
Out of the woodwork then come all your ghosts, your fears and your trials. You make the choice to fight or to give in and take the simpler road of misery. It's been a struggle, confidence is not always without its ying yang balance and all those insecurities still sit there, they just have lost their voices.

Until now. When one night you look over and realise just how close to your heart he has found himself, that for all your pushing and simple statements of not wanting to be anything more than friends and lovers, you never really kept those layers up because for some reason you let him get closer to you than anyone has been in a long time. You let him see past all the layers and get a good long look at who you really are.

So do you let him in? Or do you let history repeat itself, choose the simple path and cut and run?

A little something controversial

2007-12-10T20:30:00.000-08:00

One of the most definitive quotes that came from the media scrum after Robert Pickton's conviction for the second degree murder of 6 women came from Trish Baptie. On hearing his conviction she said

"...families will receive their justice, women were made to be what they are ... women, not former junkies from the Downtown Eastside."

Perhaps we felt somewhat more superior than these women, dismissed their deaths because we have no idea what they must have gone through, what desperation they must have felt because it is so far away from our cozy existence. The saddest part is that we failed them, time and time again, stopped seeing them as women, as mothers, sisters, friends, daughters but as the victims of horrific crimes. I realize every day what a blessed life I have, and the choices and support I had as a child set me up to succeed. I never had to experience the effect of fetal alcohol syndrome, sexual abuse, and foster families. Never had to spend a night on the streets, or turn to alcohol or drugs to get me through the day.

We need to now ensure that the lessons that were missed so many times never happen again. Regardless of how these women lived their lives, whether as homeless, addicts or prostitutes, these were all women who had families, who had personalities and people to love them and who did not deserve to die so brutally. It is time we all stopped glossing over the shaky facts, asked the real questions and made plans to ensure that this never happens again. It is time that we opened our eyes and took a long hard look at what this city is doing and not doing to help get people off the streets, into rehabilitation centres and give back purpose and self worth.

Dina Rabinovitch

2007-10-31T10:35:00.000-07:00

I first started reading Dina Rabinovitch's columns when I was working for the newspaper she was writing for.
I was always struck by how brave and how honest her columns were, in the face of what her illness meant.

She passed away yesterday, and with her death I feel as if I have lost a long lost friend. I felt the same when John Diamond passed away, I know I will miss her posts and her grace, will miss how the stories of her children and her bravery. I don't know many people these days who haven't lost a loved one to cancer, and I find those odds far too sad for words.

My only tribute, I suppose, would be for me to share her story.

Find her blog here, and her Guardian Unlimited columns here.

Vancouver - the way I see it

2007-10-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Before I started my new job, my commute to work was a 10 minute stroll up Davie and across Burrard.
On a good day, wearing reasonable shoes I could do it in 7, my iPod plugged in, my eyes focussed in front of me, past the pink waste bins, and Marquise wine cellars. Past Numbers and Celebrities. And along that short stretch of sidewalk from Thurlow to Burrard, always there were figures curled up in dirty blankets, gracing storefronts and often times simply the sidewalk, cardboard signs carefully scribed *spare change*, *broke and hungry*, *anything will help*.

The subject of this is controversial, the sidewalks of this city are literally littered with ragged faces and dirty fingernails. A couple sits together on the sidewalk with beaming smiles and outstretched hands. A shaven haired girl sings, her guitar held across her chest. A trembling man holds out his hat *spare some change*, a bearded man throws his arms in the air and fights the demons only he can see. A dreadlocked woman dances and teases the cars speeding past.

This is how I see Vancouver, this gritty reality of a city. Of addicts, and illness. Despair and circumstance. This is as part of Vancouver as the mountains and the oceans, it is a part of the city I never want to ignore, nor turn a blind eye to.

2007-05-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, way back in 2005, it was as a way of keeping in touch with my family and friends back home in Vancouver; to regale my unfortunate mishaps, my stumbling blindly through single life and finding my feet in the first year that I found myself single again after a 5 year relationship ended.

Along the way, I have had some incredible people find their way here and stay a while, have made new friends and interesting acquaintances, moved countries and continents. Over the last 2 and half years, it has been a cathartic adventure, it has been therapy and support, at times it has been candid and painfully personal. The blog adapted to each new situation, evolved and grew and then suddenly, I hit a plateau. I seemed to have achieved what I set out to do, and in the process gained much more than I had ever anticipated.

But the sense that there wasn't anything left for me to accomplish here has been niggling at the back of my mind for some time, that perhaps it was time that I found new outlet for my writing, that perhaps it was time that I started taking myself and where I wanted to go seriously, that I took every happening in my life out of the public domain and healed. I have always written, kept tallies of my pain, of my happiness. I have always wanted to write, have always wanted to be a writer but have hidden behind my own negativity.
What happens from here is anyone's guess, but I know in my heart that right now I have done all that I can here.

Thank you for all your posts, your links, your emails and your comments... but I am really actually officially taking an indefinite break this time.

x

Out of Office

2007-05-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

My bag is packed.
My carry on sits at the front door, ready for a few small early morning additions, I have remembered to send my mother a Mother's Day card, have left a note for the flat sitter, emailed itineraries and contact information to parents and sibling, arranged pictures for visas. My alarms are set for 4:15am, flights confirmed. In a few minutes, I will turn off my laptop, put it away for a long time and go to bed.

For the next 3 weeks I am going to be travelling through South East Asia with Amelia, my cameras, a journal and a rough itinerary. Not exactly sure where we'll be on any one day, just knowing we'll go where we need to be.

This last week threw me off balance, a confusing and frustrating appointment with the specialist and the death of an uncle on Monday left me flailing and gasping all week. One foot in front of the other, one more hurdle. Such is life. And suddenly the trip was right around the corner, and now, finally, my bags are packed.
I'll be writing, but most likely not here*. I am going back to the basics; pen and paper and a clearer mind.

At least, I hope.

(* I will however be sending out email updates to friends and family, if you'd like to be included please send me an email. And Mark Morford.)

An interview in which I do not jump on a sofa.

2007-04-29T19:07:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I came across a post on Izzy's blog, where she answered some questions posed to her and offering others the chance to be interviewed in return.

I realise, as I get older, that I am an attention seeker and love the chance for a little self promotion.

*ahem*

I hope you enjoy,

LMM
x

What's the ringtone on your phone?
I dislike most ringtones, and my phone is almost always on silent. However, since I lost my last phone and got a funky new one, I am loving my new sound. It's a Hong Kong-esque kitsch little jingle.

How long did your last unrequited love-affair last, and how intense was it? Anything interesting happen?
I've had so many! The last one was a journalist I worked with, whom I had trouble speaking to. I'd get all red and stammery. The jist is, after a few sambucca shots at the Christmas party I made a complete fool of myself. The upshot is that afterwards I was not only able to speak to him afterwards but also flirt outrageously with him. I eventually got over it, and haven't met anyone for a long time who got me like that.

Would you rather be 20 pounds underweight or 20 pounds overweight?
20lbs overweight. All curves and stuff.

Which do you like better: public or private transportation? (Public being something like busses or subways, and private being something like you driving yourself.)
It's weird, I used to hate buses and public transport and loved my car. Then I moved to the UK and relied heavily on public transportation. I've been back a year and I have still not renewed my driver's licence. I'll get around to it, eventually. Would I be happy if I never had to take another bus? Not so sure, but if it was a long trip I'd rather have the music turned up and be in the comfort and solitude of my own vehicle.

Is there an author or artist whom you simply dislike, and can't fathom why he or she became famous and loved?
Where to begin? Off the top of my head: Danielle Steele. Maeve Binchy. Need I say more?

Do you prefer pen or pencil? Ballpoint or gel? Mechanical or wooden?
Pen, gel with a fine tip. Amelia once gave me a beautiful red Cross pen which I loved. I loathe those cheap biros. *shudder*
I'm such a pen snob!

Now your turn. The rules of the game are simple, leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." I respond by asking you five personal questions so I can get to know you better. If I already know you well, expect the questions to be a little more intimate!
You then update your journal/bloggy thing/whatever with the answers to the questions. (No excuses; it's required.) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Apparently my pitituary stalk is nice. I'm so proud of its manners.

2007-04-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

Turns out it is a tumour after all.

But only a little one.

Preliminary results suggest that nestling lovingly along the anterior lobe of my pitituary gland is a 1- 2mm microadenoma.
The good news is that it is most likely benign, it can be treated without surgery and it is treatable.

I don't have an enormous amount of information to hand and I have limited my web research as there is alot of scare mongery out there - I'd rather get my facts clear and concise; my referring doctor is on holiday and doctor who gave me the results was a woman of little words. Granted, pitituary microadenoma and endocrinologist were amongst those few words so can you blame her? I have been trying to pronounce them all afternoon and am still tongue tied.

There is an enormous amount of relief with this, I think the last 3 weeks waiting for these results have taken a toll I hadn't appreciated. There have been a lot of "what ifs', and although I think we were all convinced it was something else entirely, I'm glad I know, so that we can start working around something. The irony is that there have been symptons for a number of years, symptoms I habitually ignored. And several of the symptoms prevalent with these tumours never presented themselves. I will not go into details, but let's just say there was none of that lactating business.

Walking home from the gym this evening, I felt like screaming. Or crying. Not out of anger, or fear, but out of a general desire to feel something. Anything. I wanted to stand at the edge of a cliff and just yell and hear my voice echo back.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be seeing a variety of different doctors and will make some decisions about treatment. I will have questions, and will perhaps not hear what I want to hear. Or maybe I will. I don't know.

I just know that there is one more hurdle behind me, and more in front. As long as I keep moving forward, I will be just fine.

84:01

2007-04-16T18:21:00.000-07:00

About 3 years ago, I made a determination to myself that I would do something that physically and mentally challenged me.

Well, apart from getting up on time each and every day.

This determination was made when I first got diagnosed with that little niggly health issue which has kept me a constant companion for these long years, has made me friends with doctors and nurses in the UK and back here in Vancouver and has, at times, made me ashamed and angry, frightened and frustrated. Last July, I seemed to be winning that battle, and then suddenly over the last few months I'm faced with a stronger foe. This time however, I know in my heart that I am going to be just fine, that despite all the uncertainty at the moment waiting on results and undergoing 'just one more test' again, I know that it will be okay. Whatever happens, I can deal with it.

And so I wanted to do something that would push me, physically and mentally. I have never been an athlete, have never really taken much joy in physical exertion. I've joined gyms and rarely gone, or started fitness programs and never seen them through to the end. Indifference or laziness, or a combination of the two, I've never been sure.
So what better solution to my determination than to attempt to run? And how about that 10K? And I tried, a little. Back when I was living in the Wonky Cottage in Bromley, November rains and dark, wet pavements provided a training ground. But then December came with its promises of parties and Saturday morning runs became Saturday morning lay ins to sleep off vodka induced fugs. There was always something, after all. And so it fell by the wayside. And I tried again, with The Swiss attempting to drag my protesting form out of warm Sunday morning beds and get my feet flying along Hampstead Heath. I tried, halfheartedly. In my heart I wanted to, it was my mind and my feet and my sprained ankle and my hangover and my laziness that pushed that determination to the wayside again.

And then January 2007. Why not? This year? And so I ran. Looked at training schedules and plugged my ipod in. Ran along the seawall, at night, in pouring rain and hail.
And then I fell, losing my edge snowboarding and bruising my tailbone on an icy slope and somehow I couldn't seem to get myself back out there. I lost focus, again.
Yet this time something had happened, had shifted. The day I hear that what may be the cause is a tumour, I walk home slowly, without thought. Sit down and for the first time in a number of week pull on my running shoes and run. I run as long as I can, breathing slowly. Nobody lets me give up on myself this time, despite my grumbles and complaints. Friends come and run beside me, at my pace. Amelia takes me to the Endowment Lands and keeps me on track. I, on the other hand, carry on with my hangovers. A date with the Rockstar, or Tall Dave or a night out with friends give me an excuse, prove my undoing. No one gives up on me, no matter how hard I try, lending support and encouragement and still we run, through forests and trails, past other runners, in cold and rain and sunsets and somehow I get a small sense of what peace may feel like.

I quit my job, start a new one and the second week in I am ill with a cold, struggling to get through each day. For the first time in years, I am in bed early, exhausted mentally and physically. There is a week to go until the big run, and I am ready to give up. Yet I feel like I have let myself down. Again. And this time I actually feel ashamed, that I had the opportunity to do it and lost focus. That for the last 2 weeks I had been looking for any excuse to get out of this.

And then suddenly, it is Sunday morning and we are stood in a crowd of people. Shuffling slowly, some of us eager to get to that Start line. Me, perhaps not so eager.

The first mile goes by quickly, turning the corner towards Lost Lagoon the air smells of fresh blossoms. And so we run, slowly. Cheering every km passed, setting little goals, running a full km and then a short walk. Over the Burrard Street Bridge and past Granville Island. Halfway there, and passing 7k, 8k, the 9k mark at the top of the Cambie Street bridge, I can't yet see the Finish Line but Amelia is beside me telling me we're almost there.
The last k hurts, I feel a blister on my left foot, my ankle throbs and lungs burn.

We cross the line, together, and I almost weep. I am elated and relieved, proud, sore, hot and sweaty.

It may not be the fastest time, or the most graceful of runs. But it's mine. It took 3 years, 84 minutes and 1 second to get me over that line, kicking and screaming against myself. But I did it.

There are going to be a few more challenges over the next few months, that I know. That is life. But I learned some valuable lessons yesterday, cleared my mind and realised that I am my own worst enemy. But that I can be stronger than that, if I want.

And that every determination, however small it seems, can be so much more than what it appears.

Did you know?

2007-04-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

Interesting video by Karl Fisch
(via)

Untitled

2007-04-03T20:17:00.000-07:00

Having head CT's, sitting in hospital waiting rooms. Injections for contrast material. More jabs for those Hep bedfellows, MMR and tetanus. Leaving an old job and starting a new one. Waiting for results. Joining a gym. Falling for the wrong man. New haircut. Ray Lamontagne. Reading guidebooks and blogs and planning. Tattoos. The Irish Heather. Freedom. New babies. Twitter. Book Mooch. UBC Endowment Lands. Trying to slow down. Wishing, hoping, dreaming.

What have you been up to?

Visual DNA

2007-03-30T18:51:00.000-07:00

I have a weakness for personality tests... and I adored this one!

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Kentish Town adieu, adieu

2007-03-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

This time last year, I was packing up all my worldly belongings, dropping off bags of clothing at Oxfam and trying to say my goodbyes to the house on Islip Street and the characters with whom I had lived with for the last year.

Lovely, The Swiss, Tom and Chirac; the double bass that lived in the conservatory for early morning and late night jamming sessions, Chirac perched on the end of the table, housemates' incessant shagging and porn collections, the discovery of the upstairs lodger's 3 week old dead body and subsequent infestation, house parties and fireplay and Tom's parties that went on until all hours, my bedroom with its voyeuristic construction, The Swiss' collection of dusty videos, the conservatory with its attempt at a water feature, the oven that smoked, last call at the Oxford, The Pineapple, bad dates at the Vine, chess and Pimms o'clock on sunny Sunday afternoons, hangovers on the Heath. And throughout it all, music.

Chirac played bass, wrote screenplays his band has since opened for Amy Winehouse and Eryka Badu. Tom went to Camden gigs, his room plastered with music posters, and lent me CDs of bands I needed to hear, drumming his fingers along the tops of the cases. Lovely dragged me dancing at Ghetto and vibrant Soho nightclubs, burnt me discs and serenaded me with old New Order and house. Swiss played double bass, belting out 'Fever' in the mornings, his jazz and a love of 80's music.

Before all that, the Ex was forever bringing in new music. After him, subsequent housemates always had an ear for something new. Each one of them brought something to my music collection, rekindled love affairs with old bands, turned me onto something new. I never did know what I had until it was gone, when suddenly it was I who had to do the seeking.

And now I want new music, I need new music. My mind needs expanding. I am craving funky new beats and soulful melodies. I am craving a brand new soundtrack.

Friends are feeding my habit, Amelia brings me Jazzanova and Hotel coste, has me wanting to experiment with LCD Soundsystem and Broken Social Scene. Another friend Muse. A date with the cool motherfucker left me delirious as bands spilled out of his mouth: The Rapture, Tubeway Army, Analogue Set, AFX Twin, Out Hud.
Murmurings of Bloc Party, Radio Citizen, Slowdive, Chapterhouse, Black Dice.

And so I ask you to help me in this time of transition.
Post comments and suggestions. Sing me lullabies. Invite me to gigs. Throw open your music collections and let me in.

I need more. I want more!

Thank you for listening.

Brain Day

2007-03-27T09:49:00.000-07:00

From: The Nurse
Sent: Tuesday, March 27, 2007 9:39 AM
To: Marquise, Lady Miss
Subject: How are you?

Are you doing ok? I think today is brain day, let me know how it goes. Remember to breathe, slowly.
Kisses
N x

PS: Made out like a school kid again, its like that Diet Pepsi commercial

*********************************************

Yes, today is Brain Day.

Brain Day highlights include being injected with some sort of iodine-esque contrast material through an IV, followed by numerous x-ray beams passed through my skull and brain at different angles.

Argh.

And I didn't even get to make out like a school kid last night. I miss that.

Losing face

2007-03-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

My site looks a mess. I feel as if I have left the house without make-up, my hair unkempt and flat, wearing mismatched socks.
I had this brilliant idea to add a little more colour, a little more joie de vivre, and instead... this.

Pah.
So I apologise for my appearance whilst I undergo a major (or even minor ) reinvention.

2007-03-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks, things in my life have shifted quickly and with little warning. I stopped the other day and realised that I have been back in Vancouver almost a year, a friend of mine recently out of rehab said he had lived more this year than the years preceeding his recovery. In a sense, I can relate. This last year has been about facing up to all that I have spent years hiding from, and starting to make it right again.
I often write about being just there, at that moment, right on the edge of something bigger.

I feel that now, again, stronger than ever. Not that my life is about to start, but that I am about to embark on yet another adventure and this is the adventure I have spent years preparing for.

I am taking charge of my health, and despite all the emotions that are coming with it, I know that it will be okay. Whatever *it* is. Because I will be in control of it. Because there are so many people around me right now offering support, whether virtual or spiritual or medical or familial. Because I need to get past this to get to the next stage. Because I just know that I have a bigger purpose in this life. Because there is much more fun to be had, more words to be read and written, more laughter, more tears, more joy, more love, more adventure, more lessons, more truth, more value, more life.

There is just more.

Interpretation

2007-03-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

It is amazing how differently we interpret words and gestures, sounds, a look. Listening carefully but only hearing a select few words which wrap themselves around our subconscious, and then lay silently waiting.

He walks into the room, flustered, and introducing himself takes the book from my hands.
"I am always interested in what people are reading." He holds the book at arms length to see the title, glasses perched precariously on a thin nose.
Polite chitchat, a discussion about the book. I am expecting no more than for him to quickly glance at my lab results, and send me away for a retest.

Nothing too serious. I am relaxed, tired of trips from here to there and back again; B12 and folic injections and blood labs. I am quickly overcoming my irrational fear of needles.

In a moment, his demeanour changes. He looks at the papers in front of him and fires a volley of questions, querying symptoms and tests, health history. I am caught off guard, trying to remain calm.

"Do you take medication? Anything at all?" He asks me this 3 times.

"No," I say, "I don't even take pain killers."

The words I hear before can I catch myself ring soundlessly through my ears.
I take a deep breath and listen again, for a few brief seconds I cannot hear anything, can only watch his mouth open and then shut, aware that there are sounds escaping from his lips.

"I'd like to send you for a head CT scan, I'd like to rule out the possibility of a tumour."
There is a ringing in my ears, I can barely hear what he says next. I know I ask a question, maybe 2. He reassures me. It is very rare, this condition. Precautionary measures.

I follow him through the corridors back to the nurse station, he shakes my hand and over the counter I can see the words STAT written beside the scan request.

Sometimes a word can be interpreted too carelessly, taken for granted its one dimensional persona, sometimes we do not take time to see past all layers its meanings hide.

Tumour, for example, literally means: a swollen part; swelling; protuberance.. It is the thoughts we associate with these words that cause our minds to race. I know I am a dramatist, I take for granted all the different miracles my body performs each day. I know that in my mind, a word hides many meanings.

I interpret tumour in a way that knocks the wind from me, replaces my calm assuredness with fear. I am not afraid to admit that I am frightened, and I am not afraid to admit that even after phone calls to my other doctor, to friends, to my sister and the reassuring tones that even if, if, there is anything it will be benign, I am still frightened.

Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly

2007-03-06T16:55:00.000-08:00

Last January I made some determinations, wrote a list of all that I would achieve this year and pinned it onto my pinboard where I would see it each day. Each day something new on that list jumps out, whether it be to be kinder to myself, or to fall in love, to nurture the most important relationships, smile more or to get a new job. All are determinations that I need to be taking charge of daily.

And then there are those that take a little time, like getting a new tattoo or travelling to places I have never been. Those determinations take a little bit more time, some carefully thought out contingency plans and research. Others are about confronting fears and obstacles we put in our way, starting that book I've been writing in my head for so long the words seem like close friends or pitching that great idea to the Georgia Straight or Globe and Mail. Then there are those determinations that push me, physically and mentally such as running that 10k I have been talking about for the past 3 years. Courage, wisdom and determination are the three words I need to keep repeating to myself in order to hold all these fragile pieces together.

"You overanalyse everything", The Gorgeous tells me several weeks back.

I know this, it is as part of me as my skin. Whether this negates my observations, or enhances them is anyone's guess. But for me, I need to see value in every day life; I know I am extremely lucky in the opportunities that I have had and I have worked hard to achieve them. And I take every day as an opportunity to continue to develop who I am, to improve myself.

The Gorgeous tells me not everything has to happen for a reason.
"Sometimes," she says and shrugs her shoulders, "life simply...is."

And indeed life is, simply, life. But surely, in the people we meet, the interactions we encounter or we make or we break, there is value and there are lessons?
A wise man and friend once said to me "Everything is value". And so I carry this saying around with me, try to see the lessons, good or bad, in all my adventures.

"You need to give yourselves foot rubs," another friends tells me, dropping Bach flower remedies into my bottled water. "You are out of your body, you need to ground yourself."

I nod, Bird says the same thing last autumn.

The last few months I have felt out of place, not just physically, not just mentally. Not sad, not blue... just off. I am dizzy, anxious, tired, my energy level dangerously low. I feel as if I am constantly neutral, constantly running on anything but physical energy. A bruised coccyx forces me to stop running for a week, and then another one. I start missing those cold nights along the seawall, my ipod plugged into my ear and the waves crashing along the path. There is a correlation between the two, my body picks up an infection and the antibiotics throw my body out of routine, leave me sluggish, tired, and toxic. My naturopath starts to pin pieces of my health history together, orders blood tests to rule out x, y and z. She cannot rule them all out, suggests something that has not been mentioned before. Symptoms and history fit, I will find out Thursday morning where we can go from here. In my head, I am straddling worst case and best case scenarios and trying not to stay too long on either until I know for sure. Whatever happens, I will walk away with a new found appreciation of how my body works, and hopefully learn not to take it for granted.

Life, simply, is. I add taking charge of my health to my list of determinations.
Then quite by chance, I am given the opportunity for an adventure and come across an artist who is as passionate about the tattoing process as I am. Amelia calls my decision to cover up what I was trying to erase a palimpsest.

I like that. Aren't we always scraping off and writing new after all?

If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies.
Unknown

slave britain

2007-03-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

As Britain prepares to commemorate 200 years since the abolition of the slave trade, a new Panos exhibition at St Paul's Cathedral reveals how human trafficking is a bitter reality for thousands of women, men and children in the UK today. Slave Britain artfully documents the ordinary lives and everyday locations caught up in trafficking and calls for an end to this illegal 21st century trade. The show is produced by Panos Pictures in partnership with Amnesty International, Anti-Slavery International, Eaves and UNICEF UK.

Visit the website and read the full story here.

Back in 5 minutes, maybe 10. Could be 15.

2007-02-26T12:57:00.000-08:00

Owing to current events, I will be taking yet another very short break away from the blog. I seem to be missing a little "je ne sais quoi" at the moment, whether that be the inability to finish any of the blog posts I have started, whether that be the current period of reflection whilst I try to decide what next with my career and with my life, whether that be the project at work which is taking all my energy little by little or whether that be a combination of all but somehow I can't seem to stay here at the moment. There are so many amazing events and adventures happening, but somehow I can't seem to seperate them and give them each value.
I am trying.

Sometimes I feel as if I am just there, almost to that point where it starts to make sense. I keep passing milestones and markers, and I am gaining ground. I just feel stagnant at the moment, uninspired and burnt out.

A few weeks back, I sat on a bench looking across English Bay with a cup of coffee. In that moment, I felt life was perfect. And such it was, but I am a perfectionist and I need to continue to perfect that perfectness. I see the irony, and I am trying.

I hope to be back soon.

LMM
xxx

PS: In my absence, I will most likely be drinking (and researching) a fair amount of wine, experimenting in the kitchen (not in that way) and thinking up new ways to utilize olive oil in everything, nursing a bruised coccyx from a slight tumble and promptly getting back up the mountain to clear my head, running the seawall in preparation for the Sun Run, catching up on my favourite blogs (see side bar, I've neglected alot of them lately), perusing beautiful pictures from flickr, volunteering, organzing an amazing adventure that will take me to a country I have never travelled to, reading the archives from this brilliantly written blog, (I haven't laughed out loud this much in a long time) and spending much needed time with my beautiful friends.

PS II - Did anyone else think "The Departed" was over acted? Unbelievable? A blatant stab at black comedy? Jack Nicholson's facial expressions should have been nominated for best supporting actor at the very least.

sometimes it feels so good to come home

2007-02-15T23:00:00.000-08:00

...even if you feel displaced.

Buy a word. Support the arts

2007-02-08T13:02:00.000-08:00

I'm a little overwhelmed, work seems to have taken over my life and I'm not entirely sure I am liking it.
I haven't had a chance to pop in and say hello to anyone, enjoy a cup of tea and a gab so I apologise. I miss you all.

In the meantime, I urge you to do this.

Go on.

You know you want to.

the man who

2007-02-06T21:04:00.000-08:00

"And then you pour the coffee in like this..." he demonstrates mockingly, his blue eyes laughing. "And voila. Coffee."

He steps back and takes a bow, winks.

"Don't listen to him," the owner comes around the corner, her bangles flashing as she slaps him playfully. "He is a tease."

I am awkward and stiff in my starched shirt and sensible shoes, dismissing the characters in front of me with all the self conscious indifference my 17 year old self can indulge. It is my first day, a Friday night 3 weeks into my graduating year and I am torn with the eagerness of impressing my new boss and the house party already in full swing.

"I'm Paul" he says. "Anything you want to know, just let me know." He resembles a blonde Buddy Holly, tall and slim in his tuxedo shirt and vest. Cocky as I am, I am unprepared for his flirtatious banter, his confidence, his smile. He keeps me on edge, clumsy and unsure of my body and my actions.

Not long after that year passes, he will hold my hand on the shores of a frozen lake, pull a blanket over us and tell me he loves me. He will be responsible for my first orgasm and hold my fragile heart in his hands. He will buy me that print that will need to be reframed and reglassed every time I move until finally I decide to leave it hanging in the house in Kentish Town. He will spend hours choosing the perfect dress he gives me for Christmas which will be worn over and over, and then finally to the funeral of a friend in my 19th year. He will make me soup when I am ill, try to teach me to drive standard on his white Volkswagen, brush the hair out of my eyes, trace my name under his on the pier at White Rock with a pen knife (if you look closely, it is still there). He will bake me a chocolate cake on Valentine's Day, hold my hand against his beating heart and show me how to love.

And then one day he will leave me without explanation; and I, unprepared and naive will act with little dignity, with anger, fear and desperation. I will find solace in my friends' laughter, in cheap beer, drunkeness and cigarettes. And then when I am tired of fighting, of sadness, of that bitter self destruction that keeps my blood warm, he will find his way back into my damaged heart. He will stand outside my window one Christmas Eve exchanging his gift for one small kiss. In return I will be careless with my love, handing him piece by piece of myself. I will love him as if I am using up all the love I will ever have, so that I will never be whole again.

And then suddenly he will leave again; it is less than 9 months after walking away when he will call me with the news that he just got married; perhaps it is only irony that his wedding day was my 21st birthday.

Whatever it was, it is a cruel lesson. It takes almost a decade to see past the hurt for what it was, to see the value in all that I gained in it. That what replaces the hurt is something more beautiful, more powerful, stronger and intense. Yet still I carry him in my heart like a cancer.

He makes another appearance in my life, suddenly last week. Seeking legal advice from a family friend, he speaks of me as if we are old friends. He is opening a bakery in White Rock, he explains, smiling.

Perhaps, now, the signs are all there. That it is now time to exorcise old ghosts and let what I have gained rule, and not the loss of my unsullied heart.

rejection is a dirty ass heartbreaking mo fo

2007-02-02T18:24:00.000-08:00

There.

I said it.

Phew.

But the question to ask is, after the 9 millionth interview and subsequent (well... 4th) rejection, should you still try to get a job with that amazing company you want to work for so much it makes your heart tingle? Or should you just give up?

I'm stubborn. And determined. And stubbornly determined to work there.

Rejection is a dirty ass heartbreaking snidey cheating side wheeling snarky pillock mo fo.

I'm going to kick its ass.

Life is always better with a soundtrack

2007-01-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

My love affair with London was torrid.

I fought and kicked at her, loved her passionately and with glorious abandon, rediscovered her at every turn, fell out of her graces, grew bitter and angry, despised her teeming streets and never ending streaming tourists, threatened to leave and then to stay; felt suffocated and empty and small in her embrace until suddenly, one day wandering Soho's dirty streets with my walkman and a broken heart, feeling that life had somehow forgotten about me that I fell completely madly utterly back in love.

Life is always better with a soundtrack.

On that grey Wednesday afternoon it was Saint Etienne with its neopolitan candy sweet cover that brought London back to me; not too long after The Ex and I had left each other and not too long after I had been told I was losing my job. Somehow, amidst all that, there was joy.

I had forgotten the soundtracks of my youth, dancing to Olivia Newton John and lip synching to ABBA in my mom's old sequinned boob tubes and silver shoes, my brief foray into Motley Crue and Def Lepard, sitting underneath a street lamp listening to RATT on long summer evenings. My graduation to the Sex Pistols, The Dead Kennedys and The Cure watching the boys skate by, even now there is still that nostalgic yearning of those crushes at the sound of a skateboard whizzing past me. Depeche Mode, INXS, U2, The Cult, Joy Division, New Order. All anthems of my teenage heart, cassettes carefully compiled and labelled *Dave* or *Rob* or *Chad* to play alongside adolscent angst; listening to Bob Marley and Cat Stevens in tie dyed t-shirts and quartz crystal necklaces in Amelia's bedroom. A friend handing me Nirvana "Bleach" before the grunge scene exploded. Frustrated with the AM radio in my old 1968 Plymouth struggling to pick up a frequency on the drive to college, I travelled with a small ghetto blaster tucked on the front seat.
Frankie Goes to Hollywood reminding me of nights at the China Beach; Gin Blossoms and Stone Temple Pilots of the hot days of my 19th summer, margaritas on those humid Monday nights and my little red sportscar. Tuesday nights at Luvaffair introduced me to Front 242, Nitzerebb; lured me onto the dance floor with Morrisey and The Beastie Boys. Jamiroquai and the soundtrack to Priscilla playing over and over, lipsticks and misfits marking my days at MAC.

My 20's flew by in shiny UK clubs and hip hop, dance, trance, ska, punk, rock, house. I couldn't keep up, jumped from bar to bar, drank too much and danced it off. Worked PR for clubs and sat up drinking tea and talking tattoos with Boy George and Jon Digweed one crazy January night. Yet nothing ever stayed fluid, there was no consistency, no soothing sounds and I lost interest.

Life is better with a soundtrack.

The Ex was a music aficionado, yet it took Knickers' eclectic collection of old jazz and the boys in Kentish Town's acoustic collections to turn me back on. That glorious summer sunset in Afissos and Manu Chao; Franz Ferdinand, The Killers, The White Stripes playing loudly in the room next to mine, Tom oblivious to the volume. Red wine picnics and Glenn Miller bands in Canary Wharf attempting to jive in the streets, dancing in my room to Goldfrapp (courtesy of Liam and Friday nights at Ghetto) and wearing out the Wild Strawberries when I was sad.

On a trip to Seattle Miss Devylish sent me home with the Pocket DJ, downloaded her collection onto my itunes. I kept my eyes and ears open, went to gigs, flirted (albeit briefly and with disastrous results) with death metal, accepted an invitation to see Bob Dylan, met musicians and tried new clubs and bars. Danced to G Love at the Commodore, pushed past sweaty hip hops kids at the Columbia and braved the snow and cold for the Bloc Party.

Life, you see, is better with a soundtrack.

And today, making my way across town to work, my shiny new red ipod plugged to my ear, Vancouver suddenly looks brighter. Somehow the rain seems more ethereal, less dull and slightly more glorious.

* My colleague just sent me this, and I had to share as it was so fitting. Turn your speakers up, sit back and enjoy.

2007-01-16T23:57:00.000-08:00

"You broke my fucking heart."

The words, clumsy and direct, are not spoken eloquently nor accusingly. They are not classy, perhaps not even appropriate.

It is, simply, a statement.

The Aussie PIMOTI stares at me, blankly.

We stand staring at each other in the entrance of the bar. A group of girls pushes past me, laughing and suddenly we are hit with the cold January air.

We are both taken aback at the words.

"I'm sorry."

I don't know if there is anything else he can say, confronted by my red lips and drunkeness.

I don't know how to respond, I am even more surprised at the words as they came out of my mouth. It is not the first time I have seen him since, a few weeks back walking down my street with a hat pulled low over my face I passed him, in July I saw him with his arms around another blonde, his face buried in her neck and presumed he had been playing games all along. Both times I fell out of his line of vision, perhaps I was cowardly, or perhaps I simply did not want to be remembered.

"If it helps," he offers, looking uncomfortable, "I'm still a little fucked up."

Whether it does help, in that moment or later when I wake up, it doesn't matter. Not really. It was just another bad decision made worse by vodka, by desperation, by loneliness.

I am bi-polar when it comes to relationships, I am either blind, flying in with my heart stretched out in both hands, pleading for it to be taken, to be loved and nurtured, wanting to be consumed with passion and promise. Or I am cold and distant, indifferent and guarded, not allowing my lover so much as a glimpse of this iron heart, holding him away from me and scoffing at love's triumphs.
Last year, I was blind, offering my heart up for so little in return that I came to believe I was no longer desired, nor capable of love. And the men, in whose arms I wanted so desperately wanted to stay, so superficially safe, simply walked away.

The next morning dawns bright, and in hungover technicolour.
There are holes in my memory, my mouth is dry and the room still spins. Some time the night before, vodka and I had fallen out and I am left with the evidence of several late night phonecalls, an empty purse and the start of a hangover that will take 2 days to get over.

And maybe it is the last time I allow myself to make poor decisions after too much alcohol, make decisions based on desperation or loneliness. I am selfish enough to know that my happiness does not lay in anyone's hands but my own, to know that my happiness cannot be bought, or drunk, or found in myths or fairytales.

My happiness does not come from anyone other than inside myself.

Perhaps, finally, it is time I started living like it.

ENFP

2007-01-16T17:26:00.000-08:00

Perusing Pixie's site, I came across the above post, revealing her personality as based on Jung's theory.

Always a sucker for any sort of testing, I played along. Can you spot the similarities?

An ENFP is described as outgoing, social, disorganized, easily talked into doing silly things, spontaneous, wild and crazy, acts without thinking, good at getting people to have fun, pleasure seeking, irresponsible, physically affectionate, risk taker, thrill seeker, likely to have or want a tattoo, adventurous, unprepared, attention seeking, hyperactive, irrational, loves crowds, rule breaker, prone to losing things, seductive, easily distracted, open, revealing, comfortable in unfamiliar situations, attracted to strange things, non punctual, likes to stand out, likes to try new things, fun seeker, unconventional, energetic, impulsive, empathetic, dangerous, loving, attachment prone, prone to fantasy.

And whereas there are a few I may be a bit cautious on, it pretty much fits me to a T.

Intrigued, I came across more insights into my zany personality type...

Social/Personal Relationships: ENFPs have a great deal of zany charm, which can ingratiate them to the more stodgy types in spite of their unconventionality. They are outgoing, fun, and genuinely like people. As SOs/mates they are warm, affectionate (lots of PDA), and disconcertingly spontaneous. However, attention span in relationships can be short; ENFPs are easily intrigued and distracted by new friends and acquaintances, forgetting about the older ones for long stretches at a time. Less mature ENFPs may need to feel they are the center of attention all the time, to reassure them that everyone thinks they're a wonderful and fascinating person.

Careers sway towards the arts, not surprisingly but I was intrigued to see make up artist, bar tender, and writer in there as I have been one of all of those at some point in my life. There is also a very strong focus on television / film /theatre, as well as music journalism, which are fields I am actively pursuing at the moment.
Maybe I have been on the right path after all, I just got a bit distracted on the way.

Take the test here and tell me a little about you...

t'is my birthday!

2007-01-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

"This is a family tradition here, " Asa informs us, placing a lit tea light in front of each of us on the last night we are all together, on Kate's birthday.

And as we go around the table, we all make a birthday wish and give Kate our candles. Some of us have only recently met, but it doesn't matter, we are all touched by words and wishes. We wish her happiness and love, a year of success.
The next day we leave in waves, some back to the States, others to London. I am one of the last to leave, hobbling through Stockholm on my sprained ankle.

A year passes, and whether or not our wishes came true for Kate, the memory of that evening and the tradition of passing wishes has remained in my heart.

I have always loved traditions, Sweden's birthdays were beautiful with singing and happiness. After Kate's dinner out, we retired back to the flat and Sahar came out with cake, the girls behind her singing.

This year I followed Lulu back to LA for New Year, and the gorgeous Carolina insisted we all buy new underwear to wear on New Year's Eve.

"To bring us luck", she says, handing me a red pair. "For passion!"

And we are all to hop on the right foot and eat 12 grapes at midnight, apparently that too is a Brazilian tradition. I settle for some dancing and a few glasses of champagne, I am still not too stable on my right foot and refuse to allow a sprained ankle to become my tradition.

I did not make any New Year's resolutions this year, or last. On my birthday I made determinations. Some I have achieved, others fell by the wayside. It was a hell of a year, of upheaval and change and I still feel I am putting pieces back together.

And now, with 1 minute until I turn 32, with flour in my hair as I make cupcakes to take into work (this is an office tradition) I feel it is only fitting to have a wee reminesce about the past before putting all those hard learned lessons to good stead and moving forward step by step again. Because this year I know what I have to achieve.

This year, I
- shall fall in love, or at the very least allow myself that possibility
- love more, judge less
- remove the word *can't* from my vocabulary
- start my book
- take more photographs
- run 10k
- live my life with conviction, and be immaculate with my words
- open my heart to new possibilities
- smile more, laugh often
- dance, dance, dance
- find a well paying job that I love, that inspires me and where I can create enormous value
- travel places I have never been
- take the time to really be me
- get another tattoo
- make new friends and surround myself with positive energy, keep renewing the beautiful friendships I already have
- be considerate and kind to myself, my family, my friends, the environment and strangers
- read more
- open myself up to limitless possibilities
- seek out local artists, new shows, music and theatre

This list I know will change, will grow, will be adapted to each new challenge as it arises. Last year, in my diary I had these words from Daisaku Ikeda on the front page so that I could start each day with this advice...

"Live! Live with all your might!"

This year, I am going to do just that. That is my birthday wish to myself.

t'was the day before

2007-01-10T15:55:00.000-08:00

...my birthday, and all of Vancouver
Lay covered in snow...

Okay, so it may not rhyme.

But just in case you were wondering, the joyous day is a mere 8 hours and 2 minutes away.

In case you were counting.

Sometimes I am not ready

2007-01-08T23:11:00.000-08:00

My uncle Brian died on New Year's Eve, at home in his house by the sea, his family beside him holding his hand.

I am not sure I am ready to say goodbye, but I have no choice. Somehow, even though we knew, his death snuck up on me, took me days to process. Sitting on the beach with Lulu after hearing the news, it seemed farfetched and surreal.

I am not ready never to hear his laughter again, not ready never to see his smile again. I am not ready to sit at his table and never hear his stories again, walk along the beach with the wind at our back, and tease him when he falls asleep in his chair.

I am unable to find any words to try to soothe their broken hearts. Somehow, my words feel heavy, fall out of my mouth uncouth and uncut, I am ill prepared for this. For the sadness in my cousin's voice. Grief is selfish, it does not allow for us to share it amongst ourselves. It is cold and brutal and raw.

"He looks so handsome in his dark suit," my aunt tells my mother, voices crackling over long distance telephone lines. She is strong, my aunt.

Before he fell ill, my uncle bought new shoes. He liked nice things, worked hard, lived full. He will wear those new shoes Friday to Llandaff Cathedral and a celebration of his life.

My father reminds me of a prank he and my uncle played when they were kids, at the same cathedral which made the headlines of the South Wales Echo.

Mischevious to the end, I think he would have gotten a kick out of that.

Books (and the birthday countdown)

2007-01-04T17:23:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, when the rest of the kids were running around playing tetherball or dodgeball, I was always the one in the corner, wrinkling my nose to push my glasses back into place, glued to whatever book I could get my hands on. Nancy Drew and Encyclopedia Brown, then Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, The Secret World of Og, afternoons whiled away at a library or on the deck at the back of my parents' house.

Old books, cult books, new books, classics, horror, french, history, fantasy, selp help, poetry, clinical, visual, factual. I fell in love with words at a young age and although my tastes have changed over the years, it is an affair that has always remained true. I made pilgrimages to Hay and still will lose hours in book shops, gravitate to friends' bookshelves and run my fingers over the spines.

Some time back, I came across this blog , and in doing so managed to acquire a very beautiful copy of Wuthering Heights as a present for a friend, I have always loved old books.

Amelia then told me about Book Crossing, a global book sharing venture. Therefore tonight on my way home from work I am going to release a book into the world and hope it falls in with the right spirit.

And this weekend, I am going to do something I have not indulged in a very long time and which my body and soul are craving.

I am turning my phone off, retiring to my bed in the middle of the day while the snow falls outside with a cup of coffee and a good book.

(And in case you were wondering, it's a mere 6 days until the big day...)

Home sweet home...

2007-01-02T21:37:00.000-08:00

I am home, and due to a 2:45am wakeup call to get to the airport in time I have had little sleep and am somewhat incapable of speech and therefore will save you all from my ramblings...
Or even the worst plane journey ever which included a high level of turbulence, a horrifically high level of flatulence from the man beside me (and let me tell you, these were the Silent Yet Deadlies) and the vomitting child in front of me.

But it was indeed another amazing New Year and I am feeling stronger, more determined, lighter again, more inspired with what 2007 has in store. I am setting myself determinations to make this year one that counts, has substance.
Somehow coming back always makes you want to achieve something bigger and better.

More on that after I have managed to catch up some sleep, and pop in to see what you have all been up to...

Los Angeles or bust...

2006-12-28T09:55:00.000-08:00

I'm off to Los Angeles for the next few days, and am looking forward to catching up on all the chatterings and gossip and all your lovely news on my return.

Wishing you all a safe, and joyous and excitingly divinely creatively charasmatically superbly fabulous New Year...

With love,

LMM
x

It's beginning to feel alot like...

2006-12-21T22:14:00.000-08:00

My beautiful friend Lulu arrives tonight.

The last time we saw each other was at the airport before I boarded the plane to start new, with tear stained faces and the last renmants of laughter. Saying goodbye to an old life and hello to a new one. I cannot wait to see her smile, and hear her laughter.

Yesterday she laughed down the phone, said "We could have had a baby in all that time!"
It is almost like coming full circle, seeing who we were then and seeing where we have come in just a few short months, where the last 9 months have slipped by.

I have been blessed this year with such amazing people coming into my life in so many unexpected ways. Visits from dear friends old and new, rediscovering the people we have all become, finding our way. Meeting fellow bloggers in real life, away from keyboards. Reforging friendships, and desperately trying to hold on to the ones I left behind. The world can be a small space if you make nice with distance.

This year I will spend my first Christmas home surrounded by some of my dearest friends and my family. There shall be laughter and love, memories made and remembered. And then I'll be heading back to the City of Angels with Lu for a few days, to try and cram the last 9 months we have been apart into too little time.

I can't think of anything more that I want for Christmas than this.

Wishing you all much love, peace, joy and laughter,

LMM
x

dr.jekyl

2006-12-20T22:54:00.000-08:00

I'm not entirely sure what he, my modern day Mr Jekyl was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't me.

I wonder if he was expecting me to be taller, blonder, more demure? Thinner? Solemner?
But I am not. I am me. Walking out to meet him in boots and a black coat, curly hair untamed.

I cannot be anyone I am not, nor do I want to be. I have shed skins, moved cities and towns, felt heartbreak and joy and all the while struggling to be myself, to feel comfortable in my skin.

He does not laugh, barks at the waiter and barely smiles. Nurses his one beer then excuses himself to go to the loo when the cheque comes. I peel out crisp notes and lay them on the table, wait too long for change.
When he returns, he makes a half hearted attempt to pay and insists on walking me home. I cannot politely decline, he lives 3 buildings away.

I wonder how I got it so wrong, how I read him. He had seemed charming and witty, pursued me for weeks with emails and phone calls until I was intrigued and agreed to meet him one rainy Sunday evening. Whatever he was expecting from me, it wasn't what he got. And that charming witty man he had earlier impersonated was left safely at home.

A few weeks later I see him in my local chemists, rain soaked and tired with a box of Tampax in my one hand and deodorant in the other. We are all human after all.

And I am human enough to duck down the first aisle and hide. Sometimes Vancouver is just too damned small.

from me

2006-12-18T20:17:00.000-08:00

to you...

Please enjoy me making a complete elf of myself

LMM
x

Argh... Christmas!

2006-12-17T21:19:00.000-08:00

untitled

2006-12-12T23:02:00.000-08:00

The August doldrums bored me.

"It's never usually like this." my colleague says, and turns her back to me while I try to keep busy and control the urge to spend my paid time daydreaming the hours away, trying to keep within "Internet Workplace Guidelines".

August makes way for September, and still the doldrums. My colleague shrugs her shoulders, I am not used to this tediousness, the listless absent workflow.

I cannot sleep, lay awake starting at the ceiling. Playing chess against the Mac, and still losing every time.

I see the faces of people I love on street corners and in crowds, and shake my thoughts away. These people are all left a million miles away, moving through the streets of London and not with me, on this continent. Amelia says it is subconscious, I see them because I am wanting them to be there beside me.

I move, from The Gorgeous to Amelia's and finally, to my own space. Buy new furniture, unpack books and cutlery and put it away. Feel the sadness erode away at me. Meet Bird who teaches me to look differently, to breathe, to find that focus.

After that, it seems easy. Life moves forward so quickly I am momentarily stunned.

"It's never usually like this." my colleague says in October, as we book flights, turn books and struggle to manage more projects than we can handle, whilst our desks pile high with urgent queries.

"I need to leave at 6 tonight," I say on Mondays and Tuesdays before making my way across town, already exhausted. "I have classes tonight."

And now my head feels as if it will explode, the codes for html and xhtml spill out of the instructor's mouth like marbles and bounce around my brain. I struggle to keep up, my mind focussed on getting me to where I need to be, putting the pieces together little by little into place.

Carefully cutting exposed film into 5 frames and stuffing into pockets. Spending hours in the darkroom, waiting patiently for the Kreonite to spit out images. I feel alive again, my mind works differently. My focus returns, and priorites take shape.

I decided to start fixing what was broken, make sense of that pipe dream which drew me back to start again but somehow I underestimated my emotions and the obstacles which keep side swiping me, force me off my route and into unchartered territory every once in a while.

I believe we are always where we are meant to be, where we need to be creating the most value. It is not the obstacle that we are meant to overcome, it is how we perceive that obstacle, and turn it into something precious.

i'm with the band

2006-12-05T12:50:00.000-08:00

The Block Party was phenomenal, and if you had a chance to swing by the Art Gallery Saturday you were indeed one of the lucky few.

And I promise to regale the story of an interesting and diverse evening out with Mr Hudson and The Library just as soon as I manage to get a few free minutes.

Catch Him and Keep Him

2006-11-30T14:42:00.000-08:00

Dear god.

I can assure you it will never come to this...

erasing

2006-11-29T16:49:00.000-08:00

"Oh, and here." He hands me a pair of protective visors so large Victoria Beckham would be beside herself with envy.

"And another thing, " he smiles, somewhat maniacally. "It may hurt a bit..."

I laugh, and tell him I have a pretty good tolerance for pain.

It didn't hurt that much getting it, so how much more can a little laser hurt?

He pulls his visor down and I half expect him to shout out something like "frickin' laser beams" and morph into a shark. Or Austin Powers.

"I'm ready," I say, armed with the mental image in my head bringing me great joy.

And then... ohmydearfuckinggoditneverhurthismuchouchforohmysweet
jesusowchowwwwwwwwbloodyhellouchouchouchmothergoodgod
mothermommmyouchouchohfortheloveofgodsomeone
pleasesaydanielcraignakedinachairtometogetthisplaceoutofmyhead
holymotherouuuuuuuuuuuuuuch...

For an entire 30 seconds.

Which doesn't sound that long unless you are under that frickin' Medlite laser beam for those 30 seconds. It feels as if charges are being detonated underneath my skin, and Snap, Crackle and Pop have come along to provide the voice over.

Ouch, is all I can say. Only another 3 more treatments to go.

I feel a sadist as I hand over my hard earned cash for the privilege of being tortured. And feel a traitor for removing it in the first place, even if it is for all the right reasons.

the first snowfall

2006-11-26T21:48:00.000-08:00

It's snowing...

Touching our cheeks as we make our way down to the eastside for the Culture crawl. Stopping to cross the road, a young boy looks up at me and smiles.

It is the first time he has seen snow, his father tells me in a thick African accent, hiding under his umbrella.

His son just holds his hands out and laughs, catching snowflakes on his tongue.

Somehow, the day seems a litte brighter afterwards.

back in 5 minutes... or maybe more.

2006-11-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

Owing to current events, I will be taking a very short coffee break.

I hope to be back soon.

LMM
xxx

sadness

2006-11-23T19:11:00.000-08:00

Life has a funny way of knocking you sideways, just when you feel your feet have touched the ground, when you can just feel your toes curl against the hardness of the earth.

I have been getting there, little by little these past few months. Stepping gingerly down to feel for a ledge, a nook, a stop, anything to keep me from tumbling off the edge. Sometimes I can feel it, can feel a sense of solidity underneath my skin. Oftentimes, I feel as if nothing in the world can stop me from free falling so quickly my breath cannot catch up.

My father sounds weary. "It's your Nan," he says. His mother.
My colleague has had to pull me out of a meeting, "It's your father, he's at the hospital" she whispers.

I can sense her looking at me across the office. Maybe it is the sharp intake of my breath, or the way my right arm curls around, holding myself in, that makes her glance up.

"She is in the hospital, in Emergency. We are just waiting to hear." My grandmother, at 94, has always been a fighter. Yet there is now a frailty in her movements, her lined skin softer.

My father's strong voice, always so assured and calm, breaks just a little.

"We have also had some more bad news from home*."

Last week it is my uncle, my mother's eldest brother. He has been playing host to a tumour strangling his lungs which cannot be removed. If we are to come, the time is now.

Today is another beloved uncle. My father's doppelganger, the two of them with the same curly hair and bright smile. I said goodbye to him in a hospital bed 7 months ago after he suffered an aneurysm, yet held on against all odds. His body now riddled with cancer, my mother whispers that she will be there, in Wales with the Gorgeous, in a week. The reply is grim, sadly he, my uncle, may not.

I feel numb, methodically answer. Try to say focused through my meeting, and hold back tears. All I want, right now, is to release this sadness, even though I know in my heart that time and death are uncomfortable bedfellows, that they do not wait. That sometimes death comes for all the right reasons, and other times there is senselessness in it. That the time we have is so precious, and so fleeting.
And that I am lucky to have these memories of laughter at my uncle's tables, the sounds of their voices like lullabies telling stories, the kindness and love.

*Although both my sister and I were born in Canada, home has always referred to Cardiff where both my parents are from. For me, Wales will always be *home*

han vs luke*

2006-11-20T16:56:00.000-08:00

I've been doing alot of mulling over the comments from my last post, especially this one by "b"

"The basic message I've been getting over the last couple of months with all of us is that we don't really know how to get what we want, any of us. I wonder if that's true of the wider community or it's just us few aimless ones wandering around on the outskirts. Sometimes it's very depressed watching all the sorted lovey couples.

I guess you never know how many arguments they're having though, and whether they've just settled. I still don't know whether we shouldn't just all settle, and whether we're being too ambitious. I'm the ambitious type though."

I'm intrigued and captivated again by this subject, as it's taken me a fair number of years to realise what it is I don't want, it's now a question of deciding what it is that I do want.

So then, what is it? That elusive quest for love? For companionship and the I do, but only on our terms?

Is compromise settling?

Is settling a compromise?

Interesting article about single life.

* I have been known to answer this question very simply by asking "Han or Luke"? I was always a Luke girl, aka: the spineless hero who whinged alot. The majority of the men I was attracted to at some point or another had the Luke complex (luckily without the incest issue) Other girlfriends have been Han girls, the rogue womanizer.

i am in love with mark morford. sadly it is not meant to be...

2006-11-17T12:43:00.000-08:00

"Of all people, I thought you'd appreciate this"
Miss Devylish emails me, linking to this, likely the single most important piece of technology inspired writing any of you will ever read.

I think I may have fallen a little in love with Mark Morford. Who else can appreciate the unhealthy relationship I have with Mac, my true love, my spiritual guru, with its sleekly sexy lines?
(I will refrain from writing about the pleasing humming sound Mac makes when I turn it on because frankly, that may be a tad too disturbing)

I do indeed love my MacBook Pro. I love the comforting sight of it first thing in the morning, happily podding GU's podcast whilst I run around and try to get ready.

I love that it holds all my music, my contacts and my to'ing and fro'ing.

All of my pictures? Voila. There, at the touch of my fingertips.

My dear Mac, it is a beaut.

a return to dating. mme mojo remains indifferent.

2006-11-13T23:20:00.000-08:00

"I can't believe you met through a set up!"

She turns to her glass of wine and takes a sip.

"Well," she says, almost shamefully "I met my boyfriend in a bar!"
I walk past them, their upturned mouths laughing.

I shake my head. I have heard this same conversation over and over, with the words 'on the internet', 'through school' or 'at work' as substitutions.
I wonder, therefore, as I make my way through a crowded Main Street bar, where an acceptable place to meet one's beau is these days?

He is sat at the bar, a half empty pint in front of him. He is polite and serious, apologises that he is a bit tired.

"Hungover." He admits albeit sheepishly, a shy grin. Hungover or not, he is even better looking in the flesh.

I have to admit I had almost talked myself out of this date, citing a focus on school or that at 25, he is almost 7 years my junior as reasons to decline his invitation. Yet there I was, sat at the bar, engaged in conversation with an attractive, kind man. Questioning why in the hell Mme Mojo has decided to start her hibernation early this year and remain unawares of this gorgeous creature in front of us?

As the night passes, I realise it is because I am playing to a tough crowd. Although there are no uncomfortably long silences, he seems immune to my bantering humour.

These days, it appears that it takes much more than a cute smile to keep Mme interested, yet sometimes it's as simple as exchanging that witty banter.

I am, after all, a romantic. I want those butterflies, a little Frank Sinatra, and a whole lot of spark.

But am I setting the bar too high? Is this a realistic desire, after all?

shamelessly plugging

2006-11-07T17:29:00.000-08:00

My old flatmate from Kentish Town's band, Mr. Hudson and the Library, seem to be doing quite well for themselves, thank you very much. Perusing Amazon on a reference book scout, I came across this and was far too excited for words.

And they're playing Vancouver's Roundhouse on the 1st December as part of the Transmission Festival where, after dashing away from my Christmas party, I will be shaking a little of that groove thing.

Care to join me?

Additional plugging and some further news
Apparently the Transmission Show on the Friday is only open to delegates of the festival, although I am still trying to schmooze some tickets in only the way LMM seems to think she can.
Luckily they are playing the first ever Bloc Party on Saturday 2nd December, at the Art Gallery. All the information is here. Rain, snow or shine, it's a great line up. As I said the other day "Nowhere you go and no one you see at that moment will be as superbly fabulous as them...
Just saying."

kindness

2006-11-02T18:02:00.000-08:00

Last night over wine and the clacking of many knitting needles and close camaraderie, one of the Stitchin' Bitchers shared this story with us.

Which got me thinking, how often do we put ourselves out? How often do we do something out of the kindness of our hearts that will make a difference to someone, whether it is big or small? Shared a laugh, smiled at a stranger, said a kind word or helped without thinking? Given something of ourselves spontaneously, randomly with no expectations for something in return?

The most precious commodities we have are few, but we all have time. Time to help someone we see struggling, time to give up our seat to someone who may need it more than us, time to acknowledge that person begging on the side of the road with a simple word. Time to give something back, with no expectations of what we will get in return.

erase

2006-10-30T12:56:00.000-08:00

"In Chinese Astrology, women born under the tiger sign are hard to marry off - they are said to be wicked 'man-eaters.", I tell him with a sparkle in my eye, proudly displaying the newly tattoed symbol on my shoulder.

"But I am an Ox, and I will always be stronger. I can handle a wicked tiger" he says, holding my small hand against his.

It is before the fights, when we are still hopeful, when we are still in love.

Later, when is healed he traces the lines with his thumb. Tiger.

Over the years, the ink fades from black to an inky grey. We move on for new adventures, fall in and out of love, suffer heartache and loneliness, joy and expectations.

But somehow I cannot detach memories from the faded lines on my skin, come to loathe the sight of it. And although I wouldn't trade those memories, I can at least erase this mark from my skin.

first day of school (again)

2006-10-25T12:46:00.000-07:00

You don't want to be the first to arrive, nor the second. Nervously peering round corridors to ensure this is the right room, anxious enough to not try to initiate conversation. I arrive breathless and excited, become the third.

I look down at the desk, at my hands, rustle in my bag, lay notebook and pen together. Glance outside over False Creek and Granville Island. We sit there in silence, resisting the urge of school the shuffling feet, the rustling of the new arrival taking off her coat, gangs of laughing students passing by. A polite "Is this seat taken?"

I wonder if they are as nervous as me. I want to laugh out loud at the absurdity, but instead smile at the man who has just walked in.
I have often been accused of aloofness, but it is a shyness that keeps my eyes downward. I wonder what their stories are, why they are here.

Walking through the corridors with my prospectus grasped firmly in my hand, I pass students in their jeans and creativity. I feel a fraud, coming straight from work in my black suit and high heels, trying to banish that voice which says "You don't belong here" to the back of my mind where it no longer has value.

But I do. I do belong here, my camera bag rubbing against unopened film and developing reels, my hands on the desk in front of me, wishing the class would start.

And when it does, the silence shifts. Shoulders relax, somehow there is another energy already. We break the ice, introduce ourselves.
And in the break over canteen coffee, the beginnings of friendship start to emerge as nervous small talk gives way to creativity and curiousity.

I start to see in black and white images, devour the inspiration of Diane Arbus and Henri Cartier-Bresson, wish that when she walked past me, I had taken the opportunity to speak to Jane Bown in the Observer offices.

I am here because I want to tell stories, without words. Capture that perfect moment, that image. I am here because I want to be better than what I am right now.

And so here I am again.

I'm sorry...

2006-10-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

Say it here.

(via)

The Anonymous Ranter

2006-10-19T00:17:00.000-07:00

Vancouver, it appears, is a city of ranters.

From surly bus drivers, to overly friendly passengers, bridge and tunnel traffickers and bad driving, to heated debates about the rain. And who could possibly forget those obligatory rants about the lack of single men and single women; or the overabundance of dog shit on the sidewalks, bums and beggars?
Vancouverites are not afraid to say it, loud and proud. *

Completely anomymously, however.

I wonder if I have become too complacent, or simply accepted those things I can't change?
No matter how hard I try, it's still going to rain when I've forgotten my brolley. There will still be a queue around the corner of my local coffee shop when I'm running late and caffeine less for work, dogs will continue to defecate sidewalks and walkways while their owners turn blind eyes, the West End will continue to be noisy and when I get on a bus, I will still be that girl the crazies want to speak to.

And still, there will always be that random angry Anonymous Ranter.

"I've been lucky," I say to Amelia as we get into the dreaded elevator and make our way out for a little Bob Dylan last week, "I've never had a nasty anonymous comment on my blog..."

Well, until recently.

Perusing comments the other day, I came across an angry little rant. Well, not a rant as such, just a little, well... a little je ne sais quoi

"Why do you lie in all your posts" my Anonymous Ranter starts, "and tell boring stories which make me pity you?"

The rant carries on "Don't think we don't know you stretch the truth to sound more exciting, but somehow your stories still suck."

Which gets me thinking. If I know said Anonymous Ranter, why would they be hiding behind the Anonymous cloak?

I wonder if it is an ex-lover, tall and bitter hunched over a keyboard, an angry mind twisting knives into words?

Or an old friend, an old acquaintance, who has somehow fallen out of favour? Sat in a pristine office, slumped shoulders and folded arms, blue eyes rimmed red with anger?

Or are you no one I know? Lurking from site to site, devouring the thoughts and words of strangers in the hope it will calm your beating heart and still your white hot rage?

Whomever you are, I do not write for your pity nor your pleasure.
You have a choice, and if you don't want to come in, have a cup of tea and a chat, meet some interesting people... well, there's a button on the top that says "Next Blog".

I suggest you click it, and move on.

* If in doubt, pick up Westender magazine any week, flip to Rants and Raves. Make a cup of coffee. Sit back. Read. Nod head on occassion.

not quite a man cold

2006-10-12T17:31:00.000-07:00

But the Marquise cold...

I feel dreadful, my body has succumbed to too little sleep and too much excitement.

I ache.

My throat is sandpaper, my eyes are dusty, my head pounds.

I am crotchety. And miserable.
I want to cry. Or be held.
Or both.

And although it doesn't appear that I am following the Invalliding rules very well, I still can't find the dignity in me not to announce my Marquise Coldiness and appeal for the soothing comfort of international sympathy.

And hugs.

Time

2006-10-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

It turns out we didn't have all that time after all. September moves into October, leaving behind stagnant beginnings. And somehow, instead of a sadness I would have felt before, I breathe deeper, feel more relieved, put one foot in front of the other, make the decision based on what I need and what I want, no longer allowing chance to play my hand.

Esoteric is blunt. My problem, he says if he can be so bold, is that I write about it and in doing so, glorify the moment.
Whatever it may be, it becomes something more, something more tangible than sometimes all that it is.

Sat on white couches in Bird's office, I am no longer afraid of others' thoughts or opinions, no longer feel prisoner to expectations unwillingly placed. For the first time, I can feel myself, raw and alive, under my skin.
Bird is an unexpected treasure, he is teaching me the basics of breathing, how to connect body and mind, how to be in the moment. It sounds elementary but for me, these lessons remained unlearned far too long.

"...and i don't want to be your regret, id rather be your cocoon
so please
let's take these broken hearts, and use
lets use only what we really need
you know we only have so little, so please
take these broken hearts and leave..."

Cocoon, Jack Johnson

Prologue

2006-10-04T20:21:00.000-07:00

"What you must make sure", she says with her back to him, "is that she doesn't take the good pillows."

And even though I wasn't there, it is only later that evening after I have made the calls that I have had to make that he recounts this story to me, I can still see her, without smiling squeezing the teabag against the side of the chipped mug before placing it wordlessly down in front of him.

No one tells us how to acknowledge a broken heart, how to form words that may heal, or at the very least put forth sounds of compassion. How to get up in the morning and put on clothes to cover the rawness of an open heart still bleeding. Sometimes the right words are the ones that remain unspoken, sometimes they are simply all in a look, a smile, an embrace.

Years later, I tell this story to friends, laughing. How the end of a relationship, a friendship, a family 5 years in development can be broken down so simply.

Maybe this was her way of reaching out to him, her son. Maybe these were the words she had for all the words she didn't.

I don't know, she never spoke to me again.

How do we mourn all that comes as part of that broken heart? How much do we hide deep inside our bodies, buried in the folds of our flesh to use as a guide in future?

Sometimes we have to see where we came from in order to see best where we are now.

And that is where the story begins again.

Memememmememememememmememememmeeeee...

2006-09-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

Because I have the worst case of writer's block, I have been very sad, I am working stupid overtime at the moment and have been neglectful of you lovely people, I have decided to cheat a little and have stolen this little meme from Chloe...

ARE YOU:
1. A Cuddler? I used to be, I'm getting there... although I love cuddling when I am hungover.
2. A morning person? There's a reason I live alone...
3. Are you a perfectionist? Occasionally
4. An only child? I'm the youngest
5. Catholic: No. Thankfully. I'm Buddhist
6. In your pajamas? Nope. But soon to be.
7. Currently suffering from a broken heart? Undecided on how leaving London has left me. Perhaps broken hearted a wee bit.
8. Okay styling other people's hair? My god, have you seen the mess on top of my head?
9. Left handed? A wee bit.
10. Addicted to MySpace? I hate it. Hate it. Only back there to see Leonie.
11. Shy around the opposite gender? Depends... *wink*
12. Loud? No comment.

DO YOU:
12. Bite your nails? No
13. Get paranoid at times? Not really, depends on the caffeine intake
14. Currently regret something that you have said/done? I wish I had told some people in my life how much they meant to me sooner. Other than that, not much.
15. Curse frequently when you get mad? Erm, yeeeeeeeeesss... in a variety of languages and tones
16. Enjoy country music? No
17. Enjoy jazz music? Yes
18. Enjoy smoothies? Yep. Esoteric makes the best smoothies ever.
19. Enjoy talking on the phone? No. I hate it. It's why I IM.
20. Have a lot to learn? Of course, don't we all?
21. Have a pet? Not currently, working on it
22. Have a tendency to fall for the "wrong" person? Yes. All the bloody time. It's the reason I'm here. Blogging, I mean. Not literally.
23. Have all your grandparents died? No, me Nan is still around at 93 and still going strong.
24. Have at least one sibling? Yes. The Gorgeous.
25. Have been told that you are smart? Yes. I am very clever. Although sometimes not clever enough.
26. Have had a broken bone? Surprisingly, no. Several twisted ankles though. I fall over alot
27. Have Caller I.D. on your phone? Yes, but my phone is usually buried underneath the chaos in my handbag

HAVE YOU:
28. Changed a diaper? Once or twice. I try to avoid it. Not very good about green poo.
29. Changed a lot over the past year? Yes, of course. Sometimes several times a day, I'm indecisive. (Indeed. Am on a huge path of Human Revolution at the moment, it's exhausting and exciting.)
30. Had friends who have never seen your natural hair color? I AM all natural, I don't know what you are implying.
31. Had surgery? Eye surgery when I was 3. And a little op to remove some pre-cancerous cells a few years ago
32. Killed anyone? Not yet this week, but there's still time.
33. Had your haircut within the last week? I saw my divine Peter last week, he's the longest relationship I have ever had.

LAST PERSON WHO:
1. Slept in the bed beside you? Jake
2. Saw you cry? My therapist, before that probably Lulu, The Gorgeous and Lovely at the airport. Oh, and all those stewardesses and everyone on the plane.
3. Went to the movies with you? I took myself to see "The Devil Wears Prada"
4. You went to the mall with? The Nurse, we bought eyeshadow. Audrey had Tiffany's, I have MAC.
5. You went to dinner with? My parents, I took them to Sanafir tonight.
6. You talked to on the phone? The lovely man at Sanafir, I made reservations
7. Said 'I love you' to you and meant it? My mom.
8. Broke your heart? My Ex. I'm still glueing it back together, but I keep ending up with glue all over the place and gluing my bloody fingers together.
9. Made you laugh? My parents

WOULD YOU RATHER?
1. Pierce your nose or tongue? My nose is already pierced. I'd rather get another tattoo
2. Be serious or be funny? Funny. Hilariously funny.
3. Drink whole or skim milk? Ick. Neither.
4. Die in a fire or drown? Um, can I pass on this?
5. Spend time with your parents or enemies? My parents, they're hysterical

ABOUT YOU!
1. What time is it? 9:28pm
2. Name? Anonymous Wordsmith (aka LadyMissMarquise)
3. Nickname(s)? My family call me Jewel
4. Where were you born? Calgary
5. What is your birthdate? January 11. Mark it down. Send me presents.
6. What do you want? Happiness. Love. Health. Peace. For me and my family / friends.
7. Where do you want to live? Ideally all over the place, I'd like homes in New York, Paris, London, a cabin by the lake, a little abode on the beach somewhere beautiful...
8. How many kids do you want? I'd like to adopt one, sometime. Maybe. When I'm a little less commitment phobic.

Um, so now you. Your turn... (is it blatantly obvious I am trying to draw this out?!)

September

2006-09-20T21:07:00.000-07:00

And suddenly it is September, the open windows of my flat betraying the warmth inside.

Jake and I sit on the beach holding hands, the cold September night teasing us with its promise. Smoke from his cigarette curls through his fingers, tapping away at unseen melodies.
Across the way, cars flicker and weave along Kits beach, couples walk slowly by, laughing.

We have time, he says, earlier that evening. Leans over and calms my fidgeting fingers. I cannot help it, my hands move from coaster to glass, straw to coaster and back again, a pattern of shredded paper. I am unsure of my hands tonight, unsure of words and action.

Later when we lay under the moon, I can hear the ocean against his chest. We have time, he says again, smiling, his arms wrapped around me.

There is a moment, early the next morning before the rain starts, before he wakes, still smiling, that regardless of what the next heartbeat, the next minute, the next day will bring, I am no longer afraid of falling.

I am happy.

Coming Out (and the Morning After Amaretto Sours)

2006-09-15T22:12:00.000-07:00

2006-09-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

"Have you thought of harming yourself in the last few weeks?"
The lady's voice on the other end of the phone is calm, reassuring.

No, I repeat, my voice a whisper.

She asks me a few more questions, and I answer as truthfully as I can. My hands are shaking, my mind feels as if it is ready to overflow. I sit down on a bench, will my beating heart its steady pace.

I felt this episode, knew this one was coming, knew this one wasn't going to be pleasant. My thoughts racing from the time I woke up, an overwhelming sense of urgency to be anything other than what I am. Boredom, mania, spontaneous bursts of happiness followed so closely by an overwhelming sense of dread.

Trying to keep my voice steady, to stop from crying. Switching into auto pilot, answering yes and no.

"Okay," she continues, "I will make a referral for you with a doctor specialising in CBT, he will be in touch within 24 hours to arrange an appointment."

I clench my fists, hold my head in my hands, stare at speckled pavement.

I am vowing to beat this, this time.

Vancouver Vandals

2006-09-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

2006-09-09T10:55:00.000-07:00

Because this little lady is far too tired, and at a complete loss for words after last weekend's move, spending some fabulous time with the gorgeously angelic Miss Devylish, chasing packages of Kraft Dinner across Australia's barren Outback, and organising the Nurse's birthday party (read: consuming far too much champagne) to write you an interesting post.

And there are all sorts of things that have really got my blood boiling at the moment, like this and this.

So instead of entertaining you with stories today, I'm going to listen to this some more and dance around my flat... and wish you all a happy Tuesday.

Esoteric Part IV: Peep Shows and Amaretto Sours

2006-09-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

"Lady..." Esoteric stands outside the shop on Granville Street, trying to reason with all my 5ft1 of blonde curly haired pigheadedness "... you really really do not want to go in there..."

"Yes, I do."

I am defiant, amaretto sours and champagne cocktails overriding any rationale I may have once been in possession of. Curiousity has managed to get the best of me.

I want to go in.

I want to see.

"Do you have any change then?" He says wearily. Rummaging through my handbag I triumphantly produce 2 quarters.

"You are going to hate it."

But I have never been inside before, never ventured past those curtains at the back of the shop, have walked down the red light district of Paris. Been intrigued by those flashing neon signs flashing *Peep Show*, the sidewalks illuminated in candidacy.

However in my inebriated mind, the images of mac clad gentlemen rubbing furiously pale in comparison to artfully posed women on velvet furnishings. In my mind, there is a beauty in the act.

I cannot say I wasn't warned. I cannot say that Esoteric didn't give me a graphic description of what I might find back there.

And so it is with an open mind, and alcohol muddled sensibility that we make our way past plastic curtains, into dimly lit corridors and it is less than a minute later we emerge, slightly more traumatised than when we pulled back curtains and briefly stepped into darkened booths, the sounds and smell of desperation surrounding us, channel after channel of androgynous bodies writhing on a tiny television screen.
It took us less than a minute to come to an understanding, stand up and stumble back out into the bright lights of downtown Vancouver in search of something stronger to rid ourselves of those images, that smell, that overwhelming feeling of desperate loneliness.

ladymissmarquise gets rescued by firemen

2006-09-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

Now this is a fantasy I have had for some time, as we all know that LMM has a certain weakening of the knees and peculiar feeling in her loins when the subject of firemen come up.

So you would think then, that being rescued by two of Vancouver's finest would leave this little lady breathless with anticipation, swooning with unrequited desire?

Well, erm. No. I'm afraid not.

It all started out fairly innocently enough. I get in the lift, shopping bags laden with wine and other treats as the divine Amelia was en route back from a 3 week holiday in Italy and therefore needed to be greeted accordingly, and as this is one of those new fancy spancy Vancouver buildings where security is as tight as a... well, you understand, there is all that nonsense of the fob. Fob to front door. In. Fob to elevator. Open. Fob to floor number. Up. And so on and so forth.

Except for that small jolt and then shudder.

No big deal, I think.

Followed by an even larger jolt and noisier shudder. Followed by the lift stopping. And no amount of fob to floor number'ing would make that damned lift move.

I remain calm. I am, after all, a Lady.

Press the little *Help* button and calmly and politely tell them where I am and why I am there.

"Okay Miss Marquise, we'll send someone round to come and let you out."

And so I calmly assess the situation, all the while controlling the urge to let that little part of my brain that is slowly but surely freaking the fuck out "Ohmgoodgodwearestuckinalift...andIhaveseenMissionImpossible...
andwemayeithercareentoourdeath...andweonlyjustgotthenewlaptopwelovesomuch
isthispunishmentforlovingthemactoomuch...
orweshallendupcarreeningskywayrsandimpaleourselvesasemilioestevezonthecablesaboveus!!!" pass over into the dark side.

And so I sit myself down. And as the story gets a bit dull for the next 20 minutes as all I do is sit and text the Nurse, and Gorgeous and Scott (and did any of them so much as send me a text back? Uh. No. ), I shall let the texts tell the story.

Stuck in lift, waiting to be rescued. 8:51pm

Luckily I have beer and wine... 8:54pm

Do you think they will send firemen? 8:56pm

And if so, how many? 8:56pm

Where are the firemen? 9:00pm

I hear people. I may be saved yet! 9:04pm

Bugger. Just someone on a mobile and not firemen. 9:05pm

Get off the phone and rescue me, already! I. AM. STUCK. IN. LIFT! 9:06pm

Oh great, someone else is stuck in the other lift... where are firemen? 9:07pm

At this point, I can hear firemen. I hear firemen above me. Or below me. But they're calling my name. They just can't seem to locate where I am.

"Lady? Can you let us know where you are?"

Erm. IN A LIFT! STUCK!

The lift says 2nd floor.
But I, erm... don't seem to be there. Neither is the lift. There is much confusion.

I wonder if the 2 voices are indeed firemen, remember that little Firemen's calendar shoot Esoteric did. Feel a little peculiar and dizzy.
Glance round to check my hair in the mirror. (I am so vain)

This, however, then proceeds to go on for quite a while.

"Lady? We are coming to get you."

Now they are just fucking with me 9:14pm

And then, the prying open of doors and beaming down at me are the faces of 2 firemen.
Neither look like Esoteric.
Neither are shirtless with only their firepants and suspenders and firemen's hats on. And neither is under 55.

There is no throwing me over their shoulder and carrying me away. No reaching down, wrapping muscular tattoed arms around me and pulling me free.

However, I am eternally grateful to them when one does extend his hand to help me out and I thank him graciously. Smile and giggle a little (Oh for goodness sakes, I have been trapped in a lift for 33 minutes and there are firemen. Firemen!)

And when Amelia makes her way upstairs, mentions the fire truck outside I can only beam.

George's arse, wedding blues, psychopaths and the Google conundrum

2006-08-29T08:54:00.000-07:00

I am not saying a thing. Nothing. Rien. Nada.

Chloe's great advice for dealing with the office psychopath.
Good thing I've just bought a new skillet.

It doesn't look good for us ladies, first there was post partum depression and now... post wedding blues. (Maybe we should get out more)

And how much does Google know about us? Frightening when you see the statistics.

Meet the Bloggers (shameless plug for my dear friend Anna)

And my spanking new Mac Book Pro arrived the other day. (It is beautiful and I think I am having an unhealthy love for it. Is it bad when you speak lovingly to it, wake up in the middle of the night just to watch it charging?)
I do miss having tech minded bodies in the house, I felt a brainless fraud trying desperately to get my head around talking routers and wireless connections at Future Shop.

Sadly, Internet man doesn't come to my new place until Sunday morning so I shall be without internet for 3 whole days... and when he is done, I will crawl back into my new bed with a cup of coffee, ignore the cardboard boxes scattered around me and spend an idyllic lazy morning in bed with my new love.

Oh. Argh. Eeep. Bloody hell.

2006-08-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

An email this morning.

From that great company.

Again.

In regards to the interview I had 3 weeks ago.

*Dear Lady,

Apologies for the delay in getting back to you. The Producer has still not made a final decision, you are on the short list and as soon as I hear anything more I'll be in touch.

Thanks again for your patience!

Your Recruiter*

Oh bollocksy hell. Here we are again.

In the meantime, I am off to the Post Office as it appears my colleague wishes to send 12 packs of Kraft Dinner to his brother in Australia.

I kid you not.

Just don't get me started on the no Diet Coke in the fridge scenario, we're all still a little shaken by the fact the world stopped rotating.

Only the frustrated...

2006-08-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon my phone rings.

"Lady," a panicked voice down the phone, "I need to book a flight tomorrow and I don't know who to call."

A few days earlier, an email from another colleague, on holiday in Europe.

"Lady, a favour? Can you tell me how long the train to Florence from Rome is?"

And earlier still.

"Lady, I've misplaced my plane tickets. Please can you call them and get them to fax me a copy to my hotel so I can rebook?"

The same colleague who looks at me with a straight face and asks me to get him tickets to a sold out show. I would not be surprised if at one point he was to ask me to step into his shoes when he gets married, or at the very least ensure his shoes are tied and his underwear is clean.

I am frustrated beyond belief with hierarchy and staid business attire, talk of golf and hunting, being a visible minority because of my sex and treated as such. And so when I am called back once, twice, three times for interviews at that great company where I know I will shine, I jump at the opportunity.

And so, 2 months, 3 seperate positions and 6 interviews later it is with a sinking heart when I get the email from that great company about that perfect job to say that I'm not really so perfect for that job after all. But it sure was great to meet me.

There is still rent to pay, and so I smile back at the bankers. Say yes, no, how high, of course, whatever you need...
Make determinations to find another job as soon as I can, head back to the drawing board, put myself back out there.

Because with each setback we all need to pick ourself back up, dust ourselves off, keep ducking and diving until one day it all falls back into place.

The Jake: Part 2

2006-08-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

He is grinning, as he steps out of the cab. Catches my eye, grins wider.

There is no bravado in his swagger as he walks up to meet me, waiting outside Johnny Fox's. Leans in and kisses me on the cheek, his hand resting on my arm a fraction longer than neccessary, the simple kiss burning against my skin.

I watch his hands, his slender figures busy as he speaks, tapping at the table, rolling his beer mat across the table.
He is frankly honest, refreshingly unapologetic. He has no qualms about who he is, confident without arrogance.

All he wants, he says, breaking away and smiling at the cheery bartender as he delivers our drinks, is that beachfront property in South America. All he wants is to be able to walk out his front door and surf. Has worked hard, makes sure that everyday a certain amount of energy goes into having fun.
He leans forward, absent mindedly reaches out and wraps one of my curls around his finger, softly kisses me. Pulls away grinning.

I am trying to slow my heartbeat, remain calm and collected.
He remains a perfect gentleman, not rushing anything. Flagging down a passing cab to see me safely home.

Later, when we reach my flat I invite him up for one beer, on the patio. We stay up late, talking about fate and buddhism, my impeding move, job interviews and a list of things new and upcoming.
That ex who once, I laughingly recall, told me I wasn't conventionally attractive - there was just something *about me...*
He looks at me for a minute, suddenly uncertain and says I am the prettiest girl he's seen all night. I try to remain calm, when he leans over to kiss me again. Holds my face, gently brushes his thumb across my bottom lip.

I am sober enough to remember this, to feel everything. Yet it still feels too surreal, enables me to think differently this time.

To make the decision to take this slow, and call him a cab.

The next day I cannot eat, fight my insecurity off and remind myself that I am entitled to happiness. Try to stop myself from questioning why and what and how he sees in me, quell the panic in my stomach.
When he signs off his mail with *good luck with everything new*, he is gone again for 10 days, I clench my fists against my fear, try not to read it as something negative but simply for what it is.

Good luck with everything new.

And then. Life.

2006-08-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

"What you need to do," the taxi driver looks back at me through his rear view mirror and nods "... is find yourself a rich man.

Then you no have to go to work...!"

He chuckles, and grins revealing a gap in his front teeth.

"And then", he says, "you get yourself pregnant. You make yourself a million dollars."

I stifle a half repulsed giggle.
He is Italian, the crucifix dangling from the rear view mirror. I cannot find it in myself to let him know I am not in the least maternal. Nor the least bit inclined to be a gold digger.

"So do you know any then?" I quip back to him, laughing as our car speeds across the bridge.

I am late for work again this morning, the alarm not waking me from my slumber until almost 7:00. Dashing around the Gorgeous's flat, trying to iron and makeup, hair, shoes, hastily gather up bedsheets and pillows from the sofa where I have slept the last few months and be out the door quarter to eight.

The Gorgeous always says to me *Stay current, Lady*.
And so I am struggling to find a routine amidst all this uncertainty; it is when I step away and start looking at the big picture that the doubts start chipping away at my sanity, when my impatience overtakes rationality.
When I am too hard on myself and wonder why my life still feels far too fluid for my liking, it is hard to remind myself that I have been back only 4 short months. When all those dreams and adventures I came back for have been left somewhere on a shelf, now it is time to dust them off and make them real again. Amelia fixes me with a long hard stare and questions why my writing has not yet materialised into something more, why my focus has been on anything but my dreams for far too long.

I need my own space, need to see past those insecurities and fears that kept me surrounded by friends and flatmates since I left the Ex 3 years ago, need to be able to feel comfortable being alone, not be afraid of silence and my own company.
Now the confirmation I will be on my own, a brightly lit studio in the West End amongst diversity and colourful acceptance, just 3 blocks from the beach.

I am making a list of all that I need then, for this new sanctuary and space, I feel as if I am making a wedding list. I am having to start from scratch, I own very little these days thanks not only to the move but to the moving company who have lost my freight and with it, all my furniture and paintings.

cheesegrater
blender
wineglasses
duvet
pillows

It is only when I look it over do I realise my own randomness.

martini glasses
corkscrew
champagne flutes
ice cube trays

(At least I have my priorities straight...)

sofa
bedframe
cutlery
dishes

It is all fairly overwhelming, rushing through IKEA today with the Nurse, all my indecisiveness laid bare. It takes me 45 minutes to decide on cutlery and less than 5, on my limited budget, to choose a sofa. My bedframe bought on a whim passing a Granville street store, it is identical to the one I lost in the move. Colour schemes are now taking shape, I lose myself in daydreams of cream textiles and bright cushions, a Japanese screen to seperate living space from my sleep space and where am I to find that *Breakfast at Tiffany's* movie poster...

I order my Mac, work overtime every night, pack myself back into a suitcare to housesit for a friend for a few weeks. Get called into that fabulous company yet again for yet another interview for a role I know, this time, is perfect for me, at their offices a few short blocks from my new flat.

Life is never static, its only consistency its fluidity, its viscosity constantly weaving and bending. Yet somehow, now, I feel as if I am almost there. That life is about to deliver up the gifts I have been waiting my whole life for, that for the first time life will start to speak a language I can understand.

The Jake: Part 1

2006-08-10T21:55:00.000-07:00

"And then" he says, his blue eyes flashing, his hands animated, "...all my mother can see is these 2 felt legs sticking up in the ditch."

I cannot help it, I am enchanted.

Later when we make our way through the throngs of leather clad men and beautiful boys with their exqusiite cheekbones the conversation never lulls. Continues, with nods and smiles, shyly sneaking glances at one another. When I talk, he leans in, his long legs slowing to match my pace, his gait in rythym with my own.

He stands, at the jukebox, looking at me. The tired waiter, immaculate and beautiful touches my hair. Brings us kitsch cocktails and battered menus.

I cannot stop looking up at the man smiling at me from across the room, my chin resting in the palm of my hand. He smiles back, shakes his head, makes his selection. Crosses the restuarant to our table, boyish grin brighter.

Sits opposite me and tilts his head.

Frank croons in the background, and he sings along softly off key.

I watch his lips move as he speaks, his leg brushes up against mine and stays there. It is too natural and fluid, spontaneous and reassuring, I feel dizzy, disorientated.
I have forgotten what this feels like, have spent too much time rushing in blindly with lust and unforseen consequences that somehow, I have forgotten that the beginning is supposed to be just like this. Have forgotten what it feels like to be left with a lingering kiss that reduces my worldy knees to liquid, lips burning and the feel of his hand against my cheek as he waves me goodbye and sees me off; my cab winding through Friday night revellers to take me home.

Naked men on my BLOG!

2006-08-10T14:37:00.000-07:00

In no way is this intended as a gratuitous exploitation of the Vancouver Nudist Organisation, nor a blatant attempt to increase my traffic.

But yes, indeed. They are nude.

*willy*

snicker

*balls*

giggle

*penis*

collapses in heap of own immaturity...

Oh alright then, if you're easily offended I apologise.
Now here are some men in little hotpants...

Random outpourings

2006-08-09T12:56:00.000-07:00

Because I am far too busy at work and would rather be blogging... but instead some random outpourings.

Bobbie on Girl With a One Track Mind getting outed.
After Esoteric's revelation he read my blog, I am going to be ever more careful in future.

Trying to decide how I feel about "World Trade Centre" and whether I want to see it or not.

Falling in love with A Beautiful Revolution.

Finally a sense of closure for Damiola's family.

And in closing, a determination to start researching and writing that book proposal after a sound talking to by the divinely beautiful and talented Amelia over ahi tuna and far too many bottles of overpriced Viognier.
As well as the phone call yesterday to let me know my application for a lovely little bright and sunny studio in the West End had been approved.

I'll be moving in September off the sofa and into a place of my own. Bliss.

Seattle or Bust

2006-08-08T14:15:00.000-07:00

I am a bit rubbish. My post about Seattle still remains unwritten. I have several excuses. Really.

So I am going to point you in the direction of the divine Miss D, the story is here.

And because this weekend was full of Pride parad'ing, dancing until the wee hours, bumping into an old friend (whom I've dearly missed) and who decided my date was good enough for me after all, eating at some fabulous new restaurants and wine bars (where there were sabered bottles of Laurent Perrier Rose), a lingering kiss at the end of the date Friday night which left my knees weak, rushing across town to put an application in for a lovely little studio in the West End, a wedding (not mine), losing my bankcard and far too many hangovers for one Lady in a weekend the post has remained unwritten and the photos languish pre - photoshop.

However, all is not lost. More pictures will be uploaded soonish.

I kiss you.

LMM
x

These Crazy Blues ain't no musical

2006-08-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

I have been blind sided, did not see it coming. Counting back days to know that this is not just hormonal. That despite my best intentions, my fighting, there are some things I can't control.

I knew it yesterday, felt that sour bitterness, metal in the back of my throat, my stomach bunched in knots so fierce it took me a moment to get up from my desk and try to walk it off. My heart beating against my chest so fast I was dizzy, my hands shaking, struggling to take a breath.

When all I wanted was to rush home and throw the covers over my head and not have to be anyone or anything, if only for a few hours or a few days. That all my careful planning, ignoring every little symptom countless times and carrying on, just to hold it at arms' length for another week, another day so successfuly that I'd convinced myself of its absence from my life.

That when it hits, I am winded by its ferocity, its violent grip on me.

I know that this is only temporary, I am better at reacting. Know the right steps to take, acknowledge and respect these challenges. I am better at talking through them but in the meantime I have lost my words, am left feeling uninspired and overwhelmed. The last few months have taken their toll, have left me with little to draw on.

And so I carry on, try to refocus my energy, continue to look for a challenging new job, traipse through West End flats trying to find my safe space, take each new day individually. Take long walks and deep breaths. Find my place in this city, put down something tangible and real...

An email from Tony

2006-08-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

"Not quite in keeping with my blog but perfect for yours I thought. You may
be dating midgets and body odour afficionados but you at least haven't dated this guy..."

No, indeed.

(And this post is no way intended as a filler for the uber fab Seattle post still coming... Really.)

I wish it was a 9-5...

2006-08-01T13:06:00.000-07:00

Seattle post coming. Really.

But in the meantime, although work does not permit me alot of blogging time, it does permit me the odd scan of t'internet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This has made me so angry I am beyond words.

At what point do we think enough is enough and start safe guarding the rights and safety of our children? How many warning signs must there be, a first? A second offence? A cry for help?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ben Hammersley in Afghanistan, blogging here and posting pictures here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Teasing you...

Coming Soon!

2006-07-31T10:56:00.000-07:00

Sadly I missed reading this post before I boarded what was supposed to be a train but wasn't and headed off to meet the divinely divine Miss Devylish on Friday because work has been beyond busy.

But as a taster, did we have fun? Oh indeed. Indeed we did.

But you'll all have to wait as work is not playing fair and I have little time to scribe today, so sit tight. There are adventures galore!

All I ever needed to know before I started to date...

2006-07-27T15:26:00.000-07:00

A Devyl to set the record straight.

A man to explain why men need to have a little mongrel.

And dating etiquette so I can see where I'm going wrong...

...I especially like the rule about not drinking on a date, I should note that down somewhere.

Wednesday

2006-07-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

4 months of sofa living have taken their toll.

I am exhausted.

Add to that the rollercoaster of adapting to a new lifestyle, understanding Canadian dating mores, trying to find a new job and ending up over my head in an office of bankers. Splash in some long hours, the confusion surrounding my still missing furniture, missing London like a lover, finally finding myself on the winning side of a long battle with a niggling health concern and learning how to find my niche within a city that has moved on. Top it off with the odd identity crisis, one or two bad dates, a few shaky moments of ohdeargodwhathaveidone and you've got it all in a fantastically mixed cocktail.

So I'm packing my bags and escaping to another beautiful city on the weekend to cause as much havoc as two little misses can do.

And which I hope will suitably make up for the dreadful writer's block beseiging me at present.

And so my gifts are as below, a piece that inspired a well thought out and sensitively debated conversation. Following on a carefully philosophised point, I did actually utter *It makes me so grateful that I never, ever have to be... a mail order bride...* (via)

I think the Nurse knew what I meant. But it didn't stop her from laughing her head off at me.

Am I sad...

2006-07-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

...in thinking this is sexy?

Because I do. I really, really do.

*gazes in awe and wonderment...*

Life Lessons

2006-07-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

There comes a time when you look across and see a friend, who has seen you through the worst, who has held your hand, helped you to your feet and kept you there, has pulled you out of scrapes, stood beside you when you fought your demons, whose laughter made you smile and safe, who's turned to you at breaking point, held onto you, and held you back. Who has turned and pushed and pulled at you with words and wine fuelled rants, red with jealousy, bitterness and unhappiness lashed out with criticism and wry remarks, hit you so hard and so often the words fly off you; that you need to remind yourself that it never was you.

That all this hate and all this anger was always there, a virus riding bareback.

Once, sitting beside a friend, felt that rage barely in check, and knew it wasn't mine, wasn't for me.

And so I drew back, slipped away little by little and distanced myself. Gradually cut ties and in doing so, turned encouragement to anger and disdain, became accountable for all that she held dear but could no longer hold.

Maybe I should have been more cautious, more truthful. Maybe I was intimidated by her lashing tongue, cruelty on the back of venomous words. I thought it may be better to walk away, little by little, instead of letting go in a big finale.

I think the greatest lesson I ever learned was to never take it personally, we are drawn to those we need to benefit from and in these friends throughout the years, I learned more than how to pick myself up again but also to know when to say goodbye, when to know it wasn't me and when to stop taking responsibility for anyone's actions but my own.

Do I have to put the hat on too...?

2006-07-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

"...Three things..." I start, cradling the phone; my voice husky from far too little sleep and far too much alcohol. The Nurse, reticent on the other end.

"One. You tried to snog me on the dancefloor..."

I am scared the Nurse has stopped breathing.

"Two. I have photographic evidence of you dressed in a PVC policewoman's outfit..."

I know she's alive as she has issued a little whimper.

"Three. I have lost Scott..."

I hang up. The bed is spinning in the room, and despite me holding on for dear life, I cannot stop it.

It had started innocently enough. A few drinks with the Nurse, and then a text from Scott saying he would be in town. A brand new credit card and the company of 2 of my dearest friends later, things, as they do... well, all went a little downhill.

It started at Bimini's, followed us through to champagne cocktails at Lucy Mae Brown, a few cheeky drinks at Morrisey, and then... sadly, all fell apart at Doolin's.

"Whatever you do," the Nurse says, "no shots..."

Oops.

A nod to the waitress and the table of young men beside us later, and the Nurse had forgiven me. Wrapped as she was around a delightful young man whose name, I believe, escapes us all.

A dare later, we were stood in Granville Street's finest. I said..." just pick it up, hold it against you and ask the complete stranger what he thinks...".

When I turned around, The Nurse was gone. A bump, a mutter and a crowd of young men pointing me in the right direction.

"Do I have to put the hat on, too...?"

Stepping out of the dressing room, resplendent in PVC.

"...or are the glasses enough?"

I am speechless. And so I do what only a best friend would do.

I commit that memory to technology. Drag her by the hand and take her back to the bar.

Links? Help!

2006-07-14T08:34:00.000-07:00

So, okay.

Although I am going away this weekend, to a lovely wedding in Victoria where there is a high likelihood that I will get quite tipsy and gay and perhaps snog someone inappropriate and fall off the ferry due to a champagne induced hangover Sunday afternoon as the wedding is 2 days long, I need to update my links which I lost last week in a bizarre saving without looking accident.

What I'd like to do is add some new and lovely blogs to my already fabulous blogroll, which is where you come in.

So go on, drop a comment and make me a recommendation... what's the best blog you've been reading lately? Old or new favourites? Unsung heroes? Or just complete nutters?

In the meantime, the producers are still trying to make up their mind about whether to let me have this job or not and in the meantime, I am turning manic.

Also, this is very very cool (especially if you're a Star Wars geek like me!)

This is the most disturbing scene I have ever lain eyes on. And I have seen some not very nice things, I used to live with 3 boys (and briefly, with a dead guy)

And the Hoff. Nothing quite like a little Hoff. Seems as if he's getting into some trouble. I mean, how do you cut yourself, in the men's room, on a chandelier?!