Looking back

Twenty-something Bloggers' June blog carnival is all about looking back. In looking back at some of my earliest posts on this blog, most of them were about newsy things. I ranted and raved about my beliefs and celebrated those doing good things. The one I'm commenting on today, Date with the Night, was one of the very few about me personally. Over the past two years, I've gotten increasingly comfortable talking about myself, not caring who reads it. I am me, deal with it.

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Date with the Night

Ah, Date night last night.It's been a while since I've been out and about and going on dates... which is probably why I agreed to go on this one in the first place. However, it merely convinced me of two things I already knew:
1) Dude was really nice and everything went fine, but I'm just not that into him.
2) I really am not a fan of dating.

I'm surrounded by girls who tend to measure themselves with the amount of interest that accumulates around them and I'm just not one of these. In my girl-power, independent woman way, I'm entirely alright with not having a boyfriend or anything. My last uber-serious relationship ended because I got sucked into it and forgot what I wanted out of life... hell, if I was still in it, I would still be living around London (Ontario, not UK). I'm so much better off out here, knowing what I want, working towards my own happiness.

Lately, I've been trying to explain this to Kik, one of the sisters. At 18, she seems to think that if she doesn't have a boyfriend, she's undesirable. Please! There are so many beautiful, intelligent women out there making themselves crazy over the male population. I'd rather just go with the flow and ride that wave when it hits.

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I found it interesting to see where I was at then in the pre-Boy days, and how it still applies. I still hate dating. I'm still independent and opinionated. The only difference is that I've found a boy who lets me be me. He celebrates my involvement in my community, he supports my decision to go back to school, and he acknowledges that I don't always have to agree with what he believes. In short, he's a-okay.

As the countdown to cohabitation is now on with a vengence, it's reassuring to know that I haven't waivered from being the person I was in January 2007.

This post is a part of 20SB’s Looking Back Blog Carnival, and Ben & Jerry’s is awarding free ice cream to lucky bloggers and their readers!

Easy baking with Alana

Hi! My name is Alana and I blog over at The Good Girl Gone Blog. I'm so delighted to be here. Thanks for having me!

The fab-tastic Elle and I were going back and forth trying to figure out a theme to write about for the 20SB blog swap. We discussed writing about our respective homelands, I'm American and she's Canadian, but then decided against it. (Note: I found this awesome Canadian site when researching non-Canadian material for this post!) We eventually agreed to write random blog posts.

To be honest, I had no clue what to write about until I started talking with my awesome roommate about our favorite childhood toys. We discussed crayons, creepy crawlers and eventually, the Easy Bake Oven! Whoever figured out that you can cook an entire (miniature) cake with a light bulb was pretty darn smart! (Do they give out Nobel prizes to toy designers? If so, this guy/girl or the person who invented Bop It should totally win!)

I think I had this one back in the '90s! (Wow, I'm trying to make myself sound old. I'm not actually old.)

I don't remember when I got my EBO, but I'm pretty sure it was either a Hanukkah or birthday gift. It was kept in the basement near the computers and a bunch of other toys. I remember making a mess all over the countertop everytime I ripped open the little cake mixes. They smelled so delicious! I used to wash the tiny dishes and utensils in the utility sink in my dad's work room. Classy, I know.

I loved making the adorable little yellow and chocolate cakes, but hated waiting for them to cook. Why couldn't the light bulb work faster? I used to sit in front of my EBO in pure anticipation, waiting for that tiny little cake to come out the other side of the oven. Even when the cake was ready, I had to wait for it to cool before icing it and then eating it. Patience is not one of my stronger qualities...you can ask my parents. As a result, I'm pretty sure I used to burn my fingers. A lot.

The cakes of course tasted delicious...but were soooo small! It took forever to make them...and then they were gone in approximately 8.5 seconds!

I can't wait to have a real kitchen this summer where I can make cakes in a non-light bulb operated oven that serve more than one person. Plus, my best friend, Becca, got me this adorable apron for my birthday. I can't wait to wear it in my very own (ish...) kitchen!

Anyone want to come over for cupcakes and tea?

Technically, today is 20-Something Bloggers' Blog Swap Day. Since I fail to live by the rules, the lovely Alana at The Good Girl Gone Blog and I will be trading spaces on Friday. Be excited.

Also, you should check out Alana's blog today for some neat enviro-conscious items to help you celebrate Earth Day everyday.

Me, I promise to keep on the Boy about the importance of recycling. It's something I plan to implement with the Beginning of Cohabitation, coming soon.

Keeping with the conversation on Feminism...

This makes me so ridiculously happy, even though it is in a country that is not my own.

The F-word

There's been an ongoing discussion over the past couple days, spawned by the lovely Sarah about the big F-word. Feminism.

International Women's Day seems to have gotten more than a few of us thinking about feminism: where it's going, where it's been, and if we agree. I've already blabbered on enough both in Sarah's comments and on the 20-Something Bloggers' discussion board.

To sum things up: yeah, I'm a feminist. I think that all women are, deep down. Feminism, to me, is not about refusing to shave your legs, or burning your bras -- I would fail miserably if that were the case. It's about wanting the best for all women (and even men). It's about standing up and supporting other women around you. It's about the desire not necessarily to be treated exactly the same as men, but to be given the same consideration, respect and opportunity. It's about being able to make your own choices and be confident in those decisions. It's about being able to walk down the street with your head held high because yes, you can do anything you set your mind to.

All this talk about the F-word has taken me back to my undergrad days. I minored in philosophy, because I'm somewhat of a nerd and I found that a lot of my electives quickly became philosophy courses. Those philosophy courses included women's studies and feminist philosophy and both enraged and thrilled me (which is probably why I kept enrolling in them).

One of the best things I took from my first year women's studies course was this poem:

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

It goes on and on and on and on

It feels like I’m constantly telling you how much I love you, so much so the words are lacking. It seems you’ve heard it all before and there simply is nothing I can say that will demonstrate that this is truly a monumental amount of love.

I love you more than you love metal. I love that you have expanded my musical horizons. Even though I don’t love all the roar-roar-roar that you accept, I have an appreciation for metal now. I love that when we started dating you were afraid your darker, complex musical tastes would scare me off. I have become interested in the culture and influence of metal in society, by watching documentaries with you. Also, the mix CDs you’ve made me throughout our relationship make me melt inside. New music that suits my taste shows how much time and consideration you put into selecting songs I’d like. Metal, and the music you’ve picked out for me, is calming. Just as you have “Boy” time with your music player and a long walk, listening to the tunes you’ve prescribed eases my stress level and makes the world okay. This is exactly how it feels when I get to see you after a long, hard day of dealing with annoying people, bureaucratic bullshit and my own special blend of personal problems.

On that note, I love you more than Steve Perry. If I ever see Journey in concert, even though the famed ex-lead singer and his perfect hair are gone, I would quite possibly die from excess glee. Don’t Stop Believin’ quickly became our own messed up love song, magically pouring out of speakers anywhere we’d happen to be. When we’re out and my ears detect the all-too-familiar tune, all of the feeling in my body rushes to my heart and I can’t help but look at you through the eyes of a giddy schoolgirl. Though I may be envious that his hair is nicer than mine, you are my only leading man.

I love you more than Fable II. You tease me that I’ve become a video game nerd, and boy, you know it’s true. I used to feel so sheltered since we were never allowed any sort of video game growing up (save for when the babysitter brought over her Gameboy and Tetris). I would politely decline playing old school Nintendo in University, because I didn’t have the mad skills everyone else developed so young. I love that you taught me something new. That you were so patient, teaching me RockBand, one of the pillars of our relationship. I can play that sucker on hard, or even expert, but being with you is always easy.

I love you more than road trips and vacation combined. My feet on the dashboard or the rush of take off used to mean freedom. The trip back home after a jaunt to Ottawa or a quick stop in Calgary would cause me to seriously reflect on past or current relationships, analyzing why they weren’t what I needed, or what went wrong. I don’t know what it is about returning to real life, but without fail, the sound of the engines lull me to sleep and take me to the land of lost loves. Maybe the return provides me with enough distance for objectivity. Flying back after our last delay in Vegas, as the engines finally did their thing, all I could think about was how you are The Boy for me. I look forward to exploring many new destinations with you. Even when it has seemed like the planets were aligned to diminish my sanity, every moment with you was truly vacation.

I love you more than breakfast. I didn’t even used to eat breakfast. I couldn’t be bothered. For years, my Dad would wake me from my slumber by asking how I wanted my eggs, a vile food that I never liked. Making omelets, scrambled eggs or pancakes with you on weekends has become one of my most favourite moments. It’s always delicious, even more so because, by that time of day, you’ve already satisfied my caffeine addition. Even when crappy frying pans prevent your omelets from turning out just right, the time I get to spend with you in the kitchen is perfection.

I love you more than board games, card games, or any kind of games. Heck, I love you even more than winning. You’ve made me pretty good at Bocce. Settlers of Catan makes my heart race, even though you are too ridiculously good. I embrace my inner elderly person by playing hours upon hours of Cribbage with you, and have forced your family many times to quench my insatiable appetite for games, games, games. I love that you put up with me, and play word games like Scrabble or Quiddler, even though I should theoretically win every time. The happiness that I feel when playing games with family, or friends, or with only you, is unsurpassed by the happiness you bring to my life. And you know how obsessed I am.

I love you more than debate. Everyone knows that I am the opposite of confrontational, but that I can rant and rave with the best of them. I love that we get into intoxicated debates about the state of the economy, politics, and the environment. I love that we vote for different political parties and don’t hate each other for it. I love that even when we do fight, we acknowledge it’s because we care so much. I love that you encourage me to talk things out when I’d rather keep my feelings inside. All of the madness that could build and build until I become an angry, nasty person is mitigated because of you. I love that you are rational and keep me that way when my emotional nature threatens to bubble and explode. Healthy relationships aren’t relationships that are always happy, they’re ones where you can compromise and agree to disagree on everything else. Though we can debate about anything from politics to paint chips, it’s always done in a respectful manner without the low blows.

This is a love unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I handed my entire heart and soul to you, and have remained one distinct person. I miss you when you’re gone for even a day, but I can live independently from you. Recently, while walking around the city, caught in silent reflection of what I’ve achieved over the past couple of years since I’ve been in Edmonton, I realized that I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. It helps that I have incredible friends, a great family and a job that I love, but it wouldn’t be the same without you. You encourage me to get involved with causes I’m passionate about, even when it means not being able to spend as much time together. You let me vent my frustrations, while easing my stress rather than spurring my anger. I love everything you are, even though everything you are is different from me. Just when I don’t think it’s possible to love you any more than I already do, I realize that my heart has grown two sizes that day.

Long story short, I love you a lot. Just so you know. Happy Valentine’s Day.

In addition to being added to The Boy's Valentine's Day card, this post is my entry for February's 20-Something Bloggers' Blog Carnival.

First day of school

I believe in pink, I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.

Audrey Hepburn

I'm jittery, and it's not just the three cups of coffee I've drank today. My prettiest notebook has been carefully packed alongside my camera for my first night of school. It's like this for every new course, every new beginning. Butterflies in my stomach and a yearning to soak up as much knowledge as possible. I read my manual at lunch and can't wait to skip out the doors when the day is done. Sure, I haven't slept much and my body aches from the abuse it took at soccer last night. No subs is bad news, as are rough players on the other team. But for once in the past couple days, I'm not craving dreamworlds and my warm, cozy, albeit broken, bed.

Also of note, my first kiss was showcased on the 20-Something Bloggers' blog for the January Blog Carnival. You should read the other entries here, they are awesome and will have you aching for summer lovin', which happens so fast.

I dare you...

It wasn't far into my grade nine year when I developed a crush on Shep. He was cute, incredibly nice, and absolutely hilarous. The boy that everyone liked.

He was a friend to everyone and didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He was a flirt. As we became good friends, working together and hanging out, the crush part stayed in the background, though the feelings that I had for him (and those that he had for me) were never acted upon. We were never available at the same time, such a dramatic and tragic tale in the world of highschool.

The girls he started dating hated the fact that we were friends and surmissed that at any time, we'd realize we were head-over-heels for each other and they'd be left in the dust. At least, that's how it seemed when they commanded him to stop talking to me. He never did. He was just sneakier about it. It floored me that girls I had known since the sandbox and building blocks now saw me as a threat. The same girls that ran away from me and mocked me in elementary school were terrified that I'd snag their man out from under them.

One even went so far as to get her posse to follow me around the halls. He was sick one day, so stayed home from school and they followed me around thinking that I might bail and meet up with him. Um, no. They called him from the school pay phone, and in their fakest, sickenly sweetest voices, informed me that he wished to speak with me.

"What's going on? You wanted to speak with me?"

"Um, no, they said you wanted to speak with me!"

"They think something's going on with us, I think we're being monitored."

I looked behind me at the smiles smeared over their sneers and agreed this was the case.

Then came the school dance. Getting dropped off at the doors, to walk with ease past the security guards. Neither me, nor my friends drank in grade nine, we had no fear of their breathalyzers. And he asked me to dance. I no longer remember the song, but I remember the angry grimace on his girlfriend-of-the-moment's face. I remember him whispering to me about how controlling and crazy she was, and that he wanted to be my friend, so gosh darnit he was going to be my friend regardless of how she felt about it.

They broke up soon after, and my crush blossomed. He was a great friend, we'd have amazing talks about everything under the sun, and he defended my honour when it was needed. For a highschool girl, he was perfection.

We never talked about the rumours. We were just friends, after all.

It wasn't until a end-of-the-year bonfire at one of our other friends' house that there was even a glimmer of it being anything more. After roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, someone came up with the bright idea to play truth or dare. A friend was dared to jump into the lake. "Would you rather?" questions were answered. And then it was his turn to "truth or dare" someone.

He picked me.

He stammered, and was it just me, or was he blushing? Maybe it was the light of the bonfire. No big deal. He baulked. People urged him to get on with it. I picked dare.

"Elle... I dare you... *ahem*...

I rubbed my hands together in the warmth of the fire, trying to suppress my own heated cheeks. Looking at my shoes, wondering what torturous thing he would make me do. Hopefully not jump in the lake.

"I dare you... to kiss me."

My eyes popped open, and I'm sure my jaw dropped. There were maybe only four or five other people at this "party", but really... my first kiss in front of all these people? My heart started beating faster, my cheeks got rosier, my stomach was just swarming with clichéd butterflies. It was my turn to pause. And attempt to remember how to breathe.

"If you don't want to, you don't have to."

"It's okay, a dare's a dare... I'll do it."

I walked over to him, grabbed his face, and gave him a chaste peck on the lips.

Though we were friends long after that, that was the most to ever happen between me and my first highschool crush. So much drama for so little story.


This post is for the 20-Something Bloggers' January blog carnival: First Kiss.

Although it's been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you.

“Christmas is awesome. First of all you got to spend time with people you love. Secondly, you can get drunk and no one can say anything. Third, you give presents. What's better than giving presents? And fourth, getting presents. So four things. Not bad for one day. It's really the greatest day of all time” (Michael Scott, The Office, Christmas 2005).

The presents are all purchased, wrapped and under the tree. Mix CDs filled with a variety of Christmas carols are being primed for tomorrow night’s party (Metal Christmas mix, anyone? Or is old school Jazz more your flavour?). As we head into the Christmas/holiday season, it’s easy to get wrapped up (no pun intended) in the economy, the stress of finding things for those you love while still sticking to your budget, and the old “did I spend on them, what they spent on me?” dilemma.

I’m here to help, by providing you a list of things I’d like for free this season.

New Christmas traditions. It’s the first year that I’m away from my family, and coincidentally, the first Christmas that I get to spend with the Boy. It’s pretty exciting that we’ll be together this year, especially because the more we spend time together, the harder it becomes to spend any lengthy time apart. Everyone who knows me has heard me discuss the sadness of being without the sisterly Christmas Eve slumber party tradition this year, but I’m looking forward to making some new traditions with the Boy.

Laughter. The holidays are for getting together with friends and sharing good times, imbibing, and creating a database of alcohol-induced moments for blackmail at a later date. I am looking forward to decorating up the apartment and having over friends old and new to celebrate the season before people head off to their respective holiday locations. Whether the laughter is the kind where the hand meekly covers the mouth while giggles attempt to escape, or the hearty head-thrown-back-because-it-can’t-be-contained type, I want lots of it.

Encouraging others to give back. It doesn’t have to be a monetary thing. It can be wrapping presents for something like Toys for Tots or Santa’s Anonymous. It could be spending quality time with a grandparent, while you still can – time is short. Basically, I hope that everyone steps outside their regular comfort zone just a little bit to do something that will mean the world to someone else: whether it’s working with an organized charity, doing a good deed for a stranger or merely helping with the dishes post-Christmas meal.

Voices of those I love. This is totally free, with the joys of unlimited, free long distance. Weee! I’ll be calling home on Sunday night, to talk to Daddy’s side of the family while they’re all at my parents’ house, celebrating Christmas with my grandparents for the first time in as long as I can remember (usually they head south to get away from the cold). It’s strange that they’ll be at my house and I’ll be away for a change, but it will be awesome to call and get to speak to everyone at once.

Family fun time. I’m looking forward to being at the Boy’s parent’s house in the deep Saskatchewan south, surrounded by the tall trees bending with snow, the harsh cold whipping outside, while staying inside all toasty warm playing games. I love to play games. Not the emotional or mental kind, but of the card or board persuasion. Love! Even if I am not good at losing, it’s still a fabulous time.

The Boy. Just reiterating how excited I am to be with him this Christmas, the first Christmas I’ve ever spent with a boyfriend even. Weird. It will be good to make fun of him with his family, cuddle him, and see his reactions to the presents I chose for him.

Looks like everything I want for free, I’m well on track to receive. And what could be better than that?

This post is the final chapter of mine for the 20-Something Bloggers' December blog carnival. My other posts can be found here and here.

Christmas wishlist, by sense

"Every sense hath been o'erstrung, and each frail fibre of the brain sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide." Lord Byron

This post is in continuation of the 20-Something Bloggers' December Blog Carnival. The topics up for grabs were:

• A wishlist of things you want that are free.
• A wishlist of five items, one for each sense.
• A wishlist of things you would sneak under the tree for yourself, age 13.

My post on the latter can be found here. What follows is my wishlist of five items, one for each sense. Unintentionally, all of these items are also free. Kind of. Without further ado, five sense-related items on my wishlist.

Sight: The expression on the faces of those I love while they open their gifts from me. I love when I get someone a present that I know they’ll love. Something that they aren’t expecting that will cause their eyes to light up and a smile to their face. Or tears, if it’s the momma. I’m excited to see the reactions to gifts I’m giving my friends and the Boy, hopefully cementing my own belief that I did a pretty bang-up job this year.

Smell: Lilies. This time of year is a little hard, since it’s around this time that my Grandpa passed away. His gardens were always so beautiful, his lilies so tall, everything so lush. Lilies also remind me of home. My mom’s beautiful lily garden. Her annoyance when cross-pollination occurs (I still like "mingling", Kaye) and all the lilies come up orange. They remind me of family and freedom. Running about outside with the wind in my hair. Smelling the flowers and nearly falling face-first into the garden. Because that’s how I roll.

Touch: Hugs. I am a touchy person, and the holidays are all about friends and family. I’m excited to see my friends this weekend for the Ugly Sweater Christmas Party the Roomie and I are hosting. Hugs all around for those I love. Excited to snuggle up with the Boy. Even excited to see his parents for Christmas, who always make me feel as welcome as my own family.

Sound: It’s a toss up. I absolutely love the sound of laughter. The sound of people coming together and sharing stories, memories, and new experiences. But then, I also want to hear the sound of my sister’s voice, “I wanna talk about boys!” as she crawls into my bed late at night. Our Christmas tradition was a sisterly sleepover/slumber party. Which meant the three of us staying up way too late, giggling and gossiping, saying our prayers together. Usually we were shushed more than once, or sternly commanded to go to sleep. Then, we’d get up early in the morning to look at our presents and help get breakfast organized. The lack of this Christmas tradition has me particularly homesick this year.

Taste: Gingerbread, whether it’s in cookie or latte form. This treat contains the very essence of Christmas. Just as the smell of lilies brings memories rushing back, the taste of gingerbread makes the holiday real. Memories of creating houses in days gone by, or the excitement on old Roomie Tim’s face as I called him upstairs in our house on Maitland Street to cut out his own holiday shapes.

"Love is of all the passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses." Lao Tzu

Christmas wishes for myself. At 13.

Thank you to the 20 Something Bloggers’ December blog carnival, for helping me write a blog post today when all creativity has eluded me. The following are four things I would sneak under the Christmas tree for myself, age 13.

1. The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. I did my English independent study on Plath for OAC (Grade 13… it was an Ontario thing), and was inspired by her, her independence, her brilliance, her reluctance to choose a path just because it was the one society said she should choose. It would have been beneficial for my younger self to learn about women like her sooner. Plus, by this age I had pretty much plowed through every written word in the house, so it would have been good to have something better to read than new cereal boxes.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet” (Plath, The Bell Jar, 1963).

2. A pretty journal. Sure, I had many loose leaf papers and books around, but it would be good to encourage younger me to write more. I used to love it so much, and it’s something that has dwindled with age, mandatory academic essays causing a serious lack of creativity, not to mention times of forced creativity. It would have served as even more of an outlet during a time in my life when I was not a happy person. A time when I didn’t know how to communicate with anyone who could help me be a happier person.

3. A game of some kind. Something along the lines of Girl Talk, a game that I never, ever owned. Something to encourage me to bond with my sisters during a time that I did not appreciate how awesome little sisters really can be. Something to make me cherish those last five years with them before I headed off to university. Something to remind me to stress out less, that the world doesn’t end at the drama of being a teenaged girl. Something to get me out of my room and my cover of books and pages scribbled with angst.

4. A promise for some kind of activity with my mom. Movie tickets, shopping, whatever. With three siblings, one on one time was rare with a parent (unless you were my brother, who could only be found following around my dad). It was even more rare that that time, if it happened, would be spent doing something other than cleaning, getting in trouble, or being forced to do homework. Any real, quality time you get to spend with a parent that age is a good thing. It took a lot for my relationship with my mother to become a healthy one, and it's something that I wish would have happened sooner.

If there was something you could give yourself at age 13, or even say to yourself at age 13, what would it be?