Feeling hot, hot, hot?

I've always been a little skeptical of deals that seem too good to be true. So when a friend told me about Groupon, a website that emails members daily deals for activities, products etc. for specific geographic regions, it took me some time to get on board.

Since jumping on the bandwagon, I've had a blast checking out new restaurants, buying half-priced gift certificates for friends and family and trying out some hilarious (and crazy cheap) Lindy Hop lessons with Sparta.

The latest deal that was too good to resist, however, might really be too good to be true, if only for the fact that it will probably kill me.

For $35, Sparta and I scored 25 hot yoga classes.

Now, at first I was very enthusiastic about the prospect, but now that the bargain-induced high has worn off, I have some concerns.

First there is the little matter of my utter inflexibility, despite about a decade of gymnastics. I'm picturing being surrounded by lithe lulu-clad pretzels glowing with health and zen-ness, whilst I drown in a puddle of my own sweat whilst reaching futily for my toes. So. There's that.

Then there is the fact that, obviously hydration is imperative to hot yoga so I'll want to drink up. No problem, except that I'm pretty sure my bladder is the size of a six-month old's and as soon as I know I won't be able to "go" for a set amount of time, it's all I can think about.

Seriously, I had to run to the restroom twice during the previews for the new Harry Potter. Partly because I was just a wee bit overexcited, but also because of the knowledge that I would probably be viciously attacked by Potter fans were I to clamber my way down the aisle for a bathroom break mid-movie.

I can just imagine how I'll feel when they close the door to begin this 90-minute game of twister in a sauna.

Advice from any hot yogis out there would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise, wish me luck!

Making Christmas

It's all in the details...

The games...

The nostalgia...

The food...



And the laughter...



And the laughter...



And the laughter...

Reverb10

As usual, I'm a little late to the party, but I've really enjoyed reading other bloggers' Reverb10 posts, so I thought I'd give this one a whirl:

What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011?

Well.

To think about what has healed me this year requires me to do something I have generally been avoiding, and acknowledge that while, as years go, I've had worse and I know people for whom this year has been next to impossible to bear, this year has been difficult.

It began ominously, with the unexpected passing of one of Sparta's University friends. It seemed no sooner had we returned from his wake than I was downsized from my cozy small-town reporter gig.

A couple of months into unemployment, we moved to the city and my grandfather passed away. It was a bittersweet goodbye. Not entirely unexpected and even a relief on one hand as Alzheimer's was rapidly stealing him from us, but of course difficult to come to terms with nonetheless.

No sooner had we returned from the funeral than we were rocked by the news that Jim, a very close family friend had passed away suddenly, just days past his 50th birthday.

The last time I saw him was the night before my grandpa's funeral. He and his amazing wife had come over to give my dad a hug and raise a glass to my grandpa. When they left, I said to my mom (not for the first time), "I'm so fond of Jim. If I could choose an extra uncle, it would be him."

Months later, I still don't know what to say or write about this, except that our hearts are all broken by the shocking loss of this good, good man.

There have, of course, been plenty of fantastic bright spots and my overall love affair with the city has been a balm to my raw nerves, but I have spent a lot of time, especially during my six months of unemployment, feeling sad and uncertain and a little like a lost kite: cut loose and buffeted from tree to tree, until I could hardly fly at all.

While I don't know that the healing process is, or ever will be complete, what has started the healing, has been laughter and hugs, proximity of best friends, baking, creating a new home and planting my little feet back into solid, nourishing earth while I wait for an emotional tax return in 2011.

A Crafty Christmas

After an overdose of crochet projects, this year, I've come up with a couple of new experiments to foist upon friends and family this holiday season.

You'd be amazed at how many of my lovely friends are self-conscious about their profiles, but I managed to coax a couple of them into letting me snap a couple of photos for the sake of making these:




I always love the look of old-fashioned framed silhouettes, and thought it would be great to create some modern ones featuring people I know.

And, my greatest baking triumph to date:






That's right, Parisian macarons. Eat your heart out Martha Stewart.

...I mean, happy holidays!

Bursting the Bubble

It had been a while since I had marked International Human Rights Day with anything beyond a minute spent reading and signing an online petition, but when a flyer for Amnesty International's Write for Rights day landed on my desk at work, I took it as a sign that this year, I should do a little bit more.

While I like to think that I'm still more informed of and involved in human rights issues than the average bear, I must admit I've sadly become a bit of a lapsed activist. It's been easy to pretend to myself that with work, or looking for work or working on my hair, I simply don't have time to devote to any worthy causes beyond myself right now.

Flyer in hand I almost dismissed myself from duty once again, thinking about how my precious half-hour lunch break would be eaten up, but a little voice in my head (who sounded suspiciously like she was rolling her eyes) told me, "Oh just get over there and do it. People are dying and suffering and being wrongfully imprisoned, the least you can do is take a three minute walk and pick up a pen."

So I did. And despite the sad and unjust cases I read through before selecting two to address in my letters, amazingly, I left with a smile.

Part of my smile came from the other people writing letters, a tiny band of dedicated letter-writers, overjoyed to see me, a stranger, come to help with their campaign. And part of it came from the hope that, however slim, there was a chance that the letters I was writing might reach, might really get through to someone who could make the world a little better. If nothing else, at least the odds are better than when I simply fume and rant to Sparta about the state of things.

It was an excellent way to burst the isolating bubble I've felt growing up around me. It's so easy to blame it on time, or futility but I think really it's just that we're too frightened, too overwhelmed by what is out there. Too terrified to have our world get a little bigger and ourselves a little smaller in it.

My mom is dismayed by the direction our country is headed under our current government. Like many people, she's angry and sad and discouraged by what's going on, but unlike many people, what she is not and simply could never be, is complacent.

While most of us whine and shrug our shoulders, she identifies a problem and doggedly pursues a solution, sending emails, posting articles and signing petitions talking to anyone who will listen about the deceitful and appallingly undemocratic way our Prime Minister and his cronies are running our country. She performs tiny acts of rebellion each day in an effort to get others to start paying attention.

The thing that keeps her going, is not hiding from or closing her eyes to the evils of the world, but doing something, any little thing that she can to fight them.

I'm pretty sure I know whose voice it was in my head.

This blows

This might seem a little out of season, given that in my little corner of the hemisphere, it has been snowing or threatening to snow for a number of weeks now but I've been meaning to write about this for weeks, and I guess, given my woeful lack of inspiration to write lately, I should take my muses where I can get them.

So. I would like to take a moment to make an appeal to any of you folks still lucky enough to be enjoying the crisp air and brilliant colours of fall. Or to those of you who plan to continue residing on the planet next fall:

Please. Oh pleasepleaseplease. Please do not use leafblowers.

There are few things that make me a hissing, spitting little ball of angry Sarah like hearing that obnoxious roar, "I'M HERE AND I"M BLOWING THE LEAVES AROUND! BASICALLY DOING THE WORK OF A WINDY DAY! LOOK AT MEEEEEE!"

But it's more than that. To me they have come to represent every awful thing about North American attitudes towards...everything.

If you ever want to express your laziness and disregard for the environment and lack of common sense in one go, just schlep around your driveway with one of those monsters.

Heaven forbid you keep your muscles from atrophying once a year by weighing them down with a rake and the terrible burden of leaves.

I do understand that some people might genuinely be too old or infirm to operate a rake or rake/broom combination, although my neighbour managed to do this and much more well into her 90s, but in that case, hire a child! Neighbourhood kids love earning a shiny toonie.

Heck, hire me! I could probably use a little fresh air and subway fare.

And to all a good night

So today was one of those days when I get stupidly caught up and dissatisfied with my appearance. I spent my morning doing battle with my hair to no avail and realizing only halfway down the block that I had forgotten to put on even an iota of makeup.

The flourescent light over the bathroom mirror at work cruelly confirmed that the hair/face situation had been in no way improved by the brisk walk in. I was so battily insensed by my own reflection that I almost didn't notice this:



"Well that's...festive?" I thought, stopping mid-growl and letting go of my tortured locks to take a closer look at the blissful little mouse gracing a card leaning against the wall just below the mirror as though on a Christmas mantle.

Oddly enough, it was not a complete surprise to find something like this in the ladies room. There is some sneaky sweetheart who, for whatever reason, from time to time leaves what we assume are meant to be little gifts to whoever finds them. So far I've seen cute little notebooks and pencils, but I've heard tell of toonies being left on occasion as well. To be honest, I've never been sure whether or not to find the whole thing quirky and nice or creepy, especially as some of the gifts are left not on the counter but on the actual toilet tank. Like presents from a really mixed up tooth fairy.

That uncertainty didn't have a chance against my insatiable curiosity however. So I immediately opened the card to find this:



Another gorgeous creation from the beautiful minds at Papaya Art cleverly shrunk down to fridge magnet size.

And this:




Well.

Let's just say the hair didn't seem so important after that and my face was vastly improved by an ear-to-ear grin.

Thanks Santa.

Ooh child, things will get brighter

Sometime around my secondary school graduation, I recall one of my elders telling me he hoped I'd enjoyed high school, as it was probably going to be the best time of my life.

While for me, the teen years were nowhere near the hell I know they were for some, I was nonetheless alarmed by this statement.

Fortunately I have come to find that in my case (and in the cases of most everyone I know) that dire prediction has proved to be about as accurate as my theory that I'd be blissfully wedded to Leonardo DiCaprio by age 25.

The promise that things vastly improve for the majority of people after high school, and particularly for victims of bullying is the focus of the It Gets Better project, started by Dan Savage and his husband Terry in response to the recent rash of teen suicides in the U.S.

It is a beautiful and brilliant attempt to reach out and provide support to teens who are the victims of bullying and persecution because of their sexual orientation.

Despite being lucky enough to have had a supportive family and amazing kindred spirits for friends making my four years of purgatory at worst, bearable, and at best hilariously fun, there's just no way I'd want to relive the blind, fumbling, hormone-infused, insecure and angst-ridden over-capacity IKEA ball room that was high school.

Take away those friends and that family, throw in homosexuality or any one of the factors on the seemingly endless list of things that can make you a target of unabashed cruelty in high school, and things could have gone very differently.

So this Thanksgiving, my gratitude goes to those friends and that family and to every person who has contributed to the It Gets Better project.

Now if we could just get an equally viral "Quit being a closed-minded, bullying ass, seriously, there's no excuse for that garbage." project to take care of the other side going, we'd have the problem fixed in no time!

Weekend Smiles

Beautiful friends

Beautiful dancers in a beautiful cafe

This kid tormenting his sister with his googly-eye glasses

Bears on cel phones

less cars, more cozies!

Treat of the week

The sudden break from the summer heat combined with my newly expanded budget can only mean one thing.

I am eating everything in Toronto.

Today, after a month of gazing wistfully through their open floor to ceiling windows at the delectably decorated morsels on offer, we treated ourselves to a luxurious lunch at DT Bistro.



While their specialty is clearly their gorgeous and dainty dessert selection, they are no slouch in the savory department either.



For $14 Sparta noshed on tender and delicately spiced curried chicken on brioche with a crisp and colourful side salad while I devoured two lemon shrimp crepes garnished with sauteed asparagus and red onion.



So. So. Good.

The bright and airy space is simply furnished with whimsical and pretty accessories making it a casually elegant and comfortable setting for a friendly brunch, a romantic evening or just some quality time with creme brulee.

I will most certainly be back.

Ice cream and scavenger hunts

A study I came across a few months ago found that who we are is essentially determined by the time we're about seven.

While I scoffed a little upon first reading, I may be coming around to the idea.

As a kid, I was goofy, imaginative, inquisitive, (too) talkative (for my own good and the good of others), and friendly, with a pretty strict moral code and intolerance of injustice. I'm pretty sure anyone who met me would agree this is still an accurate description.

I also used slightly warped "logic" to attempt to get my way.

For example, somewhere there is a home video of me at age six, trying to convince the family to drive the three hours to the nearest IKEA.

With an extremely wounded look, I make my case to the camera: "But I'm all dressed!"

"No Sarah, the trip is too long."

"We go today and we're there by tomorrow?"

An admirable attempt.

I'm sorry to admit it, but Sparta may or may not be familiar with this exact tactic.

Oh, and I still get overly excited about trips to IKEA.

All this plus the fact that I just spent a terribly enjoyable evening with my best friend of 20 years, eating gelato and scouring the neighbourhood for free curbside treasure.

That's right, we ate ice-cream and went on a scavenger hunt. Granted, these days we're allowed to do so unsupervised, but still.

What do you think, have you really changed that much since your childhood, or do I just have a serious case of arrested development?

At least my hair is (slightly) different.

The Best Things in Life are Free

One of the delightful things about living in our particular part of the city is the number of little (and big) treasures you can come across just out for a stroll.

While it can be disheartening to come across a beautiful or useful piece of furniture left by the sidewalk for the elements to destroy, few things are more fun than discovering some little gem that has clearly just been waiting for you to come along and pick it up.

It is understood that items left at the curb or at the edge of a lawn are free to a good home.

At least I hope that's the understanding.

Otherwise I totally just stole someone's sweet vintage Palizzios!

P.S. Those of you who are concerned at my scavenging ways will be happy to hear I am finally, (finally, finally) employed!

Some people's children

Yesterday I faced a dilemma.

Sparta and I were enjoying our monthly pilgrimage to stock up on essentials from the No Frills an hour down the road, debating the nutritional merit vs wonderous deliciousness that are rosemary and olive oil flavoured crackers, when I noticed two little girls in a nearby cart.

Their mom was paying for groceries while the two of them happily slorped away at some kind of grody-looking refrigeration-free yogurt drinks (don't even get me started on those).

Anyway, poor choice in beverages aside, they were adorable. Just as we were passing them to begin the trudge home, I noticed that one of the girls was enthusiastically popping the lid of her drink in and out of her mouth.

As I watched, her eyes got big for a second and I froze for an instant, worried she was about to choke before she spat it out and continued unconcerned with her game.

At this point, I had two choices: point out the potential choking hazard to her mother, who was all of two feet away, or just mind my own business.

On closer inspection I was 80% sure that the thing was large enough not to actually fit down her tiny asophagus, so I decided rather than risk telling someone else how to take care of her kids, to give her the benefit of the doubt and just trust that she was paying closer attention than I was.

Still, I couldn't help feeling a little uneasy as we headed to the parking lot. Shouldn't the safety of a child outweigh my need not to be seen as a judgmental busybody?

Then, as we were returning our cart, we came across two women who had "rescued" a dog that had been tied up in the parking lot. The two claimed the dog had been crying and that they had no choice but to untie him and bring him inside for a drink of water.

The owner was seriously upset by their assumptions, saying that she knows how to take care of her own dog and that she should call the police and report them for stealing her dog; It was exactly the kind of scene I had tried to avoid seconds ago.

Granted, I wouldn't have taken it upon myself to confiscate the little girl or something, but there you go.

So what do you think? Where do you draw the line when it comes to giving advice to strangers?

Victory

Oh Canada

This kind of breaks my heart. One of the things I love the most about living in this country is that I've never felt afraid to voice my opinions and exercise my right to peaceful protest. Now for the first time, thanks to a combination of violent and cowardly "anarchists" and overzealous riot police like those above, I am.

More frustrating is the fact that the thousands of peaceful protestors with legitimate grievances and messages to get out will not be heard and the ones making the most noise really have nothing to say.

I'll be watching The Girl in the Cafe if anyone needs me.

That's Amore

I spotted these two from my rooftop perch
overlooking the local Italian street festival this weekend.
Too romantic, no?.

Guest post

Hey lovelies,

The (also lovely) ladies over at BeautyGirlMag are featuring my thoughts on going gray. Check out my post here if you're interested!

What would you do with $1.9 million?

Apparently, if you're the Canadian government, you build a fake lake.

While it's just a drop in the bucket when compared to the total budget for hosting the G20 summit this month, the construction of the indoor "lake" as an effort to impress visiting journalists and increase tourism is just too preposterous to ignore.

Did I mention this construction is happening a stone's throw from an ACTUAL lake?

Evidently, it is a project that few will get a firsthand look at as the security surrounding the summit promises to be more elaborate than anything seen in the country to date.

The government has made damn sure to let protesters know they are not welcome, putting out warnings early on that security forces will be equipped with not only the usual gear, but sound cannons, which they will not hesitate to use to subdue a crowd deemed unruly, damaging the hearing of demonstrators in the process.

While I understand that of course there needs to be some level of security, I find the whole thing ugly and threatening, with the attitude the government has taken, immediately setting protesters and police up for confrontation. Nothing like a good dose of fear to ensure things get hysterical.

These issues have got me thinking about whether or not these vastly expensive, security heavy international meetings are even necessary, fake lakes notwithstanding.

With such a range of "skype-like" technology, is it even responsible and/or necessary for world leaders to be jet setting around the world to discuss economic issues, when they could surely set up an online conference at a fraction of the (environmental and financial)cost?

*Also, for anyone who is interested in these issues (or even if you aren't) and has not seen the movie, The Girl in the Cafe, I can't recommend it enough. Be sure to let me know if you watch it and what you think!

Food, glorious food!

It took years of my mother explaining, "this is not a buffet," in response to my seriously ungrateful requests for a peanut butter sandwich to replace whatever delicious and nutritious meal she had slaved over, but I eventually developed a real appreciation for a variety of food.

When I lost my job, it took us about five minutes to decide to move to the city. It took me about six to start thinking about what I would eat upon our arrival.

Our neighbourhood has not disappointed. With everything from cheap and cheerful falafels and sushi to the treasure trove of fresh produce, mouth-watering cheeses and fragrant breads that make up the nearby market, despite our budget these days, we are feeling seriously indulged.

Here's a taste:

Homemade cornmeal muffins
with berries and greek yogurt,
drizzled with honey

Smoked applewood cheddar,
tomato, avocado, mayo
and corn relish on fresh focacia
(I could eat this every day)

Pad Thai on the patio

Teeny, tiny homemade lemon, vanilla cupcakes
with butter cream frosting

And we thought ants were bad

One of my favourite features about our little apartment is our very adorable terrace. It's a simple wooden affair that extends our over the roof of the back of the house. It offers both a view of the city skyline and of similar decks across the quiet alleyway behind the houses. At night it looks like something out of West Side Story, with the zigzag of fire escapes connecting the cozy glow at each little window.

It has, however, on occasion given me pause in terms of the security of our little nest as the series of decks on the surrounding houses are all on about the same level as ours. I have unnerving visions of some kind of ninja-burglar parkour-ing their way into our apartment.

So, despite the recent heatwave, I insist on keeping the door to the deck closed and bolted when we go to sleep. At least we have a little window by the stove that lets some air flow through that part of the pad.

It was this obsession with locking the door nightly that kept me from having a colossal meltdown this morning when I was awakened by crashing sounds coming from the kitchen.

Despite assuring myself that surely I would have heard an axe-wielding lunatic hacking his way through the steel door before he made it into the kitchen, I was out of bed like a shot, alert and wary while Sparta blearily peered at me from beneath the duvet, asking the very good question, "What is that?"

Having convinced myself it was probably nothing more than some kind of pantry avalanche caused by my precarious stacking techniques, I bravely peeped around the door frame.

Directly in my eyeline was the counter where we keep our toaster, microwave and cutting board. On top of the microwave was our paring knife, garlic pot, loaf of bread and live squirrel.

Fortunately, he was an astoundingly rational squirrel, and shortly after making eye contact with me, slithered right back out of the hole he gnawed in the window screen without incident while I tiptoed back into the bedroom to fashion some kind of anti-rabies, squirrel wrangling gear.

It may be time to stop bragging about living on a beautifully tree-lined street.

City Critters

While I have yet to come across any city-dwelling llamas, there has been no shortage of creatures, both two and four-legged, here to keep me entertained over the past month.

The question

I'm currently embroiled in a discussion over in the 20sb forums with a gentleman who was looking for advice on how to get publicity for a pin-up contest the green technology company he works for is planning on running to raise awareness and "make renewable energy sexy, literally."

Whenever something like this comes up on the forums I struggle a bit with whether or not to get involved.

There are times when it just seems futile to respond or to attempt to get a thoughtful dialogue happening, especially when the thread title is something as ludicrously offensive as "Which brown race is the most attractive?"

(Sadly, that was indeed a real topic. The expanded version also referred to Canadians as a race. So.)

The pin-up topic had a couple of positive responses from women who thought this contest sounded like a great idea, none of them posing the question that immediately came to my mind:

Why does attention for green technology have to come at the expense of women?

Another commenter asked how it could possibly be at the expense of women when the women featured will be volunteering and wondered if having a male competition as well would make things more fair.

While I suppose on some level that would make things more balanced, the solution to the problem of objectifying women, is not to objectify men too.

I have no doubt that there will be plenty of willing participants.

There is, unfortunately, no shortage of women seemingly eager to be judged on their ability to cram themselves into a pre-fab mold of physical attractiveness, reduced to their waist - hip ratios and tacked up in back offices to be ogled by strangers.

Brains, personality and achievements be damned, they want recognition for their looks, and they'll get it. They'll get it far easier than they might gain recognition for just about anything else.

The pressure on women to fit that mold is so monstrously great, and competitions based on looks are just what that monster loves to feed on the most.

The thing with sexism and objectification is that we're so used to them that most of us don't even recognize it or question when these issues come up.

There's a prevailing attitude of "Oh well, sex sells, might as well use that to our advantage rather than challenge it or come up with something more innovative and interesting."

It's shameful and it's lazy and it's boring.

Sometimes though, all a shift in attitudes needs to get started is for someone to ask the question.

Bird's Eye View

In case you're curious about what an unemployed Sarah in the city does with her copious amounts of spare time, wonder no more.

When not out distributing resumes, I obsessively watch this:



The Hornby Island Eagle Cam.

There are two cameras positioned in and above a gorgeous eagle nest in British Columbia and I've been watching the live stream since the week the sweet little fuzzball of a baby was hatched.

Now he's getting kind of big and creepy prehistoric looking, but I still check in on them on a daily basis. Even when they're not doing anything, it's surprisingly calming just looking at them.

The Haves

Today, as I put my resume through it's scrillionth reincarnation and prepared to pavement pound with the best of them, Sparta and I got to chatting about our budget, which of course, has been tightened significantly since I lost my job.

In fact, Sparta described us as "have-nots."

I thought he must be kidding, but he insisted that our existence of living from pay cheque to pay cheque puts us squarely in that demographic.

I beg to differ.

I offered to take him for a walk and point out a few of the "have-nots" living on the streets of our fair city.

He reminded me of a recent visit with some extremely wealthy acquaintances of mine and their jet-setting ways.

It's true we don't have the cash on hand to purchase a couple of vineyards and a mid-sized island at any given time. We don't have a six bedroom house in Florida and one twice the size here. We don't have drivers or personal assistants or catered soirees.

And sure, I would be more comfortable to be in a position to start bulking up my savings, but I don't doubt for a second that we're very, very priviledged.

We live in a peaceful country where treating our health problems doesn't mean going into excessive debt.

We have a(n adorable) place to sleep at night, we have food (and wine!) and an amazing support network who would certainly never allow us to go without.

The things we don't have? We don't need.

City Girl

My parents have always described me as a city girl. While both my brother and I technically grew up in a city, I was born in a far larger one and I guess the three years before we relocated had a pretty profound effect.

At 15, I was the one whose genius plan to escape from any form of hiking on a family trip to British Columbia (I know, I know, who doesn't want to hike in BC?) by quietly refusing to bring appropriate footwear was neatly foiled by my mom loaning me her sensible sneakers and teetering her way through the woods on my KISS-worthy platform heels.

Our family trip to Paris, however? A drastically different story.

Try as I might to blend in with the small-town locals, they called me on it every time. I think it was all the earrings.

Every time I've stepped off the train and into the city to visit friends over the years, I've felt a sense of coming home.

Today when I stepped off the train, I was.

It's been less than a month since we moved into our adorable little third-floor nest, but already my life in the small town seems like ancient history, or a really lengthy dream.

I mean, I know it happened. I've got the newspapers to prove it, but really? Did I really move to the middle of nowhere, not knowing a single friendly face or what precisely I was getting myself into? Did I really stick it out with no social life to speak of to write about giant mutant turnips, 100th birthday parties and bean festivals for two years? Did I really fly an airplane??? haha. Who does that?

This girl, apparently.

And while I will never forget and am hugely grateful for that rare experience, I am so happy to be where I am now. Despite things not turning out the way I might have hoped, and despite the fact that I remain, for the moment, dishearteningly unemployed, I am so excited to be here.

Suddenly, my calendar has changed. Photo exhibits, parties, and dinners with friends have replaced council meetings, donation photographs and interviewing the new minister.

About once a day, when we pass a fruit stand, or explore Chinatown or turn down our gorgeous street, or just sit people-watching from a sun-drenched patio, I turn to Sparta and exclaim, "We LIVE here! We live HERE!"

He just smiles at me, the preposterously happy city girl.

In other news...

For most of my life thus far, my hair has been some incarnation of this:


Every so often though, I get the urge to completely change it up. Usually I just talk myself out of it by reminiscing about the time i had it chopped into that super popular mid-90's flip with bangs which, when not styled meticulously looked suspiciously like a mullet, and not the punk rock joan jett kind either.

Of course, other times, I just spontaneously do it anyway a la yesterday when I hit the stylist's chair and decided I could not possibly walk out of there with hair past the bottom of my ribs one more time.



Ta-daa!

It feels aahmazing. I walked home in the wind yesterday and while it's still long enough to get in my eyes, it can no longer viciously attempt to strangle me.



And! One of the benefits of having a rapunzel-gro mane that isn't dyed is that when you chop it off it can be reincarnated as part of a wig for a cancer patient.

Win, win!