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!