- one sided conversations with fish.
- bare legs in December.
- http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
- knowing that in a day and a half I’ll be able to give my dad a hug.
- being happy with the contents of my closet.
Category: uncategorized
but where did the salt shaker go?
The salt shaker has vanished. It didn’t leave a note or even a telltale ring where it was on top of the stove. My current theory is that my kitchen is mad at me for not using it for the last few weeks and ate my salt shaker to teach me a lesson.
I have just spent the last half an hour searching for it. It isn’t in the fridge or the freezer. It’s not in my liquor cabinet or the hall closet. It’s not on the balcony or on any of my book shelves. I’d blame the pigeons, but that probably won’t improve our tenuous relationship.
The lost salt shaker has joined that one shoe I used to love, numerous socks, my sanity, the plot, and that little stuffed toy rabbit I liked to chew on as a child.
I miss the salt shaker.
**
Update:
It has been found! In an effort to ward off the aporkalypse a few weeks ago, I started religiously gargling with salt water. And then I got lazy, as I do, and abandoned the regime. And apparently, my final act before giving in to complete lethargy was to put the salt shaker in the medicine cabinet. Because that seemed like a good place to keep it. Unlike the kitchen which is two metres away. And has a spot specifically for the salt shaker.
Poor little guy. I hope the other things in the cabinet were nice to him.
grace in small things. 280 of 365.
- mountainous piles of clean dishes.
- listening to a friend talk about a new crush.
- conquering public transportation.
- freeing up hangers by purging my closet.
- grace in small (and big) things.
grace in small things. 263 of 365.
- remembering to eat lunch in the midst of chaos.
- being one sleep away from getting my personal life back.
- things that fall into place.
- picking out the perfect outfit for a party.
- Friday the 13th.
grace in small things. 151 of 365.
- the laughter that erupted out of my mother when she heard me call my fish “wiggle butt”.
- being treated to a massage.
- the crab that tried to escape out of his tank.
- loving a book within the first three pages.
- the good kind of pain.
the sadness? gone. the anger? raging.
I have a giant “FUCK YOU” for the world today.
If I still lived in the prairies, I’d drive myself out to a field somewhere and scream and yell and stamp my feet and throw my hands up in the air and I’d be as loud and angry as I want to be.
I can’t do these things because I live in an apartment building and my lease says that I have to keep it to myself. But I want the internet to know that I’m yelling and stamping my feet on the inside.
happy anniversary.
A lot has happened in the last month. I abused a pigeon with citrus, I rediscovered my love of picnics and I started dating someone pretty damn incredible. I also had my first experience hearing gay sex through an open window on a hot day.
A lot has happened in the last year. I moved into my lovely little apartment, I began my epic battle against the pigeons and I discovered that I can overcome anything. Except for the pigeons.
A lot has happened in the last ten years. I graduated from highschool, I spent a year figuring out what I wanted to do and I graduated from university. I fell in love with India, realized that I was an artist, and packed up my life and moved somewhere I hadn’t been to since the fourth grade.
A lot has happened in the last 26 years. I learned to be brave when my mom left my father and we started a new life in the house that she fixed up by herself. I met the teacher that would influence my life the most. I got the chicken pox, learned that I had scoliosis and broke my foot showing off in dance class. My mom fell in love with the man that would become my dad. I travelled more places than many people get to see in their entire lives. I met my half sister for the first time and I stopped being an only child. I became an aunt. I developed a phobia of frogs and then I overcame most of that fear. I was picked on at school for years for being different. I was the first person from my class to graduate from university. I learned that no matter how much you love someone, sometimes you have to walk away. I realized that I am talented, stubborn and fiercely loyal. I fell in love with taking pictures. I stopped forgetting my camera at home. And I started to write.
born with the gift of a golden voice.
Leonard Cohen.
He has the moves of a man who has been doing this for years. That slightly arrogant swagger, and that look in his eyes that says I could still have you, if I wanted to. His grace and talent pouring out from under his black fedora. The tip of his hat and the downward tilt of his head to say thank you to his band, and the crowd.
He is brilliant and heartbreaking and inspiring and so fucking cool. He has been doing this for forty years. It shows in his face, but not in his presence. He’s an old man. But he’s not dead yet.
I could only say it last night with my clapping and my tears and my smile, so I will say it here, humbly and from my heart. Thank you.
and they ran like they were being chased.
Yesterday was the Sun Run. That magical day when 50,000 people gather in their lululemon and running shoes and run 10k through the streets of Vancouver. I was not one of the lycra clad, but I was the Official Stuff Holder for my friends who were running. It’s an important task being the Stuff Holder. I went with my friends to the start of the race, filled my bag with their sweaters and keys and water bottles, wished them luck, took a picture of them like it was their first day of school, and then wandered my way to the finish line to wait.
I entered the stadium, parked myself in a seat in the stands with my assortment of cameras and my notebook, and watched as people started to trickle in. It was a sea of Richard Simmons; the sweat bands and short shorts all starting to blend into one another. Shaky-legged people clutching bagels, looking like lost children.
I have never seen so many adults drinking juice boxes.
A fit, 40 year old man who had finished the race and was waiting for his coworkers to finish as well, struck up a conversation with me. He asked if I did the run, to which I laughed. Apparently, my big earrings, leather jacket and tight jeans gave off the ‘runner’ vibe. My guess is that he was still slightly delirious after the run and was in need of another juice box. After talking to him for awhile, I decided that as long as asthma and my knees didn’t violently object, I would do the Sun Run next year. And while I often feel inspired to do crazy things like take up baseball after watching a League of Their Own, I think I could do the run, and actually do it well. Baseball on the other hand, wants nothing to do with me.
As we left the stadium, I realized that the entire place smelled like a mix of clean laundry and sweat. 50,000 clean shirts with 50,000 sweaty people in them. And on our way to celebratory dim sum, I realized that it wasn’t just the stadium, but the entire city that smelled that way. It was alternately both pleasant and overwhelming, depending on which way the wind was blowing.
float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
Someone just asked me if I was a boxer.
Ok, maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think I look particularly like someone who gets punched in the face on a regular basis. And these girly hands of mine? Not designed for boxing gloves. Mittens yes, giant smashing gloves, no.
Sheesh.
violetdiaries 