In this edition, we ask: "Pumpkin pie frozen on a stick and covered
with Lindt chocolate...awesome or awful?" My heart says awesome, but
my blood sugar says awful.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
This is not a shoe, it's a mania.
Checking out my beloved Converse at Baggins in Victoria (one of the
largest selections of Cons in North America). Ended up with a pair of
white leather hi-top Chucks, lined in red. Yes please!
largest selections of Cons in North America). Ended up with a pair of
white leather hi-top Chucks, lined in red. Yes please!
Friday, December 25, 2009
Settled Down for a Long Winter's Nap
Ford and Dad are tuckered out after a busy Christmas Day. So much
turkey, so little time. Merry Christmas, everyone.
turkey, so little time. Merry Christmas, everyone.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Excuse Me for Being Green
Until this morning, I had a new favorite tea place in my new 'hood. Muzi Tea Bar is on West Cordova, across from Waterfront Centre. They feature approximately 60 different teas, which they serve with vanilla milk, steamed apple juice, and all sorts of other lovely things. Basically, it's fancy tea. But I like it. I also totally bought into their sleek white modern interior, and the lovely chai smell that wafts towards you when you come through the door. I've been making a habit of going in every day, either in the morning on the way to work or at lunch, and have been trying all sorts of different teas: Royal Assam with rose petals and vanilla milk, Vanilla cardamom chai with pepper, Matcha lattes...you get the picture.
I am still waiting for my shipment of all worldly possessions, which I believe has been pilfered by Somali pirates, as it's now been almost 12 weeks since I surrendered all my belongings to the slightly-shady moving company in the UK, who insists it's all on a boat. Somewhere. Anyway, amongst my (lost) things is my reusable coffee mug. Early last week I decided I couldn't stand all the paper cups I was using and couldn't wait for my shipment to arrive, so I bought a 27% recycled material reusable plastic travel mug. It's small enough to fit in my purse, but is a 12 oz cup (a "Tall" size at Starbucks). I've been presenting it for the past week or so at Muzi for my daily tea fix, and they have never had a problem accommodating me. The staff are mostly young women, who have all been lovely, and even give me an environmental discount for using my own cup. I often have a chat with them about their day, the weather, whatever. It's nice. It's "my place," or fast becoming my place.
This morning was a different story. The woman who I suspect is the owner or manager, as I often see her sitting in a corner of the bar with her laptop, was on the bar, and did not look happy to be toiling as a mere barista, rather than presiding, as usual, as Empress of the Tea Bar. I ordered a Matcha latte. After eating crap at the Canucks game last night I was feeling like I needed some green tea goodness. The woman looked at my (clean) cup and sort of wrinkled her nose at it. She then prepared the milk and the matcha, and poured the entire jug of milk into the cup. Naturally, it almost filled up the cup and so there was room for maybe an ounce of matcha. Normally, the baristas at Muzi pour the tea and the milk together, so that you get an equal amount of both in your cup. Maybe this means that I get smaller amounts of both, because my cup is smaller than their standard paper one, but that's OK by me, as long as it's equal parts tea and milk. After she had filled it with milk and pretty much no tea, Empress Tea Bar looked at me and sneered, "Um, what is this cup? It must be tiny because I still have a lot of tea here. It must be like, 8 ounces." She plunked it in front of me.
I said, "Well, it's a standard "tall" size at Starbucks. And you are usually able to fit a whole serving size in it for me." She didn't acknowledge that I had said anything, and immediately began preparing the drink for the next customer (there wasn't a line), leaving all the matcha I had paid for in the stainless steel jug in which it had been brewed. She didn't offer to pour the extra into a paper cup for me, or offer to remix it in my own cup so there was more matcha and less milk. She just...pretended I hadn't said anything and that I had disappeared with my silly little environmental mug. The girls on staff didn't know what to do, and, embarassed, turned and began busying themselves with tidying the counters. I know, having been served by all of them, that they understand that by pouring the milk into the cup first, she had basically cheated me out of all the matcha. But of course, they can't cross their boss.
So. I stood there for a moment, being ignored. Then I simply put the lid on my cup and walked out, feeling like an idiot. I'd just paid $4.00 for hot milk and humiliation. What a way to start the morning.
And you know what? I shouldn't have to feel like an idiot. Using a reusable cup is one very easy thing that everyone can do to reduce their consumption. In fact, it's a nothing step. Everyone should be using their own cups. Paper cups should be as taboo as plastic shopping bags are fast becoming. So, I wanted to use my cup. And Empress Tea Bar made it very difficult for me to do so. If I had less conviction I might have said, "Now, that was embarassing. And it was a big hassle. I won't use this cup anymore," and gone back to paper. I didn't get the product I paid for, and I got attitude that I certainly didn't order. But you know what? I'd rather go elsewhere than slink back to Muzi and their white paper cups. Badly done, Muzi. Badly done.
I am still waiting for my shipment of all worldly possessions, which I believe has been pilfered by Somali pirates, as it's now been almost 12 weeks since I surrendered all my belongings to the slightly-shady moving company in the UK, who insists it's all on a boat. Somewhere. Anyway, amongst my (lost) things is my reusable coffee mug. Early last week I decided I couldn't stand all the paper cups I was using and couldn't wait for my shipment to arrive, so I bought a 27% recycled material reusable plastic travel mug. It's small enough to fit in my purse, but is a 12 oz cup (a "Tall" size at Starbucks). I've been presenting it for the past week or so at Muzi for my daily tea fix, and they have never had a problem accommodating me. The staff are mostly young women, who have all been lovely, and even give me an environmental discount for using my own cup. I often have a chat with them about their day, the weather, whatever. It's nice. It's "my place," or fast becoming my place.
This morning was a different story. The woman who I suspect is the owner or manager, as I often see her sitting in a corner of the bar with her laptop, was on the bar, and did not look happy to be toiling as a mere barista, rather than presiding, as usual, as Empress of the Tea Bar. I ordered a Matcha latte. After eating crap at the Canucks game last night I was feeling like I needed some green tea goodness. The woman looked at my (clean) cup and sort of wrinkled her nose at it. She then prepared the milk and the matcha, and poured the entire jug of milk into the cup. Naturally, it almost filled up the cup and so there was room for maybe an ounce of matcha. Normally, the baristas at Muzi pour the tea and the milk together, so that you get an equal amount of both in your cup. Maybe this means that I get smaller amounts of both, because my cup is smaller than their standard paper one, but that's OK by me, as long as it's equal parts tea and milk. After she had filled it with milk and pretty much no tea, Empress Tea Bar looked at me and sneered, "Um, what is this cup? It must be tiny because I still have a lot of tea here. It must be like, 8 ounces." She plunked it in front of me.
I said, "Well, it's a standard "tall" size at Starbucks. And you are usually able to fit a whole serving size in it for me." She didn't acknowledge that I had said anything, and immediately began preparing the drink for the next customer (there wasn't a line), leaving all the matcha I had paid for in the stainless steel jug in which it had been brewed. She didn't offer to pour the extra into a paper cup for me, or offer to remix it in my own cup so there was more matcha and less milk. She just...pretended I hadn't said anything and that I had disappeared with my silly little environmental mug. The girls on staff didn't know what to do, and, embarassed, turned and began busying themselves with tidying the counters. I know, having been served by all of them, that they understand that by pouring the milk into the cup first, she had basically cheated me out of all the matcha. But of course, they can't cross their boss.
So. I stood there for a moment, being ignored. Then I simply put the lid on my cup and walked out, feeling like an idiot. I'd just paid $4.00 for hot milk and humiliation. What a way to start the morning.
And you know what? I shouldn't have to feel like an idiot. Using a reusable cup is one very easy thing that everyone can do to reduce their consumption. In fact, it's a nothing step. Everyone should be using their own cups. Paper cups should be as taboo as plastic shopping bags are fast becoming. So, I wanted to use my cup. And Empress Tea Bar made it very difficult for me to do so. If I had less conviction I might have said, "Now, that was embarassing. And it was a big hassle. I won't use this cup anymore," and gone back to paper. I didn't get the product I paid for, and I got attitude that I certainly didn't order. But you know what? I'd rather go elsewhere than slink back to Muzi and their white paper cups. Badly done, Muzi. Badly done.
Monday, December 14, 2009
I'm Still Here.
Beloved MacBook has been out of commission for some weeks now, and thus, my blogging has ground to a halt. It's driving me nuts that the extent of my ability to update my site has been confined to tweets sent from my iPhone, because as we all know, I like to say a little more than what I can fit into 140 characters. In fact, I find it impossible to say anything in 140 characters. Sigh.
So, this one illicit blog for now and then I'll go back to waiting for Apple to fix MacBook.
Life is slowly settling into a routine. The construction at Woodwards continues apace, which means, whether I like it or not, I'm awake at 6 when the generators start and the construction team arrives outside my window. They tend to go like stink until 11 pm at night, but the progress seems, well, glacial. I'm not sure why everything is taking so long, in terms of construction at the SFU School of Contemporary Arts and the Community Arts Space.
It's a bit disorienting to suddenly have, well, a life. I go to work, I come home at a reasonable hour, and still have time in the evenings to spend time with friends and family. And, um, I don't work on the weekends. I feel guilty about it. But, I don't actually have to. So...hopefully the guilt will abate soon.
Filling my suddenly deliciously free evenings and weekends has not been hard. I've painted two walls in my house, haunted second hand and vintage stores to pick out just the right, 60's era, Don-Draperesque furnishings, baked (!), cooked, visited with family, gone to movies (see Fantastic Mr. Fox, it's delightful), met friends at Muzi for tea, read books (finally got my limited edition copy of Robert J. Wiersema's The World More Full of Weeping, which I highly recommend), and gone for wanders around downtown, to see what's changed and what hasn't. I bought a Christmas tree and decorated it with my mom and my aunties. I have had some crazy nights out as well, to the Eastside Culture Crawl, to see Lady Gaga's Monster Ball tour, and to the good ol' Freequeency Top 40 drag show at the Odyssey (which was, now that I think of it, uncannily similar to the Monster Ball)...
Keeping busy has staved off the worst of the inevitable homesickness I knew I would feel for London once the euphoria of being home wore off, despite how challenging and unhappy the recent months (well, year and a half) there were. I know, without a doubt, that it is healthiest for me to be here, in Vancouver. That doesn't mean that I don't miss London, or miss the best parts of it, anyway. Of course I don't miss the stress of the work, the loneliness of being so far from friends and family, and the day-to-day grind of living and working in London. But I miss flirting with Billy on the Thamesclipper on my way to work, I miss slipping out for coffee at Taylor Street Baristas with Tony, I miss being part of a team of brilliant, hilarious, caring associates who I looked forward to seeing every day, I miss starting to chatter at my office-mate David at 10 am and not stopping until I left in the evenings, I miss seeing trashy movies at Piccadilly with Ben, meeting Mike and Dorota for dinner and a good gossip in Mayfair, scouring the Internet for cheap theatre tickets, and visiting my beloved markets. So, despite knowing that I've made the right decision, I still dream of London, waking up in the morning and feeling its loss.
On the few nights when I'm not headed out to see someone or do something, I've settled into the routine of coming home, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and watching Ghost Whisperer. I know, I know. It's trash. It's horrible. It's Jennifer Love Hewitt. My mind knows all these things, and yet, every night, I flick it on while I bang the pots and pans together, while the laundry swirls around, machine humming happily in the background, and every night, inevitably, I cry my eyes out at the conclusion where somebody goes into the light. Every. Time. It's ridiculous. I told my aunt this last week, when I went to her house for a family dinner. She said, "That's a pretty sad comment on your life, that you go home and cry all night." Maybe it is. I think it's great that I get to go home, period. And the crying, well, it's cathartic. Maybe I'm crying out all the frustration and loneliness of the past 18 months, the anger at myself for going in the first place, and the anger at myself for not making it work. All I know is, right now, today, I'm happy. And if I needed to have a good Melinda Gordon-induced cry to get here, well, that's fine by me.
So, this one illicit blog for now and then I'll go back to waiting for Apple to fix MacBook.
Life is slowly settling into a routine. The construction at Woodwards continues apace, which means, whether I like it or not, I'm awake at 6 when the generators start and the construction team arrives outside my window. They tend to go like stink until 11 pm at night, but the progress seems, well, glacial. I'm not sure why everything is taking so long, in terms of construction at the SFU School of Contemporary Arts and the Community Arts Space.
It's a bit disorienting to suddenly have, well, a life. I go to work, I come home at a reasonable hour, and still have time in the evenings to spend time with friends and family. And, um, I don't work on the weekends. I feel guilty about it. But, I don't actually have to. So...hopefully the guilt will abate soon.
Filling my suddenly deliciously free evenings and weekends has not been hard. I've painted two walls in my house, haunted second hand and vintage stores to pick out just the right, 60's era, Don-Draperesque furnishings, baked (!), cooked, visited with family, gone to movies (see Fantastic Mr. Fox, it's delightful), met friends at Muzi for tea, read books (finally got my limited edition copy of Robert J. Wiersema's The World More Full of Weeping, which I highly recommend), and gone for wanders around downtown, to see what's changed and what hasn't. I bought a Christmas tree and decorated it with my mom and my aunties. I have had some crazy nights out as well, to the Eastside Culture Crawl, to see Lady Gaga's Monster Ball tour, and to the good ol' Freequeency Top 40 drag show at the Odyssey (which was, now that I think of it, uncannily similar to the Monster Ball)...
Keeping busy has staved off the worst of the inevitable homesickness I knew I would feel for London once the euphoria of being home wore off, despite how challenging and unhappy the recent months (well, year and a half) there were. I know, without a doubt, that it is healthiest for me to be here, in Vancouver. That doesn't mean that I don't miss London, or miss the best parts of it, anyway. Of course I don't miss the stress of the work, the loneliness of being so far from friends and family, and the day-to-day grind of living and working in London. But I miss flirting with Billy on the Thamesclipper on my way to work, I miss slipping out for coffee at Taylor Street Baristas with Tony, I miss being part of a team of brilliant, hilarious, caring associates who I looked forward to seeing every day, I miss starting to chatter at my office-mate David at 10 am and not stopping until I left in the evenings, I miss seeing trashy movies at Piccadilly with Ben, meeting Mike and Dorota for dinner and a good gossip in Mayfair, scouring the Internet for cheap theatre tickets, and visiting my beloved markets. So, despite knowing that I've made the right decision, I still dream of London, waking up in the morning and feeling its loss.
On the few nights when I'm not headed out to see someone or do something, I've settled into the routine of coming home, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and watching Ghost Whisperer. I know, I know. It's trash. It's horrible. It's Jennifer Love Hewitt. My mind knows all these things, and yet, every night, I flick it on while I bang the pots and pans together, while the laundry swirls around, machine humming happily in the background, and every night, inevitably, I cry my eyes out at the conclusion where somebody goes into the light. Every. Time. It's ridiculous. I told my aunt this last week, when I went to her house for a family dinner. She said, "That's a pretty sad comment on your life, that you go home and cry all night." Maybe it is. I think it's great that I get to go home, period. And the crying, well, it's cathartic. Maybe I'm crying out all the frustration and loneliness of the past 18 months, the anger at myself for going in the first place, and the anger at myself for not making it work. All I know is, right now, today, I'm happy. And if I needed to have a good Melinda Gordon-induced cry to get here, well, that's fine by me.
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