"Your Nails are Painted? Who are You?"

I have never considered myself a girly-girl. Well, that may be less than accurate; as a little girl my room looked like the inside of a powder puff; pink walls and lacy ruffles to boot. Plus I wore dresses to school all the time.
But as I've grown older, I have never been one of those girls who always has immaculately done hair. I took Cosmetology in grade 10 and learned all the tricks, but despite this, I still remained a ponytail girl half the time. I have just never had the patience.

It should come as no surprise that my nails have never been that noteworthy. Again in Cosmo, I learned how to do really nice manicures and I have all the tools, but I never saw the point; they chip fast, they're distracting, my fingers weren't something I liked to draw attention to anyways. I didn't even like waering rings. When I started my job it seemed even more pointless. I type most of the day, what would be the point in doing my nails if they're going to get chipped everyday?

In May, my cousin Mik moved in. She is as much of a nail/hair person as me, except her mother never managed to convince her to take Cosmo. When she moved to Edmonton she started working at a jewellery manufacturer, which has started her on a few curious out-of-character habits:

1. She has a habit of taking people's rings off their fingers and scrutinizing them before lecturing on proper ring care. My dad bought me a gorgeous green saphire in Thailand a few years back which according to Mik I have done nothing but abuse since. When I told her I didn't take it off to wash my hair she actually cringed. My ring now sits safely on the counter every time I use shampoo.

2. Mik does her nails all the time.

I guess when you are holding rings under a magnifying glass to show people the glamour of a diamond, you want your nails to look equally fabulous, so Mik has taken to sitting down in the living room at least once a week to retouch her French tips, and becuase I live in the same house as her and hang out with her all the time, I took to joining her.

I got into it slowly; dipping my toes in so to speak by actually painting them. Then I ventured to my fingers. This past week, I went bold, and painted my fingers red. Midweek there was a few chips, so I repainted. The next day at work, I stopped by my friend Maddy's desk to borrow a hi-liter. As I reached to grab the marker, she stopped and exclaimed:

"Your nails are painted? What have you done? Who are you?"

Upon explanation, she just laughed.

I didn't realize how far I had come until I felt the need to do another touch up last night. I scanned my memory through all the times Mik have hung out at home: watch BBC miniseries and paint our nails, discuss writing and paint our nails, paint nails while lemon squares are baking, make my grocery list and paint my nails....

Have I become this person? I nicked my thumb nail while I was out today and corrected it as soon as I came home. Overwhelmingly, yes, I am that person.

Who would have thought.

To Brother, The Best One, from Sister, The Other Best

My family is comprised of five daughters. We can re-enact the Famous Five, the Spice Girls, and the Bennett sisters with a full cast, although if I were to choose, I'd go with everyone's favourite British pop band; if we're Jane Austen's quintet, I have to be Lydia.

Of us five, I am the youngest. I was borne ten years after the oldest, and entering my toddler years, my parents were decided; five little girls was enough.

I, on the other hand, had different plans.

As part of my early childhood education, my mother was teaching me to pray; her basic instructions included; start with what you are thankful for, then ask for blessings you need. Every night, I would ask my Heavenly Father to bless my baby brother in Heaven.

It was cute at first, but sometime around when  I started pouring over baby catalogues and asking if I could have whichever baby I liked for my brother, my parents decided it was time to tell me that I was indeed the baby of the family. I wouldn't have it. I kept praying and shopping for mail order brothers. I don't know how long it took them, but eventually my parents realized I knew something they didn't and shortly thereafter, I got my wish, and my baby brother was born.

I like to remind him of this story whenever he is angry with me.

Nineteen years later, after years of loving each other when we bond over imaginary games and hating each other after being shot with pellet guns, I can truly say that Brother is one of my favourite people. We unite over our mutual lack of spouses, our belief that life would be better if people still carried around swords the way they carry cell phones, and our love of closet novel writing. He calls me Sister, and I call him Brother (because he is my favourite). Last year when I moved to Edmonton, Brother was the person I spent the most hours on the phone with back home in Calgary, we vented our dating stories together, I critiqued his university papers and reminded him to stop using so many commas already, and he told me to stop making excuses and start writing again. Brother is my number one fan  and I love him for that.

On June 6, Brother went down to Provo, Utah and entered the Missionary Training Centre. He is going to serve a mission for our church for two years in Denver, Colorado, teaching in Spanish. For the next two years our only contact will be through letters and his half Spanish e-mails. I miss his phone calls and his "Hello Sister" greeting when he sees me and reminds me how very short I am (he's 6'3").

This morning, I was reading the news about the tragic shooting in Aurora, Colorado. As I lamented the loss of so many, I thought of my own brother, and had a completely irrational worry session. Feeling less like a sister and more like the overanxious mother Brother tells me I act like sometimes, I sent him a quick letter telling him not to do anything stupid and be safe. He'll probably roll his eyes when he reads it and tell his companions that he doesn't have five older sisters; he has five extra moms.

That is a fairly accurate description at times, especially since most of my other letters have been nagging him to send me pictures and eat more, but that is one more thing to love about Brother. He tolerates my bizarre worries and doesn't even point out that I never take my own advice (not much anyways).

The last time I saw him before he left, he was loading some things in the car for me before I drove home, and once he finished, he looked at me and said:

"So when I get back, you'll be married and have sent your book to a publisher."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. The first part didn't surprise me; Brother has been joking for months that since I predicted his birth, he gets to predict when I marry, but the second part of his statement did. I thought about it the whole way home. Brother has always been my number one fan, to the point he's taken my manuscript to show his friends and (after he realized that was not a good plan) asked if he could show it to certain people. He is the biggest optimist I know. He doesn't just hope for the best, he states it like it's an inevitability.

So for what it's worth Brother, I'm really glad I said that prayer.

Memories of 2011: The Realities of an Ordinary Pancake

Well, a new year is upon us, and with that everyone is either crowding into the gym or waxing nostalgic about the past year. 2011 for me was a good year with lots of obvious exciting things going on. Of the whole year I only really have one major regret; I didn't blog enough.

As I've thought of all the wonderful memories and moments of 2011, the thought kept popping into my head "why didn't I blog about that? I wanted to tell that story." So I've decided better late than never. Over the next couple posts I'm doing another mini series: the moments of last year that need to be remembered and shared, but have yet to make it onto the blogosphere.

Let's begin with the wafels.

Last May, the females of my family all fulfilled a pipe dream and took a mother-daughter trip to New York City. We all had an amazing time, seeing the sights together, and not together. You see, the thing about going on holiday with your four older sisters and mother is each of us is very different, and had different ideas of what a good time in New York entailed. To prove my point, here is my to do list:

-go to Frick (yes, that is the real name of an art museum);

-go to the Met;

-go to the Guggenheim;

-go back to the Met;

-marvel at a few of my favourite skyscrapers;

-eat whatever yummy looking food places I happen to stumble upon;

-take one last tour through the Met and find solace in my favourite gallery (hey, it's pay what you will).

And here is the itinerary I've made up for my sister Emily based on what she planned for the trip:

-go on the Liberty Island tour;

-go to the thrift stores in Manhattan I looked up while planning this trip;

-eat at the restaurants I looked up while planning this trip;

-go to the fabric district I looked up while planning this trip and find stuff for future sewing projects;

-have a look at the Empire States building;

-spend a morning in the Met, then go thrifting.

I love all my sisters, but if we had tried to correlate all our sightseeing schedules, we would have spent more time arguing than was really necessary, so it was agreed early on that we would divide up for certain excursions and meet for dinners, if nothing else.

Our first day, I was in Central Park with Mom, Katey, and baby Liam. Kate had wanted to check out the Swedish Marionette Theatre, and after being entertained by what people can do with puppets on strings and babies trying to grab them, we decided to grab lunch off one of the many food carts in the park and enjoy a picnic out in the sunshine before I went to meet Jaima at the Cooper Hewitt. After a little perusal, we chose a place called Wafels & Dinges. Regrettably, we did not take a picture of the stall, but the container below is from there:

It says:

Studies have shown* that altruisitic attitudes might shift dramatically while wafeling. Check your wafel-o-meter prior to sharing to avoid serious side effects.

*study conducted by Belgian Ministry of Culinary Affairs, Department of Wafels.

Another section of fine print read:

The wafels are intended for the human enjoyment only and may not reflect the realities of an ordinary pancake. The intent of the wafels is to assist the individual in the creating of the happily-ever-after experience while eating the many dinges on top of the wafels.

I would have loved these is only for their witty lines, but these wafels completely lived up to their container. Best wafel I have ever eaten (sorry Jason), and there was no way I was sharing a single bite. I almost went back for seconds.

In case you are wondering what dinges are, they are the toppings for your deliciously sweet wafel. Many Belgian specialties, as well as the typical ice cream, strawberries, etc. Was it ridiculously decadent? Yes. Totally worth the calories? Over and over again.

My absolute favourite dinge was speculoos spread. It tastes like carmelly peanut butter. I need to find it and buy a jar. Amazing stuff.

So when you're in New York, forget the hot dogs and bagels. Go for the wafel cart. I even found them online. Look them up next time you're in the Big Apple.

Therapy in a Can

Good morning faithful people who still check this page after a five month hiatus! After busyness, two computer break downs, and simply having nothing to say it's good to be back!

Today's story starts at lunch hour a month ago, when, after eating, my friends and I went to wander around Coles because we simply had nothing else to do. While perusing through my favourite aisles, my friend Judy came up to me greatly excited; she had found something amazing. Grabbing my hand and dragging me to the non-book part of the bookstore which I usually skip, she showed me what all the fuss was about:

DoodleArt.

For those of you who were not alive in the seventies, this probably means nothing. DoodleArt was a fad back in the day. You would buy a poster, usually quite detailed in content, and colour it in. It's like a colouring book for adults that you hang on your wall after.

Judes, who was by this point jumping up and down in her excitement, explained we could get together and have a colouring party at her house. The fever caught, and the two of us began debating which poster we wanted. Would sea creatures be more interesting than bugs and birds? Would butterflies look better on the wall than sea creatures? Finally, we settled on fairy tales, because it was interesting, had variety, and would look cool on the wall. With a special promotion for surprise discounts if you spent $30 or more, we pooled our bookstore finds and made the impulse buy, and on the walk back to the office, it was decided; one colouring date would not suffice to do our poster justice. Friday lunch hours would now be devoted to this craft.

The next Friday, Judes, Candy, Maddy and I all packed a lunch, and after checking schedules and realizing which board room would be available over the lunch hour, we set up over the empty table, claimed dibs on our favourite elements, and got to work.

As our poster making has become a regular thing on Fridays in some lonely boardroom, we met with mixed responses to our project; those who think it's strange and childish, those who think it's a wonderful idea because they did DoodleArt in the seventies, and those who just like to stop by our lonely little board room and make witty comments. Our favourite is still the partner who announced he expected it down by the end of the day. We've also discovered after an entire lunch hour is spent on a peacock's tail or a handful of dragon scales that our perfectionism is going to make this project take the whole year, or maybe last till our retirement, but we are more committed to our DoodleArt than ever, and here's why:

Colouring is actually a wonderful destresser.

Yesterday morning, I was feeling overwhelmed and cranky. I'd been working longer hours than usual and my head was feeling fuzzy. I was tired, starving, and ready for the weekend. Judes was slightly worse. We pulled out the poster and continued our work on dragon scales and peacock feathers. Suddenly, we both just felt so much better. We didn't even remember what we had to complain about, life was just better with a little bit of colouring.

To check out DoodleArt, click here.

The Arrival

This is old news for some of you and belated news for the rest, but it's official:

I am a grown up.

That is, if growing up is defined by having a career-like job and health benefits, which is how I define it.

For the discretion of my employers, I am not going to name them here, but know the most important thing: I'm really happy working there.

When my sister Janine began her post-education job, she talked a lot about knowing you've arrived. Over the past month that I've been on practicum with the same company I now work for, and over the past three days I've officially worked there, I've been thinking a lot about the same thing. Here are a few of my little arrival moments, or more accurately, things that make me feel excited for the phase of my life I'm entering:

-I have my own cubicle, complete with filing cabinet, direct phone line, and partition wall that lawyers come and lean against when they have something new for me to do. I always get excited when I get to spin around on my chair from my computer to grab something from my filing cabinet.

-I am on a high floor of a tall building downtown, surrounded by other tall buildings. It has always been a childhood of mine to work on a top floor of a tall building. Every time I go into one of my boss's offices and see how high we are, I get excited, and a little thrill goes through me whenever I get in the elevator in the morning and hit the button for the top floor.

-my work e-mail has a signature attached with the company logo. Do not ask me why I find this exciting. I don't understand it either.

And the best part of life right now:

After three years of university wondering what I really wanted to do with my life, one year of business college where I literally had to drag myself out of bed and wondered on a daily basis why on earth I was putting myself through the grief of a school I didn't like, I've figured it out, and I love my job.

The other day I woke up and a thought occurred to me: I didn't mind getting up in the morning anymore. Once I got over the natural human battle of man over mattress, I was cheerful. I never thought I couldn't bear to go into work, I never think during the day that the week just needs to be over cause I can't stand for it to carry on. I like what I do. It's been years since I've been truly happy and certain about what I'm doing in my life. I'd forgotten how good it feels.

In a way, it still intrigues me. I started adulthood with dreams of changing the world by writing about it and working towards becoming a lifestyle columnist. Now I've found bliss as a legal assistant.

Sometimes, happiness is found by working your tail off to achieve a desired result. Other times, it's stumbled upon. My life seems to like the latter.

Allow Me to Introduce Myself. My Name is Cheesehead, and I am Adorable!

Have you ever been around a toddler who is just learning to say more words besides Mommy and Daddy? That is Edward right now. Quite often he will look at me, grab something, and name it with this self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Water!" he states as he holds out his cup for more.

"Sword! he cries as he runs toward me grinning with weapon raised.

"Door!" he declares as he runs ahead of me into my room and slams it in my face. His sweet little voice always keep me entertained.

Last night, Jaima went out for dessert with a friend and I watched the kidlets. Edward declared to me that he needed a snack. I gave him a slice of cheese. Immensely pleased with himself, Edward proceeded to run around the house repeating to himself:

"Cheese!"

As he munched his snack, he started exploring other words. Placing a hand on his head, he told me, "Head!" Then he returned to his favourite snackfood:

"Cheese!"

With a grin that lets me know Edward knows how brilliant he is, he placed his cheese on his head and declared:

"Cheesehead!"

Isn't he adorable? Edward was so pleased with himself he stayed put while I took multiple pictures, and then was pleased to scan through my phone looking at the pictures, occasionally looking up at me, pleased and (pointing to himself) said his new favourite word;

"Cheesehead!"

I love my little Cheesehead.

Man Class Reading Materials

Last night I babysat my two-year old nephew while his family went to watch the Canada Day fireworks. Edward was asleep the entire time, so I took the opportunity to sit within earshot and pull out my laptop to get my writing done.

Do you know how much research is required to write a piece of fiction? It surprised me when I first started writing. For each chapter I write, I usually have a list of five or six things I need to research so I make sure they sound authentic. Multiple that by 26 chapters or so and I spend half my writing time researching. This is fine when I make the research list ahead of time, go to the library and have all my research ready to go, but more often than not, I start writing and then realize I need the background to make the details seem realistic, and do a hasty Google search for the info so I cab get what I need quick and keep going.

Last night, the topic I needed was building a fire. I have built many fires in my life, as recently as last weekend, so I am pretty well versed in fire building tactics. I wrote away happily, adding all the details of fire-making (and the frustrations it always includes) to make my scene realistic and compelling. Then my characters needed to start the flame and it occurred to me:

"Wait a minute. They don't have matches. How do you light a fire without matches?"

I hastily open my internet browser and typed "How to light a fire without matches" into Google. This was the top hit:

The Art of Manliness

Given my previous post and the fact I am always fascinated with how guys acquire their mad man skills, I had to laugh out loud. After contemplating and researching the concept of the secret man class for seven months, I had inadvertently stumbled across their curriculum!

Take a look around the website, it's pretty entertaining and surprisingly educational. Not only did I learn how to start a fire with friction, I learned the art of opening a door for a woman, how to properly iron a dress shirt, and how to shoot a rifle.

For further reading on my favourite funny research project, check out the following pages on the Art of Manliness: How to Make Your Own Manly Bar of Soap; How to Bowl a Strike; How to Hail a Taxi Cab . . . Like a Man!; 22 Manly Ways to Reuse an Altoids Tin; How to Take Care of a Pregnant Wife.