I’m sure I’ve mentioned at some point that we live in a very small apartment, relative to the mounds of things we possess. Yes, I know others have made due in much (much!) smaller living quarters than us, but I’m pretty sure that said others have not had their very own Tour de Frances in what is supposed to be their dining room, nor have these small-space dwellers had to contend with a summer’s worth of saleable merchandise packed into what used to be a living room.

Portrait of a dining room- slash- studio- slash- bike storage space- slash- home office- slash- pantry. Yes, we actually live here. And yes, we are as horrified by it as you are.

(I should also clarify that, while the seven (yes, 7!) bicycles and the endless stash of art-related supplies are indeed Marty’s, I too take up a sizable portion of our space with my ample yarn stash, decent-sized work wardrobe, and outdated CD collection (once again, R. Kelly anyone?) Just so y’all don’t think I’m singling out a certain male in my household. Ahem.)

Anyway, you could say that we have become experts at organizing our things– what with having so many of them inside such a small space and all– but you would be more correct to say that we are very adept at putting things into piles. We have all sorts of piles: receipt piles, mail piles, piles of dishes, piles of laundry (both dirty and clean), poster piles, piles of boxes, piles of bike parts, piles of knitting works in progress, piles to be sorted, piles of things we have already sorted, piles waiting to be put away– it never ends, really. It’s exhausting, let me tell you, and it doesn’t make for a very feng shui living space. Clutter in the home really does equal clutter in the mind.

So what can we do when we live in a shoe? Well, as part of my birthday resolutions, I will be cleaning up shop, both literally and figuratively. Not only will I be purging the things I have outgrown or no longer use, but I will also be calling a ceasefire on acquiring random new things (aka shopping). I am a sorry-assed sucker when it comes to acquiring random new things (paper goods are my notable weakness), but I’m going to try my very best to tame this woolly tendency of mine and to live a little more simply.

So, with that said… R. Kelly CD, anyone?

P.S.: On a tangential but still related note, our walls are usually packed full of Marty’s artwork. It helps that he has ongoing displays in a number of venues, both in Victoria and in Calgary, because then we can have more empty wall space and feel a little less suffocated in our own home. However, I’d like to say a big thank you to the person who left an anonymous phone call on our machine today, letting us know that one of the venues where Marty displays his art was going to go under… and fast! Even though it means we have 15 more paintings crammed inside our house, it sure beats losing all 15 of those pieces in a bankruptcy claim or other legal red tape. So thank you, THANK YOU, for the timely warning. Marty has retrieved his artwork from that doomed location and the paintings are safe and sound now at home. Phew!!

Happy 28th birthday to me!

Depending on which astrologer you talk to, I am either one year into– or just about to start experiencing– the return of Saturn to its original place in my star chart. I think this calls for a hearty ‘HUZZAH!’

Saturn’s return supposedly paves the way for a thorough spring cleaning of the self, if you will (and I’m not just talking about getting rid of my allergies and that nasty foot affliction. Ahem.) Old habits, stale circumstances, and unhealthy relationships are tossed aside with Masters of the Universe force, whether we like it or not, and the stage becomes set for the progression into a newer, shinier, and more mature version of ourselves.

The return of Saturn has been a long time coming, methinks. For a few years now, I have been feeling like the cogs of the giant gears that are My Life have been slowly (ever so slowly!) twisting into a new place. Grinding, creaking, churning, screeching. Maybe today, after all this time, they will finally thunk together (in a good way, of course) and I’ll be on my way to the fabulousness of my next 30-or-so years! Me at 28 years old = a well-oiled machine! (Never mind that many people experience the return of Saturn in the form of tremendous upheaval and teeth gnashing—I will tempt fate and also go against my Cancerian nature when I shout, Bring on the changes, Saturn—bring them on!!)

The fact is, I feel ready to shuffle things around a bit and to let go of outdated things and general ways of being me. Our apartment is packed full of things I have no real need for anymore (R. Kelly CD, anyone?), and geez, a little physical/psychological breathing room would be nice! Marty and I have been discussing a drastically different lifestyle lately, one that would involve a whole lot less stuff and a whole lot more doing things together. So yes, I cautiously welcome the upcoming year and the changes it will bring.

Me: Can you believe that so-and-so has “Accounting Goddess” included in her e-mail signature at work?

Colleague: I know!! And did you know that what’s-her-face from Toronto calls herself the N.A.G.? It stands for National Accounts Guru.

Me: I want to be a guru of something!

Colleague: Well, maybe you can call yourself the Victoria Accounts Guru.

Me: The VAG??!

Colleague: Then again, maybe not.

Even though I’ve never been a serious contender for the Clean And Pristine crown, I like to think that I’m at least two steps above being downright filthy at any given time (extra points for clean underwear!). Sure, I have gone for a whole sweaty week without showering in Alaska, and yes, I do have a tendency to let my leg hairs grow a little bit longer than the average woman from time to time, but overall, I maintain a decent level of hygiene and sanitation, and I was even given a $2000 prize once from the Canadian Sanitation Supply Association for my essay on the heated “Soap Dispensers vs. Bars of Soap” topic (no word of a lie– I was officially sanctioned as the 2001 Western Canadian student authority on soap dispensers in schools! Yet another random factoid about Dana L… but I digress.)

I regret to inform you all that I am downright nasty at the present time. First of all, I am in the height of the West Coast allergy season, so my eyes are puffy, red, and leaking strange fluids all over my face. Oh, how my eyes itch!! (To make matters worse, my acupuncturist– She Who Put Small Needles In My Eyelids And Saved Me From My Allergies Last Year– is in China for another week and a half, meaning I have at least 10 more days of PAIN and SUFFERING before those sweet needles can make everything better. And yes, I will voluntarily have needles stuck into my eyelids this time around. Just make the itching go away!)

Secondly, I happen to have a very disgusting plantar wart on the well-trodden pad of my left foot. It pains me to admit this (on so many levels), but it got to a point recently where I couldn’t even put my left foot down a tiny bit without hobbling around in crippled pain. There was so much pressure built up inside the spot (which has burrowed itself at least halfway up into my foot, possibly even more), I couldn’t lie anymore and say it was probably just a vicious callous. So now everyone knows about it, and my (tactful, discrete) coworkers holler “DANA! HOW’S YOUR WART?” at me when I come to work in the mornings. Great. Just perfect. (But how was I to know that these things got worse before they started getting better? I was just trying to treat the silly thing, which wasn’t even sore or swollen or anything beforehand, and it hardened up into a rock of PAIN and PESTILENCE within a few days, forcing me to disclose its ugly presence to other people. Because, you know, people started to notice when I tried to walk exclusively on the outside edges of my feet. Curses. There goes my reputation as the Woman With The Most Feminine Feet On The Planet. Now I shall be known as the Lady With An STD-Variation On Her Foot. So, so sad. And to make matters even worse, I don’t even know where I got it from! Oh, the shame…)

Anyway, the reason I bring all of this (normally private, thoroughly disgusting) information to your attention is because I have been prescribed the most unusual of treatments for my verucca plantaris (aka the bane of my existence): I have to cover it with duct tape for six days and suffocate the viral life out of it! TAKE THAT, WART! I WILL TAPE YOU TO DEATH!!! (Is there anything duct tape can’t do?) Mercifully, I will not be posting any photos of this process, but I’ll definitely let you know how it goes, just in case any of you are promiscuous and somehow end up with a Social Disease. On your foot. Sigh…. I will never redeem myself. (And there goes my lucrative modelling contract with the Canadian Sanitation Supply Association! Oh, snap!)

In a nutshell: the Harbour is consuming our lives. It has been great so far, but I really miss blogging and taking Robertine out for regular (long!) hikes on the weekends. Ah, well– that’s what September is for, right?

Notice: "new" glasses that I haven't shown you since they were really new last August. Also notice "recent" haircut which needs to be trimmed again in a week! This isn't the best photo of me, obviously...

Let’s all pray for a day of rain each week, shall we? Otherwise, I’ll see y’all after Labour Day!

PS: Am I the only person who can actually see this photo?? It’s showing up fine on my screen but doesn’t seem to be publishing properly…

Mark it in your calendars, ladies and gentlemen: I officially found my *first* grey hair.

I have nothing against grey hairs in general and would actually welcome a hot streak of them in my hair (à la that chick from What Not To Wear and my sister, Wenz). However, one solitary, wiry, and really short grey hair sticking straight out from my head, which is otherwise filled with demure and longish brown hairs? Not exactly the classy ’silver fox’ look I’m going for…

I noticed the offending hair right before heading off to work the other day. It was so far from what I expected my first grey hair to look like (short! wiry! bent!) that I actually assumed it was a cat hair or something equally non-attached-to-my-head. It wasn’t until I went to pull it away and felt the telltale pinch on my scalp that I realized this alien grey hair was mine! Eep!

Now, I am a firm believer in many old wives’ tales. Against all reason, I still cut a little piece off the end of any long english cucumber and ‘rub the bitterness’ out of the rest of it before tossing the little piece into the compost. I’m also concerned about my eyes staying crossed if I ever make a funny face. However, I decided in this instance that a wives’ tale was just a wives’ tale– and that I was unlikely to grow 3 or 5 or 10 (or however many) grey hairs from that single follicle if I did something about it. Hence, I proceeded to pluck my single, crooked grey hair out.

Had I owned some mascara to subtly paste the grey hair back into its place, I might have used it. Alas, because I broke out in a rash the last time I wore mascara, I no longer have any mascara or mascara wands handy at home… (Plus, one of the primary reasons cited against plucking grey hairs is that they will grow back all stubbly and crooked. Mine was already like that, so it’s not like plucking it would have changed anything. I think. I hope…)

So I am officially getting old(er)! I even have had evidence of it. Oops. What grey hair?

I do a lot of lifting these days. I carry Rubbermaid containers from our front closet into our van, and then transfer these same boxes from our van onto a dolly when we set up at the Harbour in the morning. Once we wheel the dolly to our designated Harbour spot, I help unpack the boxes (which, again, requires lifting), and then I do everything in reverse when the day is done and it’s time to go home.

Seeing as I’m such a hero, I often try to get away with less-than-ergonomic box lifting techniques. I’m getting pretty good at pushing boxes with my feet and sometimes I even attempt to keep my arms straight out in front of me while I twist and turn from the waist up with a 20lb box. Heh.

Needless to say, during one of my recent creative box lifting escapades, I threw my back out. Badly. It didn’t seem like it was too bad at the time, but after an hour sitting on the couch when we got home, my back had seized up enough that I couldn’t even stand up straight anymore. I literally had to crawl on the floor to go anywhere, and when Marty offered to massage my spastic muscles, I discovered I couldn’t lie flat on either my back or my stomach. Perfect, just perfect. (Now who would help Marty with all those boxes?!)

Early the next morning, I placed an emergency call to my acupuncturist, who of course was completely booked for the day. Desperate to get off my bed and out of the fetal position, I booked in to see a chiropractor in the same office instead. During our appointment, we did some spinal adjustments, used heat packs and electrodes, massaged the surrounding area, and experimented with a really cool chair that helped to stretch out my back muscles. It was nice– very nice. After the appointment, I could at least stand up straight, but something still wasn’t quite right…

The next morning, I went in to see my (fabulous, miraculous) acupuncturist, and she used four needles in my sacral area. Four. That’s all it took, and I was completely healed! (Yes, the needles felt a bit like firecrackers going in, but that was mostly because they shocked my clenched muscles into melting submission). And after those four simple needles, I literally bounded off of the treatment table and skipped to work like a first grader with a lollipop and pigtails! It was like nothing had ever happened.

I cannot say enough about the benefits of acupuncture to me! I also can’t possibly emphasize in words how terrific I think my acupuncturist is… she’s gifted and knowledgeable and really cognizant of each individual’s needs. (For example, I’m the type of person who is like BRING ON THE NEEDLES!, so my acupuncture treatments are a little more intense and vigorous, relatively speaking. Marty, on the other hand, is deathly afraid of needles and sensitive to pretty much anything, so he receives extremely gentle treatments. Our acupuncturist even uses a tuning fork on his skin before she inserts a needle so that the vibrations of the fork mask the sensation of the needle going in. It works for him, and my treatments definitely work for me!)

I’m definitely going to be a bit more careful lifting boxes for the rest of the summer (lift with the legs!), and I’m hoping not to have a crippling back injury EVER. AGAIN., but I’ll say it again: if even a part of you wants to try acupuncture for ANY SORT of illness, injury, or condition, I highly (highly) recommend it.

Yesterday we went to Hatley Park for the annual Mother’s Day Paint In and Craft Fair. We had never been to the event before, let alone as vendors, so we had no idea what to expect. We did know that the registration cost was much higher than it had been in previous years (enough to deter more than half of last year’s vendors from returning- oh, snap!), but we were hoping that we would still come out in the plus and that we wouldn’t get rained out.

Going into the day, I was totally preoccupied with the amount of merchandise we would have to sell in order to break even. It was a lot (relatively speaking- getting into Hatley Park was more than 3 times the cost of the Moss Street Paint In!) Even more than I worried about getting rained on, I worried that we wouldn’t sell enough during the day or that we would have been better off staying at the Harbour instead of heading out to Royal Roads. (Alas, we had signed up for the Hatley Park event long before we knew we would have a spot down on the causeway, so we really had no choice but to attend.)

Anyway, seeing as I was so preoccupied with finances and such, the first thing I did upon arriving on the castle grounds (long before we made our first sale of the day) was to purchase a gorgeous (but not exactly inexpensive) pendant:

Hmm... should I pay for it with our float? What means budget?

It started off as an innocent wandering of the grounds, but as soon as this pendant caught my eye, it was as good as mine. I couldn’t help myself!

Made by island artist, John Taylor, these pendants feature intricate silverwork on semi-precious stones. Mine is a stunning moss agate stone, and I just love how it looks like an evening sky behind the tree silhouette!

I. Love. This. Pendant!

All in all, it must have been a case of ‘giving some to get some’, because we ended up doing really well at the Mother’s Day event and packing up our last box just before the raindrops started to fall! My life consists of nothing but vending now, but at least I have a beautiful necklace to show for it!

We have been working down on the Victoria Harbour for about 3 weeks now. During that time:

- We have eaten out nearly every day for nearly every meal (except breakfast– eep!) And when we have cooked, it’s been hummus and crackers. With an occasional side of spring mix salad… Plain. Seriously, I have never had so many consecutive restaurant or cafe meals in my whole life, and that includes those 3 months when we were travelling in Europe. It’s very alarming.

- (Related to above) My fledgling biceps have become flaccid once again. There have been no sweaty home workouts since we’ve started at the Harbour. None. (Also: eating out every day = Not so calorie-wise.) My figure is beginning to pay the price.

- I have developed a noticeable flush on my cheeks and a golden tan on the rest of my face, despite being slathered in suntan lotion and working underneath a giant patio umbrella while I’m down there helping Marty. What can I say? Sunlight + Water = Lots and lots of reflection onto my vulnerable face. Everybody thinks I just came back from Mexico, and summer hasn’t even started yet.

But?

- Marty has become an international superstar in the blink of an eye! Why did we not think of this before? In a few short weeks, his artwork has ventured beyond the Canadian borders into the States, Europe, Southeast Asia, Africa, and South America. Things are rolling. We (meaning: he) gets tons of positive feedback! This venue is perfect for him.

This gorgeous image comes courtesy of Benjamin Madison, who posted this shot of Marty on his photography blog, www.victoriadailyphoto.blogspot.com

Anyway, Marty was officially juried in by the Harbour Authority this past Friday, so now he’s officially licensed to be a vendor for the upcoming year. I’m secretly hoping he can eclipse my own earnings and buy me out as an employee (come on, salary bidding wars!). Then we can both live a dreamy existence together, making and selling artwork, working outside on beautiful days only, in a corner-ish office with the best view in town:

Another day working late at the office... le sigh.

The last time I got my hair cut, my hairdresser cheerfully suggested that I come back in 6 weeks for another trim. When I visibly balked at this advice and shrunk away from her warm smile like a wounded puppy, she– a bit flustered–downgraded the recommendation to 3 months and handed my debit card back to me without another word. That was in November 2007.

Sure enough, 3 months passed and I received a stylish postcard in the mail. “We want to thank you for choosing us!”, it read. “We look forward to serving you again soon!”. The flip side of the card reminded me what my stylist’s name was and kindly requested me to phone in and book a trim.

A part of me wanted to book another appointment just then, because in all honesty, I had loved the haircut and the stylist, too! My hair was growing fast and yes, it could use a little reshaping. However, the other (cheap thrifty) side of me refused to book a new appointment when 3 months had passed. You see, when I had short hair, I had cut it myself for years and years (for free!), so paying for a haircut in the first place ruffled my frugal feathers and made me determined to stretch my haircutting dollar as far as it could possibly stretch. It was the principle of the thing.

So I conveniently ‘forgot’ about the postcard (aka, I recycled it) and let another few months pass.

Meanwhile, my hair kept growing and growing (and growing!) Friends would comment about how long my hair was getting, and each time it would be a guilty reminder about the Follow-Up Trim I Never Booked. ‘It doesn’t matter’, I convinced myself. ‘I want to grow my hair very long’.

And very long it was. It started getting tangled in the straps of my bag every day (very annoying), and it even started getting caught on the hooks on the back of my bra (very painful)! Enough was enough– when your own bra begins pulling your hair with the force of a screaming child on the playground, it is time to put your foot down. So I lamely phoned the hair salon and asked to be booked in with my stylist of yore. That was at the end of March 2009.

I walked into my appointment, guilty as  sin. Fortunately, my stylist was very warm and understanding (again!), and she didn’t make me feel like a total loser cheapskate for waiting 16 whole months to come in for a ‘trim’. (Ah, the joys of customer service!) We were able to take about 7 inches off right away, before she even washed my hair. She literally hacked it off, swept up the pile (which resembled a small dog), threw it out, and got started from there. (Note: I was going to take a ‘before’, a ‘during’, and an ‘after’ photo, but I was so embarrassed at being such a delinquent hair-trimmer that I silently left my camera at home.)

Anyway, my appointment was conveniently timed for before work, which meant that there would be at least one day in the history of my employment where I could walk into work with decent hair. Fantastic. My stylist dabbed a bit of coloured lipgloss onto my lips before I left, underlined the 3 months recommendation on my follow-up card (twice!), and cheerfully sent my beautiful new self on my way. I had went in with my hair falling halfway down my back, and I walked out with my hair bouncing gleefully, right above my shoulders.

It is only a 2 block walk from the salon back to my work. I made the commute looking like I was carefully balancing a book on my head– gliding forward as smoothly as possible, lest one hair from my newly perfected head of hair get disturbed. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window as I passed, and (aside from my awkward and rigid posture), I thought I looked quite good. I imagined how my coworkers would react, when I nonchalantly breezed through the front door looking like a trillion bucks. Yes, it was true– I was sort of expecting compliments.

What I wasn’t expecting was the passionate flood of comments from my coworkers, which ranged from ‘Oh. My. God– I don’t even recognize you!’ to ‘Can I see some ID please?’ After inducing cardiac shock in all of my colleagues, one by one as I climbed the stairs to my office, it got me to thinking… perhaps I should put a little more effort into my appearance every day. You know, so I don’t kill my coworkers with the mere use of a round brush.

So I bought a blowdryer. I haven’t personally blowdried my hair since I was in Grade 9 and got the Rachel Cut, which required some serious flippage and zig-zag parting. The first morning I tried to use this new blow dryer, I blew the fuse in the bathroom (because I had stupidly plugged the thing into the Razor Only outlet). And then I had a few mornings of blow drying my hair in the living room, because we didn’t have another outlet to use in the bathroom or an extension cord that would allow me to still style my hair in the bathroom. But now we have an extension cord and my blowdryer, so I am making a little bit of an effort to let something besides gravity and sea breeze style my hair. (I am not very good at this, to put it delicately. But I am working on it and trying to recapture my youthful earnesty of yore– you know, the part of me that actually looked forward to pomade and such. I’ll let you know how that goes…)