finders keepers

I was poised at my keyboard, my pinky finger hovering above the enter key, about to send off an order for a binocular shaped pendant that was practically screaming my name from across the continent. It was a little disheartening to know that the "handmade" claim was being abused, since I found an identical molded charm on several different Etsy pages, each claiming artistic ownership. I hesitated, marked the page and logged off. I'm a classic non-impulse buyer - something that has bitten me more then once before when I've gone back to a shop only to discover the jewelry equivalent of my soulmate has been sold off to someone else. I was still thinking about the adventurous set of bronze binoculars as I was browsing the jewelry displays at value. And low and behold, as if fate had drawn me to that rusty corner of forgotten treasures, was the dear and divine necklace of my dreams for the bargain price of 99 cents. I understand the draw of online shopping, but nothing beats the thrill of stumbling upon something you've longed after without having to wait for shipping and handling.

Coffee conglomerates and other dirty business

We all have our minor vices. My innocent, but costly habit, is the six dollar latte I treat myself to pre/post work whenever time permits. It’s a shameful choice - an overpriced espresso with steamed milk, made with beans shipped from halfway around the globe, paid for in pennies but branded with some corporate standard of fair-trade, and served in a tall non-recyclable paper cup. The guilt finally got to me, and I decided to go local – I found an adorable independent café, complete with spindly-legged tables, art, and chalkboard menu boards. It was perfect – except my coffee was terrible. It was burnt and overly sweet, and it sat on my desk at work, an angry reminder having cheated on my long faithful chain of coffee powerhouses. And now I’m stuck in caffeine limbo – hating my allegiances and unfulfilled by the alternatives.

dress or tablecloth?

I'm consistently amazed by how much of my wardrobe could pass for linens at an afternoon tea party.

learning to love again

At the impressionable age of 17, I enrolled myself in the what was rumoured to be the country’s foremost school of journalism and communications. I had a glorified notion that I was going to be a reporter – preferably one pounding out bi-weekly editorials for a medium circulation magazine focused on music, culture and design. I was never the most talented writer, but what came naturally always made the grade and I was confident that I could rise to the occasion.

Eight months later, the syndicated sensation that was Carleton University’s school of Journalism had me on my knees – I had spent two decades learning the simple pleasures of linking together words and phrases, concocting rhyme schemes, and eagerly penning the most trivial stories and observations, only to have the joy of the written word beaten out of me in less than a year.

Your first sentence may be no more than 28 words. Exceeding the word count will be penalized.

Punctuation is frowned upon, as are spirited modifiers, anecdotes, and words that are difficult to pronounce. Creativity will be penalized.

All text should be formatted according to the stylebook. Any unsanctioned designations will be penalized (see the Street versus St. debate).

Following the rules was exhausting. Each point deduction pounded down on my spirit, and I descended into an uninspired and desperate wreck, obsessively editing my thoughts before they hit the page. In June, I shakily opened my acceptance letter granting me the privilege of continuing into second year – an “honour” delivered to the top 100 students (axing 40% of the class). I tore it up. And it wasn’t because of the fear, or the pressure, or the competition – I had lost my passion, and I wasn’t going to fight just to spend the next 20 years censoring myself to satisfy others’ limits.

It’s been a long road back to the strange, independent, intoxicating world of writing. I spent too long trapped in a mindset of “why bother,” dismissing ideas and forgetting the quiet satisfaction that comes from crafting a passage, savouring the delicate interplay of fact and feeling, and neatly closing with love, sincerity, or a simple the end.

bruiser

I was born a crafter, not an athlete. But with the Olympics dominating the northern networks, I decided to take a break from the needles and hit the mountain for the first time in 8 years.

Little did I know that the crafter inside me would have her revenge. With legs painted black and blue, and I'm firmly back to stitching.

escaping the clutter

I woke up this weekend with the overwhelming feeling that my surroundings needed to change. I promised myself 2010 is the year of growing up, and I couldn’t help but feel my own space needed an update.

Spending so much time on the go, I became an expert with the concept of travelling light. My rooms overseas were usually uninspiring (one notch above septic)– bare walls, empty shelves, and clothes packed away in neat little piles. There was never much to spare, and a thorough tidy rarely took more than ten minutes.

Coming home has always been an assault on my senses. Suddenly there are 23 years of history to contend with – most of which is stuffed in boxes perched on the dangerously unstable shelves in my already bloated closet. I cope by spending as little time as possible in my own room, and my little square of basement real-estate has since been the place where I sleep and not much more.

But this weekend was different. I decided it was time to tackle the clutter. With my sister and design sponge as my guide, I spent four hours shifting accessories, moving collectables, and purging my closet of the colour-worn sweaters and moth-eaten tees. I threw away the old movie stubs, Christmas cards, museum guides, plane tickets, and even a winning roll up the rim collar from six or seven years ago. Visitors now welcome.