I'll give you this: I'm not the best when it comes to remembering songs or lyrics. I'm not the best at remembering music, period. But every so often I'll hear a song and think: I've heard that before. Where? When? Who? And spend a few minutes trying to place it. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes my fickle brain is distracted by another lightweight thought.

But it turns out I'm remarkably well versed in 70s folk music, which is weird because (a) I'm too young to remember the 70s, and (b) my earliest music memories involve singers like Nana Mouskouri, Tommy Hunter and Barbara Mandrell* - not exactly folk genre.

So how did I learn all this classic 70s anti-war, pro-love music? Weird flashbacks while listening to Bob Dylan led me to the answer: Brownie campfires.

Yes, I was on the road to becoming a hippy at a young age. By eight, I knew the words of many classics (from neatly typed songbook pages, of course, never original recordings): Blowin' in the Wind, Last Night I had the Strangest Dream, Where have all the Flowers Gone (with some alterations), Take me Home Country Road, plus a few random hits like Leaving on a Jet Plane and Beatles tunes like Let it Be. There are probably dozens more that will eventually be re-released and leave me scratching my head: now, where do I know that song from?


*due to a fluke of memory and spelling, until very recently thought she was related to Howie Mandel. Deeply disappointed when I realized my error.

Project crazy

bedside table
Originally uploaded by Janamel

I've bored too many of you with the long and tiresome details of my recent project to refurbish these bedside tables to not share with you the final results. See right.

For those of you not intimately familiar with the story of these tables, I was freshly inspired by all those TV shows and magazine spreads that tell you to "Find free stuff! Make it beautiful!" when I found two bedside tables beside a dumpster. Perfect timing.

The tables were a dull gray but have a lovely concave curve to the drawers, and I decided to add some glamour by painting them black with lovely silver pulls. I think they look great.

However, they're only going to look this great for about five minutes. Because I didn't really think through the painting process and it turns out the original grey veneer doesn't bind well to latex paint and the black colour chips off if you so much as breathe on it.

I've temporarily stalled the paint from chipping excessively by adding glass tops. However, a weekly paint touch up will be required to keep these babies looking fresh. I'll keep a can of paint in the convenient top drawer...

Wednesday Morning

The only way I convinced myself to get out of bed this morning was after I remembered there was leftover french toast in the fridge. As I crawled out of bed I told Scott I was going straight to the kitchen to eat it.

He said he had eaten it yesterday.

I said I wanted a divorce.

And went back to bed.

And then Scott made me french toast. Because, he said, making french toast was a whole lot easier than getting a divorce.

I complained that it wasn't perfect (hey, it was still morning). But he forgave me, and we're still living happily ever after. The end.

The Art of Skiing

The ski season is once again about to begin, which means it's that time of year for Scott and I to pull out our Goofy DVD and refresh our knowledge of the techniques and traditions of the sport of skiing (or "shee-ing"). Thanks to the miracle of youtube, it's now yours to enjoy too.

Goofy's yodel off the ski jump is my all time favourite. There's nothing I love hearing more than that call echoing down the hill, coming from friends who have found a fresh stash of powder somewhere in the snowy trees around me.

Lemon Meringue

Lemon Meringue
Originally uploaded by Janamel

This weekend Scott and I celebrated the annual Harvest Dinner, a tradition that we have shared with friends for a number of years. It started when we realized that, between a few of us, we had a small vertical collection of the same wine from the same winery: Pinot Gris, I think, from Grey Monk. To celebrate this happy coincidence, we prepared an elaborate multicourse dinner to go with the wine. The evening ended with everyone lying on the floor groaning and complaining of eating too much. Naturally, we had to do it again the next year.

This year, the venue was Whistler. The event has expanded to include new friends, and in a somewhat alarming development, was held over two nights. We laughed a lot, drank good wine, and over-ate delicious foods (Scott and I contributed bison roast on night one, and homemade lemon meringue pie on night two). Our pacing is a bit better, but as a symbolic gesture we had a few minutes of lying on the floor holding our stomachs.

A late-night deal was struck to hold the 10th anniversary dinner in Italy. Or was it France? Either way, good food and friends are in our future.

The view from the road

LA Century Plaza
Originally uploaded by Janamel

Travelling solo is a funny thing. On the plus side, I get to spend time as I choose (I don't think Scott would ever choose two hours in Sephora). On the minus side, the inside jokes are very, well, inside.

When I got home tonight, poor Scott got to listen to my near endless monologue about all the standout moments of my 48 hour trip to LA: "...And I totally got lost in the parkade. And there was this voice in the hotel elevator? It had this awesome midwestern accent that made me laugh every time. And then there was this guy, see, and he was wearing this 'astro boy' hat. It was super funny. Cause it totally didn't suit him. And then..."

Sigh. I guess you had to be there.

Staying in Touch

I just joined facebook, as it truly is the best way to be in touch right now with some of my extended family. But I did so with mixed feelings, as I have a whole lot of ways to communicate with people. This blog, for instance, which has more space for rambling thoughts - for better or for worse. But how many conduits for communication do I really need? (flashback to my entire university education, in which I overused the word 'conduit' excessively in a four year long, unresolved argument about the Marshall McLuhan statement 'the medium is the message.' But I digress.)

Anyhoo, I feel the same way about these 'conduits,' as the kids say, as I do about all the membership cards that clutter up my wallet: I probably don't need them all. Now, my unrelated rant about membership and loyalty cards goes on for some time so I'll spare you the details but I think my point is this: if I stop picking up the phone and calling you, please come over and slap me on the forehead and take me out for lunch. (PS Clara, I think by now I owe you lunch: what's your number, anyway?)

Happy Halloween!

Halloween Pumpkin
Originally uploaded by Janamel

It's a dark, dark night with a waning moon. Scott and I just unleashed our pumpkin nightmare (left) on our courtyard neighbours. An impressive work of art, I believe.

We're armed with a few packets of Smarties in the unlikely event that little monsters come calling tomorrow night. (and 2/3 a bottle of scotch for the big kids).

Yorkshire revisited

Buckton
Originally uploaded by Janamel

It's six am on Saturday morning: I just got home last night and as you might guess, I'm living a bit of jet lag. An hour or two of organizing my pictures online and voila! They're ready for your viewing pleasure, just click on the photo or on the Flickr badge on the right.

The best part of this trip was the few days I spent in the Yorkshire Dales. My family spent a summer in the area when I was 16 and I returned a few years later on my own. I returned once again this month, and very little has changed (it is a protected National Park, after all) What I found fascinating was that the thing that brought back a flood of memories was the smell of coal fires. Wood or gas might be the standard here in BC, but many homes and pubs in rural Yorkshire are heated with long-burning loose lumps of coal. It was this (long forgotten) sensation that literally stopped me in my tracks (in the town of Hawes, actually; I may have looked a bit nutty to passerbys) for a few deep breaths.

How can I describe it? It's the olfactory result of combining coal smoke, sheep wool and damp stone walls to create an surprisingly appealing earthy aroma. But, like so many thing in travel, it can't be recreated elsewhere (for example, Bordeaux wines can only be from Bordeaux) and even if it could, the magic would be lost (like trying to wear a sari at the office after a trip to India)

And therein lies the appeal of travel, no? Travel's not just about looking at a place... there are coffee table books for that. Travel comes together around the other senses... of touch, taste, smell and sound. Being absorbed into the landscape gives you a real sense of what a place is.

(Although for the Dales, a good read of Wuthering Heights should do the trick fairly well too.)

And leaving you with that somewhat philosophical thought, I'm going back to bed.

I returned home from Mexico City on Friday to unpack, then repack. The next morning Scott and I headed into the Okanagan to celebrate our second anniversary, which was a perfect blend of wining, dining and hiking. Now we're back home in time for me to unpack, repack and head to Vancouver Island for a staff retreat... then home next weekend to unpack, repack and head out for a conference. It's a bit of a revolving door at the moment, which makes it all the more wonderful that Scott and I had such a perfect getaway.

With many hours spent this weekend talking over a bottle (or two) of wine, Scott and I have cooked up a plan to buy a vineyard and start a winery. We'll convince Dave and Nicola to do all the hard work: ie grow the grapes and make the wine, as they know all about that bio-slash-chemical gobbley-gook. We'll get them to put up the money, too. Scott and I, meanwhile, will take over the marketing side of the business, which we're pretty sure will involve a lot of tastings and business trips to Italy. In fact, we've already developed a name for the winery: "Three Sheets to the Wind." (trademark pending) It's gonna be great.

Main Street, not Mainstream

My 'hood made the travel pages of the New York Times this weekend - a clear indication that I'm not the only person who thinks it's cool. I think it's safe to say that if it's in the New York Times, it's a Really Big Deal. Really. (Take my word for it, I'm in PR)

http://travel.nytimes.com/2007/09/16/travel/16dayout.html?ref=travel

Traffic

I'm headed back to Mexico next week for a quick work trip.

One thing I've learned as a business traveller is that you rarely have the time to see the sights of a destination in a traditional way. But sometimes that can lead to unique perspectives on a place or country. Mexico City is know for it's snarled traffic and street life, and I've spent plenty of time watching it from the passenger seat. It's some of those moments that have given me glimpses into the character of the city and it's rough and tumble attitude of the street is refreshing after too many boardroom meetings.

Here's a (very rough) video I compiled and posted to Youtube from photos and video I took last January's visit, to give you a taste of Mexico DF.

High Drama

My family is not normally known for melodramatic moments or panicky problems - on the whole, we're a pretty steady bunch. But the last few months have been - at least for us - a pretty wild ride, including a couple full-siren trips to emergency rooms and various other issues that have caused horrible stomach-aches and lit up the phone lines between us.

Which makes the time that we spend together in relaxation that much more precious. I've updated Flickr with recent pics of our time together: enjoy.

Stop the ride, I want off!

One knows, that when one feels that that there is nothing to write about one must jump off the merry-go-round of life and find one's inspiration once more.

So Scott and I are taking a brief pause and heading for the island with a couple of bicycles, a stack of books and a few bottles of wine. Weekends for family and friends, weekdays for quiet moments and relaxation.

With some luck, we'll decide to come back on schedule. If we don't, you'll know that it's because island life has gotten under our skins and Scott has begun a mail-order shop for exotic hams (bayonne, serrano, prosciutto, etc, and German-made children's toys as a sideline), while I've become an organic florist with a penchant for caftans (Vogue July 2007 issue, page 177)

At this point, it is likely that we will need rescuing.

You'll know when to make that call.

Eco-ish...

I really hate plastic bags. I've been know to surprise people with the effusive and emotional level that I express this intense dislike. Yuck.

I'll admit that not only is my motivation environmental, but also because I find the sound of crinkly plastic akin to fingernails on a chalkboard: it may seem like a quiet and unobtrusive sound but I can hear it across a room: it can wake me out of a dead sleep, and it's a sound that can make me irritable and mad quicker than anything. I'd rather hear a billion cell phones ringing in a theatre than one guy with a plastic bag in the back row.

So it's pretty lucky for me that reusable canvas bags are becoming trendy. Holt Renfrew recently sold out of some particularly hot designer ones emblazoned with the words "I am not a plastic bag"quicker than you can say "recycle."

But let me tell you, saying no to a plastic bag can be a tricky business.

First, let us take the example of the small corner store. I'll pop in to buy, say, a toothbrush and a can of tuna, and while I'm busy digging around for another loonie I can see the salesperson reaching under the counter. "Oh," I'll quickly say, "I don't need a bag," and at that moment he'll stop dead with his hand still on the plastic bag saying, "are you sure?" yes. "really sure?" yes. And he'll hand me the naked items looking like he's violating a federal law. And I'll stick the tuna and toothbrush in my pocket with the feeling I said something really inappropriate.

A similar version of this happened last week at Dairy Queen. My sister-in-law Marg and her family just arrived into town and a compulsive desire for late-night ice cream took over. On the way from the airport we stopped in for a box of Dilly Bars, and before I even noticed the salesgirl had whipped out a plastic bag. "Oh, we don't need a bag," I said and the salesgirl stopped dead. "Are you sure?" she said. Yes, I said, yes I'm sure. It's already packaged in a box, for crying out loud. So she put the bag away, but kept a close eye on me, as if I was going to jump behind the counter and steal all her plastic bags.

Bringing your own bags to the grocery store is also bit of a game of roulette. You've got to say it quickly, before they ring in the first item. I missed the cue the other day, for example, when picking up some sushi for lunch: I bent my head to look for the right change and by the time I looked up, the already hefty styrofoam package was bagged in another layer of plastic.

So quick reflexes are imperative. "I'vegotmyownbag," you say, before the previous person in the line has even turned towards the door, and then you quickly set up your bag as proof on the counter.

Now, because the canvas bag you've brought is beside you and not the checkout girl, you're on your own to pack your own groceries, which means fumbling for bills and coins somewhere between packing the green beans and the cereal once the total is rung through. It's at that point that the line behind you has grown to somewhere past aisle 3, and you can feel the eyes of everyone waiting burrowing into you as you struggle to get receipts and change and eggs organized.

But me go back to plastic bags? Never. Not as long as they make that horrible crinkly sound, anyway.

The gentrification of Main St., exhibit A

So we have a small beer and wine store in the neighbourhood, about 5 blocks away and tucked down a long hallway off Main, with it's doors facing into the alley. (we also have a BCLB store a few more blocks away, but last time we were in the vicinity we were witness to a couple flip-flop-surfer-short clad thieves running off with two six-packs of beer, with the portly security guard in slow pursuit calling 911.)

So when we moved in about, oh three months ago, my first visit to the local beer and wine store went something like this:

Friendly shopgirl: "Hi! Can I help you find anything?"
Me: "Actually, maybe you can. I'm looking for something to go with dinner, which will be lamb. I'm not sure, but I'm thinking pinot. Any suggestions?"
Friendly shopgirl: "Um, I'm not sure." She fumbles around under the counter. "Um, we used to have one of those dial-ly things that tells you good pairings..." Fumble, fumble, co-worker arrives. "Um, do you know a good wine that'll go with lamb?"
Co-worker: "Um..." They fumble around under the counter and pull out a card which matches foods with wine. Shopgirl: "Um, you're right! it looks like Pinot Noir would be a good match!"
Co-worker: "Um, yah, I think there's a couple on that wall over there..."

Friendly, goofy, unpretentious... Hey, I don't really know my wines either, and was pretty happy with the reasonably priced vintages they had in stock. I happily bought a Chilean something-or-other and went on my way.

OK, now only three months have past, keep in mind, and by the time Scott and I dropped in tonight, much has changed. Cool estate/boutique BC wineries are stocked, like Dirty Laundry and Therapy, the beer sample-girl isn't pouring Coors but new microbrewery from about 10 blocks away... when I mention my surprise at finding Church and State wines in the cooler, the Shopguy says that their Sav. Blanc is one of the best of BC wines that he's tried. Scott and I buy the bottle and walk out in culture shock.

Welcome to Main Street: Guys on the dole next to guys in Ferraris. A pawnshop opposite a Starbucks. A Ford dealership next to a bicycle cooperative.

I hope this place never stops surprising me.

Dragonfly on our window

Dragonfly on our window
Originally uploaded by Janice Greenwood-Fraser

The courtyard in front of our condo is often filled with dragonflies zooming around like little mini-helicopters: as I type this, I can watch about half a dozen performing their high speed flying stunts. The other day, one landed on the sill of an open window for a little rest, long enough for Scott to snap this picture. The wings are quite remarkable, aren't they? Not only are they interesting creatures, they also snack on the less interesting bugs like flies and mosquitoes. A pretty natural form of pest control, I'd say, and a pretty welcome one at that.

Island Rule

Today's Globe and Mail features a story about Jane Rule, who is receiving the Order of Canada today on Galiano Island. When I knew Jane I was a 12-year old kid, I had no knowledge of Jane (and Helen's) story or prominent literary presence. All I knew is that every afternoon myself and a gaggle of other kids would arrive at her pool to laugh and play and splash around while Jane and Helen calmly kept watch. I'm pretty sure the patience and fortitude needed to look after a dozen or so kids all at the same time (let alone by adding the additional complication of submersible water) is itself enough to warrant the Order of Canada, so I'm super happy to hear that she's a deserving recipient.

Meanwhile...

Finally summer and sunshine has arrived on the coast! Scott celebrated with a dip in the Georgia Strait this weekend. It was still a bit chilly for me to consider joining him but a few weeks more of this will have me ready to jump in, in no time.

Meanwhile, the best part of summer is truly here: berry season. Last weekend Scott and I drove out past the edge of the big-box stores to the pleasant rural part of Richmond and picked up a number of boxes of fresh local strawberries, my intention was to make jam out of most but by the end of the weekend Scott and I had eaten at least half and I managed to resist eating them all only by freezing the rest. Luckily Nicola supplied me with some of her freshly batched strawberry jam but even that's already half gone: jam is the best when it's super fresh.

Meanwhile, I called my parents recently to hear my father cheerfully telling me he was digging into the latest of my mom's strawberry pies, the third one she'd made in as many weeks. I was immediately suspicious. Why wasn't I invited over for any of these legendary pies? Was that my brother in-law's voice I heard in the background? Was my sister and her family over for pie? Was there any pie left? 'Cause I could come over, you know, right away, to help finish off any pie. My mom got on the line to calm me down and promised us dinner - including strawberry pie - next Friday. Scott may have to battle my 3.5-yr old nephew for the last piece, though (HE WILL LOSE - SF).

Meanwhile, over here today we have fresh raspberries and blueberries (as well as cherries, which although not technically a berry, still just as coveted.) I threw a few of the blueberries into a rustic tart for tonight's dessert, just now ready to be served with yummy ice cream. Yes, summer has finally arrived, and not a moment too soon. Stay tuned for the next episode of Life with Scott... "Adventures with Summer Complaint".

PS By popular request (okay, one repeated request) I've turned comments to the ON position, for this and future posts. You are now welcome to compliment me on my exceeding talent/intellect/beauty at any time.

Mountain Air

The Rockies
Originally uploaded by Janice Greenwood-Fraser

Last week I travelled east to show off another spectacular corner of the province to a group of hardened press types. But they were as blown away as I am, each time I visit the Rockies. Check out more photos on the Flickr link to the right.

The mountain air is incredibly cleansing. Maybe a little too cleansing for a certain reporter from the big city. Not only did we cut him off cell phone access - a swift yet deep cut, we then took him on an six hour hike far, far from any city cubicle or computer terminal. The poor guy, who I reckon hasn't seen this side of a tree (or a treadmill) for about a decade, just about kicked it - but my colleague Tom kept him alive with pretzels and promises of a post-hike beer. It worked, thank God, although he's not yet ready to eschew the vices of cigars and trans-fats for the life of a mountain-climber.

Another day and another hike: the beautiful Lizard Range near Fernie, this time with a mountain guide and another big-city journalist who had never been to the Rockies before. His way of reflecting was to swear vehemently when he found a spot of extraordinary beauty. I had to agree, but also hoping he'll come up with something more poetic for his article.

Then it was a quick visit to Calgary, to visit Jacqueline and her family, including her two little girls, one a chubby and happy baby and the other a mischievous and dimpled two-year old. We had a wonderful visit, and then I pulled Jacq away for a wild chase around Calgary to find a tree, one that had been planted as a memorial to Scott's dad. I believe I tried Jacq's patience by having her drive up and down the white-knuckle Deerfoot Trail about half a dozen times before turning off on a winding, follow-your-nose drive through a northeast suburb, finally and amazingly landing at the right spot. Vern's blue spruce is thriving and slowly growing, now almost as tall as the thigh-high summer prairie grasses that surround it.

I was home in time to celebrate Canada Day with Scott, and we've spent the last two days putting a few more home-like touches to our place: hanging pictures, arranging books, organizing closets. Slowly we're settling in, and despite the allure of the beautiful Rockies, I'm happy to be home once more.

Growing things

Introducing the newest member of our household, a small apple tree that resides on our terrace:
This young specimen joins the Japanese maple in the budding arboretum we are developing. Perhaps planting a variety of trees on a second-floor outlook is unwise, but the pursuit of apples knows no bounds. Many thanks to Dave and Nicola for the tree.

Meanwhile, Scott's Tomatoes are growing quickly and looking to become a fine lunchtime snack one day:

One day, that is, after the sun starts shining and Vancouver is finally introduced to Summer 2007. Any day now, would be good.

I'm off for a quick trip to the beautiful Rockies, and a quick duck into Calgary to see Jacq and Mike. Back in time for Canada day and with any luck, Scott and I will use the rest of the weekend to do useful things like hang pictures on our bare-but-freshly-painted walls.

Surf's up

My sister's online sleuthing skills discovered that I did more than shop while on the road recently, I also took a dip in the chilly waters of the north Pacific.

Thanks to Tom Ryan for the photo that makes me look a tiny bit like I know what I'm doing. In reality, my efforts usually looked a lot like this:

How's that for an embarrassing photo? Thanks again to Tom for capturing that moment, and many other moments of frustration. That's my 'surf sister' behind me, an instructor from the Surf Sister Surf School in Tofino wondering why the hell I'm not jumping to my feet. And that's me with my face scrunched up, just trying to keep my balance. Fun? Yes. Quit-my-job-and-move-to-Tofino-fun? Not yet.

Shopaholic

I returned from the wilds of British Columbia with my new German friends Suzanne and Constance, who loved the ocean and mountains but after a few days were in need of a retail fix. So upon return to Vancouver, I abandoned the office in favour of showing them around Vancouver, specifically the shopping. I know a few boutiques and thought it would be a nice relaxing way to see the city and some of the neighbourhoods.

Seven hours later, and I've never shopped that hard or long - they had more stamina than I've ever seen. We hit probably 50 stores in Yaletown, Gastown and South Main (they had already tackled Robson Street and the new Holt Renfrew before I even showed up). We stopped for a thirty minute lunch break but were back at it again in moments. I left them last night after dinner with directions to South Granville and 4th Avenue (they still have a few hours before their flight leaves today). Me? I'm exhausted. I have blisters on my feet. My credit card is still hot to the touch.

These two are professionals, my hat goes off to them!

It's so Ironic. or is it Oxymoronic?

• I'm on the road in my own back yard. A welcome treat, and a change from my usual travels that take me outside of the province to promote the province.
• I'm at the edge of the ocean, at a spot so remote that BC Hydro and Telus are yet to arrive. And yet I'm able to check in by internet thanks to a satellite connection.
• I'm staying at a exotic and luxurious resort, but the familiar surroundings of temperate rainforests and oceans (and dreaded wolf spiders in the privy) are a reminder that I'm not at all far from home.
• I'm travelling in the company of some German colleagues, one of whom is a well-known celebrity at home. There, she's regularly and publicly raked over the proverbial coals for her weight gains or losses, for her wardrobe choices, or for whatever else the media grabs hold of. But here, she's just herself, and no-one has any preconceived impressions of her.

Someone around here should put Alanis Morrisette and crank up "Ironic", cause I'm feeling the love!

I sent a colleague a note about attending Holt Renfrew's Gala opening of their new Vancouver store last night, thought you might enjoy the read too:

OK. So.
Fun party. Mainly for the people watching. A combo of the moneyed, the stylish, and the random (aka me). The evening felt pretty big-city for Vancouver: fun for one night!

Josie and I arrived via chauffeured Jag, the Met Hotel's car, as we had a pre-drink there. (yes we could have walked the half block, but it's much more fun to arrive in style :) Super duper red carpet reception (or in this case, pink), that wrapped around the edge of the building. Security everywhere outside, up to a one-block radius. Very senior VPs of Holts did a receiving line for all arrivals, which was pretty impressive given 1200-1500 people. And a VIP pink carpet for the famous... There was actually a crowd of people outside just watching the arrivals. Patti Labelle performed, other semi-famous in the crowd that I spotted were Sarah McLachlan, Alan Cummings, Marcia Cross, Dave Navarro and of course the usual local suspects: broadcasters, the mayor, etc. The crowd was a mixed bunch. There was the plus-60 crowd straight from Shaughnessy, the gay stylist crowd, the hipster crowd, the fashion industry crowd. Lots of fake boobs. Particularly on the older set. Fantastic clothes, some very natty dressers. I could have stood against a wall all night and just people watched. The Moet & Chandon champagne was flowing (as was the Grey Goose vodka), catering by the Four Seasons and Thomas Haas (who stuck to the perfect one-bite rule).

So there you have it: my tiny glimpse into another side of the city, and certainly a change from my average tuesday night activities!

Monday is Bun-day

Today Scott had the day off. In his travels around our 'hood, he dropped by Solly's Bagels. It was there that he discovered that Monday is Bun-day. This is fantastic! Never again will Mondays be boring and we now have a half-dozen flaky sweet cinnamon buns in our kitchen.

In other news, our living room walls are now the happy shade of Beauti-tone "pancakes." It's very soothing. Next up, painting the sun room (also to be "pancakes") then the fireplace (in "chocolate syrup") then some simple valances above the bamboo blinds, made with "general store stripe" in red.

And in yet other news, a garden update for those that are interested: the maple is doing really well and is very happy (poor little dude got shipped around to as many apartments as I've lived in over the last 5 years), I've cut back the existing rhododendron to barely a stick in an attempt to encourage some kind of shape; we've planted some herbs, and Scott's babying some tomatoes.

And there you have it: the daily life of one Fraser household. 'Til next time.

Call the Police

So yesterday I'm biking to work, doing my little bit for the environment, and suddenly I quite literally had to squeeeeze past a line of at least dozen matching red 18-wheelers and a few more shiny RV buses, parked in a vacant lot that I usually cut across. Idling their engines.

When I cycled back again, 10 hours later, same trucks, same engines, same idling. Dammit you people, I'm peddling my brains out over here - make me at least feel like I'm making a difference and turn off the ignition.

So I called the "Idling Complaint Hotline" in Vancouver (it's illegal here now, you know) to check it out. The person at city hall was very nice, and we chatted - there was a possibility that it was the trucks generators rather than engines, and I'm the first to admit I know nothing about 18-wheelers. But she promised to have a officer go check it out anyway, and took my name and number. I haven't heard back.

Meanwhile, this evening I rolled past the trucks again. I swear to God, no possibility of generators this time, their engines were most definitely idling. Come'on! Give me a little break here, is all I'm asking...

My current #1 suspect is the Police. No, not those police, those other Police. The boys have a couple of concerts on in Vancouver (including tonight) and given the dates and location, I can only surmise that it's their band buses and other baggage idling away.

Sting, I believed in you, what happened? I thought you were a sensitive new age guy! You and Bono, saving the world from boring G8 summits. And now this. For the love of the planet, go give your teamsters a big healing hug, and then tell them to cut their bloody engines.

Welcome to HGTV

A few weeks in to our new place, and we've decided that yes, we do need to paint, because the colour doesn't quite fit. It's the palest of pale blues (something like this) , and we'd prefer the palest of pale creams (something like this). So really, we're going to be painting a white apartment white again. That's us, always livin' on the edge, takin' chances...

Images from a weekend

Stumbling towards the weekend

Life being what it is, a series of expected and unexpected events, the last few weeks have been busy indeed. I spend my days at work trying to whittle down the to-do list to a manageable size and then by the time I get home, which has lately been somewhere around 8pm after various extra-curricular activities, I can't even imagine tackling anything on the home to-do list. Sometimes that list is as simple as finding dinner, and even that stumps me. (All credit goes to Scott for this one, tonight we're having in-season spot prawns with a fresh salad.) It's at this time of the week that basic survival skills are all that's keeping me going, until I can reset the system over the weekend and reclaim some ability to think past one minute from now.

Lucky for me, then, that it's a holiday weekend coming up. Scott and I are headed over to Galiano the minute the five-o'clock whistle blows, so if you need us over the next few days you'll find us loafing around and following the example of some fat, noisy and lazy seals in front of my parent's cabin.

Creative Photography

Grand Central.JPG
Originally uploaded by Janice Greenwood-Fraser.

I love the creative process of writing and photography, which is why I love my job: I get to know some of the best journalists and photojournalists in the world. But as much as their work can be inspirational, it can also be overwhelming, and I've put off improving my own skills as I don't feel I could ever measure up to the truly world class work I see around me.

And I can imagine any number of you now reading this and shaking your finger at me to tell me the obvious truth that it should be about the enjoyment I get out of it, not how good (or bad) I am. And I've learned with a number of other hobbies I've picked up along the way that you don't have to be good to have fun (did someone say swimming?) so thus stated is my pledge to start picking up the camera more often and having fun.

With that, you'll find a photo that I took not too long ago in New York, a view of Grand Central Station after a stiff late-night drink at the Campbell Apartment.

Update on Project Pool

The good news is the breathing thing is getting much better. At least for front crawl. And I'm having a lot of fun, which is good. But it looks like I've got a long way to go before I qualify for the Olympics.

Our coach is a nice guy, but I think he's kind of flummoxed by the four or so of us in the slow lane. At the start of every session, he writes down the evening's plan on the white board, and then goes through a few tips and techniques for the whole group to keep in mind with each of the strokes. And then he looks at our lane and says, "for you guys, you should... just do your best." The other lanes have long finished by the time we do a set of lengths, so he's taken to giving us slightly shorter assignments so we can actually finish on time.

Meanwhile, in the midst of this low-grade chaos, we've begun the task of learning the butterfly stroke. I can't really describe what a strange stroke the butterfly is - in part because I don't really understand. There's a lot of wriggling of the lower body, while the arms and torso flail up and down. and every person seems to describe it differently: some say it starts from the hips, others say from the chest, or neck, or head: some say there are two kicks (aka wriggles) for each arm stroke, and others say just one is fine. The one thing everyone seems to agree on is breathing: apparently, the 'fly is easier if you don't.

So the current technique I use at the moment is to come to a dead stop, lift my head to breathe in and then start moving again. Starting to move from the middle of the pool isn't so easy, as you can imagine, particularly with a stroke that needs some forward momentum, so all of this is a slow an laborious process. Wriggle wriggle, stop, breathe, wriggle wriggle, stop, breathe... So for the last two sessions, not only is the coach trying to yell helpful suggestions to me from poolside, but so are the two other lifeguards on duty. At one point I had a whole crowd of personal coaches on the edge of the pool. The whole situation is pretty hilarious, so I'm usually laughing underwater.

Ode to Main Street

I haven't had much free time to wander the streets around our new place, but it doesn't take much to know how much I like it. The side streets are filled with a combination of beautifully restored heritage homes and lopsided rental houses; community gardens are found in tiny spaces like traffic roundabouts and curbside corners, and the commercial district is an offbeat combination of 'old-Main' with laundromats and upholstery shops that haven't changed since 1972, and 'new Main' with lots and lots of funky independent stores, more than I can count. Scott finds particularly amusing the juxtaposition of the high-end bridal store right next to the porn shop.

Just a few of the many finds in my new 'hood:

- Good Coffee.
- Stylish flowers.
- Cute dresses.
- More cute dresses.
- Great shoes.
- Fun shirts.
- Good food.
- Random letters.

Bigfoot

So I did my little bit for the earth today and started biking to work. It's an easy 20 minute ride, give or take, on a popular bike route in Vancouver with plenty of right-of-way for bicyclists. I've bought a bright yellow biking jacket that makes me look goofy but very visible, and the clothes iron and hairdryer at the gym should make me look a little less dog-eared by the time I get to my desk.

I'm feeling very proud of myself for making my carbon footprint a little bit smaller, but the online ecological footprint calculator isn't so impressed. My pesky air travel skews my consumption of greenhouse gases straight upwards to a point where I might as well be living in a giant house and driving a couple hours each way for work. Crap. If I really am going to tiptoe a little lighter on the planet I guess it's time to start planting trees and eating root vegetables.

Zen

Today I got back on my mountain bike for the first time since last season and it felt good. Starting out I was a bit worried that I would choke on some of the more difficult bits of the trail, but surprisingly I cruised through some stuff that would have had me cursing and swearing not to long ago. It helped to avoid the little stunt that last year pulled me in and then tossed me like a salad.

I've gotten some strange looks when I've mentioned this to some folks, but I really find that mountain biking is a zen activity. A lot like yoga. Skiing is the same way, and I suspect surfing is too. You've got to have balance and focus: you've got to be relaxed yet attentive, and it helps to breathe (still working on that last one with swimming too.) And you're in a nature setting, so there's that nice feeling of connection with the earth. However, my zen theory goes all to crap because as Dave points out, anger is also a pretty good motivator: get mad at the log, charge at it like a bull and you'll probably roll over it. Or use his other technique, which is to make engine revving sounds while pedaling like mad. Vrrooom, vrroooomm.....

Permanent Address

So we're moved, boxes are unpacked, the clutter has cleared and we're coming to the realization that... we have no furniture.

Sure, there's the usual collection of hand-me-down tables and chairs, with a couple of good pieces like our red couch and my grandmother's chest thrown into the mix, but mostly it's an 'it'll work for now' situation. In reality, over the past few years we've consciously chosen to not get new furniture until we had a permanent address. But now we've put all our money into the place and there's nothing left for furniture. But all in good time, right? Until then, I'll keep dreaming about my dining room table.

Possession

Today we get the keys to our new home, and tomorrow the moving truck arrives, upon which time the two of us and all our worldly possessions will travel three kilometres down the road the new Casa Fraser. I’m pretty darned excited.

One thing I will miss about our current place, though, is my commute to work across False Creek on the aquabus. This morning, as I was waiting on the dock for the little ferry to arrive, a seal popped his head out of the water about twenty metres in front of me, and gave me an unwavering stare. A goodbye of sorts, I think.

I’m not feeling particularly organized for the move itself. Yes, things are in boxes and utilities have been contacted, so check and check. But a fever and infection kept me in bed for the first half of the week, so the time I was planning to putter and tie up loose ends is suddenly gone. There may be a tonne of things I missed doing but can’t really put my finger on what they are. Ah well, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough and will have plenty of time in the new place to put things right.

Last week in New York, I had two unexpected reminders of home. The first was on a wander through Soho. I happened upon the storefront of Jonathan Adler, who's name is bandied about in magazines as the hottest thing in design. So of course I popped in to see if his style really did live up to his reputation. Lots of modernist knock-offs and other knick knacks, I was on my way out when one of the pottery pieces caught my eye. And then another, and then another. Some were memories of ceramics that my great auntie Kae kept, others had the distinctive echo of my mother's own china pattern:



As a kid, these plates were like scenes from a storybook, but today I've come to appreciate them for the bold and stylized sense of design. It seems what's old is new again, but I must admit a fondness for the originals - and others with similar style, like the Sargadelos line that Scott and I discovered in Spain a few years ago.

The second unexpected memory of home came later that day, when two friends and I sought out the famed Magnolia Bakery, which I had never visited but they were longtime dedicated visitors. We walk in, the line is snaking around the tiny shop and just as I glimpse an fantastic creation called an icebox cake in the display case, one of the employees asks me what I want. "I think I want a piece of the icebox cake please," I say.

"You think you want a piece of icebox cake?" he repeats deadpan.

"I know I want a piece of icebox cake," I respond very seriously.

There was no need to ask what icebox cake was because in my family, it's known as "dad's favourite dessert" or, what my father refers to as "my favourite dessert that I never, ever get often enough." Which is silly, really, because it's dead easy to make.

I don't know of any other commercial kitchen that makes dad's favourite dessert, so it was pretty cool- and yes, it tasted just as it should. It also followed our dinner at a mac'n cheese only restaurant, so the whole evening was pure comfort food for me. Who would have thought that in New York, I would find the comforts of home.

Top 10

Things I'm looking forward to in our new home:

10) Two bathrooms. That equals at least 15 extra minutes of sleep every morning.
9) A new sunroom / office. East facing, lots of light, Scott's already claiming it as his own.
8) Commuting by bike. At least, conceptually.
7) Cool neighbourhood joints. Coffee shops, boutiques, restaurants, we got it all. And still not too far from our regular seats at Ocean 617.
6) Better neighbours. No, I don't know our neighbours yet, but they have to be better than the drunken frat boys and sad divorcees who currently share our building.
5) Bigger kitchen. Not by much, mind you, but there's the possibility that for the first time in our years of co-habitation, Scott and I will be able to cook together without getting tangled up.
4) Hardwood floors. Ok, Laminate floors. But doing yoga on soft carpet? It's hard.
3) Lotsa patio space. (side note: they're leaving us all the planters!)
2) 300 square feet more indoor space than we currently live in. It's like a whole 'nother country. I might even get lost.
1) Insuite laundry. 'Nuff said.

Lost and Found

Most of the time, I manage to come off as a fairly capable, intelligent, organized person. I try to maintain this impression while in the presence of other people. However, my parents, sister and husband know otherwise. Sadly, there's a wicked streak of disorganized forgetfulness that I try to hide, but that comes out with a vengeance the moment I let my guard down.

This trip to New York was exceptionally intense, and by the end I was exhausted and barely thinking straight. The wicked streak came to the surface and I starting misplacing things. Here's a list of Things I'm Currently Missing: a book, a hair clip, a credit card, a bank card, my apartment keys, and shortly, my sanity. I did manage to find my way home through a couple of cities and airports though, so that's impressed me.

Luckily, my screw-ups usually only affect my life, not the lives of others. But if that ever changes, God help us all. (PS Mom and Dad, don't worry the cards are cancelled and I got into the apartment with Scott's keys. XO, Janice)

Soggy in New York

I've never seen rain like this! Yesterday here in New York, over eight inches of rain fell, and it was impossible to be on the street for more than 10 seconds without being drenched to the bone. Sheets of rain, cats and dogs, consistently falling for the whole day. I hadn't thought that a bit of rain would stop me from going for a run in Central Park, but it seems to have brought better parts of the region to it's knees. The heaviest rain has let up now, and even I, with a certain fondness for a wettish day, is glad to see the end of that.

I'm in New York for a conference, staying at the famed Waldorf Astoria. It has a beautiful art deco feel, it's a treat to stay here. Most of the next two days, in fact, will have me inside the hotel 24-7, but yesterday was my day to explore and despite the rain I took on the city, armed with only an umbrella. A visit to the Frick Museum, an afternoon drink at the Algonquin hotel, dinner in Soho and a nightcap at the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station made for a fairly relaxed day, and the city's yellow cabs came in handy to duck out of the water.

to the east side

Scott and I took the home ownership plunge this month, which in Vancouver at the moment is no easy task. Six months, two offers, one mortgage later we're getting ready to move into our very own strata lot 5 with 114/16734th ownership in common property.

It's located in a trendy 'up and coming' area of Vancouver. Ten years ago it was dodgy, but today it's a highly sought-after neighbourhood by many young folks, including ourselves. It was also one of the few areas within close proximity to downtown with lots of shops and services nearby, where we could afford a two bedroom condo. But being a popular neighbourhood where zoning is still skewed toward single family dwellings, there were precious few condo buildings that were options for us. And really, it came down to two buildings that were of interest.

In February, a listing came up on a small townhouse in the area, at the 'other' building that we liked. We made an offer, but we were outbid by a fairly significant amount. Slightly dejected and frustrated, we continued our search.

About a month later, this apartment was listed. We had already seen about four other places in this development and liked the overall building, but hadn't found a unit with the right size and fit. We went to the open house (with crowds of other interested buyers) and liked the space, layout and outlook. So we decided to make an offer. As did at least three other parties. The next 24 hours were a marathon of phone calls, writing contracts, signing contracts, more phone calls, revising contracts, signing contracts again, and faxing contracts all over the place. At the end of the day, our offer was accepted, with a price a fair amount over list. We take possession less than a month after our offer was accepted.

At the end of the day, thank God for our real estate agent: she's a gem. She took us through a frustrating process with a matter-of-fact attitude and many years of experience. If she hadn't been so patient and straightforward with us, we may never have gotten to this stage. She said that in six months, it will be worth another 50k: she might just be saying that to make us feel better but the way things seem to be going she just might be right.

We're moving at the end of the month, so surrounded by boxes and packing material til then. I can't wait.

Gone backcountry

One of the great adventures Scott and I had during my blogging 'hiatus' was a backcountry skiing trip. Picture this - a remote, rustic cabin in deepest winter for a week with a loosely bound group of friends. A helicopter dropped us off on Sunday and didn't return until the following Sunday. Slightly daunting? You betcha. Slopeside, would I be able to keep up with the rest? Apres ski, would I survive cabin fever in small quarters with 12 others, and a week without plumbing?

A resounding yes. It was a great week with lots of snow, and slopes that I was capable of skiing without crashing too many times. I think I may have perfected what one of us dubbed the "lawn-dart manouver"...launching like a rocket off of my skis, falling head first and landing upside-down, legs straight up. Funny to watch, and funny to experience too - soft snow makes for gentle landings! Experienced some nirvana moments cruising through soft powder snow, and it left me craving more. Meanwhile, back at the cabin was a fun group of people with lots of laughs, good food, and fun stories (OK, we did have 'the one' who drove everyone slightly nutty but luckily it wasn't me... at least I don't think it was) and as for plumbing: well, it's amazing how good a girl can feel after a hot shower from a watering can. I'm ready to go again next year. You'll find pics on Flicker under Blanket Glacier.

Swimming upstream

Many months have passed since my last post. Many things have happened, as is wont to do. But apparently one thing has stuck - after taking my snow safety course my mind's pursuit for new knowledge has sucked me into a new endeavour. I'm taking swimming lessons.

Last night was the first class. It was disasterous, quite frankly. I signed up with my friend and colleague Josie, encouraged by the fact that the only requirement for the class was to be able to swim one length. Josie smartly tested this capability, I did not. The class starts, and the 'warm-up' assignment is to swim eight lengths, "freestyle". Yikes! Well, you can't get much more freestyle than my style, aka survival swimming. Others in the class are happy and calmly doing lengths, Jos and I are thrashing about in the slow lane, with me gasping for breath and making horrible sinking noises and gulping down lots of water. The good news - it can only get better. And it did, even in the short hour that we had in the pool. I left feeling refreshed and excited to try again. As I keep telling people (and myself) "If I can just remember to breathe, I'll be OK." Kind of crucial, I know, but good advice for life in general, really.

Back to School

This post is meant to make my family feel better.

Because as you might know, in March Scott and I are headed into a backcountry ski chalet for a week with a group of friends. It's going to be a great trip, but the caveat is that backcountry touring does not have the advantage of avalanche control that resort skiing offers. And so each time the avalanche danger rating across the province goes up to 'high' or 'extreme,' I get a phone call making sure I know.

So to be better prepared for backcountry conditions, this weekend Scott and I headed up to Whistler for a course in avalanche safety. It was an opportunity for most of us who are going to the chalet to take the course at the same time - as a refresher for some, and a first-time for others. (I fall in the latter category).

It was a pretty intense weekend, with about 6 or 7 classroom hours and two full days out in the mountains, on the edges of the Whistler/Blackcomb ski boundary. But the content was extremely interesting (not to mention important), the instructors incredibly knowledgeable, and the weather was sunny and beautiful, perfect for standing around in the snow for hours.

So, although taking the avalanche course is, as an acquaintance I ran into in the elevator today said, a little bit like "learning just enough to really scare your pants off," I'm feeling pretty confident about heading into the chalet with the new knowledge that I have, and with a group of people that I like and respect, who are smart and pretty knowledgeable, and who have a good idea of what to do, and how to do it.

Now I've gotta run, I have a tranceiver search to do...

Down Mexico way

Back from Mexico and a week long work trip to Mexico City. 90% of our time was a grueling schedule of back to back meetings in a hotel boardroom, which was incredibly productive but also incredibly exhausting.

But we did have moments of freedom, and those along with the great people we met made the trip an all round good time.

In anticipation of the hectic schedule, I flew into Mexico City a day early with my three colleagues to take a day to explore the city a little bit more. We've done the same for the last couple years, and each of these days give us a further glimpse into the city and a fuller picture beyond the confusion and chaos. Finally, I'm starting to know my way around a little bit, use a few more words of Spanish, and understand what's going on around me. But I also think there's a saying along the lines of the more you think you know, the less you understand. Or something like that. Anyway, suffice it to say that Mexico City is a place that at once fascinates and confuses me.

So, our first day we made a pact to not talk about work, as come Monday it would possess every waking moment. Instead, we headed to Teotihuacan. On the most superficial level, you can find a couple of fun pyramids to climb - the Sun and the Moon. But on a more impressive level it's one of the most important and most continually inhabited sites in central America, with 4000 years of civilization and the remarkable pyramids built 2000 years ago. At it's height, the ancient city had probably 200,000 citizens and a extraordinarily complex culture.

That was pretty much our collective understanding of the site. With only the most cursory knowledge of the context, we happily climbed the Pyramid of the Sun and checked out the view below.





Another highlight of the day was discovering that El Bajio Restaurant, which we had visited for a cooking lesson a year ago, had opened a new restaurant just a block from our hotel. Now tacos and sopes and tostadas were just a moment away... heaven!



But the craziest part of our trip was taking in a Mexican wrestling match on the last night. I must admit, I was not at ALL interested in the idea of any kind of wrestling for most of the week. The match was slated for Friday night, and we had a 4:30am departure from the hotel the next morning to get to our flight. After a crazy week, I was less than enthusiastic about a late night, especially with such a bloody, sweaty sport. And I was initially very worried about safety, as it sounded like the arena was more suited to burly rough chilangos, rather than naive lightweight gringas.

But the response from our Mexican friends to my colleagues' interest in Lucha Libre was surprising, and the suggestion that we were attending was consistently met with smiles and encouragement, and in many cases offers of accompaniment. In fact, by thursday night we already had about 10 people who had promised to attend with us. That evening we hosted an event for about 50 people. When Jorge, the director of the Canadian office in Mexico, introduced us to the crowd and let them know of our plans, we were greeted with applause and cheers. In fact, we had a couple of Televisa producers in attendance. Televisa is the he primary television network in Mexico, and also happens to own the stadiums where the Lucha Libre matches are held (and broadcast the matches). They immediately offered to host us (and our entourage) to the match, and actually got Mistico, one of the most famous fighters, on the phone to talk to Kristine, my colleague whose passion and enthusiasm for the movie Nacho Libre drove the idea from the beginning. Mistico, for those who are interested, was very polite and soft spoken. By this point, it was clear I simply could not beg off for any reason... attendance was no longer optional.

Friday night arrived and we headed to our friend and colleague Daniela's house for a bite to eat and a few drinks before heading on to the arena. By this time, our group numbered 18. We had arranged with a driver for the evening, who was able to take most of us by van to the stadium, with a small red car carrying the remaining four following close behind. At the mayhem of the stadium, it was a little while before we were organized to go inside, which gave us time to gawk at the imitation masks being sold outside by street vendors, and study the leaflet highlighting the night's matches. Dr. Wagner, LA Park and the popular Shocker were all slated to appear.

Nothing could have prepared me for the nuttiness that was the ring and arena. The crowd was going wild screaming profanities (as one of our Mexican friends commented "I want to tell you what they are saying, but I can't bring myself to say the words.") At any given time, the ring had not two, not four, but six wrestlers, fighting in pairs or sometimes in an elaborate combination of three or four, either inside the ring or not. I slowly gathered that they were fighting in teams of three, with 'good' always pitted against 'evil'. But really, it mattered little to me who was fighting who, the spectacle was too wild to care. Women in bikinis would escort the wrestlers down a catwalk to the ring, and there they would doff their elaborate capes or other outfits (Shocker chooses denim overalls, LA Park dresses like a skeleton) and strip down to the usual outfit of a pair of colourful spandex tights and a full headmask.

The actual fight, which was the part I was dreading, was much less combative and violent than a display of full-contact acrobatics. Flips, somersaults, and cartwheels featured more prominently than blood, although it usually ended by landing on someones' chest.

The absurdity of the evening came to a dramatic crescendo with the last match of the evening. The aforementioned Shocker and LA Park (each with their own little victory dance) led the crowd to and absolute frenzy, and my disbelief came to a peak when a very small midget, dressed in a blue and yellow gorilla suit, joined the ring and was tossed about like a football (with the crowd yelling "For God's sake, he's a human!" and "Run midget, run!") before eventually gaining his own revenge when he leaped from the top rope onto an 'evil' wrestler lying on the ground below. Insanity.

I was still expecting the crowd to be rough and burly, and to a certain extent they were. But a young, yuppy-ish couple were seated directly behind me, she looking particulary pretty and well dressed. When I turned to one of my friends to say "She looks like such a nice girl," she in turn addressed me in perfect English. "Yes, I am a very nice girl," she said very politely, "This is my therapy," and went back to screaming very bad things at the top of her lungs.

Sadly, we weren't allowed to take cameras into the arena so I have little photographic evidence of the evening. I did, however, call Scott in the middle of the madness to give him a play-by-play. "Oooh, that must have hurt!! Ooof, right on the chest!" and so on. He was greatly amused, and now has a commemorative mini-mask keychain. Check out the following video, it's a pretty good summary.

Lucha Libre Video

it's only missing the wild crowd and blue midget gorilla.

Addendum

I got so caught up in the spirit of things that I bought new skis. My head's still spinning. And very tempted to skip work tomorrow to give them a whirl - it just started to snow...

How I got my groove back

So I've been out skiing so far this year about four or five times, but each outing was an effort of frustration, with me unable to feel in control of my speed, direction, skis, or even my limbs. This was pretty darn frustrating in itself, but was made much, much, more so because of three things: (1) I spent most of the last year congratulating myself on having finally tamed the skiing beast and able to keep up with the 'big kids' on the slopes, and this setback smarted; (2) I've dumped an awful lot of money in this sport for it to turn out to not be fun; and (3) Scott and I are signed up for a week at a backcountry ski lodge in March, and it would be a very loooong and boring week if I wasn't enjoying the skiing. With all these thoughts compounding in my head, at least two recent runs have ended with a crying jag in the snowdrift as I tried to figure out what on earth I was doing wrong to make this sport suck so much, and why I couldn't seem to get control of anything.

So it was with fierce determination that Scott and I headed up to Whistler today for a day of skiing, with the aim of taking a practice day for me to work on my turns. The first run was a disaster (see above re: frustration and crying jags). What should have been fun conditions - 24 cm of powder the night before - meant the steep blue we were headed down was deeply cut up by mid-morning, and the lumps and bumps were tossing me about like a dirty shirt in a washing machine. After a mini-meltdown, yelling, screaming, tossing of skis (OK, that would have been fun, but I was surprisingly not that dramatic) Scott calmly guided me into easier terrain and we started from the beginning, taking baby steps, re-learning how to link parallel turns.

So for any of you who are wondering, it turns out that skiing is NOT like riding a bike, and it doesn't just come back on autopilot. However, a few runs later, the neurons in my head started making old connections, remembering how to shift my weight, lean forward... oh yeah, and THAT"S what my ski edge feels like!!! I fiinally found my groove, flow, the zone, zen - whatever you want to call it, it started to come back. In fact, after meeting up with friends for lunch, I felt brave enough to follow them into the trees, and had two terrifically fun wipeouts, the first when my skis sunk up to my knee into the powder (mental note, that leaning forward thing doesn't work so well in the powder) and the second when I ran slow-mo into a tree and clotheslined myself on one of the branches, finally running into Darren who was unfortunately coming in the other direction. Good times all round, and not an ounce of frustration. I was going with the flow, rather than against it.

Aha, rather a life lesson in there, is it not? Trite, but true, and sometimes these lessons have to be re-learned. Just like skiing, as it turns out.

But the question remains, why or how did I lose so much ability to ski? Well, the obvious, a summer of non-skiing, certainly didn't help - I just need to put in the time. But my other theory is this - that I am the lone downhill skiier in a circle of telemarkers. I even gave telemarking a try for a weekend last year, and decided to keep my heels firmly stuck to my skiis. But the influence of being surrounded by freeheelers has meant my own skills haven't benefitted from copycat learning techniques, and the best advice I can get is usually "Do as I say, not as I do." At least that's my theory.

So my skiing groove is back. And, so, apparently, is my blogging. Will this continue? Will regular posts continue to entertain and amuse? Fingers crossed! I'll try, I promise...