This is my favourite photo of my dad and I.

…it has a “Look, Simba, everything the light touches is our kingdom” feel to it…

… it also represents an era in portrait photography that didn’t make much sense, but I really wish it would make a comeback. I am pretty sure the artistic vision for the shot came from my mom, but she is too humble to take full credit – she insists it was Sears Portrait Studios that orchestrated this masterpiece.

Anyway, happy Father’s Day, dad! xoxo

Stay great!

Kate

This is another one of my favourite signs… it may or may not have been a factor when we were considering getting pregnant…

… premium parking at the mall without the optics of douchebaggery associated with using a valet service at a mall… I wasn’t sure how far along in the pregnancy I had to be before I could legitimately park there, so to provide proof to any person that may challenge my right to park in the expectant mothers spots, I carried a positive pregnancy test with me at all times (no I didn’t). In all honesty, I didn’t park there until after our baby was born… and now I may or may not be making up for lost time.

Stay great!

… the resemblance is uncanny, truly… the squinty eyes, scrunched up face, strategically combed hair, aggressive body language, hint of bigotry…

… if the thigh-high red pleather boot fits…

I have always wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head have such a considerable amount of disposable income for a pair of spuds with so much time on their hands and no known places of employment. I have always just assumed that Mr. Potato Head was dealing drugs… It wasn’t until tonight when my daughter and I were playing with some of her toys before bed that I took a closer look at Mrs. Potato Head and it hit me… while I do not yet have confirmation, and I am in no way judging anyone’s life decisions, based on her attire, the thick bright makeup, pink condom carrier (safety first) and her sassy pose, I am prepared at this time to make the call: Mrs. Potato Head is likely a prostitute. Now that is one little black book that could change the way we view Toy Story forever…

Stay great!

Based on a recent Google search, it would appear that I am a bad person. I love the smell of freshly cut grass. Today I learned that the smell I love so much is the aroma of injury, of the just-mowed lawn trying to treat the pain I’ve inflicted upon it. Google goes on to tell me that what I am smelling is a distress call that plants, like grass, send out asking nearby creatures to rescue them from pending insect attacks. Hmmm, sounds kind of made up to me. I will hold onto my romanticized view and continue to associate the smell of freshly cut grass with my dad, being a kid, a simpler time, and the fostering of a culture of responsibility.

On the whole “plants can feel” tangent, I remember as a kid going camping with my sisters, my mom and some of her friends that she was in university with at the time. There was one guy there that was extremely wealthy, highly eccentric and believed he was ‘one with nature’. In terms of the hipster paradigm, he wasn’t even on the scale; he was a precursor. He was more of an early modern hipster, a first generation that would pave the way for the more refined, mainstream hipster culture that is prevalent, today.

While we were hiking my sister broke a small twig off of a tree. The guy was outraged by her actions. He grabbed her baby finger and asked, “how would you feel if I broke your finger off?” My sister couldn’t find any words to reply, she just stared at him, wide-eyed. He said, “remember that next time. Trees feel, too.” This was the same guy who, not even 20 minutes later, climbed to the top of some rocks, stripped naked and jumped into the lake. We never saw anything, maybe a quick bum shot, which by HBO standards, is nothing. It was a reckless act on his part. If it had happened today, I would have told him that he should consider conforming to the western norm of wearing clothing; in particular a pair of swim trunks that would facilitate the protection of his ball-sack (and the contents therein). The height of the cliff, the speed with which he hit the water, and the high pitched scream he let out when his head emerged to take a breath, confirmed for us that like the tree my sister maimed, his balls feel, too.

Back to the grass, as I mentioned previously, freshly cut grass reminds me of my dad. I used to watch him cut the lawn when I was a kid, waiting for the day when I would be old enough to follow in his grass stained footsteps. When I turned 12 my dad let me cut the lawn. He walked me through the plan, starting with ensuring the gas tank had sufficient fuel, and then the specifications for the cut. I cut the lawn until I went away to school and was pretty good at it. It was also pretty decent gig, $20 dollars for a 45 minute job. I had a future in lawn maintenance, if I wanted one.

Fast forward 22 years… our lawn has been looking a bit like Jurassic Park lately. My husband is recovering from an injury, so he hasn’t been in a position to cut the grass (he did cut the back lawn however, I have a fear of going into the ‘long grass’ as it tends to be infested with velociraptors, so say the experts). I haven’t cut the lawn once since moving into our house; not that I’m opposed to it, Heath has just taken care of it. So, he explained to me how to start the lawn mower (he started with the following phrase: “step one, open the garage door”… thanks tips)  and I did it, I cut the front lawn. Although I broke one of my dad’s rules in the process and I gave the lawn a bit of a buzz cut… the blade was a little low.

Yes, I still need to bust out the whipper snipper to do the ‘fringe’, but that is for another day. And now I wait for my $20 dollar cash payment for services rendered (although with inflation, I suspect I am low balling my fee).

Stay great!

On a side note, what is a ‘popcorn snack’ and how does it differ from the popcorn located in aisle 7?

I am not opposed to the idea of nakedness. In fact, under certain circumstances I understand the appeal. However, there are times when I believe a rule of “clothing NOT optional” is absolutely necessary.

My exposure to nakedness occurs primarily at the gym, which makes sense, I think. While I save my nakedness for a very select audience, namely my husband and doctor (who are not the same person), some women are more free in terms of when, where and in front of whom, they are naked.

The other night, post workout, I was on my way out of the gym change room when I saw a woman engaged in conversation with her friend – now, an important detail that I should mention is that the woman was naked, aside from a pair of black tube socks and white runners. I couldn’t help but look at the 63-year-old Eastern European woman, who was built like an ox, eating a banana, and talking to her friend, whilst standing in a side lunge position. At that moment a series of ‘whys’ ran through my head: why did she choose a banana over clothing in that moment? Why did she leave her socks and shoes on but strip her sweaty body of everything else? Why the black socks with white runners? Why the side lunge stance? I am normally better at seeking out information in this regard, but she caught me off guard.

At that moment judgy Kate deemed her behaviour socially unacceptable. However, as I sit here now, naked, wearing black socks with running shoes, banana in one hand, typing with the other, I can admit that Helga might be on to something – multitasking at its finest, folks!

Ok, I kid (to clarify, I am fully clothed and all out of bananas)! The judgment stands: thou shalt not eat bananas in public, or semi-public, places whilst naked. Edict established. Now, who wants to enforce compliance? Helga could totally take me.

Stay great (and sufficiently clothed)! xoxo

I am white… really, really, really white. If my skin colour was a colour within the Benjamin Moore  paint family, it would be called ‘Vintage Casper’ or ‘Powdered Wig,’ against a greige wall it would make your trim or mantel pop. I am also Canadian, and as a Canadian I am considerate to a fault. So, in the spirit of not blinding our fellow vacationers, and against my husband’s better judgment, I got a spray tan the day before we took off on my first vacation in five years.

I walked into the tanning salon and was greeted by a woman in her early twenties. I can’t recall her name, but I do remember her skin tone, it had a pulp-free Tropicana look to it, she was glowing, radioactively.  It suited her.

“Good morning ma’am, what can I do for you today?” she looked up briefly from her cell phone to acknowledge me standing at the counter.

“I’d like to get a spray tan, please.”

“OK, what would you like to get done.” She pulled a binder out from beneath the desk and set it on the counter. It was almost biblical, complete with an old testament, a new testament and of course the foreword written by Jesus himself.

I have trouble making decisions in situations with relatively immaterial outcomes. Nine times out of ten I will defer to the experts, going along with whatever they recommend.

“Whatever you think would look good.” I exclaimed, with a slight hesitation in my voice.

You know, in retrospect leaving my colour selection to her would be the equivalent of giving a hairstylist with a mullet artistic license over your hair to do whatever she thought looked good.

Agent Orange led me into a sitting area where I proceeded to watch a two minute video that walked me through the process and the safety protocol. I was suddenly at home. Policy, process, and rules give me comfort — they are part of my DNA. From a very early age I longed for rules. My parents had adopted a free-range parenting style, not on purpose, but out of necessity.

I remember, at seven, walking into the kitchen. My mother’s back was to me, she was washing the dishes.

“Mom, I’ve made this list of rules” I handed her the orange piece of construction paper with a list of rules I had neatly drafted in blue crayon. “I think you should…”

She cut me off. “No.” She said calmly as she handed me back the now damp piece of paper. She continued, “I am not putting rules in place so you can find ways around them and your sisters won’t comply with them and then I will have to enforce them. Where is the win for me?” She wasn’t completely wrong, but rules and structure are important to me. Their predictability bring me great comfort.

With my newfound knowledge regarding the spray tan safety measures, I suddenly felt a wave of calm rush over my body as I walked down the hall to room 8, on the left.

That confidence fled, quickly. The room was small and contained the tanning booth and a silver dentist tray with a navy towel and a packet of accelerant cream on it — noticeably absent was any of the safety gear. I guess they ran out?  Normally that would be an issue for me, but for some reason I let it slide. I took my clothes off and applied the accelerant cream to my body. They didn’t mention the cream in the video, but again, if the on-site expert thought it was good, it must be, right?

I stepped inside the booth and pressed the green button.  Panic set in. I felt claustrophobic and started to doubt my ability to count to ten and remember to turn around. Was I even holding my hands in the right way?  The spray infiltrated my nose and as I gasped it entered by mouth – rookie mistake. I paid them to gas me. I was being euthanized in the name of vanity.  Then it all stopped. I had ten seconds to turn around and then it started again.

After the machine turned off I got out, wiped down my skin and put my clothes back on. Also noticeably absent from the room was a mirror. I didn’t have the benefit of a full body shot, but I had an idea of what I looked like and it wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. What had I done?  As I began my walk of shame, past the front desk, I smiled, so as to not hurt the feelings of the woman who had just disfigured me. I also thanked her on my way out the door.

My husband, Heath, was waiting for me in the car. I opened the car door and sat down in the passenger seat.  With a smile Heath said, “you have a nice orange glow to you. Is that the look you were going for, hun?”

To which I replied, “Absolutely, it was.” The woman, with my permission, had selected Copper Carrot Haze of all the options in the book.

After five to seven showers I was once again ‘Vintage Casper’ and just like that my focus shifted from preventing the blindness of our fellow vacationers to the quality of our vacation photos (like the gem, below).

Before the photo was taken:

Me: “Do you think I should get right up in there?”

Heath: “No, I don’t think you should.”

Stay great!

Kate