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Showing posts from 2014

Granny's Vintage Teapot

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The vintage Staffordshire English teapot by Gibsons, which my late granny gave me years ago, became even more of a treasure when she died two years ago.  Her last words to me were "Are you making tea?"  I wasn't—I was actually just opening up a can of ginger ale.  Knowing what I know now, I wish that I'd answered, "Yes, Granny, I am making tea."

Tea-rotica and High Tea at the Empress Hotel

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It's not often that I go to a world-class, upscale tourist destination, but today was a bit different: Niche Magazine hosted an afternoon tea and fashion show event  at the Empress Hotel ; a portion of each ticket sold offered support to the BC Children's Hospital Foundation. And because I adore fancy tea situations, and don't find myself in nearly enough of them, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Goodies at the Empress Hotel, November 30, 2014 Now, because of my late grandmother's lifelong tea-loving ways, I've sentimental feelings for super-floral china tea cups and teapots. But I am by no means a tea aficionado—I just like a good Orange Pekoe, a fancy tea pot, and Granny-type cups and saucers. Add a few dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off, arrange them on a tiered tray, and I get giddy. Accordingly, I spend a lot of time on Pinterest collecting images of what I call tea-rotica, and have a little cup and saucer at home that I use ritualistic

Season Change, Without and Within

I'll be forty-five in a couple of months, and as the days and weeks inch closer to my birthday, I feel a deep, significant shift taking place. The undercurrents have been there for at least a year, but I feel it more strongly as the season's changed. Leah's moving out again, and Daniel is gearing up for graduation in less than a year and is moving towards his own independence. Emotionally, I feel great—and how could I not with such a terrific partner? In love, I couldn't ask for more; in fact, I feel almost guilty for how fortunate I am. But even with my most fundamental needs met, I feel mentally and creatively restless. I'm thinking about going back to school, but I'm not sure for what exactly. I know I need more education, though. I want to power up. I'm not sure what that means precisely. When I consider education, I want to stoke what lights a fire in my belly, soak up knowledge, expand my understanding, and then go out into the world and apply it.

Coming Out As Fat

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This past weekend, one of my three younger sisters invited me to join her on a float in our city's Pride parade this weekend. It was, of course, fabulous to the extreme—especially since my sibling had recently won the title as the exquisite Mr. Gay Vancouver Island (in her drag king incarnation as Eddi Licious). She honoured me by asking me to participate with her. I've been a lover of Pride festivities for years. I've enjoyed them in Montréal and Toronto, and find the celebrations here in Victoria to be particularly charming for reasons that are hard to articulate. Maybe it's because the crowds are smaller; the participants, too, seem so legitimately joyful, and not at all jaded. So when I was invited to be on an actual float in a parade that would take me throughout the downtown core in full view of a large population, I decided to go for it, no holds barred. I have a not-so-latent drag queen living inside of me, as evidenced by my passion for all things sparkly and
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Ah, to simply be in this existence with a child-like joy and wonder —but there is much to release in order to be born again into that newness.

She Sang With Abandon to a Song on the Radio.

About ten years ago, I went to a coffee shop in Parksville to meet a friend. Another patron was there, a woman who looked to be in her early twenties; there was something going on with her that gave the impression that she was developmentally challenged—something in her posture or her speech—but that's not what ultimately drew my attention to her. "Unbreak My Heart" was playing in the café via a local radio broadcast, and this young woman was quietly singing her guts out to this song. Her eyes were closed; tears streamed down her face; her hands gestured with every word. She didn't seem sad—she just seemed like she was deeply connecting with the song itself. I'd heard this song a million times over the years—I liked it well enough—but somehow this woman changed the whole feel of the song. It was such a vulnerable, childlike, private display that I was, at first, unsettled, but her freedom and expressiveness moved me so deeply that I've never forgotte

Detritus from a years-old divorce.

A couple of years ago, I passed by the old cabin where my ex-husband and I lived with our two children. There was still stuff left there from our divorce nine years ago; he'd abandoned the car and van that I signed over to him when I went to Toronto. I guess the property owners don't go up to the cabin very often, nor are they motivated to remove those old cars. In the now-rusty station wagon was his old teddy bear that he'd had from the time he was a little kid. He'd left that behind, too. I cracked opened the car, choked on the stench that filled my nostrils, and pulled out the teddy bear. It seemed so sad in that old, abandoned car, and it was covered in mould. He's allergic to penicillin, so I figured it would be a bad idea to try to clean it up and send it to him. I left it there, sadly, and drove away.

On Empathy for Folks in the Media

Today, an acquaintance of mine was talking on Facebook about Honey Boo Boo and her family being in a car accident on Monday night. Some people were indignant about even caring, and criticized the original poster about even mentioning it when there are other people in the world more "worthy" of sympathy or empathy. Another commenter even went so far as to wish the Boo Boo family "poorly" instead of wishing them well. As a follow-up empathy "test", the original poster shared a link to a news story about O.J. Simpson's apparent brain cancer . People are people. Everybody hurts. I don't wish cancer on anyone. If O.J. has cancer, then my condolences go out to him for the suffering he has to experience. What is required of me beyond that? He's not a "real" person in my mind—he's a media projection with whom I have no relationship. He's too abstract and has turned into a caricature (either by his own choice or by the whole media ma