I have a paper due in 3 days. I spent most of my morning sitting at the computer attempting to research for said paper....only to find myself looking at everyone else's blogs, facebook, checking my email repeatedly and trying to diagnose the nagging sick feeling I've had in my stomach for the last 3 weeks (don't worry...mayoclinic.com cofirmed that it's not cancer. phewph.)
By afternoon I had finally narrowed down my topic, and actually had some ideas that I could use (it's a comparison of the leadership found in critical care and acute care settings and how this affects job satisfication...just incase you were wondering). But this all came after a trip to London Drugs...really all I needed was shampoo (to avoid the greasy, paper-writing-student-look)...but felt it imperative to go up and down EVERY isle (at least once...twice for the toiletries and make-up). So - not only did I find the shampoo I needed, I became aware of "needing" (and I do use the term lightly) the following: a lipgloss that can go on my keychain, an eye-shadow compact, mousse, a set of multi-coloured pens, lined note-paper, chocolates, a fancy dust rag, an US weekly (that was supposed to be my "treat" after working on my paper all day), face wash and sparkling water.
Of course after I got home from London Drugs I had to make some lunch...and you can't have a lunch break and work at the same time. So I ate my lunch, and while that was digesting (because, heaven forbid, I work on my paper with a full stomach) I started to fix my latest knitting project while simultaneously watching a Friend's re-run.
And now, here I am back at the computer...obviously NOT working on my paper...but I'm getting close. I have opened a word document, and I'm just preparing myself for the genious-ness to start pouring out ...
but I think I better go get something to drink first...
Friday, November 9, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Power of the Red High-Heels
You know life is good when I can break out my favorite pair of red high-heels TWICE in one week. sigh. Life is rich. Note: I did not say I am rich...just life. (And that's why I'm holding out to marry for money, because my uncle always said "Marry for money, love will come later"...but he also used to lick my face...so maybe his advice isn't the advice I should be heeding.)
I just spent the night out with some friends from work who I hadn't seen for some time because of my current full-time study schedule. We met up at Glo - a very urban, italian inspired, place on the Gorge (made me feel like I was in another city - I LOVE that!) to celebrate a birthday, catch up, and dream up our next few little adventures. It's always good to get together with familiar friends, especially during a time when so many of my days are filled with the unfamiliar. Unfamiliar staff members, unfamiliar environment, unfamiliar information...all this to say it was a welcomed reprieve. Comforting even. Isn't that amazing? Isn't it amazing how just the company of warm, familiar faces brings comfort to the soul, not to mention combining it with good conversation (and, even better, a fabulous meal) . Oh I am thankful for these people in my life. Especially during this time of change.
PLUS I'm thankful for a reason to get all dressed up and enjoy a night out! It doesn't take much to convince me to bring out the high-heels and hairspray to have a fun night on the town, but it's funny how it does take some planning. A good friend of mine and I have adopted the practice of the "Urban Summit"(an homage to the Bridget Jones Urban Summit). We're both single, young, professional, and rather fun-loving women...currently without men to take us out and about, so we take ourselves out. It usually involves either fabulous food or the arts (recently the opera "Indomeneo"...fabulous...apart from the female mezzo-soprano playing the role of a prince...but I digress) or better yet, BOTH!
The Urban Summit is a fabulous concept, especially for the single and fabulous female - although, I would recommend it to anyone (married-types included). Everyone needs an excuse to bring out their own version of red high-heels...because sometimes, just like a good friend, they too, bring comfort to the soul.
I just spent the night out with some friends from work who I hadn't seen for some time because of my current full-time study schedule. We met up at Glo - a very urban, italian inspired, place on the Gorge (made me feel like I was in another city - I LOVE that!) to celebrate a birthday, catch up, and dream up our next few little adventures. It's always good to get together with familiar friends, especially during a time when so many of my days are filled with the unfamiliar. Unfamiliar staff members, unfamiliar environment, unfamiliar information...all this to say it was a welcomed reprieve. Comforting even. Isn't that amazing? Isn't it amazing how just the company of warm, familiar faces brings comfort to the soul, not to mention combining it with good conversation (and, even better, a fabulous meal) . Oh I am thankful for these people in my life. Especially during this time of change.
PLUS I'm thankful for a reason to get all dressed up and enjoy a night out! It doesn't take much to convince me to bring out the high-heels and hairspray to have a fun night on the town, but it's funny how it does take some planning. A good friend of mine and I have adopted the practice of the "Urban Summit"(an homage to the Bridget Jones Urban Summit). We're both single, young, professional, and rather fun-loving women...currently without men to take us out and about, so we take ourselves out. It usually involves either fabulous food or the arts (recently the opera "Indomeneo"...fabulous...apart from the female mezzo-soprano playing the role of a prince...but I digress) or better yet, BOTH!
The Urban Summit is a fabulous concept, especially for the single and fabulous female - although, I would recommend it to anyone (married-types included). Everyone needs an excuse to bring out their own version of red high-heels...because sometimes, just like a good friend, they too, bring comfort to the soul.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
A Thankful Remembering
I love Thanksgiving. Somewhere along the way, it has become one of my most favorite holidays...and I'm pretty certain it's not just the fabulous turkey dinner that does it for me. I remember coming home for one Thanksgiving in particular. My parents had bought a new cd called The Greater Vancouver Music Album while in Vancouver the month before, and the cd had been playing much of the day while we prepared the meal, and sat down to enjoy it later in the evening. The day played out like a movie with the music in the background, framing this idyllic Thanksgiving moment. To this day when I hear that cd play (as I am doing now), I think of that Thanksgiving weekend. And although that was a great thanksgiving moment...it's not quite my favorite.
My favorite was about 6 Thanksgivings ago. I was living in Calgary, and in my third year of nursing. My boyfriend at the time was going to be coming out to visit, and we were going to spend Thanksgiving together. It was going to be great. Until we broke up a week before. It was the right thing to do, for both of us...but even with that knowledge it didn't take away the sadness and loneliness in my heart. I remember trying to find a way to get back to Victoria for the weekend on 5 days notice, trying desperately to avoid a terribly lonely thanksgiving. Alas, there would be no trip to the island to spend the holiday with family, there was no boyfriend...it was not looking good. But, quite unexepectedly, that Thanksgiving would become one of my most treasured.
Andrea, my roommate and long time friend, and I decided we would do our own Thanksgiving. We bought a couple of turkey breasts, got our favorite recipes from our mothers for vegetables and sweet potatoes, set the table with flowers and candles, invited another family-less friend over for dinner, and proceeded to have one of the best Thanksgiving dinners I have ever had. It wasn't gourmet, and I could probably speak for both of us by saying that our culinary skills have improved drastically since then...but it didn't matter. We had made our own Thanksgiving.
Maybe it was the taste of independence. Maybe it was that I realized in that moment that family now extended beyond "relatives". Or maybe it was the recognition of the undeniable blessings that surrounded me, despite my loneliness.
From that year on Thanksgiving became the holiday to spend amongst friends who felt like family. This year my parents are in Winnipeg spending it with the rest of our extended family, and me - well - I'm spending it with new Thanksgiving "family". Serving a slightly more elaborate meal than that first one Andrea and I cooked up that Calgary autumn weekend...but remaining ever thankful for the undeniable blessings that surround me.
My favorite was about 6 Thanksgivings ago. I was living in Calgary, and in my third year of nursing. My boyfriend at the time was going to be coming out to visit, and we were going to spend Thanksgiving together. It was going to be great. Until we broke up a week before. It was the right thing to do, for both of us...but even with that knowledge it didn't take away the sadness and loneliness in my heart. I remember trying to find a way to get back to Victoria for the weekend on 5 days notice, trying desperately to avoid a terribly lonely thanksgiving. Alas, there would be no trip to the island to spend the holiday with family, there was no boyfriend...it was not looking good. But, quite unexepectedly, that Thanksgiving would become one of my most treasured.
Andrea, my roommate and long time friend, and I decided we would do our own Thanksgiving. We bought a couple of turkey breasts, got our favorite recipes from our mothers for vegetables and sweet potatoes, set the table with flowers and candles, invited another family-less friend over for dinner, and proceeded to have one of the best Thanksgiving dinners I have ever had. It wasn't gourmet, and I could probably speak for both of us by saying that our culinary skills have improved drastically since then...but it didn't matter. We had made our own Thanksgiving.
Maybe it was the taste of independence. Maybe it was that I realized in that moment that family now extended beyond "relatives". Or maybe it was the recognition of the undeniable blessings that surrounded me, despite my loneliness.
From that year on Thanksgiving became the holiday to spend amongst friends who felt like family. This year my parents are in Winnipeg spending it with the rest of our extended family, and me - well - I'm spending it with new Thanksgiving "family". Serving a slightly more elaborate meal than that first one Andrea and I cooked up that Calgary autumn weekend...but remaining ever thankful for the undeniable blessings that surround me.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Thermodynamics, shmermodynamics
I am not a neat person by nature. It's true. Some people I know find this surprising - I suppose, I may give the "air" of someone who is neat and tidy. That air is incorrect. (Note: by neat, I do not mean clean...I figured that this was an important clarification to make!) I remember in Grade 11, my chemistry teacher was teaching us about the Laws of Thermodynamics. I don't remember the 1st or 3rd law, but the second went something like this (to any chemists or physicists out there, forgive me for butchering the exact laws of thermodynamics) - Entropy, or the level of disorder, always increases. To explain this, he offered that we could use it as an excuse for our parents who would nag us to clean our messy rooms by simply saying "I'm just following the second law of thermodynamics". I realize this story proves my, how do you say, nerdiness - but it's one of the few things from that high school chemistry lab room that has stuck with me all these years.
I am constantly at war with my "increasing entropy" tendencies. And I will confess, that it hasn't been until this year that I have actually made conscious effort to make my bed...everyday. I started doing it because I figured if I can make the beds of my patients' at work everyday, I can certainly make my own. And as I departed on this journey towards tidiness I began to realize a few things - Elise's Laws of Tidiness, if you will.
Law One was that with the tidy bed (occupying a good 30% of my room) suddenly the rest of my room stayed moderately tidy. Which, goes completely against our second law of thermodynamics! Tidiness (or order), in fact, was actually increasing!! Take that, Physics!
The Second Law, was that the amount of tidiness was directly proportionate to the chaos of my life. For example, once I started taking a few moments to remain tidy/organized in my room, it would somehow lend towards being more organized in other parts of my life - including homework, errand running, managing of my social calendar and personal appointments, and even finances. On the flip side, if my room became messy, you could pretty much bet somewhere else my life was messy. Interesting, though, how this little effort of being tidy prompted me towards better living, one could even say more godly living.
I just finished spending a good part of my day thoroughly cleaning my room, going through my closets and dresser to get rid of old clothes...a sort of delayed spring cleaning. Admittedly, it had been messy for a while (apart from the made bed) - there had been a lot of chaos as of late (mostly good chaos - family vacation, friends visiting, day trips, and in between all the fun, 12 hour shifts at work). But I'm ready for the tidiness to take over.
Thermodynamics, shermodynamics.
I am constantly at war with my "increasing entropy" tendencies. And I will confess, that it hasn't been until this year that I have actually made conscious effort to make my bed...everyday. I started doing it because I figured if I can make the beds of my patients' at work everyday, I can certainly make my own. And as I departed on this journey towards tidiness I began to realize a few things - Elise's Laws of Tidiness, if you will.
Law One was that with the tidy bed (occupying a good 30% of my room) suddenly the rest of my room stayed moderately tidy. Which, goes completely against our second law of thermodynamics! Tidiness (or order), in fact, was actually increasing!! Take that, Physics!
The Second Law, was that the amount of tidiness was directly proportionate to the chaos of my life. For example, once I started taking a few moments to remain tidy/organized in my room, it would somehow lend towards being more organized in other parts of my life - including homework, errand running, managing of my social calendar and personal appointments, and even finances. On the flip side, if my room became messy, you could pretty much bet somewhere else my life was messy. Interesting, though, how this little effort of being tidy prompted me towards better living, one could even say more godly living.
I just finished spending a good part of my day thoroughly cleaning my room, going through my closets and dresser to get rid of old clothes...a sort of delayed spring cleaning. Admittedly, it had been messy for a while (apart from the made bed) - there had been a lot of chaos as of late (mostly good chaos - family vacation, friends visiting, day trips, and in between all the fun, 12 hour shifts at work). But I'm ready for the tidiness to take over.
Thermodynamics, shermodynamics.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Where from your family?
I had an older, fiesty, Romanian patient this week. He's lived in Canada since the 1960s but still carries a strong accent, and strong eastern european personality! After having him as my patient for 3 days, and knowing only my first name, he asked me, in his delightful Romanian accent (Note to reader: incorrect grammar intended)"Where from your family in europe? Where your father and mother come from?" I giggled at his question, knowing he had recognized some of my treasured slavic traits, and said "Well, my dad's parents are from the Ukraine/Poland area..." "AHA!" he exclaimed. And circling his face with his hand, he said "I could tell...I can see it!" Not to forget my british heritage that I hold dear, I interjected "Ah, but my mom was born in England!" "No matter!" he said. "It's always you are who your father is. Generation after generation - it comes from the father." I told him my last name was Michalski, and he then listed the names of his doctors: Bozinovski (which he pronounced "Bozonovski") and Novak...somehow pleased for his medical team of eastern european heritage all the way over here in Victoria, BC Canada.
It had me wondering, wondering about my real heritage. I know little of where my family came from, only tidbits really. And it's a treasured heritage, because it's mine. It's the heritage that has me greeting my Ukrainian patients with the few short Ukrainian phrases that I know (translated they are: "How are you?" "Very Good" "Praise God!" "I want to eat" "I want to sing"...and then I tell them that my grandpa was a pastor of a Ukrainian church...and it all comes together!). It's is the heritage that has me telling my proper English patients that my mom was born in England, or my grandma was born in Wimbledon, and was a war bride...and instantly we have bonded over a love for a good cuppa', reverence for the monarchy or appreciation of English countryside.
If only I knew more...
I think I'm going to call my grandparents now, or maybe write them a letter, and see if they might tell me of their heritage...of my heritage.
It had me wondering, wondering about my real heritage. I know little of where my family came from, only tidbits really. And it's a treasured heritage, because it's mine. It's the heritage that has me greeting my Ukrainian patients with the few short Ukrainian phrases that I know (translated they are: "How are you?" "Very Good" "Praise God!" "I want to eat" "I want to sing"...and then I tell them that my grandpa was a pastor of a Ukrainian church...and it all comes together!). It's is the heritage that has me telling my proper English patients that my mom was born in England, or my grandma was born in Wimbledon, and was a war bride...and instantly we have bonded over a love for a good cuppa', reverence for the monarchy or appreciation of English countryside.
If only I knew more...
I think I'm going to call my grandparents now, or maybe write them a letter, and see if they might tell me of their heritage...of my heritage.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Summer I Was Adopted
It's ridiculously hot out. 36 degrees celsius...and I'm sure my apartment is about 3 degrees hotter...no exaggeration. oy. To cool down I decided to head to the beach today, figuring the breeze off the cool ocean waters would do me some good...and the sun might help me even out my tan! So to Willow's Beach I went with my towel, latest Real Simple issue, iPod, book and water bottle in tow. Sporting my latest purchase from Coombs - a sun hat that makes me feel like I belong in the Hampton's, I settled into my chosen sandy spot, with a piece of drift wood as my backrest. Sigh. Sweet, west coast beach.
As I settled in for my 20 minute pre-sunscreen bask, my mind was flooded with memories of the summer I was adopted. If you know me well, you may find yourself raising a quizzical eyebrow at this statement...but bear with me.
It was the summer I was 12 years old. The daughter of two working parents, and sister to a 17 year old brother only interested in anything to do with his girlfriend, I was set to have a summer of trying to entertain myself. How was it that those 8 weeks felt like an eternity? 8 weeks of endless possibility. Until I realized it was a little tricky trying to get anywhere on my own as a 12 year old. I remember watching a lot of Matlock during those summer mornings of carefree adolescent laziness...until my summer days were rescued by my adoptive family - The Blackstocks.
The Blackstocks were having a bit of a family reunion that summer, with aunts, uncles and cousins from all over BC coming to play hard on the Island...and fortunately for me, I got to be a Blackstock for the summer. Everyday was a new beach to be discovered, a new park to take captive, and new games to play. Breaking mid-day we would dive into the feast prepared by Mrs. Blackstock - only to run back into the water, with no thought of waiting one hour for our food to settle. Sitting on buoyant drift wood in the freezing ocean waters, unaware that we had lost the feeling to our lower limbs - we had found true summer happiness. Every evening I would run home rigaling my parents with the adventures of the day.
I don't know how long their family was in town, but I do know that I will often equate summer beach time in Victoria with the summer I was adopted by the Blackstocks. There is a photograph somewhere of Kirsten and I sitting on a log, backs to the camera, faces towards the ocean, daydreaming, I'm sure, of the rest of our summer plans and adventures...as sisters might do. It was the perfect summer.
As I settled in for my 20 minute pre-sunscreen bask, my mind was flooded with memories of the summer I was adopted. If you know me well, you may find yourself raising a quizzical eyebrow at this statement...but bear with me.
It was the summer I was 12 years old. The daughter of two working parents, and sister to a 17 year old brother only interested in anything to do with his girlfriend, I was set to have a summer of trying to entertain myself. How was it that those 8 weeks felt like an eternity? 8 weeks of endless possibility. Until I realized it was a little tricky trying to get anywhere on my own as a 12 year old. I remember watching a lot of Matlock during those summer mornings of carefree adolescent laziness...until my summer days were rescued by my adoptive family - The Blackstocks.
The Blackstocks were having a bit of a family reunion that summer, with aunts, uncles and cousins from all over BC coming to play hard on the Island...and fortunately for me, I got to be a Blackstock for the summer. Everyday was a new beach to be discovered, a new park to take captive, and new games to play. Breaking mid-day we would dive into the feast prepared by Mrs. Blackstock - only to run back into the water, with no thought of waiting one hour for our food to settle. Sitting on buoyant drift wood in the freezing ocean waters, unaware that we had lost the feeling to our lower limbs - we had found true summer happiness. Every evening I would run home rigaling my parents with the adventures of the day.
I don't know how long their family was in town, but I do know that I will often equate summer beach time in Victoria with the summer I was adopted by the Blackstocks. There is a photograph somewhere of Kirsten and I sitting on a log, backs to the camera, faces towards the ocean, daydreaming, I'm sure, of the rest of our summer plans and adventures...as sisters might do. It was the perfect summer.
Friday, June 22, 2007
hello my name is...
I confess. There's no hiding it. I love the big box stores. I love them. I love heading out into suburbia and perusing the over-sized stores in search of good deal. I love the vaulted warehouse ceilings of Cost-Co, and its lack of decor and personal style. It's as though I can breath easier inside the large buildings, while chomping on my hotdog in search of a sample suitable for dessert. sigh. I love them. BUT...not as much as I love the small independent business, nestled away in a side street of downtown Victoria. Where you inevitably find one of the same two or three people working behind the counter, excited to share with you their treasures which they seem to be so passionate about.
Today's adventure was Munro's Book Store on Government Street. Oh, how I love Munro's. So much so, I'm tempted to swear off Chapter's and other big box bookstores. I am a moderate reader. I am not someone who ingests a book within days, nor have I read many classics. I do have my favorites, though. For instance, everytime I am perusing the fiction section I check to see if there is any Madeleine L'Engle books. I am pretty sure I have read all of her books written for adults, but I always search with the hope that there might be one tucked away betwen a chic-lit novella and period romance. Alas, today there was nothing. But it won't stop me from checking next time I go in.
I immediately feel more intelligent upon steping inside the store, my breathing slows down, I hear the classical music playing softly in the background, and the ritual begins: the Munro's perusal. It begins at the new releases, and then to the Canadian fiction, general fiction, cook books, biographies and non-fiction and climaxes at ...drum roll, please...the discount table. Glorious, crisp, hard cover books, 12 months ago sitting at the new release stand have suddenly become available for only $6.99! heaven. I walk around the tables repeatedly, each time my arms become more full of purchase possibilities. Generally, I'm afraid to say, avoiding anything that has "Oprah's Bookclub" stamped across it...mostly because I just think she has to much power over what we already deem "Our" favorite things.
Unfortunately, here in lies my second confession...85% of the books I pick up are chosen because of their cover. Hello, my name is Elise, and I judge books by their cover. The only exception to this pattern of my superficial behaviour, is if I know the author already...for instance, the Douglas Coupland novel I bought the last time I was at Munro's (It was called "Eleanor Rigby", by the way...a curious, west coast, post-modern novel - if you're interested). I don't know what I would have done 100 years ago, when there were no design teams around to create the perfect font for every book, or find the best illustration to catch the reader's eye at the new release stand. I probably would've chosen them by color of cover...reading only purple and navy books, or something bizarre like that.
If I may, I will take a moment to make a small argument for the person, such as myself, who finds themselves being drawn to books by their cover. For it is not only the artwork and layout and font that attracts me, it is the tone of all of these things put together. Which I am sure the advertising and sales teams devoted to each author by their publishers are paid to do...but, I will be the first to admit...it works. Now - all this being said, I do not choose a book strictly by it's cover...I will flip through the pages, read an excerpt here and there, and see who's reviewed it and what they've said. So, I guess I'm not completely superficial...maybe, just a little bit.
In any case, I am going to go read my new book now ("Hatbox Letters", hardcover which I purchased for a mere $6.99!!!)....
Today's adventure was Munro's Book Store on Government Street. Oh, how I love Munro's. So much so, I'm tempted to swear off Chapter's and other big box bookstores. I am a moderate reader. I am not someone who ingests a book within days, nor have I read many classics. I do have my favorites, though. For instance, everytime I am perusing the fiction section I check to see if there is any Madeleine L'Engle books. I am pretty sure I have read all of her books written for adults, but I always search with the hope that there might be one tucked away betwen a chic-lit novella and period romance. Alas, today there was nothing. But it won't stop me from checking next time I go in.
I immediately feel more intelligent upon steping inside the store, my breathing slows down, I hear the classical music playing softly in the background, and the ritual begins: the Munro's perusal. It begins at the new releases, and then to the Canadian fiction, general fiction, cook books, biographies and non-fiction and climaxes at ...drum roll, please...the discount table. Glorious, crisp, hard cover books, 12 months ago sitting at the new release stand have suddenly become available for only $6.99! heaven. I walk around the tables repeatedly, each time my arms become more full of purchase possibilities. Generally, I'm afraid to say, avoiding anything that has "Oprah's Bookclub" stamped across it...mostly because I just think she has to much power over what we already deem "Our" favorite things.
Unfortunately, here in lies my second confession...85% of the books I pick up are chosen because of their cover. Hello, my name is Elise, and I judge books by their cover. The only exception to this pattern of my superficial behaviour, is if I know the author already...for instance, the Douglas Coupland novel I bought the last time I was at Munro's (It was called "Eleanor Rigby", by the way...a curious, west coast, post-modern novel - if you're interested). I don't know what I would have done 100 years ago, when there were no design teams around to create the perfect font for every book, or find the best illustration to catch the reader's eye at the new release stand. I probably would've chosen them by color of cover...reading only purple and navy books, or something bizarre like that.
If I may, I will take a moment to make a small argument for the person, such as myself, who finds themselves being drawn to books by their cover. For it is not only the artwork and layout and font that attracts me, it is the tone of all of these things put together. Which I am sure the advertising and sales teams devoted to each author by their publishers are paid to do...but, I will be the first to admit...it works. Now - all this being said, I do not choose a book strictly by it's cover...I will flip through the pages, read an excerpt here and there, and see who's reviewed it and what they've said. So, I guess I'm not completely superficial...maybe, just a little bit.
In any case, I am going to go read my new book now ("Hatbox Letters", hardcover which I purchased for a mere $6.99!!!)....
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