They provide the staff at my firm with snack-type food on a fairly regular basis. For a while it was just those Dad’s individually wrapped two-packs of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. They’re good, yes, but if you eat them enough over a summer they can start tasting pretty bland. Upstairs in our department we have a lonely box of Toppables crackers that I’ve been slowly picking at; they’re hidden in the top of the coat closet. Okay, they’re not hidden. They’re right out in the open, but I say hidden because if those puppies were out on the counter they’d be devoured in five minutes.

Don’t get me started on snack day.

It must be some sort of Pavlovian routine– we do work and get rewarded by bits of junk food. Not too much, no– they’re very careful about not letting us have an unlimited supply because obese people do not provide good legal service (sorry, that was discriminatory), but there are often Oreos and regularly hot chocolate packets and sometimes Ritz crackers. Ring that bell, print that letter! Eat a cookie. Perpetual cycle of fat secretaries.

So anyway, at about ten to 4 I started jonesing for a treat– nothing as calorie-laden as the monster Second Cup cookies downstairs (for all my lovely Vancouverite readers Second Cup is like Blenz, only about a hundred thousand times better. Still not Starbucks, but a worthy runner-up). I didn’t want to venture far as I’d already used up a fifteen minute break by wandering out into the sometimes rampant heroin-addict park across the street and sitting in the sun for 12 minutes, doing nothing, looking extremely pale and probably a bit forlorn, waiting for my day to end.

If this had been MAC in Vancouver a low-fat fruit bar from the ‘bucks would have definitely done the trick. But it wasn’t.

So I amble downstairs to the main staff room, in which I prefer to be alone. There are doors on both sides of the room and often people cut through it in an effort to save time, which can lead to an awkward encounter if you only come down to steal cookies like I do sometimes. Picture it: they’re professional lawyers grabbing a Coke Zero on the way out the door to their big investor meeting and I’m stuffing Dad’s cookies down my throat like the lowly corporate slug that I’ve turned out to be, usually trying to save the situation (don’t, don’t ever save the situation– I’ve learned that but still can’t seem to follow my own advice) by saying– or garbling with cookie bits flying everywhere– “Oh, hello” or, even worse, “look, they have cookies now- we’ve been waiting awhile for the good ones” whilst blushing profusely and feeling just how much of a loser I must look.

And hence, as luck would have it, today I was not alone.

Just as I open the snack cupboard door (and holy dinah! It was like snack mecca in there today! I guess Mondays are the day it gets restocked.) Good thing the presence of another human saved me from myself and stopped me from taking more than one kind of cookie– and they even had chips! Since when, Witten? Serious snack business has taken place during my absence(s).

No, one of the female lawyers walked in. There are a few at the firm. Okay, a few isn’t quite fair. Some might be a better term. Anyway, I have a relationship with this one– she’s known me a long time and actually talks to me, whereas most of the other ones don’t.

“Hi Andrea! How are you? How are you liking the work?”

What a loaded question. Perhaps it was my slow, foggy day, or perhaps because she caught me at the height of my vulnerability– sneaking Chips Ahoy at the end of the day– that I actually answered her truthfully.

We ended up talking about my career path for at least ten minutes.

Now, later, typing on my laptop in bed, listening to The Shins and thinking fondly of Chips Ahoy (here’s a bit of a sidebar: Chips Ahoy? Are we on some sort of cookie ship? They’re not my favorite cookie– I prefer soft and chewy to store bought packaged stuff, but who the hell am I kidding, I’ll put anything with sugar in it in my mouth. But I do love the name, I have to give it to them. Land ho, matey! Chocolate chips be ahead! Ahem, anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself here).

All I can think of right now is: okay, Steen, it’s crunch time. Why have you not figured out your damn career situation yet?

The lawyer also took the aptitude test. At the top of her list? Law. She loooves her job. Oh, I’m so happy for you. If only I had taken this aptitude test before I got my undergrad, I might be in as good of shape.

But she was enthusiastic– and maybe that’s why I walked away from our talk feeling inspired. Wish she was here right now too– we could eat pirate cookies (oh MAN! They need to get those. I should put in a request. Peanut butter and oatmeal sandwich cookies? YUM-MY. I was simply trying to make a play on Chips Ahoy) and get excited about my future.

I need to get excited about my future.

The only thing I get excited about these days is cookies.

Okay, that’s not true. But it’s time I devote some serious thought/research/effort into planning out the next while of my life. I like my current job. I do. But it’s temporary, and unfulfilling. The trouble is, everything I get excited about doing in my future is kind of unattainable. Or I’d be a starving artist. And I like Prada too much to not make enough money to buy stuff every once in a while.

She suggested I contact the University to see what I could do with my H degree when it comes to Psych (which is at the top of my list). I was always intrigued by psychology because it wasn’t really anything I had ever considered, but I do really love listening to people’s problems and helping them come to different solutions. I think I’d be really good at that. I like that the hours are fairly flexible, you can work within a team yet independently, etc. I’m into it. The pay is also really decent.

But I don’t want to walk into 7 more years of school.

So I’m going to set up an appointment. I’m going to go and talk to someone and convince them that I have an arts degree, and maybe I could swing some sort of combined Masters program after taking a few preliminary psych classes– and by preliminary I mean essential. And hopefully they say “no longer than three years and you could be a practicing psychologist.”

Because unless this career falls into my lap like I’m hoping it will, I’m going to have to go out and do something about it.

But I’m scared, and I’m tired, and I’m trying to buy a house, and who’s going to pay the mortgage when I’ve got school up to my ears?

some friends of ours are getting married this week (I say week because it’s an epic event) and everyone around me is growing up. I’ve been in Edmonton for 12 weeks now and I haven’t moved an inch. Why don’t they prepare you for this? I keep saying that they need to change school completely; revolutionize what they’re teaching young people. Who cares about chemistry? Teach mortgage payments and amortization. Aptitude tests should be mandatory, as should relationship counseling, social skill building exercises (real ones) and basic life skills- like food preparation, hygiene and child care.

All the stuff they actually teach us should come later when we’re ready to learn them. Like history. I love history! But I sure didn’t ten years ago.

All this out of one little break to eat some cookies.

Chew on that.

Even more so in Edmonton.

Summer is the only thing that makes Edmonton habitable. No joke. And it’s quick. 3 months, technically.

I’m excited. I know we’re on the verge of a good one. Sure, it’s been a rocky start. We had a cold May. It snowed, a few times. It’s not that unusual, but it still stings.

It’s taken me awhile to get back into it– back into this city. I know all I did when I was in Vancouver was complain about missing this flat-as-a-pancake dirthole. I did, I admit it. And when I got here, I went through a bit of culture shock. It’s weird how being somewhere for two years (less than two years) can change you.

Friends would ask how it felt to be back. (Actually probably the number one question people asked me for the first six weeks after moving) and I would take a deep breath, lie and say “Good! Great.” and then sigh and say, “weird, actually.”

It was WEIRD being back here. Things seemed different. Noises were louder, neon signs were brighter, the industrial parks in the west end were uglier. And the city– gak! What had they done with the city I loved? It was brown! And desolate, and cold, and not Vancouver, my home.

Oh my god, you’re going to call me a traitor.

Andrea Steen, number one Edmonton cheerleader for life just called Vancouver her home. Okay. It was my home. My temporary home. Full of my non-temporary friends. I dreamt about Vancouver this morning. It was one of those dreams you wake up from abruptly (alarm clock) so you remember them. I won’t go into details but I ran into my dear friend Atefeh and we had a great hug and I just had the best feeling when I got up and it made me miss Vancouver even more.

Seriously, I’m a textbook example of “the grass is always greener.”

Except I’m not.

No, like I said before, Edmonton summers are the best. And I know this one is going to be great.

Kick-ass start: Garrette and I drove 15 hours (felt like 1500) to George, Washington to the Sasquatch! Music Festival and I got to see many of my bands of the moment (Temper Trap, Passion Pit, Martina Topley Bird, Mumford & Sons, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros, Vampire Weekend), and some of my all time faves (The National, BSS, LCD Soundsystem, Jets Overhead). Here’s a lame secret: as LCD Soundsystem was wrapping their set (and, okay, I was pretty drunk, so I’m blaming the alcohol here) I actually had a little tear spring from my eye, that’s how good they were. I crossed them off of my so-called “bucket list”– which I don’t really have and if I did it wouldn’t be called a bucket list, probably something like “list of things I need to do before I get hit by a bus” list. Or something.

Anyway, Sasquatch! Pretty great. We got dirty, and drank vodka from ziploc bags, met some great people– watched tents fly in the air like the house from the wizard of oz… But those are other stories.

I’m in the Fringe this year. Talked my way in. Sort of, not really. Anyway, I won’t give you too many details but it’s in a shed. It may or may not be called Shed! (and we’re still not sure about the exclamation point). But I trust these guys with my life, we had a killer summer two years ago (before I transformed myself into a Vancouverite) and I know history will, if not repeat, then manipulate itself into a good time.

People are social in the summer. It doesn’t kill your soul to go outside. We go to patios, we go hang out in parks, we play soccer, we go camping.

People get married!

Everything they say about that is true. When you turn 25, people start getting married. It’s really happening. We’re all growing up, for real this time. Not like, you can vote, growing up, because, let’s face it, 18 year olds are basically still fit for diapers.

Wow, sorry. I am obviously out of practice. This post is rambling and not very funny, and I’m not really sure if I have a point. I don’t want to make excuses but I feel like when I worked at MAC I used such little brain power that I needed something at least a bit intellectually stimulating (such as writing and stringing together thoughts and editing) to keep myself sane. Now all I do is use my brain power and at the end of my very long day (usually without any semblance of break) I kind of just want to wallow on the couch in dirty clothes with Summer, eating Ben & Jerry’s. Oh, and Rice and Beans. They can come.

What I’m trying to say here is this:

Summer is what you make of it. If you’re sick of Edmonton’s spotty weather, move to Arizona. You can get a house down there really cheaply right now.

It shouldn’t matter if it’s a bit rainy or you have to work every day (we all do) or you’re broke. Get off Summer’s back. Screw the mosquitoes– go hike around in the woods. If it’s windy, go fly a kite. If it’s snowing, go dancing inside. You’ve got 16 weddings to attend? Enjoy the celebration and be happy you’re that popular.

Go see summer blockbusters. Blast summer songs. Take road trips (but not to George, it’s really far. Although, it is SUPER pretty down there, so yeah, okay, maybe go there. But wait until next year’s Sasquatch! and we’ll go together). Go see a fringe show (mine) and support local and international amateur theatre.

Live it up! and live it hard. Because here you’ve only got a short amount of time to do it.

Go have a mattress fight in a park at 4 am (seriously one of the best times I’ve had in a while).

Live your life. Don’t make excuses. Watch the sunset and sunrise in the same day. And give Summer a break. He’s doing his best to make you happy.

Hey, he showed up again, right? That should be enough.

xoxox

I haven’t written in 30 days.

I’m embarrassed. This self-professed blog-hater has gone from avoiding blogs like the plague to discovering something within herself to planning and editing and crafting to… avoiding again. And not on purpose!

I guess I just had more time on my hands in Vancouver.

And I really hate to break it to you, but this isn’t my triumphant return.

It is, in fact, my “it’s officially my birthday by three minutes and I know I haven’t written in a month but you just have to deal with it” apology post.

I owe you a few posts. At least four. Good ones. With lots of explanatory detail about my new life in Edmonton. And they’re coming, I promise. I guess I’ll blame it on a few things: 1) laziness. There’s something to be said for being exhausted after slaving away doing makeup for 8 hours but it is beyond tiring to sit on a computer for 45-50 hours a week. Honestly, it’s hard enough to get on facebook, let alone write for an hour. 2) time. pretty much all of my free time is now spent doing awesome things, like taking my dogs on walks and discovering they now sell Pacifica body butter at Winners. Winners! 3) inspiration. and this is partially your fault! Okay no, I won’t blame you entirely, but I’ve been having a hard time coming up with stuff to write about. This is probably due to my overall contentedness; it’s hard to breed inspiration when you’re blissfully at peace. Most writers are at angst with something in their lives, be it the assholes who take ten years to get through the self check-outs at the grocery stores (honestly, Grandpa, why did you think you could master that machine?), or something real, like global warming (although I think Atwood has to move on; Oryx and Crake = pure gold, The Year After the Flood = less than awesome).

NOT that I’m comparing myself to Atwood. (I wish).

If you want me to write (and I know you do, I’ve had countless comments about it) find me things to write about!

I’m not shifting blame. You want the goods, I’ll try and deliver.

But I’m still settling in. And I’ve got a few birthday celebrations to attend this weekend.

Maybe you should join? Empress Friday for beers, come one, come all.

I’ll tell you something though– your devoted readership is inspiring. And with yet another birthday upon me, I hope this year I can use this creative flow to take me to a new place, to complete my transition back home.

Because for all we complain about birthdays (ugh, getting older! Boo!) they are actually pretty fantastic. They’re a chance to wipe the slate clean for the coming year. To start fresh, to take a leap into the unknown.

Come join me, won’t you?

xoxox

the no-longer 25 year-old Andrea

I’m talking about the fact that I’m working for my father now– it’s not necessarily a family business, in a sense, but it’s business, and we’re keeping it locked down on the Steen front.

Yes. I have returned to the city of concrete yards, giant malls (closed on Easter Sunday) and brown, brown earth. (Seriously, I took the green-ness of Vancouver for granted, big time). I have also returned to my former place of employment. Not for the first time.

Not twice, nor three times.

This is my 7th time coming back to the firm.

Granted, most of those times were summer positions (oh the dreaded summer job at the office) and I didn’t exactly quit every time– the summer just ran out and it was expected that you’d be back the following year.

It wasn’t fun work, most of the time: I spent a good 3 months one summer (2003) amassing a mountain of closed files for review, probably inhaling carcinogenic levels of dust and cementing two fantastic friendships for life in the process. I’ve been a court runner, a paralegal, an office clerk. I’ve been receptionist and secretary– stood around the office cooler and helped with Corporate Challenge.

And now I’m back.

It doesn’t help (or does it?) that most of the lawyers have known me since I was in diapers; I’ve grown up with the firm, been babysat by partners’ children and have done lots of babysitting myself.

I haven’t been around the firm for over 5 years. It’s weird. So many new faces and still so many familiar ones; the brain is so funny, how is it that you can remember the name of someone you barely knew from half a decade ago but you can’t remember what you ate for lunch last week?

Everyone keeps coming up to me and telling me it’s so good to have me back, or conversely, expressing disbelief. (Guess I went out guns blazing last time. Oops.)

Are there any of you out there in blog-readership-land who have similar experiences? I’m sure my fellow partners’ kids have the same stories as me (Andy, good for you for getting out). I feel like this firm is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, as if I’m destined to spend the rest of my life working there. I could creep out all the file clerks– “I used to be a clerk just like you, and now I’m a crotchety old bitch lawyer, bitter from my decades in the office!”

Don’t get me wrong: I’m very happy to work there right now. I can’t express this enough, I am grateful for this position. I have the ability to help out my dad when he really needs it, and I had a job waiting for me back home, no questions asked. It’s Monday to Friday, 9-5 (with optional OT) and coming from the last four years of retail, I couldn’t be happier with that schedule.

I just feel like I’ve taken a giant step backward. As if somehow I’ve gone in reverse and the last five years of my life didn’t happen. Like this law firm is actually a hot-tub time machine and I’ve gone back to 2002 and am just a summer student trying to pay for jeans.

I keep reminding myself that this is temporary, a step on my way to finding my new and improved career. But it’s hard when you can still remember how to open files and how to butter up the lady in accounting so she’ll do your cheques sooner rather than later. Getting used to the firm is like riding a bike! So much so, in fact, that I feel stupid when I have to ask questions like how to dial out long distance and charge it to the file or how to– sorry, I won’t bore you with office talk.

Today the paralegal across from me asked me what I was doing before I came back (although I’m new to her; she has only been around for 6 months) and it felt like a lifetime away.

“Um, well, I was living in Vancouver, and I was a makeup artist.” The words felt foreign in my mouth. I didn’t know what else to say. Lucky for me she didn’t ask how I ended up at point b from point a.

And I miss that life, sort of. Blair went to Update today, which was always my favorite day. I’m slowly starting to forget how much I hated about that job.

Which I guess, in a way, is how I’m back at the law firm.

So thank goodness for the family business, for giving me a job and for welcoming me with open arms.

And thank god that my family business isn’t in porn.

Awkward!

This girl yearned to one day live in a land that celebrated healthy lifestyles, had bike paths, expensive health care and where all dreams might come true.

Then one day our ghostly maiden met her prince charming, and she lost sight of the magical land of bendy people in stretchy pants. He told her she should follow her dreams and live there regardless, and that he would enable the use of his magic blackberry with which they could speak effortlessly.

Before embarking on her journey, PaleGhost dutifully packed up her life in the land of the never-ending ice. She vowed that she was finished with brown grass and winter tires and that she might visit, but only when the sun shone for more than 20 hours in a day.

The ghostly maiden lived for two years in the land by the sea, and she grew to love its quirks and charm, most notably a few of its cosmopolites. She earned freckles at the beach, spent money at expensive organic groceries and admired the mild climate.

During this time PaleGhost lived under the oppression of the wicked queen of the west: the despotic Makeup Consumer.

Every day PaleGhost did her best to please Makeup Consumer, offering her beautiful services and rare and exotic finds; she bent over backwards in an effort to make the tyrannical queen happy.

But nothing seemed good enough for the Makeup Consumer, and soon PaleGhost found her happy disposition swirling and twirling quickly away.

Her Prince used his magic blackberry: “Come home to RiverCity! We miss you, golden haired girl.”

And the girl sat and thought: “I spend my time doing nought what I love– but the city is beautiful and my friends are so true, oh but whatever is a pale girl to do?”

Friends of the white one urged her to listen to her heart: “We’ll miss you of course, your weird jokes and spunk. But do what makes you happy!” So she packed up her junk.

On the eve of her departure of the beautiful, rich place, the girl sat and thought about what she would miss. She envisioned a future in the city without green and she remembered what sometimes happens to people who live in two places:

“Perhaps one day I will long to return to the city of high prices and delicious food; this thought might consume me and all that I do.”

Indeed, it seemed that the WestCoast city cast a spell over people who lived there: they dutifully paid the high prices, put up with the rain and those who leave always want to return.

“I foresee that happening to me!” PaleGhost cried.

But until then, the pale girl had to follow her heart, for she no longer wished to divide herself in two.

As she was leaving the city upon her mighty steed Fit, the pale face made a wish: a wish to keep a part of RainCity’s vibrant heart inside hers, and for her lovely friends so pure and true, to always remember the PaleGirl, whatever they do.

RainCity captured my heart!

Are we being punished for having been obsessed over as a child– or for not participating in any moves before the age of 16?

What is it that kids do when parents moves houses? I recall living in different places as a youth, but never the process of getting there. Kids have immeasurable piles of stuff. I can’t imagine what it must be like to move a small child and have no help from them.

Or, wait.

No, I do.

Because it’s basically the problem I find myself in today.

Like I said in my earlier post about hoarding– I’m a collector. I own tonnes of stuff. And because I decided two years ago that when I moved to Vancouver I was never coming home (never say never), I needed to bring it allllll with me.

Yearbooks. Old candles. Unopened DVDs. I was packing up sweaters the other day that still had some of my dog’s hair on them; obviously they’re well-worn here in Vancouver.

I don’t know anyone who likes moving. It’s tough. You have to be super organized (thankfully I am), there’s lots of heavy lifting involved (I’ve got weak wrists–boo), it’s expensive.

Plus, I don’t know about you, but I keep finding ways to distract myself into not actually putting things into their little temporary box-coffins. The other day I read the messages in my high school yearbooks and then got super sentimental and wrote to old friends on facebook (sappy yes, but you liked it).

I keep telling myself that I’ll need some sort of utensil or other in the kitchen and so still, my kitchen remains intact.

Every time I turn around there’s something new to do. And not enough time. Or too much time. Time to spare is the worst– there’s nothing like feeling the crunch to enhance efficiency.

I hate living in cardboard city. I try and unpack and set up camp as quickly as humanly possible and sometimes I give myself deadlines to prove I can do it. (Case in point: when moving into our old condo we had a day and a half to get everything done because we were throwing a New Year’s Eve party for our friends, and because I’m an uber-control freak I had to open every last box. Enter Red Bull.) So on the flip side of things, I try to stay organized and neat while living in a fort of boxes; they’ve been packed for a couple weeks now, some of them.

Every time I move I say I’m never moving again.

Sound familiar?

I wish we all lived in rent-controlled apartments, that life were like Friends or Sex and the City: people move, yes, but for the most part, the main characters’ dwellings remain the same. Because ultimately, that’s why we move so often, isn’t it? Things get expensive. Or roommates become crazy.

The girl who lived in my place before me lived here for 4 years. The woman before her? 12! Twelve years! That’s like, home base. For reals.

I hope the next place I move to will be for the long haul. None of this 6 month/14 month/9 month business.

Because I’m sick of living in cardboard city. And packing up my countless things.

Maybe I should just keep less stuff.

ah, there he is. Dr. Rice lolls about in the sun behind him.

Rather, I’ve been holding on to a snippet of information for a seemingly long time now, and I think it’s about time you were made privy to it.

First, let me disclose that this has been a hard thing to keep quiet, and a giant thank you goes out to all of you who have been rather excellent at keeping the secret to yourselves (or off of Facebook, which is probably most important). As well, I have found it in my heart to forgive you if you let the secret slip, but only just, so don’t push it (I’m talking to you, Paul Stroyan).

I’m moving back to Edmonton.

I finally told the management at work and so I guess the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak. It has been a process, for sure. First I let the agent know (who amazingly agreed to represent me from Vancouver, which makes me feel a bit like a spoiled Vancouverite), then the gym, then my landlady (obviously in descending order of importance, so work had to be last). Kidding.

Yes, it’s a big step. I know a lot of people are going to say that I didn’t really give it the ol’ college try (namely my cousin Joel who intimated enthusiastically last spring that I had to give Vancouver at least 3 years), yet there are others who claim that they would never have had the guts to leave in the first place.

August 2008 to April 2010 is a total of 19 months.

19 months of salty air, cherry blossoms and expensive insurance on my car. 19 months of the most amazing food, heart-stopping weather and best friends a girl could ask for.

19 months of Kits beach, drinks in Gastown and terrible, terrible drivers. I’ve been broke almost the entire time I’ve been here; that’s one thing I really look forward to– the ability to save money again.

In those 19 months we had a brutal winter, enough to shut the city down and ruin this lady’s favorite holiday. And this winter we had spring start in January to make me forget it all happened.

I’ve spent countless hours walking the arbutus and monkey-tree lined streets, eating in cafes that could rival the best in the world, experiencing tourists and patriots and the best Winter Olympics anyone could want, and coming to love a city so many have loved before me.

And I also spent thousands of dollars of my pocket money flying home to Edmonton– wait for it, 10 times in 19 months.

Vancouver is a great city, I’m not denying that.

But my heart lies in Edmonton, sandwiched between a tiny dachshund and a gangly-legged maltese.

Moving to Van was probably the single-most important experience in my young life. Ha, how the hell could I actually label it as such? I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I do know that it was something I needed to do; it has shaped me as a person.

I have zero regrets (about this, I do have a few regrets in my life, but those are a totally different blog post altogether). Living on my own is something I would never have been able to experience in Edmonton; now I’ve been afforded that liberating and sooo satisfying luxury, with a kitschy and adorable quirky old apartment to boot.

I’ve made friends here to last a few lifetimes, ones that I will not fail to visit on a (fairly) regular basis, and ones that will keep me company at all my favorite restaurants I’ve made whilst living here.

That is one thing I’ve been doing as the clock winds down, slowly but surely I’ve been going on “Andrea’s Whirlwind Eating Tour of Van City,” whose hotspots include but are not limited to: Coco et Olive, Burgoo, The Foundation, Vij’s, Tojo’s (saving up for that one), Cafe Medina, The Eatery and The Cascade Room. This city has some damn good restaurants! I can’t say that enough. Shopping, meh– no offense, Vancouver, but the cool places that you have to shop I can’t afford, and Edmonton has been a pioneer in getting coveted stores for a long time now, don’t ask me why, so I won’t miss that much.

Yes, the scenery– I do love spending an afternoon down at the beach with a book, and I have loved trekking around Whytecliff park and Lighthouse park and Crescent Beach on a nice day. I’ll miss the holly trees and the cherry trees and the little purple and orange crocus blossoms poking up in February. And magnolias! Be still my heart.

our favorite Dr. Seuss flowers, magnolias

But I won’t miss the rain. Nor the big-ass spiders. And not the laundromat!

And I long to return to the city whose heart is larger than its winter, who has a summer that makes it all seem worthwhile, and houses so many people I love. Also, due to privatization, who has liquor stores that are open on Sundays and car insurance that won’t cost you your first-born.

I’m an Edmontonian for life. It took me leaving to realize that.

But now a little part of me will always hold Vancouver dear; you’ve been good to me, definitely, and I’ll be back.

If not for you, then for the lavender lattes and waffles at Medina. Can we go, already? Jeez.

xoxo and all my love,

andrea

shot from my window this week... spring storm clouds

the Olympic countdown clock at zero days, 4.5 hours

It has been a bonkers couple of weeks here in Vancouver. As I was walking around my neighbourhood today I could feel the collective calm that has taken over; the 17 days of the Olympics created a tangible energy that you could almost hear. People were anxious, excitable, the whole thing was really intense.

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. No, not lucky enough to attend that gold medal hockey game (or any event, for that matter). But lucky enough to be apart of the action by day and remove myself by night. The only notion I had that anything was happening downtown once I was tucked safely away in my attic was the nightly fireworks faintly popping in the distance. (Well, that and the drunk gypsies screaming “No time for losers, we are the champions– of the world!!” at 4:30 AM the night after the closing ceremonies.)

At work we lived in a fishbowl amidst a sea of red and white bodies; people painted gold, men wearing red nylons, kids wearing mascot hats. As soon as I got off the bus and tried to force my way through the crowds on Robson street I felt my heart beat faster; anxiety was settling in for the duration. Part of me loved it: I’m so glad I got to be there and to see it, especially the 150K plus crowd that swarmed the streets after Crosby scored the winning goal. But part of me just hated it: the mass of people lined up in our store for free airbrushed maple leaves… the droves of people milling about and getting in my way… the 15 minute-long line-ups at Starbucks that took up my whole break.

It was a long 17 days.

MAC Cosmetics is the official makeup of the Olympic Games. Because of this, I got to meet some celebrities: Measha Brueggergosman, Nancy Kerrigan, Johnny Weir. I was a guinea pig when it came to makeup testing for the Opening Ceremonies. Some of my friends did makeup on Olympians and on countless performers.

In preparation for the games, I decided to get that controversial H1N1 shot. I did not want some international traveler making me sick, no thank you. But, last Tuesday as I met up with Blair to head downtown to “do Olympic things”– I felt, well, not quite myself. That little inkling, you know? That tiny tickle in the back of your throat, or the slight body ache, or the burn just behind your eyes.

I shrugged it off. We were going to have a patriotic, drunken day on the streets of Vancouver!

Enter the two of us, an hour and a half later, hungry and sober, describing how great pizza and a movie at my place sounded.

It’s a good thing we headed for home: it started raining heavily, and I got an important phone call that wouldn’t have gone over well if I’d been drunk and cavorting with patriotic fools.

Long story short: I signed on to do makeup for the Director of Public Relations for InStyle Magazine. I was to go to her hotel at 10 AM Wednesday, and then again to a salon for Midnight (they were doing something for The Today Show). When I spoke to the Director’s assistant later, I found out that no, my makeup services wouldn’t be necessary, but would I like to assist her anyway?

The Director called me later and insisted that my help would be greatly appreciated and would I like to come along on a crazy adventure?

Um, sure? InStyle Magazine? (How could I say no?!) She told me she probably wouldn’t need me until the following night, but that she would need me overnight to assist the models and in organizing clothes and accessories.

Enter me, Wednesday morning, with a throat full of razorblades and a wicked chill. I hightailed it to the walk-in clinic where I expressed to the doctor that I needed to know whether I could push through this (understanding the ramifications of staying up all night with a brand new illness) or whether I had strep (going around at work). He said no, I didn’t have strep, and gave me some Tylenol 2s (T3′s younger and less potent brother) for the pain.

I went home and immediately collapsed into bed, fever, body aches, sore throat, SICK.

At 11:30 AM, the phone rang.

“Andrea, it’s Katie, Beth’s assistant in New York? Beth wants to know if you can be downtown in an hour to assist her.”

Sure. No problem. I’m just dead in my bed and unshowered. Unshowered! To meet with InStyle! Oh mylanta. I’ve never gotten ready faster in my life. And I didn’t have to just look good– not like when you sleep past your alarm and you have to make it to work. No. Fashionable but not looking like I tried too hard, good. Effortlessly beautiful, good. Simple, trendy, inspired. Luckily the T2s had kicked in.

I don’t know how I made it on time. The cab helped. (I’ve never taken so many cabs in my life).

For the next 5 hours I ran errands around downtown Vancouver. I felt like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada. Okay, no, I was her, minus the New York and minus the slave for life title. Oh, and my boss was nice to me. The hard part was when the drugs wore off, halfway through my run. I would have brought them with me, but her assistant told me I would be needed for 2 hours, tops.

Enter me, feverish, white as a ghost (okay, whiter than usual), barely standing, tottering around Vancouver amongst the crazies. Later at her hotel as we were going through the outfits I admitted to her how ill I was (fearing she’d keep me until it was time to leave for the salon). She felt terrible and sent me home (an hour later).

I was so weak I almost couldn’t make it up my stairs. I took two more tylenols and fell into bed where I tried to nap in preparation to being awake the whole night. It was a fitful, pitiful sleep. I don’t know how much sleep I actually got.

I do know that at 12:15 AM I left my apartment. At 1 AM we were organizing the outfits for the gazillionth time. Redbulls and power bars later… At 2:30 AM I was steaming the wrinkled clothes in the bowels of the Four Seasons Hotel because our garment steamer that I had bought earlier that day was completely garbage, dismantled inside and most certainly a return. And that at 3:30 AM we (Director of PR, Style Editor, Models and I) left for Grouse mountain in two SUVs, and that at 4 we were traveling by gondola up the mountain with crazy people there to watch The Today Show.

laundry room at the Four Seasons, 2:15 AM

We sat around the green room for a bit. Kristy Yamaguchi was there. Some American Olympians were there. I turned around and Jimmy Fallon was there. The models got dressed, stood around a bit more, then suddenly, in a weird time warp, we only had 30 seconds to get ready for the segment. I double-sided taped, blotted, lipsticked, powdered, wiped smudged liner and sent them on their way. I took as many photos as I could without looking unprofessional.

yes, that's Meredith Vieira and Hal Rubenstein, 5:42 AM

The whole day (and night) was so strange to me; as if I was playing a part in a life that wasn’t mine.

I had to be that person who cuts in front of the line at Starbucks because I was more important. I know I’m not more important. But the role I was playing insisted that what I was doing was more important. I had to put a rush on developing photos and get them done faster than everyone else’s because of my job. I got to use the industrial garment steamer at the Four Seasons free of charge. The models asked me questions and I answered them, because that was my job and I was important. It was a weird feeling.

At 7 AM the SUVs dropped us off back at the salon, and I deliriously made my way home. I spent the better part of Thursday sleeping; I called in sick Friday and Saturday because I couldn’t get out of bed. I fought my way to work on Sunday (and am glad I did because I was able to experience the pandemonium that was downtown after that epic goal) but I should have stayed home, because I’m still light-headed and can’t stop coughing, and my throat still feels like I swallowed hot tar.

I knew that saying yes to that job while not feeling well was going to make me sicker. I did it anyway. Wouldn’t you? The Olympics brought incredible opportunities to the people of Vancouver; for a while I thought being a makeup guinea pig was going to be my only shot.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Was that my ticket to working for a magazine in New York? Probably not. But you never know. Sometimes life hands you lemons. And sometimes life hands you The Today Show.

peace and love,

andrea

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/35017294/vp/35581492#35581492  (link for the segment)

But, again, you keep reassuring me that you get it, and that we’re all weirdos, and we’re all making lemonade when life hands us lemons.

Maybe I’m spiking my lemonade with vodka.

Okay, no, you caught me. I’m actually eating leftover Valentine’s Hershey Caramel Kisses by the handful (and will definitely regret it tomorrow).

Guilty as charged: I’m a stress eater. I could probably write volumes on what I consume and the food guilt that haunts me, but we’ll leave that for another day. So what has me stressed?

My imminent future.

I think taking the aptitude test was both a blessing and a curse; amazing, of course, to know the options ahead that could be uber-successful, but staggeringly difficult to choose. As I’m looking ahead to the rest of 2010 (which is racing by at warp speed– you too?) I want to have a bit of my career path sorted.

So what do I do about that?

I spend five hours on my computer today.

Five. 5. In a row! I’m not even including this time, now.

Do you ever get like that? Where you can’t stop thinking about a certain something (be it a fight with a friend, an encounter on the street, an inspiration or a dream)?

Sometimes when I get something in my head it’s all I can think about and talk about. Right now I feel like my brain is on overload, going over and over different career possibilities and potential degree programs and rousing firms who might wish to hire me. I keep googling publishing houses and advertising agencies, looking to see who made their creative teams and whether I have the education to make the cut or if I have to do more school. I look at school programs and open houses and application deadlines. For law school. For psychology. For an after degree in education. I’ve looked into an MA in English (only to realize that after two glorious years of academia I’d basically be right back where I started, without a tangible career and even more broke). I even considered (albeit briefly) the MFA in directing at the U of A– but if I get that degree it won’t be until I’ve had a lot more directing under my belt, because really? What’s the use. Still no tangible career.

I’ll go like this (non-stop) for a period of 24-28 hours and then I’ll just crash. Rather, the urgency of the situation will fade away, and I’ll relax again.

Last week Garrette and I were talking about potentially planning a party to celebrate our wedding (spoiler alert: nothing came of this!) and I started doing the preliminary research. I checked out a few venues, looked at pricing, started looking at catering, etc. Sending him an email around 11:30 PM I mentioned a few possibilities but that all of the planning and details ahead were taking us into almost-wedding territory which we were trying to avoid in the first place. So I basically annulled (ha!) the wedding party before it even got off the ground.

And then my weird-brain-frizz took over.

From the point of the email to Garrette at 11:30 to about 2 AM I had done a complete 180˚. I don’t know how it happened! I guess I realized how doable a party would be at a certain establishment, how little it could end up costing us, and how much fun we could imaginably have. Of course this wound up becoming pages and pages of journal notes, doodling and cost-tallying. I laid in bed willing myself to shut it down so I could wind up with at least 5 hours of sleep.

When I spoke with Garrette later that morning he couldn’t understand how I had gone from party-terminator to party-monster (and therefore refused to get excited about it and basically said we weren’t going to discuss it).

I don’t know why I do it. I guess I’ll partly blame my gender; women do have a tendency to over-think things. It’s a never-ending cycle. I’ll tell everyone who will listen. I’ll write in my journal until my middle-finger writer’s callous is white. Now I’ve stooped to blogging (oh this day and age).

But I can tell you with all certainty that my brain is on absolute overload. And then two days later, it’s almost like it never happened.

You probably experience this with other people more often. Perhaps you put your foot in your mouth and offended someone. If this were me, I would replay the experience over and over, giving it a different ending each time that produced a better outcome. Sometimes this will even involve my speaking the lines of my past (and non-existent) self– out loud, at home. See? I told you that you weren’t like me. But even if you don’t create one-acts about changing the past so you’ll come off as less of a douche, you still might replay that scene over and over again, wondering why you didn’t just keep your mouth shut. Sound familiar?

And in a few days, the whole thing will just blow over, and you’ll rarely think of it. Or perhaps you’ll just give a shrug and move on, realizing it’s no big deal.

That’s what I have to remember today, when my neurons are rolling like a hamster wheel.

It will all work out in the end (one of our personal mottos). I’m young, healthy, happy. I have a great life. Just because I’m a type-A control freak doesn’t mean I can’t let go of whatever will happen. I’ll find a career that I love; I just have to give it time.

And in the meantime, I’ll probably fall down in front of a nemesis, or ask when someone’s baby is due (when it’s actually just a food baby). That’ll take over the brain-spinning for a while.

Or maybe one of you will pass along my blog to your ad-exec dad/step-mom/cousin’s nephew and they’ll hire me on the spot. That would take away some of the worrying– wink, wink. Plus I can guarantee you this blog will become much more interesting the second I start making money on it.

Until then…

here’s to life, love and the universe.

xo:andrea

Somehow my then-imminent move to Kitsilano came up, only to be immediately criticized.

Andrea: “Blah, blah (probably something about my then living situation) and actually I’m moving to Kits for June 1st.”

Random hipster girl: “Ohhh. Kits SUCKS.”

Andrea: (eyes narrowing) “I beg your pardon?”

Hipster: “Trust me, I work in Kits–

Andrea: (thinking to myself) “Probably at American Apparel”

Hipster: (continuing) “you do not want to live there.”

Andrea: (genuinely) “Why?”

Hipster: “Everyone who lives there is just so…ugh. Boring. Yoga. Organic. Starbucks. It’s just so… so…, trust me, I’m getting the hell out.”

Andrea: (slides a little further away on the couch).

I know to whom she’s referring. They live in every city. They’re the yoga moms. They don’t work because they have husbands who can support them (or massive debt, I guess) and they spend their days wearing lululemon, drinking grande triple shot soy lattes and going for facials.

Those bitches.

Oh, wait. No, I don’t hate them. Not really. The only time these women annoy me is when I get accidentally caught behind them when they’re all out with their strollers and it’s a giant Starbucks baby-tangle.

No, for the most part, I envy them.

Maybe that’s why my dirty-haired hipster friend (or should I say frenemy?) had such a huge hate-on for these Gap-inspired plastic people who somehow inhabit most of my neighbourhood. Because, let’s face it here, they’ve probably got a pretty great life!

I, for one, would happily trade in my holes-in-the-crotch leggings and basic cable for the Kitsilano life of luxury. I love Starbucks. I love yoga. I love buying only organic from Whole Foods and spending Sundays having brunch with my loved ones.

Today I was probably mistaken for one of the Kits yuppies: I had just come from a yoga class, was holding a tea from DavidsTea and juggling my yoga mat in the other hand and was on my way to Capers, all the while decked out in lululemon pants and jacket and, even better, underneath that an Olympic Team Canada t-shirt. It didn’t matter that the yoga class was actually taken at Yoga for the People, a by-donation yoga studio on the corner of sketchville (Hastings and Cambie), nor that I had traveled by bus.

Nope, because I looked the part. I was even wearing makeup. (What? I didn’t know I was going to be going to yoga later).

And it got me thinking: just why do we love to hate these people so much?

I’m sure the American Apparel-spangled, Ray-Ban and headband wearing, Crystal Castles-listening hipsters (oh, but they are not hipsters) probably hate the yummy yoga moms and dads because of how pretentious and un-original they seem. Ironic, no?

The Kitsilano Hipster: The Hippie

For a while (and before I really looked deep within myself) I wasn’t a huge fan simply because of jealousy.

I’m sure I’ll receive a ton of backlash on this article telling me a) how horrible these yoga moms actually are and b) the real reasons you hate them and c) that I’m a douche for criticizing all you hipsters out there (especially the fans of Crystal Castles).

Think about the way you view people who live in Yaletown (not everyone! relax!)– lots of the time the women who live in Yaletown have big, fake boobs and collagen-injected lips. The same way that most of the hipsters in town live near Commercial or Mt. Pleasant. The same way the equestrian-riding, carelessly beautiful, slender young things live in West Van with their parents.

But just because we look a certain way or act a certain way doesn’t mean we are a certain way. Indeed, the yummy mummies are privileged; maybe we shouldn’t hold it against them. They’re probably nice enough people– assuming they’re not judging us for our ravaged leggings or bus-riding, and why would they?

Who knows why that girl hated Kitsilano, really. Perhaps the proximity to the ocean made her hair extra frizzy.

I hope I can be the one to help break the stereotype; maybe someone judging me in my lululemon gear will see me spill my too-hot grande latte all over it. Maybe someone judging me for doing yoga will take a class one day and love how their body feels after. Maybe someone will judge where I live until they too live here and realize a few things: we’re all house poor, but we live in one of the best places in the world.

This community makes me smile every day. Just watch out for the Starbucks-stroller-baby-tangle on your way to the bus stop.