heart-shaped

After my essay was completed, it was just the two of us.

In our home. With a make-shift antenna made from bunny ears, our broom, and duct tape. I swear my wine glass lacked fingerprints until the men's moguls. Maybe it was because we were on bottle number two and I have a fear of breaking the Riedel.

I'm thankful to live with my best friend. Someone who makes killer breakfast and pretends to watch Grey's Anatomy with me and the old roomie while we eat. Someone who tries to teach me guitar chords after he serenades me. Someone who keeps playing games with me, no matter how cranky I get when he [cheats] wins. Someone who suggests words games, even though he knows his chances of victory are slim (maybe that's why he suggests them, now that think about it). Someone who supports crack-pot ideas like getting my Masters. I'm glad we travel well together and get to explore new places. That we have the most wonderful friends that anyone could hope for. I'm glad for the soccer team that brought us together. That we both have such wonderful families and that we're taking time this year to travel to destinations other than their homes.

I'm glad that at the end of the day, everything else melts away and it's just the two of us.

two

We've been sick. We've been sick with what may or may not have been H1N1 (who are we to go to the doctor?). We're not dead. Even though we didn't get our vaccinations (how can we -- we're neither at-risk nor part of the Calgary Flames). Don't say I never shared anything with you, darling.

Instead of going out for dinner on our anniversary, we were cuddled up on the couch with dinner made at home and one of our many bottles of wine. I like it even better this way. Through my raspy voice and with the cough of an 80 year old chain smoker, we talked about how our lives have changed in the past year. In the past two years.

He used to just be "moon boots", the boy with the shiniest soccer shoes on the team. The boy who I never realized I had a huge crush on, even when everyone else apparently knew it -- including him. Truth be told, I'm not sure I noticed until that Halloween party when I was fixing his black eye with my purple eyeshadow, mere seconds before I kissed him. I was always pre-occupied with bad ideas for boyfriends.

I'm no longer a downtown dweller, and he no longer lives in a peach-hued bachelor pad. There is art on the walls. And plants. Lots of plants. Dinner has gone from being hastily thrown together for one, to being one of my favourite parts of the day. We drink a lot more wine (we took a class!). I've missed one Christmas with my family, and he'll miss his first one with his this year. We compromise.

I buy bus passes, and I get to see him everyday. Even though I am back to being a student. I play more video games. Way more. I watch and read more science fiction, even though the mere thought of Lord of the Rings still puts me to sleep. But it's a beautiful movie, he argues. I know! The scenery and the music gets me every time. Instead of him hanging out with his fave guy pal, we hang out with them as a couple. It's "we" instead of "I". Instead of going out for a night at the pub, we play board games.

We play less Rock Band than we did when we started dating, and we eat in more. We've found that we travel well together. He tries not to pout too much when I take far too many photos. He doesn't stop me from drunk dialing my long distance gal pals, and we remind each other to call our families. He let my baby sister move in. I take up too much closet space and the dust bunnies are winning. We've organized, and reorganized to attempt to fit all of our stuff into one place. We've combined our pasts, our possessions, our families and our future.

I used to think all that "He/she is my best friend!" stuff at weddings was garbage. It's so lame to replace your real best friend with your significant other. But I get it now. It's not like that at all. He's become the first person I tell everything to, good or bad. He calms me down and helps me celebrate. He supports my crazy ideas (like going back to school) and runs out before work to buy me cough medicine. He dances in the living room with me and doesn't argue too much when I make him sing when he plays me the guitar. He knows how to put up with me when I get angry. Though my girly best friend can't always be there, he can be. And he is.

And that's just lovely.

Read: Love in the Time of Cholera

I'm a sucker for a love story. A love story that spans fifty-three years, seven months and eleven days and nights? Be still my beating heart.

Love in the Time of Cholera is beautiful. In the beginning, I had a hard time keeping track of the characters (mainly because a) I suck at keeping names straight anyway and b) I was only reading bits at a time on the train in the morning). Soon though, it became hard to put down. I wouldn't mind the Boy being a bit late to pick me up from the train station at the end of the day on his way home, just because I could get in a few more pages of Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza.

Gabriel García Márquez is a beautiful writer and provides visuals that make you feel like you're there with the characters. Márquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude is on my booklist still, and I'll be picking it up sooner rather than later.

fall(ing)

[via postsecret]

Finally, the summer is over. Fall, with cool mornings, clothing in layers, smells and colour-changing leaves, is upon us. It's sneaking up and bringing with it pumpkin lattes and a desire to make slow-cooker soups and stews. No more jetting off to Saskatchewan, or rushing around worrying about weddings and birthdays and fitting it all in. We're back to a slower pace. Relaxed. Sweaters worn to football matches. Scarves in the morning. Seeing your breath. I love this time of year so much.

The weekend in the Okanagan brought two rounds of golf, ten visits to wineries, fifteen bottles to bring back with us, and many, many hours spent together in a car. It was camping in the rain (B spilling his beer in the tent) and our first bed and breakfast. It was fresh fruit and coffee which ranged from very, very bad (McDonalds in Revelstoke, I'm thinking of you) and very, very good (oh B&B with your locally-roasted, grinded in house deliciousness). It was my first darts victory. Poker and beer. B being forced to put up with my dance party tunes while the radio was out of commission in the mountains. It was fall romance, despite the rain.

B likes my blog because so often I'm probably annoying people by talking about him. Ego stroking at its finest.

I've had some rough times lately. Summer drama. The things one goes through when one decided that maybe a friend is no longer a friend. Wanting to keep that person around for the good times, but realizing that you have to take the bad with the good. When she started telling people I love (and who I can only assume love me) that she thinks I'm depressed and that the Boy and I are not good for one another -- he's changed me -- I started questioning what she's telling those who don't have such close ties to me. To us.

"I don't think you've changed, and I've known you my whole life," says the Little.

I joke about it with B. I've ended more than a few sentences with, "Oh, it's just because I'm depressed." And we giggle.

"She doesn't read your blog, does she?"

If she did, there'd be no question.

This is totally how the Boy works.

[via XKCD]

Thanks to the lovely ShopGirl for sharing this site. Hours of endless entertainment, let me tell you.

You make my dreams (come true)

[David Perez Facorro via the Photographic Dictionary]

Love [luhv]
-noun
1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child or friend.
3. a sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
-verb (used with object)
5. to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.
6. to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).


I'm getting rather pathetic, cupcakes. The Boy went to Saskatchewan for the fourth week in a row (alone this time), and I missed him a ridiculous amount. The joy that raged through me when I got his "I'm coming home!" text message on Wednesday morning was off the charts.

Being without him though, did give me time to assess things. It's also gave me time to feel like I live at our place. Having to rely on buses to get around our fine city and find our way to the north end when it'd be so much easier to hang out at the old pad is a big part of that. Oh downtown, why do you have to be so appealing?

Back on point. It gave me time to talk to an old friend. A friend who really should not be my friend. We had our own messed up love story back in the day. Out of control emotions made us do things like send lyrics to each other and cry via webcam because we just couldn't be together. He was a boy who had been broken by previous relationships, a self-proclaimed robot. I was a girl (and still am the girl) who always wears her heart on her sleeve. I was sunshine and rainbows and he was a giant storm cloud. There was a long period of time where I didn't talk to him because he decided to date our mutual friend and I couldn't handle it (really, I told him he couldn't wax poetic to me and be with her -- it wasn't fair to anyone). We had a big discussion when he finally contacted me to say that he couldn't handle it anymore, he needed me in his life in some way because I'm just so fabulous (which is true). We've been friends ever since.

Back in the day, when I got out of a passionless, robotic, comfortable relationship because of some of the conversations we had, I thought that what we had was love. What we had was different, and I'd never felt that way before. It was both incredible and terrible. Everything was so emotionally-fueled it created some sappy feel-good moments and some major heartbreak. It was a rollercoaster.

It's not like that now. Love, I mean. The more days pass, the more confident I am that even though I'm kind of an l-word slut, the Boy is the only boy I've ever truly loved in a romantic way. No one has ever made me feel the way he makes me feel. He's someone I can tell all of my secrets to, someone who loves me unconditionally but isn't afraid to speak up if he thinks I'm doing something out of character, and someone who supports me in all my crazy endeavours (school, random committees, etc.). He's someone I miss an unbelievable amount when he's gone, partially because of the empty bed and partially because when anything good or bad happens, he's the one I babble on to about it. I'm attracted to him in every way, not just physically but mentally.

My friend told me about his own long-term relationship, and I feel bad for him that he hasn't found what I found. I feel bad that through all the conversations we've had about relationships and love, that he feels like he has to settle. His lady is lovely, but clearly not the lady for him. It reminds me of my own passionless, comfortable ex-relationship. The one he talked me out of, for the sake of my own happiness.

You deserve more, he used to say. I don't know how to get it through his thick skull that he deserves more too.

It's an indoor joke.

My baby, the nurse. The caregiver. The one who is always full of sweetness, compassion and love for all things. The one who, at 21, is way more emotionally mature than most people I know. More confident. Beautiful, inside and out.

I'm so glad that she's made her way across the country this summer to live and work in my city. To live with me for the first time in seven or eight years. My little blonde baby. I'm so proud to be your big sister. You're so full of knowledge, give such good advice, and you act like a little old granny like I do. We're lame in the most delightful ways.

Happy birthday, love.

Play me that country music

Thursday was a happy night. The sunshine came out for the first time in days as Kitty and I ventured to the stadium for Jake Owen, Jaydee Bixby, Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. Mini donuts and Corona. Not actually sitting in our seats. Seeing cute couples two-stepping and realizing that I'll never have that with the Boy -- it's not his scene -- but it's okay. I had Kitty to swing around. Plotting a trip to Big Valley some year. Throwing our heads back in laughter, feeling at home in the middle of the big city. Dancing from nearly 6 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. on the football field. Waiting in line for the LRT as someone started the Let's go Riders chant, the lone guy who started up cheering for the Esks quickly being phased out. Running up the stairs to be the last people on the train before they closed the doors.

Even though it was a present for Kitty's birthday, it was good to have someone to listen to country music (and dance around like a moron) with me. Both of us subscribe to the "dance like no one's watching" type of dancing -- arms flailing, finger guns, the sprinkler, twirling 'til the dizzy hits... I couldn't have asked for a more perfect night.

Sparkly!

It's been a while since I've posted here; Google Reader has made it painfully clear how long I've been away. I was in Ontario, celebrating love with my Valentine and having a family meal on Family Day, the first family meal since Christmas break 2007. It was wonderful.

I'm picking up where I left off, with a Monday Memory that flooded back when I opened my Valentine's present.

Don't get me wrong, sparkly things distract me to no end. I used to run into walls because of my sparkly, sequined purple flats. But the thing inside the box that brought the biggest smile to my face on Valentine's Day was not the beautiful, sparkly, heart-shaped, pink and white sapphire necklace The Boy picked out (seriously, he has become a master at jewelry giving), but it was the circular object accompanying that necklace.

It was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet.

Shortly after The Boy and I started dating, we went to the arcade in West Edmonton Mall. We played silly games for quite some time before cashing in our tokens on some prizes. Mine was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet, which adorned my wrist for months before it finally broke and fell off.

The fact that The Boy remembered this when it had nearly slipped from my mind completely, and went back to the arcade to play games some afternoon so he could replace my cheap, albeit beloved, bracelet warmed my wee heart. Though I may not wear it every single day non-stop, it serves as a precious reminder of the beginning of our relationship and how far we've come. I love it. And I'm wearing it now.

Heart.

It goes on and on and on and on

It feels like I’m constantly telling you how much I love you, so much so the words are lacking. It seems you’ve heard it all before and there simply is nothing I can say that will demonstrate that this is truly a monumental amount of love.

I love you more than you love metal. I love that you have expanded my musical horizons. Even though I don’t love all the roar-roar-roar that you accept, I have an appreciation for metal now. I love that when we started dating you were afraid your darker, complex musical tastes would scare me off. I have become interested in the culture and influence of metal in society, by watching documentaries with you. Also, the mix CDs you’ve made me throughout our relationship make me melt inside. New music that suits my taste shows how much time and consideration you put into selecting songs I’d like. Metal, and the music you’ve picked out for me, is calming. Just as you have “Boy” time with your music player and a long walk, listening to the tunes you’ve prescribed eases my stress level and makes the world okay. This is exactly how it feels when I get to see you after a long, hard day of dealing with annoying people, bureaucratic bullshit and my own special blend of personal problems.

On that note, I love you more than Steve Perry. If I ever see Journey in concert, even though the famed ex-lead singer and his perfect hair are gone, I would quite possibly die from excess glee. Don’t Stop Believin’ quickly became our own messed up love song, magically pouring out of speakers anywhere we’d happen to be. When we’re out and my ears detect the all-too-familiar tune, all of the feeling in my body rushes to my heart and I can’t help but look at you through the eyes of a giddy schoolgirl. Though I may be envious that his hair is nicer than mine, you are my only leading man.

I love you more than Fable II. You tease me that I’ve become a video game nerd, and boy, you know it’s true. I used to feel so sheltered since we were never allowed any sort of video game growing up (save for when the babysitter brought over her Gameboy and Tetris). I would politely decline playing old school Nintendo in University, because I didn’t have the mad skills everyone else developed so young. I love that you taught me something new. That you were so patient, teaching me RockBand, one of the pillars of our relationship. I can play that sucker on hard, or even expert, but being with you is always easy.

I love you more than road trips and vacation combined. My feet on the dashboard or the rush of take off used to mean freedom. The trip back home after a jaunt to Ottawa or a quick stop in Calgary would cause me to seriously reflect on past or current relationships, analyzing why they weren’t what I needed, or what went wrong. I don’t know what it is about returning to real life, but without fail, the sound of the engines lull me to sleep and take me to the land of lost loves. Maybe the return provides me with enough distance for objectivity. Flying back after our last delay in Vegas, as the engines finally did their thing, all I could think about was how you are The Boy for me. I look forward to exploring many new destinations with you. Even when it has seemed like the planets were aligned to diminish my sanity, every moment with you was truly vacation.

I love you more than breakfast. I didn’t even used to eat breakfast. I couldn’t be bothered. For years, my Dad would wake me from my slumber by asking how I wanted my eggs, a vile food that I never liked. Making omelets, scrambled eggs or pancakes with you on weekends has become one of my most favourite moments. It’s always delicious, even more so because, by that time of day, you’ve already satisfied my caffeine addition. Even when crappy frying pans prevent your omelets from turning out just right, the time I get to spend with you in the kitchen is perfection.

I love you more than board games, card games, or any kind of games. Heck, I love you even more than winning. You’ve made me pretty good at Bocce. Settlers of Catan makes my heart race, even though you are too ridiculously good. I embrace my inner elderly person by playing hours upon hours of Cribbage with you, and have forced your family many times to quench my insatiable appetite for games, games, games. I love that you put up with me, and play word games like Scrabble or Quiddler, even though I should theoretically win every time. The happiness that I feel when playing games with family, or friends, or with only you, is unsurpassed by the happiness you bring to my life. And you know how obsessed I am.

I love you more than debate. Everyone knows that I am the opposite of confrontational, but that I can rant and rave with the best of them. I love that we get into intoxicated debates about the state of the economy, politics, and the environment. I love that we vote for different political parties and don’t hate each other for it. I love that even when we do fight, we acknowledge it’s because we care so much. I love that you encourage me to talk things out when I’d rather keep my feelings inside. All of the madness that could build and build until I become an angry, nasty person is mitigated because of you. I love that you are rational and keep me that way when my emotional nature threatens to bubble and explode. Healthy relationships aren’t relationships that are always happy, they’re ones where you can compromise and agree to disagree on everything else. Though we can debate about anything from politics to paint chips, it’s always done in a respectful manner without the low blows.

This is a love unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I handed my entire heart and soul to you, and have remained one distinct person. I miss you when you’re gone for even a day, but I can live independently from you. Recently, while walking around the city, caught in silent reflection of what I’ve achieved over the past couple of years since I’ve been in Edmonton, I realized that I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. It helps that I have incredible friends, a great family and a job that I love, but it wouldn’t be the same without you. You encourage me to get involved with causes I’m passionate about, even when it means not being able to spend as much time together. You let me vent my frustrations, while easing my stress rather than spurring my anger. I love everything you are, even though everything you are is different from me. Just when I don’t think it’s possible to love you any more than I already do, I realize that my heart has grown two sizes that day.

Long story short, I love you a lot. Just so you know. Happy Valentine’s Day.

In addition to being added to The Boy's Valentine's Day card, this post is my entry for February's 20-Something Bloggers' Blog Carnival.

An unexpected love letter

Dear Roomie's Boyfriend,

I don't know if you know this, but you are pretty great. My girl has been through a lot of crappy men in her lifetime, and it pleases me to no end that you are not another one of Them. You listen to what she has to say, you get her, and most importantly, you give her a break from feeling like she needs to fix people all of the time. You make sure she makes time for herself.

I know many of Roomie's friends haven't been super supportive, or confident, in this relationship. Age difference has that effect on people. The thing with our girl though is, while she can be immature at times, she is grown up beyond her years. Antoine de Saint-Exupery said that love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction. I feel like, for the first time in as long as I've known her, she finally has that. Actually, I don't just feel it, I know it.

Roomie is pretty outgoing, she's known for being sexually adventurous and open, she's honest about everything and keeps nothing hidden. I've heard more than I ever wanted to know about her boyfriends' man parts. But you know what? I haven't heard about yours. Don't think that I want to hear about yours (gross!), but I think that this is pretty significant. Instead of bragging about the size of your meat, or complaining because the lack thereof, she talks about how amazing it is to kiss you. Previously, she had mentioned that she didn't understand the big deal about kissing, that its place is as the precursor to the main event. But with you, it's all she talks about. How sweet you are, how she gets butterflies when your lips touch and how being with you is unlike anything she's ever felt.

Our girl tends to lose herself in relationships. She feels the need to censor herself, or devote all of her time and attention to the new guy, or hide some awesome part of her that he's not keen on. The best thing I could ever say about your relationship is that this doesn't happen. She's still the old roomie, her completely lovely self. I love that you want to meet her friends, and that you invited the Boy and I along to the comedy club last week. I love that you're coming to our not-really-fancy-but-kinda-pretend-fancy wine and cheese party this weekend, meeting lots of people who you've never met before. You realize that Roomie's friends are important to her, and you encourage her to keep those relationships alive. Even better, you want to get to know the people she talks about.

I just wanted to let you know that I really hope you are The One for her. She's found a good thing in you, and you've definitely found something wonderful in her.

...And if you ever break her heart, I will cut you.

xoxo, Elle

Not quite the first

I've already told the tale of my first kiss, but it's Monday Memories day, so I thought I'd share my second.

I went into tenth grade with a plan. The Ontario government had decided that it was doing away with OAC (grade 13) and that the year I finished highschool would be its last. This decision would result in a dramatic influx of students graduating my year, and because I am not fond of competition, I was going to get out fast. It would mean a lot of trickery, like taking my necessary grade 13 credits in grades 10-12 and taking grade 11 and 12 English at the same time. It would mean missing out on things that I would have liked to do, but that weren't necessary courses to take, such as photography and family studies (aka the class where you carry around the screaming doll). I wasn't in love with highschool, so the thought of getting out in four years rather than five worked for me.

Grade 11 English Writing (which I took that year, in grade 10) was quite possibly my favourite class ever. Mr. B was the most hilarious teacher, he once forced my grade 9 class to purposely snort while laughing just to send us on a laughter rollercoaster (once you start laughing at people snorting, the laughter is impossible to stop), he opted to have us act out the whole of Midsummer's Night Dream rather than doing any grammar, he plied my friend and I with chocolate-covered coffee beans when he spotted us in the hallways, and we had a class where we did nothing but turn out the lights and tell ghost stories. With my love of writing, and my adoration of him, this class was bound to be a success. I didn't even anticipate meeting my first "official" boyfriend there (more official than having your whole relationship last the length of recess, or longer, but without actually hanging out or talking, as was the style in elementary school).

Brent was a comedian with a sensitive side. We sat beside each other, spending much time reading Matt Good's manifestos, and chatting, and not quite so much time writing. This was fully acceptable in this class. I worked with Brent's ex-girlfriend. Customers constantly mixed us up, thinking that they had been talking to one of us when really it was the other, regulars would think one of us had been working the longest shift in the history of coffee-pouring, merely because we looked somewhat alike. It didn't hurt that we both had the hideous uniform and a ponytail. Sarah and I became fast friends, and it's only 900-and-something days until I'll be walking down the aisle at her wedding as her Maid of Honour, a job she bestowed upon me because "any trouble we got into we did it together, so I know you won't give yourself up and tell embarrassing stories about me!". She ended her relationship with Brent because she had a thing for one of his best friends, the man she'll be marrying in July of 2010.

Apparently, Brent saw the similarities in Sarah and I. As we started to hang out in a group, he started spending more time around my locker and wrote me love notes. One day, he had a pack of SweetTarts in class, and I took a blue one when he offered, telling him that they were my favourite. The next day, he brought me every last blue SweetTart that he had uncovered in the roll. It was the sweetest thing my 15 year-old self had ever experienced. It was young, dizzying, puppy love.

My aunt and uncle lived in town, and I'd stay there when I had to work in the morning, to save my parents the trip. It became routine that he'd walk me back to their place after hanging out with the gang. We flirted constantly, he poetically attempted to woo me, the only thing stopping us from being an out-and-out couple was the fact that he didn't have the nerve to break up with his short-term girlfriend. I know. Me, being the good girl I was, refused to let him make a move while she was in the picture.

Eventually, she found out that he liked me and took care of things for him. We were in the clear. The butterflies that had accumulated all of that time had been easy to tame with the constant reminder that he was taken, but now that there was nothing restraining us, those assholes were fluttering around all over the place. One night, he walked me "home" as per usual, stopping to kiss my hand and be his charming self, and we sat on my aunt and uncle's porch for hours talking. Hours. As the sky started to lighten, he finally got the nerve to place his lips on mine. And that's when the bathroom light went on and I nearly jumped out of my skin thinking my aunt or uncle would come outside looking for me. God forbid they find me outside kissing a boy! A couple sweet, innocent kisses later, I was sneaking into the house to catch a couple hours of sleep before work, completely infatuated.

Our little relationship didn't last long, as I don't take peoples' crap and he ended up being fluent in bullshit, but those moments of anticipation and innocent flirtation made my little heart beat, beat, beat.

Why I Relay

I must admit, before I interned at the Canadian Cancer Society cancer wasn't a bit concern of mine. I had very few people around me touched by this disease. I had never held the hand of someone I loved as they underwent chemotherapy or radiation. I had never had to see the health of anyone close to me deteriorate before my eyes. I had never seen the fight that survivors go through, or experience the victory when all signs of cancer have left the body.

The only real experience I had with cancer was when a girl in my elementary school died of the disease. And we weren't close. I chose the internship at the Canadian Cancer Society because it was good experience. Because the women who worked there were friendly. And because the City of London had decided not to take an intern, afterall. I knew I'd not only be a part of the public relations team at the office, but I would be the entire public relations team. You'd better believe that looks awesome on a resume.

I loved working at the Society. I got so involved in the cause that I started working extra hours, I started volunteering for events like Daffodil Days. I started hosting volunteer training sessions in the evenings. The women who worked there became my family. We didn't just share a job, we shared our lives, our stories, and in some cases, experiences with cancer itself. I met so many people who were in various stages of cancer treatment, so many survivors, and so many families and friends of both those who beat the disease and those who lost. These people changed my life.

I volunteered for the Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life that year, and seriously guys, I never expected one event to touch me so deeply. When the cancer survivors started off Relay with the Survivors' Victory Lap, we cheered and applauded with tears in our eyes. Their victories were the victories of the thousands of people who showed up that night. Their victories were proof that cancer could, and will, be beaten. Their victories held hope for those who were recently diagnosed and their friends and families who put together teams to support them. It was an amazing high.

Later, at dusk, when the luminaries were lit around the track, casting a glow over the field as Amazing Grace rung out, friends and strangers united in their common grief. They lit candles to remember those who couldn't be at the event because their bodies weren't able to beat the disease. They lit candles in hope that those they loved would kick cancer's ass. They lit candles for friends, for family, for people they had never met. To walk around that track and feel the presence of all of those who lost their battles, to see the tears in everyone's eyes, to see friends and family grasp their loved ones tight in support, it was overwhelming. It no longer mattered that cancer wasn't overly close to me. What mattered is that we find a cure.

In 2008, it is estimated that approximately 166,400 new cases of cancer and 73,800 deaths would occur in Canada. That's an average of 3,200 Canadians diagnosed each week, and 1,419 Canadians who would die of cancer every week. Every one of us will be touched by the disease in our lifetimes, if not personally, then by dealing with the disease attacking a friend of family member.

Guys, I don't like to ask anything of you, but it would mean the world to me if you would pledge me for Edmonton's Relay for Life event this year. On the right sidebar, I have a link to my personal, secure page where, if you want to, you can make a donation. If you're in the area and want to join my team, give me a shout. The event is absolutely incredible and I encourage you to participate in an event near you (by the way, the Canadian event is based off of the ones done in the United States -- so even if you're not Canadian, you probably have one of these things taking place in your area).

Let's fight this disease for those who haven't been able to, for those who don't have the strength, for those who are too busy supporting their loved ones to have the energy. Let's make cancer history.

Book ME in: my first review of 2009

When I was just a little girl, I thought I was more of a cat person than a dog person. I’d spend hours while pretending to do my chores, mainly focused on playing with the kitties and searching out new ones in the barn. They’d get so tame, that if you went pick up a bale, they’d scurry on to it to get your attention; or you decided to sit down for a rest, they’d climb right up on to you. I was personally hurt when my brother took to torturing the poor things, swinging them around by their tails and whatnot.

When my sister scoured the want ads and listened to “Swap Shop” on the radio religiously to find a suitable dog for the farm, I wasn’t too interested. When “Katy” arrived on the scene, I was annoyed that I couldn’t run barefoot on the lawn, or lay outside without the slobbering Collie all over me. She was a dumb dog. She stood in the middle of the road and barked at traffic. She climbed up the stairs on to the school bus. She got hit by tractors, the slowest moving vehicles on the planet. I was not her biggest fan.

When a lovable Golden Retriever/Labrador cross took her place; however, I changed my tune. Nelly was (and still is, as far as I know) a beautiful dog. A hot blonde. Gentle, more intelligent, so adorable that everyone in the family began giving her treats for the hell of it. If I decided to lay in the grass, she’d sit beside me with her tail thump-thump-thumping away.

It’s because of Nelly that Marley and Me by John Grogan was such a wonderful reading experience. It was easy to relate to the demeanor of Labs, the way the Grogans fell in love with the little pup, the unconditional love when Marley devoured the house and failed out of dog training. While our experiences with our beloved family pets were quite different, I couldn’t help but love this tale.

Before I start to gush too much, I feel the need to inform everyone that I haven’t seen the movie. A co-worker loaned me the book with her own story about how tears sprung to her eyes at opportune moments, warning me that if I was a crier (which I totally am) I was doomed. I don’t know if it was the fact that I carried this book around everywhere with me on the off chance that I’d get to read a couple pages here and there that prevented me from tearing up at the end of the story or not, but I didn’t cry. However, the fact that I wasn’t moved to tears didn’t ruin my impression of the novel.

Marley and Me is a relatable story about the impact a family pet can have on your life. Certainly, for anyone who had a dog growing up, or has one now, it’s easily to nod your head as you read about the trials and tribulations the Grogans face with Marley. Though we all come from different backgrounds, different family situations, and experiences, Marley and Me is the type of story that brings people together. This is probably why when John Grogan wrote the obituary for his pet in the paper he worked at, he received more calls, e-mails and letters than he had for any other piece of his career.

I spoiled it, but c’mon, you had to know that was coming.

Do yourself a favour, pick up Marley and Me and remember your own favourite childhood pet as the story unfolds.

This was my first book review over at Book Me In. Thanks guys, for letting me join in as a contributor, I look forward to doing a review of each book I read this year. Also, I want a dog now. Please, Boyfriend, please?

Dear Sweetheart: Love Letters from a Soldier

During this particular lovey-dovey week, I'm a little soft for the stuff that love letters are made of. If you're looking for a little love-fest read these ones, featured in the Globe and Mail.

It was the Second World War. A million young Canadians were marching off to risk their lives. One of them, David K. Hazzard, was separated from his beloved wife Audrey, but soon found a way to fight the loneliness – with his pen.

He wrote hundreds of letters, beginning each the same way – 'Dear Sweetheart.' They are a riveting account of what he went through.

How did he cope without Audrey and his two young daughters? How did they cope without him? In the weeks ahead, the series Dear Sweetheart will publish new letters daily. In the end, their story is our story.

We tell it as a homage to those who died, the 180,000 veterans who survive, their children, their grandchildren – and Canada's fighting families today.

How time flies...

It's been one year since this night.

Having enough of those mysterious drinks in that red cup to kiss that boy that I had a crush on and didn't realize I had a crush on (though he knew it, and Roomie had been telling people I did for months). A sleepover with a grand total of five, fully-dressed (of course!), intoxicated Halloweeners in my bed. Not having enough of those red-cupped drinks to prevent us from ever seeing each other again.

Love affair

I have a not-so secret love affair with the mountains. I don't know what it is, but whenever I see them I say something along the lines of "Eee! Mountains!" and get kind of giddy and excited.
We went camping this weekend. Braved the cold, the rain, the snow, the squirrels and managed to have a pretty fabulous time. Saturday was a gorgeous day for a hike.
It's kind of sad to be at work, still smelling vaguely of campfire, tinged a nice shade of pink from the sun... yearning to be hidden away in a tent somewhere with my other great love.
This full week of work is going to be painful.

Excerpts from the best e-mail I've ever received

Pieces from a message sent to me by my baby sister. A girl of whom I am so proud. I am so in awe of her smarts, her integrity, the way that she thinks and how she treats others. I look up to her. Even as she is the younger sister and I am the older sister, I've learned a lot from her. The thought that I have had some impact on the magnificent person that she is warms my heart to no end. Last week when I was having a horrible, horrible week, reading her words was what got me through.

I can't say enough.. how happy I am that you found someone that makes you SO happy. Sometimes I get really down because boys aren't exactly knocking my door down or anything.. but I'm glad that at least I have enough strength to be able to face the fact that at least I've got my independence and I can go anywhere in life. I think I owe a lot of it to you.. because you don't put up with the shit boys dish out.

Many people have impacted my life for me to be the person I am... but in the sense of boys.. it comes down to a couple people.. you... joe and christine.. cherie (a woman I work with whom we talked about it a little) and a random patient one day (who was beat by her first husband.. and was telling me how she finally found true love..)... it funny how different people can impact one's life.. hah. (OMG. this rant is just SO RANDOM! I'm sorry.. ahha. basically I'm thinking in writing. haha...) But anyways.. if it wasn't for you.. telling me some of your stories... I don't think I would be the confident young lady that I am.. that would stand up to a boy and not deal with the shit he has to throw my way...

I love you.. and I hope someday I will be as happy as you are with B... from what you tell me.. it would be my definition of true love.. not finding someone who "needs" you, or you "needing" them.. but someone that compliments your life in such a way that you are a better you when you are with them... not having someone you can live with.. and not merely someone you can't live without.. but someone that without them.. you wouldn't be the best possible self... I don't know how else to describe it. But this is long enough already... I love you .. you make me me. and I miss you terribly. xoxo.

Love, Love, Love

The New York Times held a Modern Love Essay Contest, the first winner was featured in the paper on Sunday, May 4.

Seeing this article made me think a little bit of my own little notions of modern love, so why not write this here, really?

Love, to me, is all about finding a certain amount of balance.

It’s about finding someone who lets me be myself. My nerdy, completely clumsy, somewhat girly, into the wine -- which makes me very chatty, self.

It’s now a balance between the guy who once thought he was a good guy, but really wasn’t and another one who was annoyingly nice. The former told me he was, “so glad that I wasn’t a feminist” which bothered me as I do consider myself to really be into what’s good for my gender. We’d have in-depth discussions of Big Issues and he’d listen to my opinion and then repeat it back to me completely unrecognizable as he had morphed it to equal his own. He also had a sneaky way of consulting me on plans but ensuring that we did whatever he wanted to do. This eventually led to me crying in the Sand Hills, my pale skin roasting under the hot sun, my feet burning from the insanely hot sand. Mild heat stroke. Walking up steep hills of sand, which shift you back two steps for every step you take. That day, walking over the shifting sand, I also decided that I wouldn’t settle. Though it did take a bit longer to break things off.

The latter was another good-on-paper guy who I just was never really into. However, he wouldn’t let me really be me either. The only reason I really even went out with him was because I had recently gotten out of a thing with a guy who was less-than-nice to me, so it was a refreshing change. I would try to crack a joke about how clumsy I am, or a stupid thing I did that day and he would shut me up with a comment about how I was perfection. As my incredibly-too-smart-for-her-age baby sister has more recently mentioned (about a boy like this who she dated), “If he thinks I’m perfect, he isn’t paying enough attention.” This boy proved that he was far less than perfection, when in a fit of anger, months after our short lived whatever (I refuse to call hanging out a few times over a span of three weeks a relationship) he decided he couldn’t stand to see me with another boy and drove home from a party Roomie and I hosted incredibly drunk. After trying to get along “as friends”, this was the last straw. I haven’t talked to him since.

My mother mentioned to at least one of my sisters (can’t remember the details exactly) that she didn’t think I’d ever settle down. Mainly because I’m “too independent” and refuse to settle. Which, personally, I now take as a compliment.

Because of refusing to settle, I’ve ended up in something pretty great. Refusing to settle means that I made The Big Move from small-town Ontario to urban Alberta. It means that I’ve found a career that challenges and excites me. It has helped me develop friendships which otherwise would not have been developed. It has directed me to the current man.

A boy who makes fun of me just as much as I make fun of myself. But who also lets me make fun of him. A boy who I can talk to about the big things, without having to agree on everything. A boy who encourages me to play video games (something I am completely awful at) but who teaches and is helpful instead of demeaning. A boy who makes incredible breakfast and has very unexpected musical tastes. Some of which I like, and some of which I don’t. And he doesn’t expect me to like it all. For a long time, he was afraid of playing it around me because he “didn’t want to scare me away”. Heh. He’s incredibly smart and tells me about his day and his complicated scientific job even though I don’t understand all the technical stuff. Likewise, he asks about mine. We spend an increasing amount of time together it seems, but still have apart-time for other friends and our sanity. It’s all about balance.

More important than men/boys in life are the girl friends (or platonic guy friends). The ones who are around to listen and support. Sometimes with alcohol and ranting. The ones who make sure that we are well aware of our own personal worth and don’t settle for anything else. The ones who are close and encourage caffeine addictions by the number of coffee dates had. The ones that are unaffected by physical distance and are absolutely magnificent even 3,900 km away.

Those are the real modern love stories.

Why love letters have to die with the relationship from which they sprung

I'm a bit wordy -- forgive my title.

I used to be one of those people. The people who would keep mementos and letters and cards thrown chaotically into a box for future reference. The Pandora's Box of love letters and memories past.

It got to a point where I just couldn't do it anymore. 

It's not only hard to look back at bits and pieces of the good times -- relationships past, friendships from long ago -- it's misleading. To pick up old romance spewed from the pens of past loves and yearn for something that couldn't be and possibly never was. To see reality through the rose-coloured lens of loneliness (which, lets face it... is usually when these boxes of notes get dusted off). It's not a good thing. It doesn't help make things better.

It skews how we see our own current reality. We try to measure up what we have or what we don't have with what we thought we had a long time ago. We blissfully ignore the ugly yelling matches and the differences that separated us. We miss people who we have let go for a reason. We try telling ourselves that we miss the friendship we had with someone who, quite honestly, probably wasn't friendship material in the first place.

It's healthy to purge sometimes. It's good for our sanity. It helps us truly move on. 

Let's face it. It's hard to be truly happy with yourself or truly happy with someone else until you really let old flames flicker and fade out.

This post is dedicated to a friend who stumbled upon one of her own hidden-away letters.