Take A Seat

It is a rare occurrence, but when it happens, it is absolutely magical. It's the love at first sight that you dream of since you were a child and leaves you breathless once you find it.

The moment when all the searching and dreaming can stop because you have found exactly what you have been looking for.

These are the chairs that I finally found after trolling through numerous thrift stores in many towns for many years.

Kinda takes your breath away, right?

Well, maybe not just yet, this is the before picture.

When I first found these beauties I had it set in my mind that I wanted the metal frames to be spray painted copper. Many people told me that this was not the best choice because nothing in my home was that color.

So after spraying a couple of rocks copper and using them as a center piece on my dining table, I was satisfied that I had silenced the critics.

I set to work on the first chair, wrapping the wicker in Saran wrap, roughing up the metal with sandpaper, spraying a heavy duty primer, and finally a coat of copper.

I took a step back to view my masterpiece.

There is nothing worse than that awful moment when you realize that your critics were spot on. And that you now have a copper balcony.

Back to the drawing board, this time with the suggestions of my friends and family being considered.

The consensus was that a gun metal grey would be the perfect color for these nearly perfect chairs.

Knowing that I had to re-sand the metal so that the spray paint would have something to stick to made me shudder. That had definitely been the worse part of round one (aside from realizing that the chair looked utterly ridiculous).

But let's keep in mind that this was not my first rodeo. It was my second. And this cowgirl had learned a thing or two.

One trip to Home Depot later and I had in my possession a Black and Decker Mouse Sander and Polisher and a new can of spray paint. Also in my possession, two phone numbers from two super sexy carpenters. Boys that can build are the best.

I got to work sanding down the unfortunate paint job only to discover that by removing the copper paint, the white primer, and the original red paint I had uncovered a beautiful shade of silver metal.

Jackpot.

Who needs new paint when the original is perfection? Not me.

But after four hours of sanding my tune changed from not me, to why me?

A house full of dust, a nose full of grey boogers, arms that continued to shake even after the Mouse had been unplugged, and hands that looked like that of a corpse ended up being well worth it.

Ta daaaaa!

Everything I had ever hoped for.

They are not perfect, but hey, neither am I. Just kidding.

Just kidding.

With another project completed it's time to put my feet up and give some cute carpenters a call.

A Black and Decker sander is great, but a hot carpenter to operate it is the best.

Name That Blog

Many of you have written in asking how I came up with the title Life Is A Lark for this blog.

Ha! That felt really cool to say, but is, in fact, a lie. No one has written me, but I'm going to tell you anyways.

My blog. My rules.

As a reckless, defiant teenager I had many things on my mind.

How do I mute the noise on a three way phone call? How can I make my crimped hair last all day long? How do I drink a two liter of of Rockaberry cooler at the powerline party without having to pee outdoors?

I know. Growing up in the middle class suburbs of small town British Columbia can be daunting.

My lovely mother had a whole other set of problems.

How do I teach my daughter to do her own laundry? How do I make her understand the value of a dollar? How do I hide my two liter bottles of Rockaberry coolers so that she won't find them?

Her house. Her rules.

Or so she thought.

She does deserve an A+ for effort. There were the scare tactics, the reasoning, the tough love, and the tears, all of which failed to get me to make my bed and take out the garbage.

It was the era of 'no thank you', 'maybe later', and 'whatever'. I am still so shocked that they kept me around.

It was also the era that produced my mother's most famous line : 'Lulu, life is NOT a lark!'

Of course at that time, I was much too busy lip synching Jewel songs in the bathroom mirror and hanging up posters of Leonardo DiCaprio on my bedroom walls to even think about what this strange saying meant.

I remember the day when that changed though. I was about seventeen years old and had skipped my chores so that I could carefully apply six layers of clear mascara and eight layers of Bonne Belle bronzer in preparation of the most important powerline party of all times.

On my way out the door I was stopped by mother and scolded for skipping out on my responsibilities.

Here it came.

'You can't just do whatever you want! Life is NOT a lark!'.

Too stressed out about meeting my bootleg on the corner to think of a decent response, I blurted out the first thing that came to my frazzled teenage mind.

'Life IS a lark!'.

Stunned by my own brazenness, I stood and waited for the consequence.

All that awaited me was laughter. Laughter from my mother, so stunned and speechless, that it sparked my own.

It was a turning point.

Times have changed. My mother has relaxed into an easy going hippie that considers art projects a higher priority than a clean home. I responsibly go to work, hell or high water, and cringe if I can't remember whether or not I've made my bed.

It is now my mother that reminds me when I have worked myself into a frenzy over money or am turning into a lunatic over life's logistics, that life IS a lark.

It is meant to be enjoyed, explored, and embraced with open wings and an open heart.

Life is a lark is the running joke that reminds us of this. Reminds us to give ourselves a break. To be gentle with ourselves. To take only the good from every situation. And above all, to do what makes us happy.

It's a lark's life. Lark's rules.

Point and Shoot

I recently unknowingly entered into a very heated debate regarding gun control. It was with three downtown hipsters, all of which were wearing black horn rim glass and beanie caps, all of which had never held a gun and likely never will.

Unless, of course, one of them decides to host his next birthday party at the paint ball center. Or can dig up a vintage Nintendo duck hunter game. Regardless, everyone was pretty fired up.

To shoot or nor to shoot? That was the question.

My view point has always been that if you don't have a gun, you can't shoot anyone, and in turn no one will get killed. So why have a gun?

Unless its being used as a prop in a super sexy photoshoot on a ranch.

Attention all gun marketing companies: Gigi is a free agent and has the ability to make guns look remarkably cool and badass.

Anyways, to the hipsters I had said my piece and felt at peace.

Except when I realized that just because you don't have actual bullets, you can still do some serious damage.

Instead of arguing about an issue that most of us will never encounter and we cannot change (or don't have enough passion to change), let's talk about the ammo that we do have and that can be just as devastating: our words.

For example, telling someone that you love them when you don't to try to get what you want is the emotional equivalent of shooting an AK47 right through their heart and your integrity.

And shooting off negative slurs and awful names will leave residue on your hands and heart that is hard to remove and can't always be washed away.

Embellishing stories to make yourself look like the victim or the bad guy and telling them to everyone who will listen, is a point blank shot to your own self respect.

This is what's relevant in my life. Word control, not gun control. Words are as powerful as a sawed off shotgun and as the smoke clears, the repercussions can be permanent.

So choose your words carefully. Think before you speak. Understand that the impact of one sentence can kill the confidence and pride of the person you are speaking to.

Tempers can make this seem daunting. Emotions can make this seem impossible.

But all I know, is that the next time I go to pull the trigger, even in self defense (from some Baby Deer holding an AK47), I will imagine the collateral damage of the words I speak.

Continue your debate young hipsters, if you must, but excuse me if I don't partake in debates about guns.

Unless it's over which color of paint gun bullets I get to use at your birthday party.

If I'm still invited.

Holla At Me Fools

All of my life my musical tastes have been far from consistent, changing more often than the weather.

Calgary weather.

Sometimes I'm a little bit country. Sometimes I'm a little bit rock and roll.

Sometimes I'm Donny and Marie Osmond. Those are unfortunate times.

For reasons that I can't explain (or maybe because I've watched Blood vs. Crips, Dangerous Minds, and Notorious all in the past week), I am now a down and dirty rap-o-holic. Word.

Luckily for you readers, you can simply read my thoughts on rap. Unluckily for my friends, I've just learned how to send voice notes on my phone.

Don't be expecting any texts from me anymore, homies.

Although rappers may not be the most chivalrous crew or have the most eloquent manners, and their treatment of women is less than desirable, I sometimes wonder if maybe they are wiser than they let on and are just getting a bad wrap (wink, wink).

Lets take Dr. Dre for example, or Dre as I like to call him.

'You mother f@&$ing clone, get off that ni&$a's style and get your own'.

Sounds a little harsh but when you look at the message, that clone SHOULD get his own style.

And so should you. And me. And every other thug out there.

Don't front. Be who you are. Not a rip off of someone else. If you admire someone, take the qualities you like and apply them to your own life, in your own way. Idolatry is whack.

Now let's take a wander over to the dogg pound. No, that was not a typo. I'm talking about D O Double G Snoop Dogg!

'Ain't no fun if my homies can't have none.'

This is actually quite touching. There are times in life when luck seems to rain down on you and all you are finding is four leaf clovers. But its also a dogg eat dogg world, and if you don't have your peeps by your side, the peeps that love you as much as you love them, then all the bling bling, mad cribs, and fast times are not the same.

Snoop also had it right with this gem.

'When a bitch gets an attitude, drop her like she's hot, drop her like she's hot, drop her like she's hot.'

There are far too many good hustlas out there to waste time on those who are going to bring you down. Surround yourself with the Gs that are going to make your life MORE amazing. For 'shizzle.

At the same time, if you're getting dropped like you're hot on a regular basis, don't front, take a look in the mirror.

You got an attitude, bitch?

And of course lets not forget about my favorite rapper, King of the East Side himself, Tupac.

'It's just me against the world'.

I appreciate the self-sufficiency in this line. It seems as though today, people are hell bent on blaming others for their failures and looking for a crutch to hold onto to make themselves great. Tupac just knew that he had only himself to rely on and decided to represent. Decided to make something of himself, dispite the odds stacked against him. A very brave G.

A G that also had a softer side.

'Take my hand, cause even thugs get lonely'.

What? Thugs can get lonely???

Indeed we can.

And in those times, Tupac wasn't afraid to ask for a hand to hold. Wasn't afraid to need someone, and to ask for comfort. That's something that a lot of us struggle with but if we actually asked for the help,I think we'd all be surprised by the hands that want to hold ours.

Well that just about 'raps' up my feeling on rap music.

You feeling me, dawg?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lovely gin and juice to get back to drinking with my homies.

Word out.

Creamy Coconut Curry Soup

Mmmmnn. .. there's nothing like a dreary cold snap to make me want a big pot of spicy soup simmering on the stove being stirred by Eddie Vedder while I sip on a goblet of Shiraz, listening to the new song he has just written about my sparkly eyes.

And clearly there's nothing like a cold snap that has the ability to make me highly delusional.

One thing that is in my power to make happen is soup. I try to make a soup most Sundays because I have no brainer lunches all week. This is a new recipe that the cold weather and my new Vitamix have inspired.

Creamy Coconut Curry Soup

Ingredients:

2 cups of vegetable stock
1 can of light coconut milk
1 can of chick peas, drained
2 tbsp tomato paste
2 tsp curry powder
.5 tsp garam masala
.5 tsp red chili flakes
dashes of pepper
3 tbsp chia seeds
1 sweet potato, diced
1 red pepper, diced
3 cups of spinach, torn up

First things first, buy a Vitamix, it will change your world.

Next, add to that Vitamix the vegetable stock, coconut milk, chickpeas, tomato paste, curry powder, garam masala, pepper, and chili flakes into the Vitamix and let it rip for about 5 minutes.

Pour this creamy delicious mixture into a large pot and add the chia seeds, sweet potato, and red pepper. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes.

Add in the spinach about 10 minutes prior to serving, this will prevent the leaves from becoming overcooked. This is a very thick soup so if you can't handle it, add some water, this will also help it last longer.

And that's it! Easy as I would be if Eddie ever came over looking for soup and singing about sparkly eyes!

Enjoy!

La Chien Chaud

Introducing to the blog world, the one and only, the beautiful and talented, the ultimate love of my life...

Sofi Angel Vedder

Blog post about my dog. How interesting and unusual.

I figured that by introducing her officially I could put to rest the thoughts in your minds of me always sleeping next to and hanging out with my hairy lesbian girlfriend named Sofi.

Sofi is a dog. I am heterosexual.

Sofi is adorable. I am smitten.

Sofi is my sidekick, three years running.

Sofi is my wingman.

Sofi is festive. And tolerant.

Sofi is high maintenance.

Sofi is my bitch. Yo dawg.

So there you have it. I will consider the air cleared.

Hit 'THE ROAD' Jack!

...and don't you come back no more, no more, no more, no more!

Ohhh that magical occurrence when the name of the book and the theme of the post and a song title collide! I love it so much that I swear I can hear angels singing.

Singing back up for Ray Charles that is.

I know exactly what you're thinking. 'A blog post about a book?!? What the hell?! Where am I, Voracious Lu?!?!? I'm freaking out!!!'

Take it easy.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy simply just didn't make the cut according to the Modern Library. But it did in my books.

The Road was lent to me by an ex-lover who shall remain nameless. Or actually, we can call him Baby Deer. Bambi for short.

In an attempt to secure his love and admiration, I motored through 256 pages of the most heart wrenching, poetic, brutal novel I have read so far in my life.

It is the story of a nameless father and son making their way down a long, freezing, dangerous road in a post-apocalyptic oddessy. After the mother commits suicide, the two have only each other to rely on as they seek out food and heat and safety in a world ravaged by cannibalism and destruction.

Not exactly the feel good novel of the year, but then again that wasn't the point. The point at the time had been to make Baby Deer fall in love with me based on my super quick reading abilities and comprehension skills.

Guys think that's dead sexy, right? Hmmm...

With the book about to leave my possession, as the returning of the things is about to go down, I realized that I should probably thumb through the book again and write down some favorite quotes. And of course this turns into my re-reading the entire thing.

Much easier to absorb on the second go around, and much more thought provoking.

Thoughts that are inappropriate to write about publicly regarding the irony of who gave me this wonderful book about the strongest, bravest man. Wishful thinking, Bambi?

My two favorite quotes of The Road are quite similar, here they are:

When you dream of bad things happening it shows

you are still fighting, you're still alive. It's when you start to dream
 about good things you should start to worry.

When all your dreams are of some world that

never was or of some world that never will be and you

are happy again then you will have given up. Do

you understand, you can't give up I won't let you.

These are also my Mom's favorites. I have to say that as not to be a quote thief.

I think I connect with those quotes because I do love a good fight, and it does make me feel alive. There is a security in the chaos of disappointment and struggle that lets you feel like you are growing, becoming someone better than you ever were. I think that a lot of people could benefit from being the 'good guy' and 'carrying the fire' regardless of the pain. Struggling , trying, failing, and never giving up will produce a life that is opposite of taking the easy route, playing safe, and being a follower. The easy way out will rarely help you find your true self and if you are not interested in seeking your true self, then you have given up the good fight.

Oh, Baby Deer, bless your heart.

Of course I'm sure the point of the novel goes much beyond my blink-of-an-eye romance and finding a tie between the two is very far reaching, but I wouldn't be the self-involved, drama queen you know and sometimes kinda maybe love without it.

There are two other quotes that I love that have completely NOTHING to do with any PARTICULAR man that I have dated in the past:

If you break little promises, you will break big ones.

This is a truth that has been taught to me at precisely the moment when I forget the last time I learned it.

You have my heart, you always did.

This is just too beautiful not to keep reading over and over. And too beautiful not to make into an Instagram.

So pick it up, not for any other reason that to be provoked. To receive more questions than answers. To take time to think about your own bravery.

Happy Valentines Day Baby Deer.

You can hit the road now.

Good Morning?

Hang on to your venti triple shot soy lattes and Red Bulls kids, you're in for a snooze fest!

I've never really looked at my insomnia as a particularly bad thing, just a part of who I am. The part that helps me stay awake doing projects til all hours of the morning and the part that keeps Clinique in business purely based on my under eye concealer purchases.

You're welcome Clinique.

However my brand new iPhone has sparked a brand new obsession: Sleep Cycle App. Somehow this app is able to tell whether I am awake, sleeping, or deep sleeping just by placing it on the corner of my mattress. It also has the good grace to wake me up to a beautiful melody when it has calculated that I am about to wake up on my own. Then it tells me to have a great day.

Don't mind if I do.

So two nights ago I settled in for my first sleep that would be judged by a cell phone. Never thought I would say that.

Always aiming to for a good grade, I layed as still as I could, not moving a muscle, breathing as softly as I could, tricking this device into believing that I was sleeping like a beauty...for two hours.

Fake it til you make it, honey!

If only Sofi new that we were playing pretend with Sleep Cycle App. She refused to stay still and sleep despite me hissing to her that this was important to me and that she would get a really big treat if she could just play dead.

Finally we 'slept'.

I woke up MUCH before Sleep Cycle has the chance to welcome me to the world naturally and slowly. The excitement to see my stats was too overwhelming. And then I saw them.

Went to bed: 12:22
Woke up: 6:22
Total time: 5h 59m

Fail.

What the hell was going on at 4 am?? I blame Sofi. She NEVER stops moving. I clocked a piddly six hours and felt like Mr. Sandman had chased me, punched me in the guts, and robbed me of any energy I may have had.

Never one to refuse a wildly unhealthy competition with myself, I brushed it off thinking, 'Tonights the night, Sleep Cycle App, you're MINE'.

Armed with a handful of sleeping pills and a bottle of NyQuil, I had a stern talk with Sofi about behaviour and hit the sheets.

Went to bed: 11:42
Woke up: 7:06
Total time: 7h 24m

Meh, it's an improvement. And the 4 am debacle was that Sofi having an asthma attack which is a pretty accurate indicator that I'm past due to dust and vacuum my home. Or maybe the pressure of playing dead was too much for her.

Anyways, as usual, my obsessions subside as quickly as they take hold of me and Sleep Cycle App has now been removed (or will be once I can figure that out). There is enough pressure on me on a regular basis, I don't want to be pressured into faking sleep.

If you are still awake and reading about my issues with lack of sleep at this point, I am very proud of you. You clearly caught enough zzz's of your own last night.

More than this little sleep disturber.

With Sleep Cycle App and obsession removed, I can stay awake as late as I want to now, no apologies, no judging devices. And plenty of time on my hands to find a new obsession to occupy me.

Or to dust my house.

Or to shop for under eye concealer at the 24 hour drug store.

Or to snuggle the cutest little angel I have ever known.

Or maybe with the pressure to sleep gone I can finally track down Mr. Sandman.

He owes me an apology.

It's Not My Party... But I'll Cry If I Want To

Oh the days following a birthday. After having my ego stroked for about a week now and celebrating at any given chance, the festivities are officially over. And things are starting to feel weird up in here.

I don't get a cupcake with a candle and a wish with every meal??

You don't want to treat me to lunch??

You're not calling me just to say how much I mean to you and how happy you are that I'm alive??

Yay, is that a present for me??? No? Ok. I didn't think so anyways.

Has it seriously been a half an hour since someone wrote on my Facebook??

This tiara wasn't for everyday wear??

Bummer.

For all of the birthday memories that red wine has stolen away from me, today I found a momento of this years birthday that brought a tear to my eye and that I will hold onto forever.

The most precious card I have ever received from my dear friend/sister/neighbour Gigi. An artist with more natural talent and ability than I can decribe. And she has quite the way with words as well...



Tears. Lots of them.

Not just jealous tears because I wish I had her printing abilities, or laughter tears because the drawing of her cat Betsey is so accurate that I know this isn't the first time Bets has sat for her. Or the fourth time or the hundredth time. Or the last time.

Tears because I have a friend who loves me for me and says it in words that I can believe. Someone who gets me, probably because she is part of me in so many ways. Someone who will lie about my home-made vegetable cake tasting delicious or say that my last rage blackout probably didn't scare him off forever. Someone who can be my reckless partner in crime on a runaway party night and can also appreciate a lovely crafting night in, and with equal vigor.

And she is definitely someone who will not judge me tonight when I ask her to please sing Happy Birthday to me for the last time while I blow out the last candle on my last cupcake.

She'll probably even make sure that my tiara isn't on crooked.

It Starts Now...

At 29.

There is something about a birthday that gives me that warm fuzzy feeling that any mistakes or regrets from the past year have been wiped clean off of my slate and the future will bring only amazing and loving experiences my way. My own personal New Years Eve. Definitely just as exciting (maybe just for me) and just as ridiculous of a let down once all my motivation and gusto have vanished.

Of course, it always starts with the best of intentions, in my case, a personal resolution that I vow with all of my will not to break, such as: I will always wear my contacts and I will end my venti soy latte addiction! By 10 am I am squinting HARD at the Starbucks menu (do they have to hang it so far away?) and complaining about the sixty extra cents I have to pay for organic soy.

In an attempt to turn over a new leaf, to uncover a dog that has learned a new trick, my resolution for year 29 of my life is...da da da daaaaaa.... NO RESOLUTIONS!

I know, shocking right?!

Maybe not to you, dear reader (a.k.a. mom), but to me, the girl that usually write lists upon lists upon lists of things to do, recipes to make, songs to learn on the guitar, chores to accomplish, boys to date (Eddie, you're topping that one), crafts to complete, places to travel, books to read, exercise routines to complete.

Ummmm... did I just write another list?

It's kinda my thing.

But back to a resolution that is going to be a piece of cake to keep: no resolutions.

Except maybe just to keep it simple. And do what makes ME happy. Create art, even if no one sees it. Be consistent in blogging. Call long distance friends more often. Complete my trapeze routine without falling. Eat only raw organic food 80% of the time. Take my vitamins daily. Take my beautiful angel dog Sofi out for a walk every morning. Pack my lunch everyday for work. Smile at strangers more often. Avoid people that gossip. Stop gossiping. Don't let garbage bags pile up on my deck. Pay my last two years of taxes. Learn how to really surf. Stop complaining about the sixty cents it costs to feel good about my health choices.

Hmmmm... I think it did it again.

Maybe old dogs can't learn new tricks.

But then again, 29 is not that old.