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I’ve spent four nights in my new apartment, and sometimes it feels like the last place I lived in never even existed. My tower in the West End was far too much like a college dorm and less like a home that I felt comfortable in. It seems likely that I’ll be in this new place for a few years, but had you asked me six months ago where I’d be today, this apartment would’ve been the furthest thing off my radar.

I finished unpacking the last of the boxes this afternoon, put a lot in storage and tried to organize it as simplistically as I can. This place needs a few more touches like some fresh flowers, more books, another plant and some storage baskets for my wall unit, but I’ll get there. In the meantime, here’s a quick look…

I can’t even begin to find enough adequate words to describe the kind of pain my back is in right now. All afternoon I hauled boxes, bags and furniture with Rebecca, Tania and Angie. Somehow we managed to load up my entire life in three pick-up truck loads and haul them across town. And now, I’m “home.”

Photo: miss604 on Flickr

I don’t have on ounce of regret in leaving the apartment I lived in for so many years. It was time for a change and time for something new, and this new place is lovely, Hubbell. There is a sea of boxes around me, but I’ve managed to set up my bed with clean sheets (albeit low-down in hopes of bringing a dog home soon), my new couch, new Ikea furniture and new TV.

Tomorrow I’ve decided to take another day off work to tackle all my belongings and put them in their spots. I have a sneaking suspicion that another trip to Ikea will be very necessary soon. I’m someone who hates to have too much out of order, so the sooner I can unpack, the better. And besides, my darling Ashley is coming to spend a wonderfully gin-tastic weekend with me, so this place need to be presentable.

Another huge, huge thank you to my ladies for all their help today. Beer and pizza isn’t much to show my gratitude, but when it’s your turn, “I’m there for you, babes.“

My aunt recently purchased a slide and negative scanner, so my family has been skipping down memory and returning to our roots.

This is where I came from.

My great-grandmother in Poland – rear right.

My Oma in Poland – rear row, third from the left.

My Opa in Czechoslovakia – far right.

My Opa in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories – early 1950s.

My mother in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories – early 1960s.

My aunt and mother on Easter Sunday in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories – early 1960s.

My aunt, Oma and mother in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories – early 1960s.

Family Christmas in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories – early 1960s.

Uncle Alfons, Oma and Opa on Christmas – 1960s.

My Opa in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.

Aunt, Oma and mother – mid 1960s.

Aunt, Opa and mother – mid 1960s. My Opa was a ridiculously handsome man.

Mom, Opa and Oma – mid 1960s.

Mom, Oma and aunt on Easter Sunday – early 1960s.

My beautiful Oma – it was always important to her to look poised, refined and elegant.

My Aunt Anne in the Comox Valley – early 1970s.

My Opa, always humourous (check out the flower) in the Comox Valley – early 1970s.

My father, mother and I soon after my birth, Comox Valley – 1980.

My brother and father – mid 1980s.

My brother stole my Red Sprite.

I was a pretty proud sister (note the Billy Madison-esque expression on my face), 1984.

My Opa, brother and father in the Comox Valley – late 1980s.

My father and brother at the Comox Valley Tri-K, 1990.

My father and I in the Comox Valley – early 1980s.

I was my Opa’s special little girl.

Our relationship was truly like no other I’ve ever had or will ever have again.

Making each other laugh was our favourite thing to do together.

My baby brother and I were little cuddlebugs.

Camping on Hornby Island (check out my schweet rat tail – clearly this was in the NKOTB era).

Sippy-sippy.

I love my family with my whole heart. I could not ask for a single thing better.

Photo: ahhyeah on Flickr

Change is big and scary and sometimes horrible but also sometimes great. I’ve been living in the West End for close to five years, and the consistent issues I have with my building have reached their peak. Today at lunch I went to look at a newer apartment (less than five years old) on the border between downtown and Yaletown. I was approved and I accepted.

I can say goodbye to hiked rent for an apartment that features, well, not a lot. And instead, I can say hello to in-suite laundry, key-fob entry, a 3,600 square-foot elite fitness centre and – best of all – a place in which I can bring home a dog! I’m nervous and excited and don’t know what to expect but I’m looking forward to what this new place may bring into my life.

That being said, does anyone have any input and advice into which dogs are most suitable for apartment living? I’m leaning more towards either a pomeranian or a scruffy chihuahua/terrier cross. While I adore big dogs, mine will need to be small enough to fit into a cloth carrier to be brought on public transit and the ferries.

The fire’s still burning, South Park is playing in the background and everyone is in bed but me. Technically it’s Boxing Day, and I couldn’t be more glad that Christmas is over. Normally, it’s one of my most favourite times and days of the year. This Christmas was the exception and I feel far less merry than I normally would.

All was not lost though…

I woke up at 8:00 a.m. to find Charley eagerly licking my face. I think she must know when it’s Christmas and feel the excitement.

After I set the table on Christmas Eve and laid gifts under the tree, Charley marched back and forth, sniffed the presents and laid next to them as if to guard them all. On top of that, she was so eager and full of beans all day today.

My mom created a gorgeous centrepiece for our Christmas meal.

For some reason, “Santa” still spoils me rotten on Christmas this many years later. Among other lovelies, I got a fistful of gift cards, amazing cookbooks and an 8G iPod Nano.

After baking breakfast buns and hopping into a quick shower, I slipped into couture and headed for the kitchen. Taking over the turkey dinner reigns from my mom was something I welcomed with open arms a few years back.

On the menu? Three-day buns, turkey, stuffing, applesauce, buttermilk mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, yams, red cabbage, carrots and sweet gherkin pickles.

I was fortunate enough to have my longtime friend Rebecca join us for Christmas dinner this year. Her and her bottle of red wine were a welcome sight at my front door this evening.

After packing in a full meal, we all still managed to find some room for sweet goodies and tempting treats. My peanut butter cup cookies were the first to go!

Sending love and holiday wishes from Dawson Creek, Trevor and Laura (and baby Mellis – 6 months!) modeled their new Christmas threads for us.

Despite what could have been, there were still shimmery glimmers of goodness throughout my day, and everyone at my dinner table was someone that I love.

Perhaps I feel anticlimactic, perhaps I’m just getting older or perhaps life has jaded me somewhat. The one day I feel is always filled with magic instead seemed empty, void and not unlike an unfinished painting. I’d like to say “here’s to a better Christmas in 2009,” but instead here’s hoping for an entirely different Christmas…

Between Twitter and Flickr, my need of diary blogging on this site has seemingly become obsolete. While I haven’t felt much inspired to get deep lately, that’s no excuse to neglect you, o’ my readers.

Here’s a little of what I’ve been up to since arriving on Vancouver Island on Friday afternoon…

The mercury dropped as quickly as the snowflakes, so naturally Charley and I had to make use of our pending white Christmas. That little girl loves the snow, and if you don’t believe me, you should probably check out the video I posted.

With Christmas celebrations comes Christmas dinner, and with Christmas dinner comes Christmas dessert. My mom and I spent time on Sunday and Monday in the kitchen: she made her famous whipped shortbread; I made gingerbread shapes and Auntie Amy’s peanut butter cup cookies. And yes, they’re as good as they look!

A few weeks ago, I decided that it would be my Winter project to take up knitting. Mostly I want to be able to make a baby blanket for my soon-to-be-born niece (yes, they’re having a baby girl!), but I also thought it’d be fun to whip up some scarves for friends and for charity next Christmas.

Okay, so my tension sucks, but I’ve picked up the theory of the knit pretty quickly, and my mom’s BFF is bringing some perfectly-sized needles and fun royal purple wool for me on Christmas Day. The woman knits, weaves, cross-stitches, sews, quilts and who knows what else. She’ll have me knitting like a pro in no time!

After three days of cabin fever, my friend Rebecca came to my rescue in her boyfriend’s 4×4 and whisked me into downtown Courtenay.

London fogs, Christmas card shopping and finding some manicure implements were on our to-do list.

After our “date,” I met up with my mom for some McDonald’s for dinner. Tasty, I know.

Ugh, I gotta give myself a very, very thorough manicure tomorrow. After copious hand-washing while baking, my hands are in some serious need of TLC.

The snow is starting to come down again something fierce, so there’s nothing better to do than curl up with Charley and my fleece blanket and kick my mom’s ass at Dr. Mario. Yup, old school Nintendo. I might even bust out Rad Racer later.

My precious little girl, Charley, is becoming quite the explorer. She’s developed a sense of adventure and lost much of her unwarranted fear. Other dogs don’t phase her, unfamiliar places are no longer frightening and the ocean is becoming her second home. She is, in fact, becoming quite well acquainted and comfortable with the Georgia Strait.

My mom and aunt brought her to Seal Bay Forest Nature Park yesterday, and my mom on her own headed for Miracle Beach Provincial Park with the little wiggle bum this afternoon. A few adventure shots of the cutest little girl ever…

Normally Charley will steer clear of the ocean, but being that July has brought hot temperatures, she felt quite comfortable plunking herself right down in the water!

Anyone who is truly from Vancouver Island can affirm how painful an endeavour it can be to return to Vancouver after time spent at home. After six near magical days on la isla bonita, I have returned to the city in which I reside, but it will never truly be home. Yesterday marked my four year anniversary in the city, living in the same apartment on the same street. My dwelling is the only thing that’s remained constant in my time here. The faces and experiences that have come and gone in these years are more than I can count.

Photo: tempest_kat on Flickr

I find myself becoming more and more cynical towards this place, its people, the events and the general attitude. Why that is, I’m not sure. The bitterness, however, is starting to take its toll on me and it’s really quite pointless. I think that the time is right for a shift in thinking.

Photo: I am I.A.M. on Flickr

When I was a little girl, my giddiness and anticipation for family trips to Vancouver was uncontainable. It was, in fact, somewhat amusing to my parents. The first major trip I can recall was to Expo ’86 at the ripe age of 5 and on the verge of beginning kindergarten. It was a quick whirlwind mini vacay, but I still have a vivid memory dotted with fireworks, the monorail, Expo Ernie, glittering high-rises and a kaleidoscope of colour.

Once I entered my mid-teens, with my coming of age came a fresh dose of independence. At 16, I was allowed to take my first trip across the Georgia Straight with a friend. Our plan was to hit the all ages Spacehog/Everclear double bill at the Vogue, but upon its subsequent cancellation, Nadia and I found ourselves at the historic Capitol 6 on Granville to see Trainspotting. (My parents saw the film once it was released on video and were rather adamant that, had they known what it was about, I never would have been allowed to see it at the time.)

Long before I actually made the move to Vancouver, I dreamed about the day when I’d finally live sky high in one of those concrete towers I’d so admired as a child. When I was younger, the city and its ideals held enchantment for me. On every ferry ride over, I’d sit at the front of the passenger lounge, skip ahead to Underworld’s “Born Slippy” on my Sony Discman and watch the distant city skyline as the ship pulled nearer to Horseshoe Bay. The anticipation I felt in my belly was intoxicating, and the excitement that struck me at 5 still held strongly at 16 and beyond.

Now that I have spent the better part of half a decade (yikes!) living in downtown Vancouver, the anticipation has dissipated, the magic has faded and the glitter of gleaming towers has grown dull. As I learn more about the world in which I live, the people with which I interact and the true state of humanity, my disillusions of city living have been nearly entirely wiped out.

What I have realized as of late, however, is that focusing on these shortcomings and pitfalls of the city are a wasted effort.

Instead of lamenting how disheartened I am to be back amongst the noise, pollution, yelling, smells and traffic of downtown Vancouver, perhaps it would be more helpful and make more sense to consider the ways in which living in Vancouver has fulfilled me and instead enriched the person that I am.

It is time to make an attempt at re-capturing the beauty I once saw here with innocent eyes.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being home to some truly amazing people that I am blessed to call my friends.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being the backdrop of experiences that have taught me invaluable lessons in life and love.

Though my square, concrete balcony in the West End can’t compare to the lush, green gardens at my true Merville home on the Island, it boasts a killer view that – both literally and figuratively – gives me a much needed perspective on a different side of our world. Vancouver Island will always be home, but I suppose this place isn’t as bad as I try to make it out to be.

Photo: Incognitocanuck on Flickr

P.S. High five to anyone who “gets” the post title.

I just got back from Victoria a few hours ago. I bought myself a souvenir – new Keds. My love affair continues. I got off the bus in Nanaimo where my mom met me, took me to the Bay and bought me these ones too.

I took the first shuttle to Victoria yesterday morning, and was picked up in downtown Victoria by Toni to be whisked away for a killer day/night in the capital city. First we avoided the Harbour crowds, all there to catch a glimpse of the tall ships, and instead headed for the rocky beach on Dallas Road to walk, talk and catch up.

After a quick catnap, we took in Dinosaurs: Giants of Patagonia at IMAX. True, it was air conditioned, but being that the temperatures soared to 33 degrees on the inner Harbour, our next stop was the cold beer store. After beers on his roof, we stopped in briefly at a BBQ (where I met some truly stellar and ridiculously funny people) before heading back downtown so Toni could work it at the door. He’s a doorman at Lucky Bar. For fun.

I played the role of Lucky doorgirl, which involves nothing more than standing around and batting my eyelashes while the guys check ID.

This morning I opted to spend a bit of solo time downtown, so I made an early morning trek along Oak Bay Avenue to where the action is and found myself amongst the tall ships, the last of which were getting ready to set sail for Port Alberni.

Time spent in Victoria is never time wasted; it’s a truly classy city with wondrous sights to see that never cease to amaze me. Viewing the unique homes is alone worth the trip over. As I sit here in my mom and aunt’s lush, green backyard – Vancouver Islander Lager in hand – I am reminded of how grateful I am to be able to call a place like this home. The only sound I hear is the gentle patter of Charley’s paws on our deck and a few tiny birds distantly chirping back and forth in the trees. Now if only I could do something about these mosquitoes…

It’s 5:48pm, and I am sitting in an apartment that’s too warm, with fans that are too breezy and a puppy that’s the right amount of cuddly on my lap. Another puppy alternates between staring intensely out the window at passerby and thrashing his stuffed soccer ball. You’d think that I wouldn’t have many cares in the world, but at this moment, I wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining to you all how I feel. Because, the truth is, I don’t even know what I’m thinking. While many of you may have developed a sunburn over the last few days, my brain’s caught ADD – or so it feels.

Sitting at my desk on Friday, I knew that something was amiss. The only way I could describe what I was feeling was that my soul drains were clogged. Anticipating a renewing experience the next morning at my Hidden Language yoga class with a handful of awesome ladies (my mom included), I pushed the feeling away, knowing I’d soon find a cure for the clog while bending and writing.

Photo: justthisguyyouknow on Flickr

The next morning, as I twisted my spine and gaze gently at my stretched out left palm, my eyes met the small, box-shaped window that ran across the top of the heritage space. Between my eyes and the blue sky were the roof ledge of the building next door and the top spirals of some sort of tower. I thought to myself “this isn’t right…after an experience like this, I should be able to walk out into an environment that reflects what I’m feeling in here.”

I wanted to leave my gem of a yoga studio and be surrounded by lush trees, warm sun, water, earth and the sounds of birds flying in the distance. Instead I was met with sirens, exhaust, buses, concrete, vehicles, rancid food smells and a whole other bouquet of unsavouriness. And as we ladies walked to brunch after class, I suddenly remembered something a old friend of mine once told me as we sat on my balcony at 2am one night: he said “You know, it’s really strange that you live 12 storeys off the ground. It isn’t natural to live up so high.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was right. And so the next day I walked to my 11th-floor office and he caught an early ferry back to Vancouver Island. That right there says so much.

Photo: justthisguyyouknow on Flickr

This afternoon, as I navigated my way through the steel chaos, first to Stanley Park and then to drop my mom off (ironically so she, too, could catch a ferry to Vancouver Island), I found myself amazed that I hadn’t ripped my hair out. Every other word falling out of my mouth was enough to make a sailor blush. How I’ve managed to live in downtown Vancouver for as many years as I have is somewhat astonishing. Only within recent months have I realized how un-me it is; how unnatural it is. And yet, I feel so stuck in neutral without the possibility of change. Only weeks ago I felt so close and so on the precipice of that kind of change, but my hopes came shattering around me that Sunday morning on the bathroom floor.

What I seem so often to forget is that so many others are walking around in the same state that I am in. We all desire change, something new in our lives, we all dread going to work on Monday mornings, we all dread bill-paying time each month and can’t figure out how to jump off the gerbil wheel. Maybe we’re too scared that we’ll bump our own asses as we make the leap, or maybe we’re all just too scared to find out what is – or isn’t – off the wheel.

Is it up to the universe to make our choices for us and come what may via fate? Or are we expected to make decisions and have a little bit of faith that they’re the right decisions? If anything, I’m writing this as a means to exorcising my cognitive demons. Sometimes this is the best way to untangle the ball of Christmas lights…or at least start chipping away at it.