Olympic Inspiration: Muse Evolution

The muse is a wonderfully mysterious entity that visits you in random time and space. Inspiration comes to us all differently, in a variety of creative ways. Sometimes the muse visits me at strange hours of the night or for long months without end. Lately, however, my usually constant literary muse hasn’t been seen in quite a while. That was, until a particularly cold morning in October 2008…

The lingering darkness of a Fall morning clung to the city streets as I made my way to a volunteer interview for the Olympic Games. I had no idea what kind of job I would be doing; I have a fairly diverse skill set so I knew I could end up in any number of roles. Frankly, I wasn’t entirely concerned as long as I was helping to aid a very small part of the giant Olympic machine. In preparation for the interview, I had browsed the 2010 website for the list of positions available: everything thing from anti-doping athlete escorts to “hill slippers” who inspect and repair icy ski runs after each athlete has passed through (this is apparently the most dangerous job of the games due to the highest accident rate. Yikes!)

As I signed in at a now VANOC venue that I had always known as a PNE building, I noticed a blue dot beside my name. No one else had a blue dot; I wondered what it meant. After an ID and security check, I was seated in a room with 20 other prospective volunteers. About 80% of the people in the room had on patterned Bill Cosby sweaters and appeared to be retired. I was suddenly aware of how much time this volunteer gig may demand of me and hoped it would somehow be worth it to take 2 weeks off work to support an arguably controversial event.


To get the day rolling, they showed us an incredible Olympic montage that was meant to inspire our reasons for volunteering. It was fantastic! It showcased Canadian athletes, Vancouver, Canada and the Olympic world. It gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside to know that I was giving my time to support my country, along with the best winter sport athletes on the planet. Somehow I knew I was doing the right thing and up so early on a Sunday morning for an important reason.

Next up came the interview and I was approached by a lovely brunette woman with classic Human Resources bangs. I liked her immediately. She explained what the blue dot meant I was identified as a potential writer for a daily newsletter published by each venue. The excitement welled up inside as I started envisioning myself writing feel-good stories about an Olympic venue and the volunteers who keep it running.


The interviewer then began asking me a series of writer experience / writer training related questions. I suddenly realised that even though I love to write, have been doing it for about 25 years, and would gladly do it for free, I lacked formal experience beyond the business reports and training manuals I have written in my job. I found myself spinning executive level strategic business reviews and academic undergraduate degree papers as solid writing experience. I even pulled out the “Young Writers of Canada” recognition I won when I was 8 years old. Yup, I was digging deep for this one.

Next she handed me a paper and pencil and told me I had 20 minutes to write a 300 word essay on the Olympic experience for the athletes. I broke into a light sweat missing the MS spell check, but relaxed into just jotting down what I felt inside my head and heart.

After a few more hours of basic info training, I was sent home with a "don't call us, we'll call you" message lingering in my mind.

It was later in the evening that I clearly realized something new about myself: The reason I write my own stories is because I need an outlet to make sense of the chaos in my mind. If I’m feeling darkness creeping up inside me, I let it out through words on paper. Somehow turning my emotions into something tangible makes them real and forces me to deal with things and get over them. So far in my life, I’ve written one autobiographical book, a poetry book, countless creative writing stories, and about 12 full journals (I’ve never published them officially, kind of tried once but since have gone back to my real job). However, when I met my future husband in 2007, I stopped writing altogether.

It appears that when I am happy and content, I am not inspired to write. There is no need for the outlet; my thoughts are positive, clear, and bright. When I am truly at ease and satisfied in my life, the muse lies dormant. The only thing has even tempted my muse in the past 2 years has been my father’s brain cancer diagnosis. Even then, as he has begun to get better, I no longer crave a keyboard or notebook to make sense of what is happening in my world.

Somehow after the interview, I sensed a paradigm shift in my writing energy and my ever evolving muse. I’m shifting away from writing about myself and moving towards writing about the experiences of the people around me. It feels somehow greater than a simple shift from first to third person. I have thought a lot about wiring a book about other women’s stories, I know so many interesting and amazing women, but it has only been a seed of thought that had yet to sprout. Maybe the Olympics are going to be the catalyst to launch me into a new realm of written expression. I don’t mean as a career, I already have one of those, but I mean as an inspiration to keep writing and sharing meaningful stories with the world.


Update: After over a year of waiting, I was finally notified that I have been accepted as a part of the Workforce Communications crew for the games! I will be stationed at the curling venue for a total of 13 shifts and tasked with writing a daily newsletter for the volunteers. The newsletter will be about the venue, the volunteers, and important info that needs to be communicated. I have never really watched curling before as sport, I was always into the ice skating or hockey. However, suddenly I feel I have a new favourite sport!

Yuppie Rides The Ghetto Bus To Work

Various Stares

Various Stares

Before I headed out the door to work this morning, I noticed the big fake red rose sitting in my Canada Post piggy bank. I considered for a moment when the last time was that I wore flowers in my hair or stuck them onto my person somehow. I love doing that because flowers are beautiful and the world can never have too much beauty. Plus, this the wonderful season for flowers now.

Impulsively, I grabbed the rose and attached it to the strap on my purse and wandered out the door and up the street to my office. On my way there, I noticed that many people passing by were staring at the flower; a ruby red beacon set against the dark blue and grey of my business suit. It may have appeared a bit strange seeing as the rest of me looked as if I’d just left an executive’s office, or perhaps a funeral. Leather portfolio in hand and negotiation face in place, yet here was this big red rose attached casually to my black purse. It definitely attracted a bit of attention; something I found rather amusing.

It started me thinking about the various stares people give you in public. I recognized several different types this morning so I’ve decided to categorize them:

The Tourist Stare
This staring style usually comes from a wide eyed, curious tourist wondering:
“What do the people that actually live here look like?” or sometimes it's "Where the hell am I?"
Their expression is usually a bit blank, as if the senses are overwhelmed and they aren’t sure how to take it all in. It’s a sort of a deer in the headlights type of look, like the bewildered gaze of a inquisitive child frozen in wonder.

I like this stare because it’s the same kind of look I have on my face when touring a new place. It’s harmless, cutely naive somehow, and it charms me and almost makes me want to stop and ask them if they are lost and need directions. I like to be a nice and helpful local.

The Fashionable Stare
Only other women truly understand this stare. Well, other women and 90% of the men living near Davie street. It’s the sizing up of another female (or male, or perhaps she-male) in public who is wearing something interesting and/or different. The gaze can go two ways:

1. Either turn interested and curious and may perhaps spawn imitation and questions about where you bought a particular accessory or item of clothing.

2. Turn to quiet mockery if the subject is wearing something odd or unattractive.

I’ve encountered and given both of these stares. In fact, I do it everyday as I check out what other women in this city are wearing. I seem to find a mixed selection of both, just as I seem to get both kinds of stares in return.

The Lecherous Stare
Exactly as it sounds, this stare is creepy and it never ceases to make me uncomfortable. It usually comes from men. They may be young boys, Mexicans, Italians, construction workers, or just random strange men who stare at women with a predatory gleam in their eye and tight little smiles on their lips. Ladies, you know what I mean by this, it’s the stare you get from groups of men who stop talking when you approach them and either stare silent and intently as you pass by or throw out a “hello” now and then after you've walked past. As a woman, I have to ask: Why do men do this? It does nothing for me except make me very uncomfortable and want to look at the ground, sky, or anything but your creepy stare.

Of course, I’m sure that most men don’t mean anything by this kind of stare. However, I just don’t like it and I’m sure most women who aren’t attention whores will feel the same way. Attention from men is nice; lecherous stares are not.

Now I know it’s only fair to mention now that sometimes women do this to men, but it’s pretty rare. Unless we’re out with the girls or at a bachelorette party or you look like Brad Pitt or Gavin Rossdale, men generally don’t get stared at with a “I’m undressing you with my eyes, can’t you tell?” type of look like women frequently do.

Guys: If you find a particular woman walking down the street attractive, and perhaps you want to talk to her, DO NOT give her the lecherous stare! She’s much prefer it if you gave her a charming, approachable, gentlemanly smile. If you want to speak with her, follow it up with a simple “Hello” or even a “How are you?” if you get the chance. Don’t stare at her like she’s an alien and don’t make her feel uncomfortable because it will get you nowhere.

The Can’t Stop Staring Stare
This is the stare that just keeps coming at you even when you’ve made it clear to the starer that you notice it and are made uncomfortable by it.

The very worst case of this I experienced in Germany on a train from Cologne to Bonn. I was sitting by myself next to the window, munching on Haribo and sipping a hefeweizen beer (you can do that there!) and this guy sitting a few rows down kept starting at me as if I had just escaped from the circus and forgot to take off my clown nose. After a few seconds I looked right at him to indicate that I noticed him staring at me and I wasn’t necessarily enjoying it. He just kept staring. After about on 30 seconds more, I stared right back at him and gestured “Yes, can I help you?” He just kept on staring at me with a look that was a strange combination of a tourist and lecherous stare. It was really annoying. He did look away a few times so I knew it wasn’t a crick in his neck or anything, he just liked to stare at strange women for extended periods of time. Strange women generally don’t like that.

The “You Look Like Someone I know” Stare
I seem to get this stare a lot from a wide variety of people. Sometimes people stop and ask me if I know so and so, who is apparently my doppelganger. I always find this a bit odd because how the hell and I suppose to know so and so just because they look like me?

Sometimes this funny stare comes in the form of fathers telling me I remind them of their daughters. That’s usually a pleasant one, it’s the same proud kind of look I get from my dad. I enjoy this look, except for the rare time that it turns into the lecherous stare, which always succeeds in creeping me out on a whole new level.

The other week, this type of stare came in the form of a young child, a girl no older than about 2 years old, pointing at me in the supermarket aisle and proclaiming “MOMMY!” in a very loud voice. I really wasn’t quite sure how to react to that one. The dad sure looked sheepish and apologetic. I just felt a strange mix of motherly obligation and complete maternal denial.


I’m sure I could come up with one or two more stare styles, but those are the main ones I seemed to encounter this morning and therefore all I can think of at the moment.

Eye culture in different cultures has always been something that has fascinated me. Japanese school kids are taught to direct their gaze at their teacher’s neck or tie, Germans seem to like to stare at you openly and unblinkingly whether they are speaking to you or not, and us Vancouverites don’t often make eye contact with each other on the street unless we are forced to.

What are your thoughts/experiences?

Rainy Courtesy in the City

Rainy Courtesy in the City

I always find it interesting to take notice of people around me who understand Vancouver’s rainy weather culture and how to navigate the streets politely. The locals who live here seem to glide along with ease and awareness while jumping puddles and handling umbrellas. All the while, tourists, newly arrived Korean exchange students, and business travelers stand out on the streets and often impede the natural flow of a rainy Van-City morning.

I noticed this again today I decided to take a rainy walk to work. I live 20 about minutes away and although I’ve got a car and a reserved underground parking spot downtown, I try to walk as often as possible. Armed with my sturdy red umbrella and a coffee, I hit Georgia Street with a quick stride. My Ipod set the soundtrack with some funky Chromeo tunes, which always makes me smile and groove along.

I noticed that about 80% of the people passing by were equipped with umbrellas. The other wet and quick moving 20% were ducking for cover wherever they could along the way. I’d say only about half of those who did have an umbrella actually knew how to use it well in a city that sees a lot of rain.

At 8 am in the centre of town, the uncertain umbrella user doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that they are carrying a potential weapon. I see so many small people with giant umbrellas and little regard for the people around them. For those of you who are about 5’6, and there are many of you, your umbrella is at the perfect height to poke out one of my eyes at 5’11 in heels; yet many of you seem blissfully unaware of potentially blinding a complete stranger. These are often the same people who keep their golf umbrellas open while walking under awnings and narrow covered walkways while the umbrella-less pedestrians forced to move into the rain will scowl without making eye contact.

Then you notice the good mannered locals who live in this city and understand proper umbrella etiquette. These people make sure they don’t use a giant golf umbrella for daily trips to the office. They tilt and/or lift umbrellas when passing others on the street to enable the traffic to flow past each other with ease. They also ensure a closed umbrella for the construction zone blocks that are enclosed and covered spaces. They are also aware that they may in fact take out someone’s eye with their umbrella’s sharp corners and they command their rain weapons accordingly.

Perhaps we need to hand out umbrella etiquette to all new travelers visiting our often wet city. I realize they do not live here and most likely don’t have to deal with nearly as much wet as we do but I wish they could know a little more about rain Vancouver culture. Perhaps even a whole Vancouver courtesy pamphlet should be given to all travelers to help them understand the unwritten cultural norms and help us all flow to work more freely on rainy days. A picture card can be developed for those who don’t speak English. Hmmm……..

For those of you who use your umbrellas wisely, I thank you and salute your rain protection intelligence. For those of you who don’t know how to get by with courtesy in the rain, please read paragraph 4 again. For those without umbrellas when I have one, I will always leave the covered sidewalks free for you. To everyone else, I will do my very best not to poke out one of your eyes with my sturdy red weather weapon!

Whatever Happened To “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”?!?

Thoughts of my little blog and it’s comments have brought to light an interesting sociological observation. Today’s discussion: Do some people only like to mention the negative things they see and point out flaws, rather than focus on what’s good and discuss the positives? This started me thinking that some people are reluctant to give compliments but extremely quick to give negative feedback. It makes me wonder: what does this say about our society? As we live our lives, are we generally quicker to criticize than appreciate?

For example, my numerous spelling mistakes in past blog entries. Ok, so they were not really spelling mistakes per say, as spellchecker let them go through, but I did make a few word usage errors and also spelled potatoe with an e. Don’t ask me why I thought potato had an “e”.

Although I completely understand that if I want to be a writer, I’m expected to be a great speller and I should never publish stupid mistakes in my work. Ok, I get that, but let me just say that I am a creative writer and not an editor! Plus, I’m only human and when you proof read your own work, you are likely to miss little mistakes. Now I realize that little errors are unacceptable in my book (that’s why I hire a good editor) but is it really expected that my lengthy blogs be literary perfect?

Apparently, the answer for most of my readers is: YES!

This is the case when I look at all the feedback I've received from my stories through comments and personal messages, 80% mentioned my errors only! Only 20% made very lovely comments (thanks for that, you know who you are). Sure, I can understand that you’d want to point out the errors so I can go in and fix them (which I did) and in fact, I appreciate the feedback to make necessary changes, but why must that be the primary response I receive? I mean, I know my stories may not be everyone’s cup of tea. That's cool, but honestly I just want to entertain you. So if you took the time to read a story, I’d hope that you at least enjoyed or noticed SOMETHING other than the fact that “potatoe” has no e!

Granted, the person who commented on the potato error did write back later and give me some great feedback on a different story, while shaing some funny gems of experience with me.

My general point is that most of the initial feedback I've received has been to correct my errors, negativity. Interesting.

Now I want to make it clear that I am not criticizing anyone or complaining about the valuable feedback that my readers are giving me. Frankly, any feedback is appreciated; I am an aspiring writer after all. The reason why I am putting together this particular blog entry is to point out the interesting observation that some people just don’t like to compliment but easily criticize. If they do want to say something in response to my stories, it was to point out my faults and errors primarily. Again, I wonder: what does this say about our society and how people react to the world around them?

Are most of us primarily negative thinkers? Do we see the faults and flaws before we see the effort and beauty? Are we afraid to say something subjectively positive yet are confident enough to hide behind the truth of an obvious error? What is it in human nature that makes people want to make others feel bad before we want to make them feel good?

I obviously don’t have the answers to these questions, I only took first year sociology and do not claim to know everything. I’m just asking myself these questions as I observe the ever interesting human culture around me. I've concluded that deep down, some people just see what's wrong instead of what's right.

You may have read a previous blog entitled “The Rare Vancouver Goddess” where I started to give praise and accolades to two particular ladies who definitely deserve it. As I was writing that story, I started to think a lot about this same subject but in the context of why some people don’t often compliment and give praise to the people who really deserve it, unless they are in our very close personal circle.

Of course, I'm not pointing thining about anyone in particular when I write these words, I’m simply observing and speculating about how people sometimes react to others. I’m often amused and a little baffled when I genuinely compliment some people and they respond by being taken aback and critical of my praise, as if I’m just saying it to gain something or they react as if don’t think they deserve kind words.

Anyways, as you can clearly see, I could run off on many different tangents here with this line of thinking. However, I’d rather just like to say that I think we all need to see the beauty in the things around us, as well as the flaws or errors, if any. We shouldn’t just look at the negative and only discuss what is wrong. We should give credit where it’s due and speak up about what’s positive about what we see, hear, and read. I’m not saying everyone should like my stories, clearly, that is a ridiculous assumption. I’m actually not even talking about my stories any more, I'm just thinking about human nature in general. We should all try to look at the world a little more positively, give encouragement where we can, and then give the constructive criticisms if necessary. Let's work harder to build each other up instead of tear each other down, whatever and however that may be. Love people, we need more love!

Or, perhaps even, as my mom would say: If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all! Alternatively, in my case, I’d like to say: If you don’t have anything nice to say and only want to spew negativity, FIND something nice to say after you criticize! That would be very nice indeed :)

Thank you, that is all, I've jumped off the soapbox.

Now what do you think?

PS – It’s almost certain that I made a few spelling and syntax errors here in this blog. In fact, I even considered throwing in various errors just to see who would be a jackass and solely comment on them. All I’m asking is that you say something nice! Surely, that isn’t too much to ask. :)

The Prettiest Marathon and the Fastest Kenyan: A couch potato’s view

It was a lazy, muggy Sunday. The grey overcast sky teased of a beautiful sunny day to come and I was just rising from a peaceful night’s slumber. Coffee, oh yeah, coffee, I thought to myself with a delicious smile and a zombie-like voice. I stumbled over the coffee pot in my faded robe and relished the blissful fact that I didn’t have to go to work today.

I heard cheers from outside my window and I opened up the blinds to see the annual Vancouver marathon rushing by. I looked at my watch and blinked my groggy eyes: 8:15am, Damn! How the hell can people actually get up this freakin’ early and run for 40 some odd kilometers? I ask myself and the universe at large But kudos to you for having the willpower and drive to do it! I bless mentally in a silent coffee cup raised salute.

Ah, the Annual Vancouver (was Adidas, is now BMO, and I wonder who the corporate sponsor will be next year) Marathon. I’ve heard this race dubbed the prettiest marathon in Canada. I can easily see why as I watch hundreds of runners pass on their way to Stanley Park. I’ve never been a runner myself, but I do enjoy a good walk/jog along the seawall on a sunny Sunday afternoon. That is, after sleeping in until WAY past the dreadful hour of 6am that these lemmings must have gotten up at. I guess I’m just a lazier, fair weathered soul who prefers the comfort of a dance studio to sweat out frustrations and challenge my body to new heights. I’m guessing those are the only reasons one would put oneself through long distance torture via a marathon. I guess some are born to run and others are just here to watch them run by when the time is right, like today! The latter is most definitely me!

I walked back to the window about 15 minutes later to see that the runners have slowed down to a brisk walk. I wonder why they would be walking already when they surely have another 25km or more to go. I’m fairly certain that my apartment isn’t even at the halfway mark yet. DO you think they’ll finish by dinner?!? I chuckle to myself. I then start to wonder why anyone would want to do this race if it meant walking the whole thing. I guess they could just be doing the half marathon I consider as I finish my coffee and start to thumb through an old fashion magazine on my coffee table.

A few minutes later, I find myself drawn to the window again as I wonder if the brisk walkers have turned into crawlers yet. Yup, indeed they have! I start to wonder why more people aren’t running this thing, I mean, aren’t marathons supposed to be popular? The Sun Run sure is and it’s still growing every year, so how come it looks like only a few hundred are running?

Just then, a see a flash of yellow and ebony dark skin come flying around the corner. I stopped and stared, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me while quickly trying to figure out if this guy started way late and was trying to catch up or if he’s actually leading an invisible pack. Then I realized: He must be the leader and perhaps the race is lapping this area, that’s why he’s passing all the slower ones like this. No one could possibly be in front of this streak of lightening! He skyrocketed past my apartment faster than I’ve ever seen any man run. He just flew! I didn’t know human beings could travel that fast on two legs!

The crawlers stop to cheer him on as he flies by and I start to wonder where the rest of the racers are. I’m just staring, baffled at the stealthy Kenyan who just passed a whole city block like SpeedRacer on legs. I just can’t believe anyone could possibly run 40km so ridiculously fast. How does one gain such speed and maintain it? This guy could run to work in about 5 minutes flat from anywhere in the city! He could never be late unless his appointment was in another country! Damn! I have so much respect for the human Speedy Gonzales that I decide to have another lazy cup of coffee in honour of him.

To the ridiculously fast and 2008 Vancouver Marathon winner Thomas Omwenga and everyone else who got up off their asses and ran like the wind, I respect and admire your strength, willpower, and determination. I, a Sunday couch potato forever, salute you!

PS. I found out later that the Relay Race started early and the marathon runners came afterward. That would explain why I saw Grease-Lightning streak past the slower Relay Runners. What a funny sight!

The Rare Vancouver Goddess

There are countless beautiful, smart, and talented women in this city. I pass dozens of them everyday on my way to and from work and I see dozens more shopping on Robson street or walking their dogs at Kits Beach and English Bay. Later in the evening, I encounter many more in my belly dance classes. They seem to significantly outnumber the men because for every tall, good looking man I see on the street, I notice 10 stunning women of all different shapes, sizes, and races.

It’s often hard to stand out in this crowd of beautiful women and even harder to stay confident in your own appeal when surrounded by such extraordinary female specimens. Vancouver truly is an oasis of attractive, talented, and charming women.

So now you may be thinking:"What's the catch? This place seems like paradise!". Yes, it can be, at least on the surface. But the truth is: Many of the very beautiful women in this city are either bitchy, fake, arrogant, shallow, or insecure and therefore, jealous. Some posess all of these terrible traits. In my opinion, any of the above qualities automatically make you UGLY (except maybe being insecure), regardless of how esthetically pleasing you may be.

Every so often, however, you meet that one woman who has it all yet is down to earth and humble at the same time. She'll blow you away with her beauty, talent, grace, modesty, and amazingly attractive goddess-like energy. She renders you almost speechless as you stare at her in awe, trying simultaneously to figure out what makes her so stunning while also trying to figure out how you can absorb as much of her energy as possible. She may not be perfect, and she definitely doesn’t fit the Hollywood plastic mould of manufactured beauty, but there is just everything about her that somehow makes her one of the most gorgeous women you have ever seen. This is a goddess!

It’s not just her beautiful face, it’s not just her amazing body, it’s not just her unwavering confidence, and it’s not just her extraordinary talent – It’s her fearless feminine spirit!

I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting a few of these goddesses in my life (the universe knows I am not one of them myself, although there is a part of me that aspires to be just like them). As I sit here and recall all the ones I’ve met in my life, I can only seem to account for a few. Today, I want to tell you about two of local goddesses: Sarita Mileta and Ana Llanes.


Let’s start with Sarita. The stunningly beautiful, multi-talented, Puerto Rican Canadian, Egyptian belly dancing, outspoken, hilarious, chain-smoking, drinkin’ and tough as nails yet extremely soft and feminine, Sarita. She’s very well known in the dance community, having been a professional Polynesian dancer in her teens and one of the very best belly dancers in the city for the past 30 years.

When I first met Sarita almost 3 years ago, I was just beginning my belly dance journey. I felt like a tall, lanky and slightly awkward dancer who just wanted to fit in and move a little like Shakira. I had only been shakin' my booty for 6 months and was very new to the Middle Eastern world of dance. I walked into Sarita’s class and was instantly struck by this dark eyed deity of a woman with long flowing hair and a body to die for. She greeted me warmly with a hug and a kiss on the cheek as if she had known me for years. I was almost dumbfounded by how affectionate, open, and inviting she was without a hint of the annoying snootiness I expected to encounter from a dancer of her calibre. (Perhaps I’ve just taken too many ballet classes but somehow I gained the impression that all great dancers where stuck up, snobby bitches).

Over the next few months, I spent a lot of time in Sarita’s class, learning very precise technique in a straightforward and simple approach. My belly dance skills improved dramatically and it was all due to her impressive guidance and instruction. I was being mentored by one of the best belly dancers in North America. She taught me to be proud of my height and use it to my advantage while teaching me how to captivate an audience with the simplest of elegant movements. The best part was: She did it all with a fiery passion and hilarious mocking of what not to do and why. Above all, she taught me to have fun with the dance and not take myself too seriously.

When you meet Sarita, you are either instantly jealous of her or instantly smitten with her. I recently found out that a few years ago, she was openly ostracized by a large part of the belly dance community because she was seen (by plain looking white girls) as being “too sexy”. I can only assume that anyone who could not appreciate and want to learn from this woman could only be jealous. Furthermore, who the hell could possibly say that a great belly dancer is “too sexy”?!? HELLO, that’s the fuckin’ point!!! I’m still trying to wrap my head around this ridiculous rationale, but anyway, I digress….

While she was teaching me how to dance like an Egyptian (still working on that but I’m well on my way!), she also began to show me how warm, encouraging and loving of a person she is. On the outside, she’s a stunningly gorgeous woman with an intense motherly charm and a friendly and inviting aura. On the inside, she’s a ball busting, sharp witted businesswoman, “get the hell out of my way” Mamacita, with a take no prisoners attitude and an indefatigable energy. Put those inner and outer qualities together and you’ve got a hell of a lot of woman that you just can’t help but sit back and stare at in awe and admiration.

On top of all that, she’s a Sagittarius and believe it or not, a grandmother! She’s also got two very good looking sons who were raised to be true gentleman. A part of me wants to marry one of her sons just so I can have the ultimate mother in law!

Women like Sarita come along so very rarely and I’m so thankful to have her valuable influence in my life. I have yet to meet another woman quite like her. However, just last week, I met another one of these extremely rare and fantastically amazing women, professional flamenco beauty Ana "ANITA DE BORNOS" Llanes.

Interestingly enough, she introduced herself as Sarita’s daughter. How perfect!

Now I haven’t known Ana that long, I just started taking my first flamenco class with her last week, but like Sarita, as soon as you meet her you are struck by how stunningly gorgeous, confident, and down to earth she is. And then I saw her dance. OH MY GOD! Ana is by far one of the BEST flamenco dancers I have ever seen!

When you watch her dance, you are captivated by her entrancing presence and amazingly skilled composure. She will elegantly saunter onto the stage as if she’s just jsut stumbled across a new opportunity to dance and she’s drinking in the scene with her kaleidoscopic sky blue eyes. When the melodic flamenco guitar suddenly shifts it’s beat, Ana glides through thick air in a flurry of graceful movement with an impressive technique that could only have originated from the birthplace of flamenco itself. For the remainder of her performance, every single person in the room is captivated and stunned silent by this incredibly talented beauty as she translates wonderful music into a physical art that defies simplistic description.

Now I’ve never been one to learn new dance moves quickly, in fact, I seem to take a very long time to become comfortable with a new dance style and flamenco is no exception. As I stumble and stretch awkwardly in the back row, reminiscent of my first days of belly dance, Ana comes around and corrects my posture and movement with a friendly technical eye for detail. As bad of a flamenco dancer as I appear to be, and as much as I must be butchering this traditional dance, she never once makes me feel awkward and in fact encourages me to keep going, try harder, and keep practicing.

What strikes me the most about Ana is the fact that she’s so uniquely confident in her own style and skill. At the same time, she’s incredibly modest, down to earth, and very approachable. While she’s teaching, she’s a flurry of energy and movement while spewing descriptively graphic dance metaphors that you’ve never heard before yet completely understand. Although she’s an extremely elegant and feminine woman, she will occasionally yell out such expressions as “Come on Chicas, tits to the sky!” or “your hip is like the wife calling her drunk husband home from the streets and you move your opposite leg in to say COME HOME NOW!” with a stamp of her feet and genuine bull fighter expression on her gorgeous face.

Indeed, Ana is a very rare gem and one that I am extremely thankful for because I just want to soak up as much of her rich and strong feminine aura as I possibly can.

To close, I just want to say that I think all women should open themselves up to meet and learn from extraordinary women like Sarita and Ana. I know I’m a better woman for having known these two and many other ladies like them. As women, the best thing we can do is love, encourage and support eachother. We need to welcome other ladies to grow and learn from us, as we can grow and learn from them. This can only raise confidence, strength, and sisterhood all around.

Every woman has something wonderful to offer, be it as a teacher, a colleague or a friend. As I mentioned, I find many women in this city to be catty, competitive, insecure, or just downright frenemie bitches (and with good reason I guess, competition is fierce!) so it’s refreshing and so lovely to meet such open and warm women like Sarita and Ana. If we could all just be a little more like them, this city would be an ever better place to live.

Namaste

To learn more about these two amazing dancers, or to see them perform live, please visit Sarita’s dance Studio 505 at http://www.dance505.com/.

Everything Changes on New Years Day

(The first story in Steph in Van-City: A year in the life)

As far as I’m concerned, New Years Day is the most pivotal day of the year. It signals many things: You need to change your calendar, you need to update your cheque book or else the bank will laugh at you and return your cheques, and your now tight pants are reminding you that the holidays are officially over and it’s time to hit the gym again. After those thoughts have been processed, it’s time to take stock of past 12 months and plan for what you want this fresh New Year in your life to look like. For many people, that might be planning to quit a bad habit or lose those extra pounds. For me, it meant losing 170 pounds in the form of my current boyfriend.

That’s right, New Years Day this year signaled that it was time to end my one and a half year relationship and start the New Year off right. And by right I mean single and alone.

I should clarify that this wasn’t some rash decision I made when I woke up on January 1, contrary to how it may seem. In fact, things have been building up for several months now and it all seemed to get that much worse the closer it got to the end of the year. So really, the timing is just perfect to make a new start. All I knew on the morning of January 1, 2006 was that I wanted to start this New Year off right.

I suppose now would be a good time to give you some background information on why I decided to start my fresh new year with a clean break up. Here goes:

Panama

It all started in the spring of 2004 when I met my ex-boyfriend, let’s call him Panama. The morning we met, I had just come home from a horrible weekend in San Francisco with a guy I met on vacation a few months prior. He asked me to come back and visit, so I did, and it turned out to be the most disappointing 4 days of my life. The sex was terrible, the guy was a dumb ass upon closer inspection, and I probably would have had a better time alone and lost in the woods for 4 days. I flew back at midnight the night before and was picked up by my fabulous roommate, Cheli. In a valiant effort to console me, she provided two bottles of wine and we drank them together while I cried my eyes out about yet another failed relationship attempt. Needless to say, the next morning I looked and felt like absolute dog shit, and my irritable “piss on the world” mood reflected how I felt on the inside.

As the bus pulled up to take me to work, I fished around for my monthly bus pass. It was then that I realized that it was no longer May, it was in fact, June 1 and I had a bus pass for the month of May. When I presented my pass to the driver, he pointed out this simple fact and I had to scramble to find change to pay my fare. Of course, I had no change, I just spent the last 4 days in the states and I had absolutely no Canadian cash on me. At this point, I was holding up the line of commuters trying to get onto the bus. It was then that I heard a calm and quiet voice behind me say something along the lines of “That happened to me before”. I spun around to find the source of such an asinine comment and found myself looking into the face of a rather attractive, smiling Latin man. Given my horrible mood and subsequent red eyes, I just gave him a horribly dirty look and then turned back to the bus driver and began to plead with him to take me to work. The driver finally decided to let me on, only after making a spectacle by dramatically ripping up my bus pass and throwing it into the trash can.

I got on the bus and rode to work in misery. The attractive Latin guy kept stealing glances at me out of the corner of his eye and I just continued to glare out the window, hating everyone and everything all at once. Needless to say, it was a terrible morning and somehow I knew the day would only get worse.

A few weeks later, I saw the attractive Latin man again at the bus stop. This time, I was in a much better mood as I walked with Cheli to catch the bus. She saw him waiting for the bus and said “Hello, Panama. This is my roommate, Stephanie”. He looked at me and smiled and said: “Hi, we haven’t met officially but I know you.” Flashbacks of my extreme bitchiness that fated June 1 mad me smile sheepishly as I said hello and tried not to feel like too much of an asshole.

Panama and I started hanging out after that and then one day he just leaned over and kissed me while we were munching on Sushi for lunch. That was it, the next serious relationship had begun.

Panama had caught me a strange time in my life. For the first time, thanks to the icing on the “all men suck” cake courtesy of Mr. Loser San Fran, I was official jaded. I didn’t trust men and didn’t really want anything to do with them for the first time in my life. Panama worked hard to get to me though and he did eventually win my heart after countless romantic gestures to remind me that not all men are bad. This was one of the first times that I have forced a man to chase me, but not on purpose. I suppose it is true that people want what they have to work for in relationships because he had to work hard to win me over and he fell hard in the process.

Things went very well for most of the first year of our relationship and I actually thought that this might just be the one for me. He spoiled me, I admit it, but it felt so good to be treated like a queen for the first time in my life. He did everything for me, something I had never experienced before. Basically, he adored me and put me up on a very high pedestal and he looked at me as if I was his perfect woman. I just sat back in awe and watched it all unfold.

But of course, what goes up must come down and when you are placed on such a high pedestal, you have no where to go but down and that’s exactly where I ended up.

Things went very well for the first year. We even spent almost a month together in Panama City, his hometown, and he was the perfect escort for the trip. He made sure I was comfortable and content. He even helped me through a particularly embarrassing episode in which I had to use a local tampon when my period started and I became violently ill as a result. It started just after dinner one night with his family and suddenly I had to throw up, and a few seconds later I did, all over him in the restaurant! He didn’t even flinch, he just made sure I was okay and got to the bathroom. How could you not appreciate a man who cares more about your well being than the fact that you just barfed all over him in public? (Ladies, please take note: Always bring your own tampons when traveling outside of North America. Just trust me on this one!)


So things were great in Panama but after we got back, everything started to change. He suddenly started to view me in a different light. He began criticizing me constantly. Pretty soon he verbally expressed his dislike for everything from the faces I made to the way I walked. This was a complete 180 from the guy who thought I was womanly perfection just a few months prior.

During this paradigm shift, I tried my best to accept this sudden change in the dynamic of my relationship while attempting to alter my habits to better suit his needs. It was also at this point that I started to realize that we had horrible communication skills as a couple. I would say one thing and he would hear something very different. It was almost as if we were listening to two different radio stations, or speaking two different languages. It wasn’t necessarily a language barrier, he spoke English very well, it was just that we were two people with very different thought processes.

Suddenly, the dynamics of our relationship changed dramatically. He was distant and unreachable while I was the one scrambling to get his attention and keep things happy and comfortable between us. The fights came easily and often and there were times when I wasn’t sure if we had any respect for each other left anymore.

It was at this point that I started to realize just how differently we dealt with problems in our lives. I am the type of person that likes to tackle problems by coming up with a list of potential solutions. He on the other hand, likes to talk in depth about the problems, even complain about them, and then eventually work the problem out in his own head. Basically, I’m solution oriented without a lot of complaining while he likes to explain his issues in detail and let the solution come on it’s own. This fundamental difference between us was the root of a lot of our problems: He thought I wasn’t listening when I interrupted with ways of solving the problem while I thought he was a big whiner that likes to complain about his problems rather than do something about them. Even when we began to understand these personality differences, we knew we probably couldn’t change our ways just to suit the other person.

During this tumultuous time in our relationship, I tried everything I could to understand what was happening and somehow restore the harmony we once had. I read several books on communication and discussed them with him, I tried to surprise him with gifts and things to relieve his stress. I spent as much time with him as I could. I basically moved into his apartment during this time period, all while virtually ditching my dear friend Cheli, who had also began to change her once positive opinion of him. I tried hard to take a good look at myself and my bad habits and attempted to change and improve upon things that I was in control of. However, the harder I tried, the more stressed I felt and since I was getting minimal reciprocity for my efforts, it felt like a vicious circle.

Panama also started becoming a lot more mean to me. I knew he had a mean streak, I’d seen it before, but he never treated me even similar to how he treated others at times. He started making terrible jokes that were hurtful to me and when I called him on it, he would say that I couldn’t take a joke. Suddenly every thing he said seemed to be mean or condescending and it was starting to take a toll on my usually very cheerful and optimistic self. One day he mentioned that I didn’t laugh like I used to, in fact I hardly laughed at all anymore, and I was saddened to realize that he was right.

This all came to a head around Christmas time. We were arguing constantly and nothing seemed to be going right. He was obviously unhappy that he wasn’t spending the holidays with his family and he took it out on me in many ways. At this point, I had had enough of his whining and I wasn’t tolerating it anymore. This only made things worse.

Then came the straw that broke the fatigued camels back: After Christmas dinner at my parents, everyone who attended came down with a very severe stomach flu. Within 48 hours of dinner, every single guest was bed ridden and very sick. It hit Panama first and I took care of him for the first 24 hours. After that point, it hit me and we were both down for the count. I couldn’t eat for almost 3 days and he was in just as bad of shape as I was. He recovered a little sooner than I did due to his illness coming earlier and by New Years eve, he was back to normal and I was finally ready to start eating again. We went out to a nice dinner and talked for a while and made plans to visit friends for the countdown. However, soon after dinner, my stomach had other ideas. I felt horribly ill again and I had to go home. I was in terrible pain and he just looked at me as if I was faking it and ruining his night. He then proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the night.

As I sat with him on the couch watching the ball drop and hearing the neighborhood welcome 2006, I felt more alone and unhappy than I had in a very long time. I knew at that point that I didn’t want to be with him anymore and I was simply delaying the inevitable by pretending that I did. Perhaps we could have salvaged some of the relationship that night if only he had tried to comfort me somehow in my time of need. He didn’t however, because he chose to act like a spoiled child and I just couldn’t take it anymore. Even a friend would have done more to comfort me when I needed it that night, but my so called boyfriend did nothing but sulk.

That was the last night we shared a bed, ever.

On New Years day 2006

I woke up feeling marginally better physically, but weak and drained emotionally. Cheli was doing the polar bear swim at English Bay that morning and I decided to go and hold a towel for her and take funny pictures. The Polar Bear swim is a crazy event where locals throw themselves into the freezing cold ocean at noon on the first day of the new year in an attempt to cleanse themselves or prove their bravery, or stupidity, or something like that. I’ve never really understood it, even though I’ve lived here my whole life.There was no way in hell I was going to go and throw my perfectly warm self into sub zero temperatures for no apparent reason, but of course I wanted to go and take pictures of Cheli doing just that. Panama and I wandered down to the beach, hardly speaking, and I knew in my heart that it would be our last day together as a couple.

When we returned to his apartment, I told him I needed some time and space away from him and I packed up my bags and left. He didn’t try to stop me that day and I was glad for it. Somehow deep down, I just knew that I needed to start my new year off on the right foot and that meant being alone.

I’ve heard people say that the matter in which you spend your first day of the New Year will colour the entire 12 months that follow. I am not sure if that is true or not, but for some reason it stuck out in my head and it gave me the strength to end what was once a strong and happy relationship. I knew that I would rather be alone than unhappy, so that is exactly what I decided to be: alone.

I thought a lot about the relationship, the mistakes we both made and all the warning signs I neglected to see. Twenty-twenty hindsight is indeed an interesting thing. I learned a lot about myself and relationships while we were together and I could see that I had grown a lot in the past year and a half.

One mistake I definitely will not make again is letting a man believe that I am truly perfect when I know I am not. I think women like the idea that men may think we are perfect, I suppose it stems from the ideal fairy tale romance we all dream about as little girls. The reality is though, if you let someone think you are indeed perfection, you only have room to make mistakes and show your flaws. With Panama, I was put on the highest pedestal in the world. After a short while though, I fell off my throne and crashed to the ground and was horribly beaten by a painful reality. I learned many things from this relationship but that particular reason stands out in my mind more than the others.

The other major thing that stands out in my mind is the realization of just how important individual identity and clear communication are in a relationship. If a person needs you to change in order for them to like you more, than you are with the wrong person. I tried to change for him and in the process, I lost my laugh and I lost my sense of confidence in being the unique and wonderful person I am. I spent all my energy on changing myself and in the process, I lost those good things about myself that I love so much while I was trying to change the areas that needed work.


I also realized just how important it is to have your partner truly understand you without the need for fights, arguments, and disrespect through yelling and name calling. I’ve always known deep down that clear and honest communication was important, but now I understand it so much better having lived through a great example of how badly things can go when that element of good communication is missing. I know relationships are hard work, but if it takes all you’ve got just to hold on to the relationship, it is definitely taking too much work and nothing should be that hard. I guess it’s kind of like trying to shove a square peg in a round hole: It just won’t work no matter how hard you try.

As I went to bed alone, in my own bed, that night on January 1, 2006, I thought more about what I wanted the next 12 months of my life to look like. I stopped thinking about the last 12 and started focusing on all the wonderful things the next 12 would bring. I felt strong, in control and optimistic that this year held good things in store for me. Deep down, I knew I made the right choice to spend the first evening of this New Year alone and I slept peacefully for the first time in several months.