It’s gettin’ hot in herrre

Where am I, the western Sahara? It certainly feels that way with this crazy heat wave we’re enduring. Vancouverites are in shock. People are piling into the closest Canadian Tire to score the biggest fans they can find. We’re in an inferno people. The tropics. I swear I saw a gecko in my shower this morning.

Granted it’s July, and despite popular opinion there are no igloos in this part of our vast country. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t mind thronging myself up against a snowy structure right about now. Despite being a bit of a beach bunny - a tanorexic sun worshiper if you like - the humidity is a challenge. Besides the bronzer melting off my face, my hair has been quaffing into quite the retro-fro, reminiscent of Monica on Friends during the Maui episode. Good GAWD I'm a sexy beast. Sexy. Beast.

My only sanctum in all this swelter is the utterly ridiculous fashion trends my fellow citizens have been sporting to manage the rising mercery. This heat wave has equated to one, big hot mess for many, which is why I’ve prepared...

The Urban Cowgirl’s Summer Fashion Follies

1) Mesh tops on men. I don’t care if you live in the West End or not, these haven’t been acceptable since Wham released Wake Me Up. Shame on American Apparel for endorsing this look.

2) Socks with sandals. We all know it’s wrong so why do we do this? I use the term ‘we’ loosely as what I really mean is men with no fashion morals, and the tourist community-at-large. Senior citizens are exempt.

3) Men in v-necks. I’m sensing a trend here, but don’t worry ladies I’ll get to you next. V-necks are never a good idea on dudes. Ever. Don’t do that.

4) Visors. Remember when these were cool in the 90’s for a month or so? I believe they called it ‘bad ass country cluber chic’. I find visors rather agreeable on the golf course, but no where beyond the club house. We’re not teeing off at our neighborhood Starbucks, are we? I didn’t think so.

5) Blueblockers. I’d like to say senior citizens are exempt from this, but sadly they are not. These are fucking hideous. Surely there’s something more suitable that doesn’t make you look like an electrician.

6) OK ladies, here’s my beef – baring saggy boobs. Now, I’m the first to admit that sauntering about sans bra is a fabulous feeling. It’s the first thing I rip from my bod after a long day at the office. But must our bosom flap about in public? Wreck beach, yes. Hustling down Homer Street, no.

I’m signing off now to go stick my head in the freezer. So, my perspiring possums, let me leave you with a quote from one of my fave flicks, that sums up our weird, west coast weather.

"It's hot! Damn hot! Real hot! Hottest things is my shorts. I could cook things in it. A little crotch pot cooking." Well, tell me what it feels like. "Fool, it's hot! I told you again! Were you born on the sun? It's damn hot! It's so damn hot, I saw little guys, their orange robes burst into flames. It's that hot! Do you know what I'm talking about?" What do you think it's going to be like tonight? "It's gonna be hot and wet! That's nice if you're with a lady, but ain't no good if you're in the jungle!"

Thank god for Wednesday

Have you ever dreamt that you won the lottery? Perhaps you’ve already accounted for the cash, should you possess a winning ticket one day. I for one buy a lottery ticket every chance I get. I wasn’t always a lotto lover, but the recession inspired me to try my luck. Granted, I have never been in a better financial position since this so-called recession hit. I still like having an excuse to fantasize about my possible fortune. Why is it that spending $2 (no Extra because my Gram says that’s a sham) makes me feel like I have the right to dream of all these things? Somehow having this ticket makes it seem more reasonable to indulge in the fantasy. It singlehandedly shifts my energy into a warm and fuzzy frenzy! No, this is not a plug for The Secret people.

On the way home from work today, I mentioned to my bf that we - once again - did not win the lottery. To which he responded “thank god for Wednesday”. Thank god indeed. It’s the next chance to buy a lottery ticket and slip back into fantasyland. Perhaps what I need to do is train myself to dream these things, with or without said ticket?

Here’s the thing possums...I’ve had a number of mysterious cash windfalls myself. Luck you say? Maybe. For example, way back when I was a wee possum, I purchased a $1 scratch’n’win the night before flying to Europe. I won $500, which in those days, translated to paying for my flight. Fast forward a few years, when I won another chunk of change, this time $5000 on a popular Vancouver radio show. In all my cowgirl cavorting, the benjamins always seem to appear when least expected.

The best bit about winning a little cashola is dreaming up all the fabulous things you plan to do with it. For example, I’d rescue and adopt a couple of dogs, name them Horhay and Madonna and dress them in Ed Hardy. I would buy organic, locally produced foods exclusively and volunteer for a good cause. I’d be on a flight to the South of France so fast, ma tête se tourner. While in France I would determine how to spend and invest my millions, beginning with an initial investment in Cole Haan and Jimmy Choo. All while my personal assistant Franc (pronounced Fronk) fluffs my pillows, fixes me a bowl of bouillabaisse and fetches me a glass of rosé. Oui, sil vous plait.

What would you do??

In other news, I now have three - count ‘em - THREE tomatoes on my tomato plant. Maybe this represents my windfall for now.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie. Bon soir possums. x

Confessions of a Cowgirl

Hello my precious possums, how goes the battle? I say, this summer is slipping away faster than vino from my wine rack. I hope you’re all soaking up the sun and logging as many beach days as possible. Spoken like a true tanorexic. Amidst all of this summertime splendor, I’ve adopted a few guilty pleasures that I thought I’d share. Consider it my cowgirl confessional, minus the closet...or whatever that thing is.

Top 10 Confessions

1) Let’s talk Twilight. I know, I know, how very predictable, but what can I say? I’ve always thought of vampires as being these sensual beasts as it were, toss in a tumultuous human/immortal love affair and i’m hooked. However, I’m happy to report I’m not as diehard (or Twi-hard) as some. For example, like this weirdo who willingly had Robert Pattinson’s autograph tattooed right where he lift it — oh her wrist. WTF.

2) Chicken Club sandwiches from PHAT (Pretty Hot and Tasty), this fabulous New York style deli a few blocks from my pad. The menu doesn’t exactly support the bikini diet, however these babies take care of a Saturday morning hangover in a heartbeat.

3) The Bachelorette. I can’t help but indulge in this weekly cryfest as this gal participated in Whistler/Vancouver product placement for 3 whole episodes! Clever marketing and a bunch of man whores. A delightful combo.

4) Gladiator sandals. They’re back for another season, thank buddha, as my feet were about ready to fall off thanks to my high rise heel collection.

5) Local street busker SpandyAndy, bustin’ a move all over Vancity. If you haven’t seen him in action on the street, check him out here. I first discovered him in front of the art gallery the day after MJ died, performing to all his hits. Just a dude in spandex with solid dance moves and a message. Love him.

6) My tomato plant. I have two sprouts so far. This is exciting news.

7) Speaking of vino vanishing from my wine rack, give the Talus Chardonnay a go. It’s recession friendly, at $10 a pop, and it’s creamy, oaky deliciousness is divine with seafood...or a piece of provolone.

8) The new Lily Allen album, It’s Not Me, It’s You, especially this song. After a mind numbing day at the office, this song soothes the soul.

9) Bumpits hair volumizing inserts. I get fake boobs, fake finger nails and even false eye lashes. But why oh why would we want something that resembles that of a bone contusion sprouting from our noggin? The commercial is what earns Bumpits a spot on this list. Are they for real?

10) Craig Ferguson. I am and have always been a hardcore Letterman loyalist, however Ferguson is fucking hysterical. Is he dipping into a wee dram of scotch before each show? It’s tough to say what’s in his snake cup, but I do love those puppets.

Vancouverites indulge in local bites

I love food. I’ve become a dine-hard one might say, however lately I find myself assuming a pseudo food critic persona whilst dining around town and I’m not sure where this all originated? I could blame it on an overdose of Hells Kitchen, which by the by is making it’s way to Whistler. However, my secret obsession over Chef Ramsey and his volatile ways doesn’t seem to be what has sparked my undying desire to dine. I remember being in my early 20’s and eating raisin bran accompanied by cheap red wine for dinner (please, be kind possums, i was but a wee lass). Fast forward a few years and boom I’m so addicted to our local eateries I get anxious having not tried them all (although, I’m close).

Over the weekend this foodie parked her booty at a few local faves that I’m not only inspired to give a shout out to both, but feel I should share the goods...or the foods, rather.

Jules Bistro, which I have mentioned subtly in previous posts, is a jewel indeed. If you haven’t been, I urge you to go and experience authentic French fare in a delicately elegant atmosphere. There is no dress code, simply come as you are, however the clientele is eclectic allowing you to arrive in your finest frock or your Saturday strolling attire. The service is exceptional but relaxed, with our server boasting a beautiful accent and the owner popping by now and then with a witty comment while he multi-tasked between tables. Jules offered up the kind of meal that subconsciously leaves you appreciating every bite, while falling into a certain food coma...on the other hand, that may have been the bottle of Chablis, but I digress. Try the Moules Frites - steamed mussels in white wine with garlic and parsley served with French fries. My handsome date enjoyed the seafood linguini, fresh and full of flavor. The resident piano player helped top off our night before embarking on our hazy walk home. I’m usually not a sucker for romance, but I was certainly seduced.

The next day, as if we hadn’t been decadent enough, we trotted over to a nearby spot boasting some of the best brunch on Beatty. The Medina Cafe, same owners as Chambar (another Vancouver institution), has been a common discussion among dine-hards for quite some time. Having finally dragged my tookus a mere 5 blocks to this nearby noshery, I arrived with some hefty expectations. Not to sound cliche, in other words, like many bona-fide food critics in town, but I loved my Medina experience. From the street, the cafe looks cramped and just when you think you’re about to embark on an hour long wait...whoops, they walk you through a corridor to the ‘other side’ of the cafe. A spectacular room that opens up to massive windows, exposed beams a la industrial chic, brick walls and all the other Gastown staples. Now we’re talkin’. The menu matched the great room with a fresh Moroccan flare and my lavender latte was the perfect start to my Sunday.

Bon appetit possums!
xx