Please to excuse my (horribly) straightened hair. A misguided decision to cut my hair SHORT (and the subsequent grow-out period OF DOOM) combined with the Friends era resulted in the above hairdo.

Please also to excuse my (strategically hidden) thighs. This was before I hear of these great things called “vegetables” and “exercise”.

I sold that bike to help pay for my (our) wedding. Our parents chipped in a little bit but the onus was on us to foot the bulk of the bill. My (extremely) frugal husband had a decent savings account and I had a motorcycle to sell and, well. There is no debate that it was the best decision at the time; we’re now mere weeks away from our tenth anniversary. While my head knew that selling my bike was the wise choice, my heart was a little bit sad. I kept my helmet and jacket and they have resided in our hall closet to this very day. I spent many years pregnant and in the trenches of baby craziness and shoved my love of the bike as low as I could.

It’s been hard, especially every spring when the bikes hit the road. I need only hear them in the distance and my heart starts to beat a little bit faster. I want to be on a bike of my own, to have my hair blow behind me, to open it up on the open road. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s true.

A work friend of mine bought a bike a few years ago and we’ve spent many an animated conversation talking about our shared love of riding. She’s the same age as I am and loves it as much as I do. Seeing her bike in the parking lot made me both happy for her and a little bit sad at the same time. One night, after having talked to her at length about her bike I came home and pitched the idea to Matthew that a bike might be a good idea due to the amount of gas money we would save on my commute. He laughed, I laughed, and I didn’t think much more of it. That is, until last week when he brought up that maybe a bike would be a good commuting option, both for me and for him. He doesn’t have his license, but he wants to get it…soon.

He then spent the better part of the next few days researching bikes, browsing online ads and calling sellers. He called friends of ours who ride to get their insights and advice. He was a man on a mission.

I know that many people have fears about motorcycles. They know or have heard of people who have been injured or killed on a bike. I, too, am one of those people. When I was in my early twenties one of my riding buddies crashed his bike while on a ride that I hadn’t participated in. He was traveling at 180 km/hour (112 miles/hour) when he hit a bump in the road and lost control of his bike. While his passing was sad, I cannot see how traveling at those speeds can be considered driving “defensively”.

I’ve had a few friends express (grave) reservations about me getting a bike and I get that. I do. I’ve seen and experienced the carnage myself. I could argue the statistics and try to make my arguments but I really do understand both sides of the debate. That being said, I also feel like ten years of putting aside something you love is far too long.

Matthew found a bike that he thought would be a good fit for the both of us. He showed it to me and it was love at first sight. We drove an hour just to see her and brought her home the next day.

As you can see, Emily is just as excited about the bike as I am.

We had a few days of inclement weather but on Saturday the sun finally shone. Same goes for Sunday. I finally had the chance to take her out for a ride (or two).

I think I’m in love. Now I just need to name her.

*Alternate title: Live Long And Prosper. Because my new girl is a Kawasaki Vulcan 500.

Part of it is because I (am cheap, and) take so many photos of the dude that it seems a little ridiculous to pay for a posed photo that somebody else took of him. In Kindergarten it was easy to justify this because the photos were awful. Not only were his individual photos horribly done, the class photo was so bad that it was almost funny. I was not the only one who thought so; the rest of the parents were dismayed at the result. I volunteered to retake them and spent an afternoon taking the requisite posed group shots as well as a bunch of candid ones. We had way too much fun and got the coolest class photos of the entire school. (In my oh, so humble opinion.)

Graham’s first grade photos were done by a new photographer and they were actually quite cute. I intended to order them but by the time I went to do so I saw that I had missed the deadline by…two weeks. Don’t judge me. I have three kids; getting out of the house fully clothed and in my right mind is a major accomplishment most days. Luckily for us, the photo of the entire class is given to each child.

This year, with Nathan now in school, I vowed to buy the school photos of each of the kids. My kids (and I) love to haul out old photo albums and seeing the shots from my school years bring me no end of glee. Some are so bad that they’re hilarious and some are just neat to see. In honor of the dudes I’m busting out my Kindergarten photo.

Well hello, 1980. That dress you have me in is all sorts of fugly. What is with the lace? And the tiny flowers in upside-down baskets? Also, I thought that redheads weren’t supposed to wear red. Or so I’ve been told.

My auburn hair is courtesy of my redheaded Mom and brunette Dad. That nose and mouth are a true Moran trait. I recognize them in Graham and Emily on a daily basis. As for Nathan, he’s 100% Dykstra. He’s been that way since birth.

Regarding me, myself and I: My hair was pretty straight (as you can see) until puberty. Hormones are crazy. Yo. (Those early years were the only time in my life that I could wear bangs. Huzzah!)

I spent the bulk of Tuesday catching up on life after our big family road trip. I refused to get stressed out and just stayed focused while crossing items off of my list. I may have kept the stress at bay but I was pretty burnt out by the end of the day. When the kids were in bed I cleaned out their backpacks, unaware of the AWESOME that was awaiting me. School photos had been taken a few weeks ago and the proofs came home for us to choose a “winner.”

I opened Nathan’s set first.

Not bad, really. If you are a cheese fan, that is. Shots #1 and #2 (Upper left and right) aren’t completely awful. I would love to be able to have the photographer tell me how he got Nathan to actually look at the camera. The bulk of shots I take of that kid consist of him looking to the left, right, up, down, anywhere but at the camera. The fist-under-the-chin poses are far too fromage, but maybe we need more cheese in our lives.

I then opened Graham’s school photos. Matthew was out so I ran downstairs to show my brother because someone needed to bask in the awesomeness with me.

WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN?

Shot #1 (Upper left) gives me glimpses of his high school years and also, has me doing a full belly laugh every time I look at it. I also hear, “How YOU doin’?” in my head.

Shot #2 (Upper right) is similar, but had Graham rocking the portrait head-tilt that his Momma often does.

Shot #3: (Bottom left) is an expression that I capture often, “FINE. Take my photo, but don’t expect me to look happy about it.” (Insert pre-pre-teen angst HERE.)

Shot #4: (Bottom right) makes me think he was ordered to look happy. “Oh, I can SO BRING THE SMILE.”

I have about a week to decide among those stellar choices above. Do I go for the “normal” ones? Or the “so bad they’re rad” ones? My side of the family would lean toward the latter (We mock you because we love you is our motto.)

Decisions, decisions.

I moved to the city of Vancouver when I was twenty years old. I packed all of my (meager) belongings into my little blue Pontiac Firefly and hit the road. The drive from northern BC to the Lower Mainland was a long one; eighteen hours or so, broken into two days of travel. Being a mother now, the thought of any of my kids packing up everything and watching them drive away brings forth the ugly cry. But my parents let me go onto a new adventure and it is one that helped to mold me into the woman that I am today.

I had my first experience of living in a Big City and doing it all by myself. I lived in a wee bachelor suite a few blocks from the ocean. I had to budget for things like rent, auto expenses, food. As an articling accounting student, finances were tight. I distinctly remember one instance at a local market where I used my debit card to purchase $3.75 worth of vegetables because my bank wouldn’t let me take out anything less than $20. My account balance was hovering at $5.25 (or so) which meant that debit was the only way to access those few dollars. Thank God that the next day was pay day.

To help ease the cost of living in a big city, I took on a part-time job at a popular restaurant. I worked with an amazing collection of people whom I loved to spend time with and who taught me more about the fair city I was living in. I made a ton of great friends, had an overwhelming amount of fantastic experiences, and fell even more in love with one of the most beautiful cities on the planet.

It was in that fair city that I met Matthew. I was in Kitsilano and he was New Westminster, but we made it work. Upon getting married we moved to North Burnaby. My firm had moved downtown and his company had moved to Maple Ridge. We split the difference and both commuted a decent amount of distance. After spending five years walking to work I found the daily driving commute to be a bit much. So did he. I also found the house prices to be insane. So did he. Within a year we had moved to the Okanagan and bought a large house on an acreage for the same amount that we would have spent on a (tiny) condo in Vancouver.

I love the community in which we live. I really, truly do. I love our location out in the sticks. We are surrounded by nature and are but a few minutes walk from the Trans-Canada Trail. The fact that we have an abundance of space for our kids to explore is something not many people get to experience. They can ride ATV’s around our property, for crying out loud.

But a part of me likes the City. Loves the City. In energized by the City.

Matthew could die happy if he was out in the butt-poke of nowhere, living on the land, eating food he had caught with his bare hands (While possibly wearing a bear skin)(That visual just made my day)(Because I know he would love it).

While I appreciate nature and all, I still need my City fix every once in awhile. Once or twice a year I get to go to Vancouver for work. With the economy and such, Vancouver has not been in the cards for work. But lo! There is a pre-BlogHer meetup this weekend. The lovely Mr. Lady is organizing it and also offered me a place to lay my weary head. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. (Will I see you there?)

In addition to meeting up with some lovely ladies, I get to meet up with my fair city. Every time I return to see her I have this bubble of excitement rise up inside of me. The closer I get to her, the more my insides start to quiver.

Have you ever met up with an old friend that you haven’t seen in way too long? You make plans to meet and can hardly wait to lay eyes upon her. She knows your heart and you, hers. You have a history together, a heart connection. You round the corner and upon seeing her face gasp at how lovely she looks. Not only has she not aged a single day, she looks even better than the last time you saw her. She has an aura about her that you cannot explain and you feel like a piece of you has come home while in her presence.

This is how I feel about Vancouver.

I can only take her in small doses but those little shots are like adrenalin to my soul. The buzz of the city reminds me of those years where I figured myself out in the midst of the hustle. I am on familiar ground and it feels good. I can’t hardly wait to see her again.

*That photo of Emily has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I just think she’s pretty. And also, awesome.

In my early twenties I was an articling accounting student trying to make ends meet in the bustling metropolis of Vancouver. Student wages were not bad, but I was a single girl with both rent and a car payment to make. Add in the cost of food and toiletries and there was nothing left over for things like eating out, magazines, or buying new clothes. I did what I had always done and got a second job.

I spent my evenings and weekends working at a popular restaurant which had an enormous outside patio that jutted out into a waterway known as False Creek. Most of the restaurant staff was like what you see at any other trendy restaurant these days; young, dressed in black and easy on the eyes. My co-workers and I got along famously and I soon learned that in this business flirting was a sport, not merely a game. For a girl who had spent a good chunk of her life in the “awkward” group it sure felt nice to be treated as one who was “flirt-worthy.”

In addition to the smooth-talkers there were those on staff who were just good people. Those were the ones that I gravitated to, as I could only take so much of the raging pheromones. One of the friends I made was the manager of the Valet staff who was a really great guy. He was smart, kind, and looked a bit like a big teddy bear. He would encourage me to spend my money wisely. To invest it, buy a home, not squander my earnings away like the rest of the staff did so easily.

One night after the restaurant was closed we were all sitting out on the patio as we always did (before we went elsewhere). This friend would often sit with us for a bit but never went out; he was not much of a partier. That night he ended up sitting next to me and I don’t know how we got to that point in the conversation, but he had assumed due to all of the flirting I received from both staff and patrons alike that I had a highly active dating life. This was so far from the truth that I actually laughed out loud. He seemed to be in sincere shock that nobody was wooing me with kind words, nights out, flowers.  I told him that he was sweet to think so but that most guys were pretty lame when it came to doing anything beyond a smart/flirty remark.

On my very next shift I was just getting set up to start when he walked into the restaurant with a large bouquet of flowers and handed them to me with this look I cannot describe. There was no romantic vibe, no discomfort, no awkwardness. He was simply my friend and wanted to bring me flowers with no hope of anything in return. I opened the card attached to the flowers and inside he had written one line:

Someone should buy you flowers

I was overwhelmed by the simplicity of that sentence. Here was this sweet friend stating something that I often did not believe about myself. He saw value in me as a human being (not a love interest) and wanted me to know that I was worth something so simple as a bouquet of fresh flowers.

I have kept that note card in my jewelry box for over twelve years. What he did for me was so completely thoughtful, giving, selfless and sweet. I have no idea whatever happened to him but the simple truth in that statement has stuck with me over the years.

Ever since then I have occasionally walked into the grocery store and seen that they have had a new shipment of flowers. I will wander over and peruse the selection.  Without fail I will hear those words echoing in my head.

Someone should buy you flowers

I will pick an arrangement that makes my heart smile and place it in my basket.

Because sometimes, that “someone” is yourself.