knock knock

Apartment life is an experience. You get to watch your neighbour’s lives, smell their weird roasts, listen to their elephant children clomp around at night, and know they commiserate when they hear the wails of your very tired and persistent 3 year old being dragged down the hallway, the sounds eventually swallowed by the hurried entrance into your unit then the gentle click of a door closing.

It’s cool. We’re all here under one roof, breathing, living, and co-existing.

Our building, because of its family vibe, where it’s situated and the desirable rent, has some rules. We signed contracts to not do or deal drugs, to not prostitute ourselves, to not be engaged in gang activity and absolutely, positively NO PETS.

Especially dog hookers who love meth and murder.

We are all united under these weird rules and, so, it goes.

in the city, your stoop is huge

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wecapella vol.1

The very first "Official Blogger Conference" I ever attended resulted in me checking in, getting a loot bag, crazily trying to catch eye contact with someone, ANYONE, I could chat with, eventually having a new kid in school anxiety bubble form all around me, slinking out and melodramatically letting my lanyard slip out of my fingers and into a trash can as I left.
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float on

Living in Gastown has its perks. Being steps from the most incredible florist (Olla), coffee shop (Timbertrain) and best gluten free duck shepherd's pie ever (The Greedy Pig) are just a few 'hood highlights.

Just one block down from my front door now resides The Float House. As soon as I saw the tanks being loaded in I was insanely intrigued.

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#notastranger

What inspires you? Watching other people create turns me on to no end. Art. Fiction. A turn of phrase that makes me re-think what I believe, how I move, how I love and how I parent. A beautiful wall painted a particularly lovely shade of deep sea navy blue. New ways of doing simple yet vital things. Old ways of doing new things. Straight up my favourite thing this year, that has provided so many warm fuzzies (so bad it's so good), and so much inspiration, is The Stranger Project 2014.
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bc transit doesn't care about pooping people

I hate my car. It’s now 13 years old and in true teenage fashion, is petulant and makes weird noises that I don’t understand. I don’t know sh-t about sh-t so every time something seems wrong I have to contact a new mechanic and try to not vomit-laugh while I describe the problem in 36-year-old frightened woman fashion: “So, when I yard the wheel to the right it makes a high-pitched squeal like a 90’s modem crossed with that noise you make when you jab your cornea with a mascara wand. I googled it and it’s probably the transmission-tron, right?” All the money, they take all the money, and your savings account, once filled with dreams of Miami and a new laptop and every eye cream Sephora sells, is as hollow as your soul. I live in this perpetual state of fear and angst because booting around in the Probable Flat Tire OR Rusted Alternator Derby is still better than the alternative. Mother. F-cking. BC. Transit.

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win win win spa spa spa

‘Tis the season to lay flat on your back while someone rubs you down vigorously. Right? Right.
As all legit bloggers are legally bound to do, it’s time for a holiday giveaway. Ready?
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