Concert for Diana

We went to Wembley on the bike to avoid crowds on the Tube. The only problem we didn't figure on was parking...you had to have a special pass to get into the lots and we weren't exactly important enough to have gotten one of those passes (shocking, I know). Anyways, we ended up slipping a fiver to a kid who was manning the parking lot of a strip mall across the street and he let us chain up the Ducati at the bike racks. Huzzah!
Wembley was open and there was some sunshine coming through, which looked promising...
Edy.
Moi. Looking a little jet lagged, I'd say.

Can you feel the lurve?

More Concert for Diana

Andrea Bocelli singing "Music of the Night" during an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley. It sounds cheesy, and it was, but, to musical theatre nerds like me, it was also awesome. Sarah Brightman (the original Christine from "Phantom") and Josh Groban sang "All I Ask of You," and the three most famous Josephs-Donny Osmond, Jason Donovan and...some kid I don't know who I think won a reality show here in the UK-sang "Any Dream Will Do." And the entire stadium sang along with them.
The crowds at Wembley steadily increased as the night wore on...
The little thing in the white suit is P. Diddy. Who sang, predictably, "I'll Be Missing You." Now, I'm not the biggest P. Diddy fan, but the man can entertain. He really moved the whole crowd in a way that not many of the other performers did. He did his P. Diddy dance, there were smoke machines, there were girls with violins...it was pretty cool.
Yes, we are still here, 6 hours later.

I woke up this Saturday and realized I had absolutely nothing that I had to get done. No need to go to the office, no laundry, nothing. The feeling was alien, unfamiliar. After waking up with the sun to feed Currie, I laid in bed and listened to CBC radio, watching the sun pouring in the window. I couldn't sleep in-I think the combination of work and Currie has knocked that ability out of me-so I got up and padded into the kitchen to decide what to make for breakfast. I opened the fridge and peered in. I decided on buckwheat pancakes and fresh strawberries, which I ate on a plate balanced on my lap as I watched my favourite guilty pleasure: British real estate shows. Ah, Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

As I was doing the dishes I looked at the clock and thought I probably had time to get to Saturday morning yoga class...so I went downstairs, strapped my yoga mat on my back, hopped on my bike, and headed downtown. I chanted, I "om'd", I downward dogged, and an hour and a half later I was back out in the sunshine on my bike, pedaling towards Coal Harbour. I laughed to myself-two years ago my idea of a perfect Saturday was Borough Market, followed by a pitcher of Pimms in a pub by the Thames. Now, two years later, here I was on a bike, in flip flops and Lulu Lemon, post-yoga, blissfully happy. How did I get here?

I decided to stop in at Pure for an impromptu pedicure, flipping through OK! magazines. 45 minutes later, toenails glistening (color: OPI, "I'm Not Just a Waitress," a shiny dark pink), I lazily biked down Denman to Rain City Grill, got a salad at the take-out window, and walked my bike to the beach, where I parked for a little solo picnic. I wasn't solo for long; a couple on cruiser bikes like mine pulled up and wanted to "talk shop," so to speak...the guy had the "man" version of my bike, the Manhattan...a royal blue cruiser with skyscraper detailing, and a black leather seat. I admired it out loud and he said he preferred my bike, but that the sales people at the store had refused to let him buy a mint green and white bike with butterflies on it, claiming it was for "girls only." He asked if I wanted to trade. I laughed. His girlfriend liked my helmet (black retro with a bad-ass SKULL on the back) and we talked about the best places to get cool bike accessories like baskets, bells and the like. Then I climbed back on my bike and traveled along the Seawall towards Sunset Beach and Yaletown.

I called my friends Ruby and Dennis to see where they were and if they wanted to meet for a drink. Ruby was walking down West 4th in Kits and promised to call in an hour. I couldn't get ahold of Dennis, and as I was leaving a voicemail I realized he was over at Science World; the Davis dragonboat team, Oardeal (of which I am an erstwhile member) was competing at a regatta. Since I was already halfway there, I continued down Pacific towards Science World to cheer the team on. Right outside Science World I was flagged down by some bike enthusiasts who had set up an arts and crafts table: it was a "bike bee," called VeloDeco, and they were encouraging passing bikers to stop and decorate their bikes. I dutifully stopped and made a "corsage" for my handlebars-a flower made of tissue paper in pink, blue, white and yellow-and continued on to the Davis tent.

I was greeted by a sea of empty chairs...the team was out in the boat competing. I pulled down the kickstand on my bike and settled into my chair to wait. Before long, the team returned, drenched and exhausted, anxious for the next race. It wasn't long before they were called to marshal for the final, and they filed down the dock to load in the boat while I held the fort...well, held the tent. The team had been gone five minutes when Treena ran back to the tent, breathless. "We need another paddler...can you paddle right?" "You bet," I said. I jumped out of my chair and we ran together down to the dock. Treena already had a lifejacket and paddle for me, so all I had to do was zip up, and jump into the already-loaded boat. Within seconds we were paddling out to the start line for the final race. The "Rocky" theme should have been playing as Treena and I raced down to the dock...the only thing that would have made it more exciting would be if the boat had already taken off and we had to do a running leap into the boat.

I don't recommend trying to paddle in a dragonboat final when you haven't paddled all year. I tried to encourage myself with positive thinking, like, "It's only 2 minutes, Dani. You can do ANYTHING for two minutes." A minute into the race, my shoulder was burning. I was twisting, bending far forward to dig deep and pull as much water as I could, and my muscles were gasping for air. Garry, our coach and steersman, was bellowing commands at us. I frantically tried to focus on the hands of the stroke and to keep my timing in sync. Slowly, the Oardeal boat pulled ahead to win the final.

Victory! We won! I was drenched and laughing at the random directions my day had already taken as we reached the dock. Dennis and I and the rest of the team retired to the beer garden to enjoy the summer sun, oblivious of the UV Index. Ruby joined us, fresh from a visit to the new Holt Renfrew store downtown. After an hour, my shoulders started burning in a different, more uncomfortable and lobster-like way and it was time to leave. We loaded the cruiser bike into the back of Dennis' SUV and headed back downtown. I went home to feed Currie, andbDennis, Ruby, Dennis' friend Patti and I rendez-vous'd up the street at Lolita's for some cocktails (for me: a raspberry mint virgin mojito with an umbrella in it) and dinner. We ate ourselves silly (mmmm. almond-crusted snapper), enjoying the Havana-inspired decor, wide open windows to the street and blaring reggae music, and I rolled myself home early, around 11 p.m., exhausted from the sun and good food.

It was the most random of days. I had expected, when I left home from yoga, to come home and clean my house, as I do most Saturdays. But I felt exhilarated that I had followed my fancies all day...and got back in touch with my spontaneous side. I think I need to check in with it regularly. Oh. Wait. Oxymoron. Nevermind...

An Inconvenient...Truth?

So last week I was told by someone at work that maybe, just maybe, I'm a little brusque. A little hard-nosed. I got a great kick out of this. I thought this was a hilarious misperception...I'm about as far from the ball-breaking female lawyer stereotype as you can get. I mean, during a tough week, I still like to close my office door and have a good cry. I have to call my mom when something goes wrong. Yeah, I'm a ball-breaker alright. I brushed it off without a thought.

But today I decided there might be just a little eensy weensy teensy tiny kernel of truth in there somewhere. Not that I'm hard-nosed, but maybe just a little...impatient? Impatient is a little closer to brusque, isn't it? I was at yoga tonight after work. Already griping about the 90 minute class as opposed to my normal lunchtime class, where they whip us through in 45 minutes. As I did yet another pigeon pose, my nose to the mat, I kept thinking, "I don't have tiiiiiiiiiime for this! I don't have the time." My mind was racing with a list of things that I imagined I absolutely had to get done at that instant. So much for inner peace and tranquility and all that jazz. And then it got worse. We were doing our end-of-the-never-ending-yoga-class relaxation, all lying on our mats, wrapped up in our warm blankies. I just started to drift off into a happy place, thinking of absolutely nothing, the list-making finally subdued. And then...from across the studio...

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

The comfy blankie, darkness and new-age music were too much for some guy. He started snoring. Loudly. For a loooong time. And I couldn't let it go. I wanted to throw my yoga block at him. And then throw my neighbour's yoga block at him. He was disturbing my 3 minutes of quiet for the day. I could barely keep myself from stomping across the studio to tell him to shut the hell up. That's when I realized...I might be a little bit brusque.

I guess I should stick to the 90 minute yoga classes...my chakra must be really blocked.

I Love Shoes and Things and I Am Unapologetic

So last night I had dinner at Granville Island with friends (and with alot of Kir Royale) and I wore my HOT SHOES. Yes, the silver metallic Kenneth Cole Reaction sandals which I have previously blogged about. So, anyways, my feet were looking hot so I thought Byron should admire then and helpfully stuck my foot in his lap to show them off. He was like, "Whooa. Nice shoes. Maybe you should, you know, BLOG about them."

I mean, OUCH. Whatever, it's MY blog, and if I want to wax poetic about shoes, or write a treatise that very badly tries to combine shoe shopping with Coleridge, well, dammit, I'm going to do it. And for someone who doesn't blog, Byron was awful scathing about my choice of topics.

Well, too bad. I'm gonna blog about my cool shoes and my cruiser bike. I might even blog about how much I love Sephora.com and picking cute little perfume samples at the checkout screen, and waiting for my black and white box to show up with all my bee-yoo-tiful makeup purchases, and yes, maybe I am a lip gloss whore but at least I shop online for the best deals. So there. I might even change the name of my blog to "Dani Likes Shopping for Girly Things and Occasionally Talking about Politics and the State of the World and Same-Sex Marriage and Environmentalism and Reviewing Theatre but Mostly She Likes to Talk About Shopping," I will.

Am I shallow?

Hell yes. With great shoes.

The Next Pussy Cat Doll is...Asia?!


So the search for the Next Pussycat Doll, aka the most addictive, awful, horrible vapid car-crash of a show to hit TV since the dawn of the reality genre, is over, and...it's Asia. The least popular, cat-fightin', smack-talkin' 17 year old single mother who says "ax" instead of "ask" and proudly declared that she only ate cheeseburgers and fries, has become young girls' newest role model.
This makes me mad on a couple of levels.
1. She sucked. She can't sing but did the whole fluttery-hand-on-the-mic thing a la Mariah Carey. The only thing she did well was flick her weave and shake her booty.
2. She was downright mean and all the other girls hated her. She was also edited so that the viewing audience would dislike her, and we did. One way to make me lose what little interest I HAVE in the Pussycat Dolls is to put the contestant I liked LEAST in the group. Way to go, producers.
3. This whole role model thing. The core audience for the Pussycat Dolls is pre-pubescent girls. Is a 17 year old mother who has been arrested for beating people up, who swears and has a criminal record really the model of "female empowerment" we want to provide?! I guess the answer is, they really only want to sell records.
It's a sad, sad state of affairs. What to do? Well, the answer is clear. I have to audition for Season 2 of the Pussycat Dolls. I'm going to start working on my audition tape tomorrow. ..

I Loves the Army and Navy Shoe Sale


So around 5 p.m. Thursday night I was sitting at the office frantically trying to meet a deadline and doing too many things at once. The phone rang. I answered brusquely and in the best I'm-busy-don't-bother-me voice I could muster: "Dani Lemon." It was Annie: "It's the Army and Navy Shoe Sale." Silence. Then: "They're putting out new stock at 7 pm." "Done," I barked. "We're there." I slammed the phone down. Deadline bedamned. This was a Vancouver tradition I was yet to experience and the siren call of cheap designer shoes was too strong to ignore.


We tore through the racks in Army and Navy's grungy basement with half of the female population from Vancouver, protecting our prospective purchases with our lives. I grabbed probably 8 pairs on my first go-round, and Annie, Mel and I raced for a vinyl bench so we could try on our finds. First, a Steve Madden sandal. Too narrow. Then, a BCBG purple suede open-toe pump. Too high. The next pair looked like hooker heels. As I went steadily through my basket, it continued: too wide, too blister-inducing (a sensitive subject anyway), too tacky, too slutty, too long, too cheap, not cheap enough.


I was in despair; it was like the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, reimagined. It was the Rime of the Ancient Cobbler, or the Rime of the Not-so-Ancient Shopaholic:


Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.


Dammit, I wanted cheap designer shoes! I was surrounded by cheap designer shoes! Why didn't any fit?! Mel came back with a great pair of Michael Kors shoes, black leather with a wedge heel, open-toed, and a gold "Michael Kors" plate glistening on the back of the heel. Why couldn't I find cute shoes like those?! I decided to make it my mission to FIND. THOSE. SHOES.


I prowled through the racks. Size 6 to 10, over and over again, with razor-like focus. I was determined to find a deal. To find my dream designer shoes. I limped from rack to rack, pushed through the sea of women. It was extreme shopping. I started to tire. I was weary. For the first time in my life, I was getting shopping legs, and thought it might be time to give up...


There passed a weary time.
Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.

A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

Suddenly I saw something glinting gold, tucked away at the back of a rack I had already ransacked. There they were. The Michael Kors pumps.They were tucked away inconspicuously with their heel out, the gold logo plate the only thing to alert me to their presence. And next to the Michael Kors pumps? Metallic Kenneth Cole Reaction wedge sandals! Yes! Things were looking up! And next to the Kenneth Coles, black leather Point Zero Mary Janes! Yes! Surely it would be smooth sailing from here!


And so it 'twas, dear reader, that Dani sallied forth from Hastings Street, six shoes richer...her faith in the Army and Navy Shoe Sale restored. Was it worth the struggle, the lost hope, the despair? Only the fashion gods can tell...

From the 26th Floor, I Can See Summer...

...it's right outside my office window...hints of it...I can see it coming. I'm looking out over downtown rooftops, past the West End highrises, all the way west to English Bay. The sun is shining, the water is sparkling, a deep blue at the Bay, lightening to a pale cornflower blue as the Bay opens up into Georgia Strait. I can see the sand of Spanish Banks and my feet are wistfully wishing they could be padding down the warm sand as I skip rocks into the ocean. It won't be long now, though, until I'll spend some lazy Saturday afternoons leaning up against a driftwood log at the beach, reading a book...oh, come on Summer, come on...

One Down, One to Go


So Al and I completed phase one of the Brother-Sister 10K Extravaganza we planned while out for a run this past December. We did the Sun Run 10K here in Vancouver yesterday (with 54,315 other people), with Al clocking in at 62:02 and me at 75:28. I'm a bit disappointed as I wanted to beat my time of 76:40 (or so) from last year by at least 6 minutes...but I had some technical difficulties. At about kilometre 4 I started to get noticeable blisters, despite the fact that I've been running 3-4 times a week on these shoes for about 6 weeks. Then, at about the 6.5 K mark, the blisters burst. So now my feet are in agony. I had three choices: 1. Quit. 2. Limp to the finish line in my shoes and forget about beating my time. 3. Take off my shoes and run like hell.

So, one shoe was sacrificed at a water station on West 6th, I slipped my other shoe, which had my time chip zap-strapped to it, onto my hand, and I ran the rest of the race in my pink socks, and managed to clock in around 75 minutes. I think but for the blister issue and then the dilemma of abandoning my shoe in the road, I would have made my goal of finishing in under 70 minutes. So overall, I'm...satisfied, if not happy, with my result. Al's just happy he didn't have to take a puke break, which happened on last year's 10K.

The people manning the New Balance booth in BC Place post-event heard my story and awarded me a brand new pair of socks. So, hey, I got something out of my Rocky Balboa moment. All I can say today is thank god for Band-Aid Blister Care...