Drive

[ Soundtrack note: stop now, grab your Beach Boys Pet Sounds LP and play track 1. OK, keep reading. ]

In the core of my being there is this nomadic, terribly romantic and restless bohemian soul. It's sometimes well-hidden, during brief domestic lapses in adventure. But it's always there. This spirit (which, let's be honest, lives at the surface most days) is a knee-bouncer, a why-walk-when-you-can-run type, a lover of tall grass and sun roofs and road-trip mix-tapes. As a wee person (OK, so I was never really "wee" – I was a 10LB baby for the love of gawd), I spent many a sweltering summer in the backseat of a station wagon trying, alternately, to kill my brother, jump from the window to freedom, and rehearse for eventual career in musical theatre (yeah, THAT happened). 

I remember it probably more fondly than I should. I was a miserable child (when it came to being confined to a small space with my family) and was prone to dramatics. "MOM, he's BREATHING on me." You'd think a career in the performing arts was a natural outcome. Too bad it also requires grace and rhythm. 

Holy tangents, Batman.

 

[ 1984 - still fairly tolerable but probably on the cusp of becoming the most dramatic child on earth ]

Aside from the frequency of my attempted "escapes" (sticking my head out the window while wishing I was Little Orphan Annie), I loved the open road. As an adult with a LICENSE TO DRIVE, BITCHES, I find the experience all the more liberating and magical. Sitting at the wheel, with the radio dial within reach? Nirvana. No, not the band. Well, sometimes. I haven't traveled even remotely as much as I'd would have liked. 

 

You're all, like, "Amen, sister!" right about now, aren't you? You too, hey? Yeah, life, man. Life. Money and work and responsibility and the parts of adulthood you didn't anticipate when you were 12 going on 26, right? Stuff they don't tell you. I wanted to be a grown up sooooo bad. Now I want to hang from monkey bars and forget to go home for supper and have light-saber wars with tree branches and eat freezies as big as my arm. Siiiiiigh, those were the days.

 

 [ big-girl solo prairie road-tripping. yeah, what!  Self-timers FTW ]

 

[ good road buddies are one-in-a-million ]

 

I relive my childhood every time I embark on a road trip of any magnitude. Is it a military kid thing? Are we only happy when we're packing and unpacking our lives constantly?

We had one of those pop up trailers, and of course an overly-complicated and hella-heavy canvas tent. Sleeping in mobile abodes was always sweet, sweet pay off after hours (DAYS!) spent in a non-air-conditioned station wagon. I'm prettttty sure AC existed at that time, but it took us forever to get anything even kinda modern. We had a rotary dial phone until the mid 90s.

 

 [ camping in 1980. i was born for this. ]

I'm dreaming of another road trip. And really, a lifetime of them! Eventually (not now, because you know: money and life and blah-diggity-blah) I'd love for us to own a little piece of road ourselves. By that I mean: Aiiiiirrrstreams, baby! Or a VW van. Or some sort of totally retro and way-adorable mobile living space. Dogs and babies and flowery 70s curtains and Thermoses of coffee and bug-goo on the windshield and a million Instagrammable moments FTW! Double-sigh. It's the way I want my kids to see life. It's how I want to spend my summers. Coastal. Prairies. East. West. Doesn't really matter. Journey > destination, yeah?

 

 [ dreamy airstream interiors ]

Another catalyst for my road-life obsession: my parents (pre-me) lived in Europe for 5 years, driving their VW van up and over and through several countries. My dad painted the side of it. My mom was an impossible babe. So romantic. They still have the map, detailing their route. Pack rats have their merits. Since hearing this story, I've been longing to pack that map, rent a little van of my own and retrace their route. Double-romantic. The mister is on board for this part (though I'm not sure if he's as crazy about the 70s-curtained-Airstreams-every-summer idea). 

There has been talk between my parents of buying up a fixed-up 70s VW van so that they can use it to zig-zag the continent when dad retires. Some serious and aggressive Kijiji action was happening for a while. They've recently abandoned it, though. Not the zig-zagging part, just the means with which to do it. Damn, I was hoping for borrowsies. They bought a far less romantic, yet highly practical and reliable alternative: a brand new Santa Fe ("the SPORT model", my mother brags. Good lord). But I guess reliability trumps romance when you're pushing 60. And I know that baby will see a ton of mileage. 

 

 [ wantsies ]

My in-laws own a motor home, too. They should use it more (I know you're reading this, mom and dad #2. There, I said it).

 

Aaaaand: my bestie and her hubby bought a VW van, fixed her up and drove here from Alberta WITH A TODDLER AND A NEWBORN. Yeah, she's my hero. So, wait. Is EVERYONE living my dream except me?!

See: prone to dramatics.

Anyway, I'm due. Mobile living just isn't in my budget unless GelaSkins will pay me to work remotely (I also know YOU'RE reading this. Hint, hint). We need to save money which is probably the least fun thing of all time. In fact the EXACT opposite of Airstreams and mix tapes and windy hair is saving money. And, I am yet again ending a blog post with this sentiment: a girl can dream. And I do.

 

 

 

[ More road life fixin' can be had on my Pinterest board (where you'll also find the source for all of my "borrowed" images) ]

Instagram'd.

 I was the last person on earth (or at least at work) to get an iPhone. And at that, it was a hand-me-down. (No wait, Alex still has a Motorola Razr, so at least I'm the tech-savviest person in my house.)

So please just let me be excited about Instagram. Still. Yawnsville, right? But no, have you really tried to take a cool photo on your Blackberry? At least one that is immediately post-worthy? Not possible. So, in June, I retired my perfectly decent Curve (which I am in turn handing down to Miss. Oliveah), and became an iPhone-r for life. I was an easy convert, already being an Apple girl.

I just didn't know how much I would love it. 

So I'm anxiously awaiting the new model and hanging onto this still-better-than-Blackberry iPhone 3G (with fully disintegrated mute button and barely-working home button) in the meantime. Super excited to explore more photo apps once I have a phone with more guts!

I used Instagram a lot this summer - just you WAIT until I have front AND rear facing cameras - and realized that the result captured a nice little snapshot of my summer. Gotta say, I'm hauling my DSLR around a lot less these days...

Just wanted to share the highlights:

mojitos • puppies • music • friends near/far • sewing • antique scavenging • 

brunch • new shoes • poolside lounging • babies • cottages • coffee • travel • hubby dates • 

beers • reading • stopping to smell the roses... err, tiger lilies

Survival Style - Summer Music Fests

[ Not all fests are created equal. Outdoor music-style two ways: Hillside (lft) and Osheaga (rt) ]

My wardrobe is pathetic based on my current lifestyle. I have plenty of pretty, work-appropriate duds, sure. But they don't come in too handy when it's 30+ degrees outside, and my coworkers (men, predominantly) are most fond of unwashed shorts and flip-flops. It's the uniform.

I've also come to realize that the majority of my closet is more fitting of a girl who picnics in parks and flits about farmers markets and lunches with ladies and shops-shops-shops and spends weekends in resort towns. That sounds like a lovely, lovely life. Siiiigh. But in reality, I am usually biking through urban centers, walking dogs, taking road trips, sleeping on the ground and parking myself in front of a sewing machine or a laptop in the backyard. And it's not one of those English Garden-type backyards either.

I also lack appropriate outfits for summer music-fest hopping. I've just survived number three of three fests on my schedule this summer (currently writing this thanks to wifi on the train en route back to TO). It was only after Bluesfest (stop #1) in Ottawa last month that I realized I should rethink my gear. Esthetically, I loved the outfit - high-waist ode-to-70s wide-leg denim, boat-neck navy and white striped tee, jute and leather wedge sandals, red leather tote - but it was logistically not smart.

  [ with mum @ Bluesfest ]

Let's dissect:

• Ditto's Denim - too heavy, too hot
• Jute wedges - although the most comfortable of all elevated shoes I own, still not ideal for being on your feet all day
• H&M Striped tee - light and not too hot, but too much fabric under the arms
• Leather tote (Winners) - I will never again wear anything but a hands-free crossbody bag to a festival
• Half-up hair - even minimal dancing (OK and standing still) produced sweat, and hair loves to stick to sweat

So I got smart. S-M-R-T. Our next stop was Hillside: a fest I'd never attended despite the pushing of my 9-year veteran volunteer friend. I will be going back every year! Much fun! It's a waste-free fest with a peace-love-and-music vibe. No jock rock. No duuuuudes. Very chill.

My experience was made even better by careful outfit selection. I went with minimal, flowy, airy:

• Everly maxi jersey tank dress in an appropriately psychadelic print (via Skirt)
• My trusty Birks
• Jessica Simpson crossbody fringe purse
• Vintage belt (via Common Sort)
• Handmade leaf earrings (via Etsy)
• Up-do!

 

 

Aaaaannnd number three: This weekend I parked myself on friends' couches to check out Day 1 of Osheaga in Montreal. Learning even more from fest #2, I went with a bit more sun cover - an Everly kimono-sleeve top that I could easily pop on and off. I paired it with a cotton Wilfred bustier tank and a bias jersey American Apparel dress (in my fave peach-y summer shade) which I wore as a skirt. I only regretted my shoe choice: sandals (flat or otherwise) are not Osheaga-friendly. The fest is pretty trash-strewn and the mainstage groundcover is gravel. I longed for my chucks or a pair of Toms.

[ fest-date Philam outfitted wisely too: oversized cotton tee and high-waist cuffed shorts looked adorbs and were super comfy for chilling on the grassy knoll ]

 

Despite my shoe-fail, I certainly had a leg up on the chicks in stilettos and Eminem tees. No, really: stilettos. At an outdoor music fest. OK, this was Montreal after all.  And Eminem.

We contemplated  hitting some of Day 2 and 3 of Osheaga this weekend, but opted for low-key bumming around the city and lounging poolside instead. 

Yes, some of my very favourite artists were in the Day 2/3 lineup: Death Cab, Sia, Mother Mother... but I'd had my fill. But next year (next year!) I'll be really equipped. I'm a pro now, obvs. 

And, since I'm just so nice like that, I'll share some other learned-the-hard-way tips:

• Get cash in advance - the ATM lines are longer than the toilet and beer lines put together
• Bring kleenex and hand sanitizer - the porta-facilities tend to run out of TP and water by the third act
• Wear a hat - scalp burn is the WORST
• Check the fest website prior to attending. Some are prison-like, where food, water, cameras and other perfectly innocent items are forbidden and confiscated
• Don't pick fights with your musician husband - he's "working" and your bandwife primadonna routine is wearing thin (OK, that's just for me ;)

More easy music-fest style:

 sam & lavi $155

 

toms $45

 anthropologie $375

urban outfitters pipette dress $139

 

top shop sandals $47

tylie malibu bag $185

 anthropologie summer ballad dress $198

 toms $55

[ images via: polyvore.com, anthropologie, toms, urban outfitters, American Apparel, Aritzia, Top Shop, Dorothy perkins, Ray Ban, shopnastygal, my iPhone, Dad ]

Summertimes.

 

I must be in a good mood.

Either that, or I've broken the seal.

Whatever. Two blogs in one week? I'm making up for my silent treatment, maybe.

The blooms are blooming and our basement is flooding every second day. Must be spring (or dare I say... summer?)! Finally. Wet basements aside, I'm punch-drunk on sunshine and am happy-happy to have bike-season back.

I decided I've had enough with winter. Forever. But without winters, there wouldn't be springs, and I'd be awfully sad about that. Catch 22.

So, now that chirping birds and emerging freckles and cotton maxi dresses are here to stay (for 4 or 5 months at least) I'm getting out in the world again. While last summer, my social life and exploration was forced upon me by my blogTO gig, this year I'm making a conscious effort to get outside.

My ice-cream and sweat-pants phase is over. The "break up" with the band is now at the "let's be friends" stage, and I like it. It's a good place. I've fallen out of love with this bandwife thing. I wish I could be a normal fan. Because I still would be, you know. The biggest.

Maybe the warm weather is getting to my head. While I had resolved to attend fewer shows to keep more of an arm's length with this whole band business, I couldn't turn down music in the sunshine. I attended their latest gig - an outdoor show celebrating the Parks Canada Centennial - but as a support to Alex and to mess around with my camera some more. Right. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I did mange to get some decent shots out of the day (to further corroborate my motives):

Also, I'm regaining my drinking legs (much like sea legs but boozier). This may or may not be a good thing, but it appears to be a necessity in my line of work: I roll with the boys and I need to be one of them. They like social functions that pretend to be work.

The summer is looking good for my social health. That is: if I can actually swing tag-along trips to many of the band's shows (they're hitting the summer festival circuit), plan a few girl-only weekends, and man-up for work socials. I've been relying on the safety of my little cocoon for too long. Alex likes to keep me there, but it's distracting for both of us to spend so much time closed off together from the world. As much as we like it.


So, hi. I'm available. Ready. Willing. Invite me out again, because I'm saying yes-yes-yes these days. And I won't even be close to being the first to dive into a cab.