My First Time

2014 was a year of firsts for me: first novel published (‘Newbie Nick’, Lycaon Press), first time meeting a wing-walker (Carol Pilon, my inspiration for being bold, brave, and fearless), and first time shooting an arrow from a bow (thanks to my pals Bradley and Matthew). Although I’m still writing, yet haven’t taken-up wing-walking (I said yet), the archery thing kind of ‘took,’ so for Christmas Santa was kind enough to bring me a recurve archery bow.

And so 2015 has continued with the theme of ‘firsts’…

My husband and I joined the Victoria Bowmen Association, an archery group that my son has been involved with for the last few years. He has won, or placed, in numerous tournaments and continues to excel in the sport, impressing me with every arrow shot. I love watching him and will always cheer him on, but I guess something had been itching inside of me all along to try it. It was an itch I had to scratch, and my dabbling in the sport became something more. My practices became an escape, a challenge and an adventure. Archery was something I had never done before; had never entertained even doing before. I had no aspirations other than just enjoying it.

Then I did something I never dreamed I would do – compete.

As in be in a competition – a tournament.

My son had signed up for a yearly tournament called the MICA – Multi-sites Indoor Championship of the Americas. All archery clubs throughout North and South America host their own tournaments between January and April, and at the end all of the competitors in all the Americas are ranked.

All clubs host the same tournament - 60 arrows are shot from a distance of 18m at a 40cm target. What’s that you ask? Per round, or ‘end,’ three arrows are shot at a target 40cm wide at a distance of 18m away from the archer. So after 20 ends of 3 arrows each – the scores ranging from a 10 (that’s the center yellow) to a 1 (that’s the white outer last ring) – there’s a potential to get 600 points (for the ‘perfect’ archer, of course). (I’m new at this, so any errors in exact description are mine – but that’s the gist of it)

When I realized the tournament was exactly what I had been practicing with anyways (distance and target size) I figured what the heck?

I didn’t tell my husband or my son my intentions. Only the tournament registrar knew – and he knew my apprehensive, amateur, newbie fears. I’m a writer, after all, not a sporty kinda gal – and definitely not an ‘archer.’ I’m just a mom who, at 40-something years old, learned she kinda likes shooting arrows at a target. But I didn’t tell either of my men about my competitive intentions because a/in case I chickened out, b/I didn’t want them putting pressure on me by bugging me about it, and c/in case I chickened out. This was new, fragile territory for me – I didn’t want anyone, or anything, messing with my first time.

But at T-minus 2 days before the tournament, I told them. I realized I didn’t want to surprise the young lad at the last minute with my intentions. I was worried that the novelty and presence of his mother competing with him (not against him) would throw off his game. His tournaments are much more important to his long-term goals. Me, well, I’m just happy if I hit the damn target.

So when I told him I then quickly offered to withdraw if he felt awkward about his mother being in the tournament with him – because really, who wants their mother in something like that with them?
After they got over their surprise and shock, they both encouraged me. I assured my son I would make sure I would be nowhere near him and, in fact, I wouldn’t even look at him. When I was told “Don’t worry Mom, you’ll just be like one of the other guys” I knew I had his blessing and the rest was up to me.

But as fate would have it I got very sick that week, and my pre-tournament practices were horrendous. I wouldn’t learn until after the tournament that a sinus infection attempted to sideline my (Olympic) archery career. But sick or not, I was determined to participate.

The day before the tournament my son gave me some last minute tips that helped out my ‘game.’ I got myself in order, despite being so sick, and got my ‘mental game’ in check. Focus is huge in the sport – I wasn’t about to let some boogers bring me down.

So on the morning of my first archery tournament ever, where my son was calm, cool and collected, I was a wreck that managed to keep some semblance of calm and serenity displayed on the outside. Having wrapped my hair in the most perfect bun ever sure helped.

Once we registered at the tournament we got our archery gear in order and then had the chance to practice for 45 minutes before the start. I worked hard at ignoring how sick I was and I focused on my practice (and did very well). I kept my jangled nerves at bay and knew that anything valium-related, never mind cold-medicine-related, would only hinder my aim (and have me falling asleep at the shooting line).

But when it came time for the tournament to start my nerves got the better of me and a sweaty hand was responsible for the first 2 ‘ends’ to go askew. In archery even the slightest alteration in ‘grip,’ ‘release’ or ‘stance’ can throw off your shot. My ‘grip’ hand was so sweaty that it mucked up how I held the bow and my previously-practiced perfect shots went all over the place.

My confidence plummeted.

Once I figured out the issue, I concentrated on keeping my hand sweat-free. I kept my clogged/sore/sneeze-ready sinuses at bay, focused on everything I had learned to that point, and continued with the rest of the tournament – with whatever style and grace I could muster. I don’t think I breathed through the whole thing – I could barely, anyways. I was determined to not only finish the day, but finish it semi-un-embarrassingly. I still don’t know what drove me to even compete in the tournament in the first place, despite how ‘new’ I was to the sport. But nothing – no sickness, ailment, or overnight-loss-of-limb – was going to stop me from competing that day. I just wanted to try it – just once – even if I never did it again. There was a first time for everything, and I wasn’t about to let my first time be ruined by a mere sinus infection.

I managed to stay ‘in the yellow’ and ‘in the red’ for the most part, which is good. I finished with a score of 442 (out of 600). I did better than I had ever imagined and after it was over, even though I felt like crap and the next day DID get a prescription for some lovely antibiotics the size of horse pills, I knew…

I would never forget my first time (and I’d be going back for more).

For scores and additional photos, please click here.

Freedom to Read Week Feb 22 - 28, 2015

It's freedom to read week - the week to acknowledge the freedoms we have to read whatever we want. As noted on the Freedom to Read Week website: "Freedom to Read Week is an annual event that encourages Canadians to think about and reaffirm their commitment to intellectual freedom, which is guaranteed them under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms." The notable week acknowledges censorship and freedom of expression.

So get a book - any book - and don't be shy, afraid, embarrassed or inhibited to read what you want, when you want. A writer? I'd say pick up your pen and follow suit - write what you want, ignore your inner censor or that little voice over your shoulder saying 'you shouldn't write THAT - what would people think?' and just GO FOR IT!

Run to the library, run to the bookstore, or run to your computer - just go. And read whatever the heck you want!

For more information visit www.freedomtoread.ca

Communication Clash

In early January of this year the Royal BC Museum, in conjunction with a week of ‘by donation’ entry, had a letter writing campaign – but not in that way.

By way of fostering the ‘lost art’ of letter writing, the museum set up a letter writing booth and invited patrons to engage in the ‘age old’ art of communication. Complete with writing paper and pens, patrons could write a letter – like an actual handwritten letter – and the museum would foot the bill for postage.

To back up a bit….

My friend Ros had seen an advertisement about the museum’s by-donation week as well as their letter writing booth in the newspaper. Ros is my friend who usually sends me out on various ‘assignments’ (see previous blog post called 'What Happened That Night'), so of course, at her instruction, I set out on another adventure. (To learn more about her romantic suspense fiction works, find her here)

As time is of the essence - my usual state-of-being - one afternoon during my lunch hour from work I hustled my way to the museum. I donated the few dollars I had in my wallet, and made a quick whip around the exhibits. I said a quick ‘hi’ to the woolly mammoth, sipped my lunch hour coffee while I chatted with some seals and sea lions, and then quickly made my way through the rest of the museum, stopping to look at the displays of days-gone-past in the ‘old town’ – I love the old typewriters and sewing machines.

As time was ticking, I still had one mission to accomplish – write a letter. I found the booth and at the encouragement of the kind girl working there, I found a spot at the table between two other women. I grabbed some paper and a pen from the supplies provided and got to work.

And it was hard work, I have to say! Not only did I have write neatly, but I had to think of something on the spot! Something meaningful – something with heart. Something interesting other than the usual ‘weather’ chit-chat (when in doubt, there’s always the weather).

Just when my letter-writing muse kicked into gear two more women arrived. Well, I have to admit, as much as I foster the fostering of anything – especially writing – I was rather put-out. It was MY time, I was in just getting in touch with MY muse, and there wasn’t a lot of space at the table. So I stifled a ‘huff,’ scooted over, and with an obligatory smile to everyone enjoying the getting-back-to-letter-writing moment, I kept my head down and got busy.

I had a letter to write, after all.

I met my friend Ros through a writing group and you’d think, given how we are ‘writers’ and all, that we would have seen each other’s handwriting. But in this technological age where email fosters friendships and a keyboard is a writer-girl’s best friend, I realized she had never seen my handwriting before.

And I was instantly embarrassed. I have atrocious handwriting. It’s a cacophony of half-printing and half-cursive writing, combined with an intricate code of self-created shorthand and abbreviations that half the time I can barely decipher. So I wrote/printed/scrawled as neatly as I could, all while acknowledging and apologizing to Ros for my crappy handwriting. The weather had already been talked about.

Just as my tongue had all-but dried out from being stuck out the corner of my mouth in concentration, someone ELSE arrived at the table. GEEZ! Can I NOT just WRITE a LETTER in PEACE!?!

Chit-chat among the letter writers ensued and suddenly I was eavesdropping - I had no choice.

But I was sure glad I did.

I dare not repeat another person’s story here, but a woman recounted her own family’s letter-writing story surrounding events in 1942 involving a highly recognized politician’s wife. It was during World War II – Europe and England were right smack in the middle of the war - and all is can say is her family owns a historic treasure.

Wow!

I am so glad I didn’t ‘shoo’ everyone away. What a treat to be able to hear the story I did!

After everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the fantastic story – one I won’t ever forget – we all got back to work.

Just when pens-scratching-at-paper was the only thing to be heard, the museum worker broke our getting-back-to-basics moment by telling us she had an iPad, internet ready, in case anyone had to look up an address.

WHAT? What about the moment? What about getting-back-to-basics? How contradictory was an iPad to what we were actually doing! Talk about clash of the communication worlds!

My letter writing adventure was getting more and more introspective with every minute.

I finished recounting the World War II story in the letter to Ros then, upon realizing the time, took a few photos of my letter with my cell phone, bade them all ‘happy letter writing,’ and grabbed my purse and by-then cold coffee. As I made to leave, the museum worker pointed to a table on which to leave my mail. Sitting on top of the table was a museum-style display case showing old writing utensils. Cool!

It wasn’t until I took a few pictures - again with my cell phone - that I saw it. Sitting just beside the display case was a ‘modern’ ink pen.

Wow! When was the clash of the communication worlds going to end?

With the letter writing campaign just too much for me, I guzzled my cold coffee then hustled back to work for a much needed rest.

I’m a receptionist answering phones and forwarding mail for a living. Go figure.

Bringing home Christmas Dinner

A few weeks before Christmas, I was at a turkey shoot and with my trusty bow and arrow I GOT ONE!

Well, I did, but not in the way you think.

My son belongs to the Victoria Bowmen Archery Club (Victoria, BC), which has been around since 1949. In the last four years since joining the club, he has shot hundreds of arrows in practice and in competitions, gaining notoriety and ranking locally and provincially. He even tried out for the Canada Games!

So after a few years of watching him shoot in both the clubs’ indoor and outdoor events, it was finally time for me to shoot my first arrow – and I loved it.

I have joined the club and although I haven’t practiced very often (I’m a busy momma and my son is first and foremost in these sporting aspirations), and my shot is often a tad off the mark (practice makes perfect and all that), I am enjoying learning about the historic sport.

Recently the club hosted their annual ‘Christmas Turkey Shoot’ – a fun shoot for all members/all ages of the club. Archery games, prize draws and a potluck following the shoot make for a festive, fun event for everyone.

And, as the title suggests, some of the prizes are…turkeys! Archers don’t actually SHOOT the turkeys but various archery games have turkeys (purchased from the store), and other Christmas dinner fixings, as prizes.

I had been holding-out buying our own turkey for Christmas, in anticipation of this fun day. Even though I didn’t know what the games would entail, I was hoping our noble and accomplished archer would, as it were, bring home dinner for us with his own trusty bow and arrow.

As my lack of skill was an embarrassment to most, I stayed out of everyone’s way and left the skill-based games to the pros. I stuck to the general practice targets. I fumbled getting the arrow on its rest and my jangled nerves shook my bow – not good for lining up the sight with the yellow center of the target. I need glasses and my lack of experience and knowledge showed in my shot (I DID, however, get one or two ‘10’s,’ or in layman terms, a bullseye – so maybe I wasn’t THAT bad, after all). I am proud to say that at least I HIT the target, although from at half the normal shooting distance. Everyone participated in the games and, if I may be so bold to brag, my son shot right through a moving ping pong ball suspended in mid-air by an upturned leaf-blower – THAT’S how good he is.

The one game I DID participate in, however, was for the turkeys (or in this case, gift cards for turkeys). Various prizes (turkeys, boxes of stuffing, cans of cranberry jelly and so on) were written on post-it notes, the notes then stuck sporadically all over a big piece of paper. That paper was then placed on a target and another piece of paper was placed over the whole thing, hiding the post-it note placement. We each had to shoot one of our arrows randomly at the paper and hope it either hit, or was closest too, a prize. At the end of the day, with the arrows still stuck in the paper, the top paper was carefully peeled off revealing the prizes in relation to the arrows. Closest arrow to that prize/post-it note, won.

So first was the turkey prize. I glanced at my young archer/offspring, and silently sent a prayer to the archery Gods that his skill had served us well. But, you see, this game was not a matter of skill, but of luck. It was a ‘blind’ shoot – you had no idea if your arrow hit a prize, or not, until the covering paper was removed. Well with my husband, son and I each with an arrow in the running, we had a one-in-three chance of winning SOMETHING.

The turkey/arrow was the first prize up for assessment. One of the club members pulled out the arrow closest to the turkey prize, held it up and announced, “Whose arrow is this?”

It was mine! IT WAS MINE!

My son would later tell me I kept shouting, “That’s my arrow! THAT’S MY ARROW!” but all I remember was jumping up and down in disbelief that I – me, Lisa – had won! THAT WAS MY ARROW! CHRISTMAS COULD GO ON!!! WE WOULD FEAST LIKE KINGS!!!!

I can’t continue without mentioning that my husband and son DID win prizes – Christmas to/from gift tags for one and a big box of brownies for the other. Everyone was fortunate to leave with something thanks to the generosity and planning of the organizing committee of the Victoria Bowmen Archery club.

So when I throw the great bird in the oven on Christmas morning, I will pat myself on the back knowing that MY arrow – my ‘skill’ and expertise (or more specifically, LUCK) – was what fed my family that Christmas of 2014.

Bring on the next target!

Warning - No Baking This Year

I'm not being a ‘Scrooge.’ I'm not depressed, bitter, resentful, neglectful or any other label that could be applied to my lack of enthusiasm or 'tradition-keeping' regarding the matter at hand. It's not that I don't care, nor is it that I have lost the joy, spirit or fun of the season.

This year I guess I’m just trying to focus on the NOW. I have a lot on my plate and my family is growing up, out and beyond my little nest. I am trying to stay afloat among the challenges and changes, and with Christmas only once a year - and the traditions from our own Christmas' past changing right along with my family - I want to focus and hold on to the NOW, without it all being one big rushed blur.
Warning - there will be no baking this year.

REPEAT: There will be no baking, as in the verb, this year. But we will have baking, the noun, in the house, but I just won’t have made any of it.

Yup, you heard it here first. I'm not doing any Christmas baking this year, and if my family is reading this (which is doubtful, given their busy lives), this will be the first they will be hearing of it, as well.

I might, if I find the time, cave and do one or two very easy little things but other than that I’m just….not.

I don't have the time, and honestly – let’s be real, here – the stores make better stuff than I do.

In past years I would take a day off work to bake all day and then spend the weekend (with what little time I had, at that) getting goodies in the oven. I love it – I do – and I would plan, shop, concoct, sort, and scheme special recipes and their special ingredients. New recipes would be anticipated and tested, where tried-and-true good ole stand-by’s would be whipped up from memory. Then there would be the hide-and-seek game, a game I prayed every year I would win by the time Christmas arrived. Not only would I have to hide the end-products from the ‘gluttonous ones’ who reside in my house, but I would also have to hide recipe-specific chocolate and candies. If I didn’t, the yummy ingredients would be devoured before I could even get around to using them, and anything I DID manage to get baked and out of the oven to cool would be eaten sooner than I could clean the cookie dough off the spoon (if I didn’t eat it first, of course). Yes, it’s a compliment, but....

I know it all sounds rather stressful, I know. Some might say Why bother if it’s like THAT? My answer: I love doing it – I do. I love the creative side of baking and I love having goodies for my men and any guests who dare visit my crazy house. The cookbooks and specialty magazines that come out once a year send me into a spin – I love them all and can spend countless hours going through them.

But this year I guess I’m taking a break from it all. The cookie sheets, cookie cutters and rolling pins will have to collect dust for another year.

This great epiphany, or change-of-heart, came during the first week of December. I realized I hadn’t even thought of baking yet – I had forgotten about it all, actually – and time was ticking! I had a slight panic attack then a smattering of guilt fluttered through my conscience knowing I SHOULD be whipping up the shortbread, rolling out the sugar cookies, and buttering up the tarts.

But I can’t. Not this year. I have too many other things going on.

And no sooner did the panic and guilt creep in, it left. And it was for the best. All that hand-wringing and sleepless nights of all I HAVE to do wasn’t going to help matters. So I decided not to let the mayhem of the year get to me, and I cancelled baking. There. Done. Fini.

I’ve run out of time and energy to do any of it, but the weirdest thing is I don’t feel bad about it, compared to years past where worry would have my stress-genes on overdrive (if anything, I feel bad that I don’t feel MORE ‘bad’). Maybe I have over-taxed my Christmas baking hormones. Maybe too many years of sweating it out in the kitchen has dried-up my baking-energy reserves – I don’t know. Maybe, this year, it just wasn’t meant to be. I'm not throwing in the towel this year, as it were, I guess I'm just taking a break.

So if you dare come over you’ll find bakery packaging from the store in the garbage and disgruntled men suffering from my lack of baking.

OR you’ll find content men who are getting much better baked goodies from the store, who are also happier because their momma is in a better frame of mind this year.

I think they much prefer an uncranky, unstressed mom, anyways.

Adventure on the High Seas – Whales, Fish and Bad Hairdos

Many who use the BC Ferries to travel between Vancouver Island and the mainland of coastal British Columbia hope to see some sort of animal-life common to the waters of the Georgia Strait. Whales are always a big hopeful, and only the lucky get to see them enroute. Seeing a seal is neat and even though some might shrug and say, ‘Ah, it’s just a seal,’ no matter how often I see them, I still get a thrill. An even bigger thrill – one I will talk about for days, telling anyone brave enough to listen to my excited ramblings – is when I’m fortunate to see an Orca whale, or two.

But on a recent journey aboard the BC Ferry vessel ‘Coastal Celebration’ I got my wish – and more.

I was out on the ferry deck taking photos when someone shouted, “Look over there!” The few of us brave enough to be out on the windy, rainy deck followed his pointing finger - 3 humpback whales were passing by without a care.

The captain of the ship announced the pod-sighting over the PA system and I leaned with the then-leaning ship to get a few photos – of course everyone stampedes to the windows to get a peek when there’s something good out there. I couldn’t get my camera ‘on’ and pointed fast enough, but the dot in the accompanying picture IS one of the three whales. It was well-worth risking my hairdo in the inclement weather to get the few photos I did.

All too soon the whales swam on their merry way and I ventured back into the safety and warmth of the ferry. I went in search of a washroom to fix my wind/rain-blown hair, and told everyone who’d listen (hello Facebook, Twitter and recipients of my texts!) about the whale sightings, and then went in search of an outlet to charge my phone (I had more messages to send, you see).

But as I wandered by the Chief Steward’s office, I stopped short. I was still buzzing with the excitement of seeing humpback whales, but there was no missing what was just behind the counter. Something so ironic - so unexpected - yet so fitting for the ‘high seas’ on which we were sailing had me stopping to stare in wonder.

Behind the counter two fish tanks bubbled away, brightly lit and clear, while the ship’s officers sat at their desks doing…ship officer stuff.

Two Siamese fighting fish, oblivious to their sort-of-cousins swimming just outside, swam merrily around, enjoying the warmth, pampering and serenity of their personal tanks.

As the ship officers so proudly told me, one was named Woofie, a rescue/lost-and-found fish named after ‘Woo’ the crew-member who found him (or her), and the other fish was named Appie.

The two officers told me the story of Woofie the lost-and-found fish with such love and admiration, I felt a pang of jealousy.

Woofie was found on the BC Ferry vessel, ‘The Spirit of Vancouver Island,’ in June 2014 (5 months before this writing) by a crewmember named Woo. Yes ‘found’ meaning fish in a container and all. I was assured repeatedly that all protocols had been followed in trying to track down the owner of the lost fish. Numerous announcements were made over their PA system trying to locate the owner, but sadly no one stepped forward and the poor little Betta fish was left alone, unwanted and forgotten.

The crew took the lonely little fish into their care. They fed and bathed him (not really) and got him a nice tank. He became the ship’s mascot and all was well. But since that particular vessel is in refit (for maintenance and such) during slow times, only brought out of refit during busy seasons like summer and Christmas, they couldn’t very well leave the poor little fish on his own on the vacant ship. So when the crew moved to the Coastal Celebration for its regular route between Vancouver and Victoria, the fish came with them. He needed a friend so along came Appie, who resides in her own tank because, for those who don’t know anything about Bettas, they can’t be in the same tank together (they don’t get along very well).

The officers finished their story and gave their water-loving crew members another endearing look. The fish-fostering officers also had the decency to overlook my wind-ruined hair, but bad hairdos were far from my mind then (a look in the mirror, later, had me second-guessing my lack of concern). I realized I was as fortunate to hear the story of the little lost-and-found fish as I was to see humpback whales, and fixing my hair could be done anytime.

From whales outside to fish inside, it was quite an adventure on the high seas that day, one I won’t forget soon.

My Favorite Skirt

Just a few short months ago (three, as of this writing) we were running around in our bikinis – those of who can, that is (not ME!). Summer was in full-swing with everyone in shorts and tank tops, some (like me) were complaining about the heat, and winter coats were collecting dust in our closets.

And all too soon, because ‘time flies’ and goes by faster than we can blink, those winter coats were dusted off and yanked out of hibernation. Old tissues found in the pockets from last year were thrown out, and the lucky who found a fiver in amongst all the tissues have already purchased a chill-chasing pumpkin spice latte.

Fall and winter is my thing – hot, sweltering summer months are not. By July I’m sick of all the sweating and I long – LONG – for the cool, crisp winter days when I can bundle up in my coat and scarf in the day, my favorite blanket bundled around me on the couch at night. I go through the same thing every summer – I can’t wait for my cool-weather winter clothes. I look forward to the fall fashion trends – in August I drool over catalogues featuring the latest wool-blend skirts, modern chunky/comfy sweaters, and functional yet fashionable knee-high boots.

But I’m no fashionista – comfort, functionality and affordability are my style. The nature of my day-job has me hopping – when I’m not running from floor-to-floor in an 11-storey building, I’m crawling under desks pretending to be a computer techie and untangling computer wires hoping I don’t unplug the ‘wrong’ one. So year-round ‘relaxed business attire’ works for me – black pants and a comfortable top. I dream of all the fancy fashions I would like to wear – one day – but for now, comfort and functionality are where it’s at. I’m a busy momma.

But this past summer, despite being pro-fall/winter, I decided to cut loose and take my chances with ‘change.’ I wore skirts and dresses almost every day. Time IS ticking by and one day I won’t be able to wear the knee-revealing skirts I can get away with wearing now. I was making a statement – what ‘statement’ I didn’t know – but I was going with the ‘enjoy it now’ attitude. Why save something ‘for that special day’ when that ‘special day’ might not come and I never get to use it/wear it/enjoy it? (footnote – wearing skirts and dresses this past summer proved to be not the wisest choice when I tripped and twisted my ankle right in the middle of downtown Victoria giving everyone a ‘free show’ (if you know what I mean) and scrapping both knees so bad that my panty-hose had be chiselled out of the gashes in my knees. Gross, but true).

So given my job and my busy lifestyle any ‘girly clothes’ I choose to wear have to be comfortable, easy-to-wear, and fidget/fuss/adjustment-free (if you’re a girl, you’ll know what I mean.)

While on my ‘summer-quest for girly-clothes,’ I found the perfect Lisa-friendly skirt – a ‘skort.’ For you non-fashion folks, a ‘skort’ is a skirt with a pair of shorts attached underneath. And you know what that meant for busy, non-fashionista, non-fussing Lisa? (It’s about to get graphic here, folks!) It meant I didn’t have to wear a slip because of the built-in shorts underneath. It was just a pull-on skirt – no buckles or buttons, no tucking or adjusting. It was like wearing shorts every day to work and I didn’t have to worry about flashing anyone while a/falling down in the middle of a downtown Victoria sidewalk, or b/while crawling around under desks.

I loved it – LOVED IT. I loved it so much that I – GASP – sometimes wore it twice a week! I went in search of another four just exactly like it but in different colours/patterns/fabrics. But alas no others were to be found, and I had to settle for waiting all week when I could wear it.

But just when I got used to being really ‘girly’ the weather turned cold, and frost-bite on my legs wasn’t working for me. My long-awaited fall/winter clothes/coats were pulled out of the closet, and my favorite skirt is holding their spot in the closet – until next year. I’m happy it’s cool and brisk these days, but oh how I am missing my favorite skirt. Only seven months, weather-dependent, until I can wear it again.

Unlike those winter coats, my favorite skirt I can only hope and pray still fits next year has no pockets. Sadly, I won’t be finding any fivers.

Thanks for reading!

Lisa