Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of what?!

On Day 6 of our tropical vacation, we went on a day-long tour. After spending two hours on a bus driving through the Dominican Republic (for the second time that week, no less, due to inclimate weather), we arrived at a marina where we boarded this catamaran.

The weather was beautiful and perfect for sailing to a tropical island.

All throughout the week, everyone had been approaching our group with questions.

To Ashleigh: "Hey Blondie!" and "Are you Norweigan?"

To Nancy: "Are you Russian? No? Then you must be Polish!"

To Katherine: "You're cousins with her? We thought you were Latina!"

But on the day of the cruise, I finally was asked my very own special question: With a bottle of rum in hand, one of the tour guides approached our group. Mid-pour into my outreached cup, he looked at me inquisitively and stopped pouring. "Baby?" he said with a concerned tone of voice.

At first I didn't get it. "What?"

"Oh..." he trailed off, and continued to pour.

There you have it folks. A dude thought I was pregnant. And I was wearing a bikini at the time. True story.

No amount of turbojam can undo that kind of hurt.

But then I got a coconut and all was well in the world again.

Why Katherine is My Hero

Vacation Fun Fact #2: Okay, okay. I guess I can reveal one of the reasons Katherine is my hero:

On our last night in Punta Cana, Katherine sat rapt in fascination by the dudes throwing pizza. "You really want to throw a pizza in the air, don't you?" I teased her. "You'll be my hero if you go back there and ask if you can toss a pizza. In fact, you'll be my hero for a year and one month."

So she did.

Look at that precision! Look at that grace! (And yes, she caught the pizza after this picture was taken.) In all honesty, I think Katherine may have missed her true calling.

Keeping It in the Family: South of the Border

Punta Cana Vacation Fact #1: I am the cribbage master.

Every day on vacation, Katherine and I played crib. I won 5-2.

However, Katherine is my hero for reasons that are best left in between the pages of my diary. After all, certain things should stay in the family.

DANCE PARTY!

Chromeo may be "soooo last year" [insert eye roll here] but I'm still listening to Skee-lo, DMX and the Corrs.

Fact: A dance party is a dance party.

Proof:

There's nothing better than getting home, well aware that you have to work at 9 a.m., stripping off a sweat-soaked dress, kicking off worn-down heels, trying to defy the Red Bull in your system and resting complete in the the knowledge that you shook your ass tonight--and you shook it well.

And next week? This dance party is headed to the Dominican Republic.

Oh RRJ Lab, how I miss you!

I'm at work on Saturday. This is how excited I am to be here.

Okay. I admit it. That was a lie. Although I am here by choice. Sort of.

Working on a 24-page annual report reminds me of weekends in the magazine lab. I'm signing off on each page as I go. Only difference? I went into journalism because it didn't involve crunching numbers. And that calculator I'm holding? It's well used. Let's leave it at that.

(Although I do have to admit that I'm somewhat excited to play around with iPhoto as a five minute break. In my six months of working here, I had yet to take a single photo of myself using my Mac. Which is pretty incredibly considering what a camera whore I am.)

Wanna cheer me up? Swing by for the Arts & Crafts Nuit Blanche party at my home tonight.

i probably miss you

There's something comforting about the quiet, slow, dull ache of carrying heartache around. It becomes a mantra, a way to get through the days. And it's strange how that comfort can very much feels like falling in love.

When I moved to Toronto, the damp that filled the air in autumn was what shocked me most. I never felt dry. I walked with french braided hair through Port Elgin, admiring giant pumpkins and longing with the dry cold snap of Alberta. Everything about fall in Cold Lake is crisp: the sound of the leaves, the way the air hurts when it hits your lungs, the sound when the furnace clicks on for the first time. It's those sharp inhalations of air that I miss most. It's definitive. You know that the frost settles every night and that your breath will condense when it hits the air in the morning.

Autumn in northern Alberta is an ugly, harsh time. The colours aren't vibrant. Instead, everything just dies. It curls and turns brown and dries until there's nothing but carcasses of seasons past littering the ground.