Thank You Cobalt Motor Hotel

March 29, 2013 marked my 20th year in BC. The journey to the West Coast began when a good friend asked me to travel from Charlottetown to Vancouver with him as costume maker and makeup artist; – Girl Friday while he pursued his dreams on the drag stage. I had just finished school with no plans and had casually started pursuing a hotel career, so it seemed no time like the present!

I remember the balmy day I arrived in Vancouver via train at the Pacific Central Station, awe-inspired as the snow-capped the mountains versus my knees as had been the scenario on the commencement of my journey in Moncton.

The sweetness of cherry blossoms, the grandiose mountains and the hum of the city were waiting for me.  Until this point, the largest cities I had traveled were Halifax and Ottawa during my journey across country. I instantly felt at home in the beautiful city of Vancouver; it welcomed me with open arms. With my life packed in two suitcases, my friend and I set forth to find our new home.

Quickly we hopped on the Skytrain to Granville and went to the lunch counter at Eaton’s to ponder the classifieds for rentals. We stored our suitcases with friends and reviewed possible apartments in the Westend. We found a suitable place but reference and credit checks would take at least a day to secure our new home.

My friend assured me of a place for the evening. After celebrating our arrival with a few cocktails we proceeded to our room for the eve. Located adjacent to Pacific Central Station, I felt I had come full circle for the day and was looking forward to a good night’s rest.

I would not know the history of the Cobalt Motor Hotel until several years later, but I only imagined the stories as I entered arguably Vancouver’s most notorious “dirty secret”. A haven for prostitutes, drug trafficking and underground activity, even in my naivety this place would never have been on my list. Having worked in the hotel industry for only three short years, I knew this type of place was the reason my mother cried for days when I told her I was leaving for Vancouver. I quickly wished I had had another cocktail to build confidence I would need to overcome the fear ahead.

The only room available was $16 and my friend and I would have to share a bed. We settled in for the night in our clothes from the day. We would later go to the bathroom together and shower with our sneakers on. The hotel never slept with unfamiliar noises all night. The endless sounds echoed from the streets into the daylight and one’s I hoped I would soon forget.

We checked out of the Cobalt at 9:03am with enough time to walk to the Eaton’s lunch counter for breakfast for opening at 9:30am. We eventually made our way for 12:00pm to the building we would come to know as our first Vancouver home.

My experience that evening resonated the message, “don’t forget where you have come from”. One night at the Cobalt Motor Hotel gave me inspiration and hope to follow my dreams. Little did I know at that time my life would take a serious career path into luxury hotels in the two decades to follow. (Weeks after leaving the Cobalt, I went to work at the Hotel Vancouver). My struggles and obstacles seemed so minuscule to the one night I spent in the Cobalt listening to those suffering around me. I am blessed. I am grateful and thankful for the dreams I dared to dream and pursue. I travel by the Cobalt Motor Hotel as often as I can to remind myself of humility. 

I’m Not Ready to Say Goodbye…

I long for her menthol scented cigarette kisses. I would wait for her to shriek, “you’re not wearing that out in public, are you?” I remember laughing as she yelled at my sisters fighting over who grabbed the milk first, as they squeezed every last drop of milk onto the floor from their grasp. I remember her secretly granting us permission against Dad’s wishes to eat ice cream for breakfast during the hot Maritime summers.

She has 3 weeks to live. The doctor spoke with my Dad on Friday and said the end is near, start making funeral arrangements. Dad waited till today to tell the five sisters and other family as he was not ready to accept it.

I thought I was ready for this day but deep down I’m really not. I have a deep sense of sadness for the loss of Mom but also a great sense of relief for my family. We all have been living with Alzheimer’s for 10 years with Mom. I always felt like I lost her a long time ago and thought this would day would be easier, but it is not.

I don’t want to see Mom until she passes. I want to remember my Mom for who she was and what she was to me. The laughs, the style, the “I told you so’s” and the home cooked meals all resonate in my memory right now.  Her love, her kisses and her hugs, all so familiar but yet seem so far away right now. I long to hear her stories and she to listen to mine, telling me how proud she is of my courage and strength.  She told me she always loved my “je ne sais quoi” or “joie du vie”, wishing she had the dreams and courage to live her life more like mine. She admired my zest to travel the globe chasing my dreams, having a successful career and pursuing my education. I wish I was more like her having raised 5 daughters, cooking turkey stuffing like no other and turning $5 into the best home cooked meal on earth.

Out of her 5 daughters, she successfully taught me to crochet at 5 years old and sew at 8. It was the two unique hobbies we shared without the others. Her crocheted master pieces are strewed around my home; I even have one of her tablecloths under my bed wrapped around a painting. I will pull it out from under the bed, dust bunnies and all, to sleep with it over me tonight. A treasured reminder of my Mom and her unconditional love for me, no matter her state of mind.

She’s the strongest woman I know. She is also the smartest, most beautiful; – full of grace, elegance and manners. I will look to her for the strength I need in this moment, much sooner than expected. Lucky for me I have four sisters just like her, we will find strength in each other.

I’m still not ready to say goodbye. I love you Mom.

Waste Not, Waist Not. Letting go of eating hang-ups for healthy living

waste not, waist not

I have been on a diet since I was 13 years old. My first diet was due to peer pressure at school and a slightly anorexic sister. She stared at me when I ate and told me I was fat. We would argue and my mother would scold her, telling her everyone was beautiful in their own way and that God loved everyone as they were. She would console me with food and everything would be fine…until it started all over again.

Having grown up in a family of German, Dutch and Scottish decent, there was never a shortage of food. Food was love. Our family gathered around food and an abundance of good food in the house was almost a sign of being closer to God; especially if you shared it with others.

A sin far greater than any in our home was wasting food of any kind, even the food you disliked. My parents would insist we eat every morsel of food we were served. AND if you had a second helping, you could be darn sure you would be doubly responsible for licking your plate clean. My mom told us there were children starving in Africa who had nothing to eat and we should be lucky to have the food we did. One dinner, my brave older sister, in her usual mother-defiant mood yelled, “well mail it to them”, when she refused to eat her canned peas. My mother exploded in a fury and my sister seemed a little remorseful of her words and still refused to eat her peas, (it would make for an interesting blog post sometime).

While food was abundant in my family, it was far from what I now deem healthy. My parent’s idea of a well-rounded meal was not unlike many families’s idea of a balanced meal at the time, and particularly in the Maritimes, known for its abundant potato crop. Each family meal consisted of a generous portion of mashed potatoes topped with butter and lots of salt, meat fried in a pan with butter, cooked well done until it turned whitish and often smothered in creamy mushroom soup gravy, served with a side of canned vegetables. My mother was a fan of canned peas and green beans because they were cheaper and went further, a good variety of fresh vegetables were highly seasonal due to costs. My family grew some vegetables and fruits, but the harsh Maritime winters limited our crop. The bounty often included turnip, squash, carrots and green beans, and most certainly were always smothered in butter and salt in the pot before they ever reached our plates. Fresh fruit were Annapolis Valley apples, oranges from Florida and bananas from Chiquita. For the very few times my parents were on a diet, they bought a large can of fruit cocktail in syrup to eat on cottage cheese, a special favourite of the entire family. Each grocery week, one of the five children got to choose a treat of their liking to be shared in the family. The favourites were Cheez Whiz, canned pineapple rings, peanut butter and squeeze cheese.

So when I went on my first diet at 13, it consisted of eating a lot of spinach salad, (a food fad at the time), with sliced raw mushrooms, croutons and a lemon mayonnaise dressing my mom made with loads of Equal-brand sweetener. The lemon juice was freshly squeezed out of a plastic lemon-looking container and mixed with Miracle Whip. I ate that salad for lunch and dinner with a serving of lean meat, no potatoes or dessert. I lost close to 60 pounds in about a year and kept that weight off well into my early 20s. The 2 for $3 beer specials on Wednesday nights at the university bar soon saw much of that weight creep back on, but that’s another blog post on a different subject matter…

Angela – 60 lb weight loss, high school prom 1990

Throughout my journey for weight loss and healthy eating I learned healthy ways by visiting a dietitian, joining a weight loss group, incorporating daily exercise and a general love of cooking. Working in luxury hotels, I have developed a deep seeded love and passion for fine food, dining and wine. Without compromise I have adapted my passion for food and wine into my own style of cooking and am a fearless home chef to many versatile cuisines, both traditional and exotic. The Joy of Cooking is still my go-to favourite inspiration.

Throughout my healthy eating lessons, I have still always struggled with the one message from my childhood: waste not, want not. Sure, I have adopted new portion sizes for meals I cook and attempt to order just the right sizes when dining out, but I still struggle in leaving food waste on my plate.

This week at my weight loss group, the topic was raised of wasting food versus letting it go to our waist. A metaphor with a tremendous enlightenment; – all these years I had been sabotaging my weight loss success with my old habits and beliefs. Just as I had learned to break the cycle of my family’s eating values and traditions, I needed to learn to forego the food on my plate for heightened success in my weight loss journey. After all, my waist line is depending on it.

I know I don’t have to eat EVERY single morsel on my plate; my mother is not going to scold me anymore. But it is a deep seeded value from my childhood that has been hard to break. Now when I am faced in that situation of waste not, want not, I will think of my waist. It will thank me for it.

Angela, white jacket – after 60 lbs weight loss, Cavendish Beach & UPEI – 1990

Carrie Bradshaw Eat Your Heart Out

Ladies lunch, bitches brunch.

We have been brunching for about 3 years as Bitches Who Brunch (BWB). At first I wasn’t crazy about the name “bitches” but soon realized it was all in fun! It is an eclectic group of women; – a nice mix of regulars and newbie’s. All women are welcome, no invitation needed and the more the merrier. Gradually we are brunching our way around Victoria, BC over the most stimulating conversations that, at times, could make the stripes on a zebra dance.

ladies lunch, bitches brunch

Our conversations are varied without exception. We conversed about a well-known local burlesque dancer; work; family; husbands and lovers. As we ate our bacon-scallion popcorn appetizer, one of the bitches suggested we solidify our BWB club and have t-shirts made. Sort of Grease-Pink-Lady-ish; – sensual, black v-neck t-shirts with rhinestone insignia. We’d wear them to brunch.

Afterwards,   I brought forward the “pretty” boy I saw on Friday in my neighbourhood. A “pretty boy” as in early 20-something, surfer-type with sun-baked hair and remnants of a tan. I imagine he is what people refer to as a, “tall drink of water”. When my eyes made his acquaintance, my heart skipped a beat and I could feel my skin turning red and hot as my pulse beat uncontrollable; – kind of like when you grab the last bon-bon in the office and don’t want anyone to know. While a pleasurable sensation it also gave me a feeling of dirty; – but only for a moment. I realized I quite possibly am the age of his mother and then it dawned on me I was acting quite cougar-ish.

The brunch conversations ensued with much laughter and serious discussions on poverty; exploitation of women; politics; balancing the demands of our busy lives; a shade of OPI nail lacquer worn by one of the bitches; as well as possible locales for our next brunch.

I saw the pretty boy on Monday and he looks even prettier. I am able to control my breathing around him but still feel dirty.

Sex and the City has nothing on Victoria’s Bitches Who Brunch. If you’d like to join BWB, see us on Twitter and Facebook and LIKE our page to watch for the next brunch.

The Dooryard

“If you’re coming to visit me, come anytime.
If you’re coming to see my house, make an appointment”.

This is my family’s philosophy of visiting. In the Maritimes, visiting is a term fondly referred to when company comes to visit; neighbours come over for a cup of sugar or friends drop in. By the way, no one ever needs the cup of sugar, it is an informal way to visit the neighbours; – a polite “invite-myself-in”.

Visiting often includes sitting in the dooryard. While loosely defined, the dooryard is the space around the entrance to your door. This might span the backyard of your home up the driveway and to the property line that borders on your street. This may or may not include a porch, (front or back), patio, doorway and tailgate of a pickup. Dooryards are very vast.

Very important matters are discussed in the dooryard along with equal the number of unimportant topics. Shooting the breeze. Town gossip. A birth or a divorce. Who’s running around on whom, and who didn’t come home last night. Who is visiting from away and who won $25 on TV Bingo. You can be damn sure a dooryard gathering includes a cuppa tea or coffee, a two-four  or a Captain Morgan & coke.  No one buys a six-pack in the Maritimes as it is not enough to go round the dooryard. Maritimers’ buy a two-four of beer; – the proverbial East Coast term for 24 cans of beer.

Dooryard culture have few rules but one for certain: come as you are, say as you please. Ladies don their weekly set of hair curlers and head scarves while men frequently lounge in undershirts. The warm ocean breeze made the evenings long and the laughs welcome.  Dooryards gatherings may rotate houses but often each town had their chosen favourites. Often friendships start over dooryards, it’s hard to drive by and not join in.

Life began and ended for many in dooryards. A welcome of a new baby, a send off to college or a memorial for treasured friends, nothing was unspoken in the dooryard. Comfort. Friends. Ease. Welcome.

The world could benefit from the dooryard concept. We’re bringing back dooryard culture next summer; – bring your lawn chair.

See Urban Dictionary’s full definition of dooryard.

I Wish I Were…

I wish I were 7 years old again when the summer days seemed endless and nothing matter except happiness and giggles. My sisters and I in the backyard, not a care in the world, often running in bare feet as the coolness of the grass tickled between our toes. Everyone knew our house, the one with five sisters. While they may have not remembered each of our names, they knew the five sisters in the house on Maple Street. Our house was their house, Mom and Dad welcomed the neighbourhood bounty of friends, accepting them as family. We’d often sit, teetering on our skateboards and sail down the steep driveway when the coast was clear of cars on our street. Once or twice we had to abort mission to the right or left side, skidding on the grass. The subsequent green-stained elbows and t-shirts were par for the course, adding to our freckled skin and sun-kissed hair in a wispy pony-tail.

Our house was the summer happening zone. My Dad pitched the tent in late June in our yard and it was the social headquarters for nightly sleepovers. While a tent intended for 6 sleeping people, the warm, humid summer nights provided the perfect backdrop for
flashlight-shadows theatres to audiences of 9 or more. My older sisters were the master manipulators of crafty hand gestures projected on our tent. I bet the illuminations on our tent ceilings enabled Martians to interpret the flashlight-shadow puppetry on planet Mars. After much laughter and belly giggles, we’d finally drift to sleep nearing 3:00 am and awake to nearby lawn mowing around 11:00 am. Due to the sweltering Maritime humidity, my Mom frequently caved to my sister’s demands for ice cream and the backyard indulgences only deepened.

While today we live worlds away, my sisters and I still share the ice cream and stories of these childhood memories whenever we are together. One thing is for sure, we have never stopped the belly giggles, sometimes it includes snorted ice cream.

 

 

 

Become part of Post a Day 2012.

Sisterly Love

Sorry to disappoint you; – this is not a post on polygamy.

I am fourth of five sisters. Our family was non traditional in the mid 70s day but pretty main stream in today’s modern family. My youngest sister and I have a Dad (surprise!) who married Charlotte, who had three daughters. Two of which were her own daughters and the oldest who she adopted when that sister was thirteen

I was five when the blended family was conceived. While my youngest sister and I spent the regular time with our birth mother, we visited the blended family on the weekends. Later my birth mother would become hospitalized and we would move in with the blended family full-time for one summer, on a temporary basis.  We have concurred to this day; the times we spent with the blended family were the best times of our lives.

Sisters, 1980

Judy, the oldest, was my favourite. I don’t know if it was her innocent smile or mother-like nurturing, but we had a close bond. I guess at five years old, it’s easy to relate to people who have a beautiful smile. She had the whitest teeth and it made her smile the biggest I had ever seen. I bet she still smiles like that.

Quiet and gentle. Her nose wrinkled when she laughed and sometimes when she laughed she snorted. It was funny and made all of us laugh if we were not already laughing with her.

When we sang her the song “Hey Jude”, she told us she hated it. I think she loved it. We were singing to her. Only her. She was the only one who had a song named after her.

Judy would dress me up in dresses and French braid my hair. I still remember the feel of her masterfully moving the hair piece over piece. She’d weave thin ribbons in after and give me a kiss. I loved the pretty dresses and the more flowers on them, the better. Judy loved pale pastels and often dressed me in pink. She took me to school on my first day and every day thereafter. She would walk me home every day, not before stopping to buy penny-store candy much to my stepmother’s dismay.

Growing up, I only remember laughter between sisters. Even when Mom was chasing us with her fluffy pink slippers because we had misbehaved, we laughed and ran away in good fun. We knew Mom would never hit us; it was her game of scaring us. But we protected and hid each other no matter the situation. No one cared that we were the blended family. We are sisters. Sisters protected each other.

I don’t exactly when it happened but Judy became estranged from the family in her late teens. Substance abuse. Violence she inflicted on our family. My father offered her help to prevent further violent outbursts. When she refused, he kicked her out of the family home. He was fearful for what was hidden in her heroin-induced trance.

She rid herself of her addiction and returned home. She turned her life around and soon she married. They had a daughter. She later divorced. She remarried and had another child. She seemed genuinely happy.

The haunts of her birth family began calling her. Her soul and heart were fueled with mystery of why her. She eventually found her birth mother and a few sisters. They reunited and my sister was torn between two families. The family she knew in the blended family, or the birth mother and sisters she has never knew. Despite repetitive meetings, family discussions and tears, she parted ways from our family. The phone calls, the visits, the family gatherings, the traditions; – it stopped without notice for all of us. We continued to reach out to her but she pushed us away and she moved away without a trace.

Fast forward to July 2010. I move into my new house and meet the neighbours. You know that feeling when you meet someone and you know you’ll be fast friends? Something draws you to these people.

We could not have asked for better neighbours. They’ve been known for a few front yard parties and a driveway party or two. We’ve been to each other’s house for the holidays and celebrations. We all know each other’s birthdays and anniversaries, including their kid’s birthdays.

April 2011, I make a random post on a social media channel about my home town. The gypsum mine, the town’s major industry, will cease operations; the neighbour sends me a note and says

Neighbour: “How do you know this place?”
Me: “I grew up here. Do you know it?”
Neighbour: “Yes, I grew up there.”
Me: “Small world!”

We would go on to tell stories of the home town and reminisce of friends.

December 17, 2011 a cocktail before the Prince concert. We’re sitting at a bar sipping wine and laughing. We can barely contain our excitement.

Neighbour: “So tell me about your sisters. You said you have four.”
Me: “Well my oldest sister Judy is adopted….”
Neighbour: “WHAT? You have an adopted sister named Judy from our hometown?”
Me: “Yes. Why do you ask?”
Neighbour: ”I have a sister named Judy I’ve been searching for 35 years. I gave up…I wonder if there is a chance she is my sister.

Morale of the story: Judy is my neighbour’s sister. I exchanged the details of Judy’s birth family, name, birth date and photo. Neighbour shared a photo of her sister. My sister Judy and her sister could be identical twins. We are currently finalizing contact with Judy to reunite her with my neighbour, her sister.

The world is very small. In life there are no chances. Never stop dreaming, never stop hoping. Sisterly love never fails.

You can read more on the neighbour here.

Happy Birthday Judy! Today is your day. Love you now, always and forever. Hey Jude by The Beatles