New year, new tattoo

I've been in a bit of a funk lately. 

Whether it's the weather, the lack of exercise or the chicken I just couldn't say...  but I know that something (could it simply be me?) is off.

In an effort to "funk-off" I've taken a few steps, like getting rid of my television, joining a gym and eating healthier, to name but a few (um, who am I kidding?).

Also known as... all but the ONE STEP I really need to take!

While I don't believe in New Year's resolutions and actually spent a large portion of New Year's Eve rolling my eyes at the pathetic uplifting NYE resolutions and  proclamations splattered posted on facebook, I actually made one of my own... and posted it on the evil beast. 

But I cleverly disguised it in the form of a Jack Kerouac quote: "One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple." 

On that fateful night, at approximately 10:52 pm, I promised myself that I would do the ONE thing that I know will make me feel better. The ONE thing I've thought about, and talked about, for years. The ONE thing I want to do, and am meant to do, but for some unknown reason simply cannot do. 

And I'm not talking about getting a new tattoo.

I'm talking about writing a book.

There.

I said it.

I've mulled over countless ideas (38 years is a pretty long time to mull) but I'm fairly certain my latest one is the best yet.

Cellular memory. Or transgenerational inheritance.

When I first visited a homeopath a few years ago she mentioned cell memory to me in relation to my health problems, anxieties, phobias and some nightmares I was having. At the time, cell memory believers hypothesized that memories get stored in individual cells which are then passed on through the generations.

As all of my (Polish) grandparents went though the Second World War, my homeopath believed that the traumas they experienced were passed on to my parents, and then me, through cell memory. She hypothesized that these traumatic memories were the root cause of my problems - health and otherwise.

When I mentioned this theory to people a few years ago they largely laughed it off but it looks like the "scientific" world is starting to agree with what homeopaths have been saying for years.

Fear can be inherited through sperm.

According to the now-proven theory, "animals inherit a memory of their ancestors' traumas and respond as if they had lived the events themselves." 

Cellular memory. Or transgenerational inheritance.

What's funny is that I have three tattoos. None of them are images - they all consist of characters, text or words. Now that I've finally decided to apply myself to my life's work, I finally want to get a tattoo with a picture - and no words.

An anchor and some cherry blossoms.

I think it's a sign...

Blog of a not-so Social Gal

Once upon a time, a very lucky girl (aka: me) got invited to a very fabulous party.

The raison-d'être for the party was the launch of the third edition of the Diary of a Social Gal magazine. Described as "part diary and part social/lifestyle/fashion port," the magazine (and website) are ALL editor extraordinaire Jenn Campbell's creation.

And boy oh boy does she know how to throw a party! 

Not to mention the fact that she, along with yours truly, is dying for "a night out with Chelsea Handler."

But I digress.  

Held at the Ritz-Carlton on hump day, the party featured live music, salt-baked fish and more beautiful people than you can shake a stick at. 

I mention the salt-baked fish not in jest but because I really enjoyed it. Thanks Milos!
 
Plus the Moët. Ahhh the Moët!

The raison-d'être for my being invited to such a fabulous party was my previously mentioned luck. The oh-so-lovely Olivia (aka: Dirty Martini) asked me to go along as her date because she knows of my writing (and fashion) related aspirations.

And my love of Moët.  

After work, and pre-party,I made my way to Indigo for some (very) fresh air and a browse through the fashion section. While there, I surreptitiously overheard 2 Fashion Police wannabes rip into Alexa Chung's "It" book, suggesting it be named "Shit" instead.

 alrighty then!

After the rude awakening, I headed back to my office to get ready. 

"Am I really glam enough for a Social Gal party?" I pondered anxiously while using Lysol wipes to try and fix my still-wet manicure and googled "bare winter legs" to see if my decision to not wear tights, despite the below-zero temperatures, was gauche or not.

The Fashion Police wannabes would surely have something to say about it.

Don't mean girls and boys always have something to say about everything? Especially other people's happiness.

I pushed my negative self-talk aside and headed to the washroom to change into the Victoria's Secret dress the beau bought me for Christmas last year and take a few obligatory selfies.

After I applied an Instagram filter, making myself feel even better, I headed out to meet Dirty Martini and have a fabulous time.

Take that mean girls (and boys).

 

Blood is thicker than water

My sister and I have a few things in common. 

An affinity for Elvis Presley. The tendency to speak our minds. An obsession with vampires. 

Blood...

I was watching True Blood tonight when I realized that Mo (my sister) really reminds me of Pam. Not Pam my sister's sister (!) but Pamela Swynford de Beaufort.

Like Pam, my sister is gorgeous. Like Pam, my sister has lips Mick Jagger would kill for. Like Pam, my sister is a bit of a... straight-shooter. She is blunt, to say the least, with a "sweet yet highly lethal charm."   

Like Pam, she's perfect just the way she is.

In honour of my sister, and sisters the world over, here's to gals like Pam and Mo.

You gotta love 'em! 

Thanks for being the vamp to my Sook-eh sis!

Nihon o omoidasu

If the title of this blog post leaves you lost in translation, you're not the only one. 

I woke up this morning "remembering Japan," or "Nihon o omoidasu," and wondering what it is about this time of year, this week, today, that has me reliving, and remembering, the past.

I think part of it has to do with the fact that I recently moved into an apartment that reminds me of the one I had in Japan. 

Koshigaya, to be specific. 

After a year of living large in the country, in an abode that housed a walk-in closet larger than my current kitchen, I'm back to Japanese-style living.

Think... capsule hotel.     

While my current apartment is not quite as, ummmm, cozy (real-estate talk for small), as a capsule hotel and, thankfully, isn't equipped with the (mite-infested) tatami mats it's Koshigaya counterpart was, it does remind me of the place I called home for one year when I was 23.

Minus the genkan. Which I loved. 

Imadake is another reason I've been lost in translation recently. 

Meaning "only for now," Imadake is a Japanese pub in downtown Montreal that serves small, traditional and very "oishi," or "delicious," dishes (including mochi, takoyaki and okonomiyaki) in an ambiance totally reminiscent of Tokyo.

Ever have a sake bomb? If you haven't you should.

When I say sake, you say bomb!

 the sake bomb starts at 1:02

To appease the lack, and loss, of Japan in my life I decided to watch Lost in Translation this morning while writing this blog post. Written and directed by Sofia Coppola, the movie provides moment after moment of deja-vu, as Scarlett Johansson's character finds herself living, and feeling, so many of the same things I did so many moons ago.  

Like this:

And this:

 Lost in translation indeed.