August 18, 2010 – Here I sit. In front of my oversized, over-indulgent flat screen television (thanks to my electronically-obsessed husband), watching, for the third time, a feisty little feature – Julie & Julia.

The first time I popped this film into our DVD player, I sat snuggled up in bed, mourning the escape of our beloved family cat, Libby. She had slipped out during Christmas dinner the night before, and after a sleepless night of awaiting her arrival home (to no avail), I settled in for a film I had wanted to see since first spying the trailer some time before. There was something beautifully organic about the snippets; I knew I would feel at home with the storyline.

And, during that very first viewing, I did. As a cheeky writer who, other than in front of her laptop, is most comfortable in the kitchen, who is filled with hysterical idiosyncrasies, fell a little crazy in love with the wonderment that is the relationship of Julie to Julia.

Then… the ending. My eyes fell sad. My heart broke. In fact, it took me months before I accepted the finality, that more often than not, life doesn’t grant Golden Tickets to Utopia.

The second time around, I didn’t watch with that same hope that in the end, Julia Child would ultimately show up on the doorstep of Julie Powell, iconic pearls in place, iconic nasally voice wafting through the air, fulfilling my want, my need for a Happily-Ever-After. Instead I saw it as a tribute… to both an amazing Chef of butter-laden French food and a writer who had previously lost her way. It was in this that I saw what I had originally been searching for, but in a less than obvious way. The happy ending wasn’t meant to be the meeting of the minds of Julie and Julia, but rather in overcoming the obstacles they each faced through the journeys of their professional and personal lives.

It took me some time to realize it, but once I let go of the clichés so typically associated with fact-based-stories-turned-Hollywood-productions, I found the absolute beauty of Julie & Julia. From beginning to buttery end.

It took ten years of detouring to find my way back to Penticton, the city I called home right out of high school. And, in that decade, I saw a small but valuable life in Victoria, Calgary and Kelowna. I met my husband, had a child and settled down into the role as wife and mother. Through all of that, it never once occurred to me to return, but now here, I wonder why I left.

In leaving Kelowna behind, is it possible that we passed through a sort of secondary dimension? The mere moment the iconic white lettering appeared on the sage-brush dotted mountains, the seemingly endless knot in my stomach unravelled. The rat-race was over, so was the competition with leggy blonde bombshells sporting head-to-toe Ed Hardy. Nothing remained but a slower paced lifestyle and the essence of a casual resort town.

Trading in a 1500 square foot townhouse for a two bedroom condo was, at first glance, worthy of tears shed. And, even now, I miss the Bard’s etched quote on the latte coloured wall of the dining room. With each day, my grip on the past is a little less. Eventually, it will reside in the back of my mind as nothing more than a peg on the map of places I once lived.

Until then, I live, work and breathe a new future. I enjoy the laughter of both old and new friends. Penticton quite possibly was the best decision we could have made. For now…

From corner to corner of our lovely 1,528 square foot home, I see bits and pieces of a lifetime, of a family. The archway to the kitchen holds proof of my daughter’s sizing, every six months a visible marker of aging. Now, as boxes litter the floor, I realize how much I will miss the roof that covered our heads for three and a half years.

It’s only a house – I’ve said that plenty of times since deciding to sell. But in truth, it has been more than that. It has been a time capsule of sorts; it holds memories, laughter, a part of each of us. And so it will be for the next owner…

For us, for now: Penticton.

This week has been a whirl wind of writing, film screenings and arranging meetings and interviews. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even a fancy new pair of Chanel stilettos.

Editorial deadline for Gonzo is fast approaching and though I have a handful of assignments to finish polishing, the bulk is done. To ensure finality of projects, I’ve done the unthinkable and cancelled my plans to attend the much-anticipated premiere of Sex and the City 2. For those of you who know me, this shows serious dedication… Am I right?

I met with Leo Bartels today (of Leo’s Videos on Pandosy) and got his feedback on some of his favoured OIFF films. He was such a wealth of information and managed to heighten my excitement of the upcoming festival. I can’t wait!

I’ve scheduled an interview tomorrow with Kennedy Goodkey, co-writer/producer of The Beast of the Bottomless Lake. Thanks to a dear friend (Zenta!), I was able to land the fantastic opportunity to talk to one of the masterminds behind this amazing locally-themed film. For those Ogopogo-enthusiasts, this can’t be missed.

All in all, Gonzo has been such a good fit for me. I’m challenged to think beyond what I’m used to and for that alone, I can’t help but be in a constant state of elation. Not too long ago I was clueless as to where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing.

I’m getting there… a little closer every day.

I see a trip to Rouge Beauty Lounge in my future… this Saturday to be precise.

As resident Rouge blogger, my inspiration and knowledge, as luck would have it, derives from indulging in a sampling of just a few of their most fabulous services offered – a signature pedicure and customized facial. As an added bonus, Rouge boasts a pedi-chair above and beyond that of most other spas, a delicious shiatsu-massage throne that has, obviously, been the basis of many a (day) dream of mine.

An afternoon of spa-spoiling is certainly welcomed after such a wonderfully productive last few months. I’m thrilled to be stepping out into the world of professional writing and it’s made only that much sweeter to be able to do so with perfectly polished toes!

Today, I learned something invaluable to my career as a writer – how to take rejection.  I expected to be so greatly offended that I would want to pull a J.D. Salinger and go into reclusion.  But I didn’t.  I wanted to for about a minute and forty five seconds… until I composed myself and realized that all of this I have created, I have produced, I have established.  Writing isn’t what I do, but rather a part of who I am. 

Regardless of the context, rejection is never an easy pill to swallow.  I’m certain I’ll see a lot more of it in the future, not because I lack the ability or the talent, but because I offer something that is out of the realm of the expected.  That is a rationale that I can live with…

Kristal Burgess and I took to the hills this afternoon for a photo-shoot (complete with vintage typewriter and a scattering of old, slightly yellowed pictures throughout the wispy tall grass).  The sun was golden warm, spliced by wind, and the earthy background was perfect for the theme. 

I can’t wait to see the results; Kristal is an absolute creative genius and had me, an ordinary non-model, perched in precarious positions to evoke the best angle and light combinations.  All in the name of art!

This upcoming June will mark fourteen years since I graduated high school (that loud bang you heard, yeah, that was my jaw hitting the floor!) and since I left the sleepy little Vancouver Island town I grew up in.  Like many of the graduates of Lake Cowichan Secondary, I returned for a brief stint (two of them, actually) before realizing there was something bigger that I needed to do, somewhere else I needed to be. 

I took the long way ‘round to ultimately end up exactly where I started with the very goal I set out with.  My parents were always cautious about my intention of being a writer – you know, that whole starving artist thing and all – and, offered up a handful of other possible careers (all of which were great options, just not for me) in an attempt to lure my attention away with something shiny (like, coins… and the beautiful shoes that could be purchased with coins!). 

I wavered a little… which gave way to doubt… which gave way to thinking I could write solely as an on-the-side activity.  So, I treated it as such and rarely wrote beyond silly emails and quirky stories involving close friends.  An entire decade dissolved leaving nothing more than trace memories with little to show in terms of work produced.  When I look back now, I get why that was, I understand why it sat so long simmering on the back burner – if I didn’t acknowledge it, I wouldn’t miss it as much.  If I didn’t miss it as much, I wouldn’t realize that that there was a gigantic part of me that felt lost.  And, was lost.  

I’m not exactly sure when the light came on, when I had that ‘Aha!’ moment that Oprah speaks of in nearly every episode, but somewhere along the way it happened.  Somewhere along the way I found my way back to me.  I realized that regardless of which path I followed, I was likely going to starve – either literally or figuratively.  I picked up my pen and paper (or rather, opened my laptop) and began rapidly writing (or rather, hammering away on the keys)… only to discover how different my voice is now from back then…  When exactly did that happen? 

The first full year (last year) was painful and oddly enough, I was somewhat prepared for that.  Though contracts were landed (to my surprise) and I started to establish a rhythm, I wondered if it would ever move beyond that, if I would ever establish my name.  Then, when I started to waver a little once again, a photographer friend of mine said something that I put trust in:  When you least expect it, things are going to gain speed and snowball in the best way.  Hmmm… maybe so!

Two weeks later, I had landed a freelance position on a magazine (in addition to the one I landed on another magazine two weeks prior to that) and a scheduled interview with Victoria Banks…

Yesterday was the interview… and, the timid little Lake Cowichan girl nailed it!  Next stop:  Coins… and the beautiful shoes that can be purchased with coins!

Rewinding some twenty odd years, we visit Mr. Davidson’s grade five class.  He was a smidge eccentric with his wild tufts of reddish-orange hair, tinged slightly with white, and somehow managed to keep a seemingly endless supply of various dried fruit (papaya, pineapple, ginger) in his top drawer as a reward to well-behaved students.  During our year with him, we studied, hatched and raised birds (chicken and quail) in a classroom that smelled unmistakably like a barnyard.  

Focused on the arts, he assigned us graphic collages to create and spiral-graph designs to color, each of which he would proudly laminate and frame for us.  Beyond that, we were required to write an autobiography of our truly fictional future lives. 

At ten years old, I wrote of my sprawling estate, luxury automobiles and celebrity husband (namely, Tom Selleck, who fathered our four beautiful children; two boys, two girls).  While his acting career continued to keep us in the lifestyle that we had grown accustomed to, I produced literature worthy of deep sighs, a few tears and a smiley-finish. 

The imagination of a child is a truly marvelous thing… and, sometimes, if we look hard enough, we can find truth in fiction.   It’s just too bad that Tom Selleck was already married!

There is something that has been gnawing away at the very core of my being, a teeny, tiny piece of information that will leave you reeling.  I can no longer hide behind my bulging closet of clothing and accessories, nor behind the pile of shoes that is certain to be taller than I am.  I have to confess something that may alter the way you look at me forever…

I was once entirely fashion-dysfunctional. 

Pairing reds with oranges and layering horrendous knits under a furry cow-patterned vest, I was a walking eye-sore, sure to have made small children cry.  My idea of peep-toe shoes equated to wearing my Birkenstock-like sandals without socks.  (I cringe in re-reading that last sentence)

Though able to identify the flawless faces of the classically illustrated models that blessed the glossy pages of Vogue and Glamour, my knowledge of Fashion Houses were limited to the floral fragrances in which they offered.  To me, fashion-forward meant an exciting shopping excursion to a neighboring city where, perhaps, the selection of overalls might be slightly larger than that within the boundaries of the small town in which I was raised.  I was anything but feminine, refusing to adorn my teenaged body with something that could suggest I had developed a shape beyond that of a rectangle. 

However thankful I might be that photographs of this sad, ill-dressed girl haven’t yet surfaced on Facebook, I sometimes wonder how she got from there to here. 

Here… a place where walking by Coach and Jimmy Choo have left me breathless… a place where little black dresses no longer frighten me into wild hysteria, a place where I am the proud owner of the most stunning pair of pearly white Chanel stilettos that ever were.  I am reformed.