une fille, full-bodied

words are very unnecessary

Thanks to a friend having provided a plug for his sister's blog, I've discovered Wordless Wednesday, about which WikiAnswers tells me all I need to know:

On Wednesdays all over the internet, bloggers post a photograph with no words to explain it on their blog. Hence the ‘wordless’ title. The idea is that the photo itself says so much that it doesn’t need any description.

Seeing as though I fancy myself an amateur photographer, I think this is a lovely bandwagon on which to jump. Unless I specify otherwise (which will add a few words to an otherwise 'wordless' post but what can ya do), the photos will be ones I've taken. Going forward, I'll post a photo, along with a few words in the blog title that can be considered a title for that photo. Then, my dear readers, you glean from it whatever you may. Which may be something entirely different than what I do. Or what the next person does. Which, really, is one of the greatest things about photography, dontcha think?

So, with the next post, Worldess Wednesday begins.

in like a lion, indeed

Since it wouldn't have been the first day of Spring in Chicago without some snow coming along with its arrival, Saturday was a cold, blustery, snowy, slushy kind of day.

I could have ventured out into such crappy weather or I could have stayed warm and cozy indoors. I opted for the latter option and spent the afternoon...

daydreaming about the things that should accompany Spring
and reminding myself of things

and creating the perfect heroic unicorn to go along with the short story I'm working on in an attempt to get reacquainted with my creative writing chops.

It was a delightful afternoon, that's fo sho.

outside my window: part deux

Last May, I showed you this photo of the outside of my window ledge:


Ten months later, that little sprig of a plant looks like this.


More photographic monitoring of the life cycle as it inevitably continues.

Spring renewal

My apartment lease for the upcoming rental year, which I slapped my Herbie Hancock on and slipped under my landlord's door this morning.

Since that pesky Daylight Savings went into effect this past Saturday, I've been fortunate enough to be able to watch the sunrise from the bus on my way to work every morning. I've taken that same bus ride for a good four years and witnessed that sunrise from different views, thanks to different morning commutes, for almost eight years. Yet every morning this week, I've found myself thinking how amazing it still is to me that I call this place home. And mean it.

(Photo not mine but ooooooh, so pretty!)

I would like to thank my friend, Don

For being a friend *and* for sending me this awesome link the other day that I had completely forgotten to post.

It's okay if I know the majority of episodes from which these quotes originated, oui?

Je m'appelle...

I'm lifting the idea for today's blog post from one of my favourite blogs: Shakesville.

Do you like or dislike your name? If you dislike it, what would you change it to? Is there a story behind your name?

I love my name. Love, love, love. When I was younger, I wasn't terribly fond of it, seeing as though it was an uncommon one but as I got older, I grew to appreciate it and eventually, love it. Which, I'm sure, is partly because of the story that accompanies it.

After getting married, my mother knew two things: she wanted her house on a corner lot (still no idea what that's all about) and two children; a son and a daughter. I believe she even wanted the son first and daughter second, which is exactly the order in which my brother and I came into this world.

My father desperately wanted a baby girl so he and my mother decided that if they had a girl, he could name her. For as long as I've been lucky enough to be their daughter and even as newlyweds and soon-to-be-parents, my mother and father have always been equal partners. So, they agreed that if the first child was a boy, my mother would get to name him. When Andrew John was born, they were the happiest first parents you could ever meet and four years later, Mom was pregnant again. Throughout the second pregnancy, she was positive the baby was another boy. Mother's intuition? Tummy was hanging low? She drank a mysterious potion that promised a penis? I have no idea. But even during her labour, she was sure I was a boy. Perhaps that accounts for the fact that I hate dresses, shoes, most pink things, and feel pretty strongly about never wanting to push a human being out of my bajingo? I'm not sure. But that's tangent material, right there.

My father, the optimist that he is, wasn't giving up hope until he absolutely had to but finally agreed, while in the hospital with my mother, that they really ought to come up with a boy's name in case he wasn't going to get his girl. I don't recall if they did come up with that second boy's name but somewhere along the line, my father decided that should he get his baby girl, her name was going to meet his criteria..."I want it to be beautifully French and just flow."

I'm not sure at what point my father told my mother the name he had decided on but after the doctor cleaned my naked little ass up and handed me to my mother, she asked the good doctor if she could tell my father it was a girl. And when they wheeled her out to see him, she told him, "You've got your Janelle Lynn."

For the rest of the day, he kept telling my mother, "I'll be right back, Hon. I've just gotta go look at her again." And Janelle Lynn has been Daddy's Little Girl ever since. Every year on my birthday, my mother always works in the story of the morning I was born. And every year, it's my favourite thing about my birthday.

Merci, mon père.

a pet peeve

Shortly after I moved to Chicago, I was on my way to the gym one Saturday morning when a man who was walking toward me held out his hand in one of those, "excuse me, Miss?" gestures. It wasn't at all rude and he didn't encroach upon my personal space, which is why I took off my headphones. He proceeded to tell me how good he thought I looked (apparently, the 'just rolled out of bed' look really does do it for some people) and asked for my phone number. I politely told him I couldn't do that; partly because I wasn't about to prove right any of the 'naive small town girl in the big city' stereotypes but mainly because it caught me entirely off guard. That shit just doesn't happen to me.

The first couple times his number showed up on my cell phone, I ignored it. Eventually, I picked it up, we chatted for a bit, and he asked me out. Strike that, he asked me what kind of wine I liked and if I wanted to come over to his place. Um, yeah...a world of no. We eventually agreed to meet at T's Restaurant & Bar for lunch that weekend. We ate, we chatted and we had a perfectly fine time. He was really quite attractive and perfectly polite and very obviously made a genuine attempt to get to know me during lunch. But for several reasons, at that point in time, I just wasn't having it so we went our separate ways after our meeting, with me having no intention of seeing him again. Obviously, he didn't feel the same way because he called again. And again. And again. Not in an obnoxious, every-half-an-hour way...he called maybe every few days or so. Eventually, I talked to a male friend about it because Clueless Me had absolutely no idea how to simply tell someone I wasn't interested in him and I remember him telling me, "unless you explicitly tell a guy you're not interested, chances are he's going to hang on to the hope that you are interested until you either are interested or you tell him otherwise."

So, I went with the latter. I answered his call one day and at first, told him I just wasn't ready for any kind of relationship, to which he responded with asking me when I thought that might change. No idea, pal. So, I told him I simply wasn't interested and that if that should ever change, I'll give him a call. And that was that.

I told you that story in order to give a little background as to why this one pisses me off as it does.

Woman Beaten After Rejecting Man's Advances

My biggest pet peeve is people with a sense of entitlement. People who believe they simply deserve whatever it is they want because they want it. I don't know how this woman told the man she wasn't interested but it doesn't matter. Because she said 'no' in whatever form in which she said it, he beat the piss out of her. He was under the assinine assumption that because he's a man, he's entitled to the woman of his choice. I've come to realize over the years why it is I feel so strongly about doing something, no matter how big or how small, to combat sexual assault. And toward the very top of that list is because I feel so strongly about people with an entitlement complex.

You can read all the books, articles, blogs, new stories there are out there involving violence against women (and for that matter, violence, in general) but it really boils down to this one, oh-so-simple fact.

While Saturday Night Live isn't nearly as hilarious as it's been in past years, I've gotta say I'm fucking elated that Betty White will soon be hosting.

In her honour, I present you with my favourite Rose Nylund moment. I apologize for the lousy quality of the video but it's the only clip of it I could find.



Now, if you'll excuse me, I have celebrating to do with a cheesecake out on the lanai.

kind over matter

I was expecting February to suck ass this year as it does every year but I was pleasantly surprised this time around. That is, until March rolled around and the sneaky little bastard had swapped places with February in an attempt to crush my spirits.

A few days ago, to combat the ugliness, I browsed some of the 'feel good' blogs I like to read and in doing so, came across this new gem of a read. The site is full of creative kindness...the kind that, no matter what your mood, leaves you feeling all smiley and warm and fuzzy and appreciative of life. At least, it does me. As a lover of great quotes, I particularly loved these.

The afternoon's ugliness abated but boredom was trying to set up camp. Instead of welcoming it, I killed an afternoon printing out a bunch of the cards (and some other great ones you'll find if you browse through their 'freebies' section) and laminating them. Should I want to leave one on car windshields and random spots outdoors in the Chicago weather, I can't just leave regular ol' paper out in the elements, now can I? No. No, I cannot.

As I was getting off the bus tonight, I sneakily left my first one.



Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are. - Marianne Williamson

Nice try, February. You're over. And you're not gettin' March.