I N V E S T M E N T

I N V E S T M E N T 

I've been thinking a lot about the principle of getting back what you give. By that, I don't mean breaking even. I mean, getting a return on an investment. Like the idea that if you put in something, however small the amount, depending on where you deposit it, will compound and return to you larger.  

There was this parable from the bible that I learned wayyyy back in Sunday school that, at the time, infuriated my 7 year old brain. It was about this wealthy master giving money to each of his 3 servants. He didn't give much instruction to them and then went away for a long time. When he returned he asked what they servants had done with the money. One of them invested the money and doubled it, one worked hard and earned an additional amount and the third was scared he would be punished if he lost it so he buried it in the ground.  I really sympathized with the third servant because I thought that would be exactly what I would do. I was taught gambling was a sin in the very same class (oh if only god could see Drew and I and now with our stacks of pulltabs and keno chits on date night at the pub.....wait...MAYBE HE CAN SEE US)

Anyhoo, the master praised the two servants that invested his money and brought him the return. But when he questioned the third servant about the whole "burying it in the ground" thing, the servant said (and I'm paraphrasing here);

"Sir, with all due respect, you're kind of a tyrant. You harvest other people's crops when they're not looking, you're super harsh on your staff..not gonna lie here, we're all terrified of you. I knew you would have my ass (and my kneecaps) if I lost this money so I just wanted to make sure it was still here when you got back. I got enough on my plate, man, without you comin' after me for this shit." 

So basically, the master was super pissed at him and not only reamed him out in front of the other servants, but then banished him to the moat where dragons ate him and shit. 

Wait...I think this The Princess Bride. What?

But, you get the point. Little kid g was so bummed about the way the third servant was treated and I'm sure I asked WAY too many questions that day and for years to come that my Sunday school teacher was probably like "UGH I DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT, I'M A VOLUNTEER FOR GODSAKE SIT DOWN AND DRINK YOUR TANG" Or something. 

Now I totally get it. (thanks JC!) Because for some reason, I was born with an artistic mind. I was born with moderate skills to manifest those urges into works of art. Some are songs, some are pieces of writing, and some are polaroid photos that BREAK MY SCANNER.  The point is, I'm here to make something bigger out of the small amount of talent given me. And if I wasted that talent by burying it in the ground and waiting for 20 years just to unearth it and find it just sitting there all along, not ever being used, invested or made into anything more than what it started with, well shit son, I deserve all that weeping and gnashing of teeth. I should REPENT for that laziness! #sackclothandashes

Lately, I've been doing a lot of observing of other artists and their ways of investing their talent on a daily basis. I must say, it's very inspiring (and shaming).  I need to stop thinking about the next big project and make something NOW. I need to take my little bag of silver and invest it. So what if I lose something in the process? The "master" is gonna throw me to the wolves anyway. 

I might as well have something to leave after I'm gone. And if it sucks, that's ok cause I'll be dead and sipping on margaritas with the HF up in cloudy happy land. 

And that, my friends, is what you call a WIN-WIN.

V E G A N/
S O B E R/
G I B B E R/
I S H

D A Y  O N E:

GOOD GINUARY, all!  If there's one thing I love more than anything, it's a good challenge. And by love, I mean frustrate me to all hell and turn me into a ranting, foot stomping, fist clenching 5 yr old. But I know the more I challenge myself, the more I learn. (idiot fact of the day) 

I've put it upon myself most days to think about my motives for things, seek the sources of my desires and deterrents and to constantly question my "beliefs". I'm not perfect at it, and there are definitely actions of mine that go unchecked, but for the most part, I'm a thinker before a doer. 

Lately, I've been thinking about my role in society. Not only as a human being, but as a privileged one. Last year, I told myself I wasn't going to participate in the sweat-shop fuelled fashion industry. Not being much of trend follower clothes horse to begin with, it wasn't much of a challenge. If I buy clothes, they are most likely vintage, local designers or a good head first dive into the free bin in our building's laundry room.  I admit, I caved and bought a $20 pair of jeggings from Old Navy somewhere around October and again succumbed to holiday trip to Walmart and spent $ on leggings and a sweater when I realized my hasty, slightly drunk packing revealed I did not have anything to accommodate my post-turkey dinner bloat.  I'm not exactly crippling the industry with my "ish" boycott, but the challenge was more about me and how I wanted to think of others before myself. And at the end of the day, I just like feeling like I have control over my consumption of anything, really. I don't have cable TV, and other than the ads on the youtuber videos I so enjoy, or the news websites I frequent, most of the advertising I subject myself to is the scrolly, oddly directed, white noise beside my facebook feed. 

You see, I'm vulnerable. I love lamp. I can be an easy target for manipulation. (believe it or not)

Over the last year of pursuing my musical aspirations, creative projects and going down to a part-timer in the traditional workforce, I have much more time to think. And eat. I experimented with giving my body a rest from intensely working out, religiously policing my diet and concentrated more on my heart, head and work.  The results were noticeable. Figuratively and literally. I'm happier, I'm less anxious and I'm a lil chubbier. I am the cliche of with happiness comes softness and roundness and heck of a lot more booty. (hence the emergency jeggings in October..) One thing I've struggled with all year is the swing from feeling so blissful, to squeezing into my clothes that I'm trying to not replace. And for the most part, I've just let myself feel all the happy. It has been an experiment in self esteem and I am happy to report, it hasn't taken much of a beating. Towards the end of the year, I decided to challenge myself further and stop covering my grey hair, which has come out in full force as of late! With my invisible years fast approaching, the wonderful freedom of NOT being a demographic for beauty companies/music labels/EVERYTHING is I can almost fly under the radar. It was a great year to do whatever the fuck I wanted. It was and continues to be GLORIOUS. 

I also rekindled my adoration/obsession with animals (was it ever dead?).  I started following too many dogs on instagram. One day I started following Esther The Wonderpig. A pair of adorable men in the maritimes who have a farm run the account of this hilarious and beautifully mischievous member of the swine kingdom that they rescued under the impression that she was a "micropig". Much to their surprise and eventual delight she grew into a full size sow. They became vegans and dedicate most of their posts to her and promoting animals as family, not food. 

Now, that's as far as I can dip my toes into the animals rights pool for today. I'm not sure if it's my calling. But I know I adore all animals and I also know I couldn't kill one myself. I decided to ask myself the question of why can I eat one? I had dabbled in vegetarianism in, as Cher Horowitz would call, my "post-adolescent idealistic phase".  It lasted a few years. Then, due to some serious diet changes put upon me by my doctor (going gluten free in 2001 was not a nice time for a 20 yr old girl with no money or means to understand how to supplement it), I was advised to eat meat somewhere around the 118 lb mark. The point at which I could no longer hide my bones. (to give you some perspective, a healthy weight for my frame is no lower than 140 lbs). I started eating a high protein, almost zero carb diet to curb the intensity of my IBS. Now, 15 years later, my body's digestive system has changed and much to my delight, I can eat pretty much anything with little to no negative effect (within reason). I don't know if it was giving my body a 15 year break from processed food, most refined sugars and almost all gluten, maybe my age is a factor now, maybe I "cured" myself, I don't know. But it wouldn't hurt to take a look at revising my diet again and making sure I'm where I need to be. 

So..animal love + diet awareness + breaking control of certain powerful industries = vegan...ish. I'm trying it for a week and then if I like it, continue to see positive changes, I'll see how much longer I can go with the idea of perhaps being completely vegan for a month. 

Baby steps. 

Also the soberish part of this blog was just a bit a of a cheeky joke. It's Ginuary, people, so I will only be consuming gin as my cocktail/imbibe of choice. I will be posting a series of videos on my youtube channel showcasing some of my favourite cocktails.  I think I may also be posting my attempts at some real vegan gourmet cuisine here on the blog too. 

Besides, not eating animals might bring up a lot of feelings. And I'm gonna need to drink about them. 

Stay tuned for what will come of this. Or hit up my instagram to see me cave and eat a whopper at midnight tonight. (ha!)

Yours, in earnest, 

g xo

What I Know Now

This blog post comes from an inspiring conversation I had with 2 young women both on the crest of their 20th birthdays.  They, like most younger folk I meet, were surprised to hear that I was "that old" when I stated that my upcoming birthday would be my 38th.  The conversation turned from surprise to inquiry. These ladies wanted to know what it was like once they weren't teenagers anymore. I was delighted to be asked for my "sage" wisdom. 

But before we dive into what I said to them, let's get one thing straight: 

38 isn't OLD. It's 38 for chrissake! It's not even 40. And guess what? 40 isn't old either!  SO relax. Just chill, bruh. Don't sign me up for the waiting list at Shady Oaks just yet. Yeesh.

Ok, now that we have that out of the way, let's get down to it. 

Your 20's are for fucking up, going the wrong way at least 5 times, turning around, making up for your mistakes only to make a round of new ones you will hopefully have lived down by your 30th birthday. Your 20's are for your FIRST marriage. In short, just make it out alive. My 20's were the most confusing, heartbreaking, challenging, FUN, silly and wild years of my life. I loved, I lost, I left, I came back, I made horrible choices that bled into my 30's.  Your 20's are the years where you still have the metabolism of a cheetah so eat those fries, chug those beers, devour those nachos and bathe EVERYTHING in cheese. And wine. Sure, sure, be healthy, but don't obsess cause I guarantee you, no matter your size, mobility, or position in life in your 20s, you will find yourself scrolling through old pictures on facebook on the eve of your 38th birthday and lament at how young, cute, fit/able/perfect your body was back then. In the last year the reality of my mobility has come roaring in and I mostly bemuse the days that I could climb mountains, run 10k and do those high-impact workouts. Now, my knees are shot, my joints are constantly on fire, and I feel like there's a permanent knife in my right hip that twists every time I take a step. Years of having a "pretty person job" of serving in restaurants and bars, have left me with repetitive stress injuries, "server elbow", faceitus in both feet and ZERO PATIENCE FOR YOUR BULLSHIT, MA'AM.

The first half of your 30's are for repairing the damage of your 20's and also for accepting that you are in fact "in your 30's". You're a bit greyer, you're a bit slower, you're a bit more jaded. BUT. Here's the good stuff:

You give 50% less of a fuck about most things. This means what Fucking Sharon in accounting thinks of you is inconsequential. Because FUCK SHARON. She's bitter and angry and you should never take what she says seriously.  Plus she's 40 (ew). 

You give progressively less fucks the further you push into your 30's.  I'm at the point where I can go a whole day without caring. I can already see my next blog post..."If I Give a Fuck, Will You Stop Crying?"

In your 30's, when you've managed to live down most of what you did in your 20's (or stopped caring about it) you have so much mental space and time to do stuff. They say that tortured artists like myself can only write through pain. Those people just hadn't turned 35 yet.  I don't need pain, I need time. And some GODDAMM peace and quiet. So, yeah dude, we can date. You can even live with me. You're adorable, I love you. Just listen to your music on headphones and try to leave me alone at least once a day for a few consecutive hours. Mama's gotta get shit done.  

The other awesome thing about being in your late 30's (aka pushing 40) is that you're like 3 years away from people no longer bugging you about having a damn human baby. The only bummer is the folks (mostly men, oddly) that feel the need to remind you how much time you have left. And also to remind you that the last 19 years of survival, creating a body of work in respect to your art, travelling to countless cities/countries really won't make you a woman until you create a life. *eye roll* Oh, and they LOVE to remind you that you gonna regret not having one. Like I'm gonna wake up on my 45th birthday and be all "MY LIFE MEANT NOTHING".  Again, chill, Bruh. In the words of my dear darling Uncle Ken (aka UK):

"I decide."

Oh yeah! I forgot the best part! YOU DECIDE. And you finally have the balls to say what you want or what you don't want. You can decide you don't like something. You can say you don't feel like having sex/going for a walk/drinking beer/watching that movie and you don't have to waste your time agonizing about WHAT IT ALL MEANS. It doesn't mean anything, it's just means you don't fucking feel like it right now. Maybe you will feel like it in 15 minutes, but not now. And then in 15 minutes when you feel like it you can say "hey sailor, I feel like banging/going for a walk/drinking beer/seeing that movie" and most of the time he'll say "sweet, i'm in." or he might not. So then you both shrug your shoulders and go do what you feel like doing alone. It doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't mean the thrill is gone. It just means you're different people and everything's gonna be ok. 

Oh and having made it to the closing remarks of your 30's means...you're almost 40.  And once you hit 40, everything's gonna be ok. That's the promise land, man. You made it. Hopefully with no children. (in my case). Put your feet up, crack a beer and put on a record. Light a damn candle. Light 40 on your cake if you want. You know who you are now, less people will fuck with you. And if your a woman, you're pretty much not a target demo for the media's idiotic beauty standards, or the dude catcallers on the street. Your world is infinitely safer as you rapidly approach your invisible years. 

Genevieve Rainey, The Invisible Woman, coming 2017...

S  O  U  L  M  A  T  E  S

Traditionally, it was common for women to be soulmates with their best friends. It was not a title reserved for husbands and romantic partners. I can definitely agree with this. The longest, healthiest and most fulfilling relationship I've had to date has been with my bestie. Not to detract from the wonderful romantic partner I am with, my friendship with my best pal isn't in direct competition with him. She provides me with aspects that my partner doesn't really have the life experience with me to provide. Also what he provides, even after almost 20 years, she can't.

She, like a parent or close sibling, has seen me grow up. From the tender age of 19 all the way to 38. During what I dare to say my most formative years, she was right there beside me. She was my family when mine was so far away. She was confidante and mentor. She was (and is) my biggest critic, ally and cheerleader. 

I truly believe a human with a best friend of a substantial amount of time, is possibly a fuller formed individual. When I was on the dating scene, I avoided men who didn't have a best friend. To me, having a bestie shows commitment, understanding, and the ability to work through problems and create a sense of family. 

Lone wolves were not attractive to me. Single for years is fine, I'm a testament to that fact that some people take decades and many failures to find a truly compatible romantic companion.  But, damn,  if you don't have a "ride or die" person...that's where I start to question things. If there isn't someone in your life that sticks by you matter what, you might be an expert of pushing people away or simply not needing other humans. Which I'm not bashing, but I want a partnership and I want family and I need someone who can foster that in my life. 

So, if ya gotta bestie, tell them you love them. And if you don't, look around and pick out that person you haven't seemed to get rid of...perhaps they are there for a reason. 

I'm gonna go send this to my girl now. Don't forget to head over to youtube and watch the video I made about this, if you like it, share it and if you want to see more, subscribe!

Draw My Love Ep1 "The Great Annmarini"

Buh-bye!

In this week's (inaugural) episode, we make ice tea! 

The current temp in Vancouver is this: (hot as balls) and as you may or may not know, BC is basically on fire. With 219 wildfires burning in the southeast alone,  a friggin idiot can deduce we are in dire, climate change induced, man-made caused MASS DESTRUCTION of our eco-systems. The last few days we’ve finally been able to open our windows again due to the air quality warnings and literal ash on our window sills and in OUR LUNGS. Yet we have the most sensitive smoke alarm known to man. We boil a kettle, it’s apocalypse now. Massive plumes of smoke decending upon our city? Not so much as a peep. 

One thing Vancouverites know is rain. Something we haven’t had a drop of in 25 days. Heat is not our forte, we don’t have AC, we don’t own fans nor do we own sunscreen. Add massive smoke cover from forest fires and an air quality advisory to close all windows……did I say it was 30 degrees? Did I mention we don’t have AC? Yeah, basically mo-fuckas need to cool down. 

SO, here’s one solution. Taking a page from our friends in the south, I’m going to make two versions of ice teas to keep us cool, hydrated, caffeinated and also an excellent vessel for booze. 

Firstly, here are the ingredients and tools you need:

Foods:

Fresh mint leaves
Fresh rosemary
Earl grey tea (I used the loose leaf kind in a tea ball)
Green tea 
2 cups sugar
2 cups water

Tools:

Kettle
2 large mason jars with lids
2 extra large mason jars with lids
tea ball
medium size pot

The tea part is easy, boil water and steep to desired strength and flavour.  (Steep in large mason jars).  

The simple syrup is aptly named.  Dump 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water in your pot and bring to a boil, then remove from heat, add herbs and cover to cool and steep.

Once everything is nice and cool, pack a glass full of ice, add a shot or 2 of your desired syrup and then pour in tea. Stir, add gin to taste, savour and feel yourself cooling down slowly and surely.  Maybe take a glass to that sweaty hydro worker...or if you don't live in a Harlequin romance novel, put your feet up and enjoy a glass all by your itty bitty self. 

Until next week, kids....buh-bye!

love: moutarde

PS: Don't forget to follow my blog! And subscribe to my youtube channel! I post vids M-F!!

She's the Cat's Mother (No Contest)

I have a confession to make. My mum isn't better than your mum. I could posture in my pontification, I could make huge claims of her awesomeness, I could make declarations of her unmeasurable worth. They would all be true. But she isn't better than your mum. She isn't better than you. She's a human woman who chose to push 3 wild children into the world. All with the support of a fantastic gentleman who I call my dad. I find myself prefacing and apologizing for it at times. ("Don't mind me, I'm a product of a two parent household!") The way I was raised isn't "better" than you, although it may have definitely been more privileged than you. It wasn't perfect, and bad things happened. And yes, at times, I held those bad things in as secrets and didn't allow my mother to be a part of them. In fact, there are trials in my life that I haven't shared with her.  I've rocked myself, bathed myself and practiced self care until I healed all on my own. The fact that I was able to do this had a lot to do with her and what she taught me by example. But she wasn't there for everything. How could she be? She isn't a superhero. She's just a woman. A good one. She made her choices, decided to read certain books, raised us in the church and I got a swat or two on my behind.  She's lost her temper, she's let words fall out of her mouth that weren't chosen as carefully as she would have liked, she's taken another side than mine more than once. In all honesty, my mother and I differ in opinion a lot. She isn't always my champion. She hates my tattoos, she wishes I would come back to God, I'm sure she wishes I wasn't so brash and vocal about my feminism.  She wishes I didn't swear so much or have endless arguments with my father about the state of the world at Xmas dinner. She wishes I said Christmas instead of Xmas. If I ever have kids, I know she will ache when I say "no" to church until they are the age of consent. 

In short, my mother is a real woman. There is no pre-requisite to complete to be that. My mother is a mother. There is no pre-requisite to be that. Not even having a functional uterus. She did however, step up to the plate more than 3 times to be there for another human.  She took in troubled friends of ours, she sat for hours comforting other mother's children when they couldn't share their pain with their own mothers. Just as other mothers have done the same for me. Every woman in my life, good or ill, has shaped me. My mother played the largest role. And for that I am eternally grateful. I am not being hyperbolic. I will swell with problematic pride for her until my energy stops bouncing off the atmosphere. 

I will not glorify her, I will not compare her anymore to anyone else's mother. 

I am lucky. I am privileged. My mother is still alive. I can still talk to her. I can still make the choice what I share with her and dread the day I no longer have that choice. 

I have made the choice to not be a mother. More than once.  It's not a permanent one, just one I have continued to make so far. I've had other work to do. Guess who has never scolded, guilted me or judged me for that? Yup, you guessed it.  She hasn't. That is not to say I don't mother. I practice what my mother has taught me everyday. The listening. The sitting. The worrying. The supporting. I've gone to bat many times for many of you, without a second thought. I will again.  I'll be screaming "hold me back!" as I come at whoever has hurt many of you. I won't stop.  

Mother's are everywhere. They are male, female, non-binary. They are mothers.  They give birth to you, they watch your birth, or they meet you somewhere along the way and sit with you, listen to you, support you, and worry worry worry. 

To ALL my mother's: you are valued. To ALL who have lost a few of their mothers: you are not alone. 

To the woman who birthed me and raised me: I'm glad you're here. You hold your own title. To which there is no comparison. 

No contest. 

Love: g

I S L A N D  T O U R

Van isle comrades! I am coming to melt your faces and hearts with my twisted brand of folk/alt-country/cheesy jokes! I'm beyond stoked to bring my weirdness to y'all. Who wants 2 guest list spots and CD? Here's what ya do: follow this blog and share it on FB/Twitter/Instagram/social media of your choice! First 10 get CD's and tix.  Everyone else gets a personal shout out in my tour video (coming soon).

Big love. Large hugs. Giant hi-fives.

love g