Author Archives: wcaplan

Apr 29 2014
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Sometimes we have to say “goodbye”

Once again you’ve been wondering where in the world I have been. Usually it doesn’t matter where in the world I am because no matter where that big bird in the sky takes me I always have my trusty computer by my side for the sole purpose of writing this blog. And playing games. But here’s something I may not have mentioned in the past. Not only do I pride myself for being shallow, I am also brutally honest. Well most of the time. So you should believe me when I tell you that while I have been a little busy lately the truth behind my rather prolonged absence is that I’m having some trouble coming up with things to write about. I suppose that’s not surprising because it’s been two years now and I am a shallow person. How much do you really think we have to say? At any rate, I’ve come up with something so here I am.

We bought a car. Now for most people that’s nothing to write home about. Or certainly to write about in a blog unless it’s one of those blogs about cars. Which this isn’t. But for us, buying a car is an RBD! (Really Big Deal!) Because you see, it’s not something we do everyday. Or every decade for that matter. Over all of the years we have been buying cars (and that’s quite a few) I can count the number we have bought on one hand. Along with a couple of fingers on another. And since I actually am counting we’re talking seven cars over five decades. Most of the time we have two parked in our garage at once. At least one of our cars lived with us for almost twenty-one years while our current boarders have clocked in twelve and fourteen respectively. Suffice to say, for us walking into an automobile dealership is akin to travelling to a foreign country. Bluetooth? Lane assist? Nav what? We simply don’t speak the language. Hence the RBD.

Wait a minute! I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “I thought she liked cars!” “Small, foreign ones.”  “How can this be?” “What kind of enthusiast drives around in a twenty-one year old car?” Well therein lies the problem. I do love cars. So much so that once I get one I don’t want to let it go. I know that for some people cars are just a few thousand pounds of steel and rubber (with a hint of plastic depending on your taste). Transportation, plain and simple. But give that hunk of steel a name and a birthday and now you have a horse of a different colour. Now you have a relationship, a bond of sorts. A new friend. Which explains the longevity. I mean who gets rid of a dear old friend just because they get a little rusty or find themselves with a dent or two? Well, to answer that rhetorical question, every once in a while we do. Because sometimes we just have to say “goodbye”.

Now this outpouring of affection may seem a little strange coming from the shallow gal but keep in mind that we’re talking about a car here. So I’m comfortable with it. We’re pretty sure we’ve found a good home for our “Little Fella” which makes us all feel just that much better about the whole thing. And now we wait, just a little anxiously, for our new arrival, a red and black Mini. Or as our mini loving friend DB would have it, a Bini. Unfortunately it will be a few more months before our new friend pulls into her (his?) new home, but we’re nothing if not patient. Besides, I figure it’s going to take us just about that long to come up with the perfect name for our shiny new friend.

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Apr 09 2014
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There is such a thing as a free lunch

freeI’m afraid I’ve been remiss but please don’t mistake this for an apology. It’s more of an explanation really. The thing is I started this blog for a couple of reasons. The first was to help people better understand the benefits of living life as a shallow person. I hope I have done that by sharing with you some of the stories of my life. The second was to provide those of you inclined to follow in my steps with some tricks and tips for doing so. And this is where I think I may have stumbled just a bit. Because I haven’t really focused on the “how to’s” which isn’t all that surprising since I have never been one to tell people what to do. Except of course the kids. But that’s to be expected. So, I was quite pleased the other day when I came upon a situation that reminded me what this blog was all about and how I might have gotten slightly off the path I was trying to beat. It was, as they say in my world, a teachable moment.

It all started with a coffee meeting set up to discuss some really important work stuff. A little before we were to meet, my wonderful colleague (yes, she reads the blog) let me know that if she arrived before I did she would pick up my drink for me. My immediate reaction was “how lovely of her” followed closely by “so what would it hurt if I’m a couple of minutes late?”. And sure enough, when I arrived I found both her and my drink waiting patiently for me. It was at that moment I realized there really is such a thing as a free lunch, or at the very least, a coffee and that perhaps this particular skill of mine was something to be shared with others. Because, as you can see, it’s about the timing. Late enough to ensure she would get there before me but not so late to cause her to become irritated. Or let my drink get tepid. But while the timing is critical, what is even more important in a situation such as this, is to shed any shred of guilt you might feel about pulling this off. Which, goes without saying, is not all that difficult for a truly shallow person.

Let’s look at another example. You’ve just finished a delish repast with a friend you haven’t seen for perhaps forty years or so. You’ve exchanged the requisite numbers of stories about kids, travel and first husbands when it occurs to you that a moment even more uncomfortable than the conversation you have just experienced is still to come. Let’s face it. You know the server will place the cheque strategically at equi distance between you and your lunch partner so here’s what you need to do. Hesitate for just a moment. If you have to, save that last forkful of desert for this very purpose and when your new found friend reaches to pick up the cheque, resist any urge you may have to suggest a different solution to this problem. No matter what that little voice inside your head tells you just say “how nice”, and “thank you”. To assuage any twinges of guilt you may have at this juncture, think of it this way. Either she has enjoyed your company so much that she’s happy to pay or she has way more money than you do. One way or the other it’s a win-win and you just got a free lunch. Remember, timing and guilt.

Of course it won’t always go this way. There are those who prefer a more collaborative arrangement, a “round robin” of sorts where they get this one and you get the next. Go ahead and make that deal. But may I respectfully suggest that before your next date you take another boo at “Forgetting…it’s an art”. I’m guessing that little refresher will come in handy right about now.

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Mar 27 2014
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Here We Go Again

suitcasesAnother year, another 18 bucks and I’m back. Back from the beach and back to the blog. I know. You thought I was dead and I’m not. Just recovering from the shock of returning to the cold and snow. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking because I have. Mostly about all of the things I learned I like about being down south. It’s true. I have a very strong preference for warm weather over cold. And I like walking on the beach much more than I like walking on the treadmill, which is what I have to do now because it’s so cold. I like sitting outside at Starbucks better than inside and I relish the concept of being able to order cold drinks all year round. Not that I would. But I could. I like Sunday street markets where I can buy strawberries and avocados picked locally the day before. And they taste the way strawberries and avocados should taste. I really like being able to stay up as late as I want and not having to worry about getting up in the morning for work. Although it’s not as if I don’t stay up as late as I want every night. So I suppose it’s the “not getting up in the morning” that’s the best part of that “like”. But what I like more than anything else is that I can wear jeans, T-shirts and flip flops all of the time. Which quite surprisingly leads me to something I didn’t learn. Apparently, I didn’t learn how to pack light. And I say this with some confidence having lugged two “almost overweight” bags along with a “more than regulation weight” carry-on around several airports.

It’s not that I haven’t been around this block before. In fact, this year was my third sojourn to the sea so it would be fair to say I have a pretty good idea about what’s what. Let’s face it. The beach is a casual place where fashion takes a back seat to comfort. I’m pretty sure that people there are single handedly keeping LuLuLemon above water. And while I continue to find the “boots thing” somewhat bewildering I completely understand the penchant for amphibious footwear. On the “101” you’re likely to find yourself walking behind a group of rather svelte surfer dudes sporting the latest in wetsuit couture, which although practical given the circumstances, I don’t actually recommend unless you have a body mass index hovering in the 15 – 18 range. Overall it’s pretty much a “come as you are” kind of place and you would think that as a shallow person I would have this one in the bag…so to speak. I mean, I know for 100% sure that each morning I’m going to get up and pull on my jeans and a “T” because last time I looked, Starbucks hadn’t instituted a dress code. For goodness sakes! I’m on the beach. Even Auntie Fannie would be ok with my wardrobe choice. So, as you can see, I know exactly what I need and what I don’t. This is a “no brainer”. At least on paper it is.

But here’s the rub. For some reason still unbeknownst to me, each and every year I pack an inordinate amount of clothes which, from the get go, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to wear. It all starts out ok. The cases come out and in go the jeans and T-shirts, along with all that other necessary “goes without saying”, stuff. Next come the accessories, and while for some 6 pairs of shoes, 5 watches, and 8 belts may sound a tad excessive for a beach vacay, you can chalk it up to that matching obsession of mine. Throw in some shorts (I won’t wear them but who goes south without shorts) and a bathing suit, and you would think I could call it a wrap. You would think! But nope! It’s right about now that those nasty little voices in my head start egging me on. It goes something like this:

Voice: You’re going away without your favourite shirt?!
Me: It will be here when I get back. Ok, I’ll take it.
Voice: What if you decide to go to a fancy restaurant? You’re going to wear jeans and a T?
Me: I don’t go to fancy restaurants. Ok, I better take something just in case.
Voice: What if you accidentally spill something?
Me: There’s a washing machine. Ok, one more pair of jeans ‘cause you never know.

You get the picture. Before I can say Jack Robinson I’m looking down at two, large red suitcases chock full of a whole lot of duds that I “might” but probably will not wear. It just happens but as Mr. Nicholson would say, “something’s gotta give”. So next year I’m going to learn from my mistakes. Next year I’m going to stick to my guns. As a matter of fact I’ve already decided what I’m not going to bring. And you can be sure I won’t be sharing that information with the little voice in my head.

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Feb 27 2014
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It’s Been A Slice

pizzaHard to believe that our sojourn at the beach is almost over and in about a week of sleeps we’ll be trading our walks on the sand for the icy sidewalks of my home town.  Well as Dorothy says, “there’s no place like home” even if it is a little blustery. But before we go, a promise is a promise, so I’m here to share with you what I have learned while at the sea. About pizza that is. Since I seem to have eaten my share of it this visit. And this year, unlike last, when the purveyors of donuts remained anonymous, I’m going to name names which I’m guessing might be somewhat more helpful should you ever find yourself down here longing for a slice. Because there are a whole lot of pizza joints in this neck of the woods, each and every one of them professing to be the best. But that’s not possible, is it.

Before I continue I have a couple of things to say, as this whole “review” thing is a bit of a departure for the Shallow Gal. The first is that pizza is my favourite food so I’m usually happy when I’m eating it. The second is, as you may have read in one of my “get to know me better” posts of the past, my relationship with food is somewhat pedestrian and I pretty much like whatever other people cook for me. And since other people always cook pizza for me there’s a good chance that I’m not only going to eat it, I’m probably going to like it. So, as you read this review you may discover that I’m not as discerning as some of those “Yelpers” you rely on to guide you through your dining deliberations. As a matter of fact, I myself employed their expertise to determine where to start and which shops to eliminate at the get go. I mean, let’s face it, there’s only so much ‘za you can eat without undoing the benefits of the long walks on the beach, not to mention the hours of tedious pounding on the treadmill to lose those extra few pounds that anyone my age knows are persistent, to say the least. There they are, the caveats. Now, for better or worse, here are my thoughts on a rather small but discerning sample of the local pies, in chronological order.

Our initial tasting, ironically enough, occurred the moment we arrived in our temporary home. You know what it’s like. You’ve been travelling for the better part of a day and the last thing you want to do is cook, especially when to do so, you’re going to have to stop by the local grocer and since you’re already hungry, you’ll likely fill your basket with a bunch of stuff you know you shouldn’t eat, but will. So instead, we stopped by Urban Pi, an eatery we had passed by many a time last year but never had a chance to visit. At least we knew it had been around awhile. I’m going to lump this one together with Blaze (surely you’ve seen that review) as they have a lot in common. It’s a great concept. Pies made right before your eyes. You walk down the line, choose from an array of fresh ingredients, and shortly after you find a table, your piping hot, wood-fired, thin and crispy crust pizza arrives. And here’s the kicker. Regardless of how many toppings you pick, and let me tell you, there are plenty, this pie’s going to cost you 8 bucks. No “extra cost premiums” in this place. You want “shaved organic carrot”? It’s yours. “Jidori free range chicken breast”? Just ask. Red sauce or white, this one’s worth a try. Lots of salads, soups and “sweetie pi” desserts to round things out. The downside. In an effort to get more bang for your 8 bucks you’ll be tempted to add one too many toppings. Remember, this is thin crust, and like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, add too much and you’re bound to find a pile of marinated artichokes smack in the middle of your lap.

Another night, another Zumba class and, for the sake of all, I need to take-out. We decide to stop by Bongiorno, which earns a consistent 4-5 star rating by the local food pundits, securing their place at the top of the pizza parlour heap. Like New York style pizza? Yearning for a slice you can fold? Then this is your place. Nestled in a rather nondescript strip mall, this gem shines and but won’t need me to tell you this. These are thin crust, oven-baked pizzas that will have you coming back for more. You’ve got some options here. Not famished? In true “big apple” style you can grab yourself a slice or two for the road. Hungrier? Build the pie of your choice and watch them pop it into the oven. Takes a little longer but worth the wait. Only medium and large here but it’s a no brainer. Go for the gusto. For an extra 2 bucks you’ll have lunch the next day. Just a few blocks from the beach this is an immaculately clean, retro diner (black and white checkerboard floor, red chairs, the whole kit and Kaboodle) that will make you think you are in California, back in the day.

Let me tell you, one of the problems with reviewing multiple eateries in one post is coming up with a variety of ways to refer to them. Our next “peatery” (my new term for a pizza eatery) was a direct result of reading the reviews in our quest for the best. A little down the road from us in Leucadia is Pandora Pizza, and even though we have driven by it many a time in our travels on Hwy. 101, this was our first time through the front door. To be fair, it is well liked by the locals so, just because it wasn’t my favourite doesn’t mean it isn’t worth a try. Thin crust, wood-fired pies with both “in and out of the box” options (their terms and I suspect a nod to their namesake Pandora) that include toppings like duck confit, are named after a fine selection of Greek and Roman gods. Now I’m no expert on mythology but when Jupiter offers me avocado, cherry tomatoes, lemon zest and sea salt, I gotta say that’s my kind of pie. Unfortunately it was also my pie for a couple of hours after I ate it which reminded me that sea salt just isn’t the same without the chocolate.

Ok, we thought we were done. I mean how much pizza can a person eat? And yet, we found ourselves pulled, compelled actually, to make a final stop at what is perhaps the most iconic “grub and grog” stop in our little beach town, the Pizza Port. Where else will a “Laguna” come with olives, mushrooms, onions and artichoke hearts? Add a zesty tomato sauce and lots of mozza and you have yourself one heck of a meal. No fine dining here. You order at the counter, find a seat at one of the picnic tables and wait until they blast out your name over the loudspeaker. If you want the quintessential beach experience, and the chance to meet some really gnarly surfer dudes and dudettes while munching on a great piece of pie, this is the place for you. Oh yeah. Did I mention the fine selection of local brews to wash it all down? Just remember to brush the sand off your feet before you jump into bed at night.

So that’s it. We’re on our way home and it’s been a slice. Next year FroYo, or burgers, maybe bagels. You never really know, do you.

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Feb 13 2014
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This is Not a Resolution

pink fleece3Most of you know by now that, other than having a penchant for the “Top 10” of anything, I don’t really make lists. There are no resolutions at the start of the year; nothing in my bucket; and certainly no promises I can’t keep. Having said that, I am always open and ready for suggestions that just might make my life a tiny bit better than it already is. Not that it isn’t great. I mean, here I am in one of the most beautiful places in the United States of America spending my days sipping on a “grande” and evenings watching the sun sink into a sea of remarkably vivid yellows, reds and oranges. But every once in a while something happens that makes me want to change things up a little. And that’s what happened just the other day.

Big surprise. I’m sitting on the patio of my local Starbucks working hard at listening to the interesting conversations going on around me, at least the ones that are taking place between people. Because something I may not have mentioned is that there are a lot of dogs here at the beach and most of them appear to be very close to their humans. So close that for some reason unbeknownst to me (I share my home with a cat, which we all know is a horse of a different colour), the humans here seem to believe their dogs have an excellent command of the English language, and so they talk to them. In full sentences. And sometimes, when you’re listening in on other people’s conversations, that gets just a little confusing. Although none of this has anything to do with my life changing experience because on this day there were no interesting conversations. There was only a very cute little girl.

Let’s face it, with a few exceptions, kids in general are pretty cute. I see lots of them everyday and, other than the ones that live in my house, they normally have little to no impact on my life. But this little girl with her shiny jet black, silky locks, was different. It wasn’t because she was able to amuse herself playing a lonesome game of hide and seek while her parents chatted away at their table. Nor that she was exceedingly well behaved as she patiently waited for them to finish their afternoon delights. There was nothing remarkable about that. Nope. What made this little girl stand out from all others was her extraordinary sense of fashion reflected in her outfit which I am pretty sure she alone was responsible for putting together. Here’s what she wore. To protect herself from getting a chill she donned a purple, leopard patterned, down vest. She sported this over a red striped jersey dress and for added warmth, a pair of apple green leggings. To complete this ensemble she chose a pair of pink striped socks and blue canvas shoes. Although looking very “couture” not one item in this collection of designer duds matched. And she looked perfect.

I’ve said it before so I suppose I’m saying it again. I’m no fashionista but if there’s one thing I know about, it’s matching which, I get, is not all that difficult when your wardrobe consists primarily of black t-shirts and skinny blue jeans. But I do get “dressed” every once in a while and when that happens you can bet your bottom dollar there will be no conflicting colours or patterns to jar the eye on my 5’2” frame. Although my shoes may not always match my purse, mostly because I get up late and who has time to make the transfer of goods from one bag to another, you can be pretty sure they will at least coordinate with whatever else is on my body. Listen, you’re talking to a girl who has 15 watches in a variety of colours, and north of 30 belts so there’s a pretty good chance that those accessories are going to harmonize. I mean how could they not? And while many would say this propensity to coordinate is a “good thing” I cringe just a little as I recall my latest conversation with my hairdresser when, in her attempt to complement, referred to my style as “matchy, matchy”. Translation: “boring, boring”.

Which is why I was so inspired by that little girl on the Starbucks patio that, while not making an actual “resolution” I have decided to change my ways. Of course this is easier said than done as my predilection for dressing in complementary tones is rather ingrained in my being.  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like “everything” I wear matches. I mean I have been known to arrive at work with one navy and one black sock but that’s usually because I have put them on in the dark and who couldn’t make that mistake. And I do have a pair of shoes that are designed to be mismatched (the left is different than the right) but maybe that doesn’t count since they actually are a matching pair. Nonetheless, I am painfully aware that to fully meet my goal I’m going to have to put in more than a modicum of effort but there’s always a first step to be taken and I have taken mine. Yesterday, as I got ready for my daily walk on beach, against what was heretofore my better judgement, I chose from my otherwise monochromatic wardrobe, an orange “t” topped by a rather shocking pink fleece. And without a second glance in the mirror, out the door I went in all my unmatched glory.

Now I know what you’re thinking and to put any of your doubts to rest, the answer is yes, as unlikely as it may seem, I really do own a pink fleece.

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