You pays your money, you takes your chances...

I just bought a steam mop thing from The Shopping Channel.

H2O Mop X5 Steam Cleaner with Super Clean Kit

Why do I feel like I've shaken hands with the Devil, or taken my first snort of cocaine?

Is it a good deal, or just a slippery slope?

Will I really have the cleanest floors in the world, or will I end up on an episode of Hoarders, with a VISA card maxed out, shelves filled with the finest in "Diamondelle" TM jewelry and Bumpits TM that plastic, spaceman money can buy?

I watch The Shopping Channel while I'm on the treadmill. I'd probably be a better person if I watched the BBC news, but it's so much less shiny. Today's was my first purchase, but I have long been familiar with all of the fabulous wares on offer at TSC (that's an abrieve). I've come THIS close to buying a Kitchenaid, a pair of stretchy pants, Rhonda Sheer's Genie Bra (it's SO comfy. Apparently), a watch from the Joan Rivers' collection (I know), a carpet. The list goes on.

I'm also kind of obsessed with one of the models on TSC. Shona (Show-Nah). 

She looks a bit like the mannequins of my childhood.

Slightly elfin, crazy waist to hip ratio and a constant expression of demure that makes me want to simultaneously slap her and offer her a cup of tea. I want her job.

So yah, I can't stop watching, and while I watch, I want.
Usually by the time I'm off the treadmill, the urgency of needing a Wayne Clark's Ravishng Roaring 20's Crystal Cuff bracelet has worn off and I'm more interested in not perishing than I am in accessorizing. 

Today was different. 

I could not stop thinking about that damned steamer.

My floors are kind of a "thing" with me. What I mean by that is that they will never be clean enough. Never be shiny enough. Part of the problem is the animals. The other, bigger part, is that I am abysmally lazy and hate cleaning my floors. I vacuum once or twice a week. I wash the floors... well... less frequently, let's say. So the hope that this miracle machine will actually do all the work for me. And that I'll have the mirror shiny floors of my dreams.

I'm not holding out much hope. But I am a little afraid that now that I've opened the gate, that I've taken that first step, that I've, well, popped my Shopping Channel cherry, that I've embarked on the slipperiest of slopes.

It's a long way down.

I'll see you at the bottom, Ryan.

Yoka. How do I love thee?

I am a serial monogamist. In terms of shopping.  In every other way, I am pretty indiscriminate. 

Once I find a store that I like, I pretty much will stick with it until they no longer carry my size or the staff stop treating me like the super-entitled-to-everything person that I am. This rarely happens because I continually funnel money into these chosen stores, and most retailers are smart enough to recognize a cash cow when she waddles in the door. 

To that, I say "Moo".

And to be clear, no cash cows were harmed in the creation of this super interesting blog post.

I used to be fickle. I'd shop at Le Chateau one day, Holts the next. I'd do Express and BCBG in the same day, even. I didn't care who knew. I was spreading my money around like a whore, or like a very conservative investor, but only I was investing in disposable fashion, and not in, say, gold or stocks. 

When I am old, I will eat no-name cat food, but I'll have a super fabulous, super out of date wardrobe. Can you say Grey Gardens? 

I used to shop exclusively at a store on Queen St. West here in Toronto. It carried a lot of club wear, but also slightly more conservative stuff, say for the business lady who also wants to make people wonder if maybe she's a dominatrix. A friend and I would go there all the time. On more than one occasion, we would show up at closing time, the owner would lock up and pop a bottle of champagne. Champagne shopping. This is what I freaking love people. I felt very Rodeo Drive.

Then I gained weight and couldn't fit into any of their clothes and they didn't seem to stock anything past the occasional size 12, if they were feeling magnanimous. After a while I stopped going there altogether. I went back, on a whim, about 5 years later. The owner didn't even recognize me, or pretended not to.

Then I found a store in Toronto's Leslieville that catered to more mature women, without being Tan Jay, you know? Beautiful pieces mostly by Canadian designers. The owner was very sweet to me. Always phoned when there were new things in (she wasn't stupid). I spent more in this store than the yearly Gross National Product of Bangladesh. 

I will have to admit to something very sucky here. I stopped going there 1) because I'd gained weight and was embarrassed, and also 2) there just wasn't enough obsequious slobbering going on to suit me. The level of attention diminished in direct proportion to the amount of cash I handed over.

After awhile, I lost a bunch of weight (again) and was looking to bedeck my fine ass in some new duds. 

I found a new store. 

A new love. 

Yoka, on Queen St. East, in Toronto's Beaches neighbourhood.


It started with one piece. A stretchy, high waisted leopard print pencil skirt that screamed Naughty Secretary. It did not end there. But you knew that, didn't you.

Below is a photographic true representation of SOME of my Yoka purchases laid out on my bed. There are many layers of clothes. My bedspread is white. 

I have worn some of these clothes items up to one time.

Yoka is owned by this vision of Nordic blonde excellence named Carla. 

She brings in lines that are tough to find elsewhere in Canada, let alone Toronto, many of them from Netherlands and Denmark. 
There are some Canadian lines as well. She cherry picks the best from each brand, only bringing in things that she, herself, likes. She has an excellent eye. She also carries a human range of sizes, from XS to XXL, and a range of styles, from sensible and comfy to "if you can breath, it's not tight enough".  I love Carla.

Another favourite at Yoka is Ashton, currently on leave. He's an actor who you've seen in actual TV things. He's the son I never had. The kind of son who tells you when you're ass looks too big in those weird green pants. But tells you without saying one word. Just that head tilting to the side and a slight pinched nose movement that speaks volumes. 

Now, I love Carla and Ashton, and I always will because I'm just that way, but my heart belongs to Amanda. I'm sorry Carla. It's just the way it is.

Amanda works for Carla. She is half my age. She listens to weird French pop music. She has perfect skin (freakishly so). And she knows exactly what will look good on me, and if something doesn't, she'll tell me. Nicely, of course, but I need honesty, people. 

Amanda could present me with a really full kitty litter box, and if she says "sooooo cute", you gotta know I'm going to buy it and wear it. She's that good. She and Carla have dubbed a couple of items "the Ellen" in their inventory list. This makes me happier than it should, as a grown up.

Now that I've gained some weight back onto my previously fine ass, Amanda has the ability to make me truly believe that it is actually the clothing's fault that things look... um... different, now. For this, I thank her.

I stopped going in for a few months (yah, I know), and when I went back in, Amanda greeted me like a long lost friend. I told her I was trying to save money and wouldn't be able to buy clothes for awhile (the truth) and she still engaged in conversation with me. She is stylish, fun and kind.

But I have returned to my overspending ways. I can't resist the siren song that is Yoka. 

The change rooms of fate.

As a new vegan, I am well aware that part of the whole being a perfect vegan is to not participate in rampant unnecessary consumerism.

I am not perfect.

I will have to answer to my conspicuous consumption sooner, rather than later, I'll bet.  It's an addiction, though. I'm in the contemplation stage.

But for now, it's either Yoka, or meth. I chose the option with better teeth.

Going to Yoka makes shopping so much fun. I mean, more fun than it already is to spend my money on clothing instead of, say, saving it for when I will eventually have to replace my roof, or furnace, or pay for retirement. There's always something perfect for me there. Always something that fits. And at reasonable price points. 

I just bought my entire fall wardrobe there. I am sitting here, cursing the bloody humidex because I have an amazing sweater dress that I want to wear. 

Here are some things I got there:

But for now, I know the sweater dress, and all her many, many friends, is waiting in my closet, patiently for the mercury to dip to a normal, livable temperature. And when it does, I will amaze you with my fabulousness.

So thank you, Yoka, for being my happy place. For taking me in when other stores denied my hip girth or stopped recognizing me by anything other than my visa card number. You've stood by me through thin and thick. You've got the prettiest colours and the stretchiest leggings.

I can't quit you.

Foodie Friday - St. Lawrence Market

If beautifully photographed cookbooks can be called “food porn”, then St. Lawrence Market in Toronto is the Red Light District”. And I am a total whore.

Many people have blogged and photographed St. Lawrence Market and have extolled its great virtues and whatnot. And they have their own website.

But you're here now, and if you are like me, you're too lazy to keep looking, so here you go. 

I love grocery shopping, and I love grocery shopping without a list. This is an amazing place to go if you want to get stuff that you think at the moment is awesome,

 but will likely moulder in your pantry because you have no bloody idea what to do with amchur powder.

When it was warmer out I liked to hop on my lady bike and head over to the market to get fabulous fruits and vegetables,

 and big dog bones for the dogs who are ungrateful little buggers but I love them in my fashion.

they don't deserve my kindnesses, my dogs.

I have to be careful in the bulk food section because I will buy too much of what I need and top it off with a bunch of tiny bags full of mysteries that I don’t need. It’s just like... it’s all there... and I can’t stop... and it’s shiny.... and the aisles are so narrow.... and I feel pressured....

ssssssaaaaaaaaallllllltttttyAdd caption

pistachios that at first glance look like teeming maggots maybe. Yum.

Mmmmmmmmilk. Yes. I grew up on this. We all did.

You can buy 10 billion kinds of rice there. Not sure if they stock Minute Rice.

Rube's House of Rices

All things ground up and grainy

There is more cheese than even my crafting crew would know what to do with. 

I love cheese. I like eating it, looking at it, thinking about it. Cheese is my muse.

So Much Candy!

Lunchtastic!

Baking Heaven!

Chocolates

Condiments and Pickled things.

Meats

Fishies

crabby legs

Bread! Oh. The bread.

my lunch snack. Bagely goodness.

There is other stuff, too. Like hats and jewelry. 

And the most jam packed kitchen gadgetry nook ever, which has an awesome array of cookie cutters, tea pots and shenanigans.

no room to swing a cat.

gadget mecca

many cookie cutters.

I think I'll go back and get that elephant tea pot. Because without it, I am nothing.

how have I survived this long without all of these things in my kitchen?

Fresh Pasta

Old World style deli fabulousness. I'm talking to YOU Cheryl McKinnon. 

And it’s all housed in a grand old market building. 

You should totally go there.

St. Lawrence Market has a Farmer’s Market on Saturdays that is very cool, but also very crowded. Get there at 4 am to hang out with the city’s chefs and tired farm folk.  There is an antiques market on Sundays. It’s fun to buy crap from there.