What you miss out on if you wear sweatpants


When my brother called me at 11PM to come and pick him up from an hour away, I was lying in bed with a glass of wine in the dark, scrolling through Pinterest, trying desperately to put myself to sleep.

It was Friday.

I mention that only because it’s adorable to picture me, at 11PM on a Friday, trying to lullaby myself to sleep in a pair of sweatpants over pictures of small apartment spaces decorated flawlessly.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll come.”

Hair a mess, flannel shirt buttoned unevenly, fluffy socks, the whole nine yards. No one would see me. I would go as is.

But something stopped me just as I was about to walk out the door. It was a primal instinct that said Andria, put on real pants, k?

I know, right? How dare my instincts be so judgmental. I can wear sweats out to White Rock in the middle of the night if I want to. But I changed my pants, because everyone knows you have to listen to your gut. I put on black skinny jeans and motorcycle boots. Because that was the most comfortable option I had other than my 10 year old high school sweatpants.

I drove an hour with a wedgie. I had changed my pants but I hadn’t changed my sweatpant-worthy underwear.

When I arrived at the venue, my brother got into the vehicle high on life. He had just finished playing the (epic?) “Raise a Little Hell” with the (oldie but goodie) band Trooper. He was in no mood to go home.

Instead, we went to the casino. A place I was not dressed for, but would at least be permitted inside of.

We had a beer. We played (and lost) some penny slots. Then we put $10 on black and we won.


Granted, $20 wasn’t anything to write home about, but I’ll tell you what it was worth . . . it was worth getting out of sweatpants for.

Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we don’t want to put in our best effort. We want to slum around. We want to stay pimply and chubby. We want to keep picking our nose, even though there’s someone beside us at the red light. We want to go to sleep without brushing our teeth. We want to wear our bitch-face on the subway. Sometimes, no matter what our head wants us to do, we say no. And it’s in times like this we must remember Elizabeth Taylor’s famous words.

Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and pull yourself together.

Hey, it might make you ten bucks.


The Full Ninety — it’s the new full monty


This weeks InfoNews column is up and it’s all about why you should be celibate for a bit. HAHA! Kidding. It’s about why some people should be celibate for a bit. Not you, you stud. You can read it HERE.


Why you should say yes to saying no

just dont do it

This week’s InfoNews column is up and it’s all about screaming “NO” like a two-year-old when you don’t want to do something. And why that’s totally OK. If that sounds like something you need to hear, you can read it by clicking THIS.

Also, after almost 4 years of blogging I just decided to join bloglovin . . . so if that’s your thing, you can click the drawing of the naked girl in the right hand column.


How To Exercise Without Exercising


dance party 1

I don’t work out. You know this based on my posts like THIS. & because I just wrote a column defending the muffin top.

Yes, I am fully aware of how Mean Girls that makes me sound. I’m also aware of my heart’s health (or non-health?), and my non-six pack. It’s just that I really hate it — it’s boring and you can’t do it in heels. Those are pretty much the only two conditions I have for my life. If it’s boring and I can’t do it in heels, I’m out.

I run sometimes. Mostly as an excuse to wear Lulu lemons and listen to Eddie Money really loud on repeat.

And yeah, you know me, lots of times I go through these fit-spurts where I’m all “YEAH, GREEN JUICE AND SQUATS MOTHER FUCKER!” but that only lasts until someone puts a wheel of Brie in front of me and that person is usually me and it’s usually only one day after I’ve decided to try and qualify for the Boston Marathon.

So, a month ago when I told a friend I’d run this hometown 10k on the 27th of April, I was obviously on Day Zero of a fit-spurt. Since then, I’ve been eating a lot of brie and worrying about how I’m going to not die when the 27th rolls around.

This morning, in a moment of delusion, I decided to test the waters. The last time I ran 10k was this time last year — since then I’ve probably jogged 12 times.

(What’s that? Once a month? That’s pretty good, right?!)

Anyway, I went for a run. And you know what? I ran 6 clicks like it wasn’t no thang.

WTF, right? I wasn’t even panting. I was just all “IF I COULD WALK ON WATER, IF I COULD FIND SOME WAAAAY TO PROOOOVE …

It was bizarre. Until I put two and two together and realized I actually have been exercising this entire time, I just didn’t look at it that way.

You see, I am a vigorous living-room-dance-party haver. Especially when I have other things I should be doing. & I don’t mean I have dance parties like … romantic comedy cute, either. I mean go all out flailing and stuff to “Bette Davis Eyes.” My heart rate gets UP.

I made a GIF to prove it. (Yes, obviously I’m singing into an empty bottle of wine.)


I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . all you need to do to get in shape is a couple hundred hair flips to some really hardcore 80′s songs. And I didn’t want to keep that information to myself.

Suns out, guns out amiright?!

Kisses, Hugs & You’re Welcome (xo & yw)



Why You Should Listen To Your Whims

Back in September I wrote a blog post about how I was deciding to live minimally and refusing to buy a couch.

When I say I was refusing to buy a couch, what I really meant was I preferred to eat as opposed to have something squishy to sit on while I ate. Money isn’t really one of my playing cards these days.

So, I made the best of it. I set up a corner of my living room that was dedicated to having a permanent floor bed and I rejoiced in the idea that — one day — when I was a mother of three and financially responsible enough to own Anthropolgie furniture while at the same time still able to afford lunch meat, I could give my kids epic story times.

“I remember when I was so poor I had to use my carpet as a couch and eat rice noodles and soya sauce four nights a week!”

And they’d be all “Mom! You own, like, forty pairs of Louboutins. That did NOT happen.”

But that day dream got boring REAL quick, seeing as I don’t plan on having kids for another . . . very long time.

So, still being poor, I added an extra activity to my morning routine. After I had coffee and planned my imaginary life for 20 minutes on Pinterest, I would scour the less-than-$100 couch section of Kijiji.

I have been scouring the less-that-$100 couch section on Kijiji since November — that’s how shitty the less-than-$100 couch section on the Kamloops, British Columbia Kijiji is.

My apartment started to make me angry because all it housed was 1000 books and 100 pairs of heels. And a cat (who, if you can’t tell from the above picture, is about the size of my entire apartment #fat).

My productivity dwindled down to nothing when I was at home because I was just so much more tempted to look up “how to make an empty apartment look full” as opposed to writing papers on the chivalric code.

I realized that — whether I was a fake minimalist or not (not)— in order to be “happy” at home, home had to feel like home. And — whether I liked it or not (not) — deep in my heart I knew that my home needed a couch.

That’s why, four days ago, when I saw the most perfectly hideous, but also totally presh couch and chair set for sale by the cutest old couple ever I chose not to pay my phone bill, and why I am now currently being productive on my brand new-old floral print couch.

I feel like a new woman.

And no, not because I’m sitting on the most hipster couch ever.

I feel like a new woman because I allowed myself to listen to what it was I felt I really needed, despite how trivial it seemed.

It’s my experience that we have a hard time doing that for ourselves. We tell ourselves that we are going to remain minimalistic, because it’s practical. We tell ourselves to only get an Americano as opposed to a white chocolate mocha, because who really needs to drink 500 calories when you can drink 0 and still get a buzz.

It goes back to that old parental statement I got all the time growing up — you don’t NEED it, Andria. You WANT it.

Maybe. Maybe I didn’t need a couch, because my carpet was perfectly functional. Maybe I did just wantone.

But what’s the difference if what you want makes positive changes in your life?

Waking up this morning and walking into my living room that now appears to actually be a living room, I knew I had fixed something that had been irking me since I moved in. It wasn’t that I wanted a couch, I simply needed a home.

Sometimes our whims are the best indication of what it is that’s really eating us.

So, if I was you, I’d just get the white chocolate mocha already and see what happens.


The Om | Lessons In Being Bold From The Loudmouth In Hatha Yoga

Bold | Savasana | Yoga

When I enter a yoga class, I expect three things to occur instantaneously.

One: I expect my nostrils to be filled with the scent of organic rubber mats and tea tree oil. Or Eucalyptus. Or Jasmine. Or some other hippie scent that is both “soothing and naturally antibacterial.”

Two: I expect my breathing to become more intentional thanks to the impending pressure of Savasana and having to wrestle with my inner thoughts when all I really want to do is fall asleep.

Three: I expect there to be complete and utter silence.

In Vancouver, the protocol in yoga studios is like second nature. You just know that no one’s going to steal your cell phone from the change room, no one’s going to judge you if they can see through your tights, and it’s obvious that when you get into the studio you’re supposed to fold your legs and shut up. It’s second nature to us because we’re all tree huggers.

The other day, I went to a yoga class that started this way: silent, purposeful, tea-tree-smelling.

I set my intention: I wanted to feel mindful.

I went through the poses. Upside down baby, downward dog, warrior, warrior 2, cobra, blah blah blah.

Throughout the movements I was becoming increasingly aware that the woman behind me was beginning to break my silence boundary with her breathing.

I understand deep breathing. I have anxiety issues, I’m all about deep breathing. Also, I get it if you want to do breath of fire. That shit’s noisy sometimes. But this was not a panic attack, this was not breath of fire, and this wasn’t even Bikram – it was Hatha – and it didn’t exactly require gasping for air.

By the last 3 minutes of the longest Savasana ever, the noises coming from behind me were similar to those that I would imagine a woman battling first-birth contractions would sound like; they were long, low, painful sounding exhales.

While at first I wanted to tell her to shut up, I began to wonder if she was struggling with some sort of invisible demon and if this was her coping mechanism. I refuse to judge how someone heals. So I let her breathe.


These were serious demons.

At the end of the class, we sat while preparing ourselves to create a sea of Oms. Deep breath in, exhale Om. I didn’t mind if the dragon lady breathed loudly during Om-ing.

Deep breath in. Exhale, OM.




Excuse me? What in the shit is THAT?

The dragon lady had decided to extend her loud-mouthed practice to her Oms. She sat there, insuring she was the first to start the Om and the last to finish it. She belted it like she was singing Handel’s Messiah at the Christmas morning service the Pope was attending.

I got over it. At least she masked the half-hearted Oms I was chanting out of fear the cute guy beside me would misjudge my spiritual intent. I could handle loud Oms.

After what seemed like an eternity of the highest-decibel Oms I have ever encountered, we reached the last one.

OOOHHHMMMMM she started, again louder than all the others.

And then, upon the final “mmmm,” she decided to switch it up.

I heard her find the third and then I listened to her struggle and, finally, land upon the perfect fifth of what she presumed the “average” note of the body of Oms to be.

She harmonized an Om.

I got it, at that moment. Her intent during her Hatha class hadn’t been to center herself or to find inner peace, or to slowly stretch out cold muscles, or to battle twenty year old demons. It had been to prove something to herself.

In a class full of 30 yuppies dressed in the newest and brightest yoga gear, this middle-aged woman in Adidas track pants decided to be bold, & I dare say I think that she met her intention, unlike myself who wanted to come out of class feeling “mindful” (what does that even mean?!)

Needless to say, the next time you hear someone harmonizing an Om in the back row of an over-priced drop-in class, it’ll probably be me – trying to succeed for the first time ever at reaching my intention.

Belt it, sister.

Photo here