We’re a few days into 2010 already but I thought I’d post about some of the highlights of 2009 in my online world.

It was a pretty busy year.

Cokebaby and I travelled to the South of France for our 10 year wedding anniversary (today marks year 11)! We took a trip with his family in the summer to London and Ireland and got in touch with their roots. And we were treated to an overnight stay in the Peggy’s Cove Area in the fall.

Tofu dog turned two years old.

I was interviewed on Haligonia, did a reading for Seen Reading, wrote guest posts for Geek Girl Camp and Lindsay Olson, recommended a book on Advent Books. And I got to defend werewolves at (un)deathmatch where I’m continuing in Round 3.

Whew! A busy year indeed.

Top posts of 2009

The best kept secret of Halifax sushi restaurants
Bust A Move: Halifax Chicks edition
Tassimo
Pickled think: Beets
The origin of Alias Grace OR Me > Frankenstein’s creature
Cokebaby, the husband
Durty Nelly’s
Hamachi House
No boys allowed
SnauBar Lebanese Cuisine

Top East Coast Guest Posts of 2009
Hello Halifax: You can never go home by Gail Lethbridge
Chef Adam Todd by himself
Green Christmas by Charlene Boyce
Growing up Greek in Nova Scotia by Bessy Nikolaou
Racquel does fashion by Áine (a.k.a. “Racquel Valencia“)
Smart Bites: A little gal’s guide to staying that way over the holidays by Kristen Pickett
Joel Kelly’s guide to dressing sensibly in an office environment by Joel Kelly
Building an eco house? Start saving now by Jeff White
The culinary perspective of an olive thief by Suzie Ridler
Welcome to my ‘hood by Suzanne Hickey

Remember, I’m shaking things up on the blog this year and looking for more of your stories. Interested? E-mail me at kimberly.aliasgrace [at] gmail [dot] com and let’s talk.

[No stranger to this blog, you may recall her previous guest post Racquel does fashion. Now she looks back at her cultural heritage in this week's special feature on East Coast roots.]

By Áine (a.k.a. “Racquel Valencia”)

Photo credit: bass_nroll from Flickr

At one point, my home province of Prince Edward Island was going to be called “New Ireland” thanks to its high proportion of Irish immigrants. One has only to look at some of our town names (Belfast, O’Leary, Irishtown, Emerald, Kelly’s Cross) to feel the shamrocks and shillelaghs. Loads of the kids I went to school with had names that ended in Mc or O. First names like Brian, Erin, Kelly and Ryan were a dime a dozen. Saint Patrick’s Day was dangerous for the amount of drunk people that would stagger out of the Olde Dublin Pub or the Harp and Thistle.

And then there was my family.

My father, originally from Northern Ireland (cue the uncomfortable looks) had immigrated to Massachusetts with his family as a young man, yet somehow ended up on the mini Emerald Isle. Never one to eschew cultural pride, my siblings and I were all given almost unpronouncable Irish Gaelic names (my mother’s German-American heritage didn’t have the same weight, apparently). Easy as it was to be Irish on PEI, having a name that looked like Annie spelled wrong was not. It took a lot of years of furrowed brows, bad nicknames and “Miss O’Hare?”s to really settle into my name.

I’m pretty sure this same topic was broached on an episode of Blossom once. I guess it could have been worse… I could have been Six O’Hare.

Some of my cousins haven’t fared much better; there’s a Fergus, an Aoife (pronounced “ee-fah”), an Eimear (“ee-mer”) and a Fionnoula (“finn-ula”). For them it’s easier, though; they live in the land in which these names originated, whereas I’ve been battling it out with Sarahs and Emilys for as long as I can remember.

I’ve done a bit of traveling in my 24 years, and my strange name almost always baffles people, regardless of cultural heritage. The only people who tend to get it right on the first time are from Ireland, and even then the pronunciations range from Enya to Onya to Anya (FYI my immediate family has always used the latter). Once I came to terms with my odd name, I embraced more of my freshly dug roots; I have two tattoos in Irish Gaelic, relish the divinity that is the potato (although that could be the PEIslander in me talking) and hold superstitions as dear to my heart as religion.

I’m going to hell for that last crack.

Like the Maritimes, Ireland is a land steeped in tradition, yet determined to move beyond its stereotypes. Just as every Atlantic Canadian is not drawing pogey, nor is every Irish person an alcoholic. Nor are they Catholic. Or red-haired. Or a leprechaun. The times that I have been to Ireland to visit family, I’ve been impressed at how well they marry their past and future; you might see a Thai restaurant sharing rental space with an off-liscense, for instance. And as much time as I spend hating on bands and artists that I consider “has-beens”, there really is something to be said for knowing where you’re from… and where you’re going.

Racquel Valencia is the nom de plume of a North End chick. Visit her at Smell the Glove.

[To wrap up the 902 Style Files, here's a very special guest: the Hep Kitten herself! Thanks to all the guests who filled in for me during this hectic week. If you missed any of them, check out the rest of the East Coast Guest Posts.]

By Áine (a.k.a. “Racquel Valencia”)

“Fashionable is what one wears oneself, and unfashionable is what other people wear.”

I wonder if Oscar Wilde ever envisioned that one day some chick from the Maritimes would take one of his witty little barbs and turn it into a criticism of the cookie-cutter skinny jeans and scarves hipster set. But here we are, and, like Morrissey in “Cemetery Gates”, Wilde is on my side.

Personal style is just that–personal–and maybe that’s why it eludes so many people. Clothes not only shield us from the elements, but allow us to let a bit of ourselves shine through. And why would you want to look like anyone else, much less everyone else? Without further ado, let’s take a tour of my closet.

Like what you see?

Like what you see, home slice? Lotta black in there. In fact, I think I maybe own half a dozen items that aren’t black, and two of them are dark gray. Why? Equal parts deep-rooted body insecurity, Johnny Cash homage and affinity for Bauhaus and Joy Division, I’d wager.

I’ve been called “Funeral Fun Barbie” by my friends, a designation that I’m never sure exactly how to take. I like black and black likes me, which brings me to Rule #1: KNOW THY BODY AND WHAT FLATTERS IT.

Guys, this goes for you, too. Un-pop that collar, mister. It never did no one no favours.

Salty Bob approves

This is possibly my favourite dress ever. If I thought I could get away with it, I would wear it every day. It’s black, it’s lacy, it’s just the right amount of goth and cheerleader…and it attracts kittens, as evidenced by the small white kitten in the foreground (hi, Salty Bob!). I spent more on it than I have on pretty much anything else in my wardrobe, but it’s been so worth it, especially considering how much I’ve worn it.

Remember: the most expensive thing in your wardrobe is the thing you never wear. I don’t care if it cost three dollars or three hundred. Same diff, really. Rule #2: IT’S WORTH SPENDING MONEY ON SOMETHING YOU LOVE.

Let’s get real for a second: ninety-five percent of the time when I’m home, I’m not remotely dolled up. Hells no. Ask anyone (friends, roommates, family, milkman): I’m almost always in a kimono. No ratty bathrobe for this Hep Kitten, and as far as I’m concerned sweatpants = I’ve given up on life.

Hep Kitten

Who doesn’t love being lazy and slothful? But you can still look good doing it. Legend has it that, when she went to answer the door, Marilyn Monroe would just toss a sheet and some Chanel No. 5 on. While I’m not advocating public nudity, I think there’s something to be said for Rule #3: DON’T LET YOURSELF GO. NOT EVEN FOR THE CATS.

And now, for the most important part of all, the key to beauty, style, and ass-kicking hotness: a sense of humour. As much as I delight in the dark, there’s beauty on the other side, too. Hell, if I’m only going to have six items of clothing in a colour other than Death, I may as well go the whole hog:

Fuhgeddaboudit!

Yes, it’s a tight Kelly-green minidress that say “JAMAICA” on it. I bought it for two dollars at a Goodwill store. I swear that thing gets more infamous every day.

Some of the best fashion advice I ever got was from my friend Teddy, a curvy, husky-voiced Italian from Bloor/Ossington. Her two words changed how I look at myself both physically and emotionally, and make up Rule #4: OWN IT.

Whenever I was having a fat/ugly/emo day, Teddy would remind me to own it. If I screwed something up, she’d laugh and say “own it and fuhgeddaboudit!” I find myself repeating those words on a daily basis, and I swear I’ve gotten prettier in the past two years.

Own whatever it is you’re wearing. If it’s Feed Bag Friday, rock the shit out of that burlap dress! Suit-and-Tie Monday and you’re stuck in Paisleyville? Live it up, brother, and make that paisley wonder look as awesome as chains on T-Pain. I’ve seen Teddy rock everything from Timberlands with skirts, to sweats with heels and she always looks like she was born to do it.

Priceless

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”

That may very well be, Oscar, but the right attitude is priceless.

Racquel Valencia is the nom de plume of a North End chick with an inexplicable love of Top 40 hip-hop and a well-documented obsession with 1990′s teen heartthrobs and girly men. This is what she actually looks like. Visit her at Smell the Glove.