Camping buddies

My love of camping is widely known and well documented. Now it's time to give some props to the people that make me love it: my camping buddies. Friends that you go camping with are different from other friends. They see you in a whole new context. They see you without your concealer and hair-straightener. They see you in the same pair of shorts for three days straight, even though they know you spilled mustard on them the first night. They see you hungry, cold, dirty, and tired, and yet somehow still happy. They see you hungry, cold, dirty, and tired, and absolutely freaking miserable. They see you tipsy, they see you stoned. They see you when it looks like you have a lead canoe permanently fused to your head. They see you argue with your significant other over directions, or how to set up a tent, or whether or not it's still "paddling time," or anything, really; they see you snuggle your significant other, lying on a lakeside rock staring up at the stars; maybe they snuggle you. They see you in a bathing suit! They see you sunburned. Maybe, just maybe, they see you naked.
You discover things about them. Like for instance you're not the only one who knows all the words to "Hotel California." Maybe they really like to win. Maybe they don't like jelly beans. Or peanut butter. Or they like peanut butter but not with honey or jam. All these little things that make up a person.
They giggle with you over ridiculous things. They throw the glow out into the universe, and reel in the good camping vibes, over and over again, just 'cause you asked.
Thanks, dudes. Same time next year.

Squirrel vs. Bike. Again.

I'm pretty sure I hit a squirrel the other day. If by "pretty sure" you mean "absolutely certain." All I know is that my bicycle and a squirrel occupied the same space for an instant. I squealed. The squirrel may have, too. But when I looked back at the path, the unfortunate rodent had scurried into the woods. So... Sorry, squirrel. I felt fairly sick afterwards. I really hope that it wasn't too damaged. And based on my past encounters, it seems that I'm lucky that neither I nor my bike were damaged. Now I'm all squirrel-anoid. When I hear the unmistakable rustling in the undergrowth, I imagine it's all its little squirrel buddies, chattering to each other: "That's the one that got Chuck. Let's get her!" And I'm always watching for the little fuckers to jump out in front of me.

It's good to know that I am not alone.

Goal #25: Get a snowboard

I decided that August is clearly the best time to buy winter sports equipment. All the new-year gear is arriving at stores, and they've got to get rid of last year's models. So, on a recent jaunt to Vermont, J--- and I decided to hit up the ski shops in search of crazy deals. We shopped around, chatted with "the kids" in the shops (it's all downhill from here, folks -- for the first time ever I felt way older than the shopkids, instead of feeling like a peer. Although, one of them did call my sunglasses "rad" so I guess I'm still, y'know, rad.) and ended up getting some quality, brand-name secondhand boards and bindings, and brand-new boots, for less than the cost of a new board. Sweet.

Doubly sweet was that the gear was heavily subsidized by the Best In-Laws Ever!!! I am pleased with myself for accomplishing a financially based goal without actually having to shell out on the financial end. That's what I get for being the Best Daughter In-Law Ever.

Hey, I made peach crumble for a dinner party.

It's really good peach crumble.

Goal #91: Leave IATSE

I almost forgot about this one!
Here's the background: I worked my butt off to get into the union. I mean, I worked HARD. It was like bootcamp, but in the end I don't have the skills to kill a rival assassin with a dishtowel or a hardcover book. Instead, I got to pay the union even more money. I was a little pissed off that after a year and a half of slugging it out for minimum wage, my "upgrade" fee was over a thousand bones. I had to cash out part of my union-sponsored group RRSP in order to pay it. And, of course, my quarterly dues went up substantially. But it was worth it--when I was working. When I was stressing about my next gig and my next paycheck, it all seemed a little useless.
When I finally decided to change careers (like, I got a new job, with a regular paycheck), I naturally stopped paying my union dues, and I sent my local chapter of IATSE a letter telling them kindly and professionally that I wanted to leave, or rescind my membership, give up my privileges or whatever. Although I hadn't worked a union gig in over a year, they responded by telling me that in order to "honourably withdraw", I had to pay my outstanding fees. Um... No. Dishonourably discharge me then, I thought. I kept getting requests to pay my dues, and I was on the verge of calling on Ken the Axe, my buddy and labour-negotiator extraordinaire, when I finally got their version of a "final notice" letter, letting me know that I would soon be suspended for non-payment of dues. It's a crummy way to end things, especially since I tried to do it properly. But if neglect is the only thing that will let me reach my goals, so be it.
I'm out!
I think.

Goal # 83: Make a Strong Development Plan at Work.

Since I'm all about having goals these days, the fact that the company I work for strongly encourages us all to create a plan for our own professional development, and then helps us to accomplish this self-driven plan, really appeals to me. I wanted to create a strong one in order to fully take advantage of the corporate resources being offered to me, and also to generate some excitement about my own career. It would be all too easy to float along here, stress-free in my cubicle, just doing what I need to get by. And frankly, that's not good enough. I used to be really ambitious. I'm trying to reignite that ambition by exploring where my career could go, and quashing my insecurities by actively seeking to improve my skills. Adding a little fiber to the ol' resume, as it were.
So, I handed in my Personal Development Plan today, and I think it's a good one.

Napping is the New Smoking

I am a good employee. I am smart (yes, thank you), conscientious, and loyal. I have a fabulous work ethic. And yet, sometimes I take a nap at work.
This confession has been met with everything from dismay to disbelief. How could I? How dare I fall asleep in my workplace? I never really had an issue with it, but the extremity of some people's reactions made me feel as though I ought to defend my napping practices.
In my old career, napping was nearly a daily ritual. Sure, the days were one heck of a lot longer (two to three times, in fact) so it seemed completely justified, and we usually all had a shelf in the back of the camera truck to curl up on. It's interesting to bed down with your co-workers, like a mini sleepover in small, uncomfortable bunk beds. Or if it was summer time and you were on location, you could grab a patch of sunny grass. And if you were in a location or set that had actual beds, all you had to do was beat the Grips to it! Nice.
After the big career switch, at first the newness of having a sedentary job plus the overwhelming quiet prevalent in my department combined to make a lethal inducement to passing out in front of my computer. I would find myself suddenly jolting awake, one hand still loosely clutching the mouse, wondering how long I'd been out and if my cubicle neighbours had heard any snoring in the interim. For a while I was even worried that I might be becoming a narcoleptic, since I found it impossible to resist succumbing to those moments of unconsciousness. Now, I'm more accepting of my own need to nap.

Here's the thing -- it doesn't make me a bad employee. Seriously, it really doesn't. Consider this: I don't smoke. Long has "I don't smoke" been my battle cry that excuses many other vices. After all, is there anything that you do voluntarily that is worse for you than smoking? Nope. So what if I drink too much and eat crap? I don't smoke. I didn't exercise all winter? Yeah, but I don't smoke. However, in this instance, it is actually a valid comparison. Think about smokers at work. They've got to get up from their desks, make their way downstairs and outside, smoke a cigarette, chat a bit with the other smokers, and then make their way back to their desks and resume their work. Let's say all this takes an average of 15 minutes. I don't even know how long it takes to actually smoke a cigarette, but I think my guess is probably even on the skinny side. And they do this at least twice, probably more, times a day. That's a minimum of 30 minutes spent not working, and possibly up to an hour.
So if I need a little 20 minute shut-eye in the middle of the day, well, excuse me for not feeling guilty about it. Plus, I don't smell disgusting when I'm done. And yet napping is frowned upon, where smoke breaks are still accepted. Really, which one should we encourage? The unhealthy habit or the healthy one?
If I need a little break, I don't want to have to pretend to be a smoker, the way I did in high school. I would like to advocate a new openness about napping at work. It's healthy! It increases productivity! The Europeans have it right, shutting down for siesta right around the time your body (and mind) is craving a little rest.
Let's turn out the lights, grab a cozy sweater and lean back in our ergonomic chairs.
Let the computer go to screen saver.
Take a few deep breaths.

Wake up feeling sooo much better.

Excuse me, it's time for my afternoon nap.

Restaurant Review: Smalltalk

Smalltalk, 1580 Bayview Ave.

While Toronto's Summerlicious event seems to be a good way to experience higher-end restaurants for a reasonable price, I worry that at smaller, more neighbourhood-oriented venues, you end up getting a crummy deal and substandard food. Sometimes, your very participation in an event that has brought you to a new restaurant, one that could thereafter become a favourite or a regular haunt, causes the staff to treat you as second-class customers. This is a really dumb business practice.
That being said, when we went to Smalltalk, we had the option to dine either from the regular a la carte menu, or to use the Summerlicious prix-fixe selections. We all went for the Summerlicious deal. I'm not sure if that was the cause of what was to come, but it wasn't good.
Smalltalk looks like a cute, neighbourhood place, and I was excited to try it. Until I noticed that the banquettes were stained and dirty, and the pencil drawings on the walls were amateurish and clearly copied from photographs (I have a thing about bad art in restaurants). It was also Arctic icy inside. Due to rain, sitting outside on the attractive patio was not an option, so I just shivered through dinner.
Plus: Everyone enjoyed their fancy, fruity martinis.
Minus: The promised amuse-bouche arrived after the appetizers. Like a palate cleanser? Um, no...just in the wrong spot. It was a tasty confection of sun-dried tomato, herbs and a creamy cheese mousse, but was rather irrelevant by the time we got it.
Plus: The basket of bread arrived warm and was very delicious. Spiced and herbed olive oil was nice for dipping.
Down to serious business: The appetizers were pretty good. Caramelized onion and goat cheese on salad (although from the description in the menu you never would have known it came on salad) was tasty. The Summerlicious portion size was a great deal smaller than the regular menu size, but smaller was better. It would have been an overwhelming amount of spring mix lettuce otherwise. The spicy Malaysian red lentil soup was robust and flavourful, although the promised accompanying chicken dumplings turned out to be a single cardboard-textured, dried out little bit lurking at the bottom of the bowl. For mains, the Guinness braised short ribs were in a yummy sauce, although the ribs were a little unnecessarily fatty; garlic mashed potatoes are hard to screw up, but the roasted root vegetables seemed like space food--as though they had just been rehydrated before plating. Herbed, seared grouper was dry and overcooked. Accompanying vegetables were cold. As was I.
We were desperately looking for some salvation in desert, but the double lemon tart was too sweet, completely lacking the nice tart-sweet contrast that you crave in a lemon desert, and was on heavy, doughy pastry.
It was a disappointing experience since I'd had high hopes, but unfortunately the misses outweighed the few hits.

rating: * (Wouldn't go back, wouldn't recommend it)

Goal #49 and Goal #19

Goal #49: Finish my 13-week walk-to-run program with the same diligence I began it.
I did this. I had a few stalls due to illness and injury, but I basically kept with the program. It wasn't with exactly the same diligence or enthusiasm that I started, mainly due to the fact that I started my training on the treadmill, and so felt bound to finish it there, and was really pretty bored by the end. As my final session, I went for a 5km run outside through the park/cemetary. It was sooo nice. I know that the actual goal of the walk-run program is to run a 10km race, but since my training had been spotty towards the end, and since running on a treadmill is a poor substitute for running outside, I decided that my first outdoor run was challenge enough. (And I'll be getting ready for a 10km in the fall.) Felt great doing it. Quads killing me today. Can't wait until I go for my next run, tomorrow!

As a personal reward, I swung by the New Balance store --since I saw they were having a sale-- and completed Goal #19: Get some really good running shoes that are good for my feet. After the kindly salesgirl watched my flat-footed walk around the store, and stood by while I hemmed and hawed and bounced on the spot and ran on the treadmill in the back, I am now the happy owner of a pair of New Balance W767s. Can't wait to take them for a spin.


p.s. This is my 100th post! (my one-year anniversary passed unnoticed a wee while ago)

I hate chipmunks

I have had it with these motherfucking squirrels on my motherfucking bike!!!

-Samuel M. Jackson in Squirrels on a Bike

In my past several weeks and months of bicycle commuting, I've been working up a good hate towards squirrels. I never used to have an issue with the fuzzy-tailed rodents; I know my father has long harboured hatred for them -- something about his daffodils and tulips. He immediately sided with our neighbourhood foxes when they chose squirrel as the snack du jour. He used to applaud with veritable glee whenever we discovered "squirrel jammies" in the back yard (the bottom half of a squirrel body, little feets and tail still on, but with the insides eaten out, thus resembling a set of infant's pajamas. So some other animal could, if it so desired, put on the cozy squirrel suit). I was kind of grossed out but mainly indifferent. Now, however, I'm all set to head up the Task Force on the Elimination of Squirrels and All Things Squirrel Related. (I do wish I could have made a cool acronym for that. Suggestions welcomed.)
Here's why: They are unforgivably stupid. After my own squirrel-bike encounter, I started to be more wary of the little fuckers, and now I see them everywhere, skippity-skipping out onto the road and then hanging out or indecisively changing directions. This way? That way? Which way did I come from? What's over there? Is that a car? I also dodge ample gory evidence that many of them make the wrong decision.
And then, yesterday, a chipmunk was the direct cause of bodily harm to my person. This I cannot tolerate.
I was having a great ride. It was a cool, damp day, but my legs weren't tired and I was flying along. I hit the entrance to the park portion of my ride and started cruising down the hill. So of course, out of the trees lining the path comes darting one little asshole chipmunk. I brake. I start sliding on the wet path. (I was prepared for this, due to another slippy near-encounter earlier this month with a jogger who couldn't decide which way to move over. Argh.) Chipmunk switches direction and goes back across the path (they're fast!). I brake harder. I skid out. Chipmunk is still in the path, and my bike goes over as I vainly try to swerve and brake to avoid it.
I'm pretty good at falling. I've had some practice. I remember one time in particular when a child bolted onto the trail in front of me and I had to brake so hard that I ended up vaulting over my handlebars and having my bike hit me instead of the kid. I then gave its mother a very stern talking-to (read: dirty look and a mumbled, "You should be more careful.") Not so this time. I crashed onto the path, my left elbow and hand taking most of the impact.
It was bound to happen. I ride every day, so a little upset of this type was expected. Still, I was all shaken up. It wasn't so much about the physical pain, which was substantial, but about the fact that I'd become confident again on my bike and on the roads, and here was something undermining my conviction. Something that really freakin' hurt. I sat despondently on the path, bike shoved off to the side, and cried. Pulled it together enough to tell a passing jogger that I was actually fine, thanks. Then I called my husband and cried to him. However, when he sleepily suggested that he could come get me and bring me home, it renewed what I like to think of as my plucky stubbornness, and I righted my bicycle. After all, it was one stupid fall, caused by one stupid chipmunk. I vocally warned the forest that if they came near me, I'd step on them. And that next time, no mercy! Chipmunks go crunch! But I know that's not going to happen. I've never actually killed anything, you see, and I would like to keep it that way. (Bugs don't count. Tough on my karma).
But I can hate. Can I ever hate.

Is this why they're so retarded?

Goal #36: Take a Belly Dancing Class

I have wanted to try belly dancing for over ten years. Seriously, even back in the day I thought to myself, well, I certainly have the belly... But back then I had very little income -- squandered mainly on afternoon-long coffee binges -- and all my spare time was taken up with trying to figure out which bars would serve us booze, or who looked the oldest and should thus go to the door when the Dial-A-Bottle guy arrived. (Shockingly enough, that was me on more than one occasion. Man, the booze-delivery guys must have had wobbly moral compasses. And for that we thank them.)
Shortly after compiling my "101 things" list, I realized that these days I am in charge of my own time, and I have an income that at least keeps me comfortably in coffee, and there was nothing stopping me from signing up for a class. This belly was ready to dance!
I'm only four classes in, and I love it. It is so much fun to just go move your body. There's no other motive -- I'm not trying to burn calories, or build strength, or achieve a personal best time -- I am there to have fun. And fun it is! The class is all women, obviously, and it is pure girlishness. We pretend we're princesses, and our hands are flowers. We play with prettily coloured silk scarves. We shake and shimmy our fleshy booties. The class has a wide range of ages in it, and women of very diverse ethnic heritage. We all giggle and smile at each other, united by figuring out the right way to shake your tits.
Belly dancing has to be sexy. It simply doesn't work if the moves aren't sexy, and there is something incredibly liberating about being "allowed" to move like that. You don't have to be strong. You don't have to be smart. You have to relax, and let your hips undulate.
I can see myself doing this for a long time.
Because don't I look awesome in the costume?

I love my ride to work.

I really, really love it. When co-workers ask me, "How's the ride going?" --sometimes disparaging, like how dare I ride my bicycle, but sometimes genuinely interested and enthusiastic-- I heartily declare, "Wonderful!" And it is. It's as though I get up and have some fun every morning. While I am not a morning person (Just ask my long-suffering husband, who has finally learned to ask after a few bitchy, crazy comments from me in the A.M.: "Have you had a coffee yet?") I somehow manage to become one in order to bike to work.

I love the way the city is still quiet. The wide, tree-lined streets are empty except for me and a few other cycle-commuters. It's the way cycling should be. I enjoy the subtle camaraderie that exists between us. A nod of the head, or a little tight smile. Like we're all in this together. Similar to the way you tentatively greet people you run into on portages while camping. (Tentative if you're from the city. I suspect that folk not from the Big Smoke are more forthcoming with the pleasantries.)

I share:

Going down into the park. Since I'm basically afraid of traffic, much of my ride goes through the park system. So I don't worry about running over a car, I just have to worry about being jumped by deranged perverts. However, I've discovered that even squirrels make an insane amount of noise moving around in the undergrowth, so for someone to surprise me by jumping out of the bushes in front of my bike they'd have to be some kind of deranged pervert ninja cat.

That's the sun! I see it first thing, it sees me first thing. I love sun.
As the summer heats up, it is so nice to feel the temperature drop, and get a good lungful of damp air that smells richly of earth as I glide down into the park.

This was in spring. I'm definitely feeling more connected to the seasons now that I actually experience them change in a real, tactile way. And I've become obsessed with the Weather Network.

I cross a river. A river! Did you even know there was one?

Wildlife!

This is the bit where flooding has washed the path away. AKA the Evil Sand Pit. Occasionally, the parks people will dump sand and gravel into the holes, which makes it into an even more treacherous, shifting mess. It's a new landscape after every hard rain. It makes me wonder what the planet would look like if we just left it the hell alone for a hundred years, or so.

This is a bit of perfect urban greenspace. It's a parkette that was planned and built with the surrounding subdivision. I think it works the way other parkettes -- those gloomy attempts at a spot of green wedged at random into the city -- only hope to. It connects two residential streets with a path. It's open and inviting. Some of the houses that back onto it don't even have fences cutting them off from it.

And it contains beautiful flowering trees.

I like this sign because it has clearly been here since the 50s.

I pass a hockey rink. Zamboni poop is cool.

A water tower! Did you even know Toronto had these? I always associate them with smaller towns, as if they have to ship their water in from somewhere very far away and then store it in the tower.
Of course, we all really know that these water towers are actually alien spaceships watching over us and waiting...

While I wait all day at work until I get to ride home! My ride home is slightly less fun because there's more traffic, but that does give me an opportunity to get my rage on.

Seriously, everyone should bike to work. It's awesome. And I have decided that I am awesomer than you because I ride my bike.

Adventures in Cycle Commuting

Who needs to go camping in order to enjoy wilderness and adventure? Not me, that's for sure. I get my fill on my daily cycle commute. My bike ride is fun but hard, so double fun! Since y'all know I like my fun hard. (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more...) I get to experience torrential downpour. Physical discomfort and exhaustion. Surprisingly large insects flying at me and sometimes going in my eyes even despite my sporty, wraparound sunglasses. There's a place where the path has washed away and become an Evil Sand Pit, making part of my commute into a quest through the Fire Swamp. And the other day, I ran into a squirrel. A squirrel!
Here's what happened:
I had just dodged a large flock of seagulls. I guess they were eating some fast-food leftovers that had spilled into the street, and they took off as I went by, making me duck and weave to avoid them. Self, I thought to myself, wouldn't that have sucked if you'd been hit by a seagull? Anyhoodle, picture this: I'm coasting comfortably down a nice hill when, up ahead, a grey squirrel with a fuck-off gigantic nut in its maw comes hoppity-hopping out of someone's garden and onto the sidewalk on my right-hand side, and then starts crossing the road. Now, I'm going quickly, but not really fast, and I judge that Mr. Big Nut will be out of my way by the time I get to where he's crossing, though it might be close. However, squirrels are ridiculously stupid, and so when I'm about a foot away from him, he hears or sees the bike and, even though he's in the clear, he decides to go back the way he came. A space now occupied by bicycle. He jumps. I can't slam on the brakes, since I'm not about to send myself over the handlebars in favour of some dumb rodent. Undeterred, Mr. Nut tries to get through my front wheel. He's bouncing around: against the spinning spokes and the asphalt, making very upset squirrel noises. ("Did it make that lovely motorcycle sound?" my father inquired of the squirrel vs. spokes when I told him this story. Yes, yes it did.) Then the squirrel is desperately grabbing onto the front fork on my bike, and then hopping onto my left calf! Ack! The squirrel is freakin' ON me, and I'm still speedily rolling down the hill.
I shriek and shake my leg. Squirrel! On leg! Squirrel gets off leg and runs off across the street. Which he really should have just done in the first place, since now we're both traumatized, and he's lost his gigantic nut.

Buy this book

Dudes, my friend wrote this!

Every Last Drop

Ride for Heart

So, I didn't get to sleep in at all this weekend. Saturday, it was up and at 'em for the St. Lawrence Market (it's just so much better when you're there early), and then Sunday I rose and shone for the Ride for Heart. By "shone" I mean foggily rolled out of bed and into my cycling clothes, and rolled down through the still-silent, foggy city to where the ride starts at the CNE grounds.
Undoubtedly the most fun part of the annual Ride for Heart is that you get to ride your bike on the highway. I don't think the novelty ever wears off. Well, maybe a little after 75 km.
After about 30 km or so, I began to be concerned for the health and safety of my lady parts, and started to reconsider my position on cycling shorts with padded crotches. (Old position: Never in a million years will I wear them. New position: I like my lady parts, and want to be kind to them. If that means padded spandex shorts, so be it. I'll just top them with a cute Lululemon dance skirt or something.)

It's wonderful to see the highway taken over by bicycles. Like a vision of a future utopian society where everyone cycles everywhere, and rush hour is not set to the sound of honking horns, but hearty inhales and exhales and the gentle ka-chunk of bike gears changing.

Although, I could have done without the massive pack of dudes on road bikes whizzing by, screaming: "LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!" I swear there were about fifty of them, although other witnesses put them at about fifteen. I was like, dudes, it's a charity ride. You're scaring the kiddies. And me.

Here I am, keeping to the right...



















The altered signage on the Gardiner Expressway and DVP was a nice touch. Although I was a little insulted by the one that reminded drivers to "Quit idling." There was nothing idle about my morning!


I completed the 75 km in 3 hours and 36 minutes. Including stops for stretching, phone calls and slices of oranges.

Goal #97: Prepare a Moroccan breakfast

It has been a year since we explored Morocco on our honeymoon, and we had a craving for homemade "country bread" and "soft white cheese." Here is a picture of the breakfast we were fed every morning at our wonderful little Riad in Fes. I took the picture on the one day we received a brioche-type bread instead of the more traditional flat, round loaves. The small bowls contain: dates, olives, apricot jam, fig jam, honey, butter, sugar, and soft white cheese. We were given a pot of coffee and a jug of warm milk. The small mugs contain gorgeous freshly squeezed orange juice -- impossible to replicate here, because the oranges in Morocco were local and fresh and out-of-this-world good. The local olives were also incredible and incomparable to anything I've found over here.
I did, however, go the distance and bake some round loaves of Moroccan bread from scratch.

That's right. I bake my own bread...

And here is the finished product:

That's our homemade labneh (aka "soft white cheese") in the middle.

Our apartment's balcony doesn't have quite the same view as looking out over the Fes medina, but there was one token satellite dish for atmosphere. Favourite topping: soft white cheese and fig jam together. Or straight honey. Delicious!