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.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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.
It's good to know that I am not alone.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
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.
Friday, August 10, 2007
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.
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.
So, I handed in my Personal Development Plan today, and I think it's a good one.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
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.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
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)
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)
Monday, July 30, 2007
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 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)
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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?
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?Wednesday, July 04, 2007
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?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
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.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
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.)
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.
Monday, May 21, 2007
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.
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!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Making Cheese
Further reading revealed that after making your own yogurt, it's a simple step to make your own cheese; a soft, fresh, middle-eastern variety called lebnah. With great excitement, I decided that this must be the soft, white cheese that we had eaten in Morocco on our honeymoon last year. Whenever locals described it, they called it "soft, white cheese." When I asked them specifically what kind of cheese it was, they said, "soft, white cheese." 
With additional prodding, they revealed it was made from cow's milk.
It was really very simple to make. I dumped a jar of our homemade yogurt into a cheesecloth-lined strainer. Once a good amount of liquid had drained, I tied up the cheesecloth and rigged it up in the fridge.
Twenty-four hours later, more liquid had drained, and we were left with a savoury ball of what was undeniably soft, white cheese. (I read somewhere that I was supposed to add some salt. I forgot, and it was still yummy.)
With additional prodding, they revealed it was made from cow's milk.Soft, white cheese for sale in the medina.
It was really very simple to make. I dumped a jar of our homemade yogurt into a cheesecloth-lined strainer. Once a good amount of liquid had drained, I tied up the cheesecloth and rigged it up in the fridge.
Twenty-four hours later, more liquid had drained, and we were left with a savoury ball of what was undeniably soft, white cheese. (I read somewhere that I was supposed to add some salt. I forgot, and it was still yummy.)Labneh! Aka, soft, white cheese.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Making Yogurt
Inspired by No Impact Man, I decided to try making my own yogurt.
Here's what I did.
Litre of milk into a pot.
Make it hot, but do it slowly. I used a meat thermometer to check, but you could probably just wait until small bubbles are pushing at the surface, and a bit of a skin is forming. I had a bit of a scalding issue on the bottom of the pan, but everything still went according to plan.
Let it cool down to between 100-115 degrees F. This part is boring. I used a people thermometer for this part, but was worried I had broken it since I kept impatiently sticking it in when the milk was still too hot and made it flash an error symbol. In the end, the milk cooled.
Then you mix in some bacterial cultures. I used some freeze-dried from the health food store, but you can also simply use some yogurt. So for my next batch, I'll use a few spoonfuls from this batch.Put it in sterilized glass jars.
Incubate. I just put mine on the kitchen counter and wrapped it in a fleece sweater. (Made from recycled pop bottles, natch.) Let it sit overnight.
In the morning, I rose bright and early to discover that my yogurt worked! It tastes fresh and delicious, and is fabulous with some local honey stirred in.One of the most interesting parts of this project was searching for the jars. I hit up a grocery store, to be told that they only stock them seasonally. I guess autumn is when people start preserving? Luckily, I asked just the right lady, who suggested I try the hardware store, since that's where she gets her jars. Then she inquired as to what I'd be making at this time of year. I told her I was doing my own yogurt. She was very supportive and enthusiastic about the idea, said she'd always wanted to do that, and wished me luck. Later at the hardware store, as I was purchasing my box of jars (apparently, you have to get a dozen at a time. If anyone wants a jar or two, let me know) the lady in line behind me said, "Oh, it's that time of year again!" (well, no, actually) and then she asked what I was making. When I told her yogurt, she, too, was thrilled at the thought. Then the cashier piped up about how she makes her own yogurt all the time, and how delicious it is. I feel as though I've uncovered a whole new segment of society. The Yogurtmakers. Welcome.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
101 Things in 1001 Days
I am a big fan of To Do lists. They are the only way I ever get things done, and I love finding old lists under the piles on my desk and discovering that everything on them is done.
The idea behind the 101 list is to clearly define your goals, and give yourself enough time in which to accomplish them. Read more here.
The first, unwritten item on the list is "Manage to think of 101 things." This was not easy. I had to branch out quite a bit, including things that had, up until now, just tickled the edges of my thoughts. I've tried to stay away from too many purchase-oriented goals, so that this doesn't become a shopping list of stuff that I just want (then I'd have to retitle it "1001 things in 101 days"). Anything on this list that requires money will in itself represent the accomplishment of another kind of goal -- managing to save the cash in order to do it. I'm actually really looking forward to getting some of this stuff done!
I'll update my progress as I cross items off the list.
101 Things in 1001 Days
Stuff to Do
1. Put together wedding albums.
2. Put together honeymoon album.
3. Plant flowers in the boxes on our balcony.
4. Make a roof for my cubicle at work to cut down the overhead glare.
5. Re-organize and de-clutter basement storage locker.
6. Sell old camera-assisting gear on Craigslist/Kijiji/Mandy.
7. Replace all my old cassettes with CD versions of the same.
8. Take all my CDs out of their cases and reorganize them into book storage, also find somewhere that recycles jewel cases and/or get rid of them via Craigslist.
9. Put all my contacts into one, nice, organized address book.
10. Catalog all my books on LibraryThing
11. Complete magazine archiving project.
12. Complete “sentimental” sweatshirt project.
13. Finish reading Salman Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children” (may have to start over).
14. Tidy and organize my desk and filing cabinet, getting rid of old, unnecessary stuff and establishing a system that will make it easy to keep it orderly in the future.
15. Refinish coffee table (or have it professionally refinished).
16. Replace all my toiletries with natural, earth-friendly alternatives.
17. Replace all my household cleaning products with natural, earth-friendly alternatives.
Stuff to Acquire
18. Replace my beta fish, and con the teenagers at Petsmart into selling me a googly-eyed fish.
19. Get some really good running shoes that are good for my feet.
20. Buy a bicycle.
21. Get a puppy.
22. Have my tattoo touched up.
23. Get another tattoo.
24. Buy a serger or sewing machine.
25. Get a snowboard (and bindings and boots).
26. Get plants for my cubicle.
27. Get lamps for our bedside tables.
28. Buy a really expensive, gorgeous pair of jeans.
Learning
29. Self-study Spanish (I’m thinking with that Rosetta Stone software).
30. Learn to knit.
31. Take a pottery class.
32. Take a silversmithing class.
33. Buy a guitar and a “learn to play” book.
34. Get my driver’s license.
35. Take a bicycle maintenance/repair course.
36. Take a belly dancing class.
37. Take a hip-hop dance class.
38. Take a cooking course with J---.
Travel
39. Visit Z--- in Red Deer.
40. Go on a weeklong backwoods camping trip.
41. Visit C and B in New York.
42. Visit C and C in San Diego.
43. Go on a hot, tropical vacation with J---.
44. Go on a road trip in the U.S.A.
45. Visit my friend M. in Virginia (If that’s where she still is).
46. Go on a trip with my parents.
47. Go to A’s wedding in Australia.
48. Go on a trip with just my sister.
Physical Challenges
49. Finish my 13-week Walk-to-Run program with the same diligence I began it.
50. Run the 10k race at the Zoo in October.
51. Do four sets of 25 proper military pushups in a row, without breaks.
52. Do three sets of 10 pull-ups.
53. Do a one-day fruit-only fast.
54. Do a one-day juice-only fast.
55. Eat a totally vegan diet for two weeks, just to check it out.
56. Do a Moksha yoga 30-day yoga challenge.
57. Do the WWF CN Tower stair climb.
58. Go back to Karate.
59. Join a hockey team.
Experiences
60. Go scuba diving.
61. Go berry picking at a farm north of the city.
62. Take the train to Niagara for the weekend, ride bicycles around the area and have a picnic.
63. Go to the Aberfoyle Antiques Market.
64. Have a picnic with friends on Centre Island.
65. Go away to a health resort or yoga retreat.
66. Watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.
67. Fire a gun.
68. Have a couples massage with J---.
69. See an opera at the new Four Seasons Center.
70. Go to a garage sale in a fancy neighbourhood.
71. Go to ten live concerts. (0/10)
72. Go see ten plays at smaller Toronto theaters. (0/10)
73. Go horseback riding.
74. Go to a maple-syrup farm in the winter.
75. Go for a walk along St. Clair Ave, west of Bathurst, to explore the shops and restaurants.
76. Drive around Forest Hill/Rosedale on the day when they put out large items for garbage collection to see if there’s any good stuff, and just to see what rich people throw out.
Work and Money
77. Pay off my MasterCard debt in full, and then only use the card for travel.
78. Contribute full available amount to my RRSP for 2007.
79. Contribute full available amount to my RRSP for 2008.
80. Figure out how to transfer the funds in my IATSE group plan into my personal account—shut account once this is done.
81. Have a piece published on the Facts & Arguments page of the Globe and Mail.
82. Have a poem published anywhere.
83. Make a really strong Personal Development Plan at work, and actively work to distinguish myself and advance my career within the company.
84. Get a raise or a new position with a higher salary.
85. Take another course with the Editor’s Association of Canada.
86. Write a romance novel.
87. Write a business plan for one of my various “genius” ideas.
Random
88. Get a consultation regarding laser eye surgery.
89. Get laser hair removal on bikini line.
90. Have my cousins over for dinner.
91. Leave IATSE. (will they ever let me out?)
92. Watch no television for three months.
93. Pierce my bellybutton.
94. Not wash my hair for a week to see if that thing about your hair cleaning itself is true.
95. Draw in my sketchbook every single day for one month.
96. Invent a “healthy” version of Nutella.
97. Prepare a breakfast like the ones we ate in Morocco, homemade bread included.
98. Set up a vermicomposter in my apartment.
99. Write a thank-you letter to my old pediatrician (I still miss him!).
100. Find a charity that I can volunteer for, and commit to a minimum of 48 hours of volunteer work.
101. Make a new friend.
END DATE: Thursday, January 28th 2010.
The idea behind the 101 list is to clearly define your goals, and give yourself enough time in which to accomplish them. Read more here.
The first, unwritten item on the list is "Manage to think of 101 things." This was not easy. I had to branch out quite a bit, including things that had, up until now, just tickled the edges of my thoughts. I've tried to stay away from too many purchase-oriented goals, so that this doesn't become a shopping list of stuff that I just want (then I'd have to retitle it "1001 things in 101 days"). Anything on this list that requires money will in itself represent the accomplishment of another kind of goal -- managing to save the cash in order to do it. I'm actually really looking forward to getting some of this stuff done!
I'll update my progress as I cross items off the list.
101 Things in 1001 Days
Stuff to Do
1. Put together wedding albums.
2. Put together honeymoon album.
3. Plant flowers in the boxes on our balcony.
4. Make a roof for my cubicle at work to cut down the overhead glare.
5. Re-organize and de-clutter basement storage locker.
6. Sell old camera-assisting gear on Craigslist/Kijiji/Mandy.
7. Replace all my old cassettes with CD versions of the same.
8. Take all my CDs out of their cases and reorganize them into book storage, also find somewhere that recycles jewel cases and/or get rid of them via Craigslist.
9. Put all my contacts into one, nice, organized address book.
10. Catalog all my books on LibraryThing
11. Complete magazine archiving project.
12. Complete “sentimental” sweatshirt project.
13. Finish reading Salman Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children” (may have to start over).
14. Tidy and organize my desk and filing cabinet, getting rid of old, unnecessary stuff and establishing a system that will make it easy to keep it orderly in the future.
15. Refinish coffee table (or have it professionally refinished).
16. Replace all my toiletries with natural, earth-friendly alternatives.
17. Replace all my household cleaning products with natural, earth-friendly alternatives.
Stuff to Acquire
18. Replace my beta fish, and con the teenagers at Petsmart into selling me a googly-eyed fish.
19. Get some really good running shoes that are good for my feet.
20. Buy a bicycle.
21. Get a puppy.
22. Have my tattoo touched up.
23. Get another tattoo.
24. Buy a serger or sewing machine.
25. Get a snowboard (and bindings and boots).
26. Get plants for my cubicle.
27. Get lamps for our bedside tables.
28. Buy a really expensive, gorgeous pair of jeans.
Learning
29. Self-study Spanish (I’m thinking with that Rosetta Stone software).
30. Learn to knit.
31. Take a pottery class.
32. Take a silversmithing class.
33. Buy a guitar and a “learn to play” book.
34. Get my driver’s license.
35. Take a bicycle maintenance/repair course.
36. Take a belly dancing class.
37. Take a hip-hop dance class.
38. Take a cooking course with J---.
Travel
39. Visit Z--- in Red Deer.
40. Go on a weeklong backwoods camping trip.
41. Visit C and B in New York.
42. Visit C and C in San Diego.
43. Go on a hot, tropical vacation with J---.
44. Go on a road trip in the U.S.A.
45. Visit my friend M. in Virginia (If that’s where she still is).
46. Go on a trip with my parents.
47. Go to A’s wedding in Australia.
48. Go on a trip with just my sister.
Physical Challenges
49. Finish my 13-week Walk-to-Run program with the same diligence I began it.
50. Run the 10k race at the Zoo in October.
51. Do four sets of 25 proper military pushups in a row, without breaks.
52. Do three sets of 10 pull-ups.
53. Do a one-day fruit-only fast.
54. Do a one-day juice-only fast.
55. Eat a totally vegan diet for two weeks, just to check it out.
56. Do a Moksha yoga 30-day yoga challenge.
57. Do the WWF CN Tower stair climb.
58. Go back to Karate.
59. Join a hockey team.
Experiences
60. Go scuba diving.
61. Go berry picking at a farm north of the city.
62. Take the train to Niagara for the weekend, ride bicycles around the area and have a picnic.
63. Go to the Aberfoyle Antiques Market.
64. Have a picnic with friends on Centre Island.
65. Go away to a health resort or yoga retreat.
66. Watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.
67. Fire a gun.
68. Have a couples massage with J---.
69. See an opera at the new Four Seasons Center.
70. Go to a garage sale in a fancy neighbourhood.
71. Go to ten live concerts. (0/10)
72. Go see ten plays at smaller Toronto theaters. (0/10)
73. Go horseback riding.
74. Go to a maple-syrup farm in the winter.
75. Go for a walk along St. Clair Ave, west of Bathurst, to explore the shops and restaurants.
76. Drive around Forest Hill/Rosedale on the day when they put out large items for garbage collection to see if there’s any good stuff, and just to see what rich people throw out.
Work and Money
77. Pay off my MasterCard debt in full, and then only use the card for travel.
78. Contribute full available amount to my RRSP for 2007.
79. Contribute full available amount to my RRSP for 2008.
80. Figure out how to transfer the funds in my IATSE group plan into my personal account—shut account once this is done.
81. Have a piece published on the Facts & Arguments page of the Globe and Mail.
82. Have a poem published anywhere.
83. Make a really strong Personal Development Plan at work, and actively work to distinguish myself and advance my career within the company.
84. Get a raise or a new position with a higher salary.
85. Take another course with the Editor’s Association of Canada.
86. Write a romance novel.
87. Write a business plan for one of my various “genius” ideas.
Random
88. Get a consultation regarding laser eye surgery.
89. Get laser hair removal on bikini line.
90. Have my cousins over for dinner.
91. Leave IATSE. (will they ever let me out?)
92. Watch no television for three months.
93. Pierce my bellybutton.
94. Not wash my hair for a week to see if that thing about your hair cleaning itself is true.
95. Draw in my sketchbook every single day for one month.
96. Invent a “healthy” version of Nutella.
97. Prepare a breakfast like the ones we ate in Morocco, homemade bread included.
98. Set up a vermicomposter in my apartment.
99. Write a thank-you letter to my old pediatrician (I still miss him!).
100. Find a charity that I can volunteer for, and commit to a minimum of 48 hours of volunteer work.
101. Make a new friend.
END DATE: Thursday, January 28th 2010.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
In Memoriam
J---'s grandmother passed away this weekend. A sad affair for the whole family, myself included, since I thought she was a pretty nifty old lady. I packed up my funeral dress and hopped on the train for Montreal.
Considering I'm not yet thirty years old, I feel that I have been to too many funerals. Eight. Only two of which were for elderly persons who died of "natural" causes. Experience notwithstanding, I am bad at funerals. I never know what to say. I am mute in the face of others' grief. My own grief is always silent. I even have a hard time with "I'm so sorry." It seems inadequate. Am I apologizing on behalf of the universe for the loss of their loved one? I hope someday to become the kind of woman my mother manages to be in times such as these: making tea and getting sandwiches for the bereaved, running interference, saying all the right things, and generally exuding an air of compassion and calm.
On the day of the service, we made our way to the "family room" at the funeral parlour. I made the mistake of sitting in an armchair right next to the open door. Within moments of sitting, a pair of little old Jewish ladies tottered in and descened upon me, clutching my hands and telling me earnestly in French just how very sorry they were. My French is okay; I understand most of what's going on. At least, in France I do. Montreal is its own beast, and I certainly didn't have the capacity to tell these ladies that whomever they might be looking for in order to bestow their condolences, it certainly wasn't me. I also didn't want to send away what might be two of J---'s grandma's bingo buddies. So for a few, long, horrifying seconds, I was the focus of all their regretful attention. Luckily, my sister-in-law swept in with a "You've got the room wrong!" and saved me. Phew. The only thing worse than not having anything to say to those truly mourning is not having anything to say to those who seem genuinely upset but you have no idea who they are.
Since I had no forum in which to share my favourite story about J---'s bubbie over the weekend, I will share it here.
It was my first Rosh Hashannah with J---'s family, and the first time that I was meeting my then-boyfriend's extended family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmothers, the full deal. I'd picked a pretty, not-too-showy-or-sexy dress, been on my best behaviour all night (not drinking too much wine with dinner, not obviously bingeing on the honey cake afterwards), and I thought I was doing fairly well in terms of making a good impression. After the meal, the men all disappeared somewhere -- I think to play chess -- and I was left alone with the ladies. All right, I thought, some girl-bonding time, this is where I can really score some points. The bubbie turns to me. Now, Bubbie immigrated from Hungary, and so has a delightful old-world accent. She asks a few questions about my trip into town (the train was late), where we're staying (at J---'s parents' place), small-talk stuff. I struggle a bit with the accent, but I'm doing okay. Then, she comes out with:
"So, has J--- tried to sleep with you yet?"
My smile freezes in place. Inside my head, I am screaming. Whaaaaaaaa???
The silence of me not answering stretches out. I am certain that the other women at the table (his mom, his sister, his aunts) have overheard and are waiting for my answer. There is no answering this question.
She presses on:
"You know, Jack, the little dog, he jumps up on the bed there."
I heave a sigh of relief. Jack! His parents' little dog! Who does indeed try to jump on the bed to sleep with you!
"Oh yes," I say, "he has." And I laugh.
But I maintain, to this day, that that is NOT what she said the first time. She had a great sense of humour (sometimes obscured by her accent and nonconventional use of English, so you weren't sure if she was really making a joke), and I think she was a little bit naughty. I think she did it to see me sweat.
I'm sending lots of love into the universe in her memory.
Considering I'm not yet thirty years old, I feel that I have been to too many funerals. Eight. Only two of which were for elderly persons who died of "natural" causes. Experience notwithstanding, I am bad at funerals. I never know what to say. I am mute in the face of others' grief. My own grief is always silent. I even have a hard time with "I'm so sorry." It seems inadequate. Am I apologizing on behalf of the universe for the loss of their loved one? I hope someday to become the kind of woman my mother manages to be in times such as these: making tea and getting sandwiches for the bereaved, running interference, saying all the right things, and generally exuding an air of compassion and calm.
On the day of the service, we made our way to the "family room" at the funeral parlour. I made the mistake of sitting in an armchair right next to the open door. Within moments of sitting, a pair of little old Jewish ladies tottered in and descened upon me, clutching my hands and telling me earnestly in French just how very sorry they were. My French is okay; I understand most of what's going on. At least, in France I do. Montreal is its own beast, and I certainly didn't have the capacity to tell these ladies that whomever they might be looking for in order to bestow their condolences, it certainly wasn't me. I also didn't want to send away what might be two of J---'s grandma's bingo buddies. So for a few, long, horrifying seconds, I was the focus of all their regretful attention. Luckily, my sister-in-law swept in with a "You've got the room wrong!" and saved me. Phew. The only thing worse than not having anything to say to those truly mourning is not having anything to say to those who seem genuinely upset but you have no idea who they are.
Since I had no forum in which to share my favourite story about J---'s bubbie over the weekend, I will share it here.
It was my first Rosh Hashannah with J---'s family, and the first time that I was meeting my then-boyfriend's extended family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmothers, the full deal. I'd picked a pretty, not-too-showy-or-sexy dress, been on my best behaviour all night (not drinking too much wine with dinner, not obviously bingeing on the honey cake afterwards), and I thought I was doing fairly well in terms of making a good impression. After the meal, the men all disappeared somewhere -- I think to play chess -- and I was left alone with the ladies. All right, I thought, some girl-bonding time, this is where I can really score some points. The bubbie turns to me. Now, Bubbie immigrated from Hungary, and so has a delightful old-world accent. She asks a few questions about my trip into town (the train was late), where we're staying (at J---'s parents' place), small-talk stuff. I struggle a bit with the accent, but I'm doing okay. Then, she comes out with:
"So, has J--- tried to sleep with you yet?"
My smile freezes in place. Inside my head, I am screaming. Whaaaaaaaa???
The silence of me not answering stretches out. I am certain that the other women at the table (his mom, his sister, his aunts) have overheard and are waiting for my answer. There is no answering this question.
She presses on:
"You know, Jack, the little dog, he jumps up on the bed there."
I heave a sigh of relief. Jack! His parents' little dog! Who does indeed try to jump on the bed to sleep with you!
"Oh yes," I say, "he has." And I laugh.
But I maintain, to this day, that that is NOT what she said the first time. She had a great sense of humour (sometimes obscured by her accent and nonconventional use of English, so you weren't sure if she was really making a joke), and I think she was a little bit naughty. I think she did it to see me sweat.
I'm sending lots of love into the universe in her memory.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
If you've read "His Dark Materials" then you'll know how exciting this is.
Please take my quiz to help me uncover my true daemon.
Monday, April 23, 2007
When things fall apart
I am a creature of habit to the point of compulsion. I like things the way I like them, and I like them just so.
Still, when faced with the so-called chaos of the system breaking down, such as the TTC this morning, I always surprise myself with how little an upset of events like this affects me. You're never going to find me freaking out, pushing and shouting. You probably won't even find me grumbling. I'll just be chilling, listening to my iPod, waiting for the shuttle, finding an alternate route, going for a stroll instead.
I think back to my international travels, and how I met any "crisis" with flexibility and optimism (with two notable exceptions, the first being our Hotel California-esque inability to leave the Pink Palace in Corfu, and the second, upon being told that we might not be getting on the plane for our honeymoon, where I threatened tears). I would generally say that I'm highly adaptable.
I guess I'm wondering why I try so hard to control the little stuff, when I clearly understand that I have no say in the big picture. Maybe that is why.
Still, when faced with the so-called chaos of the system breaking down, such as the TTC this morning, I always surprise myself with how little an upset of events like this affects me. You're never going to find me freaking out, pushing and shouting. You probably won't even find me grumbling. I'll just be chilling, listening to my iPod, waiting for the shuttle, finding an alternate route, going for a stroll instead.
I think back to my international travels, and how I met any "crisis" with flexibility and optimism (with two notable exceptions, the first being our Hotel California-esque inability to leave the Pink Palace in Corfu, and the second, upon being told that we might not be getting on the plane for our honeymoon, where I threatened tears). I would generally say that I'm highly adaptable.
I guess I'm wondering why I try so hard to control the little stuff, when I clearly understand that I have no say in the big picture. Maybe that is why.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Sunshine!
I hate having to get up in the dark. I've done it a lot, in the course of various jobs, or for various reasons, and it always makes me unhappy. Today, when my alarm went off, there was actually light creeping around the corners of my bedroom curtains, and on my walk to the gym, I actually saw sunshine. Yay! The season has finally changed! I saw a red-breasted robin on the lawn a couple weeks ago, and thought, Oh good, spring is here. But then spring was most decidedly not here.
So, my overall mood and outlook on life has greatly improved since this morning.
Group hug!
So, my overall mood and outlook on life has greatly improved since this morning.
Group hug!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Suck it up, gimpy.
There's a woman in my office who suffered an injury a little while ago; She apparently slipped on some icy steps and broke her ankle. She's got one of those grey boot-casts, a short one, on the broken foot. And she's making out like she is the uber-victim of all time. For a while, she was wheeling herself around on an office chair everywhere. To the kitchen, to the bathroom. She refuses to use any bathroom stall other than the big, handicap-accessible one, saying, "Oh, I'd better wait," if it's occupied (which it usually is, since the floor is nearly entirely women, and there's only four stalls in our bathroom). Now, she's graduated to crutches, but it's still a production every time I see her getting anywhere. Hobbling along dramatically, making people hold doors open for her. I can tell you right now that it takes her for bloody ever to get from A to B not because of her injury, but because she'll stop to talk to anyone who will listen to her "poor me" sob story. I've even overheard her in the kitchen talking about suing whoever had neglected to throw salt on the icy steps.
Why am I so hard-hearted to her plight? Let me break it down for you. She's got one short cast. She has it because she slipped and fell. Yes, it sucks. Lots of stuff sucks. Suck it up.
I had two of those boot-casts, and mine went up to my knees. I had them because I GOT HIT BY A CAR that might have KILLED ME if angles, luck and helmets weren't on my side. And while I certainly did my time in a wheelchair for a few weeks right after the accident, I like to think that I bounced back shortly thereafter and was making my way around town on my moonbooted feet and crutches. (And help from friends and family, no doubt, but I had been HIT BY A CAR!)
So what's my point? Perspective. I fully acknowledge that I was lucky enough to be home healing in my own bed after my accident, not in traction at the hospital in a coma for months. Ms. Slip-and-fall needs to realize that she has experienced a minor upset, not a major trauma, and that further, no one really cares. Well, at least I don't.
Why am I so hard-hearted to her plight? Let me break it down for you. She's got one short cast. She has it because she slipped and fell. Yes, it sucks. Lots of stuff sucks. Suck it up.
I had two of those boot-casts, and mine went up to my knees. I had them because I GOT HIT BY A CAR that might have KILLED ME if angles, luck and helmets weren't on my side. And while I certainly did my time in a wheelchair for a few weeks right after the accident, I like to think that I bounced back shortly thereafter and was making my way around town on my moonbooted feet and crutches. (And help from friends and family, no doubt, but I had been HIT BY A CAR!)
So what's my point? Perspective. I fully acknowledge that I was lucky enough to be home healing in my own bed after my accident, not in traction at the hospital in a coma for months. Ms. Slip-and-fall needs to realize that she has experienced a minor upset, not a major trauma, and that further, no one really cares. Well, at least I don't.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Public Service Announcement
I am going to start commuting with a small pair of scissors tucked in my pocket, so that when I see women who have not cut off the small X of thread holding the rear vent on their coats or jackets closed, I can just subtly bend down and snip it for them.
I thought that since winter was almost over, I wouldn't have to suffer through spotting instances of this outerwear mishap any longer, but noooo, out come the trenchcoats, and on stay the threads. Ladies, it is supposed to come OFF. The reason your coat pulls uncomfortably when you sit down? That would be because the vent is still sewn shut. It's not for decoration, you know. It serves a practical purpose. And the threads are just to help keep the shape of the coat on the hanger. Like when pockets are sewn shut. Ever thought to yourself, "hey, these pockets are just decorative--no, wait a second, if I just pull this thread...." Same idea for the rear vent.
Also, it's too late for lots of you, but you know the tag on the arm that declares your coat is 100% Wool? That should come off too, you tacky broad. I'm glad you're proud of your purchase, but that tag was to let you know the material composition of your coat, not everyone on the subway car with you. Take it off!
I am passionate about this. I have considered having friendly little chats with strangers to fill them in on the inscrutable ways of coatmakers. But it's a big world, and I'm just one woman....
I thought that since winter was almost over, I wouldn't have to suffer through spotting instances of this outerwear mishap any longer, but noooo, out come the trenchcoats, and on stay the threads. Ladies, it is supposed to come OFF. The reason your coat pulls uncomfortably when you sit down? That would be because the vent is still sewn shut. It's not for decoration, you know. It serves a practical purpose. And the threads are just to help keep the shape of the coat on the hanger. Like when pockets are sewn shut. Ever thought to yourself, "hey, these pockets are just decorative--no, wait a second, if I just pull this thread...." Same idea for the rear vent.
Also, it's too late for lots of you, but you know the tag on the arm that declares your coat is 100% Wool? That should come off too, you tacky broad. I'm glad you're proud of your purchase, but that tag was to let you know the material composition of your coat, not everyone on the subway car with you. Take it off!
I am passionate about this. I have considered having friendly little chats with strangers to fill them in on the inscrutable ways of coatmakers. But it's a big world, and I'm just one woman....
Monday, April 09, 2007
Single girls, get thee a hockey stick!
The Golden Girls - before the big game!Ever since I started playing hockey, it has become impossible to leave the house with my gear and avoid being noticed and spoken to by random dudes. Everything from an appreciative nod to the asinine: "Do you play hockey?" (No, buddy, this is a soccer stick.) My personal favourite was as I was leaving the rink (which is indoors) during the summer, and this guy says, "Isn't it a little hot for hockey?" I agreed with him that yes, it was, and gave him a "silly-me" smile and shrug. I have even considered having a T-shirt printed that reads, my hockey equipment is not an invitation to conversation. I wondered aloud to a fellow chick-hockey-player whether or not any other sporting equipment might elicit a similar response. A lacrosse stick, perhaps, or soccer cleats. We figured if you were fully kitted out--like, in cleats, those floppy shorts, and holding a soccer ball--then people would for sure be all, "Hey, soccer!" the way they are all, "Hey, hockey!" Sigh. On my way to practice I now brace myself for the onslaught, and leave the house with my cold-bitch shields at Full. This is because the attention is unwanted. If I wanted to meet guys, hey, breaking the ice has been accomplished! Lots of guys play hockey, and out of the ones that don't, a goodly portion of them enjoy watching it. You already have something in common! I have determined that for the ultimate in attention-getting, a girl should take her hockey equipment with her when she goes out with her girlfriends to Hooters. The intoxicating combination of sporting gear and tits drives the dudes wild! They eventually give up hitting on the waitresses, and hey, there you are!
Furthermore, if you do indeed play, then you might get the exciting opportunity to go to a tournament. Men everywhere! Pumped full of adrenaline and beer! How can you not score?
The reason I'm thinking about this right now is that this weekend I played my first real, entire game of hockey. It was killer, and I'm still sore all over, but it was also incredibly awesome. (Another thing, if you are a woman who plays hockey, it immediately makes you the awesomest. Thank you very much.) I'd go into it, but Jessica, my partner in the adventure, describes it all perfectly here.
We won, although it had nothing to do with my contribution to the game (mainly as an obstacle for players on the other team to skate around) and everything to do with our fabulous goalie. But it re-fired my passion to play, and I'm encouraging women everywhere--especially the single ones--to join in!
The winning team! (I'm clearly exhausted)Thursday, April 05, 2007
My fish died
So that sucks.
I was sad.
It actually made me feel really bad, as though I had failed in some fundamental way. I mean, no one was ever going to be giving me a "World's Best Fish Mom" mug anyday soon, but I like to think I was doing an okay job.
Then I realized that ol' Killer (that was my fish) was actually over two years old, a perfectly lengthy life for a beta fish. So, I'm not an evil fish-neglector. Still, a life that was is no more. So I'd like to say a few things in Killer's memory.
Killer.
You were pretty, and feisty in the little bag we bought you in.
But you were stupid, and wouldn't eat unless I pointed out where the food was.
You were hardy, enduring long weekends on your little lonesome.
You were funny, swimming rapidly around your bowl, and hiding under the plastic plant I got for you.
For a fish, you were okay.
I'll remember you.
I was sad.
It actually made me feel really bad, as though I had failed in some fundamental way. I mean, no one was ever going to be giving me a "World's Best Fish Mom" mug anyday soon, but I like to think I was doing an okay job.
Then I realized that ol' Killer (that was my fish) was actually over two years old, a perfectly lengthy life for a beta fish. So, I'm not an evil fish-neglector. Still, a life that was is no more. So I'd like to say a few things in Killer's memory.
Killer.
You were pretty, and feisty in the little bag we bought you in.
But you were stupid, and wouldn't eat unless I pointed out where the food was.
You were hardy, enduring long weekends on your little lonesome.
You were funny, swimming rapidly around your bowl, and hiding under the plastic plant I got for you.
For a fish, you were okay.
I'll remember you.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Quite the commute.
I woke this morning at a time I’m never normally awake – much too early for rising, and only rarely hit from the other side if I’m still up on the occasional all-nighter. Waited in the predawn darkness for my taxi. When I’m sleepy, I have an irrational worry about making the morning taxi wait. Gotta be totally ready before he gets there! I zoned out on the way to the airport, watching the glow from car headlamps and streetlights moving through the mist, and listening to the nonstop one-sided patter from the taxi dispatcher flowing seamlessly between French and English. That particular cocoon of time and space was calm and comfortable, still so near sleeping, and I found myself wondering if I could convince the driver to take me all the way back to Toronto. Instead, I was ejected into the sterile whiteness of the airport. It took my dozy brain three tries, and some encouraging words from the nice airport lady, to work the electronic check-in machine.
In what is apparently a new trend for me, I didn’t set off the metal detector. Usually, I set them off no matter what. I don’t know if for a while they were set to a higher sensitivity, but whatever combination of rings, studs and zippers on jeans, or underwire in my bra I did or did not have on, I always, always made it beep. I am used to getting swept over by the guy with the detector rod with a practiced nonchalance that I was quite proud of. In any other interaction with the Powers That Be, I’ve always got that guilty feeling – like surely they’re going to accuse me of something, because obviously I am a bad person. Not so with detector-rod guy. They’re gonna have to swipe me all over with it because I set off the walk-through detector, but they’re not gonna find anything. Bring on the swiper!
I scored a seat on a slightly earlier flight, so wasted no time hanging around the gates. Went through the usual hustle and bustle of boarding, but with the exciting challenge of holding an extra-large Styrofoam cup of horrendous coffee. I figured if I can handle it on the TTC… Took my seat and looked around at a plane-full of men. If that plane had gone down on a deserted island, the lady four rows up from me, the First Officer (awesome), the lone stewardess, and I would have been fuuuuuucked. Spent most of the flight in that heavy sleep that overtakes you and gives you no choice but to succumb. Even if you’re still holding a huge cup of horrendous coffee. TTC bus, once again, thanks for the free training.
I think I may have been the only person on the flight with checked luggage—all those men seemed to just have briefcases—since my bag was already lazily circling the baggage claim when I got there.
Guess what? The 401 totally sucks in the morning! But we cruised to the dulcet tones of the GPS navigator as she repeatedly told the driver to stay left, or stay right. Called the hubby to let him know I’d arrived safely and was not currently the desert-island sex slave of 136 businessmen and one pilot.
Pulled up to my office building at the same time as our CEO. Felt awesome that I was in the chauffeur-driven vehicle. And allowed to wear jeans to the office.
I’ve felt bizarrely disconnected all day; from the eating of my imported-from-Montreal croissant that got smushed because the security guy casually chucked my bag upside down to put it in the X-ray machine, to now, when my early morning is catching up to me in a big way and insisting that I mainline some caffeine--something not too horrendous. As though maybe I’m still asleep in the back of that first taxi, and he’s driven out into the Quebec countryside, and when I wake I’ll be surrounded by pine trees and birdsong and cool, damp air.
I really just want to go home, have a bath, and go to bed.
In what is apparently a new trend for me, I didn’t set off the metal detector. Usually, I set them off no matter what. I don’t know if for a while they were set to a higher sensitivity, but whatever combination of rings, studs and zippers on jeans, or underwire in my bra I did or did not have on, I always, always made it beep. I am used to getting swept over by the guy with the detector rod with a practiced nonchalance that I was quite proud of. In any other interaction with the Powers That Be, I’ve always got that guilty feeling – like surely they’re going to accuse me of something, because obviously I am a bad person. Not so with detector-rod guy. They’re gonna have to swipe me all over with it because I set off the walk-through detector, but they’re not gonna find anything. Bring on the swiper!
I scored a seat on a slightly earlier flight, so wasted no time hanging around the gates. Went through the usual hustle and bustle of boarding, but with the exciting challenge of holding an extra-large Styrofoam cup of horrendous coffee. I figured if I can handle it on the TTC… Took my seat and looked around at a plane-full of men. If that plane had gone down on a deserted island, the lady four rows up from me, the First Officer (awesome), the lone stewardess, and I would have been fuuuuuucked. Spent most of the flight in that heavy sleep that overtakes you and gives you no choice but to succumb. Even if you’re still holding a huge cup of horrendous coffee. TTC bus, once again, thanks for the free training.
I think I may have been the only person on the flight with checked luggage—all those men seemed to just have briefcases—since my bag was already lazily circling the baggage claim when I got there.
Guess what? The 401 totally sucks in the morning! But we cruised to the dulcet tones of the GPS navigator as she repeatedly told the driver to stay left, or stay right. Called the hubby to let him know I’d arrived safely and was not currently the desert-island sex slave of 136 businessmen and one pilot.
Pulled up to my office building at the same time as our CEO. Felt awesome that I was in the chauffeur-driven vehicle. And allowed to wear jeans to the office.
I’ve felt bizarrely disconnected all day; from the eating of my imported-from-Montreal croissant that got smushed because the security guy casually chucked my bag upside down to put it in the X-ray machine, to now, when my early morning is catching up to me in a big way and insisting that I mainline some caffeine--something not too horrendous. As though maybe I’m still asleep in the back of that first taxi, and he’s driven out into the Quebec countryside, and when I wake I’ll be surrounded by pine trees and birdsong and cool, damp air.
I really just want to go home, have a bath, and go to bed.
Friday, March 30, 2007
A Rip in the Space-Time Continuum
Last night I went to see the school play at my old high school.
And now, dear reader, I am imagining you frowning, wincing in discomfort even, and definitely wondering, “Good Lord, WHY?” I think that my husband is the only person on the planet who had a different response than that, and when I told him my plans said without hesitation, “Cool!” However, we cannot totally rule out that he may not have been listening at all and figured I had just told him I was meeting my lover Roberto in order to indulge in carnal pleasures and high-calorie desserts.
The “why” is complicated. To begin, I recently reconnected with an old friend from high school. Now, out of the people that I was close with back in the day, I am still in regular contact with five out of six of them. (By close, I mean “spent every waking hour with.” And by regular, I mean as much as possible considering three live in other countries, and we all have these ridiculous, grown-up lives and schedules now, and we can’t just meet up at the yacht club in fourth period for some free pool and too much coffee.) This friend is the one who drifted away, and I am thrilled to have her back.
In a surreal turn of events, this year the high school is doing the musical that many of us worked on together in our Grade Twelve year, and the drama teacher (who is, of course, still there) called my friend out of the blue to ask her to choreograph the dance scenes. (Originally, she danced in the production, and I was one of the stage managers. I did costumes, too. Surprise.)
I have a strong sense of loyalty to the high school play. Had it not been for the play, I would have absolutely self-destructed in my last two years of high school. There would have been no reason to ever even show up. Morning rehearsals at the very least got me to the building. It wasn’t that I was all that passionate about drama, although I was, but I did all my acting at an extra-curricular class that was far superior to the in-school program (and that was also led by an amazing woman who was a fantastic role model for us impressionable teenagers. But that’s another story). The play was so important because it gave us a sense of belonging. We had a purpose, and we worked together for a common goal. For everyone that wasn’t a jock ('cause, like, I imagine that team sports probably do those things, too, but I simply wouldn’t know) the play was the thing. And the cast party at the end was infamously fun.
So I went.
I’m not going to talk about the play itself. What I will say is that the joy to be found in amateur theatre is that everyone is working their hearts out, and that I do respect high school drama teachers everywhere for maintaining the necessary level of enthusiasm and optimism to soldier on year after year. I couldn’t help but compare to the year we did it, and it was strange to see the kids who were in the cast; I had assumed that it would be the 2007 version of the same people, so was surprised when the same “types” weren’t in the same roles. I figure that in reality we were no more talented or professional than last night’s circus, even though my memory colours it differently.
It wasn’t my first time back at the school, since I went for my sister’s graduation five years after my own, so I had pretty much got out all the “Wow, this is so weird!” It was still weird, but in a different way. I didn’t have any emotional response to the environment the way I had before. I remember that last time I had felt as though I had to prove myself, I felt anxious and subject to judgment. I had felt like leaving as soon as possible, and maybe smoking a joint. In short, I had felt like a teenager. This time, I just felt like me, visiting my old high school. Even the brief encounter with the drama teacher–whom I found unrecognizable if not for his raggedy sweatshirt and baseball cap—where he proved himself to be as much of a dink as I remembered, didn’t manage to shake my self-possession. It was, actually, very cool.
Now, all I need is an appropriate Simpson's quote to round it all out...
Chief Wiggum: I hope this has taught you kids a lesson: kids never learn.
Homer: Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to
prove anything that's even remotely true!
Principal Skinner: That's why I love elementary school, Edna.
The children believe anything you tell them.
Homer: Oh, everything looks bad if you remember it.
Bart: I am through with working. Working is for chumps.
Homer: Son, I'm proud of you! I was twice your age when I figured that out.
Bart: What a day, eh, Milhouse? The sun is out, birds are singing, bees are trying
to have sex with them -- as is my understanding ...
Ralph: Sleep! That' s where I'm a viking!
Homer: Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to
prove anything that's even remotely true!
Principal Skinner: That's why I love elementary school, Edna.
The children believe anything you tell them.
Homer: Oh, everything looks bad if you remember it.
Bart: I am through with working. Working is for chumps.
Homer: Son, I'm proud of you! I was twice your age when I figured that out.
Bart: What a day, eh, Milhouse? The sun is out, birds are singing, bees are trying
to have sex with them -- as is my understanding ...
Ralph: Sleep! That' s where I'm a viking!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Restaurant Review: Lolo
Lolo Bistro, 619 Mount Pleasant
What a great find this little place is! The interior is cozy and welcoming with black-and-white toile de Jouy on the chairs and deep red walls. They take your coat for you, which I always think is nice.
Basic bistro menu, and everything on it looks nice, making ordering a delightful chore. Grilled calamari to start is tender and yummy, on mixed greens with a fresh-tasting salsa. Goat cheese tart with caramelized onions lives up to the promised potential of two of my favourite ingredients. The escargot was well-received, if the accompanying mushrooms were "underwhelming." Ribeye steak is good. A little thin for my likes, but they cooked it correctly, so kudos for that. Delicious peppercorn sauce, though I was surprised at its presentation (a big puddle under everything, as opposed to on top of the steak) but it worked out, because you wanted to sop it up with the excellent, crispy frites. [Aside: last time I was in the United States of America, I saw on a menu that the steak came with "steak fries." I asked the waitress if that meant the skinny crispy ones, thinking that perhaps down there in the U.S.A, "frites" was too foreign. I was told that "steak fries" are big, thick and soft. Figures. When I want those, well, I never want those, but if I did, I'd order a baked potato.] The veal was enjoyed. Garlic mashed potatoes got lukewarm praise. The fresh vegetables were all really nice -- give me a restaurant that doesn't overcook a carrot and I'm happy. We didn't have desert, because I'd made creme brulee at home--and mine is very good--though apparently they are all made on the premises and probably quite yummy.
I didn't get a look at the wine list, deferring the ordering instead to someone whose standard order isn't "a glass of your cheapest red as long as it isn't Cressman's." We had a fun and zesty red, and lots of it, so I don't remember what it was. I assume there was a nice selection, if that was part of it.
Okay value for money. The food was good, but I think there's a bit of a neighbourhood premium at work.
rating: * * * (I'd pop in again if I was in the area, but might not make the trip just for them.)
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Dedicated...or crazy.
Twice a week, we drag ourselves out of bed a tad earlier than other days (one "snooze" on the alarm clock as opposed to, oh, five) in order to make it to the 6:30 a.m. spinning class at the gym. Today we were running a little late, which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that I had to run back upstairs to get something I'd forgotten, but when we arrived at the gym, the door to the spinning room was still locked. This makes spinners very anxious, since most of us have, if not a specific bike, at least an area in the room we like to get our bike. And on busy days, the class can fill up quickly so you get stuck with a dud (squeaky pedals, only one gear--hard, no seat). Doors are supposed to open fifteen minutes before the class. I like to be there ten minutes before, to warm up. We made a fast change and then joined the group of stretchy-shorts-clad folk mingling unhappily outside the still-locked door. The Tuesday morning instructor is not my favorite -- it's just the class that fits best into the rest of my schedule -- and I was beginning to think I'd have to do some rescheduling if she made a habit of being late. (Aside: Look, I'm the first to admit that I personally have a problem with punctuality. But I rarely miss the start of spinning, and I'm not getting paid to be there.) Just as I was going to suggest that one of us maybe ask the front desk if they knew what was up, someone came to tell us that the regular instructor was off, but no-one knew who the sub was. They'd unlock the door for us, and we could use the bikes, but there would be no instructor.
Now, spinning isn't the same as just using a stationary exercise bike. There should be pumping tunes, and preferably an inspiringly fit instructor shouting encouraging things at you for forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, we all filed into the room like a herd of confused and sleepy sheep, hoping against hope that somehow our class would be salvaged. A bit of muttering, a bit of mumbling, a few shared shrugs followed. There was lots of talk about heading back to the changeroom to grab iPods. I was sort of impressed by the way everyone had decided to still do their Tuesday spin, even though we'd been abandoned. It also occured to me that we were all a little nuts, unable to break from our respective gym routines, determined to do spinning even though there clearly wasn't a class happening. Then, one of the twins stepped up and declared that she would try to be the instructor.
I only know them as the twins, and it was a revelation to discover that they were. Before, I thought there was this one girl who was at the gym all the time. I have literally never been at my gym when there isn't one of them there. Once, one of them made gym-friend overtures towards me (I do see them nearly every day!) but since I don't know which one, now I smile at both.
Instructor -- check!
But, she said, she didn't have any music. Suddenly, J remembered that he had a certain CD in his backpack.
"We've got a CD that our spinning-instructor friend made for a class!" I spoke up. In it went. Crisis averted! Everyone happily peddaled away. Twin-girl did a pretty good job up in front of the class. I listened to the tunes and remembered the fabulous class in which my friend had kicked our butts with hard work. I felt good, and virtuous, and dedicated. And only a little crazy. After all, if you're loosing four "snoozes" worth of sleep, you better make it worth it!
Now, spinning isn't the same as just using a stationary exercise bike. There should be pumping tunes, and preferably an inspiringly fit instructor shouting encouraging things at you for forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, we all filed into the room like a herd of confused and sleepy sheep, hoping against hope that somehow our class would be salvaged. A bit of muttering, a bit of mumbling, a few shared shrugs followed. There was lots of talk about heading back to the changeroom to grab iPods. I was sort of impressed by the way everyone had decided to still do their Tuesday spin, even though we'd been abandoned. It also occured to me that we were all a little nuts, unable to break from our respective gym routines, determined to do spinning even though there clearly wasn't a class happening. Then, one of the twins stepped up and declared that she would try to be the instructor.
I only know them as the twins, and it was a revelation to discover that they were. Before, I thought there was this one girl who was at the gym all the time. I have literally never been at my gym when there isn't one of them there. Once, one of them made gym-friend overtures towards me (I do see them nearly every day!) but since I don't know which one, now I smile at both.
Instructor -- check!
But, she said, she didn't have any music. Suddenly, J remembered that he had a certain CD in his backpack.
"We've got a CD that our spinning-instructor friend made for a class!" I spoke up. In it went. Crisis averted! Everyone happily peddaled away. Twin-girl did a pretty good job up in front of the class. I listened to the tunes and remembered the fabulous class in which my friend had kicked our butts with hard work. I felt good, and virtuous, and dedicated. And only a little crazy. After all, if you're loosing four "snoozes" worth of sleep, you better make it worth it!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Restaurant Review: The Drake Hotel
The Drake Hotel -- 1150 Queen Street West
Up until the other day, I’d only ever eaten snack foods at the Drake. Their sushi is pretty good, and the various sandwiches and other late-night offerings are nice. But it is worth heading to the actual dining room to check out the select menu there. It's a cozy, boho-glamorous space, with cushioned benches and velvet flocking on the walls.
The mixed green salad, though boring in name, was everything I wanted in a salad: various fancy lettuces, slices of pear, sweet and spicy pecans, and Quebec blue cheese (a little skimpy on the cheese, though, considering that’s what sold me on the salad). The winter squash ravioli was a delicate blend of textures (al dente pasta, smooth squash filling) and flavours (hazelnut chunks, caramelized red onion) and was absolutely delicious. Braised lamb shoulder was meltingly tender, on a savory mushroom risotto. We didn’t plunge into the extensive wine list, opting instead for fancy martinis. The pear-rosemary martini was a winner.
Entrees are pricey, but every once in a while it’s nice to have a gourmet treat.
rating: * * * (super yum!)
Up until the other day, I’d only ever eaten snack foods at the Drake. Their sushi is pretty good, and the various sandwiches and other late-night offerings are nice. But it is worth heading to the actual dining room to check out the select menu there. It's a cozy, boho-glamorous space, with cushioned benches and velvet flocking on the walls.
The mixed green salad, though boring in name, was everything I wanted in a salad: various fancy lettuces, slices of pear, sweet and spicy pecans, and Quebec blue cheese (a little skimpy on the cheese, though, considering that’s what sold me on the salad). The winter squash ravioli was a delicate blend of textures (al dente pasta, smooth squash filling) and flavours (hazelnut chunks, caramelized red onion) and was absolutely delicious. Braised lamb shoulder was meltingly tender, on a savory mushroom risotto. We didn’t plunge into the extensive wine list, opting instead for fancy martinis. The pear-rosemary martini was a winner.
Entrees are pricey, but every once in a while it’s nice to have a gourmet treat.
rating: * * * (super yum!)
Friday, March 16, 2007
Recipe: Spa Soup
I created this soup for the first time last weekend because I had some cabbage to use up. It's very simple, all the ingredients are good for you, and it tastes "clean" --hence the name.
In a large pot, sautee 2 small onions, sliced, in 2 tsp olive oil until soft (do not brown).
Add 2 cloves garlic, minced, and cook for a few seconds.
Pour in 500ml low-sodium chicken broth (homemade from organic chicken parts would be best, but hey, not everyone is as obssessive as I am) and 250 ml water.
Throw in 3 cups shredded cabbage and one carrot, grated (or use a bagged, pre-made coleslaw mix -- easy!) and 1 tbsp fresh grated ginger.
Stir in 2 tbsp white miso paste and 2 tsp reduced-sodium soy sauce.
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for about 10 minutes. Cabbage should be soft but not mushy.
Makes 4 large bowls.
In a large pot, sautee 2 small onions, sliced, in 2 tsp olive oil until soft (do not brown).
Add 2 cloves garlic, minced, and cook for a few seconds.
Pour in 500ml low-sodium chicken broth (homemade from organic chicken parts would be best, but hey, not everyone is as obssessive as I am) and 250 ml water.
Throw in 3 cups shredded cabbage and one carrot, grated (or use a bagged, pre-made coleslaw mix -- easy!) and 1 tbsp fresh grated ginger.
Stir in 2 tbsp white miso paste and 2 tsp reduced-sodium soy sauce.
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for about 10 minutes. Cabbage should be soft but not mushy.
Makes 4 large bowls.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Restaurant Reviews: Irie Food Joint
Irie Food Joint -- 745 Queen St. W.
www.iriefoodjoint.com
The vibe is relaxed at this low-key bistro on Queen West. Definitely a good spot for a get-together, because the place fills up and gets lively. You can have the mandatory Red Stripe stubby, or one of many amusingly named martinis -- anyone want to start with a Stoned Jamaican?
For appetizers, you must get the Peppered Shrimps. They were declared to be "the best shrimp ever." Served with mango salsa, the sweetness of which perfectly complements the juicy, spicy, flavourful shrimp. Festivals (fried cornbread thingys) are snackable, but you need to order something with them, since they are bland on their own.
Curry chicken roti was full of tasty goodness, with an apple chutney that I'd like to eat on lots of other foods, or maybe on its own. The coleslaw side was, well, just coleslaw. But it was creamy, not oily, and that always wins points in my book. Seafood Gumbo was good, but lacked spice. In fact, after the shrimp, we found the mains to be not quite zesty enough for our palates. The jerk pork loin chops, though, were fabulous; tender and yummy in a red-wine reduction. For desert, the cheesecake was "pretty good."
Good value for money. Generous portions.
On exiting the restaurant, we were hit with a generous waft of the expected Jamaican-style smoke. Of course, that could just be Queen West.
rating: * * * (nothing to complain about; all around good)
www.iriefoodjoint.com
The vibe is relaxed at this low-key bistro on Queen West. Definitely a good spot for a get-together, because the place fills up and gets lively. You can have the mandatory Red Stripe stubby, or one of many amusingly named martinis -- anyone want to start with a Stoned Jamaican?For appetizers, you must get the Peppered Shrimps. They were declared to be "the best shrimp ever." Served with mango salsa, the sweetness of which perfectly complements the juicy, spicy, flavourful shrimp. Festivals (fried cornbread thingys) are snackable, but you need to order something with them, since they are bland on their own.
Curry chicken roti was full of tasty goodness, with an apple chutney that I'd like to eat on lots of other foods, or maybe on its own. The coleslaw side was, well, just coleslaw. But it was creamy, not oily, and that always wins points in my book. Seafood Gumbo was good, but lacked spice. In fact, after the shrimp, we found the mains to be not quite zesty enough for our palates. The jerk pork loin chops, though, were fabulous; tender and yummy in a red-wine reduction. For desert, the cheesecake was "pretty good."
Good value for money. Generous portions.
On exiting the restaurant, we were hit with a generous waft of the expected Jamaican-style smoke. Of course, that could just be Queen West.
rating: * * * (nothing to complain about; all around good)
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