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.

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.

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!

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.

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....

Single girls, get thee a hockey stick!

The Golden Girls - before the big game!

Far be it from me to offer dating or relationship advice; The fact that I found a dude and managed to keep him is purely fluke and has no basis in any kind of logical process. However, I can say without hesitation that if you are a girl trying to meet lots of guys, you should play hockey. At the very least, you should get some hockey equipment and carry it around with you.
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)

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.

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.