Feel the Condo lovin'

This year's Condo BBQ was the other night - and I was ready. I prepared a tray of lemon-lime squares, because my cookbook assured me that it was an inter-generational favorite, and since generations far removed from mine are heartily represented in this building, I figured they'd be a hit. I put on my preppiest outfit and rosied up my cheeks.
Off we went!
The squares were well-received.
I knocked back a plastic cup of wine-in-a-box (J asked before he poured: "Do you want, er, Purple or Blue?") and wolfed down a gross chicken burger. J tried to be chatty. I hung on. We met a clarinet-playing computer programmer from two floors up. See you at next year's BBQ, buddy. Here's the biggest news: We're now on couples-first-name basis with the electric-blue jogging suit couple. Shouts out to Ian n' Nancy! You're such freaks for getting up at 4:45 every morning! That's right, I think you're freaky! Can't wait to run into you again some morning. This time I can say hi properly.
Burgers done, I transferred the squares onto a plastic plate and abandoned them. We had a whole bunch of episodes of Entourage that needed watching.

Vermont Yoga Retreat

It may be a fairly long way to go, but on a weekend as gorgeous as this past one was, Vermont is worth it. It is always an activity-filled trip; The first day we went for a big hike up the mountain. Even though it's August, up on the trail that morning, we could see our breath as we panted our way up to the pond that sits curiously near the top. Every inhalation was a delight of crisp mountain air, scented of earth and water from rainfall the night before.

Someone dropped their sofa cushion on the trail...

no wait, it's just a big ol' furry albino rodent.

Seriously though, little Jack did a really good job of keeping up with us.

The next day we went for a bicycle ride along the Rec path. I always forget the sheer joy of riding a bicycle and have promised myself to buy one just as soon as I have a regular income. Along the path we passed a local Farmer's Market. Naturally, I made straight for it. J and I shared a piece of blueberry cake made by a mom n' pop duo of farmer and baker that was so delicious that we both stopped walking and talking for the duration of eating it. Then we shared a glass of too-good-to-be-true homemade lemonade. It tasted the way you imagine lemonade tastes if you were to read about it in a story book. I love farmer's markets! We brought home to accompany dinner fresh local organic corn on the cob, and a triple-berry pie that weighed three pounds of fruit. God bless the United States!

All of this is very nice, but the very best thing about Vermont is the yoga teacher at one of the resorts in town: Regina. My first question on arriving is always: "Is Regina still teaching?" We went to three classes in four days. I would have gone to more if there'd been any. On weekends the class might get fairly full, but we were lucky - the most students any one class had was 6, and we had lots of one-on-one attention. Regina has been doing yoga for thirty years. She has the smooth unlined face and the calm aura of wellbeing of the well-practiced yogi. She is fairly stern when she teaches, but also joyful. She pushes you into postures you used to look at and inwardly say "yeah, right," and leads you into moments of pure revelation when everything clicks and suddenly you understand why you love yoga so much. She does things like stand on your toes when you're doing cobra, to push all your toes into the floor, but also because, surprisingly, it feels really really nice. She has healing hands. You want her to have tea with you so you can tell her all your problems and she can fix you.

On Monday, Regina took the class outside. I don't think that there is anything better for your health than doing yoga outdoors in Vermont. It is profound to stand in Tadasana (Mountain pose) while looking right at a mountain - feeling nothing above you, and the whole earth supporting you. So much better to look through your legs in Downward Dog at a gently swaying tree than at the bizarreness of your own face upside-down in a mirror! And is is absolutely invigorating to go through a series of warrior poses with the sun beating down on your skin, and the wind gusting warmly around you. Thank you, Regina, I'm feeling sooo good now.

Places I am afraid of losing my wedding ring

Part of the fear is actually losing my precious jewellery. The more major part involves how awful it would be trying to retrieve it in the various scenarios.

• Down the garbage chute in my building
• Down a sewer grate
• That I will gesticulate wildly, causing my ring to fly off across a crowded restaurant, never to be seen again
• In the big crate of cherries at the supermarket, while greedily hunting for just a few more perfect cherries
• To the bottom of a lake while swimming
• To the bottom of a lake after jumping off a cliff
• In a Thunderbox
• That I will wake up one morning and it will simply not be there

Mr. Plumber is my homeboy

Warning: This post contains graphic content that may not be suitable for all readers.

I have just completed the most disgusting household chore ever.
My bathroom sink was clogged and draining really slowly, so I decided to take off the U-bend and clean it out. I know you're thinking: "But wait, you have a husband. Why isn't HE taking off the U-bend (whatever that is)?" Simple. That's just not how it works chez nous. If I wanted that to happen, or anything household-task-related to happen, I would have to nag and nag and nag and nag. Given the choice of turning into an unstoppable nagging bitch, or a man, I have chosen to be manly and complete these tasks myself. Change a lightbulb? Check. Hang a picture? Check. Paint a room? Check? Assemble Ikea furniture? Check. Kill a spider? Check. Open my own jars? Check. Carry one side of a ridiculously large and too-heavy television set because you have your husband erroneously convinced that you're some kind of brawny, capable, uber-chick? Check.
And now: taking off the U-bend.
Got my rubber gloves. Got my wrench. Put a bucket under the sink and started to loosen the nuts (or whatever they're called). I had an inkling that it was going to be ickey when some murky water and a few scraggly, scummy hairs slithered out of the newly-loosen joint. I had no idea just how bad it was. I'm actually gagging a little bit just thinking about it. Sweet Jesus, there was SO MUCH hair! It was all scummy and slimy. And I think there were fingernails!!! I felt like I was pulling an entire desicated corpse out of that tiny little U-bend, one slimy hairball at a time. It was like CSI - only I was discovering just how much I shed. I am frankly in wonderment that I have any hair left on my head. I am so grossed out by my own hair right now that I'm considering shaving my head bald.
I then proceeded to scrub the entire bathroom clean from top to bottom, and then showered to get the last bits of grossness gone.
On the upside - my bathroom sink now drains like a dream!

Day Trip to the United States

Left the Big Smoke just after rush hour and headed for the border. My mother, sister and I had decided to take Ffion, a visiting Welsh lass, over the big invisible line to show her the wonders of The United States of America. Ffion had to register at US Customs by having her picture taken and her index fingers digitally scanned. That was cool. She had two black eyes due to a Muskoka boating accident over the weekend (only the best of Canada for our visitors!) and we were concerned that US Border Patrol might think she was our abused white slave that we kept locked in a pantry and forced to produce unreasonable amounts of Welsh Rarebit - the only possible thing I could think we'd specifically need a welsh slave for. We were also concerned since two of us had distinctively Arabic stamps in our passports - Mine from my honeymoon in Morocco, and Z's from an archaeological dig in Jordan. Z got drilled a bit on the Jordan thing, but we had no problems and the corn-fed American cutie doing the paperwork even recommended we get some Buffalo wings. We're pretty sure he was flirting and not lookinig for MidEast sympathizers, while a smiling portrait of George W. Bush beamed out over the office. I'm not used to such leader-worship, and was reminded of Morocco, where portraits of the King preside over every business.
Then it was off to Target. I adore Target. I got a fake-vintage rock T-shirt with The Beatles on it, and also one of Bon Jovi. This raises lots of interesting quesstions about authenticity and manufactured coolness (or lack thereof), but I was most interested by the 14-year-old girl that also looked at the Bon Jovi pierced-heart and skulls rock design and declared "Cool." Now, I actually dig Bon Jovi, and not even in an ironic hipster way. But this girl, if she'd ever heard Bon Jovi on the radio it wouldn't have been any of the diggable rock anthems of his early career (mainly anything from Slippery When Wet, which I own on cassette) but the incredibly mediocre recent stuff, like the pussy-fied "Bed of Roses" or "It's My Life" or even the undeniably crap "Have a Nice Day." Are you kidding me? Have a Nice Day? You were a rock GOD, dude. No-one in leather pants and with that much hair should say Have a Nice Day - not even in an ironic hipster kind of way. That shit sucks. So, is this little girl digging the total rebellion as represented by the bleeding skull and gothic lettering - albeit purchased at the ultra-sanitized Target and not out of the back of a van at some sweaty concert? Or is Bon Jovi so freakin' uncool in her mind, so completely ironic, that it's cool again? I digress...

We drove around outside Buffalo for a bit - got lost going this way and that on the I-90. Finally saw a sign that said "Canada" and went for it.
All the way up to the border crossing, my mother was saying that we'd just be truthful and declare everything we'd bought, it was just a little tax and not worth the bother of trying to hide our purchases. Then, when the border guy asked about how much we spent, she blithely lies: "Oh, around fifty dollars."
I start blushing furiously. Fifty? Yeah, maybe EACH. At each store we visited!
He asks to see reciepts and Z and Ffion each hand over only a couple. Then he asks to look in the trunk. I'm pretty sure that if he'd looked me in the eye at this point and spoken to me, I would have blurted out: "Busted!" and maybe peed my pants. There's a fucking mountain of Target bags back there. He tries to open the trunk, but it's locked. It's a new car, and Z is fiddling urgently with the trunk-unlocky-thingy, but he still can't get it. Then, things start getting the way they do in my family: intense. Z is frustrated and almost yelling from the driver's seat: "It's unlocked!" My mom gets out to go sort out the incompetence. This wins her a "Please step back into the vehicle, Ma'am." Finally, he gets it. He pokes about looking for the smokes and booze that we don't have - ignores the heap of Made-In-China apparel - and sends us on our way. Phew.
Off to Niagara Falls. We went, we saw, we appreciated.




Then we went to Niagara-on-the-Lake and soaked up the cutesyness. This place used to be adorable, but now has kind of a theme-park taint to it. Nevertheless, it still has the very best fudge shop on Earth. I know that every small town in Canada has an "authentic" Olde Fudge Shoppe, but I will stand by the "Maple Leaf Fudge shop" in Niagara-on-the-Lake as the very best. It's creamy. The air is so sweet in there you get a buzz just from breathing.

Strolling down main street past all the Shoppes.

Our last stop was for dinner in Port Dalhousie, which is genuinely cute. It was too hot to even go look at the beach there, so we piled back into the air-conditionned car and headed home.

Side note about The United States: J and I have decided that it would be fun to always call it The United States and talk about it like it was some quaint place we'd heard of - i.e. I've been to The United States! People were so friendly in The United States. I know someone from The United States...Do you know Monica?

Forty Part Motet by Janet Cardiff

I was at an art gallery recently and had the priviledge of taking in Janet Cardiff's installation piece "Forty Part Motet".

http://www.tate.org.uk/liverpool/exhibitions/janetcardiff/

We walked into the gallery space, an empty room with 40 black speakers on stands set up in a circle. Two flat gallery benches were set in the centre, and were occupied by flabby tired gallery-goers. I was disappointed in the abscence of any real sculptural quality to the arrangement. I'd read that it was a sound installation, and so was surprised that the room was silent. After reading the blurb on the wall, and discovering that each speaker was supposed to be a voice, I wandered over to the nearest speaker. Sure enough, as I put my ear right up close, I could hear a child's voice reading the title of the piece, clearing his throat and chit-chatting with the person next to him. I drifted to the next speaker to continue the chat. This went on for a few minutes, I could hear papers rustling, singers warming up. It felt like eavesdropping. Then, faintly through all the speakers, the way you would hear if you were part of the choir, the Choirmaster addressed everyone. I paused and waited.
Then - from the speaker I was standing right next to - the first voice broke out, clear and gorgeous, carrying into the room. It was an incredible moment, the luck that put me right next to that particular speaker, and I savoured it. The singer carried on his solo opening for a bit, and I drifted towards another speaker to see what was happening. At that precise moment, the second singer started up - from the speaker I was standing right next to! I am now overwhelmed by the piece, and completely sucked into it, since I have the strange feeling that it is meant for me alone. The recordings are crisp and lifelike. Many voices join as the piece goes on. As I waft around the circle, sharing the intimacy of each choirmember's voice, the speakers take on a new dimension. The black-meshed fronts are now like monk's hoods, and I'm longing to pull them back and stare into the eyes belonging to the voice emitting from each one. I'm completely inside the music, and the artist has turned it into a personal experience, but the personalities of the singers are withheld. This mystery keeps me in the room, unable to leave part-way through, and I move hungrily from voice to voice. As I pause by one silent speaker, a new voice errupts, a deep bass. This time, tears spring up in my eyes. They feel like they came from somewhere behind my breathless lungs. What wonderful magic made me so fortunate as to experience the direct song, not once but three times?! I am in love.

If you get a chance to experience this artwork, do it.

New-FUN-land

Welcome to the Rock! Let me just say that I am so happy to have been to Newfoundland. It is beautiful, and quite unlike anywhere I've ever been.

We arrived Thursday morning, after a big rush to the airport (we were woken not by our alarm clock, set to give us a comfortable 45 minutes of getting-ready, but by the taxi driver buzzing up ...ack! ...run!) Cabbies on the Rock blathered at us in a bibbity-bobbity of language that made me think of early days in Glasgow (was that English?) Hotel overlooked the pretty little harbour of St. John's. We went up Signal Hill, not realizing it was a foggy day, and took pictures of ourselves peering into the thick cover. Went on a boat tour, saw some Minke whales("There's one over Starboard! Quick, everybody Starboard!" "Look! There's one on the Port side! Everybody Port!" Beth, standing in the very centre of the boat: "Where do I go!?! Where are the whales!?"). Got Screeched in; Had to eat some nasty bits of Newfoundland, kiss a cod, and say something in bibbity-bobbity.

We were really there for Ken & Sue's wedding though, and the main event did not disappoint.

The freshly-married lovely couple ...heading out into a fine, sunny Newfoundland afternoon.

The ceremony was deliciously short and sweet. Yes, I teared up. I'm just so darn happy that those two crazy kids got together. Afterwards, we had a wee bit of time to explore St. John's.

At the comic book store. Not only did I give them their first real-live-girl sighting in ages,

I was all dolled up, so it was a good one, too.

KFC.

Buying a lottery ticket. Somebody's getting lucky tonight...

First dance.

Ice, Ice Baby!

Bride and Groom gettin' down.

Those Newfoundlanders sure know how to throw a good party.

One more fun thing about the Rock - a couple of nights we were able to take in the George Street Music Festival. As far as I could tell, it was more of the George Street Mess, or George Street Drinking Festival. I did hear a couple Celtic bands in some of the bars, but I figure that happens anyway. Everybody now: "Her eyes they shone like diamonds..."

Pet peeve of the day

People who call and don't leave a message.
If it wasn't important enough to leave a message about, clearly it wasn't important enough to bother making my phone ring in the first place. I am a notorious call-screener. I'm using that call-display technology to the max. Please avail yourself of my answering service.

Five days on Georgian Bay

Two hours to Honey Harbour. Careful or you might end up in Orillia.
Overload the Boat Taxi. Don't worry, that cargo is mainly booze.
Luck out with the best campsite ever. Private beach. Big dock.
Sure we're on the way to the outhouses, but it means we get to meet our neighbours.
Is it beer o'clock yet?
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
There are cockroaches in these woods. What is up with that?
The dudes build a fire.
Have a hamburger.
Have a baked banana. Mmmmm....banana...
Boat of old folks invades our dock. Lady stomps right through our campsite on return from outhouse, causing outraged silence and thoughts of violence.
Jump off the dock - Last one in is a rotten egg!
Jump off the cliff - Overcome your fear - There is no spoon!
Catch another sighting of the beer-drinking beast. He moves real slow.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Giggle.
Read a book.
Operation Tan-Bum is in effect.
Was there a rain storm last night? Didn't notice.
Go for a hike in the woods. Be attacked by viscious biting insects.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Play Euchre. Eat Trail Mix and Pringles.
Have a six-person communal bathing experience. Be surprised by a floating raft with two little boys on it.
Read a book.
Sit in the hammock.
Jump off the dock - Kung-fu fighting, yoga poses and synchronized cannonballs.
Watch the sunset.
Last night just with the girls. Too much wine and tons of giggles.
It's sad to head home, but at least rock out with 80's pop in the car.

Yonge Street Pub Crawl '06

Yonge Street is the longest street in the world. It's a thousand miles long. The life-long goal of the ambitious Yonge Street Pub Crawlers is to have a drink in every drinking establishment along it. Last year, they started at Lake Ontario. This year, we joined for the second leg - Rosedale to Eglington. Sure, it's a mere four subway stops, but it's also a long, hot day of drinking.

The crew marching up Yonge Street. Not even half-way yet.

A respectful drink outside the Mount Pleasant Cemetary. Not a pub or bar? We don't care.

Woo hoo! I'm drunk in the middle of the day!

I always make this face in self-portraits when I've been drinking.

Dunno why. Ask me next time I'm drunk.

Here it is again. This time with Kramer.

Another bar, another drink, another few feet up the street...

At our stongest, the group took over an entire patio.

It's a titty-bar, but a bar nevertheless.

I am so bored of being drunk.

Eric, the organizer/instigator.

At this point the drinking has become very goal-oriented.

Like, let's all have a shot and please keep moving along...

The final stop: Historic site of Mongomery's Tavern< /a> .

Gimme one last drinking-face!

The last shot. Can I go to bed now?

Aren't I groovy?

I tie-dyed my own t-shirt! Check it out!

I knew I was supposed to do something...

Why does my condo hate me?

Last weekend, while to-ing and fro-ing up and down the elevator to our parking-garage storage locker, I had TWO residents of our condo building ask if I was "new to the building". New? I've been here for THREE YEARS. I smile when I pass you in the lobby! They hate me. I just can't figure out why.

Sure, my transition into the Midtown Address was not the smoothest. First, when J and I were just dating, and I would stay over lots but only just barely had a toothbrush moved in, the doorman used to confuse me with Beth, who actually did live in the condo with Jon, as J's roommates. We elicited noise complaints when I helped J assemble some Ikea furniture at midnight (everybody keeps different hours!). Then, when I did move in, I had to make certain adjustments from my old 'hood, The Beaches.

What you wear when you pop out to the corner store:
Beach: Sweats and flip flops.
Midtown: Twinset and pearls. If it's sweats, it better be Lulu.

Type of dog:
Beach: Family friendly big shaggy lab.
Midtown: Snappy little purse-dog.

Workout:
Beach: Cycle or jog outside on boardwalk.
Midtown: Choose one of FIVE membership gyms on the corner.

Neighbours:
Beach: Family whose kids you went to school with.
Midtown: No idea. Never see them. When you do pass them on the street, they ignore you (I'm talking about you, 702. I know you recognize me, bitch. The fact that our headboard hits the other side of your living room wall is all the more reason for you to be friendly. I'd be friendly if I knew the frequency and duration of YOUR sex life!).

Speaking of neighbours, one of my first encounters with some of the other people on my floor was early one Sunday morning. I was coming home from a party (I have only a few memories of the party. One of them is kung-fu fighting in the kitchen, barefoot, with Jessica), in that funny headspace between drunk and hungover, and I'm in the elevator still clutching my not-quite-empty bottle of Absolut (hey, if it's BYOB, chances are I'll be BYOBringing it back home with me!). The door opens and there they are - a middle aged couple in matching electric blue jogging suits. The brightness of their cheery attire causes me to wince and say "whoaaa" before collecting myself and saying "hi" bleerily. So, not off to the best start. But really. Who jogs at 6 AM on a Sunday?!

I have to point out that the whole building loves J. They smile and wave at him in the lobby, listen raptly to his suggestions at condo board meetings, and they even wanted him to be on the board (considerable, since he would be the only board member under 50). I'm thinking it breaks down like this: He's "that lovely boy in 703" and I'm "that hussy that lives with him".



This was confirmed for me at last summer's Condo BBQ. I went, despite my impulses which urge me to never be a joiner, in order to maybe make a few friends, or at least be friendly. I was also hoping that the only other potentially cool person in the building - the girl across the hall from us whose name I can never remember - would be there and I could re-introduce myself and we could hang. We got there promptly (big smiles for J, confused glances for me), helped set out the buns, grabbed some grub and looked for somewhere to sit. There's a really weird dude that lives in our building. He's like 300 pounds. Sometimes I see him out late at night smoking in front of the building. He's got bulging eyes, and he always wears an overcoat like a crazy homeless person. He stares. But I figure, he lives in our building - which is totally not a halfway house or subsidized housing for mental patients - so how bad can he be? I plop down at his picnic table, say "hi" and then we eat our burgers in uncomfortable silence. Meanwhile, our next-door neighbour -- the one who came over to complain that her cats were freaking out from the noise of us installing some shelves, not at midnight, but midday Saturday like normal people -- the one I can only assume is an old maid -- the one with the how-did-she-slip-that-by-the-condo-decorating-committee-ugly-doorknocker -- was chatting up J. She was actually sitting right next to me, not once making eye contact or even acknowleging my presence. I'm like, okay, Ugly-doorknocker-lady, you is GONNA talk to me. I throw myself into the convo. After a little bit of chatting, the following happens:
Ugly-DoorKnocker: So, Um, I don't know quite how to say this... Do you, live with...?
Me: (cheerily) Yup.
I let her scandalized silence draw out.
Me: We're engaged to be married next spring.
Ugly-DoorKnocker: Oh! Isn't that nice.

Why does that make it okay?! And do I meet with your approval as a suitable match for your beloved young gentleman in 703? Do I? Or is all the camping gear, camera gear and hockey gear that you've seen me hauling in and out just a little too much for you?

All this is building up to this year's BBQ. I'm going. I'm going to be wearing a sweet-as-pie pink sundress. I'm going to bake freakin' cookies. I am no longer satisfied with being the rebellious outcast. I am going to make them love me. LOVE ME.
And then I'm going to rip their hearts out.