CocoLezzone on College Street
Any place that will happily entertain four boisterous ladies for four hours and still love us when we leave is okay by me.
The mood at this restaurant is very boudoir - all gilt mirrors and swags of crimson fabric. We made quick friends with the attractive waitstaff, and were treated accordingly for the duration of our visit.
The martini list looks like the same old offerings, but the drinks themselves were something special. A pomegranate martini was not too sweet and just boozy enough, while the "Sex and the City" was appropriately bubbly and pink: a cosmo-plus.
Pretty good winelist - a nice spread of by-the-glass selections. I question the wisdom of having a $600 bottle on the same page as a $45 bottle and the $8 glass, though. I mean, either this is a place you shell out for exquisite, expensive wine -- or it isn't. Frankly nothing other than "You have twenty-four hours to live, go!" would make me ante up that much for vino, but if you were so inclined, I don't think that this would be the place.
For an appetizer, there is no question that you should order the antipasto platter. It is an impressively arranged assortment of grilled seafood, grilled vegetables, beef carpaccio, smoked salmon, big chunks of shaved parmesan and a crusted goat cheese round that made someone squeal with joy. It fed all four of us no problem. The grilled vegetables were raw when we got them, but the restaurant quickly remedied that and brought us a whole other plateful. Big pieces of tender calamari and huge juicy shrimp inspired one diner to continue the meal with more excellent grilled seafood. The rest of us went for pasta. Everything was flavourful and hearty, nothing mind-blowing.
Prices reflected College Street trendster inflation, so not the best value for money, but all was forgiven when a huge plate of exotic fruits arrived at our table courtesy of the house. All in all, highly enjoyable. I would recommend to friends as a place to start a night out, and for cozy dates.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Subway Anecdote
Because of my commitment to morning gym/lunchtime Pilates/afterwork yoga, I am finding myself unduly burdened with an assortment of bags on my daily commute. I'm on the waiting list for a permanent locker at the gym in order to lighten the load a bit, but until then I've got the supplies to change into any one of a number of fitness-themed outfits at any given time.
This morning, when I got on the subway, it was with a purse across my body, tote bag over my arm, and coffee mug in hand. Lucky for me I got a seat and wedged myself into it. Then I started scrabbling through my purse to find my lovely little iPod nano, which lovingly insulates me from the teeming throng of commuters. As I pulled it out of an inner pocket, something else small and white came along with it -- a tampon that immediately flew out of my hand and onto the floor at my feet. I reached forward to grab it just as the subway lurched and it rolled away from my outstretched fingers. Off it rolled between the legs of someone standing in the middle of the car, before coming to rest against the pointy-toed shoes of the lady in the seat across from me. Since I was stuck under purse and tote, with coffee mug grasped between my knees, I figured I'd let it go. It was a crowded subway, the lady now sitting right next to the little tampon probably hadn't even seen it arrive. It had become litter. Oops, but oh well. But noooo... the young guy sitting in the seat next to mine chivalrously jumps up and goes and picks it up and hands it back to me. There was a split second, when he was half-way back to his seat, errant tampon in hand, that he sort of turned it over and looked at it and maybe, just maybe, realized what it was. That's when I blushed. Yup, I've got no problem with chucking random tampons around a rush-hour subway, but when some unsuspecting gentleman picks it up for me... it all just felt a little too intimate.
This morning, when I got on the subway, it was with a purse across my body, tote bag over my arm, and coffee mug in hand. Lucky for me I got a seat and wedged myself into it. Then I started scrabbling through my purse to find my lovely little iPod nano, which lovingly insulates me from the teeming throng of commuters. As I pulled it out of an inner pocket, something else small and white came along with it -- a tampon that immediately flew out of my hand and onto the floor at my feet. I reached forward to grab it just as the subway lurched and it rolled away from my outstretched fingers. Off it rolled between the legs of someone standing in the middle of the car, before coming to rest against the pointy-toed shoes of the lady in the seat across from me. Since I was stuck under purse and tote, with coffee mug grasped between my knees, I figured I'd let it go. It was a crowded subway, the lady now sitting right next to the little tampon probably hadn't even seen it arrive. It had become litter. Oops, but oh well. But noooo... the young guy sitting in the seat next to mine chivalrously jumps up and goes and picks it up and hands it back to me. There was a split second, when he was half-way back to his seat, errant tampon in hand, that he sort of turned it over and looked at it and maybe, just maybe, realized what it was. That's when I blushed. Yup, I've got no problem with chucking random tampons around a rush-hour subway, but when some unsuspecting gentleman picks it up for me... it all just felt a little too intimate.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Restaurant review: Opus
Opus on Prince Arthur
It is wonderful when something lives up to its hype. Too often, a much-lauded restaurant falls short, relying on atmosphere (read: attitude) to prop up just-decent fare and justify overpricing. Opus, however, does not disappoint.
We were fortunate to go with a "regular", and so were greeted warmly at the door by one of the owners. Drinks by the bar were ice-cold, generously sized, and perfectly mixed lychee martinis garnished with two whole lychees, and we knew already we were in for a treat.
The restaurant itself is a study of understated glamour. If Julia Roberts were European, and a restaurant, she might be Opus. Deep grey walls, comfy leather chairs and flatteringly subdued lighting made it feel intimate even though it was a crowded Saturday night. Clientele are mainly established upper-crust types. Younger diners are likely stockbrokers or heiresses. A trip to the bathroom means you get to peek through a glass wall that displays a fraction of a most impressive, multi-million dollar wine cellar. The cool air smells of cork and money.
The wine list is novel thick. I demured from even flipping through it, afraid of being overwhelmed by my own ignorance in discerning between options, and by the surely shocking prices. We ended up drinking something Portuguese and delicious.
Then there was dinner. The menu offers a variety of dishes, each one packed with a laundry-list of flavours that had me wondering, "is that possible?" When the food arrives though, it is deceptively simple and the flavours are wholly integrated. For starters, a dish of sauteed wild mushrooms was a delight of different tastes and textures. Seared foie gras on maple-glazed apple slices is enough alone to make me go back for more - the rich smoothness of the foie gras contrasted perfectly with the slightly crisp and tart apples. For mains, both blackened cod and prociutto-wrapped Atlantic salmon were cooked perfectly and very flavourful. The cod was deliciously creamy and set off nicely by the wasabi-infused potato risotto it came on. If I were looking for fault, the closest thing I could say was that the potato cubes were al dente on the verge of undercooked. That being said, I happily ate them anyway.
Dessert offered a luxurious creme brulee delicately flavoured with real vanilla bean and topped by lots of sugary crust. A scattering of fresh berries completed it -- the adorning biscotti pushed the indulgence to overkill, but it was nice to dunk into an exquisite cappuccino. Apple fritters that proved to be so much more than doughnuts, served with a rich toffee sauce, elicited near-childlike glee.
The final impressive touch was the thoughtfulness of the proprietor of rewarding loyalty by sending over an after-dinner glass of port.
We're saving our pennies and anxiously awaiting a special occasion so that we have a reason to go back.
rating: * * * * (pretty much perfect)
After dinner, we trotted down to Hart House for the midnight finale show of the Canadian premiere run of "Reefer Madness" (the musical). The energy in the audience and onstage was great - it was certainly an enthusiastic performance. Highlights included the solo done by the sold-for-weed-money baby, and any appearance by Jesus and his gold-bikini-clad angels.
It is wonderful when something lives up to its hype. Too often, a much-lauded restaurant falls short, relying on atmosphere (read: attitude) to prop up just-decent fare and justify overpricing. Opus, however, does not disappoint.
We were fortunate to go with a "regular", and so were greeted warmly at the door by one of the owners. Drinks by the bar were ice-cold, generously sized, and perfectly mixed lychee martinis garnished with two whole lychees, and we knew already we were in for a treat.
The restaurant itself is a study of understated glamour. If Julia Roberts were European, and a restaurant, she might be Opus. Deep grey walls, comfy leather chairs and flatteringly subdued lighting made it feel intimate even though it was a crowded Saturday night. Clientele are mainly established upper-crust types. Younger diners are likely stockbrokers or heiresses. A trip to the bathroom means you get to peek through a glass wall that displays a fraction of a most impressive, multi-million dollar wine cellar. The cool air smells of cork and money.
The wine list is novel thick. I demured from even flipping through it, afraid of being overwhelmed by my own ignorance in discerning between options, and by the surely shocking prices. We ended up drinking something Portuguese and delicious.
Then there was dinner. The menu offers a variety of dishes, each one packed with a laundry-list of flavours that had me wondering, "is that possible?" When the food arrives though, it is deceptively simple and the flavours are wholly integrated. For starters, a dish of sauteed wild mushrooms was a delight of different tastes and textures. Seared foie gras on maple-glazed apple slices is enough alone to make me go back for more - the rich smoothness of the foie gras contrasted perfectly with the slightly crisp and tart apples. For mains, both blackened cod and prociutto-wrapped Atlantic salmon were cooked perfectly and very flavourful. The cod was deliciously creamy and set off nicely by the wasabi-infused potato risotto it came on. If I were looking for fault, the closest thing I could say was that the potato cubes were al dente on the verge of undercooked. That being said, I happily ate them anyway.
Dessert offered a luxurious creme brulee delicately flavoured with real vanilla bean and topped by lots of sugary crust. A scattering of fresh berries completed it -- the adorning biscotti pushed the indulgence to overkill, but it was nice to dunk into an exquisite cappuccino. Apple fritters that proved to be so much more than doughnuts, served with a rich toffee sauce, elicited near-childlike glee.
The final impressive touch was the thoughtfulness of the proprietor of rewarding loyalty by sending over an after-dinner glass of port.
We're saving our pennies and anxiously awaiting a special occasion so that we have a reason to go back.
rating: * * * * (pretty much perfect)
After dinner, we trotted down to Hart House for the midnight finale show of the Canadian premiere run of "Reefer Madness" (the musical). The energy in the audience and onstage was great - it was certainly an enthusiastic performance. Highlights included the solo done by the sold-for-weed-money baby, and any appearance by Jesus and his gold-bikini-clad angels.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
It's quiet in here... too quiet.
There are a few unusual things about my new office. The first thing I noticed was that, on the bus station platform and even at the bus stop outside the office, the people in this part of the city stand in tidy line-ups while waiting for the bus, and then board in order. The buses are fairly packed at rush hour and these queues make for some funny use of space -- People snaking all over the place. I like to freak everybody out by standing randomly somewhere and then watch them get all tense when I board the bus out of "turn".
My main concern these days, though, is the oppressive silence of my office. Yes, we are all attentively reading. That's our job and it is easier to do when there are no noisy distractions. But there's something eerie about coming in to work and it's quiet. Leaving and it's quiet. Nibbling my lunch in slow mouthfuls because for sure everyone can hear me crunching. The girl right next to me whispers into the phone to her fiance, because, yup, I can hear every word. The most noise comes from the whirring HVAC system, which kindly provides our office with constant near-Arctic temperatures. And my keyboard. It's the clackiest. All my surrounding cubicle-buddies must be wondering what the heck I'm typing (uh, that would be lengthy personal emails and my BLOG, duh) since I have no need for so much clackity-clacking while doing actual work (a comma here, delete an extra space there).
Possibly as a result from the overwhelming lack of noise, my coworkers have a kind of stunned, fearful expression whenever I talk to them. Like little nocturnal animals blinking in the glaring sunlight. I've tried to be really friendly - we all know that I would be perfectly capable of slouching in to work and home again without any human contact and I'd be just fine (I've done it before, and I still hate you, data-enterers at the WSIB) - but I really wanted to have a positive working environment. It's just hard because when you say hi or socialize with anyone, the entire office is unofficially part of the conversation. I joined the lunchtime Pilates group. Pilates is a really great way to bond with coworkers because you get to a) see them in their underwear in the changeroom and b) see them "rolling like a ball". I joined the Tuesday afterwork yoga class (Fitness Tip of the Day: Thong underwear and yoga make poor partners. Sure, it gets you all in touch with your mula bandha, but Child's Pose is supposed to be restful, not a little bit naughty!) Still, when I see my coworkers darting between their cubicles and the elevator, or in the kitchen, everyone seems a little shy. It's making me shy. I wonder if it's because everyone is feeling two-dimensional from staring so intently at a computer screen all day. Or if everyone is a little ashamed because of the content we've been reading. There's an alarming thought: it isn't stunned shyness, it's flushed excitement being repressed!
Where all this is headed is that I was responsible for a rather alarming break in the silence the other day, and since I can't confess it to my stunned and/or repressed coworkers, it's coming out here. Mid-afternoon, I decided I would just quietly let one slip out, but instead let out a big sharp bark of a fart. I waited in the ensuing total silence for some kind of a reaction. None came. Now, I react to farts (or "biffs" as we charmingly called them in my house when I was wee) like a 9-year-old boy. Hilarious! In fact, I'm giggling (silently) again as I write this. So - was it mistaken for a drawer squeaking closed, or an unusually creaky chair? Or was everyone sitting silently in their cubicles wondering WHO DARED?!? How's that for a noisy distraction?
My main concern these days, though, is the oppressive silence of my office. Yes, we are all attentively reading. That's our job and it is easier to do when there are no noisy distractions. But there's something eerie about coming in to work and it's quiet. Leaving and it's quiet. Nibbling my lunch in slow mouthfuls because for sure everyone can hear me crunching. The girl right next to me whispers into the phone to her fiance, because, yup, I can hear every word. The most noise comes from the whirring HVAC system, which kindly provides our office with constant near-Arctic temperatures. And my keyboard. It's the clackiest. All my surrounding cubicle-buddies must be wondering what the heck I'm typing (uh, that would be lengthy personal emails and my BLOG, duh) since I have no need for so much clackity-clacking while doing actual work (a comma here, delete an extra space there).
Possibly as a result from the overwhelming lack of noise, my coworkers have a kind of stunned, fearful expression whenever I talk to them. Like little nocturnal animals blinking in the glaring sunlight. I've tried to be really friendly - we all know that I would be perfectly capable of slouching in to work and home again without any human contact and I'd be just fine (I've done it before, and I still hate you, data-enterers at the WSIB) - but I really wanted to have a positive working environment. It's just hard because when you say hi or socialize with anyone, the entire office is unofficially part of the conversation. I joined the lunchtime Pilates group. Pilates is a really great way to bond with coworkers because you get to a) see them in their underwear in the changeroom and b) see them "rolling like a ball". I joined the Tuesday afterwork yoga class (Fitness Tip of the Day: Thong underwear and yoga make poor partners. Sure, it gets you all in touch with your mula bandha, but Child's Pose is supposed to be restful, not a little bit naughty!) Still, when I see my coworkers darting between their cubicles and the elevator, or in the kitchen, everyone seems a little shy. It's making me shy. I wonder if it's because everyone is feeling two-dimensional from staring so intently at a computer screen all day. Or if everyone is a little ashamed because of the content we've been reading. There's an alarming thought: it isn't stunned shyness, it's flushed excitement being repressed!
Where all this is headed is that I was responsible for a rather alarming break in the silence the other day, and since I can't confess it to my stunned and/or repressed coworkers, it's coming out here. Mid-afternoon, I decided I would just quietly let one slip out, but instead let out a big sharp bark of a fart. I waited in the ensuing total silence for some kind of a reaction. None came. Now, I react to farts (or "biffs" as we charmingly called them in my house when I was wee) like a 9-year-old boy. Hilarious! In fact, I'm giggling (silently) again as I write this. So - was it mistaken for a drawer squeaking closed, or an unusually creaky chair? Or was everyone sitting silently in their cubicles wondering WHO DARED?!? How's that for a noisy distraction?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Modern Vocabulary
We need a word that expresses the instances where a song randomly playing on your personal MP3 device is strangely and coincidentally appropriate to the situation you are currently in. For instance, one of my first days at work here at the Romance Factory, I walked up the front steps to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs crooning: "There is no modern romance." Or a couple of weeks ago, on one of the first noticeably crisp and cool fall days, I arrived to Travis' "Luv", which contains the elegant lyrics:
The summer didn't bother getting up this morning
So all the trees forgot to wake
Dropping all their leaves on the ground below them.
And today I rolled in to The Darkness declaring: "I believe in a thing called love!" Sure, a disproportionately large number of songs are about love, so I have a higher-than-average chance of encountering such world/music alignments, but I'd still like a word for it.
I suggest:
SERENDiPODIPITY : The phenomenon of a random but agreeable song played by a personal music device that coincides with the listener's current mood and/or situation.
The summer didn't bother getting up this morning
So all the trees forgot to wake
Dropping all their leaves on the ground below them.
And today I rolled in to The Darkness declaring: "I believe in a thing called love!" Sure, a disproportionately large number of songs are about love, so I have a higher-than-average chance of encountering such world/music alignments, but I'd still like a word for it.
I suggest:
SERENDiPODIPITY : The phenomenon of a random but agreeable song played by a personal music device that coincides with the listener's current mood and/or situation.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Hockey is so Awesome
That's me, Number 7!I love hockey. This continues to surprise me, considering that I hardly ever watch it on TV, and I've never really been one for team sports or anything that I wasn't immediately good at. Nevertheless, I have come to crave the feelings associated with hockey: Cold air rushing into your heated lungs, the echoing vastness of the arena, mouth tasting like iron from the exertion of skating full-bore down the ice. Once a week is not enough. I've gotta get some game on!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Romance Plagiarism Project #1
http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/09/romance-plagiarism-project.html
Anita spun around at the sound of a powerful motor pulling into her driveway. The air left her lungs in a rush when she saw it was Bryce's pick-up truck. She nearly dropped the trowel in her hand. Determinedly, she turned her back and focused again on the flower bed she'd been working on. She heard the truck door slam, and could picture perfectly in her mind Bryce's athletic body, nerve-taut, climbing out of the truck and striding across the lawn. From the glimpse she'd caught of him earlier that day, she knew he was looking handsome in chino pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a muted pattern of seashells. She dug fervently at the moist earth in front of her.
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear in this town," a husky voice said from behind her. She whirled around and fixed him with her frostiest glare. "I only believe things I've got proof of!" She declared, raising her chin in defiance.
Her eyes ran over his rugged countenance, taking in every familiar feature. She had stared at Bryce so many times before. It hurt her to confront him about this.
"I know that you're in love with Tammy," she choked out. He stepped back suddenly, heavily, realization hitting him like a gale-force wind. Could this really be the source of her ill-temper over the past few days? He ran a rough hand over his stubbled chin, and through his dark, unruly locks. His nose crinkled in dismay.
Staring down at the upturned earth all around Anita's feet, he finally managed to say, "Tammy was my dog. If you overheard my conversation at the post office the other day, you must have missed the beginning... I loved that dog like no other companion. I'd never even felt that depth of emotion before. That is...until I met you. You opened up a whole new world to me." He looked up. His gaze met hers and time stilled.
Anita's mouth hung open in shock. She was overwhelmed, amazed, uncomprehending. Her anger vanished immediately as she realized how mistaken she'd been about Bryce's true nature. All this time, she'd thought he was holding back because he was involved with some other woman. Now she understood, as relief washed over her, that the emotionally-wounded man needed to be taught how to love again.
She stepped closer to him. Her internal temperature had skyrocketed.
"I'm sorry, Bryce," she said softly. "I never would have been so cruel to you if I'd known that." Her voice was like a spring breeze, fresh and warm, and the first truly comforting balm to his wounded ego. "But still," she continued, "who were those flowers for? The ones I saw you carrying down Main Street?"
He narrowed his eyes and peered at her. "You," he said simply. "The flowers were for you. But I'm a coward and I never brought them over."
With that he came right up to her, took the gardening tool she was still holding out of her hand, and gently held her delicate hand in his coarse one. She tilted her head to gaze up at him.
"I'm through being afraid," he murmured, his lips almost brushing hers. A low moan escaped her throat as their lips met. He probed the line of her mouth with his tongue until she opened to him. She felt so much hope and promise in his kiss, mirroring her own desires. As they slowly collapsed onto the lawn, his mouth devoured hers, releasing their pent-up emotions in a blinding, mind-numbing blending of mouths, hearts and passions.
This was madness! She'd been furious with him only a few moments ago, and now here they were locked together, rolling around in her front garden. She was brought out of the moment for a second as she thought with regret that her award-winning peonies would be crushed. Madness! But with him, now, tonight, madness was what she wanted. Her senses were finally alive, botany be damned!
The soft earth beneath her was cool and damp. She could feel the slightly gritty texture of the dirt rubbing the backs of her arms and legs. Then, as he caressed her, gently at first but then with growing ardor, she could feel only him and his touches. The outside world ceased to exist and there was only the two of them, touching. She anticipated no less from him than this total annihilation of her senses.
Anita spun around at the sound of a powerful motor pulling into her driveway. The air left her lungs in a rush when she saw it was Bryce's pick-up truck. She nearly dropped the trowel in her hand. Determinedly, she turned her back and focused again on the flower bed she'd been working on. She heard the truck door slam, and could picture perfectly in her mind Bryce's athletic body, nerve-taut, climbing out of the truck and striding across the lawn. From the glimpse she'd caught of him earlier that day, she knew he was looking handsome in chino pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a muted pattern of seashells. She dug fervently at the moist earth in front of her.
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear in this town," a husky voice said from behind her. She whirled around and fixed him with her frostiest glare. "I only believe things I've got proof of!" She declared, raising her chin in defiance.
Her eyes ran over his rugged countenance, taking in every familiar feature. She had stared at Bryce so many times before. It hurt her to confront him about this.
"I know that you're in love with Tammy," she choked out. He stepped back suddenly, heavily, realization hitting him like a gale-force wind. Could this really be the source of her ill-temper over the past few days? He ran a rough hand over his stubbled chin, and through his dark, unruly locks. His nose crinkled in dismay.
Staring down at the upturned earth all around Anita's feet, he finally managed to say, "Tammy was my dog. If you overheard my conversation at the post office the other day, you must have missed the beginning... I loved that dog like no other companion. I'd never even felt that depth of emotion before. That is...until I met you. You opened up a whole new world to me." He looked up. His gaze met hers and time stilled.
Anita's mouth hung open in shock. She was overwhelmed, amazed, uncomprehending. Her anger vanished immediately as she realized how mistaken she'd been about Bryce's true nature. All this time, she'd thought he was holding back because he was involved with some other woman. Now she understood, as relief washed over her, that the emotionally-wounded man needed to be taught how to love again.
She stepped closer to him. Her internal temperature had skyrocketed.
"I'm sorry, Bryce," she said softly. "I never would have been so cruel to you if I'd known that." Her voice was like a spring breeze, fresh and warm, and the first truly comforting balm to his wounded ego. "But still," she continued, "who were those flowers for? The ones I saw you carrying down Main Street?"
He narrowed his eyes and peered at her. "You," he said simply. "The flowers were for you. But I'm a coward and I never brought them over."
With that he came right up to her, took the gardening tool she was still holding out of her hand, and gently held her delicate hand in his coarse one. She tilted her head to gaze up at him.
"I'm through being afraid," he murmured, his lips almost brushing hers. A low moan escaped her throat as their lips met. He probed the line of her mouth with his tongue until she opened to him. She felt so much hope and promise in his kiss, mirroring her own desires. As they slowly collapsed onto the lawn, his mouth devoured hers, releasing their pent-up emotions in a blinding, mind-numbing blending of mouths, hearts and passions.
This was madness! She'd been furious with him only a few moments ago, and now here they were locked together, rolling around in her front garden. She was brought out of the moment for a second as she thought with regret that her award-winning peonies would be crushed. Madness! But with him, now, tonight, madness was what she wanted. Her senses were finally alive, botany be damned!
The soft earth beneath her was cool and damp. She could feel the slightly gritty texture of the dirt rubbing the backs of her arms and legs. Then, as he caressed her, gently at first but then with growing ardor, she could feel only him and his touches. The outside world ceased to exist and there was only the two of them, touching. She anticipated no less from him than this total annihilation of her senses.
The Romance Plagiarism Project
Ripped from the Pages of Real Romance!
So many words. So little plot.
In my new job, I am being exposed to uses of the English language that I do not ordinarily encounter. After a few too many over-the-top similies and some overwrought exposition, I started writing down outstanding examples of this oh-so-specific form of fiction: the romance. Inspired, I have decided that as an exercise, and also maybe in order to understand the minds of the authors whose work I am nit-picking, I will take the weekly collection of these quotes and use them to construct my own brief excerpt from a non-existent romance novel. I will do my very best to adhere to the overall style found in this genre. The challenge will be to create something around the selected quotes, which by the end of a week will be an amalgamation from multiple books and authors, and successfully incorporate them into a story segment. Phrases highlighted in purple are word-for-word stolen from actual manuscripts that are being published. Phrases in blue are cliches or expressions that come up time and time again, regardless of author or book. Further, if the punctuation between sentences is also highlighted, then the whole segment came together. If it is black, then they are two parts that I have forced together. The rest is all me, and my fervent, overactive imagination.
So many words. So little plot.
In my new job, I am being exposed to uses of the English language that I do not ordinarily encounter. After a few too many over-the-top similies and some overwrought exposition, I started writing down outstanding examples of this oh-so-specific form of fiction: the romance. Inspired, I have decided that as an exercise, and also maybe in order to understand the minds of the authors whose work I am nit-picking, I will take the weekly collection of these quotes and use them to construct my own brief excerpt from a non-existent romance novel. I will do my very best to adhere to the overall style found in this genre. The challenge will be to create something around the selected quotes, which by the end of a week will be an amalgamation from multiple books and authors, and successfully incorporate them into a story segment. Phrases highlighted in purple are word-for-word stolen from actual manuscripts that are being published. Phrases in blue are cliches or expressions that come up time and time again, regardless of author or book. Further, if the punctuation between sentences is also highlighted, then the whole segment came together. If it is black, then they are two parts that I have forced together. The rest is all me, and my fervent, overactive imagination.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Update from the Pink Cubicle
A few developments at work. On day three, I arrived to find that I already have an engraved nameplate on the outside of my cubicle. I have arrived!
It is freezing cold in my office, so after a few days of shivering and drinking endless cups of hot coffee and tea, I came equipped with a big fuzzy hoodie to wear. The girl in the cubicle to my left brings a blankie. I am preparing a survival kit for next week.
I have also come down with a cold. It's a really bad one. I was all bummed out because I didn't want to be the new-girl-with-the-snotty-nose (no one wants to shake *her* hand hello!) but then I discovered that *everyone* gets a bad cold the first week they start here. It's like initiation. Maybe they need to wear down your immune system in order to make you more emotionally susceptible to the mush you'll be reading. You're all vulnerable, wrapped in your blankie, sniffling, and then suddenly the lovestruck heroine seems so much more relatable. Hey! These books are GOOD!
It is freezing cold in my office, so after a few days of shivering and drinking endless cups of hot coffee and tea, I came equipped with a big fuzzy hoodie to wear. The girl in the cubicle to my left brings a blankie. I am preparing a survival kit for next week.
I have also come down with a cold. It's a really bad one. I was all bummed out because I didn't want to be the new-girl-with-the-snotty-nose (no one wants to shake *her* hand hello!) but then I discovered that *everyone* gets a bad cold the first week they start here. It's like initiation. Maybe they need to wear down your immune system in order to make you more emotionally susceptible to the mush you'll be reading. You're all vulnerable, wrapped in your blankie, sniffling, and then suddenly the lovestruck heroine seems so much more relatable. Hey! These books are GOOD!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Regular Job Girl: Day One
I woke up early this morning after a restless night of waiting for the alarm to go off. Got all ready in a nice outfit. Then, my Sugar Daddy walked me to the subway. I'm Metropass girl now. Off I went, to work at a regular job, for the first time in my life. That's right, we figured it out last night. This is the first time that I've held a position that will go on indefinitely. I've certainly worked before - freelancing long hours, three jobs at once in different parts of the city, each requiring different uniforms, and temp jobs that stretched out for six soul-destroying months - but this is the first one where I am, ostensibly, in it for keeps.
The company seems pretty nice. Everyone was friendly when introduced, and I got a little welcome baggie with cinnamon hearts, a mug with a heart on it, a bookmark with roses all over it, and more romance novels. I am given the impression that it is permanent Valentine's Day here. I apologize to the world at large if I start wearing only shades of red and pink in the upcoming months.
I have a cubicle. It's my very own. I'm pretty pleased with its location and square footage and am planning a major redecoration soon. I also have a security passcard that I have to swipe in the elevator and at doorways. It makes me feel really official, and also like I belong. I plan on bling-ing it up and getting a fancy lanyard for it.
So far, three of my coworkers have tried to make me eat cookies. I resisted. If I'm going to be sitting down all day, the last thing I need is any help getting an expanded office-worker ass. There isn't a whole lot in the neighbourhood of the office - pretty grim prospects for lunchtime wandering. I expect to be eating at my desk a lot, and also expect to be posting more regularly as a result. Hopefully things will be interesting enough to keep writing about, otherwise I'll just disappear into the pink sound-absorbing walls of my cubicle.
Received some training from various departments. I'm learning to use a Mac for this job, and I may be falling in love a little bit. Such a streamlined, intuitive interface...what can I say? Also was trained to use the voicemail. I have to change my outgoing message every day, although I cannot imagine why anyone would call me, or that two people would call me at once so someone would get my voicemail. I'm a proofreader. I just don't see getting the urgent calls about the typo on page 187. But anyway...
We were going over "house style" prior to me plunging into my first book - which by the title I had hoped was about cowboys, but it turns out it's about single parents in a small town - and I asked just how picky I was allowed/supposed to be. My supervisor lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorily. "It's not high literature we're making here," she confessed.
I was exhausted shortly after lunch. Probably as a result of getting up earlier than I have in months and months. I was sad when I realized I couldn't nap. I'm sure I'll find a way in the upcoming days and weeks, but I figured it was my first day and maybe should try to at least stay awake for the duration.
Home-time rolled around and I hopped back on the bus. Funny how I didn't feel like reading on the way home.
The company seems pretty nice. Everyone was friendly when introduced, and I got a little welcome baggie with cinnamon hearts, a mug with a heart on it, a bookmark with roses all over it, and more romance novels. I am given the impression that it is permanent Valentine's Day here. I apologize to the world at large if I start wearing only shades of red and pink in the upcoming months.
I have a cubicle. It's my very own. I'm pretty pleased with its location and square footage and am planning a major redecoration soon. I also have a security passcard that I have to swipe in the elevator and at doorways. It makes me feel really official, and also like I belong. I plan on bling-ing it up and getting a fancy lanyard for it.
So far, three of my coworkers have tried to make me eat cookies. I resisted. If I'm going to be sitting down all day, the last thing I need is any help getting an expanded office-worker ass. There isn't a whole lot in the neighbourhood of the office - pretty grim prospects for lunchtime wandering. I expect to be eating at my desk a lot, and also expect to be posting more regularly as a result. Hopefully things will be interesting enough to keep writing about, otherwise I'll just disappear into the pink sound-absorbing walls of my cubicle.
Received some training from various departments. I'm learning to use a Mac for this job, and I may be falling in love a little bit. Such a streamlined, intuitive interface...what can I say? Also was trained to use the voicemail. I have to change my outgoing message every day, although I cannot imagine why anyone would call me, or that two people would call me at once so someone would get my voicemail. I'm a proofreader. I just don't see getting the urgent calls about the typo on page 187. But anyway...
We were going over "house style" prior to me plunging into my first book - which by the title I had hoped was about cowboys, but it turns out it's about single parents in a small town - and I asked just how picky I was allowed/supposed to be. My supervisor lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorily. "It's not high literature we're making here," she confessed.
I was exhausted shortly after lunch. Probably as a result of getting up earlier than I have in months and months. I was sad when I realized I couldn't nap. I'm sure I'll find a way in the upcoming days and weeks, but I figured it was my first day and maybe should try to at least stay awake for the duration.
Home-time rolled around and I hopped back on the bus. Funny how I didn't feel like reading on the way home.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Final BodyCombat
If there is beauty to be found in violence, I find it at the gym, in my BodyCombat class.
Okay, so it's basically an updated boxercise with a silly name, but I still love it. I have a non-sexual girl crush on the instructor, who is this tall red-headed Amazonian. I think the basis of my crush is that I would like to BE her. I really appreciate that she doesn't hoot and holler like other gym instructors; There's no "You can do it" or "Yeah! Let's go!" in her class, it's more: "I'm sorry Officer, I don't know what happened, I'm just a girl," and, "If you should ever have to use this in real life, remember that the power comes from your butt!" in her commentary. I practiced Karate for a few years, and have done other combatative sports, like fencing, and sometimes a girl just has to get her violence on. The class gives me my "punch him in the face" fix.
What I love the most about it is all the women. Sure, I get irritated at the flailers and the space invaders (I won't get into this too much, or it will become a post about how much I hate them, but there are some people who have absolutely no sense of space and their own bodies moving through it. Maybe it's from my early years of ballet, or that karate, but I know where my starting spot on the floor is, and I always get back to it. I do not drift forwards, backwards, or sideways after kicking or shuffling. Further, while a flailing limb would certainly hurt your target if you actually managed to make contact, it just doesn't have the same conviction, and it certainly doesn't look as cool, as a properly controlled uppercut or hook. Sorry ladies, but pull it together! And enough with the bouncing. She said "cross-jack", not "crazy aerobic dance step". You look like a fool. Go to BodyJam.) but I have faith that in time and with training, these women will also become tough fighters.
Sometimes I imagine that this is a little army being trained. Not that I think any of us should use our BodyCombat moves in the real world. That would be disastrous and ridiculous. However, I do think that all women should learn a real, practical self-defense martial art, like Wen-Do. Because the training is good for women: everyone gains a measure of self-confidence when learning how to roundhouse kick, and it is great to see. There's one move in the current choreography where everyone pretends to be repeatedly punching their opponent in the head. After the opponent has been roundhouse-kicked to the ground. This is a cathartic moment for most, and I thoroughly enjoy watching the diverse group of women of all ages and all backgrounds letting loose and wailing on the invisible soon-to-be-dead dude on the ground. Maybe it's wrong, but I always imagine that the opponent is male (unless one of the flailers is standing right in front of me, then the opponent is her). In fact, I worry a little for the few men that come to the class, like one day we might all turn on one of them and bouncily beat the crap out of him.
Now, as the sweat dries from my last Friday-lunchtime kick-your-own-ass workout, I'm feeling a little nostalgic; I'm all regular-job-girl now, and I can no longer make it to the class. So long, BodyCombat. I'm going to have to get my violence on somewhere else. Fellow subway riders, beware.
Okay, so it's basically an updated boxercise with a silly name, but I still love it. I have a non-sexual girl crush on the instructor, who is this tall red-headed Amazonian. I think the basis of my crush is that I would like to BE her. I really appreciate that she doesn't hoot and holler like other gym instructors; There's no "You can do it" or "Yeah! Let's go!" in her class, it's more: "I'm sorry Officer, I don't know what happened, I'm just a girl," and, "If you should ever have to use this in real life, remember that the power comes from your butt!" in her commentary. I practiced Karate for a few years, and have done other combatative sports, like fencing, and sometimes a girl just has to get her violence on. The class gives me my "punch him in the face" fix.
What I love the most about it is all the women. Sure, I get irritated at the flailers and the space invaders (I won't get into this too much, or it will become a post about how much I hate them, but there are some people who have absolutely no sense of space and their own bodies moving through it. Maybe it's from my early years of ballet, or that karate, but I know where my starting spot on the floor is, and I always get back to it. I do not drift forwards, backwards, or sideways after kicking or shuffling. Further, while a flailing limb would certainly hurt your target if you actually managed to make contact, it just doesn't have the same conviction, and it certainly doesn't look as cool, as a properly controlled uppercut or hook. Sorry ladies, but pull it together! And enough with the bouncing. She said "cross-jack", not "crazy aerobic dance step". You look like a fool. Go to BodyJam.) but I have faith that in time and with training, these women will also become tough fighters.
Sometimes I imagine that this is a little army being trained. Not that I think any of us should use our BodyCombat moves in the real world. That would be disastrous and ridiculous. However, I do think that all women should learn a real, practical self-defense martial art, like Wen-Do. Because the training is good for women: everyone gains a measure of self-confidence when learning how to roundhouse kick, and it is great to see. There's one move in the current choreography where everyone pretends to be repeatedly punching their opponent in the head. After the opponent has been roundhouse-kicked to the ground. This is a cathartic moment for most, and I thoroughly enjoy watching the diverse group of women of all ages and all backgrounds letting loose and wailing on the invisible soon-to-be-dead dude on the ground. Maybe it's wrong, but I always imagine that the opponent is male (unless one of the flailers is standing right in front of me, then the opponent is her). In fact, I worry a little for the few men that come to the class, like one day we might all turn on one of them and bouncily beat the crap out of him.
Now, as the sweat dries from my last Friday-lunchtime kick-your-own-ass workout, I'm feeling a little nostalgic; I'm all regular-job-girl now, and I can no longer make it to the class. So long, BodyCombat. I'm going to have to get my violence on somewhere else. Fellow subway riders, beware.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The Internet is Cool
Call me a late bloomer, but I've just discovered the joys of Craig's List. Sure, I'm all down with eBay, since it's just a new form of shopping, and shopping comes very easily to me, but this whole "act local" aspect of Craig's List is so refreshing! And posting is free!
I put up a post today advertising that I had a big stack of bridal magazines to get rid of -- I couldn't bear to throw them out, they represented a substantial investment of time and money -- and within an hour I had three responses. I gave them to the first girl who emailed me, who turned up tonight and took them off my hands. Re-using and recycling at its best.
I put up a post today advertising that I had a big stack of bridal magazines to get rid of -- I couldn't bear to throw them out, they represented a substantial investment of time and money -- and within an hour I had three responses. I gave them to the first girl who emailed me, who turned up tonight and took them off my hands. Re-using and recycling at its best.
Confessions of a Panty Pack-Rat
In the spirit of extreme self-divulgence, I have a confession to make. On a recent household purge, I had to admit to myself that I own way too many pairs of underpants. I could go three months without doing laundry, and still have a clean pair to wear on the first of the fourth month. When I travel, I take probably twice as much as I need. Weekend out of town? I've got 8 pairs with me. I mean, what if there's an emergency like you fall in a river, or you meet Will Ferrell and he makes you laugh so hard that you pee yourself and then you need a clean pair of underpants?!? What if you get into an accident and there's a cute doctor and before he cuts your jeans off, you have a chance to change into cuter panties? At border crossings, I'm always a little worried about them going through my luggage. "Like what are you, lady? Some kind of weird panty smuggler?"
But I can't get rid of any of them. I take really good care of all my clothing, underwear included, and so even older ones are in good shape (I'm not like some gross boy, with a disintegrating string that barely covers my balls hanging from a worn-out elastic -- my barely-there elastic and string is intentional, and well-looked after). I've just managed to accrue way too much. There's the fact that I can't visit the UK without visiting Marks & Spencer and picking up a 5-pack. Or two. (They're such good quality!) Also, whenever I've ordered from Victoria's Secret, I can't help but throw in an order for a few more of those comfy "Pink" ones. Then there's the "specialty" pairs - ones that came in a matching set with a cami or bra. And don't even get me started on the stuff I managed to acquire from my bachelorette party.
As a solution, I have decided to embrace the fall fashion trend of layering. I'm envisioning solid coloured thongs under meshy briefs, or lace boyshorts over patterned bikinis, or for a sportier American Apparel type thing, two of the same pair in different colours arranged just so. Don't think of it as wearing two pairs of underwear; That's weird, in a my-uptight-Granny kind of way. Think of it as resource management. Wait a second... Now I'm going to need about 16 pairs for the long weekend. I hope La Senza is still open.
But I can't get rid of any of them. I take really good care of all my clothing, underwear included, and so even older ones are in good shape (I'm not like some gross boy, with a disintegrating string that barely covers my balls hanging from a worn-out elastic -- my barely-there elastic and string is intentional, and well-looked after). I've just managed to accrue way too much. There's the fact that I can't visit the UK without visiting Marks & Spencer and picking up a 5-pack. Or two. (They're such good quality!) Also, whenever I've ordered from Victoria's Secret, I can't help but throw in an order for a few more of those comfy "Pink" ones. Then there's the "specialty" pairs - ones that came in a matching set with a cami or bra. And don't even get me started on the stuff I managed to acquire from my bachelorette party.
As a solution, I have decided to embrace the fall fashion trend of layering. I'm envisioning solid coloured thongs under meshy briefs, or lace boyshorts over patterned bikinis, or for a sportier American Apparel type thing, two of the same pair in different colours arranged just so. Don't think of it as wearing two pairs of underwear; That's weird, in a my-uptight-Granny kind of way. Think of it as resource management. Wait a second... Now I'm going to need about 16 pairs for the long weekend. I hope La Senza is still open.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Gainfully employed!
It's time to sharpen up my pencils and buy a new pair of sensible shoes. As of September 5th, I will be starting my new job as a proofreader for a major publisher of women's fiction. That's right: torn bodices, feisty virgins, and throbbing manhoods here I come!I am already vividly imagining what my life will be like when I have a regular schedule and a regular income. I will get up early and go to the gym, instead of rolling in around Ten. There will be urgency and motivation as I get dressed in the morning - and not in sweatpants, nooooo, in something suitable for an office.
By Four in the afternoon, I will have nearly completed a full day's productive work, not be slouching around the apartment feeling guilty that I haven't done the laundry/cleaned the sink/written a poem that will change people's lives/done a painting that will reveal my true artistic genius. My regular paycheck will allow me to make personal purchases of things other than food, and pay off my credit cards in full every month in a manner that will please my fiscally responsible husband. Life with a real job is going to be great!
Monday, August 21, 2006
Miss Camps-A-Lot
Or, Why I Love Camping Even Though It Makes You Dirty And Exhausted.
As I recover from last weekend's car-camping eat-a-thon, and frantically try to plan a Labour Day Weekend canoe getaway, I pause for a moment to consider just what it is about camping that I enjoy so much. I've had a big summer for camping: Four trips, which is about three more than I usually manage to do. I had never thought to question my motivation before, as the joys seemed so self-evident. However, it was brought to light recently that not everyone really ENJOYS the camping, so much as endures it.
It started in Junior High, because my parents certainly didn't take the family camping when we were kids. No, my mother was the B&B and a play in Stratford type. I think her Honeymoon camping in Scotland pretty much did her in for wilderness adventures.
So, Junior High, and our tiny alternative school did a yearly trip to some provincial park. Despite the stresses of splitting up into three-or-four person groups to camp, (who likes me enough to be in my group?!) it was always a much-anticipated event. There was no drinking, an activity that became closely related to camping in later years, but we were a bunch of pre-teens far far away from our parent's watchful eyes, with essentially no rules beyond our day's planned activities, and no curfew as long as you could exit your tent quietly and avoid the patrolling teacher's flashlight. I hooked up with my first little boyfriend on one of those trips. Sure, it only lasted 27 hours, but it was a milestone event. We had to be fairly independent on those trips, even cooking our own meals. I had no problems there. It tested friendships: I fought with the girls in my group over who would sleep on the crack between the air-mattresses (we ended up taking turns - after the first night we realized that although you might end up partially on the ground, it was also the coziest spot and totally safe from the possibly rainy edges of the tent) and I lost my temper when one of them freaked out that she'd got dirt on her designer jeans (um...what part of camping did you not get?). But man, those trips seemed to take up more of the school year than anything else.
It was also on these trips that I became close personal friends with Her Majesty - the ancient tent that my father provided for us. This tent. How do I begin? Her Majesty is a canvas tent in a zesty pumpkin colour. Her Majesty has enormous metal poles whose elastic bits have long since rotted, and thus have to be carefully assembled by hand. They are almost too heavy for a 12-year-old to handle, never mind that the canvas itself weighs a ton. Her Majesty has to be erected in a manner just so; any deviation from the instructions -- given to me verbally by my father on a test-run setup in the back yard -- will result in leakage and probable collapse. Once you've got the tent proper up, you have to repeat the entire process with a fly. The guylines were a minefield of tripping hazards surrounding the tent. Maybe it was the inherent danger of Her Majesty that made me love her so. Once, my family loaned this tent to some friends -- Israelis: hardy, resourceful people -- and they were completely done in by Her Majesty. They came back from their Canadian wilderness adventure declaring that you would need Abdul the Tentmaker to help you set up that monstrosity. I don't think they've been camping since. Let me just say, after years with the big orange beast, Abdul ain't got nothing on me.
Throughout high school, my friends and I would take off for camping on long weekends. These were opportunities to escape, bond, drink and meet the locals. It would be the core group of just-us-girls, with the rotating guys in our lives moving in and out for the different trips. I have a scrapbook dedicated almost entirely to these either sun-and-sambuca or cold-and-whiskey drenched excursions. I'd post some pictures, but you know, none of us were at our best in those years. It was so great to not care what you looked like for a whole weekend, and to know that the friends you were with were not only in the same boat, but liked you that way.
Her Majesty never made an outing during high school -- too many other people had modern, nylon and plastic tents for us to have to bother with Her. Still, she had a revival later: I took Her Majesty on one particularly enterprising excursion involving a bus, a taxi, Penetanguishine, and a potentially dangerous pickup truck drive-by, where Jessica and I hid inside Her and waited for the threat to pass. And again on an autumn trip where, in the heavy, warm confines of Her canvassy protection, I told my future husband for the first time that I loved him.
The new tent that is now "our" tent was a gift from said future husband. I don't remember if he gave it to me before or after the accident that caused me to miss the yearly Labour Day Weekend canoe trip and be bedridden for a month, but I do know that having it in the corner of my bedroom while my bones and bruises healed was a great comfort.
So do I love camping because I am sentimentally attached to my gear? That might be part of it, only in the way that when you go camping you have to be a pared-down, basic version of yourself and your worldly stuff. It is definitely more than "getting back to nature". Nature, as such, is readily available on a day trip walk in the woods. Getting out into the back country is more about getting back to your nature. It can be revelatory, to realize how capable you are. It can be inspiring to suffer through and survive a wilderness-inspired hardship. More than anything, it is humbling to suddenly find yourself as a smaller part of the larger scheme of things. In a city, which is totally by-and-for humans, you can never get the sense of the world as it actually is: a living, changing, enormous world where we are barely managing to scrape by.
And yeah, I like being dirty and exhausted. It feels good. Bring it on.
As I recover from last weekend's car-camping eat-a-thon, and frantically try to plan a Labour Day Weekend canoe getaway, I pause for a moment to consider just what it is about camping that I enjoy so much. I've had a big summer for camping: Four trips, which is about three more than I usually manage to do. I had never thought to question my motivation before, as the joys seemed so self-evident. However, it was brought to light recently that not everyone really ENJOYS the camping, so much as endures it.
It started in Junior High, because my parents certainly didn't take the family camping when we were kids. No, my mother was the B&B and a play in Stratford type. I think her Honeymoon camping in Scotland pretty much did her in for wilderness adventures.
So, Junior High, and our tiny alternative school did a yearly trip to some provincial park. Despite the stresses of splitting up into three-or-four person groups to camp, (who likes me enough to be in my group?!) it was always a much-anticipated event. There was no drinking, an activity that became closely related to camping in later years, but we were a bunch of pre-teens far far away from our parent's watchful eyes, with essentially no rules beyond our day's planned activities, and no curfew as long as you could exit your tent quietly and avoid the patrolling teacher's flashlight. I hooked up with my first little boyfriend on one of those trips. Sure, it only lasted 27 hours, but it was a milestone event. We had to be fairly independent on those trips, even cooking our own meals. I had no problems there. It tested friendships: I fought with the girls in my group over who would sleep on the crack between the air-mattresses (we ended up taking turns - after the first night we realized that although you might end up partially on the ground, it was also the coziest spot and totally safe from the possibly rainy edges of the tent) and I lost my temper when one of them freaked out that she'd got dirt on her designer jeans (um...what part of camping did you not get?). But man, those trips seemed to take up more of the school year than anything else.
It was also on these trips that I became close personal friends with Her Majesty - the ancient tent that my father provided for us. This tent. How do I begin? Her Majesty is a canvas tent in a zesty pumpkin colour. Her Majesty has enormous metal poles whose elastic bits have long since rotted, and thus have to be carefully assembled by hand. They are almost too heavy for a 12-year-old to handle, never mind that the canvas itself weighs a ton. Her Majesty has to be erected in a manner just so; any deviation from the instructions -- given to me verbally by my father on a test-run setup in the back yard -- will result in leakage and probable collapse. Once you've got the tent proper up, you have to repeat the entire process with a fly. The guylines were a minefield of tripping hazards surrounding the tent. Maybe it was the inherent danger of Her Majesty that made me love her so. Once, my family loaned this tent to some friends -- Israelis: hardy, resourceful people -- and they were completely done in by Her Majesty. They came back from their Canadian wilderness adventure declaring that you would need Abdul the Tentmaker to help you set up that monstrosity. I don't think they've been camping since. Let me just say, after years with the big orange beast, Abdul ain't got nothing on me.
Throughout high school, my friends and I would take off for camping on long weekends. These were opportunities to escape, bond, drink and meet the locals. It would be the core group of just-us-girls, with the rotating guys in our lives moving in and out for the different trips. I have a scrapbook dedicated almost entirely to these either sun-and-sambuca or cold-and-whiskey drenched excursions. I'd post some pictures, but you know, none of us were at our best in those years. It was so great to not care what you looked like for a whole weekend, and to know that the friends you were with were not only in the same boat, but liked you that way.
Her Majesty never made an outing during high school -- too many other people had modern, nylon and plastic tents for us to have to bother with Her. Still, she had a revival later: I took Her Majesty on one particularly enterprising excursion involving a bus, a taxi, Penetanguishine, and a potentially dangerous pickup truck drive-by, where Jessica and I hid inside Her and waited for the threat to pass. And again on an autumn trip where, in the heavy, warm confines of Her canvassy protection, I told my future husband for the first time that I loved him.
The new tent that is now "our" tent was a gift from said future husband. I don't remember if he gave it to me before or after the accident that caused me to miss the yearly Labour Day Weekend canoe trip and be bedridden for a month, but I do know that having it in the corner of my bedroom while my bones and bruises healed was a great comfort.
So do I love camping because I am sentimentally attached to my gear? That might be part of it, only in the way that when you go camping you have to be a pared-down, basic version of yourself and your worldly stuff. It is definitely more than "getting back to nature". Nature, as such, is readily available on a day trip walk in the woods. Getting out into the back country is more about getting back to your nature. It can be revelatory, to realize how capable you are. It can be inspiring to suffer through and survive a wilderness-inspired hardship. More than anything, it is humbling to suddenly find yourself as a smaller part of the larger scheme of things. In a city, which is totally by-and-for humans, you can never get the sense of the world as it actually is: a living, changing, enormous world where we are barely managing to scrape by.
And yeah, I like being dirty and exhausted. It feels good. Bring it on.
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