Happy mother’s day to all the beauty cat mothers out there!
I’ll be working on my posture all day in your honour.
We have been all sunshine saturation and balmy breezes out here on the west coast.
Mostly importantly, it is finally, FINALLY slurpee weather:
And BBQ weather!
And patios!
And road trips:
And long walks!
So let your shadows dance!
I hope you all have a great Sunday.
If you can, hug your mommas extra tight.
And for goodness sakes, sit up straight!
I live with a man to whom I have pledged my troth, until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.
During the first month of our courtship, I flew away to Nova Scotia for two weeks, and during this time we wrote to each every day; back and forth we went, feverish, all firing synapses and tricky fingers – and often times very late at night (or early in the morning), so our typos, like our emotions, were plentiful.
I would love to share with you something he wrote to me – something that will forever make me laugh, something that will forever live in my heart.
An excerpt – Monday, August 25, 2003, 00:17:34:
As the evening progressed I began to feel more and more that I was part of some macabre Dostoevskian dinner party, wherein a carnivalesque ambiance lies so heavily upon the evening that I expect at any moment to have one of us drop down dead, or for Inspector Porfiry to burst through the door and proclaim me a student and a criminal in equal measure.
Finally we began to watch the Anniversary Party with director’s commentary. This was good because it allowed a dimming of lights so the rest of the party could no loner sit around awkwardly as my face watched my mind build and destroy lines of compassion and comradeship, leaving me on a sober island alone, being the only member of the melodramatic depressed monkey stock.
Finally I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and announced I was retiring for the evening.
Many sad farewells were exchanged, and then my door was closed and at last the misanthrope was safe, and glad that his room was devoid of mirrors and the curtains were pulled. Then I turned off the one light by my bed, and sat, and in the darkness.
I wrote, since I could not speak, and my fingers were the tongues of my mind, and true for once for they were too long steeped in the deception of my company.
Last Night:
Because I spent an hour untwisting my phone cord, so I could lie where you lay that first night though miles apart; your heat a weir around my slippery heart; electric pulses shaping the darkness with the phosphorescent paintings of your words. And today I am order in my sock drawer, pairing and pressing, thinking of the arch of your strong feet trembling beneath my touch. You make me believe in a symmetrical world beyond my usual preoccupation with chaos; the gyre widens not forever – the hawk will tire, and bank, and glide in a descending inscription to the face of the world. To live forever in the heights of my mind is a beauteous peril, and folly. It is the loose loam between my toes, the touch of another, a lover, you who unquakes my weakness and fear of uncertainty.
Tonight I will sleep deeply; I may not dream.
But when I wake, I live a life of magical reality – this man and I, sewn up in a sea of soliloquies and stardust; tulips and tea.
The nose-less sphinx, straight roman roads under pumice and ash – I could have been a statue if I hadn’t met you.
I wish you all beauty and brilliance, this windswept day, and always.
Breakfast for dinner is one of my favourite things in the entire world. Especially after a day of racing about like a racing thing.
And today was darn busy.
Beautiful, but busy.
So the only thing I wanted to do when I got home was make French toast, with homemade strawberry coulis, and good lemon yogurt.
Because folks, that combination tastes like a dream.
A dream.
Let’s get started.
Monster strawberry.
Chop it.
Squeeze it.
Boil it.
Blend it.
Break it.
Cut it.
Dip it.
Ack! I forgot to take a snap of the Fry it. phase.
Ah well, you will have to picture those slices sizzling away in the pan.
For a final result of:
As I ate this, I drank a tall glass of chocolate soy milk, which for some reason has grown on me like a bad rash. I used to hate the stuff, and now I cannot get enough of it.
It really is So Good. (Trade mark.)
So there you have it friends.
What’s your favourite thing to eat, when it comes to breakfast as dinner?
Guess what friends?
This is my one hundredth blog post!
Heavens to Betsy, I can hardly believe it.
I started Ye Olde Rant and Roll last October, because I was missing creative writing something fierce.
I was already writing a boat load for work- including blogging three times a week – so I figured if I had the stamina to keep it up at my job, there was absolutely no reason why I couldn’t stick to a schedule of writing three times a week for fun.
(Hilarious almost typo. I first wrote “fur” instead of fun. I most definitely would not write three times a week for fur.)
At first all of my posts were Rants. (Definitely capital R.)
There was bad stuff going down all over the world, including in my own back yard, and I wanted to draw attention to those issues.
I had a voice – I might as well use it.
This was fantastic for the first little while, until I realized that I wasn’t totally worked up about issues all the live long day. I didn’t have enough things grinding my gears to produce three posts a week.
Plus, amazing, intriguing, inspiring things were happening on an almost daily basis – brilliant things were going on, and they were affecting me as much as the other issues I was discussing.
So gradually, I began to explore different sides of the world, and my life, through this here blog spot.
I started writing about fashion. And food. I wrote more about my life with Mr. M and our little beauty cat Nymeria.
I wrote about past travel plans, vacation adventures as they were happening, and I’ve hinted about expeditions that will soon be coming down the pipe.
(Mixed metaphor? Oh well, I’m owning it.)
I’m chronicling my progression to Tough Mudder status, unpacking my love-hate relationship with professional hockey, and singing the praises of my always entertaining family, my brilliant friends.
BUT! One the most important elements of this insanely wonderful ride is I’ve had the chance to meet all you rad-freaking-tastic readers and writers.
And I love that I get to have a glimpse into your lives, your stories, your rants and your rolls.
I’ve started writing upwards of five times a week because I feel so honoured to be a part of this amazing community, and I just get so jazzed the heck up all the time about stories that, well, jazz me the heck up!
A couple of you have asked me where I got my nickname from. So prepare yourselves for a thrill!
Well, almost three summers ago I worked with two beautiful young ladies, both the same height, one brunette and one blond. One day I made a joke to another colleague about them being Betty and Veronica. He turned to me and asked, “well, what does that make you?”
“Um,” I said. “Well…I’m tall, and lanky, and pretty nerdy. So – I guess that makes me Ethel?”
And it did. To many, many people from that day forth, I was Ethel.
The second part stems from a lunch break I had the day after I defended my Master’s thesis. I spent the whole time describing my research to a co-worker. At the end of my (ahem) rant, he asked me if I would rather he call me “doctor” or “the dean.”
“The dean,” I said.
So there you go. The birth of Ethel the Dean!
And to mark this auspicious occasion, if there are any other questions you have about my bonkers life, I’d be happy answer them.
(To an extent. Or for fur.)
So not this past weekend, but the weekend before, forty-nine robbers came knocking at my door.
Um.
No.
That didn’t happen. (But does anyone else remember that rhyme? I did some mean double-dutch to that bad boy all throughout my grade two year – you know, when I wasn’t chowing down on eggos and drinking Labatt Blue that is.)
I asked them what they wanted, and this is what they said – Spanish lady go like this! Spanish lady do the twist! Spanish lady touch the ground! Spanish lady turn around! Spanish lady jump once more! Spanish lady out the door! [at this point you had to run out of the rope circle. This was always the hardest part of double-dutch. It’s crazy difficult to run in or out of the circle with two ropes going! Also, why Spanish lady? I HAVE NO CLUE.]
But I digress.
Two weekends ago, I over did it a little bit with the training. M and I ran a long run, filled with hills and sprints, before ending up at the circuit track at Queen’s park. The monkey bars were slick with rain, and as I worked my was across I slipped halfway and twinged something in my right bicep.
Of course, because I cannot ever leave well enough alone, the next day I ran a seven kilometer “recovery” run.
By the end I was completely and utterly knackered.
Things hurt. Things that don’t normally ever hurt, HURT A LOT.
I was done.
So for the next five days I didn’t do anything – no running, training, weight lifting, or core work.
I even went for a 30 minute massage on Monday after work.
And it was pretty awesome. I got to come home, cook food, write, read, watch Damages (if you are not watching this show YOU MUST SERIOUSLY START NOW), and hang out with Ms. Nymeria and Mr. M.
In all honesty, it was actually a little shocking how much extra time I had in the evenings, not lugging myself to the gym two or three nights after work – especially on the days when I would usually be rushing to the gym, rushing back home, rushing into the shower, and then rushing out the door for my volunteer commitments.
I’m certainly not going to give up my regular scheduled program (because at the root of it, I really like it) – but it’s good to know that when push comes to shove, and my body is telling me to rest up, I can, and I will.
And I did.
After five days however, I was revved up, ready to run.
This past Saturday I was practically giddy as I got ready to get out of the door and out into the sunshine.
And let me tell you, that week of rest did my body a world of good.
I had an absolutely stellar run, and I killed it on the circuit.
The loop at Queen’s park is about 2.5 km, and very hilly. I ran it three times. In between each lap I would head to the circuit where I would do one set of monkey bars (I felt like I really was a monkey – I made it across each time no problem. I could not believe it!), twenty push-ups, and ten box jumps.
At the end of my run, I did three sets of sprints – 1 minute as fast as I could.
And as I made my way home, I felt as though I was flying.
Over the last few hundred meters back to my house, a couple of tears leaked out of the far corner of my left eye.
Not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration.
I was on fire.
(Maybe that’s why I was crying – to put out the flames.)
I do, however, have some pretty brutal blisters on my hands from those accursed monkey bars. Check it:
Urg.
But even sore hands couldn’t keep me still for long.
The next day, Sunday, I set out once more, and my legs propelled me through another absolutely smashing run. The sun’s rays burned bright, but not too hot – the green of the park’s trees, so lush and ethereal, while the sky burned a white opal, sapphire blue.
It’s moments like that were I truly believe that my body is capable of anything.
As long as I listen to it, it will tell me when it’s ready.
And goodness knows, beware to anyone standing in our way.
…
Post script – I just received one of the most hilarious and completely incoherent spam comments of all time. It reads: Good afternoon fellow , probably fire a torpedo from grace is increasingly cumbersome due to the restricted set of telephone operators.
“Firing a torpedo from grace” is now what I’m calling my tough mudder training. Boo yeah.
Rant and Roll 