Author: Vanessa Woznow

Writer, runner, ranter, reader. I write about all things.

I’m a mouse, duh!

Halloween has officially jumped the shark.

Exhibit A:

SEXY BANANA!!! http://www.yandy.com/Sexy-Banana-Costume.php

Exhibit B:

SEXY CHEWBACCA!!! http://www.yandy.com/Sci-Fi-Furry-Costume.php

Exhibit C:

SEXY MARY POPPINS!!! http://www.yandy.com/spoonful-of-sugar-costume

And so it goes.

I am actually apt to believe that this company is just trolling us all, and that their employees fill their days playing an endless game of “Sexy Madlibs” in an effort to come up with the most ridiculous costumes as possible.

In fact, because it looks so easy I think I’m going to play too.

Let’s start:

SEXY PLUNGER!

SEXY COMPRESSION SOCK!

SEXY ARMADILLO!

SEXY SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD!

SEXY BOARDING PASS!

SEXY SHOE HORN!

SEXY EUROPEAN UNION MONETARY POLICY!

SEXY AUSTERITY MEASURES!

SEXY WEDGE OF MELTED BRIE!

SEXY SWEATER VEST!

SEXY CHRISTMAS TREE ORNAMENT!

SEXY PONTIUS PILATE!

SEXY JACKSON POLLOCK PAINTING!

SEXY HEAD GEAR!

SEXY NON-FAT PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE EASY WHIP!

Seriously, I want this job. Not only is it completely bonkers, it is great, great fun.

Now, I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I’ve never gone out on Halloween dressed as a slightly more tarted-up version of my normal self.

In first year of my undergrad, I went as a the Short Skirt, Long Jacket girl from Cake’s seminal work “Short Skirt, Long Jacket” (not my finest work, but definitely my most last minute); and the year after I was some sort of trampy vampire (although mostly I was stoked to stomp around in my new Doc Martin boots, flashing my sweet fangs to random passerbys.)

But mostly, I’ve taken advantage of Halloween to dress as either dudes from different decades or Hermione from Harry Potter.

(And not sexy Hermione either BECAUSE COME ON PEOPLE, THAT IS JUST AWFUL AND WRONG.)

I’ve been a 1920s golfer, an Extra Extra! paperboy, and Jerry Sizzler (a clearly insane man, dressed as a woman.)

This year, if I could actually get my act together I would LOVE to go as Psy (although I would have to make sure that I pulled it off and didn’t veer into 1970s prom territory.)

So where exactly am I going with this?

I’m not exactly sure. I mean, on one hand, I feel as though it isn’t my right to stand up and say that women cannot dress the way that they want – on Halloween or any other day of the year.

But on the other hand, the whole “sexy for sexy sake” trope really drives me nuts.  It’s lazy and demeaning and ridiculous.

And yet, I also cannot help but keep going back to the line: In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. (From Tina Fey’s brilliant film Mean Girls.)

So. This is true, yes.  But what do we do with it?

Let’s talk it through.

For three hundred and sixty-four days of the year women are judged and shamed every day based on their mode of dress (whether it’s too sexy or not sexy enough).

However, for one night each year, some kind of messed up amnesty is called, and a woman can put on whatever deranged outfit she chooses (let’s say, a sexy hamburger costume), and for the next five or so hours have the opportunity to subvert current social norms and attitudes, because sexy now IS the expected and accepted norm, come Halloween night.

To me, this is some messed up crap.

Instead of, oh, I don’t know, making a concerted effort to do away with the incredibly damaging expectations and implications we as a society have placed on a woman’s appearance, mode of dress, and sexuality, we create a night where it’s okay for a woman to be “sexy” and dress in utterly rubbish costumes (but just this one time!) because it’s only make believe and not real life.

Remember ladies: it’s okay to be a slut as long as you’re not really a slut!

TITILATE NOT FORNICATE!

This ludicrous binary of all or nothing sexuality – where it is important to be both chaste and sexual, the Madonna and the whore – is brutal, and restrictive, and archaic, and so alive and thriving it boggles my mind.

And it messes me up because I get all shirty and confused wondering if I am actually okay with women wearing these kind of outfits? Do they really want to wear that kind of costume or do they just think they should wear something like that? Are these choices symptoms of patriarchy or they conscious efforts to subvert it?

For the love of Pete, someone pass me a mini Twix bar.

The long and short of it is – I don’ t have the answer. So I will finish by saying this:

Ladies: Dress up however you wish, and remember – when the clock strikes twelve on November 1, you won’t turn into a pumpkin (SEXY! Or otherwise.)

No matter what you wear, you will still be the same person, the same heart, the same brain, the same soul. A costume, makeup, a mode of dress – none of these things can change that, no matter what anyone (or society) tries to tell you.

Now, if you excuse me, I think I may have just figured out the perfect costume. This year, I will definitely be going as a SEXY CAN OF WORMS!

Now where’s my can opener…

A real stand up kind of gal

Hey you crazy cats!

Phew.

Let me catch my breath here.

So much has been happening on this side of the cosmic kitchen that I am having a hard time keeping my head on straight.

I mean, where exactly has October gone?

This weekend was a blur of magic and marvel  – my mother in-law’s birthday, dogsitting, a fashionista charity event, a Cory Doctorow reading, runs in the rain, hang outs with friends – I am exhausted and giddy, and wistful just thinking of it all.

Meanwhile, the outside world’s bonkerdom continues apace.

Seriously, the news these days is pretty much at crisis saturation point and so every time I read the newspaper or fire up ye ole’ internets, I start to feel much the same way.

It order to keep the information-based malaise at bay, and a smile firmly etched on my face, my mother has been phoning me regularly, regaling me with all the east coast gossip I so dearly miss whilst keeping hearth and home 6,000 kilometers away on the western seaboard.

Whilst she has me on the blower, she also updates me on Halifax’s on-going mayoral race, and the continued success of this year’s dark horse (erm, dark cat) candidate – one Tuxedo Stan.

With his recent endorsement by Ellen DeGeneres, Mr. Stan’s candidacy (catdidacy?) is looking strong indeed. I don’t want to say that he’s a shoe-in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages to pounce on a large percentage of the vote.

I mean, say what you want, but that cat doesn’t spin any yarns. He just plays with them.

(I promise I’m done.)

But T.S. certainly is a cutie pie. Plus he’s always, always dressed for the occasion.

Anywho, all of this activity of late – both on the phone, and off – has left me feeling pretty darn knackered.

No word of a lie, this morning when the alarm went off it took a heck of a long time for my brain shift gears from “ZZZZZZZ” to “ACHIEVER” and doubly long for my limbs to make their way out of the warm and cozy mess of blankets that M and I call a bed.

I always say that on mornings such as these, I feel as though I have to steam my eyelids open in the shower – as if the day is a secret message I was never meant to see.

Can you tell that I can get very poetic and philosophical whilst I wash my hair?

Side note: do you cats take the exact same shower every day?

I do.

Anytime my routine is mucked up it drives me absolutely batty.

As I’ve said before, showering is very, very important to me. I do some of my best thinking behind that curtain.

First – I wash my hair. Then I put in the conditioner, but don’t wash it out right away. While my hair is “conditioning” I scrub my dermis within an inch of its life.

Then I wash my face with my magical NO ACNE 4 U cleanser.

Once this is finished, I rinse the conditioner from my hair and skedaddle like a maniac. One towel for the bod, one for the head.

I like the Queen of Sheba look.

In short, I love quick, hot, organized showers.

NO MESSING AROUND ALLOWED.

Anywho, back to what I was saying before that insane sidebar – just looking into the next month, my ride on the barmy train will continue chugging along, as besides work, I have at least six more talks with the United Way, a radio gig, my regular big sisters work, a romantic cabin getaway, a visit from the pater familias, and I’m still trying to figure out if I’m going to run the Fall Classic 10k.

I’ve also been reading all of the Mordecai Richler.

I cannot stop. It’s just too good.

Oh, and the piece de resistance?

 I signed up for stand-up comedy classes!

YES.

This is the most exciting thing ever.

I have wanted to try stand-up for pretty much the last bagillion or so years. Having done a ton of improv and acting in years past, I always thought of this – in the parlance of Picard and Kirk – the final frontier.

I am still too chicken to just sign-up for an amateur night cold turkey, so I figure if I take a few classes (which has a live show as our final project!) I will be much closer to racking up the required courage.

Wish me luck (or wish that I break my leg).

I will keep you posted as it goes.

But first sleep.

I have a pile of blankets with my name on it.

Smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss

* All names have been changed to protect the innocent and nerdy.

The watery moon winked overhead.

The December winds played with Samantha’s loose, brown braids. Letting out a long sigh, she watched as her warm breath hung suspended in the cool sea-salt air.

As she unlocked her front door, she traced the top of her lips, remembering the kitten’s paw touch of Dave’s hand against hers.

Her first real first date.

Idling outside of her house, they had taken off their seat belts and held hands, making silent, but short lived eye contact.

Samantha hadn’t known if she was going to throw up or start crying.

When Dave placed his arm around her shoulders, she too shifted, nestling into the smooth groove of his upper chest, stealing glances at their reflection in the rear view mirror.

Samantha liked the way the olive tones of Dave’s skin stood in contrast to her own.  She had smiled when she felt him fiddle with the frayed pompom on the top of her toque.

Unfortunately, in an awkward attempt to turn up the heat, but not dislodge Samantha from her nook, Dave accidentally poked Samantha in the eye, hard, and with his elbow.

“Owww…” moaned Samantha.

Dave had shot ramrod in his seat, appalled.

“I’m sorry! Samantha, are you okay?  I’m – are you okay?”  Inching to the edge of his seat, Dave had paused, and then gingerly, reached out to try and stroke the right side of her cheek.

Samantha, trying her best to smile it off, wanted desperately to pretend that she wasn’t hurt, but instinctively shied away from his touch.

Slowly, slowly, she opened her eye.

“It’s…it’s fine. Really.” She said.

Dave shifted a little closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Samantha wiped away at her tears. “Yes.”

“I cannot believe I did that.” Dave rubbed at his furrow brow.

Samantha let out a timid laugh. “It’s totally okay.”

Turning to face her, this time Dave did place his hand on her cheek.

Samantha felt herself turn to stone.

For a second their faces seemed to hover next to one another.

Samantha’s cheeks burned hot, two glowing coals in the light of the dash.

Her heartbeat in her ears.

Dave inched closer.

Her breath paused, lips parted.

And then, as the car stalled, their teeth clattered together – a crack like that of a stack of pencils knocked onto a freshly swept floor.

Panicked, Samantha had quickly tried to kiss him again, but only got the peak of his nose and then the side of his chin.

“I’m sorry! I’m not very good at – ” She blurted out.

But before she could finish, Dave had placed his soft, shaking hands on either side of her face and pulling her closer, pressed his lips against hers.

Samantha pressed back.

Thinking back, as she tiptoed to the top of her staircase, Samantha realized with just a twinge of disappointment that she had completely forgotten to close her eyes.

Next time, she thought to herself.

Next time.

Making an effort to stretch myself

Hey gang.

I have a dirty, horrible secret that I need to get off my chest.

(Urg, that conjures up some truly horrific imagery doesn’t it? It makes me think of a putrid, gelatinous squid laying waste to my body, its tentacles wedged into the crooks of my neck and the dip of my bellybutton.)

[pauses]

Gaaaaaaaaaah!

Why would I even write that? Now that I’ve conjured up that visual nightmare, I’ve only made this whole thing even worse.

Enough of this pseudo-Alien bullshazzle Ethel. Pull yourself together woman!

Okay.

My secret doesn’t have anything to do with my sci-fi film proclivities, nor does it have anything to do with seafood (although you can bet your bottom dollar I’m not going to be ordering a plate of calamari anytime soon.)

My dark globule of shame is thus:

I’VE STARTED DOING YOGA.

[pauses]

Gaaaaaaaaaaaah!

I should have just stuck with being eaten alive by a blood thirsty extra-terrestrial octopus.

And yet, alas, it is true.

To paraphrase Katy Perry: I did yoga and I liked it. (I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.)

Jeeze Louise, I am losing all the cool points today, aren’t I?

GOOD GRIEF.

So how did this all come about you might ask? (Or maybe just, you know, can you get to the point Ethel because you’re rambling like a rambling thing?)

It all started with the rain.

You see, here in Beautiful British Columbia© it rains like the absolute dickens. The relentless deluge we west coasters suffer through betwixt the months of October to April (and sometimes later) is of such magnitude that there is a good chance we will grow moss all over our bodies if we do not exercise constant vigilance.

This is fact.

So. As the drizzle has now descended upon our fair city, coupled by the fact that the days are growing ever shorter (and ever darker), I am trying my darndest not to reenlist at the gym, because a.) I’m trying to save money and b.) GYMS ARE THE WORST.

But it’s hard. Who wants to arrive home from work and go running outside in the pitch-dark pouring rain?

The absolute wettest I have EVER been on a run. Taken this past weekend.

That is bleak, bleak sauce.

However, I figure if I work really hard at it, a gym-free solution is doable.

For instance, because I am currently taking a break from my half-marathon training schedule, I have the option of going for much shorter, faster runs.

For instance, yesterday I burned through a 5 km while practicing my sprints/hill running.

I also have to admit that running in the rain isn’t always as dreadful as it sounds. Sometimes it’s actually pretty empowering and deliciously badass. Plus, it’s definitely manageable if you’re only doing it for 20-30 minutes at a time.

Further, no one is saying that should we get the odd nice weekend here and there I can’t take advantage and bang out a sweet 10-15k just to make sure I don’t backtrack in terms of my distance training.

The second part of of my gym-free workout plan is to do a crap load of resistance work, which means push-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, burpees, wall sits, planks – you name it.

And the plus side of all of this is that I can do all of these things in the comfort of my own home.

Okay, okay, I know what you’re all thinking: “WHAT ABOUT THE BLOODY YOGA!?”

I’m getting there, I promise.

Seeing as though I’ve been told that I should be practicing my downward dog and sun salutation for something like the past two-hundred years, last Sunday I finally thought to myself, “Enough of this bollocks. I might as well give it a go.”

Now, don’t get any crazy ideas that I actually went out a bought a mat and paid for a class or anything.

After a brutal session of burpees, jump squats, pull-ups, and hip raises, a twenty-minute beginners yoga class via Youtube (that I could do complete on the carpet in my bedroom) was looking pretty good.

And it was!

It was good.

It was so good in fact, that I’ve done the same video every night since, as well as an extra session of stretching.

The only fly in the ointment being that whenever I am doing my poses M walks around the house muttering “HANI PASHA” to himself, which completely ruins my concentration and sends me into uncontrollable giggle fits.

But I’ll take it.

In the end, I guess a leopard really can change her spots, as I have long ridiculed yoga and its disciples (living in Lotus Land it’s pretty hard not to, what with the city’s collection obsession with Lululemon and its competitors.)

So that’s it folks; that is my slimy, salacious secret.

I am a budding, neophyte yogi.

And I blame it on the rain.

A year of ranting and rolling

Can you believe it?

One hundred and eighty-odd posts later and here we are – looking back on a year of blogging.

I started Rant and Roll because I love to write and because I am easily destroyed by issues that either break my heart or force steam out of my ears.

My amazing friend Sherie encouraged me to write down my rants, mostly due to the fact that she would absolutely kill herself laughing any time I was on the warpath, orating and gesticulating widely (like the modern day – severely pissed off – Pericles that I can be.)

And so I did.

At first all of my posts really were rants – calling out injustices, lamenting social ills, and waxing long on my huge beef with institutionalized sexism.

Pfft. If it’s not cutting at least 50 lbs, I can’t even be bothered.

But then, little, by little, my small corner of the internet began to evolve.

Sure, I still wrote about issues near and dear to my heart (I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.)

However, I also started to write about other things – my relationship with the brilliant man whom I share my heart and home; our kitty cat who rules the roost; and my travels both near and far, new and old.

Ms. Nymeria cuddling with Mr. M.

I began sharing pieces of fiction and poems.

My tricky relationship with the fashion industry has been well documented (as have the very good and very bad pieces I’ve stumbled across whilst playing dress-up on my lunch breaks.)

I’ve written about my past struggles with eating disorders and an experience from my youth that has left me scarred, but not broken.

I’ve written about my rocky relationship with hockey and my slow-building courtship with soccer.

CONCACAF action.

In April I was Freshly Pressed and it was pretty much the COOLEST THING EVER.

There were days that I was so tired coming home from work that I cried.

But I also drooled on the metro.

I made pea soup and I cooked breakfast for dinner.

I hiked a mountain in California, and came third in my third ever half-marathon.

Beautiful Haystack Mt.

I was a Tough Mudder.

All that mud covered a crap load of bruises and cuts!

I took on the “I don’t watch TV” crowd.

I laughed a lot.

It has been simply smashing.

So what have I learned from this brilliant experience? What do I take away from three hundred and sixty-five days of blogging?

Well, the first thing is that I am darn proud of my little R&R.

On day one I swore to myself that I would write three times a week, no excuses.

At first it was hard – I wanted each piece to be INTELLIGENT, and THOUGHT PROVOKING.

High brow or die! FIRE AT WILL COMMANDER.

But then I just started to sit back and let it flow. I made sure not to force any one post into being something that it wasn’t – that it couldn’t be.

Looking back, there were some weeks where I wrote four, even five posts – not because I felt like I had to, but because I was inspired, and passionate, and excited, and so so happy to feel my fingers a-tap-tapping, flying across the keyboard, just trying to keep up to the pace of my frantic thoughts that were just spilling out of my head, onto the desk, and all over the floor.

I’ve learned that pictures and media are a good way of adding colour to your blog (no pun intended).

Palm trees at night, a visual delight.

(Or just to drive home the point of how truly bonkers you really are.)

I’ve learned that spam bots will leave comments that leave me breathless from laughter, and that real life people will leave comments that melt my heart into a puddle of mush.

(This is a good thing.)

But it the end, what I first and foremost take away from this crazy year of blogging is the opportunity to make my way through the remarkable WordPress community, read some outstanding blogs, and get to know some truly phenomenal people.

To all of my brilliant and beautiful blog friends, I wouldn’t want to do this without you.

You make me laugh at your fantastic wit.

You make me cry with your profound prose.

You make me fall in love with your children and your pets.

You make me jealous of all your amazing fashion pieces, and your delicate eyes for mixing and patching different patterns and palates.

You make me run faster, and work out harder.

You make me marvel at your art, your photography, your writing.

You make me want to be a better blogger.

You make me want to be better.

So thank you. Thank you all.

Here’s to another year of blogging.

Till next time champs!

So everyone buckle up – here come the terrible twos.