We are all Canucks. But why?

Well, the Canucks lost tonight.

We were all shouting Boo-urns.

And that’s all I want to say about that.

Seriously, I don’t know why I care so much about this stupid hockey club. I am sitting here asking myself how I could possibly be SO BLOODY CUT UP OVER THIS LOSS.

It actually makes less sense than a Ramada hotel advertisement (and those are obtuse in the extreme.)

One of the coolest books I read in grad school was “Imagined Communities” by Benedict Anderson. In his work, Anderson defines a nation as “an imagined political community – and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign.”

They are limited in that nations have “finite, if elastic boundaries, beyond which lie other nations” andthey are sovereign since no dynastic monarchy can claim authority over them.

(Anderson’s work is focused predominantly on the rise of European democracies.)

A nation is an imagined community because “regardless of the actual inequality and exploitation that may prevail in each, the nation is always conceived as a deep, horizontal comradeship.”

The imagined community is different from an actual community because it is not (and cannot be) based on everyday face-to-face interaction between its members. Instead, members hold in their minds a mental image of their affinity, or their bond.

A great example of this is the sensation of “pride of nationhood” individuals share with other members of their nation when their “imagined community” participates in a larger event (such as the Olympic Games.)

Now, I won’t go into too much detail on the entirety of Anderson’s thesis (however, I will encourage you to read it without delay if your interest in the subject matter has been peaked).

But I will say that I am consistently drawn to him every time I find myself sitting here, questioning my (always baffling) relationship with ice hockey.

Do I watch because it’s been ingrained in me to watch? Do I watch because I love sport, and am, at the root of it all, a highly competitive person who gets off on watching excellence?

If I lived in Europe would I feel the same way about soccer? If I lived in the States, would I feel the same way about football?

Where is the dividing line between cultural (or national) assimilation, and personal autonomy? Or are these too, imagined constructs?

And why is it that I loathe so many elements of hockey (and so many other elements of professional sport)? Is this my individuality asserting itself over my imagined nationality? Or do I just hate goonery more than I love winning?

And why the heck am I assuming ownership over a victory that I played absolutely zero part in?

Yeesh.

When I’m not thinking about Anderson, I’m thinking about Rome and the coliseum and the gladiators. I think about complacency and apathy and what is enough to keep a society happy and unquestioning?

And what about our appetite for gore, and war, and physical supremacy? Is this somehow manifesting itself in these sporting events, because we are unsure of how to address this need in the every day political activities and actions our “nation”?

I mean, here in ye Old Great White North, we like to advertise ourselves as a “peace keeping” nation, but don’t even think about the fighting out of our national passtime!

A GOOD BENCH CLEARING BRAWL IS WHAT CANADA’S ALL ABOUT!

Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer to these conundrums.

And I probably never will.

The sky is beautiful. We're all still alive. We'll be okay.

All I know is that tonight the Canucks lost.

But Nadal won. So that brings a big old smile to my face.

Until of course, I start to think, would I feel this way if Djokovic was a Canadian?

Or if I was a Serb?

No promises, no demands

Hey Kids,

This week I’ve been feeling a little burnt out. Seriously, I’m starting to feel like the kid in Jumanji as he’s being sucked into the board game.

Stretched too thin and unsure of what the heck is going to happen next.

Also, if I wake up tomorrow morning looking like Robin Williams, there is going to be hell to pay.

It’ll be a drive by fruiting!

Ahem.

Even though I thoroughly enjoy my work, and all my volunteer commitments, my training sessions (I take the good with the bad, and even the ugly), and my creative pursuits (nay, passions), I kind of feel like I have too many fingers, in too many pies, and they are all being burned to a crisp by a blisteringly hot blueberry filling.

And I bloody well LOVE blueberry filling!

Can someone pass me some vanilla ice cream, stat?

For the past five days, each time my alarm has gone off, the first thought to immediately to pop into my head has been: “NO. I REFUSE.”

The second has been: “What the frick am I going to wear to work today?”

Followed by the third and last: “I better not have a zit to contend with, or I’m going to lose it!”

Yeesh. Forget Robin Williams, I’m slowly morphing into George Costanza.

(Number three on that list is a throw back from high school. I used to have pretty awful skin, and even though I’ve had a clear complexion for quite a while now, I can’t shake this compulsion. Especially since every once in a while I’ll get a major doozy of a zit. Case in point, yesterday as I left an after-work function completely destroyed from exhaustion, I could practically feel my heart beating in what can only be described as the monster pimple from hell. Amazingly, in the span of only two hours, this thing had sprouted from nothing, to wrecking havoc with the earth’s gravitational pull.)

I’ll live, I’m sure, but trauma was endured.

So this morning as I rode the metro to work I was feeling a little down.

I was late leaving my house, so I didn’t have the option of waiting for a train that had available seats, so I hopped on the first car that stopped at the station. Leaning back on the glass partition that separates a five-seat bench from the train doors, I nonchalantly skimmed through the free newspaper I had been handed at the station’s entrance, and watched the scenery zip by.

As I marveled at the beautiful cherry blossom trees that line the skytrain route, I also drank in the different coloured blues, pinks, and greens that made up the early morning sky.

Just the simple act of meditating on nature’s beauty made my heart feel a little lighter.

And then BAM!

I saw it.

No, not the mullet. Though I did notice that too.

Written right in front of me.

A little piece of graffiti, scribbled in pencil on the carriage’s door. An adolescent’s script:

Latin 100 baby!

Amor Vincit Omnia.

Love conquers all.

Just out there, for the world to see.

And as the train bopped along, and the cherry blossoms cherried, and the blue sky blued itself (there’s an arrested development joke somewhere in there), I thought to myself:

HELL YES LOVE CONQUERS ALL! LET’S GET THIS DAY STARTED!

Just reading those three words was like getting kicked in the butt by a big boot filled with awesome sauce.

In a split second I was ready to rock.

And rant.

AND ROLL.

Because folks, at the base of it all, I am a love warrior. I will fight tooth and nail for the individuals in my life who live inside my heart.

One of my many sets of armour.

I just need to remember once in a while that that I should be included in that list of people.

That I should fight for, and love, and revel in myself, Godzilla pimple and all.

And so I too encourage all of you to do the same for yourselves.

(I can even provide the boot, complete with sauce, if needed.)

Choco milk is one ingredient of the awesome sauce.

Though I may be sleeping soundly when you place your order.

Because hot damn, warrioring can be hard work.

And I’m still pretty tired.

Show and tell

About two weeks ago I posted the first part of a writing piece that I am currently working on, about which I am rather excited.

Quoth the kitten...

So may I present to you, dear readers, part two:

For a split second I think Tom is going to hit me. I blush from a mix of excitement and fear. 

He’s never done it before, but there is a moment when his body pulses and his jaw clenches and I half expect his wrath, and his exasperation, and his exhaustion to just wash over me; to just wash me away.  

Instead he picks up my economics text lying next to me on the counter.  His fingers scratch its stringy, yellow spine before launching it across the living room.

“What is wrong with you?” I yell before I can stop myself.

I run over to my book. My footstep are swallowed by the other overturned texts that liter the floor.

In silence, Tom strides over to the water closet and punches his fist through the door.

Breathe. Just breathe, I tell myself. 

Breathe, breathe I whisper to Tom. 

I hope no one has heard us.

Tom is staring at his shaking fist, dazed. He looks up and takes a tentative step towards me.

“Coming to finish them off?” I challenge, waving to the other books lying to my right and left.

He stops. It is his turn to blush. 

“I’m sorry.  Marja.  I am.  I just. I just can’t afford to do anything about this.” 

I look back down and I can hear him return to the kitchen.  He pours water into a mug. 

“If it makes you feel any better I’ll go see Gdancic tomorrow about it on my break.”  He says, as he walks over to me, almost on tiptoes, like a seesaw. 

His knees crack as he folds his legs into a squat.  Taking the book from my hands he passes me the mug. 

“I can’t believe I threw your book.  I’m really, really sorry.” 

I sip and pause.  He kisses the edge of my right eyebrow. 

I sip.

And pause.

“It’s okay.”  I kiss the corner of his mouth.  “But it’s only okay if you do something about your hand.”

Tom lets out a long sigh.

We sit in silence.

“Okay. I will. But I can’t do anything much until I’ve finished this project.  If I get a shot, I’ll lose all the information…”  He trails off. 

“What?”  I ask.  Tom quickly puts a finger over his lips, telling me to be quiet.  His eyes move in the direction of the balcony. 

I look.

Outside of the patio door a thick rubber caterpillar is inching its way up the pane.  A small green light blinks from the top.  I’ve never before seen one if my life. 

Only on posters and backlit billboards. 

“Oh God.”  I almost drop the water.  Three drops dot the cover of my scrambler and I can’t even bring myself to wipe them away.  Tom inches closer to me, his backside scratching the carpet so much that when his fingers touch mine an electric current runs up my right arm, and settles, tingling, behind my eyes. 

“Did you do anything?” He whispers.

My breath stalls, thick against my neck.

“No.  Nothing.”  I bit my lip so hard, I can taste blood against at the tip of my mouth.  “Tonight’s repaving was only about two blocks away.  It’s probably just easier to take someone from the neighborhood.” 

I don’t turn my head in his direction. 

“Marja.”  I feel the reassuring weight of his hand on the small of my back.  We watch as the blinking green light disappears, inching its way up to the next floor.

We wait.

And then silently, we rise. 

Tom teeters over to the hall closet.  The shrill squeak of the door on its last hinge seems to echo around the apartment. 

Tom freezes.  I freeze.

“What?” I whisper. 

Tom shakes his head and mouths an apology.  “Nothing.” He whispers back.  “That just really freaked me out.”

“The caterpillar?”

“No.”  He shakes his head.  “The sound of this stupid closet!”

I can’t help but smile; my heart beats a little slower and I move towards him.

The blast comes so quickly I don’t even have time to reach for my helmet. 

And the dark crashes over me, like a ravenous wave. Too eager, it swallows us whole.

I just felt like dying

Hi friends!

Have you ever been in a position where something really embarrassing is happening to you, but there is nothing that you can really do about it, because, who are we kidding, no one can just shower for hours and hours in the hopes that hair dye no longer dots the length of their hairline?

No?

Huh. Just me then.

Oh well, it’s all one.

But to get back to what I was saying – although I had (on the whole) an absolutely fabulous weekend, because I did have hair dye smattered all across my hairline, and because I didn’t have one bloody thing on the dye removal list given to me by the lovely Kacy, I spent the majority of my time outside wearing this on my head:

Why, heeelllooooo there.

And while I really love my Forever XXI headband, on the one day that Vancouver finally cracked fifteen degrees centigrade, I was a little hot around the ears.

(Especially as M and I walked up the library to return our books, and to purchase our goodies for dinner.)

We thought the perfect dinner for such a sunny Saturday night would be spicy shrimp fajitas.

When I was first learning how to cook, as well as coming to understand that food was my friend, and not my sworn enemy, fajitas were one of the first things that I began to make on a regular basis.

What I’ve come to love so much about them is the myriad of colours and textures and flavours that all come to play, wrapped up tightly in those tasty, toasty tortillas.

You’ve got the crunch from the peppers, the spice from the seasoning, the sharpness of the cheese, the tang of the salsa, all dancing up a storm, to a perfectly timed beat.

And they are a fabulous meal to cap off a sun dripped, tuliped, early spring day.

Check it:

Nomnom. NOM.

Like I always like to do, I laid out the goods before getting down to business.

And then I chopped it, chopped it.

Do it.

Then I had sizzling sizzlers straight out of sizzledom. (Not to be confused of course with Jerry Sizzler, sister of Jerry Sizzler, the lounge singers and not two clearly insane people. See end video for more, and for proof that I am not the one clearly insane.)

Jerry. JERRY!

Then we laid out a buffet of brilliance.

All the colours of the rainbow!

For an end result of:

Happiness. And cider. One and the same?

What are your easy peasy meal choices that serve as the perfect topper to a smashing day?

And just remember, I’m not Roy Orbison. I work in colourization!

Psycho killer, well qu’est-ce que c’est?

So kids, it seems as though spring has finally sprung all over the West Coast. Check out these amazing planters my father in-law put together for us.

Darth Gruyere strikes again!

It’s weather like this that makes me want to pull on my shorts, lace up my Asics, and just race around New West until my legs give out, my lungs deflate, and my veins run dry.

Okay, that might seem a little ridiculous, or even borderline severe. But when the weather is so darn perfect, it’s hard not to slip into excessive use of hyperbole.

(It’s like the hardest thing in the world times one million!!!)

Erm.

Right.

So yesterday morning I went for one of the most kickass runs of my life:

I ran a 10.5 km in 44 minutes.

And it was brilliant. Smashing. Phenomenal.

Everything about the run felt natural. Felt good.

Nay, great.

It was as though everything in my body was working seamlessly. My strides were just that much longer. My breathing was just that much easier. On the killer hills, my legs felt just that much stronger, and on the way down, I recovered just that much faster.

I’m wondering if the fact that I’ve stopped listening to music has anything to do with the fact that I’ve been having such stellar runs of late.

I used to joke about how I thought a serial killer would get me as I raced around listening to my jams at full blast, but most (most) of that was said with a heavy dollop of sarcasm.

(Although there are some stretches of forest paths that I’ve run where I wouldn’t be surprised had I at some point met with my demise at the hands of an overzealous, accident-prone trail biker, somewhere in and around those pine-strewn creek beds, due to the fact that I normally ran with everything turned up to eleven.)

But I digress.

The simple matter of the manner is I’ve stopped listening to music and I’m kind of digging it.

I like the quiet.

I like to hear the sound of my breathing, the crunch of the gravel under foot; the birds chirping, an anemic lawn mower sputtering into life; the cheers and jeers of a far off baseball game.

I used to rely on songs to pump me up and keep me going on the longest stretches of my routes. For both of the half-marathons I ran last year, I had specific playlists, designed to let me know whether or not I was going to make the finishing time I had set for myself.

Top tunes included Robyn, Franz Ferdinand, Gossip, Blondie, and Lady Gaga.

Hey, don’t judge me, you Judgey McJudgerssons! Good pop is good pop. And my running legs don’t discriminate.

But it seems as though I’ve reached this point in my running career where I feel as though I don’t need music to get me through the longer distances.

Of course, we’ll have to wait and see once I start tackling the really big stuff when I begin my training for the Victoria marathon.

Heck, I may be eating crow (and these words) as I complete the race bopping about to Rihanna and Timbaland.

But at the moment, I am running clean. Musically.

(Oh yeah, I’m not doping either.)

The only one detractor from my run yesterday was the fact that I felt a little conspicuous, due to the fact that I still had copious amounts of hair dye plastered across my face.

But heck, now that I think about it, maybe that’s why I was running like the wind.

I didn’t want anyone to see me. Or at least, any more then were absolutely necessary.

Because of this insecurity, I wasn’t the normal “social” runner that I usually am – waving and nodding to my fellow long distance lovers, and thanking those cars who are nice enough to stop for me (and you know, obey the law. Seriously, you might be surprised how often stop signs are blatantly ignored.)

Hopefully the running gods will take pity on me and forgive me this one transgression.

I’m pretty sure my home girl Atalanta will turn the other cheek. She and I are tight.

What did you all get up to this weekend? And what music do you listen to while you run?

And if you don’t groove to the tunes while running, I’d love to know the reason why.