We get those tongues wagging

Here are two conversations M and I had this weekend:

(P.S. I am still laughing)

[Scene One: Earls restaurant, patio. Saturday night, drinks and date night]

Me: You are a very good looking man.

M: [unintelligible gibberish]

Me: [laughing]

M/Me: [both continue laughing/trying to make each other laugh by making crazy faces]

Me: I’m trying to figure out what race you would belong to in Lord of the Rings. I used to always go with human – you’re a good shoe-in for Aragorn. But you also have quite a bit of hobbit in you. And elf. And dwarf.

M: What about orc?

Me. Yes, definitely orc. And uruk-hai.

M: Goblin?

Me: [thinking] Nah. Never goblin.

M: [nodding, playing with his wedding ring. Then, thinking to himself] Preeeeecccciiiooouussss….

Me: Oh goodness, of course. I have no idea how I didn’t think of that. You definitely, definitely have some Gollum in you too.

M: Hmmm…

[pause]

Me: [pretending to be all nonchalant] So, um, what race do you think I belong to?

M: [not taking a beat] Sauron.

Me: Hahahahahahahahahaha…ohhhh noooooo….

M: Not what you were looking for?

Me: You know I wanted you to say elf.

M: I know.

Me: I KNOW I’M LITHE AND BEAUTIFUL.

M/Me: [continuous laughing]

END SCENE.

[Scene Two: Driving home from restaurant. I cannot stop taking photos of the sky – the sky which I have been yammering on about all day long.]

Me: [taking a photo] ZOMG THE SKY IS SO BEAUTIFUL.

M: I know.

Me: The sun is SO huge, and the way the clouds are clustered that way is just magical. It seriously looks like the gateway to heaven.

M: It does look like heaven.

Me: I know I’ve been talking about it all day, but I honestly can’t get over how amazingly phenomenal this is. It literally takes my breath away. Even just looking at it is making me choke up…I really feel like I’m going to cry.

M: I have a feeling your period may be on its way.

Me: Hahahahahahahahahaha. [pause] That’s true.

Hope you all had a great weekend!

Life in the fast lane

Yesterday I worked a thirteen hour day. Coming home, I was completely knackered.

This is what I thought about as I rode the metro back to my home:

Such a fantastagorical tale had never been known.

Such was the way of these things.

Reading a bit like a history of popular culture in the early 20th century, and a tiny bit like a teen trash comedy, the combination was meant to amuse and articulate. Perhaps, most terrifyingly of all, it was the clearest representation of the inner workings and thought processes of two individuals.

One of them had come to a realization that he was often too pessimistic for his own good; he sometimes sought humor in disappointment as some kind of weak balm.

This would have to change. And it did.

Genuine excitement should not have to be manufactured. Riding on a jetski at 60 mph – for example – really has a positive effect on this. You cannot help but feel exhilaration, your mouth open and cheeks flapping with the force of the wind as you carve your way up an arm of BC’s mightiest river.

Twisting and turning you see how far you can go before the mechanical power under you can, shuddering, hurls you into the wild, flowing water. You cannot feign emotion on such a contraption, taking those risks.

SO – how to make life more like that? How to seek out, in everything, a sudden charge of passion and fury. What triggers those flags in my mind to suddenly send me rushing headlong emotionally at something or for something. I don’t need a cause to believe in so much as I need a credible dialogue, a wild formulation, a mysterious agenda.

Just think, the first people who ever read the Principia by Newton or Galileo’s letters must have thought they were reading some Clive Cusslerian escapade of fantastic proportions… and yet we now know it to be real.

But does that make Cussler any less exciting than Newton? Or just more poorly written?

(Definitely the latter.)

Also, should belief be THE defining reason for goodness?

I don’t think the best stories are always the truest ones. I like the ones that hover at the very edge between what-might-have-been, the possible, and the barely possible.

In this space we stop our minds from only formulating those images that we can understand and see, and make things that have never been made and will never be made, except inside the limits and demarcations of our own fancies, the thrum of our birthing brains.

Now open your eyes

Things are happening.

I can feel it in the crackle of the early autumn air.

Just breathe:

He lay upon the red clay, and the world shook to swallow him. Under his father’s sodden cloak, eyes closed, he heard nothing, saw nothing. All was sensation, cool knuckles of the thick riverbed gripping his back and arms; he sank a little more before the tremors stopped.

He waited for the cloak to be husked off, ripped from his body. They would find him, soon. He lay yards from cover under this pathetic shroud; they were toying with him. His weeping eyes stared open expecting the clouded night sky, and the coppery anticipation of death coated his own tongue – made his breath stink like the earth.

The silence was all.

He waited for strangers.

His breaths grew shallow under the thick material, slowed with the cold of it and he remembered reaching that point finally, where the immensity of fear was devoured by a monstrous finality, a sense of end, and he decided to die.

The small arm that pulled clear of the muck was stiff and unfamiliar, as if another boy hid there with him, was betraying him.

Then the cloak fell aside, and all was a screaming panorama of the looming forest and the angry darkness, and a total emptiness – their absence. His sniveling helplessness spurred to quicken his blood; he saw himself as if from the edge of the trees, a shaking unreality.

And that was all, his earliest memory.

And see:
Sunset.
Bridge.
Mural.
Food.
Cat.
Love. (And one of my favourites of the summer.)
Happy Wednesday to you all.

Who’s the boss?

Do you ever get the urge to just shout at the top of your lungs, “AIN’T LIFE GRAND?”

Sometimes I get so giddy I feel like I am about to explode.

There are times when I feel so overwhelmed by the magic and love that is my life that I’m practically moved to tears. Seriously, I’ll be sitting on the chesterfield next to Mr. M and all of a sudden – BAM! I’m choking out words (nay – garbled syllables) in an effort to communicate just how much he and our life together mean to me.

And our little cat? Well sheesh. Nymeria slays me in such a way that I am pretty much a puddle of liquid infatuation anytime she is near.

There are just so many stupendous things coming down the pipe over the next couple of months: M starting a new job as a full-time teacher; two radio show gigs in September; an interview with BC parent magazine about my work with Big Sisters; the United Way Speakers Bureau Series of which I am a speaker (also on my work with Big Sisters); the Hot Chip (!!!) concert with Ms. A; and of course the Surrey Half-Marathon.

On the running front, I have been like Atalanta’s long-lost sister over here.

On Saturday I ran 16km in the morning, and that afternoon M and I (along with his sister and brother in-law) went for a 7.5km hike. Despite a little soreness in my left knee I was feeling great (albeit very, very hungry the next day. Actually, I think I’m still a little peaky from the day’s activities.) The next morning I went for a super slow recovery run, only to be locked out of the house upon my return, as I hadn’t brought my house key with me and during my (short!) absence my darling husband had elected to go for a sunny morning stroll to pick up the NYT crossword and delicious breakfast goods.

I took this a chance to practice my meditation techniques. And to laugh like the loon on loon tablets that I am.

Anywho, moving on, this evening after getting home from work I ran 7 km in 29 minutes.

Then I did three sets of chin-ups/pull-ups (max I could do at a time was 6 for chin-ups) and three for pull-ups, and three sets of twelve push-ups.

This makes me very happy.

In fact, it makes me feel like a boss.

And now, PHOTOS:

Mid-town meadow.


Up-town reds.

Dragon cat.

Morning Clouds.

Lynn Peak beauty.

Delicious delights.

Tell me – what makes you the boss that you are?

Diet Coke thinks I’m extraordinary? Well isn’t that refreshing!

I saw this advertisement last Friday whilst out on my lunch break:

My immediate reaction?

I think I can in a can? Or I think I’m fat in a can?

I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING THERE COKE.

Now, full disclosure: I drink diet Coke. I drink diet Pepsi, or Pepsi Max or Coke Zero, or whatever other aspartame-infused sodas you care to name. And as any of you who have been reading this blog for a while now, I have no qualms at all about admitting this fact.

My drinking patterns are sporadic – I’ll go for a couple of months without a sip, and then start drinking two to three cans a day without so much as blinking an eyelash. These habits are something I’m cognizant of, but not something of which I lend much weight.

Apologies to any Colorado Avalanche fans out there, but in the words of Todd Bertuzzi*: it is what it is.

(*Now I’m no fan of Mr. T. Bert by any stretch of the imagination – or as I like to call him: Hobo with a Slapshot – he’s just the first thing that pops into my mind whenever I think of that turn of phrase.)

However, to get back to diet Coke and my relationship with this product- the fact remains the same: this penchant I have for these drinks is one of the last remaining holdovers from the years I spent as an anorexic and bulimic.

And because of this, I have a hard time disassociating these drinks from a very painful, very unhealthy part in my life.

Now I know there are tons of men and women who live all across the globe, who lead perfectly healthy lives (or within the parameters of “healthy” – as goodness knows the definition of this term seems to be malleable as heck) who may drink a diet Coke every now and then.

Who knows, maybe there are individuals out there who shot-gun the stuff all the live long day that have zero food/body hang-ups (not to mention faulty brain wiring – like those cats who eat chalk and pillow stuffing), but I would be hard pressed to believe it.

However, of this I’m sure: people ingest things for a whole myriad of reasons, and it would be naive, and rather asinine on my part to assume that because I a.) had an eating disorder and b.) drank these drinks during this time in my life that c.) all people who drink diet pop have eating disorders.

That would be a gross misinterpretation of the Pythagorean Theorum. And a logical fallacy. And just plain silly.

However, it would also be silly of me to ignore the fact that I live in a society that is majorly messed up when it comes to diet, body perception, and self-esteem – indeed, every time I seem to open an newspaper (HAH! Like that ever happens – excuse me, I meant to say: every time I surf on over to the NYT or Globe and Mail or Jezebel.com) I am told again and again about how obsese/anorexic/sendentary/over exercised/stressed out/insecure we are as North Americans, and how we need to fix it using ABC without having to give up XYZ.

It’s madness.

Just the other day I read about a new study released by Emery University in Atlanta Georgia that found that the number of U.S. children who drink sugar-free beverages has doubled in the past decade and that one-quarter of the adult Americans surveyed said they’d had a diet drink in the past day.

And reading this, I cannot help but question what role diet Coke (and by proxy its marketing stratagems and campaigns) plays within our omnipresent constant shame/constant gratification Franken-culture.

Sure, diet Coke isn’t exactly Airstrip One’s Victory Gin, but it’s not small potatoes either. And as such, when I see this ad, I don’t see personal empowerment in a can, I see this:

Have your Coke friend! But statistics tell me that you’re probably fat – or in some way aesthetically unappealing (or at the very least you THINK you’re not good enough!) so don’t have a real Coke (those are only for Olympic athletes and Mark Ronson) – have a diet Coke instead! But it’s totally your decision to drink it – and totally not ours, and certainly not a reaction to cultural norms! YOU’RE taking charge, YOU know what you want! Just one sip and you can take on the world, calorie-free!

(But first, go to the gym, because you totes need to work out first.)

Okay, so this may be a bit over-dramatic and a bit too sardonic – my m.o. might be to approach this dialogue with a heavy hand (heavy tongue?) but I can’t help it.

My experience colours my perception, and this is my honest interpretation.

And for that I will not apologize.

What about you folks? What kind of reaction does this sort of advertisement evoke on your end of things? Do you drink diet pop? Why or why not?

In the mean time I’m going back to my I KNOW I can in a bag:

NOM.