Category: To whom it may concern

Paying you lip service

My first French kiss was in France.

With a French boy.

His name was Julian.

I was in grade nine, on exchange in Dijon. As a French immersion student, I was one of the lucky few who, because of my fluency, was picked to spend a month oversees studying at the lycée.

The trip was a pilot programme – the school wanted to “try it out” and see if it was something they would consider implementing on a permanent, yearly basis.

Believe me when I say that my time in the city as a student was a total trip.

First off, my home-stay parents didn’t seem to grasp the concept that I was a vegetarian. Every day for lunch they would make me these amazing baguettes filled with salami, or rotisserie chicken, or roast beef – seriously, you name the viande and it was packed up for me every morning, between two slices of bread.

I felt so horrible the one and only time I binned my lunch, that from that day onwards I would gift them to one of the other Canadian students whose parents didn’t think to send them off to class with anything at all.

It was a pretty sweet trade off in the end, because in return, whomever I had gifted the sammie would give me a couple of francs, which I would then use to purchase a crepe from the creperie down the street.

A replica of one of the many crepes I ate in France.

Come to think of it, I pretty much ate my body weight in Nutella during my stay.

(Whoever owned stocks in that brilliant, hazelnut-chocolate nectar of the gods that month must have done very, very well.)

My classes were great, though some (re: computer science) were a complete write off because not only did I understand nothing of which was said (alas, I learned much as an immersion student, but the inner workings of PCs was never a topic included in our weekly dictées) but the boys in that class were so darn funny, I was too busy concentrating on keeping all my urine inside my body to really focus on anything else.

Other notes of mention: French schools have super long hours, way crazy math, and the multi-storied, multi-buildinged campus made our school back home look like a pre-kindergarten.

Okay, back to kisses.

It was Friday night, the end of our second week of study.

All of the Canadian students were invited to attend the school’s senior dance.

Point: high-school dances are complete gong shows, and a completely ridiculous explosion of drama, hormones, angst, and hilarity the world over.

Teenagers – doing it like it’s the most important thing in life, since time immemorial.

Anywho, so myself and my home-stay gal Charlotte showed up ready to get our tip-top grooves on with the rest of the senior grades.

As we walked into the gymnasium I couldn’t help remarking to myself, for what was probably the (rougly) two thousandth time since touching down in France: HOLY CRAP FRENCH BOYS WEAR TIGHT PANTS.

My immediate follow-up thought was (of course): I wonder if any of them think I’m pretty?

And so it went on.

We danced to Will Smith and Ricky Martin, and a TON of crazy French rap and R&B. At one point the DJ played a rap song that had bagpipes in it and everyone went completely batshit crazy, dancing like complete madmen and singing like banshees, which both cracked me up but also made me really happy.

It was at this point, as I moved off to the side, just to watch the carnage unfold – a slightly loopy smile flickering across my mostly shocked visage – that a boy about my height (pretty good for 14 years old, because at this point I had already reached five foot ten) came and stood beside me.

He had sandy brown hair, in the style of Chris Klein from American Pie. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, and his front teeth were crooked, but only slightly so.

Same hair. TOTALLY.

He was a bona fide hottie.

Bonjour, he said.

Bonjour, I said.

My heart nearly exploded out my chest right then and there. A boy!? Talking to ME!?

It was almost a real Alien moment.

Voulez-vous sortir avec moi? Juste pour quelques instants? He asked.

He wanted to go outside!? With ME!?

HELL YES I WILL ACCOMPANY YOU OUTSIDE I wanted to yell.

Instead, I remembered to smile coquettishly and simply nod. Also, the less I spoke, the less likely I was to barf all over my shoes.

We walked outside and sat on top of a picnic table in the middle of a covered courtyard. We talked about school, and Canada, and France, and good grief, I’m pretty sure we talked about Will Smith’s latest CD, and then – WHAM.

Julian, of the freckles and the tight jeans, was kissing me.

Kissing ME!?

Yes.

And honestly, it wasn’t good.

Dude was a smoker and as much as half of my brain was screaming THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING EVER!!!!1!!1!!, the other have was screaming THIS IS LIKE LICKING A BLOODY ASHTRAY MAKE IT STOP.

Like kissing one of these it was.

Also, French kissing may look glamorous and sexy as hell to all those young, impressionable kidlets at the movie theatre, (aka me) but in real life, for the first time – EGADS.

Do not want.

Especially with Monsieur Marlboro.

Anyways, the long and short of it is, we made out for a good hour (you think just because the guy tasted like a tobacco leaf I didn’t want to keep kissing him? DREAM ON!) before returning to the dance for one final slow jam.

We met up the next day, ate at McDonalds and walked around the old town.

On Monday, after spending about half an hour looking for him after class, Julian’s friend Tony came up to me and let me know that he was really sorry, but Julian had just been using me to get back at his girlfriend who had cheated on him the week before.

This was the second time in a very short period that I felt as though I was going to have a real alien moment.

Or barf on my shoes.

But I didn’t. I sucked it up and moved on.

But only until of course I arrived home, opened a jar of Nutella, listened to Everybody Hurts on repeat six hundred times, and wept like the silly, angsty teenager that I was.

So there you have it.

I had my first French kiss, with a French boy, in France.

Which is why of course I married a Swiss man.

A girl named Jim

SO.

I haven’t quite quit the gym. But I have put my membership on notice.

Let’s call it a trial separation.

WAHOO! No more gym.

And as many of you know, I have quite a tumultuous relationship with my gym.

All gyms really.

Even if I did, once upon a time, go to the gym A LOT.

All throughout my undergrad and first year of my post grad I trekked to the gym between three to five times per week.  I didn’t know how to exercise without a membership card.  As such, I participated in fitness classes where generic but frenetic electro-pop made my heartbeat irregular. I read more back issues of Sports Illustrated, US Weekly and the Economist whilst climbing to nowhere on a Stairmaster, than a chronically bored Chapters employee.

In the two months leading up to my wedding, I frequented the hallowed sweat-box known as “Fitness World” so many times one of the front desk girls asked me if I wanted a job with the company.

But oh how things have changed.

The summer after our marriage, my husband and I moved to New Westminster (a city almost gym-free compared to Vancouver) and I started a job-school schedule that demanded between 50-60 hours of my time during the week.

I was so exhausted most of the time that the last thing I wanted to do before or after work (let alone on my days off) was head to the gym. Both my body and mind completely rejected the idea of regulated exercise.

And so other than riding my bike as my preferred mode of transit, I did nothing.

My old steed Beth.

However, after two glorious months of doing nothing, I began to miss a more dynamic lifestyle.  I did not, however, on any terms, want to return to a gym.  Slowly, I started to experiment with different sorts of outdoor activities.  What I quickly realized was that my body was capable of so much more than what it is confined to within the gym.  It was (is!) literally a vehicle – a means of getting around, of exploring places I’d never been, of spending more times with family and friends.

I ramped up my pedal schedule and started biking everywhere.

Queen’s Park became my treadmill.

I only re-joined the gym life a year later because of how horrible our weather had been, and I wasn’t about to commit to working out in the dark and rain all the live long winter.

But now I’m tired.

And I’m thinking that come the end of this trial run, I may just quit it all together.

Sometimes, you just need to reboot.

Here are my top four reasons why:

1.The gym can be very expensive. Most range between 20-50 dollars a month.  Some are even higher. If you multiply those numbers by 12, you are looking at upwards of 600 dollars a year.  Mine is pretty cheap, but I still think of the pretty shiny things I can buy with those sweet cash dollars.

2. The gym is an establishment frequented by the semi-sane that can, and will, turn you the exact same way: girls in their bathing suits talking on their cells phones; guys who are more interested in checking themselves out than actually lifting weights; people who don’t clean off machines or wear proper deodorant, who butt-in before you’re done you set or feel the need to step in and provide one-on-one support because “they took a class in college once…”  I know I look quite the sight dressed in my husband’s old t-shirts and shorts.

3.The gym is inside.  I know this is a total boon when living in a deciduous rain forest, but I truly believe there is nothing more refreshing and rewarding then exercising outside, rain or shine (give or take the ferocity of the elements.  There may be times where you have to concede to Mother Nature.)  However, you will never feel better or more alive than after completing a hard fought activity on unlevel ground, gulping down fresh air as the wind cools your flushed face.

Fun fact: every single item of clothing I am wearing in this photo belongs to M, save the shorts.

4. Finally, the number one reason to quit the gym is that you can stay in shape without it.

Just remember to:

Expect changes.  The first time around I thought I could just jump into the same level of exercise that I was accustomed to at the gym.  (This was also a very silly mistake as I had also been inactive for longer than I was used to.)  Both running and biking outside has a different affect on your body than the monotony of gym machines.

It will likely tire you out at a faster rate.

If you are capable of going to the gym every week, you are capable of going for a run/bike ride/hike/walk/ every week as well!  It is very easy to feel as though because the gym is there and you’re paying for it, you have to go.  There is no reason that you should lose the resolve just because you aren’t paying for it. 

That should be a reason to go.

And for goodness sakes, use your body.

Resistance work has got to be one of the most difficult but effective workouts I have ever done.  Plus you can do it in the comfort of your own home/dorm/common room.  Push-ups, squats, lunges, planks, burpees – these exercises require no equipment and work like nothing else.

Of course I cannot guarantee that any of these things will work for anyone, let along everyone.  I wanted to write this post because I was so shocked and so happy by something I never thought I would be able to do.

I promise you will be amazed at the things you are capable of achieving.

I know I am.

Come on baby light my fire

Hey all you crazy cats!

It’s time for another installment of the Friday Fry-Up. But first, before we get into the meat of the matter, I need to ask you all one question:

What fresh hell is going on around these here parts temperature-wise?

It is ruddy freezing!

I mean, here I am, it’s June, and I am sitting in front of my fireplace, and it has a bloody fire in it.

A fire!

In JUNE!

What. The. Eff.

Anywho, strange things are a-brewing, and until the wind changes I suppose we’re continuing on course for more madness and foul weather.

So let’s solider on!

First on the docket:

Awful doughnuts.

Yesterday, after eating a super healthy lunch, I went and bought five timbits from ye old church of Canadiana (aka Tim Hortons) – because noting tastes better after a cracking salad like those sweet little glazed balls of heaven.

I got in line with the six hundred and ninety-two other crazed patrons and waited to have my order taken. After waiting roughly twelve years, I reached the front of the cue and placed my bets.

Er.

Placed my order.

I asked for two honey cruller, two sour cream glazed, and one chocolate glazed.

(Urg, I never know why I bother ordering that solitary chocolate timbit because it is never, ever tastes all that great. Slightly stale and just…missing something.)

The first two however are far and away the two top offerings available at ole’ Timmy Hos – seriously, take my word for it, I am a card-carrying timbit connoisseur.

Here is the honey cruller:

Nom.

It was dee-lish.

However, I was pretty disappointed when I bit into the other donut hole because low and behold it was not my beloved sour cream but old fashioned glazed.

Blech.

YUCKAMUNDO.

That crap tastes like bread soaked in expired dish soap.

DO NOT WANT.

(Full disclosure – obviously I’ve never eaten a Sunlight saturated baguette before – so don’t get any ideas! It’s a simile you smug bastards.)

And it was a bummer!

So all in all, out of five treats, I had three, but only enjoyed two. This is not exactly world-destroying events here, but like I said, I feel as though the universe is subtly letting me know that things aren’t exactly in balance these days.

Second on the docket:

Joe Fresh Fashion.

Now normally I am a pretty big proponent of Mr. Fresh and the clothing for sale at his establishments. I’ve bought some terrific stuff that I continue to enjoy, both for work and pleasure. However, if you visit one of his stores at the moment you might be surprised to see an overabundance of bat-shit weird, weird stuff.

Like this Finnish flag inspired shirt:

KOIVU!

Or this “Is it clothing, or a walking magic eye puzzle?” dress:

It’s always some stupid sailboat.

Or this neon orange disco suit:

I – I just don’t know anymore.

(I also think that they were implying that you would wear the suit with the paisley green collared shirt.)

Seriously, at what LSD binge were these pieces not only designed, but then sewed together as utterly wacko separates!?

Also, can we mayhaps make an effort to stick to one decade to “bring back” at a time? I was one to believe that we are currently experiencing a resurgence of 90s nostalgia, so let’s keep the 70s and 80s at bay for the next little while – at the very least (we don’t need to bring them back at all, if that option is still available.)

Speaking of which – PEPLUM.

Guys.

No.

Just no.

They are hip flaps.

They are Malibu Barbie.

They are winged menstrual pads, designed as a dress.

They are no.

Just yell no like you mean it, and then just run away!

NO!

Moving on.

Third on the docket.

The Cranberries.

Speaking of flashbacks, the other day I was getting ready for work, listening to CBC radio 2 as I am often wont to do in the am. As I stepped out of the shower, I caught the very tail end of the song “Dreams” and I had a very affecting flashback to the day I finished grade five and I heard the group’s song “Zombie” for the ever first time.

Man, I loved that song.

(Is it just me, or did music – for the most part – mean a hell of a lot more in the 90s than it does now?)

I remember taping (!!!) that song off of the radio and listening to it on repeat for hours and hours and hours.

I always laugh to think of myself as the crazy tall, gangly awkward nerd who would half walk, half dance around singing Soundgarden, and Pink Floyd around the school hallways.

I remember discovering Smashing Pumpking in grade four. I heard “Today” being played from my sister’s bedroom while practicing highland dancing in my basement.

In grade six I saw the music video for Beck’s Loser. Kind of weirded out, but also really intrigued, I asked my friends if they would buy me the CD for my upcoming birthday. They did, and it was AWESOME.

In grade seven, sitting in Mr. Bell’s English class, Simon Eisler played Weezer’s Buddy Holly for our “Song as Poem” class project. I rushed home, found my sister’s Weezer CD and listened to the song on repeat for probably the next three years.

Maybe music didn’t necessary mean more in the 90s on the whole – perhaps it just meant more to me. Individually.

Hmmm.

Stuff to ponder as we head into a rain soaked weekend!

What are you favourite doughnut flavours? Do you like Joe Fresh? And what are your strongest music memories?

I’d love to hear about it as I stoke my fire.

A muted Monday

Hi friends!

Here are a few snaps from my life of late:

Post-gala flowers.

Earl grey macaron.

Multi-hued handbags – not all mine, alas.

First clothing purchase from interwebs.

Relaxy cat.

Ju-on girl, pre-crepe brunch.

FIN.

So there you have it ladies and gents.

It has been a complete and utter madhouse around these parts of late. I cannot remember the last time I cooked something, let alone slept the entire night through.

After a fourteen and a half hour work day on Saturday (a huge shout-out must go to my partner-in-crime Ms. J who was there with me the entire time and without whom I would have lost my mind long, long ago), I am finally done one of the longest, most taxing projects I have ever undertaken in my entire life.

And in just six short months, we get to start working towards next year’s event!

EEP.

(We will cross that bridge when we come to it, and not a moment sooner!)

Today at work I scheduled in the rest of my deadlines that must be met before the end of the month.

I cannot wait to have everything finito, because in twenty-six short days, Mr. M and I will be basking in our sweet, sweet suite in Downtown Seattle before jetting off for five days of beach camping and Shakespeare acting in the wilds of Oregon.

Thank fresh hell it will all be over soon. I work bloody hard, (and I like it that way) but it is now time to play!

And play we will.

Other good things on the horizon include multiple family visits (and more time off) in July and August, Tough Mudder at the end of this month, Franz Ferdinand, Hot Chip, plans to run the Victoria half-marathon (I am still contemplating the marathon – we will see) over the Thanksgiving long weekend, dress-up parties, picnics, general merriment and awe.

What are all of your plans for the next couple of months? I’d love to hear all about your summer stories.

At the speed of light

Do you remember that Madonna song – Ray of Light? You know, from the 90s?

It had the lyrics:

Faster than the speeding light she’s flying
Trying to remember where it all began –

Now, normally I’m not one to go around quoting the Big M, but this – this pretty much sums up my life at the moment.

(Except I’m pretty sure the girl she’s singing about is happy about her ride, whereas I am blinkin’ excited to get the heck get off mine.)

I’m feeling overwhelmed and exhausted and completely creatively zonked.

I am also pretty sure that I am now part human, part almond butter, because that stuff has become my life force extraordinaire over the past few weeks. I’ve been eating it like a eating thing.

(And yet somehow I’m still as white as I ever was. What a raw deal!)

Yeesh.

Add in the fact that M and I are still trying to complete our compulsory Tough Mudder training, and I’m basically a walking zombie that has been shot with insane amounts of adrenaline and caffeine to keep her momentum going.

Thank goodness for all my amazing co-workers – J, L, A and S – seriously, these ladies are pretty much the coolest dudettes a girl could ever ask for.

(If it wasn’t for them I would probably have taken off for the wilds of the BC forests long, long ago.)

And there are lights at the end of this bleak-sauce tunnel! Like I said, after this week I will be down one major project (and only have to deal with the tail end of another.)

In other thank-goodness-this-alone-is-keeping-me-semi-sane news, M and I are putting the finishing touches on our travel plans for the end of June. We will be heading down the Oregon Coast for some sweet, sweet anniversary camping times, and going to see Henry V at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland.

This will be my state of mind once I am on vacation.

We are more than a little excited.

We are the most excited.

(It seems as though I cannot write too much more on the subject because when I get this excited I waste much of my precious energy resources on being excited, and not, you know, on other more pressing – but nowhere nearly as brilliant – ventures.)

So what’s shaking in your neck of the woods friends?  And how do you deal with insane work commitments?  Your tips and tricks are always appreciated around these parts.

p.s. I’m sorry I’ve been such a crap blogger-gal, not visiting your rad spaces and responding to comments. I’ll be much better in the next couple of weeks once I am human again.