Category: What the world needs now

Don’t wake me I plan on sleeping in

I’m feeling all over the place these days.

My body seems to be powered by an endless supply of frenetic energy and I’m having a hard time trying to keep still. Something inside of me keeps telling me to “GOGOGOGO”, and sometime over the last week my powers of concentration completely misfired, and during my (failed) attempt to give them a jump start, they escaped through the open window and are now MIA.

It could be the fact that I am not running this week, in preparation for the half-marathon this Sunday.

It could be the fact that it is early autumn, and oh-so beautiful outside, and all I want to do is dress like a cowgirl, go for long walks, and drink pumpkin spice lattes under the shade of a shedding maple, or perhaps elm.

It could be – wait a second…did I really just write that?

Good grief – it’s like I fantasize about living in a pinterest board.

(p.s. Do you guys pinterest? I don’t and am afraid to venture into this world for fear that I will drown in my self-pinned reflection of midi dresses, kittens, lemon tarts, and three piece suits.)

Not a bad way to go actually…

ACK.

See what I mean? I’m so easily distracted it is amazing that I manage to brush my teeth and tie my shoes.

I haven’t been sleeping all that well for the past few nights and as such I’ve had my fair share of individuals letting me know that I “look tired.”

Now, would I be speaking out of turn if I requested that we – the collective whole of humanity – stop doing this?

I’m thinking of writing to my member of parliament asking him to table a private member’s bill that would make it illegal for individuals to point out to others that it looks as though they didn’t get the recommended eight hours.

Because let’s be honest. When you tell someone that they “look tired” you’re not just telling them that they could stand to catch another forty winks (give or take, depending on how closely you adhere to ol’ Rip van Winkle’s sleeping philosophy.)

Oh no.

You are basically telling that person that they look like crap – even if you don’t mean to.

You tell someone that they look tired, and I can guarantee you (100% or money back) that they hear the following:

“Holy moley! You look like a ruddy disaster! What happened to you?”

(Give or take a few colloquialism, adjectives, adverbs, etc., etc.)

Seriously, there is nothing worse than the ZOMGYOULOOKTIRED. Just tell me I look like an arse, and move on.

Oh! And none of this feigned concern. Don’t pretend that you are telling me that I look completely bagged under the guise that you are worried about my well being. If you did think that something was wrong, I assume you would ask, “is everything okay?” and not open with an underhanded assessment of my overall haleness and heartiness.

(Man, who knew that those two words actually are words? I was full-on expecting the squiggly red lines upon typing them both.)

Dance break:

Oh, and this reminds me – one other thing:

What is UP with the re-compliment?

You know, when you see a co-worker, or a friend, and they are wearing a darling little ensemble, or a sweet pair of kicks, and you (being the cool, awesome person that you are) let them know how smashing they look in their terrific shirt/pants/shoes/what-have-you?

And then they – instead of thanking you, or responding that they too dig their outfit – become paralyzed by a need to compliment you back, and start stammering about how they too like your jeans, or fedora, or disposable hospital gown because they are a doctor and you weren’t wearing anything else when you told her that you liked her earrings?

(Yeah…so that definitely never happened.)

(Also – I would also never wear a fedora.)

But!

Can we just agree to put a stop to this weird social interaction?

Can we agree that if someone compliments you, to take the compliment and move on? You are not obliged to return the favour. In all likelihood there was zero ulterior motive in the original flattery – people normally don’t give out praise in the hope of getting it back (and if they are doing this, stop hanging out with these individuals at once.)

Because when you force out the return compliment (or re-compliment) it usually comes across as super awkward and disingenuous (whether or not you really actually mean it.)

This happened to me today and I really wanted to blurt out, “JUST STOP! You’re killing us both!”

And hey, if you actually do like your flatterer’s ensemble? Just give the original compliment a little breathing room, and then let the person know.

Be all, “I have been meaning to tell you that I really like your pink sunglasses!”

Just as long as you don’t follow it up with:

“Are you wearing them to cover those bags under your eyes? Because you look really, really tired today.”

Because that’s just all sorts of wrong.

I only wanna be your one life stand

Warning: excessive use of hyperbole ahead.

Also, falling rocks.

(Just kidding.)

THIS PAST SATURDAY I WENT TO THE BEST CONCERT OF MY LIFE.

And yet I feel tongue-tied trying to communicate how absolutely earth-shatteringly awesome this experience truly was.

As such, everything inside of me is screaming USE YOUR SWEARS USE THEM ALL USE ALL THE SWEARS.

But I won’t.

So it’s hard.

But the question remains – how do I get you, dear reader, to feel that same exhilaration I felt stepping into that club?

How to make you feel that same energy, coursing the length of my body?

Tingling the ends of your fingertips? The dips of your earlobes?

Tickling the backs of your knees, slipping down into the folds of your shoes?

To hear the murmur of the crowd, a beehive of anticipation?

A vibration.

How do I make you crackle and snap with the electricity of it all, the flash of the lights, and the intensely, indescribably, intoxicating sounds careening off of the stage, permeating every last crook and cranny of the sweat-slicked, pulsating room?

How do I make you dance until your blistered, blisters cry nay command you not to stop, never stop, your mouth a perma-grin, a high school smirk stained with salty secrets, and the knowledge that all of this is so good, and all of this will never be so good.

So if I cannot do this, I will just say – GO TO HOT CHIP.

Go.

…

Elsewhere in the cosmic kitchen:

Zen.

Brunch.

Weirdo.

Cat.

View.

…

Tell me where you’ve been to
Nowhere that you shouldn’t do
Tell me what you’re good for
I can tell you something too.

Get out there and just give ‘er

Happy labour day friends!

I am currently working down (or around?) my to-do list. Also, I cannot stop listening to Corb Lund and the Hurtin’ Albertans.

Because, THEY BE AWESOME.

I never really listened to much country growing up. Our family had a pretty eclectic taste in music, and it was a total free-for-all anytime we embarked on a long road trip, or family vacation.

But there was never any country.

It was no country for old country. Or new country at that.

I mean, when I wasn’t running around with my dad’s tai chi swords, dressed up in my highland dancing clothes pretending I was Sailor Moon, I was choreographing elaborate dance routines to such musical greats as The Rankin Family or Enya or Bruce Springsteen.

If I wanted to get really crazy I would break out the soundtrack to The Commitments and boogie down.

Of course I wasn’t just a-moving and a-shaking to these rad tunes – I was either lip-synching or belting out the words with everything that I had. Much depended on whether or not there were other people in the house, and if so, how close they were to my bedroom at that given time.

So having recognized my propensity for taking on the musical works of others and making it my own at such an early age, you can imagine just how much I loathe karaoke.

HAH.

Karaoke is one of those things that I very rarely do, but love anyways.

It’s also an activity that is strictly familial – I cannot remember the last time I sang into some broke microphone in front of a bunch of semi-drunk strangers without the support of my wacko sisters at my side.

I used to sing a mean Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” (doing the low voice and everything) but I just haven’t had the heart to sing it much since my friend Brent told me that I didn’t actually sound anything like Cher, and instead was just singing like a depressed man with a potato stuck in his throat.

He might as well have told me that I was a virgin who couldn’t drive. WAY HARSH TAI.

Anyway, as much as this was disheartening to hear, I still think of it as one of my all time favourite karaoke picks. Check-it:

How can you not want to sign along to that? Effin’ rights.

My other two top picks are very much in the vein of Mr. Corb and his hurtin’ band. Because no joke, nothing works quite as well as a sweet, sweet country tune when you’re up there embarrassing yourself for all of Canada.

If you want to get a ton of people on your side right away, I would recommend singing Tracy Byrd’ s The Drinking Bone:

People totally go nuts over this song because it scores absolutely off the chart in terms of ridiculousity and hilariousity.

Plus the lyrics are simple in the extreme.

Do. Seriously. DO IT.

Finally, (and while you may think that this would best for the ladies in the crowd, I’d bet a silver dollar that a dude could bring the whole house down with a solid rendition of this song) – I recommend Shania Twain’s Any Man of Mine.

Goodness do I ever love this tune.

It also scores highly on the outrageous and funny scale plus you have a whole pantheon of amazing lyrics to chose from, including:

“And when I cook him dinner and I burn it black, he better say, mmm, I like it like that.”

GENIUS.

Bonus – at the end of the song Ms. Twain talks you through a sort of mini dance that you can do on stage for all of your cheering fans.

This is a terrific song to do with a partner, or even as a threesome. Results may vary of course, but I’ve never known it to go down with nothing less than raucous, rousing approval.

So get out there and go for it.

But! Always remember to give it your all – nobody wants to see anything half-baked up on that neon lit stage.

Because if you don’t, Cher won’t be the only one waxing poetic about turning back time.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

Yesterday I saw a real live cowboy.

This was awesome.

Yesterday I ate mesquite bbq, and black pepper and balsamic vinegar potato chips before heading out on my training run.

This was a mistake.

Thank goodness it was only a six km route, because there’s nothing quite like feeling as though you’re going to ralph at any minute from overdoing it on the heavily seasoned deep friend tubers.

Urg.

I even know how bad I am wrecking myself as I sit there, munching away, but being the classic masochist that I am – I just keep on keeping on.

And it’s not like this is some kind of rare occurrence (although thank goodness it is (slowly) becoming less of a regular thing in my life as I am making more of an effort to regulate my diet leading up to my next long race.)

Irrespective of all this though is the fact that I’ve been knowingly ingesting ticking time-bombs since I started running at the age of eleven.

Someday I’m going to learn my lesson – and but good (and believe me, after the tight spots I’ve found myself over the years, I am terrified to find out what exactly it’s going to take to get me to finally smarten up. ACK.)

In the meantime, I keep calm and carry on.

FRY-UP TIME!

First on the docket:

Individuals who run downtown on their lunch break.

OKAY.

Seriously?

You are actually doing this? You are actually going to let this happen? I mean, I will (barely) give you a pass if you choose to jog along the seawall, but on the sidewalk on Hastings Street? In the bike lane on Horby?

Get out of here.

Running in place at red lights; weaving in and out of the mass of walkers (many of whom are just trying to get back to their office with their take-out fish tacos in peace – or at the very least, in one piece); and stretching in your spandex in your building’s courtyard?

NO.

Look, I get it.

I like running. In fact, I LOVE running. Plus, I understand that it takes a firm commitment to keep in shape, especially if you are a busy professional. It can be a tricky balancing act.

But it is possible to do this without acting like a total arse betwixt the hours of twelve and two.

And look at it this way:

Who wants to be breathing in that kind of exhaust when they are exercising? Who wants to be stopping every thirty seconds waiting for the red light to change?

Also, and these are legitimate questions for those who do work out at lunch: how do you manage to work up a sweat, but not work out that hard so that you’re sweating for the next two hours once you’re back at work? And what about showering? How does that factor in? And when the bloody hell are you actually eating?

Either way, just don’t do it.

Work through your lunch, leave an hour early, and hit the pavement somewhere where you’re not tripping others up, or traipsing from Cactus Club to Cactus Club in your sweatbands, sweatpants, and lululemons.

Check-it.

Next!

2. This is not an amusement park ride.

What is up with people and escalators?

I don’t understand those who refuse to walk (when it’s a single capacity escalator) and those who choose to walk on those that are double capacity and then stop once the track reaches either the top or the bottom of the ramp.

WHY SIR/MADAME? WHY DO YOU DO THIS?

Because, you see, I’m still walking – because that’s the commitment I’ve made as an escalator walker – and as such, I will knock into you (and maybe even step on the back of your shoe.)

Because, you see, I expected that you too, would, AS A WALKER, you know, keep moving.

And then, should they get all snippy and grouchy at me, muttering about how, “I should watch where I’m going!” I will have to bite my tongue from bellowing: “You chose to walk! YOU MUST LIVE WITH YOUR CHOICE!”

Seriously, it’s a good thing that my cheery disposition overrides all of my murderous rage, because if it didn’t, I would be dextering peeps left right and centre. DAILY.

NEXT!

3. Long lost reunions.

Today I am having lunch with my grade eleven English teacher and I am SO EXCITED.

As an educator she was darn rad – super engaged, extremely enthusiastic, plus totally committed to her students. I was pretty off the chains that year, and I’m fairly certain there were a couple of weeks where every single morning she asked me if I was okay.

I know that I told her that I was fine (every single morning) – but just knowing that she cared enough to ask was something that I took to heart.

Plus seeing everything that M does to prepare for his classes/make his lessons fantastic gives me a really solid understanding of what goes into being a terrific teacher – insight I definitely didn’t have as the drama queen teenager that I was.

My respect for those who put their heart and soul into education really knows no bounds.

…

Going into this long weekend, it’s so bonkers to think that we are already at the start of September. This summer has absolutely flown by. August turns to autumn, and I’m already on the lookout for crunchy leaves to step on as I fly about town.

I’m just looking for the right wind to carry me away.

I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes

So I originally wrote on Friday that M and I were planning on hiking Mt. Seymour on Saturday – a fab hike for an early August day. However, as it is wont to happen in life, our plans changed and we ended up taking on another venture – running from our house in New Westminster to M’s parents’ house in Surrey (which according to “Google map my run” is a distance of 16.45 kilometers).

They recently had their carpets redone and needed help moving a boatload of furniture back to its original positioning, so we were happy to (literally) run over and help out.

Now, Vancity is enjoying its first real heat wave of the summer, and to say that this run was stinkin’ hot might be a bit of an understatement.

We left at 9:40 am and even then the sun was a-blazzing. The one section of the route that afforded us some shade was the part when we ran up King George Highway under the skytrain; after that we were cooking.

I’ll just come out and say it: this was not the best of runs.

In fact, a lot of it was pretty miserable.

It became obvious pretty quickly that M and I were interested in running our own runs, and were not all that interested in running each other’s runs.

This made for some pretty heated commentary along our path (and quite a few sprints, stops, and starts at that.)

We are both highly competitive, highly focused people – and as such, sometimes we start out so fixated on what we want to get out of somethings that we forget how important it is to work together as a team and be open to blending (or at the very least bending) our expectations.

Because seriously, hashing that stuff out on under the blinding hot sun, halfway through an almost 17 kilometer run is not only frustrating, but also exhausting.

Expending that much energy on emotions leaves you with much less juice to finish off those final clicks – it’s pretty darn mentally draining, and as any runner will tell you, that’s a huge component of finishing your race.

Or, to paraphrase Yogi Berra, “Running is 90 per cent mental, and the other half is physical.”

By the time we arrived at M’s parents’ place the two of us were completely done.

We were KNACKERED.

Please see exhibit A for confirmation:

However, communication wise we were a-okay, tip top, lindy hop.

And the crazy thing is, we still ran that stupid run in less than an hour and fifteen minutes. I can’t help but wonder what we would have done it in if we had actually liked each other during the run!

Alas, that is another question for another day.

After cooling down and drinking litres and litres of water, we changed into some non-sweat soaked duds and moved some bloody-giant wooden furniture around (or how I like to think of it – playing real-life doll house.)

Then it was time to return home, shower up, put on a cute sundress (only I did this – M donned a sweet t-shirt/short combo) and hit the downtown waterfront.

 

Once there we found a lovely spot for some NYT crossword, patio and Caesar action (I’m pretty sure that M and I are the only nerds out there brining crosswords to bars, but whatever, I’ll take it.)

ALSO DUDES. LOOK AT THIS SIGN:

GOODNESS GRACIOUS GREAT BALLS OF FIRE.

This, two days after writing about how I have a strange penchant for mispronouncing Coke, and here we are: VINDICATION.

Also, whoever wrote this should probably spend more time proofreading their work.

But seriously, I almost died when I saw this. Maybe they read this blog and were hoping I’d read this as I walked down Columbia Street?

I can only hope.

I can only imagine.

In final news we have been watching the everliving heck out of the Olympics. As I sit here typing this we are getting ready to watch France and Japan square off in the women’s soccer semi-finals, and we are of course looking forward to Canada taking on the USA later this afternoon.

Seeing Usain Bolt win yesterday was epic, I don’t even understand how gymnastics works, and I want the abdominal muscles of every single heptathlete in the competition.

I believe the question I asked M last night before we went to bed was:

“Do you think if I exercised six days a week and only ate one dessert a day I could have abs like that?”

I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.

What about you cats? What’s been shaking in your neck of the woods?