Tag: Books

Like a monkey with a miniature symbol

Hey kidlets!

It’s once again time for another Friday Fry-up. So let’s not waste time mixing metaphors and just get this show on the road.

First on the docket?

Awesome reasons to eat cheese.

Glücklich (wenn auch spät) Schweizer Bundesfeie meine Freunde!

Yes, that’s right. Happy belated Swiss National Day.

Over here at chez-madhouse, we look forward to celebrating this holiday every year on August 1. It’s a chance to hang out with other Swiss nuts (aka M’s family), eat a ton of amazing cheese, drink sparkling wine, and make merry as the night is long.

So this past Wednesday we tuned up our alpen horns, practiced our Roger Federer one-handed backhands, and drove over for a feast of feasts with the rest of the gang.

Abso-frickin-marvelous.

Number two?

I think I’ve seen this all before.

So it’s not that I get déjà vu a lot, it’s more that the déjà vu that I do end up getting really knocks me for a loop – it is out-of-this-world BONKERS. I am literally struck silent (one might even say immobilized) by the feeling that everything that I am experiencing has already happened to me before.

And when I’m not living through this strange, quasi-out-of-body sensation, I’m just doing really silly things on repeat – over, and over, and over again.

(See: Hot Chip)

For instance, did you know that in Russian, the work for juice is cok? You see, c = s and k = c/k.

The confusion and embarrassment comes into play when even though you are THINKING in Russian, your brain is READING in English, and you end up saying “cok“ (and who are we kidding, if you say cok, nobody is thinking “oh, like Russian juice only mispronounced!“ and everybody is just thinking “THAT GIRL JUST SAID WANG!!! BAHAHAHAHA!!!“.)

Which is bloody awkward as all get out.

Seriously, all throughout Russian 100 I’m fairly certain that I told 90% of my classmates that on the weekends I liked to drink vodka and cock.

Which is silly because I don’t EVER drink vodka, and the prospect of a vodka penis just makes the whole venture one hundred fold more unappealing.

BLARGH.

Why are you telling this story lady? I bet many of you are thinking at this very moment.

I HAVE A POINT I PROMISE.

Yesterday I was with my colleague J, and I asked her to accompany me to the kitchen so I could get a drink.

Unfortunately, I wavered between pop and coke, and so it came out: “I just want to grab a cock.“

And so it continues.

Seriously, how this is still happening to me, I will never know.

I can only blame it on the Russians.

ONWARDS!

Amazing YA fiction.

Have any of you cats read this book?

I just started it yesterday morning and I am about halfway through. It is absolutely awesome!

It’s driving me batty trying to figure out what exactly is going on – the plot is slowly unfolding but I feel as though I cannot trust any of the narration.

I am hooked. I implore you – ch-ch-ch-check it out.

…

As for us Canucks, we have a three day weekend to look forward to. Hopefully the sun will be shining like a shining thing. M and I are looking forward to hiking Mt. Seymour, and just spending as much time outside as possible. I have a really, really wicked foot tan shaping up, the likes of which I haven’t seen for a couple of years.

Wishing you all a fab time off, whatever it is you do.

That old black magic that you weave so well

My sisters and I didn’t watch a lot of TV as children.

For many years our television set didn’t even pick up basic cable, so whatever cartoons we were watching came in the form of The Bugs Bunny and Road Runner Movie or The Three Caballeros (or whatever we owned on VHS at that specific time.)

One time we discovered our mother’s Jane Fonda’s Workout video and we absolutely killed ourselves laughing at the clothing/hair-dos as we danced around half-heartedly mimicking the exercises.

Every Friday night we were allowed to rent one film and goodness knows there was a period of time when we must have watched Mary Poppins for upwards three years straight. Steppin’ time is RIGHT, Bert.

Also, for what it’s worth – those Bugs Bunny cartoons still crack me the heck up. I am pretty much incapacitated by giggles every time I hear things like “What a way to run a railroad,” I’ve also started to re-populate my vocabulary with some of his saltier insults, and I have been using “should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque” since time immemorial (or you know, grade school.)

However, there was a time when we finally entered the 20th century, and procured a television set that was neither steam powered, nor cable intolerant, and I was introduced to all the magic and majesty that was the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s children-friendly programming.

(For only two hours every Saturday, mind you.  After all there were limits on how far my parents were willing to travel into said new century.)

Still, limited hours or no, we were introduced to the brilliant likes of Under the Umbrella Tree, The Polka Dot Door, Fred Penner, and Sharon Lois and Bram – seriously folks, this stuff is the stuff of legends.

Take the opening credits to F. Penner & Co.:

DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I DREAMED OF FINDING A  LOG TO CRAWL THROUGH TO REACH MY OWN PRIVATE AND AMAZING HANG-OUT GLEN!?

ALL OF THOSE DREAMS BELONGED TO ME.

Good grief.

I still remember my favourite episode – it was the one where he found a four leaf clover, and the whole episode revolved around teaching us kidlets about good luck and superstition.

Through song. SONG!

One of my most favourite shows however (and one that not a whole lot of people my age seem to remember) was called Today’s Special, which was set in a downtown Toronto department store, after closing hours.

You see, once the place shut down for the night, a mannequin named Jeff would come to life with the aid of his magic hat. (Oh, and someone had to say “hocus pocus alimagocus”.)

What? Like that’s weird or something?

If the hat ever came off of his head – POOF – he turned back into a mannequin.

(This often resulted in a huge number of shenanigans.)

The remainder of the cast was made of up Jodie, the store manager (and Jeff’s totally badass “human” mentor), Sam, the store’s security guard (a puppet, mind you), and Muffy Mouse, the resident rhyming rodent.

To say that I loved this show would be totally oversimplifying it.

I dug it so hard, that if I was actually going through the motions I would have made it all the way to China and back.

I really believed that magic – magic like what was needed to bring Jeff to life every night – was real. It was just up to me to find the right source, and figure out what role it should play in my life (beside of course making me invisible, giving me the power to fly, and helping me learn everything I could possibly learn about everything in the world in – oh, about a day and a half.)

As you could imagine, I was a pretty laid-back kid.

I’ve been thinking about this part of my life quite a bit – a childhood not only wrapped up in enchantment, but the never-ending search for magic – because in the past two weeks I have read Dandelion Wine and The Magician’s Apprentice, and at present I am currently halfway through The Magicians – and it seems as though I cannot stop reading about it.

I cannot stop reading about magic.

These are three (very different) books, but they are all compelling and heartbreaking in their own way.

Dandelion Wine had me shedding tears every morning as I rode the rickety skytrain into work – I felt as though my heart was going to burst out of my chest, so overwhelming was my nostalgia for a life I have never lived, but knew so well – almost as if the words themselves were already etched into my heart, punch drunk on the possibility of an endless summer, so many long years ago.

The Magician’s Apprentice is a fabulous read, but almost deceptive in its outward simplicity – much like a magic trick. But like said trick, it stays with you the long after it is finished, and you find yourself going over it, again and again in your mind – trying to figure it out, and understand it – trying to relive it.

I am not yet done The Magicians, but I am enjoying it very much. I am realizing that should I ever have had that chance to find my magic as a child, I may not necessarily have been in control of this power.

(I will keep you posted once I am finished.)

In the meantime, we sun-dipped mortals (or is it muggles?) are racing about this ball of blue, full speed, arms akimbo, waiting on the next adventure.

We found this feather on the Sunshine Coast. I am sure it has magical properties.

We’ll pick a card.

Any card.

One tough cookie

Hey friends!

It’s Friday, it’s June, and it’s raining and winding like a raining and winding thing.

Tough Mudder is tomorrow, so as I may never see (write to?) you beauty cats ever again (due to my imminent death by hypothermia), so let me just say that it has been an absolute pleasure conversing with all of you.

For the (mayhaps final) Fry-Up, there are three things heating up docket, so let’s dive right in.

Number one:

Pretty pretties from the internets.

I’ve always been super weary of purchasing goods from the world wide interweb, however when I saw this dress there was little I could do to stop myself from taking out my credit card and buying it on the spot.

It was thirty-five dollars – which included shipping – a price so low I half expected the garment to dissolve into dust as soon as I opened the packaging.

However, as it is a non-structured dress (a slip, with a sheer overlay) that came with its ridiculously cute pink belt, I figured if I know my size pretty well, there was little chance that the fit was going to be completely off.

(I mean, for thirty-five clams there was no way I was going to go through the effort of returning the thing. If by bad luck it hadn’t fit, I would have bloody well made it fit.)

And it ended up being brilliant! On the whole, I am just so enamoured with its retro style that I half expect an American GI to walk up to me as I walk down the street and ask me if I would like to jitterbug with him as soon as the band returns from its break.

It’s also comfortable as all get out, both work and play appropriate, and as flattering as a grade school crush.

Now I just need to figure out how to curl my hair properly and heck – no one will be able to stop me!

Onwards!

Number two:

Fab books and belly laughs.

I am currently reading this book:

It is hilarious.

Today on skytrain I was busting a gut so hard the fellow sitting next to me leaned over and asked me what I was reading.

“A hilarious Canadian book about the absurdity of academia and our electoral and parliamentary systems!” I responded. “It won the Stephen Leacock medal!”

I don’t know whether to describe the look that flickered across his face as incredulous or withering, so let’s go with both.

If I had known that he would have greeted my description with such non-plussed scorn (hey, it’s a thing!) I probably would have said something different.

I should have just hollered, “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS YOU ULTRA MAROON!” and then farted loudly.

(P.S. This is how you get a seat to yourself on transit at all hours of the day.)

Anywho, the book is blinkin funny as heck, so if you have a chance, ch-ch-check it out. This goes double for all my Canuck readers out there.

You won’t regret it, I promise you.

P.S. for my international readership, the Stephen Leacock award is for Canadian humour writing. People who win it often have genetically modified funny bones. I am currently in the process of saving up for an F.B. enlargement so I too may one day compete in this illustrious field.

Number three:

SHOWERS.

I am one of those people who LOVE to shower.

I love being clean.

I love the process of becoming clean.

Everything about the venture that is involved with standing inside an enclosed bathing vestibule – I BLOODY WELL LOVE.

And tomorrow, during Tough Mudder, I am going to get very, very dirty.

The dirtiest.

Perhaps (and by perhaps I mean it is certain) that I will reach levels of filth I cannot even begin to imagine, sitting here at my computer.

And while I don’t fear that mess, I very much look forward to that moment where upon completion of my race, I will step into a shower, feel that cascade of hot water on my skin, and scrub the absolute shit out of my dermis.

Take that as you will.

…

So there you have it dudes.

On one last T.M. note, I am so excited to start off tomorrow I can hardly sit still.

I have trained like a madwoman and now it is time to see what I can do. I promise to take lots of photos and let you know how both Mr. M and I fared throughout the sixteen kilometers and twenty-five obstacles.

We’ll be seeing you at the finish line.

Queen of spades

Kids! Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday.

To celebrate this day, I would like to share with you a memory I keep close.

(As re-imagined as my grade-two self.)

I am seven.

My mother isn’t home very much.  We live in Vancouver but she works in Ottawa from Sunday until Friday.  She’s writing a very long decision that will make sure that all Canadian women are ensured equal pay for equal work.  I think the whole thing started with a nurse who made a complaint, but I can never be sure because I’m still suspicious about why someone would need to write a decision. 

They are usually things you just “make.” 

Then I get sick.  Like really sick.  I burn so hot that when I take a bath the water feels like it comes from an iceberg.  Sometimes I imagine I am mutating.  After I shed all of my blistered skin, I’ll emerge taller, sleeker.  I’ll be a superhero, more powerful than ever.

I can’t eat very much and when I do I throw up.   

When my mother tells me that she’s taking a week off to look after me, I nearly jump off the bed with excitement.  

I spend the week wrapped in blankets and fleece, flushed and feverish, my mother sitting next to me.  I wear and wash my favourite pajamas every morning so I don’t have to wear something new.  It is a long dress and it is light blue, with a sleepy but stern looking owl printed on its front. 

It is my favourite.

In between my ice bathes and simple mouthfuls of vegetable broth, we take turns reading aloud from The Secret Garden. 

My mother doesn’t ever do voices when she reads, but her tone is soothing. 

Simple.

Perfect.

I want to run away to the North of England.  I want to skip rope amid the twists and turns of a sprawling manor estate, fall in love with gentle Yorkshire boys who can tend to the earth and talk to animals, and eat hot, crunchy biscuits smothered in butter and jam.

I want to be friends with Miss Mary, learn to plant seeds, feel fresh earth between my fingers, and chirp at cheeky robins that flit and flutter under a low-hanging sky.

But mostly I want to find a garden of my own.  I want to discover a place that has been shut up and forgotten and reawaken the magic, magnificence, mayhem and majesty that once flourished there.

A place where I will be safe and strong and smart and stupefying in my splendour.

A place where I can be free.

…

Growing up my little sister and I spent every conceivable minute playing outside.  And when we weren’t outside, we were building forts in our basement. Our overactive, bizarre and totally bonkers imaginations ensured that we were never bored and never without a storyline to pursue.

And yet, despite the number of times I played in our garden, or the front yard, or at the park, or in the school yard, or the overgrown alleyway, I never truly felt how I had hoped to feel, when reading about Mary Collins’ adventures in her secret place.

Now, as a bizarre, slightly bonkers adult, I still search for that feeling, this tangible moment of discovery and awe.

Last summer I had the chance to visit a garden where I had, for an all too brief a time, that moment.

It was a place of magic and mayhem.

(But the good mayhem, not “the Bay is being looted and my car is on fire.”)

It was a place of discovery and awe, governed by a beauty tied to a nature no one believes in anymore and the stories of the all too few that do.

Dreaming of a garden for you today (and tomorrow) momma!

Happy natal day to you.

Reading the empty spaces

Friends.

There is some majorly wacked-out stuff going down all over the globe these days.

From the most horrific, to the most mundane, it’s bizarro world out there.

I’m not really sure what to think of it all.

However, of one thing I am sure.

This morning I learned that Ray Bradbury has died. He was 91.

And I am devastated.

In terms of books, I am not one to mince words.

If I like an author, I will make it known. If I don’t like an author, well, I won’t waste my time.

And I love Bradbury.

(I refuse to use this verb in past tense. Just because he died doesn’t mean I am magically going to stop celebrating his works.)

I love him.

His writings are of such majesty that they brings tears to my eyes, and gooseflesh to my arms, and warmth to my cheeks.

They bring me pain and strength and desire and need – to my head, to my hands, to my heart, to my feet.

…

I’ll never forget the first time I read Fahrenheit 451.

I was in grade eleven and I had just finished reading Catcher in the Rye. Reading these two books back-to-back exploded my brain so hard it’s amazing that I managed to speak in complete sentences for the remainder of the year.

I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything.

I re-read 451 for the first time in the summer of 2007. This time around I took it slowly, reading each chapter and then pausing – taking time to digest the words, the ideas, dissect my growing feeling of unease, of understanding how this fictional world was so alike the one I inhabited – flesh, bones, blood, mind, and heart.

It unnerved me.

And I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything.

After this, I read The Martian Chronicles. Sandwiched in between Asimov’s I Robot series and Heinlein’s The Moon is a Dark Mistress, I learned about the Earthmen, and Those Summer Nights; The Settlers and The Green Morning.

“Ylla” (like so many of the book’s other stories) moved me in such a way that I have a hard time communicating them through my typed words.

Everything seems too silly, too trite.

He made a world that I wanted to visit. Wanted to dream about.

All of his worlds – I wanted to know them.

Know everything.

My favourite Bradbury work is Something Wicked This Way Comes.

This book is probably the most terrifying, most beautiful book I have ever read.

Will ever read.

Often times, when I am feeling overwhelmed, or lost, I will pick up Mr. M’s and my dog eared copy and re-read the following passage:

“Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience.”

I will think about good and evil.

About youth.

About age.

I will think about the American Dream, and its evolution. I construct a world that I imagine Bradbury inhabited as he created his work. I deconstruct the world I inhabit when I read his work.

His books make me nostalgic for a time and place I have never known.

For a time and place I will never know.

I have nothing in common with Charles Holloway, and yet I feel for him. I yearn for him.

I am him.

If you have never had the chance, please, take the time and read this book. It is magic.

…

Bradbury was a literary giant, unmatched by most, in a league of few.

I sincerely hope that individuals, young and old alike will continue to read his works.

Lest we all become firemen.

Lest we all become consumed by fire.