Humor – Page 13 – Rant and Roll

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.

Sweet mudder of pearl

Guess whose back? Back again?

Ethel’s back! Tell a friend!

WHAT. A. RACE.

2012-06-23 12.17.08 — Could somebody pass me a washcloth?

The great thing about all of this mud is that it covers the myriad of cuts and bruises that now decorate the length of my body.

It may or may not look like I went ten rounds with a baseball bat.

Actually, what I really want to do is get a t-shirt that says, “Yeah, but you should see the other guy!”

Also, those running shoes did not return with me on the ride home. The mud was so thick in parts of the race that people were actually losing their shoes.

Talk about trauma-rama – at mile three we passed some poor girl desperately searching through the muck to find her long gone runner – arms and legs completely lost in the mire, trying to feel about for her sinking Nike.

(This was also in a section of the course called “Bush Whacking” which had seen us literally carve our own paths down the side of a forested mountain.)

Her incredibly supportive teammate (and by supportive, I mean exasperated as hell) threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, “Fuck the shoe!”

Fuck the shoe you say?

Oh no no no no no no no….

There is no way in heck that the unfortunate mudder would be able to continue on to finish her race without something resembling a shoe strapped onto her foot.

And by resembling I mean an exact replica.

Shoes – they matter.

Because dudes, THIS was one hell of a course.

Over 12 miles long (of which probably a good two miles were in the snow!), we went through it all: crawling in the mud under barbed wire, crawling in the mud under ever lower barbed wire, scaling ten and twelve foot walls, running up half-pipes (this nearly broke my breasts – small though they are, no word of a lie that hurt like heck), traversing monkey bars over freezing water, ACTUALLY jumping into freezing water, electrified slip and slides, electrified finish lines, WALKING UP THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN THAT HOUSES A BLOODY SKY JUMP (at mile ten mind you), more mud (think the consistency of newly mixed cement), more mud, running up hill, running down hill – did I mention the mud?

And seriously, it was glorious.

Brilliant.

A day of supreme bad-assery, if you will.

M and I worked together like a team on fire. It’s so amazing to see what we are capable of doing as a unit when put into these kind of situations. Neither of us complained, or whined; we continually checked in with one another, encouraged each other, let each other know what hurt, what needed to be stretched out, where we would next take water, whether one of us needed to use the loo.

Actually, funny story there.

After the Arctic Enema – even less sexy than it sounds, let me assure you – I realize that I need to quickly use the john. Well, what with my shorts and my underwear now super glued to my body, it was a hell of a time trying to get those bad boys down, let alone back up again (think removing the wettest, coldest bathing suit (re: speedo), and then trying to put it back on as fast as you possible can.)

It’s practically impossible, right?

Especially when you are trying to move it, move it.

My extremely competitive nature made me briefly consider leaving with just my shorts back in place and my underwear still straddling my upper thighs, but luckily I though better of it and made sure everything was good to go before getting back to business.

Oh, I also did the really classy thing of peeing into the urinal (this being an outhouse it was the easiest thing to access) instead of the actual toilet, because some schmuck had actually closed the lid – and there was no way I was making the effort to lift it back up. Plus, THAT’S GROSS.

Priorities!

Anywho, to get back to the race. What a day – beautiful weather, not too cold, not too hot, sun in the alpine, cooler in some parts but not freezing (that was what we had the water for.) M and I ran pretty much the entire course save the brutal, brutal track up the sky jump hill – the incline was just too much, and at way too far into the race. We jogged probably the first 50 meters before settling into as fast of a hike as possible.

It was pretty cool as we neared the finish line – you could hear the music and everybody cheering – what a way to pump you up to finish the race.

As soon as you crossed that line (after running through a massive obstacle filled with wires, some charged at 10,000 volts) M and I just collapsed into a huge hug, and just held each other for a second to drink it all in.

I cannot say all too much else except that I am so very proud of us. We achieved something pretty amazing the two of us together – 12 miles, 23 obstacles, 2 hours, twenty minutes of madness and glory.

Post-race however, as my brilliant friend K texted me later that day – “That awkward moment when you are scrubbing and scrubbing and you realize that it’s not mud, but a bruise.”

Yeaaaahhhhh:

Eeeerrrr:

IMG_1071 - Copy — Pre-shower arms, plus my number still written on my forehead.

Ooof:

Eeep:

…

Phew, so there you have it.

Also, the next race is in Seattle on September 29.

I may or may not be able to wait to get out there again.

How about I get the team t-shirts? And will that be a small, medium, or large?

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.

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.

IMG_0451 - Copy — 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.

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.

4588white_ashtray1 — 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.

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.

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.

Hike 062 — 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.