Tag: Laughing

A year of ranting and rolling

Can you believe it?

One hundred and eighty-odd posts later and here we are – looking back on a year of blogging.

I started Rant and Roll because I love to write and because I am easily destroyed by issues that either break my heart or force steam out of my ears.

My amazing friend Sherie encouraged me to write down my rants, mostly due to the fact that she would absolutely kill herself laughing any time I was on the warpath, orating and gesticulating widely (like the modern day – severely pissed off – Pericles that I can be.)

And so I did.

At first all of my posts really were rants – calling out injustices, lamenting social ills, and waxing long on my huge beef with institutionalized sexism.

Pfft. If it’s not cutting at least 50 lbs, I can’t even be bothered.

But then, little, by little, my small corner of the internet began to evolve.

Sure, I still wrote about issues near and dear to my heart (I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.)

However, I also started to write about other things – my relationship with the brilliant man whom I share my heart and home; our kitty cat who rules the roost; and my travels both near and far, new and old.

Ms. Nymeria cuddling with Mr. M.

I began sharing pieces of fiction and poems.

My tricky relationship with the fashion industry has been well documented (as have the very good and very bad pieces I’ve stumbled across whilst playing dress-up on my lunch breaks.)

I’ve written about my past struggles with eating disorders and an experience from my youth that has left me scarred, but not broken.

I’ve written about my rocky relationship with hockey and my slow-building courtship with soccer.

CONCACAF action.

In April I was Freshly Pressed and it was pretty much the COOLEST THING EVER.

There were days that I was so tired coming home from work that I cried.

But I also drooled on the metro.

I made pea soup and I cooked breakfast for dinner.

I hiked a mountain in California, and came third in my third ever half-marathon.

Beautiful Haystack Mt.

I was a Tough Mudder.

All that mud covered a crap load of bruises and cuts!

I took on the “I don’t watch TV” crowd.

I laughed a lot.

It has been simply smashing.

So what have I learned from this brilliant experience? What do I take away from three hundred and sixty-five days of blogging?

Well, the first thing is that I am darn proud of my little R&R.

On day one I swore to myself that I would write three times a week, no excuses.

At first it was hard – I wanted each piece to be INTELLIGENT, and THOUGHT PROVOKING.

High brow or die! FIRE AT WILL COMMANDER.

But then I just started to sit back and let it flow. I made sure not to force any one post into being something that it wasn’t – that it couldn’t be.

Looking back, there were some weeks where I wrote four, even five posts – not because I felt like I had to, but because I was inspired, and passionate, and excited, and so so happy to feel my fingers a-tap-tapping, flying across the keyboard, just trying to keep up to the pace of my frantic thoughts that were just spilling out of my head, onto the desk, and all over the floor.

I’ve learned that pictures and media are a good way of adding colour to your blog (no pun intended).

Palm trees at night, a visual delight.

(Or just to drive home the point of how truly bonkers you really are.)

I’ve learned that spam bots will leave comments that leave me breathless from laughter, and that real life people will leave comments that melt my heart into a puddle of mush.

(This is a good thing.)

But it the end, what I first and foremost take away from this crazy year of blogging is the opportunity to make my way through the remarkable WordPress community, read some outstanding blogs, and get to know some truly phenomenal people.

To all of my brilliant and beautiful blog friends, I wouldn’t want to do this without you.

You make me laugh at your fantastic wit.

You make me cry with your profound prose.

You make me fall in love with your children and your pets.

You make me jealous of all your amazing fashion pieces, and your delicate eyes for mixing and patching different patterns and palates.

You make me run faster, and work out harder.

You make me marvel at your art, your photography, your writing.

You make me want to be a better blogger.

You make me want to be better.

So thank you. Thank you all.

Here’s to another year of blogging.

Till next time champs!

So everyone buckle up – here come the terrible twos.

Have laughs, will travel

Sometimes, you just need to act like a nutter.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In December of 2009, M and I spent a week in Geneva and five days in London before returning home to Canada.

We had been living in the UK while I was on research leave for my MA, and we really wanted to wrap up our trip in a special way.

We figured stops in two brilliant, bustling cities (in the weeks leading up to Christmas no less) would make for an excellent send off.

Now, suffice to say that I love my husband madly (emphasis on the mad) and when I state that we have a heck of a good time travelling together, this is not hyperbole.

This is fact.

During our time in Switzerland, we bopped about the place, our eyes semi-sprung from our sockets, incredulous at how expensive everything was (I mean, twelve francs for a happy meal!? How is that even possible?), attempting to take in all the jaw-dropping beauty offered up by our environs.

M is half-Swiss so we had the immense pleasure of staying with his amazing cousin Lisette, a woman whom I love dearly – so much so that I will be hard pressed not to name my first child after her.

(If luck should have it that it be born a boy, well, he’ll have to endure. Perhaps some hard living country songstress will write a rousing tune about him and his namesake. It would be a bona fide hit; a certified chart topper.)

Lisette’s sister Bea is another of my all time favourites – she is the epitome of chic. Her doggie Tisha is also the epitome of cute, with her eyes that melt your heart, and magical powers to make handfuls of biscuits materialize out of thin air.

On our first day in Geneva, we toured much of the old town and then visited St. Pierre Cathedral. Having climbed to the bell tower, we took full advantage of an empty observation deck to partake in some high tom foolery.

Exhibit A:

Magic!

On our trip to Bern, M kept asking me to take photos so “it looked like he was running to jump aboard the train while it was still moving.”

This is the best I could do:

It’s amazing the associated press hasn’t been blowing up my phone trying to get me to come and work for them.

Perhaps one of my most favourite laugh-until-you-cry-and-then-bloody-well-laugh-some-more moments came when we were in London.

It was our second day in the city. We sprung out of bed at an early hour, despite having walking some twelve-odd hours the day before, so eager we were for adventure.

Boy was it was cold as heck.

We arrived at Kensington Gardens and immediately were besieged by hoards of hungry, and as such, aggressive water fowl. They were absolutely insatiable! I managed to capture the madness (albeit all too briefly) in the following video.

P.S.  THIS IS NOT HOW MY VOICE SOUNDS IN REAL LIFE GOOD GRIEF.

Finally, because I’m a silly, silly girl, and I’m always asking M to pose for inane photos, I requested that he pretend to tickle the giant, mummified hippopotamus that’s hanging two stories up in the Museum of Natural History:

And then pet the skeleton of some poor prehistoric beast that perished in some Jurassic tar pit and/or meteor shower:

Alas.

Just typing out these words – just looking at all of our many photos from this trip has got me feeling homesick. Yearning for our small, rubbish flat on Rotton Park Road, my running loop at the Edgbaston Reservoir, my young English students at Right Track School, the beautiful red brick at the University of Birmingham, and all the carefree nights and weekends M and I spent around the city, and different parts of the country.

So you’ll have to excuse me.

I’m off to take some photos. I’m off for a new adventure.

There and back again

Today I am wearing a pretty dress.

Today I am wearing four inch heels.

Today I feel as though I will take over the world.

Clocking in at approximately 6’2” or 188 cm, I am either an Amazon warrior or Godzilla.

Let’s get this Friday Fry-Up on the road.

Shakespeare Extravaganza – Part Deux.

For his most recently passed birthday, M’s sister V gifted him with two tickets to Bard on the Beach’s production of The Merry Wives of Windsor. As such, tonight we will be off to Vanier Park to have our funny bones tickled by ye old Willy Shakes and his most prodigious wit.

Before the show, we will picnic on fresh salmon, green beans, and fragrant basmati rice, and watch the sun sink below the blue-capped mountains.

I’ve never before seen a production of this play, so I am quite interested to see how this adaptation will unfold.

I’m also curious as to what direction they will take with Falstaff – whether they will go full-buffoon, or instead, present a more textured (but not necessarily measured) interpretation of his character.

When it comes to the bard, and I am pretty darn open minded.

Just as long as it’s not this:

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Kenneth Branagh (especially as Kurt Wallander…ooer), and I love me some K. Bra as Benedick/Hamlet/Henry V – but this?

Onwards!

Simple pleasures.

A selection:

Mr. M brushing my hair.

Crawling into freshly laundered sheets, exhausted from a sun-drenched day.

The spice of freshly ground espresso beans.

The crackle and crunch of just-baked pumpkin seeds.

Nymeria’s paws, running the length of my back.

Carrot sticks and cherry tomatoes – a throw-back to my childhood that lovingly endures.

And another? Molasses cookies, this time dipped in chocolate – an updated twist on a family classic.

Heaven.

Stumbling across my 18-year old self in prose form.

Oh, to once again think that I am, like, THE WITTIEST PERSON EVER OMG.

Check this out:

Kevin stared at his shoes.  They weren’t they way he remembered them at all.  How utterly strange, (he thought), as his cat just stared and stared.  The orange sunlight fell across his nose and warmed his sinuses, dissipating the symptoms of his hay fever.   He checked his watch for the final time and decided foreign shoes or no, he had to leave.

“Open sesame!” said Kevin, and he watched a miniature tortoise on roller skates open the window to his right, leading straight into the front yard rhododendron plant.  Kevin decided that once he found out who had taken his regular shoes, he would try to get more sleep.

Reaching into his pocket, Kevin found the number of a beautiful girl he had met two days prior while sipping his Smirnoff Ice at (what he considered) the most underrated club in town. 

Now, Trish (the owner of said phone number) was suffering a quandary of her own.  Trapped in a crippling intellectual, emotional and creative stagnation, she found herself easily moved to tears while watching a re-run of an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. 

Further, her refusal to shave her legs – a move done in solidarity with the Montreal Canadian’s run to the Stanley cup finals – was getting her into trouble with her manager.  Evidently it was written somewhere in the restaurant’s by-laws that all waitresses must be 1) hot and 2) have shaved legs. 

Finally, her roommate keep pouring salt onto her blistered ankles and it had become painfully obvious that she (the roommate) also had a penchant for hoarding the teaspoons in her top dresser drawer along with her collection of leather thongs. 

Trish decided that as soon as she found another job, she would try to get a new roommate.

Meanwhile, Kevin tried to work up the courage to phone Trish. 

At this exact moment Trish’s short term memory kicked in.  The boy she’d met dancing the other night!  Also the asparagus that had been sitting in the microwave since yesterday at approximately four p.m. was most likely soggy and cold.  She ate the wilted greens by the phone. 

It remained silent, despite the fact that Kevin phoned nine times during the course of her meal, having mastered the skill of having up pre-ring by the middle of ninth grade.  (Carly McDonald never knew any of this. She was now married with two children, an international bridge champion and fucking the swimming instructor). 

Kevin grew frustrated with his lack lustre efforts, took a shower, shaved his armpits and went to bed.  He dreamt of Trish, laying next to her face and she told him, “All I wanted to do was feed the ducks.  You asshole!”

Kevin got up and drank some water.  He didn’t dream the rest of the night.

Trish passed out due the toxicity of her nail polish fumes.

Three days later Kevin was arguing with the grocer over the rotten rutabagas purchased a day and a half prior to said confrontation.  Trish was inside stocking up on strawberry flavoured Pocky. 

Too lost in their own worlds, our hero and heroine were clueless to their closeness.  Their hands brushed at the apple stand and when he looked up, Trish kneed in the junk and told him, “You have a nice crotch.”

THE END.

…

Good grief. Teenage self – what WERE you thinking? (I am sure I cannot be the only one who asks themselves this question?)

Actually, scratch that, I know exactly what I was thinking. Something along the lines of “ZOMG. I am sooooo irreverent and interesting and intelligent! Move over Salinger, your reign is OVER!”

Oh lawdy, I will be laughing about this for days…

A very merry weekend to you all!