Tag: Life

Underneath it all

Well, is January 18th.

JANUARY 18th!

What the what.

It’s January 18th and I am here to talk about underwear.

Yes, underwear.

UNDIES.

The whites.

Bras.

Panties.

(I actually shudder at the word “panty.” Whoever coined that term should have been exiled immediately and fined all of their underwear, sentenced to roam the netherworlds (hehe) forevermore without the comfort of a protective layer of cloth to separate their genitals from their clothing.)

Just imagine the chaffing!

AHEM.

Back to the task at hand.

As a young, nubile woman I find the whole “underwear/lingerie” thing absolutely confounding.

Now don’t get me wrong here – I find nothing wrong with the concept of a beautiful undergarment, nor do I begrudge absolutely anyone who chooses to spend their hard-earned cash dollars on fancy, frilly brassieres and garter belts (or the what-have-you.)

It’s just for me – I cannot even.

I’ve believe you me, I’ve tried.

This past Christmas, I walked head-on into the new Victoria’s Secret megastore (the twinkling, garish purple and pink disco – cum – bordello that now takes up real estate on Robson and Granville) with the express intention of purchasing some new duds.

The problem being that I lasted approximately thirty seconds inside of the store.

I just couldn’t handle it all – the entire building seemed to be grotesquely pulsating: the too-loud pop “music” remixes blaring from every speaker; the raucous crowds of women careening about the “2 for 40” bins; the scattered detritus of disinterested boyfriends and husbands glued to their smartphones or desperately looking for a quiet corner in which to sit; the too-interested boyfriends and husbands, hovering about the change rooms with “their choice” bras clenched tightly in their fists –

IT WAS JUST TOO MUCH.

(Also, I’ve got to say – having some non-descript teenage boy wail on about how much he will love me no matter what while I peruse racks and racks of padded bras is a very strange experience indeed. I would recommended all lingerie stores employ string quartets to entertain their patrons whilst they shop.)

But I also have the tendencies and tastes of an eighty-year old, so they should also take my suggestions with a grain of salt.

Or Werther’s Original.

Okay, once again I am all over the road here.

What I’m trying to say is: underwear, for me, serves a function, and as long as that function is served, I am happy.

There are too many things I would rather do with my money then spend gobs of it on fancy-schmancy undies.

Because at the root of it all – I feel totally hot, (and awesome! and strong! and gorgeous!) without them.

I know I look great in my fruit of the loom, unpadded, unadorned plain underwear.

Also – if you’re using that stuff to present yourself as a sexy minx/naughty schoolgirl/lion tamer/etc. – all of that stuff just comes off anyway, doesn’t it?

(Doesn’t it?)

The dollar to time spent wearing the garment ratio is totally off!

Now, I’m sure there are many people out there who would (and probably will) tell me that if I ever gave lingerie its fair shake, I would feel completely different (and yes, I concede that they are probably correct).

But until that day – until I properly gird my loins (harhar) and make it into a store unaffected by all the glittery pomp and sexy circumstance, I will continue on as I do.

Wearing my whites.

Polar Bear Swim
Polar Bear Swim – 2014. In the whites.

Plainly.

Looking back, but moving forward

Holy smokes.

In three days’ time it will be 2014.

How did that happen?

All’s I got to say is: WHERE ARE THE FLYING CARS YO.

(Am I right, or what?)

If my life isn’t like an episode of The Jetsons in the next year or two, I am going to be very, very disappointed.

Also I cannot really believe that it’s been fourteen years since we rang in the millennium and everyone ripped their heads clean of hair, worrying about whether or not they had enough canned food and water to outlast the Y2K apocalypse.

(Remember the insane fear mongering that just ran rampant on every news channel leading up to the ball drop that year? PLANES WERE GOING TO JUST BE FALLING OUT OF THE SKY AND ALL THE COMPUTERS WERE GOING TO BLOW UP BECAUSE NO ONE KNEW WHERE TO PUT THE EXTRA ZERO!)

Good grief.

Actually, I remember that New Years as if it was just yesterday.

What I wore: a delicate, pink slip of a dress, that cinched at my waist and fell just below my knees.

Who I celebrated with: My then best-friend Mira who was – and still is – an amazing violinist, my little sister, and her best friend Emily.

Where we were: The Hard Rock Café Vancouver’s all ages party. (We were fourteen and twelve years old, respectively.)

What we did: Ate dinner, drank fake-champagne, and danced will all the other kiddos who were too grown-up (in their minds) to spend another December 31st with their parents, but too young to actually party like those grown-ups with whom they refused to, well, party.

Mira and I bussed back to her parent’s house around 1am, and as we crammed in with many other revelers I remember thinking “THIS is what it feels like to be an adult!”

And heck, if taking public transit with a bunch of intoxicated weirdos a grown-up makes, that I definitely have achieved this title ten-fold over the years.

Achieved this in SPADES.

As we teeter on the cusp of 2014, let’s look back on the year that was blogger-style:

2013 – An Overview

In January Marc and I flew back from Halifax after spending nine days there over the Christmas and New Year holidays.

I wrote about a light hearted piece about my weird relationship with body hair and it became one of my most popular and stumbled upon blog posts.

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In February I performed at the Vancouver Comedy Festival, turned twenty-eight, and that mad man to whom I have pledged my troth and I entered the Amazing Race.

Come March, we ran away for a weekend and I wrote about learning how to drive.

In April this happened, and I won $500 in a comedy competition. Writing about Ray Bradbury saw my second foray into the world of Freshly Pressed, which was super awesome and totally unexpected. I came seventh in the Sunshine Coast Half-Marathon and talked about all the ways in which I have grown-up on the outside, but not on the inside.

May meant talking about all of the things that scare me (irrational and not) and writing some fiction about my days as a love-struck eighteen year old. We also covered politics, and all of the things I like to do by myself.

In June I quit my old job, and procured a new one (alias Dream Job). I ran the Scotiabank half-marathon and raised $1,135 for Big Sisters, celebrated five years of marriage to my one true love, and flew away to New York for my big sister’s wedding.

In July I talked about the importance of taking risks and wearing less make-up. Marc and I hike A LOT.

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August came and went in the blink of an eye. I hardly had time to write a blog post or three what with the two weddings I was in (bridesmaid x2 and MC x2), the other weddings I attended, the insanity of a new job, and doing all of the comedy (upwards of five shows per week!)

It was enough just trying to keep my head on straight.

In September I tried to get back in the grove of things, writing about great friends, and the importance of Terry Fox (as a Canadian, runner, and just, well, human being.)

October = BEST HALOWEEN OF LIFE.

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We also visited the place we got married one last time before the gardens closed forever.

Oh, and I made this.

In November I fell in love with Helen Mirren and kick some butt in the Fall Classic 10k. I also aired my beefs with Love Actually.

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December has brought so many things I haven’t even had the chance to write about, but I think this sums it up pretty darn well.

And to top it off, two photos that never stop making me smile and laugh:

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A million thank yous for sticking with me friends.

I so very much look forward to another year of blogging – you inspire me, make me laugh, and leave the best comments a gal could ask for.

Happiest of New Year’s to you all!

Good strong words that mean something

So there’s this scene in Little Women, when all four sisters are lying in bed together. It’s just after Amy has fallen through the frozen pond while ice skating (arguably almost dying, had it not been for the speedy response of Jo and Laurie), and she is apologizing to Jo for being just THE WORST© (seriously, Amy March has always been my least favourite March sister and I won’t even get into the fact that she is the one that ended up with Laurie, because WHAT THE EFF right?) because she had burned her sister’s book in anger over the fact that she was too young to attend the opera with her and Meg.

Too convoluted an opener? Then you must, MUST read the book!

Or at the very least watch the movie version with Winona Ryder and Susan Sarandon. It is really bloody great.

Anyways, Amy then asks her sister, “Do you love Laurie more than you love me?” and Jo responds aghast, “I could never love anyone as I love my sisters!”

MEEP. My heart hurts just thinking about this phrase.

You see, that folks – THAT is exactly how I feel about these gals:

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My sisters are two of the most important people in my entire life, and it absolutely slays me that they live so gosh-darned far away, as this means that the majority of the time I see them is when they are looking back at me through their respective computer screens.

It also means that usually one (or both) of us is lying in bed, completely knackered after a day of racing about our respective cities, desperately trying to stay awake and concentrate on what the other one is saying.

When all I really want to be doing is sitting on a sofa with both them, drinking a glass of wine, and laughing about all the ridiculous things we do in our lives, whether together or separate.

For instance, always thinking we can recreate that scene from Little Women and sleep in the same bed together (often on Christmas eve), only to just destroy ourselves in the process of trying.

And in only one week’s time, this will be a reality!

(Hopefully sans shared bed, of course. Seriously, I also end up stuck in the middle.)

Holy crapola, I cannot wait.

I am especially excited because this Sunday I am headlining my very first comedy night, and Kate (my older sister) and her wife will be here to see it.

YEAH!

I have fifteen minutes to bring all the laughs that I possibly can.

Elsewhere on the docket, they are currently filming Supernatural pretty much right in my backyard:

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I used to get super jazzed about television and movie filming in my city, (Kate and I actually used to steal those arrow film signs you see littered about Vancouver and we’d use them to decorate our respective bedrooms. And by we, I mean she did it first, and I, as the younger sister, copied her lead) but now I’m pretty blasé about the whole thing.

It has to be a show I really, really love for me to get all shirty over something like that. (However, I’m pretty sure I would live in a perpetual state of bonkerness if Marc and I were ever to move back to the UK and put down roots in London because I would just constantly be on the lookout for all my favourite panel show comedians. Good grief.)

Oh, a this also happened:

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And finally, in but three days I will be on vacation until the 6th of January.

During that time I will be doing nothing save running, eating, laughing, writing, reading, sleeping, and spending all of the time with all the beautiful, magical, brilliant loves of my life.

I so very much hope that all of you will be doing much of the same.

Put your hands on my body

“Use up the rest of your benefits,” they said.

“Go and get a massage,” they said.

And get a massage I did.

Ooof.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the one hour I lay prone on that table as a very kind, and incredibly petite woman lay waste to my internal organs.

I mean, who doesn’t LOVE a good deep-tissue muscle scrub? Am I right or what?

Massage are great!

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They’re GREAT! (Also, look at my giant hand!)

Seriously, there is no question at all about that.

But, let’s not pretend that the best ones don’t hurt like heck, and as such, force you to perform your yoga-breathing for the entire sixty or so minutes that you’re engaged in one.

I went to my local RMT this afternoon because I’ve been having some tightness in my shoulders and upper back. I haven’t been running as much these days, what with the sun setting at 2:15 in the afternoon, and temperatures hovering around -1 degree centigrade, so instead, I’ve been doing quite a bit of body resistance work and strength training.

This is great, because I can now do sixty push-ups relatively easily during one workout (but not in a row alas. At least not yet. However, my plan is to be Linda Hamilton circa T-2 by the time I do Tough Mudder next June.)

This is not great because it leaves me very sore.

And to combat this soreness I go and get massages that just make me even more sore. (Sorer? Sauron?)

Ahem. Moving forward.

While I was getting massaged today, I started thinking about all the good things and all the bad things about the process, and because I was having so much fun mulling over these things in my head, I decided it was high time to dust off this old, but always popular, Rant and Roll chestnut:

I LOVE I LOATHE – MASSAGE EDITION!

Things I love about getting massaged:

The lead-up to the actual act. How great is it telling others that this coming Friday afternoon you have an appointment with an RMT?

SO GREAT.

People are always so darned excited for you, and then they’ll say something like “I should totally get one too!” And then you’re all “OMG YOU TOTALLY SHOULD” and then your friendship is bonded even harder over your shared love of upcoming massage visits.

Things I loathe about getting massaged:

That weird minute or so when you’re in the room with your massage therapist, and they’re all asking what you want worked on, but it’s awkward because you’re thinking about taking your clothes off, and you’re also kind of like, “IS THIS CUTTING IN MY ONE HOUR LADY? BECAUSE I PAID FOR AN HOUR!” and then once they’re gone you get undressed (always vaguely alarmed that there just might be hidden cameras) and then you lie there for what seems like forever until they knock on the door and you’re all “YES!” in a voice that is much, MUCH too enthusiastic.

Things I love about getting massaged:

Those moments after they’ve absolutely massaged the crap out of one spot on your body (so much so that you briefly think you’re going to pass out from the pain) and then they just rub lightly in circles around that point and everything in the world feels like it’s right again, and you also think you might be a superhuman because of your insanely high pain tolerance and would you exist in the Marvel or DC universe?

Things I loathe about getting massaged:

I am a competitive bastard, and I hate the thought of losing at ANYTHING. As such, whenever an RMT asks me if the pressure is too much, I cannot bring myself to say yes, despite the fact that I’m pretty sure that I can feel her fingers inside of my kidney(s).

I just keep deep breathing and telling myself that “this too shall pass” while the pain in my head hollers indiscriminately “HAHAHAH! NEVER. YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!!”

Good grief.

One day I will be mature enough to say “less pressure please!”, but until that day, I suffer in silence.

In silence!

Things I love about getting massaged:

Afterwards.

All hail the rest of the day following the massage.

Seriously, I feel like I’m floating on air.

Add to this a piping hot shower, a lovely comfortable outfit, a good book and a glass of tea?

HEAVEN.

If the insane pain of the actual massage didn’t manage to kill me, this definitely will.

I am definitely dead by how fantastic I feel having come out the other side.

And it’s because of this that I will never, ever stop getting massaged.

Whether I mature, or not.

(Or not.)