Life – Page 43 – Rant and Roll

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.

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.

Here with you, skinny legs and all

I am typing on the world’s softest keyboard. It’s like having jello fingertips.

I was reading “Skinny Legs and All” again last night. It is such a good book.

I like its definition of art as something that you can see in your head, but you know doesn’t exist in reality, so you try to make it exist.

I think this is what Robert Bateman cannot understand.

Art as imitation? That is just flattery.

Painted fangs and paper coats, a canvas of timeless snow. To make beauty and life something to look at.

I disagree with it all.

Make randomness. Find splendour in it.

Paint the pattern of your mind in the fickle sand, and know that it will blow away.

To be or not to be timeless? Infinite? Or just human?

We err, we die, we hold stiff poses against the sky – a sky that never changes. And what we make and what we shape is beautiful because it eventually ceases to obey the order we have inflicted upon it and metamorphs into something we could not ever have imagined.

And I ask myself, over and over again: where would I be if I had never met you?

A tan, bland comment from a waiter at a tea party. And I would have outlasted the winter with my ice and arctic breath.

But you and I – our pulse, our heart, together: we are not meant for trivia and sullen conversation.

The outside rules are writing themselves in rigid lines of decline, delineating the passive guests – but we, we are undressed and dressed again, an unfolding nebula of muscle, blood, and mirth, and who dares to say us wrong.

Who dares to say but sorry and thank you – these well-wishers and critics.

I see you and I’m dazed understanding. I’m iron on fire.

I’m living, I’m burning; I have stunned the artifex of my life in the shower, and these eyes – mine eyes are dancing the jive with yours.

And I’ll be here.
(kissing your eyelids shut at night).

For extra credit:

O, my love.

Stop skirting the issue here

Hi Kids! Friday fry-up time.

A can of spam.

Yesterday I received what has to be the funniest spam comment in the history of spam comments.

It reads:

When I think back on all the blessings I have been given in my life, I can’t think of a single one, unless you count that rattlesnake that granted me all those wishes.

What the WHAT?

Talk about pure comedy gold.

Who are you, person who left this comment? Please introduce yourself to the group so we can all give you the round of applause you so dearly deserve. And I truly believe that it was a person, and not a spambot, what with it being a complete, coherent (if odd) sentence and all. (It’s also written in English and not Polish or Russian. Do you many of you peeps get a lot of multi-lingual spam? Because goodness knows, I get a TON.)

All I have to go on is the user name Silver Price and some sketchy e-mail address. So if you are reading this Monsieur Spammer, please step forward I just wish to tip my hat in your direction and let you know that your note will keep me laughing for ages.

AGES!

A close second goes to this comment which also deserves an honourable mention:

Sod costs more; however, it comes mature and ready to lay but prior to that you must prepare the area properly, and that takes time and dedication. If you have a fireplace, inside or outside, or a grill, you can pick up the fallen tree branches and cut them up for use in your fireplace or grill. Fixing your lawn can cost some money depending on how damaged it is. This list of foes continues nevertheless the absolute goal in the game remains to be the same.

BRILLIANT.

Next!

Mini-Me.

So. I recently went and tried on this mini-skirt but couldn’t bring myself to buy it despite the fact that I loved it.

It’s like a flapper skirt! Only fluffier!

KEEEEEY-UTE!

Sigh.

I have this love-fear relationship with mini-skirts. I adore them, but I have crippling anxiety when it comes to wearing them – I tend to, shall we say, over think the whole thing.

Am I showing too much leg? Do I need tights? Why am I so pale? How do I have so many veins? Why are my body proportions so out of whack?

WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT ALL OF THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Good grief – this is exhausting!

This whole thing is weird. I mean, for the longest time (for most of my undergrad actually) I never even wore pants – hey don’t get the wrong idea here – and instead only ever donned skirts (of all lengths and styles – and believe you me, I rocked quite a few minis during this time.)

And it’s crazy to think that now that I am healthy (and oh-so much happier) I have all these awful hang-ups when it comes to this one article of clothing that I actually really like.

(I debated like crazy if I even wanted to post that one picture.)

I just wish that I could get over all of this crap and just move on. No more body issues, no more trepidation over what people will think or not think – just take the plunge and do it. Wear it with tights, wear it without tights – WHO CARES.

Just wear it.

So I’m working on it.

Viva forever.

For some reason I have never gotten over a memory I have of this YM magazine article I read when I was in grade five.

The Spice Girls were on the cover, and in their interview, Posh Spice said that she never wore both eye make-up and lipstick at the same time, less she come across as overdone (I’m not sure how often she or the other girls actually followed this model, but I digress).

Now somehow this rule of thumb has stuck with me for the past sixteen years. For real, to this day, I never, ever wear any eye make-up when I rock a strong lip, and seeing as though that is most days – well, I rarely break out anything stronger than a simple mascara (if that.)

I would never have thought Victoria Beckham would play such a small, but pivotal role in my life.

Huh.

Zigazigah is right.

…

Have a brilliant weekend you beauty cats! Do what you want – wear what you want – find that rattlesnake – and then tell me all about it.

I’m losing it

Hey kids.

Today I am bummed out. You see, yesterday, sometime betwixt the hours of two and seven, some crafty bastard stole my wallet.

DAMN YOU CRAFTY BASTARD!

Sigh.

This – this gives me a major sad. Like, the biggest.

So the majority of today was spent stressing over the fact that someone was sure to steal my identification, ruin my credit score, apply for EI in my name, and sign me up for membership in the CPC – THE HORROR!

As such, I spent a significant amount of time on the blower with Visa to cancel my credit card, waiting in line at ICBC to get a new driver’s license, shooting the breeze with Service Canada, getting a new debit card, applying for a replacement for my CareCard, etc, etc.

Urg. This kind of thing really, really stresses me out.

And as such, I take it as a good time to beat the ever living crap out of myself.

Seriously, just crown me Miss Flagellation 2012 and call it a day. I’ve earned the title.

It goes a little something like this:

First, I cry. Huge, heaving sobs wrack my body like some 18^th century Victorian palsy. Once I’m sufficiently exhausted, my skin is consumed by a clammy, cold sweat, while the last of my fat teardrops slide down my cheeks and off of my chin.

Then I spaz.

I pace. I rant.

I blame myself for not taking better care of my stuff. I berate myself for not being careful enough; I chalk it up to bad karma for not buying the homeless newsletter, or for laughing at all those blooper videos on Youtube.

Then I start to make up armageddon scenarios in my head, and play them over and over again – for both M’s and my pleasure.

Repeat.

Of course all of this drives my poor husband up the wall (nay up all the walls.) He is already so busy with work that his threshold for my ravings is rather limited, particularly those that are only precariously balanced in reality (and that too may be up for debate.)

I am so lucky to have him in these silly (but very real for me) times of crisis.

He is the calm to my storm.

He talks me down from the ledge, and has a really brilliant way of not only helping me laugh at myself, but also being kinder to myself.

This is a great thing.

And the good news? None of my cards were used, nothing was stolen (other than my lovely little wallet that I loved.) I don’t ever carry cash, and everything is replaceable.

So while I am still bummed out, I’m working on taking it easy. And it’s getting easier.

Today I was going to write about mini-skirts.

I’ll save that post for tomorrow.

However here is a slight teaser for something that makes me less bummed out, and well, very, very happy:

So remember – same bat time, same bat channel! And keep your eyes peeled – this be bat country.