Sisters.
Cookies.
Friends. (Twins!)
Snow.
Tree.
Santa.
Christmas sunrises.
Cat.
Treats.
Love.
Happiest of Christmases to you all!
I wish for you all the brilliance and joy this bonkers world can offer.
Tag: Love
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:
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:
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:
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!
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.)
Worth one thousand words
Well, another day, another dollar.
How are all you fab chaps doing of late?
It’s a bit bonkers to think that we’ll knocking down December’s door in but two days.
TWO DAYS!
Where is the time going?
Let’s take a breather and assess what’s been going round the cosmic kitchen over the past few weeks:
Soccer matches.
Family fun.
AMAZING SIGNS.
My love!
Le chat.
Selfie fun.
Skyfall.
Cookie monster.
New friends.
PHEW!
There ya go. My brilliant little bonkers life on film.
And I, as always, encourage all you cool cats to share a snap or two.
Or two.
Prime Suspect? Prime Indeed!
Okay folks.
Here’s the deal.
I love Helen Mirren.
Well, I love DCI Jane Tennison, but it’s really all one, right?
Yesterday I worked only in the morning, and then headed home thinking I would lounge around a bit, before giving my house a very much needed deep clean.
I put on the fire, wrapped myself in a blanket, and then turned on Netflix, eager to watch a movie, or a couple episodes of a TV show before getting out the rubber gloves.
What I really wanted to put on was “Call the Midwife” but seeing as though that’s the show that Marc and I are currently watching together, I felt bad about skipping ahead without him by my side.
Surfing through the selection, I came across Prime Suspect, and paused.
I’d been seeing this show pop up now and then in our recommended feed, and I thought it best to finally give it a try.
Boy am I glad that I ever did – it’s SUCH a fantastic show.
What’s even more incredible, is that despite the fact that it was filmed in 1991, it really doesn’t feel at all dated.
Sure the haircuts, and fashion styles may be a little Duran Duran, but the writing, acting, and direction is so great that one can’t really care about such trivial things.
Plus, Helen Mirren.
Ack.
SO GOOD.
DCI Tennison is such an epic badass, in all areas for sure, but especially in how she deals with the ingrained, institutionalized sexism of the Metropolitan Police Force.
What makes this show so special is that it offers zero apologies for Tennison and why she is the way she is. Nothing fazes her, and every time we think that she’s going to capitulate to the male hegemony of her work force, she totally bucks our expectations (and in the process, forces us to examine why we even have those expectations in the first place.)
This, in my opinion is one of the best, and most important aspects of the show.
Further, so many other shows about a “strong solo female detective” would have caved and would have included the requisite “tough lady finally breaks down and cries to show her real femininity” or some other inane and disappointing scene, but instead, through it all, despite her ups and downs, and trials both inside and outside of work, Tennison just powers right through.
Just watch any scene with her Director Superintendent where she literally plows right through him, finishing her sentences when he tries to interrupt her, or talks over him when he tries to bully her (despite him knowing full well that she is, in fact, in the right, and he, in the wrong.)
It’s is just so, so awesome.
I cannot wait to quit my life and just spend the next little while watching all the other seasons and TV movies that spun off from the original series’ run.
(I might only be a little bit joking here. If you haven’t heard from me in a week, phone the police. PHONE DCI TENNISON AND TELL HER I WANT TO BE HER FRIEND.)
Rant and Roll 