Love – Page 38 – Rant and Roll

Girls on film

Hey friends,

Up here in the Great White North (GWN) it’s the Victoria day long-weekend. You see, us Canadians have never been able to fully quit the British monarchy, and as such, the Queen’s mug is plastered all over our currency, we get to compete in the Commonwealth games, and we are gifted an extra day off every year, always around this time.

I’m no fan of the English royal family by any stretch, but when it comes to statutory holidays, I’ll take it.

Tomorrow is Mr. M’s birthday and we will be up to many a shenanigan to celebrate this auspicious occasion.

I am so excited to give him his gift, I’ve been asking him almost everyday for a week if he wants to open it early.

(I’m really crap at waiting for others to open their presents. Usually I try to coerce them into doing so immediately after I have purchased the gift. Seriously I am the absolute worst. I don’t know how many times I’ve bullied M into opening things before the actual occasion. In my defense, I’m just going to state that can get really excited, okay?)

This time however, he’s fought back hard, so it will be tomorrow morning that he’ll finally get to see what I got him.

In the meantime, we’ve been out and about all day soaking up the sunshine.

This morning after we completed our compulsory tough mudder training, we glammed ourselves up and walked down to the quay for some brunch time crepes.

Here are a few snaps from the weekend so far:

Late night walks and coffee runs on Friday night.

IMG_0858 - Copy — Latte for M. London fog for me.

Trees outside our house.

IMG_0862 - Copy — One of my favourite colours in the world.

Brunch time dress.

Brunch time crepes.

Beauty tree.

GIANT marshmallows.

Our plans for the rest of the night.

Happy weekend you beauty cats!

I hope you’re smiling wherever you are.

A neighbourly day in this beautywood

I cried when I arrived home from work yesterday.

I felt so completely knackered – both emotionally and physically, and I just couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

And honestly, when you’re at that point, why even bother trying to keep them in?

You always feel a heck of a lot better after a good cry. (Or at least I do.)

I have this really bad habit of wanting to do so many things, and do them all perfectly, that I drive myself to exhaustion. And instead of working on keeping this in check, I blithely bop along, operating at warp speed, until I find myself weeping over my chesterfield (or my ottoman.)

Mr. M was pretty darn concerned and suggested we go for a walk around our neighbourhood as a means of getting out of our heads, of letting go of the day.

I was more than happy at the thought of scampering about in the late afternoon sunshine.

Especially because we live in an absolutely stunning area of New West.

Ch-ch-check it:

Garden gate.

Lamp post.

Ducks.

Legs.

Cat.

Tree.

Duck, redux.

And wouldn’t you know, the tears stopped.

Seriously, there is nothing better than the sun and a spring breeze to help you see the forest for the trees.

(The Importance of Being Earnest available on Netflix may have also had something to do with this. And NYT crossword books. And Japanese candy that the beautiful Alissa gifted me from her recent rip to Tokyo.)

How do unwind after a particularly trying day?

Let’s go for a walk and you can tell me all about it.

Notes from the underground

I live with a man to whom I have pledged my troth, until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.

During the first month of our courtship, I flew away to Nova Scotia for two weeks, and during this time we wrote to each every day; back and forth we went, feverish, all firing synapses and tricky fingers – and often times very late at night (or early in the morning), so our typos, like our emotions, were plentiful.

I would love to share with you something he wrote to me – something that will forever make me laugh, something that will forever live in my heart.

An excerpt – Monday, August 25, 2003, 00:17:34:

As the evening progressed I began to feel more and more that I was part of some macabre Dostoevskian dinner party, wherein a carnivalesque ambiance lies so heavily upon the evening that I expect at any moment to have one of us drop down dead, or for Inspector Porfiry to burst through the door and proclaim me a student and a criminal in equal measure.

Finally we began to watch the Anniversary Party with director’s commentary. This was good because it allowed a dimming of lights so the rest of the party could no loner sit around awkwardly as my face watched my mind build and destroy lines of compassion and comradeship, leaving me on a sober island alone, being the only member of the melodramatic depressed monkey stock.

Finally I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and announced I was retiring for the evening.

Many sad farewells were exchanged, and then my door was closed and at last the misanthrope was safe, and glad that his room was devoid of mirrors and the curtains were pulled. Then I turned off the one light by my bed, and sat, and in the darkness.

I wrote, since I could not speak, and my fingers were the tongues of my mind, and true for once for they were too long steeped in the deception of my company.

Last Night:
Because I spent an hour untwisting my phone cord, so I could lie where you lay that first night though miles apart; your heat a weir around my slippery heart; electric pulses shaping the darkness with the phosphorescent paintings of your words. And today I am order in my sock drawer, pairing and pressing, thinking of the arch of your strong feet trembling beneath my touch. You make me believe in a symmetrical world beyond my usual preoccupation with chaos; the gyre widens not forever – the hawk will tire, and bank, and glide in a descending inscription to the face of the world. To live forever in the heights of my mind is a beauteous peril, and folly. It is the loose loam between my toes, the touch of another, a lover, you who unquakes my weakness and fear of uncertainty.

Tonight I will sleep deeply; I may not dream.

But when I wake, I live a life of magical reality – this man and I, sewn up in a sea of soliloquies and stardust; tulips and tea.

The nose-less sphinx, straight roman roads under pumice and ash – I could have been a statue if I hadn’t met you.

I wish you all beauty and brilliance, this windswept day, and always.

I see London, I see France

Breakfast for dinner is one of my favourite things in the entire world. Especially after a day of racing about like a racing thing.

And today was darn busy.

Beautiful, but busy.

So the only thing I wanted to do when I got home was make French toast, with homemade strawberry coulis, and good lemon yogurt.

Because folks, that combination tastes like a dream.

A dream.

Let’s get started.

IMG_0759 - Copy — Excitement! First time making coulis too.

Monster strawberry.

Chop it.

Squeeze it.

Boil it.

Blend it.

Break it.

Cut it.

Dip it.

Ack! I forgot to take a snap of the Fry it. phase.

Ah well, you will have to picture those slices sizzling away in the pan.

For a final result of:

As I ate this, I drank a tall glass of chocolate soy milk, which for some reason has grown on me like a bad rash. I used to hate the stuff, and now I cannot get enough of it.

It really is So Good. (Trade mark.)

So there you have it friends.

What’s your favourite thing to eat, when it comes to breakfast as dinner?

I dream. Sometimes I think it’s the right thing to do.

Guess what friends?

This is my one hundredth blog post!

Heavens to Betsy, I can hardly believe it.

I started Ye Olde Rant and Roll last October, because I was missing creative writing something fierce.

I was already writing a boat load for work- including blogging three times a week – so I figured if I had the stamina to keep it up at my job, there was absolutely no reason why I couldn’t stick to a schedule of writing three times a week for fun.

(Hilarious almost typo. I first wrote “fur” instead of fun. I most definitely would not write three times a week for fur.)

At first all of my posts were Rants. (Definitely capital R.)

There was bad stuff going down all over the world, including in my own back yard, and I wanted to draw attention to those issues.

I had a voice – I might as well use it.

This was fantastic for the first little while, until I realized that I wasn’t totally worked up about issues all the live long day. I didn’t have enough things grinding my gears to produce three posts a week.

Plus, amazing, intriguing, inspiring things were happening on an almost daily basis – brilliant things were going on, and they were affecting me as much as the other issues I was discussing.

So gradually, I began to explore different sides of the world, and my life, through this here blog spot.

I started writing about fashion. And food. I wrote more about my life with Mr. M and our little beauty cat Nymeria.

I wrote about past travel plans, vacation adventures as they were happening, and I’ve hinted about expeditions that will soon be coming down the pipe.

(Mixed metaphor? Oh well, I’m owning it.)

I’m chronicling my progression to Tough Mudder status, unpacking my love-hate relationship with professional hockey, and singing the praises of my always entertaining family, my brilliant friends.

BUT! One the most important elements of this insanely wonderful ride is I’ve had the chance to meet all you rad-freaking-tastic readers and writers.

And I love that I get to have a glimpse into your lives, your stories, your rants and your rolls.

I’ve started writing upwards of five times a week because I feel so honoured to be a part of this amazing community, and I just get so jazzed the heck up all the time about stories that, well, jazz me the heck up!

CIMG8495 — This is how you dudes and dudettes make me feel!

A couple of you have asked me where I got my nickname from. So prepare yourselves for a thrill!

Well, almost three summers ago I worked with two beautiful young ladies, both the same height, one brunette and one blond. One day I made a joke to another colleague about them being Betty and Veronica. He turned to me and asked, “well, what does that make you?”

“Um,” I said. “Well…I’m tall, and lanky, and pretty nerdy. So – I guess that makes me Ethel?”

And it did. To many, many people from that day forth, I was Ethel.

The second part stems from a lunch break I had the day after I defended my Master’s thesis. I spent the whole time describing my research to a co-worker. At the end of my (ahem) rant, he asked me if I would rather he call me “doctor” or “the dean.”

“The dean,” I said.

So there you go. The birth of Ethel the Dean!

And to mark this auspicious occasion, if there are any other questions you have about my bonkers life, I’d be happy answer them.

(To an extent. Or for fur.)