And then for the rest of the day, I felt like this:
Chillin. Illin. And cleaned the heck up!
Funnily enough, after work, what did I do?
I went to the gym gosh darn it!
I kind of felt like I owed it to them in a way.
It ended up being a fab, FAB workout too. I ran sprints and hills (alas – on the treadmill), squatted until my thighs were about to give out, and then did enough push-ups and pull-ups to never want to partake in another one until the end of time (or, as it more likely, for the next two or three days.)
Then I came home and got my cooking groove on with the ever lovely Mr. M.
We decided it was high time to make some homemade spaghetti sauce along with some sweet mini bowtie pasta.
We lined up our veggies and got to work:
Nommers.
There is something so calming about working in the kitchen with someone you love.
It also helps if you have similar taste in radio programmes. The CBC has been absolutely killing it with their 20 year anniversary coverage of the Seige of Sarajevo.
I’ve been brought to tears many, many times listening to their coverage. Seriously, their interviews are just outstanding in the extreme.
As we listened we chopped, woked, and boiled.
Boil it!
M was kind enough to capture much of the action.
Needs more tomatoes.
We also decided to cook up some spicy shrimp for good measure.
Shrimp it!
For a final outcome of this:
Absolute bliss.
As an end note, I would like to send a massive thank you to everyone who has dropped by this here blogspot, left a note, liked a post, or subscribed to updates, whether it be today, or the day I started up Rant and Roll.
Love: It’s cheap as hell. For twenty-three bucks a month I feel as though my range to complain is quite, shall we say, limited.
Hate: Because it’s cheap as hell it’s a bit of a crap box. There is zero air circulation and the exposed pipes drip like dripping things (to the point where you start to think that you’re sweating more than you actually are.) I already sweat like a glass blower’s arse and because there is zero air flow, whenever I lift weights in front of the mirror I bloody-well fog up the part of glass in front of which I’m standing.
That this makes me feel sexy as all get out is an understatement.
And is also a lie.
Love: On days where I feel like the athlete of the century it has everything I need, especially if the weather happens to be total crap (like, say, how it has been for the past seven months.) I can run, bike, lift weights, use stability balls, etc. all under one (incredibly) leaky roof.
Hate: On days where I feel like anything but the athlete of the century, my gym taunts me like a school yard foe. I have to walk by it on my way home from transit, so if I ever decide that it’s not in my best interest to workout (despite having schlepped all my gear with me to work that day) I can feel its mocking stare as I scuttle by its front doors without actually going inside.
Love: The sense of accomplishment, fatigue (but the good kind), strength, and general bad-assery I get after finishing a workout. There are not too many things that feel quite as good as a monster training session, and the gym is obviously a well equipped place to provide this feeling.
Hate: The utter dejection, fatigue (the bad kind – the kind you get after a brain melting day at work), and overwhelming urge to go home, put on your pajamas and EAT ALL THE NUTELLA you feel before you start your workout. At said gym.
Love: Days where I have the whole place to myself and no one talks to me, drops their weights, or grunts/shrieks like an obnoxious fool.
Hate: The exact opposite of everything I just said. And no Mr. Pathological Liar – I don’t give a flying flashdance about your double PhD and MMA supremacy!
So there you have it. It’s a complex relationship, but one that I am in for the long haul.
Or at least until I move to a city where the climate hangs around 22 degrees (Celsius) all year round.
Did you all celebrate earth hour this past Saturday?
We managed to do some major tea light damage over the course of the evening.
Mr. M, crossword ninja.
Seriously, we had many, many candles aflame throughout the living room, and those tiny bright lights brought quite the kind glow to our little home; all in all it was truly a lovely way of passing the night, all bundled up in blankets, and crouched over our crossword.
Though I would be lying if I said there weren’t a couple of close calls, what with just how many tea lights we had going at our peak burnage, and, well, you know, the innate flammable quality of newsprint.
Ahem.
Nymeria pays no mind! She is a ninja cat.
Factor in that we couldn’t really see all that well, (and had to hold the flames pretty close to the clue boxes to make sure we could actually read what they said) and it’s pretty darn commendable that we weren’t consumed by an inferno of our own making.
We even got the chance to do a little story telling.
Here’s a taster of something we’re up to (on our gosh-darn, no-good end):
The city feels old.
My glasses are scratched but even from way up here, I can barely make out the mason jar skyline. There is too much dirty glass, cut against the rusting sunset, which bleeds into the eastern coast’s rushing waves. I watch as they bury the dead – two thousand grayhairs – beneath a concrete blanket, their mouths hang open, as if they simply lie there, suspended in mid-breath. I think of how cold it must be beneath the streets. Their wedding rings will wash down the gutters, along with the soft silt that used to stick to the corners of their eyes, rubbed away with the early mornings they’ve now left behind. Tonight the wind blows in from the west, and I move from my balcony back into the apartment.
It’s Curfew.
Everything smells of mold and mothballs. I pick up the rough spun blanket, folded on the floor and wrap it around my body. The electric thrum coming from Maggi’s apartment makes my heart quiver – it feels sticky and unsatisfied, suspended inside me.
It too feels old.
The kettle jumps on the stove. I wanted to make tea, but all I have is chickaree root, so heavy on the tongue and stomach.
“I want some tea babe.” Tom turns to me and cracks his neck.
“Yeah. Me too.” I walk over and turn off the element.
“Money, money, money,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders clockwise, and then counter.
I walk over to his chair, unwrap myself from the blanket, and lay it over the length of his body. With it tucked up around his chin, he looks like the men in all my fathers’ photos from his days at the barbershop.
“I wonder what beards felt like,” I mutter. Tom doesn’t say anything, knowing that I’m talking to myself. “I’d like to think they felt like velvet – or a freshly brushed cat.”
I reach out and trace the outline of his cheekbone, so smooth it’s almost raw.
“Hey now, whatcha doing?” He looks up at me.
I stop.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got this really sad look in your eyes. Like you’ll never know the taste of tea ever again.” He trails off.
“Shut up,” I say. “I don’t care about the tea.”
“Goodbye sweet pekoe! I hardly knew your sweet, sweet taste!” Tom reaches behind and tickles my ribs.
“Don’t be a jerk!” I swat at his bruised fingers but still, his hands are strong, and he takes hold of my waist and lifts me into his lap. I take his hands in mine, and instinctively peel back the hardened strip of skin atop his left hand. I probe at his panel, and its sickly tangerine glow, such a stark contrast to the coal of his skin.
“You need to get this checked out. It’s looking really infected.”
“Nah. It’s fine.” Tom again rolls his shoulders and rustles his arms further, tighter, around my body. “I told you already, there’s nothing to worry about.”
I lean forward. He tightens his grip. I can feel his abdominals contracting against the center of my back.
“What has it been?” I whisper. “Six months?”
Tom pushes me off of him. “I don’t want to deal with this right now.” He stands and walks away into the kitchen.
I follow him in and start to put away the dishes from drying rack. The compost steams to the left of my knee.
“The company’s the one that paid for it in the first place! Right?” I ask, knowing that I’m right. “It can’t be that big of a deal!”
I look at his back, turned to me and trace the outlines of his shoulder blades with my fingers, flexing against each of his movements.
“You’re a superintendent. They’ve got to understand this!”
Tom pulls away and begins to poke around the icebox, pretending to look for something. There is nothing but freeze dried fruit and some black bread.
I follow him. I know I should drop it, but my tongue keeps pushing words to the front of my mouth, that no matter how hard I try, they won’t stop falling out.
“It smells infected, it looks infected. Seriously, if you’re not going to do anything – ”
Tom turns around, brandishing a thick sack of frozen peas.
He presses the bag on top of his hand. I can hear the sizzle of the heat making contact with the cold plastic. He draws in a deep breath, his eyes bulging, teeth clenching.
“There. Happy?”
I come up behind him and slam the icebox shut. I grab the now almost completely defrosted peas from his hands and flail it about, dramatically. “Well that seems healthy, now doesn’t it? A kilo bag defrosted in what, five seconds? Astounding! I throw the plastic into the sink. “I don’t know about you, but I think a jobsite losing their head operator might not go over so well for the company! So yeah. I’m ecstatic!”
…
Once I give it a bit more work, and get a little braver, I’ll post a little more.
But in the mean time, here are some things that I bloody-well love:
Heritage walks around New West:
Gotta love me some history.
Good eats:
Burger Heaven. Nuff said.
And pretty treats:
10 dollar cords! A yellow purse! SUNDRESS!
…
So that’s all she wrote kids.
Enjoy the start to your week, aannnnddd – DANCE! p.s. I’ve entered the twitterverse. Follow me @ethelthedean YAY!
On Saturday Mr. M and I completed a run that has pretty much crippled me (almost three days out at that.)
In preparation for Tough Mudder – a race we’ve signed up to participate in this June, we’ve been ramping up our training sessions and pushing ourselves harder than normal when it comes to our workouts.
(We’ve also signed our lives away just in case either one (or both) of us croaks on the course. If any of you have anything to tell us between now and the 23rd of the month, speak now, or forever hold your peace.)
He’s been focusing on running longer distances, and I’ve been working on building strength and gaining speed.
I’ve always loved to run far. I’ve just never like to sprint. What’s the point in going all out (or pushing your body to failure) when you have 10+, 15+, 20+ kilometers to cover?
The only time I could really do that was with a finish line in sight and the entire course length at my back.
But like I said, I’m moving (slowly, but surely) out of my comfort zone.
Saturday morning broke cold, but the air lacked the chill that has defined these long, past winter months. The grey sky spackled by coal coloured clouds, dripping fat drops of rain onto my ponytail, on the peaks of my cheekbones, and in between my eyelashes.
I put on, and took off my toque three times before leaving it behind.
We ran a quick 4k up the (continuous) hill to New Westminster Secondary School’s track. It’s a fabulous surface – soft, spongy, with enough bounce and give – well maintained and well visited on that murky, moody morning.
We ran three 100m all out – my lungs on fire, my legs like jelly, my arms flailing like two propellers, free falling, faltering.
Sucking in air to cool down my screaming brain.
It had been so long since I ran like that – I don’t remember the last time I gave until there was nothing left to give.
A young boy, running laps, while his older brother skulked around the soccer pitch in the middle of the stadium, stopped in amazement and yelled out “WOW!” as M and I tore down lanes six and seven.
You should see how quick M is – he is the Road Runner, or The Flash – all burned rubber and singed tail feathers.
After we finished at the track, we completed the rest of our 10k loop. Our pace was very fast – sub 4:30 per km. And believe you me, by the end, the loop had finished us.
…
My earliest running memory is from about the age of four. I am at a park with my family: my mother, father, and two sisters.
The summer breeze ripples through the weeping willows, dandelions poke their sunny faces out of the uncut grass and I am tearing around the periphery, again and again, like some pint-sized Orestes, keeping my furies at bay.
Having challenged my parents to a footrace, one, two, three, four times, they eventually, gently, encouraged me to run a lap on my own, so they could catch their wind and perhaps formulate a plan on how to deal with their budding long-legged lollopper.
One lap turned to two, two to three, and they practically had to tie me down when it was time to go home.
Speedy Gonzalez my father would always call me.
Ariba Ariba! I’d reply, before attempted to dash off, barefoot and wild-eyed to complete another tour of my make believe stadium, for make-believe admirers, and fans.
When I was eleven, my father began taking me out for runs with him, down at Jericho beach. Summer mornings spent running the gravel path between the “nice” concession stand and the start of the hill leading up to UBC, trying to match my stride to the easy flow of my father’s.
Mr. M's and my running course while we lived in England. Edgbaston reservoir.
Every day trying something new, maybe running a little farther or sprinting a little faster, trying to control the rhythm of my breathing and becoming comfortable with the beat of my heart.
We watched Chariots of Fire together. I analyzed the men as they sped around the school courtyard, racing the clock, racing each other, racing their fears, racing themselves.
As a teenager I ran before school, after school. Like Forest Gump said: I was going places.
I. WAS. RUNNING.
I read about Atalanta, the completely kick-ass (in my opinion) Greek deity who refused to marry anyone who could not beat her in a footrace. Those who tried and could not would face decapitation and many, many suitors lost their heads in their attempts to win her hand.
When I grew up, I wanted to be her.
Dancing like a dancing thing (either that or it's my Bluth chicken impression) after my first half-marathon.
My love for running has helped heal me. It pushes me; it has made me grow not only as an athlete but as a person. It has introduced me to new people and reunited me with old friends.
But more importantly, it is my form of meditation and calm; it provides an outlet for the voices in my head and a space for new ideas to percolate and brew.
It gives me an opportunity to create change and be inspired. It allows me to inspire.
Running moves me.
So tonight, despite tight hamstrings, and tender collar bones; aches in my back, and no-laugh abs, what did I do once I got off the metro, having just left work?
I went for a run.
And I’ll continue to do so. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely the day after that.
This weekend I’ll push it again, harder this time, with Mr. M, my running partner in crime.
2.) I met up with one of my best buds, whom I haven’t seen in quite some time. PLUS she invited me to join her to:
3.) Go hear Clara Hughes speak.
For those of you who aren’t acquainted with Ms. Hughes, she is an incredibly bad-ass Canadian athlete – multiple Olympic medal winner, and one of the few people in the world who can say that they competed at both the Winter and Summer Olympics. She is both a road biker and speed skater, and medalled in both sports, at multiple games.
This woman has pretty much the biggest smile in the world!
Talk about inspiration. I’ll be running extra hard during my sprint training tomorrow night and then I will force myself to make it to five pull-ups in a row even if it bloody well kills me.
(If my Friday post hasn’t arrived by 11:59pm on the day, please call either M or my mom and let them know something very serious has happened. A missed blog post is not to be trifled with.)
I kid, I kid.
…
Seriously though folks, I cannot tell you how excited I was about activity number two on yesterday’s dial-up.
The brilliant, beautiful K has been on secondment in Ohio since September of last year, and working ridiculously long hours at that, so it was great to have a chance to see her and catch up.
K is a long-time (and often long-lost) friend of mine, who, for all intents and purposes, should be given the title of “honorary sister”, what with how much time the two of us spent together growing up.
The next time I see her, I may just have to print up a certificate labelled PhD – S. I’ll give it to her along with a tape of Kids in the Hall, during a late night car ride – two things that are synonymous with sisterhood for me.
She and I spent our formative years training every day together (sometimes twice a day), and if I had a nickel for how many sit-ups the two of us performed side-by-side, I would be Scrooge McDucking it up in my giant warehouse of nickels.
We played junior national badminton together, and she was my doubles partner. When we weren’t kicking butt as a team, we were squaring off against each other in the singles and mixed doubles finales (of whatever tournament we happened to be playing in that weekend.)
And believe you me. When I say “that weekend”, I mean every weekend. EVER.
We had a pretty good gold-silver monopoly going on (albeit competitive to the max – but I mean, who could possibly play sports at a competitive level and not be IN IT TO WIN IT? Definitely. Not. I – that is FO SHO).
But more importantly than our winning – scratch that, nothing is ever as important as winning – (KIDDING! But kind of not really) was the incredibly strong, nuanced, and hilariously fabulous friendship the two of us formed over the years.
I am very serious when I write that sometimes I think I couldn’t have survived my most cringe-worthy awkward (re: teenage) years had it not been for this girl.
K was a rock.
I was pretty much in awe of her at all times; she just exuded the most natural self-confidence, and self-awareness (which at the time, from my perspective, was completely mind-boggling). On court she was a bloody zen master. Calm, cool – the most collected cucumber in a patch filled with absolute zucchinis.
Full disclosure: as I teenager, I was the queen zucchini.
I promise you there probably isn’t a topic in the world that the two of us haven’t covered at some point during our years spent together.
Our friendship is such that I never get anxious when we don’t talk or see each other for prolonged periods of time. Because I know that when we finally do have an opportunity to spend a day with each other, it will be as though nothing has changed, and we are still sixteen, and laughing ourselves silly in some random Calgarian coffee shop, or, Saskatoonian Chinese restaurant, or Torontonian movie theatre, or Haligonian Dairy Queen.
Due to the number of crazy memories we share, we actually started writing a book, chronicalling our many adventures and insides jokes entitled “Apple and Banana’s Fruit Bowl of Jokes.”
(Don’t ask, inside joke.)
Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas is one of our most enduring inside jokes. HI HO!
Anywho, the book is currently packed away with most of my high school memorabilia, but every so often it’s worth the hassle to dig it out, and re-read all of our insane hijinks and crazy escapades.
They slay me, truly.
For instance:
At nationals one year in Calgary, we were warming up before our match, down one of the club’s deserted basement hallways. K was stretching and I was skipping rope.
My rope get hitting the ceiling duct – with each rotation, a dull clang would ring out down the length of the corridor.
K looked up at me and said (in all earnest): You should probably stop that.
Because I was nervous as crap (and over-confident in my understanding of the solidity of ceiling make-ups and apparatuses) I didn’t take her advice to heart, and just kept skipping.
And the rope kept hitting the duct.
After probably another minute, K repeated her earlier warning.
Look, she said, just move over a little bit.
Pretty much as soon as these words left her mouth, my rope snagged completely on one of the duct’s inner ridges, and as I finished the rotation I ripped the ENTIRE duct, tube and all, out of the ceiling.
Ceiling duct. Pretty self-explanatory.
K’s (and my!) jaws pretty much hit the floor with shock.
Oh my god, I exclaimed.
Oh my god, K exclaimed.
And then, my lovely readers, what followed is pretty much one of the worse case of “the laughs” I have ever experienced in my entire life.
I laughed like a loon for hours about that incident (after, you know, recovering from my disbelief-induced paralysis, and running away from the major destruction for which I was responsible.)
It’s amazing I managed to get myself on the court, let alone make a serve or two.
Even just now thinking about the incident is an ab workout and a half! When I start to feel a little bad about what I did that day (we snuck down the next day to see if the carnage was still fresh, but it had been fixed already) I can’t really be bothered, because the overwhelming hilarity of the memory is still so strong, and fresh, and awesome.
This is why I adore K.
This, for me, is how I define our friendship.
Because even when she is not physically in my life, I have the memories of our time past, spent together, laughing, training, shopping, traveling –
And if I ever want to remind myself of time past, I’ll just go stand under my ceiling fan.
And think about the damage I could do, if I tried.
Rant and Roll 