Love – Page 41 – Rant and Roll

Love, actually

So I know it’s all the rage to slag-off love and put down romance (and proclaim Valentine’s day to be nothing more than a consumerist, wallet measuring contest, etc., etc.), and it is very well known amongst those who know me, and those who read this blog (or both) that I am pretty direct about what I abide, and what I don’t, but – I just can’t get behind this movement.

Because I love love.

LOVE it.

So, all’s I really got to say is:

You hear that haters? TO THE LEFT!

What’s that you say? Relocation isn’t something you’re interested in? Well then, because I’m not a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll give you a second option.

In order to banish these bummed-out blues of yours, all you need to do is watch one film, and I promise you that it has the power to change both your mind and heart:

The magnificent, magical, mesmerizing tour-de-force that is Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain.

If you let it, it will change your life.

After a week of where every day began by lugging my sluggish, bedraggled body out of bed, folding myself over the frozen porcelain of my tub, and standing under the searing stream of my shower – steaming my eyelids open as water pooled around my ankles (think the way you do to envelopes, when you’re not supposed to see their contents) – this movie pretty much saved my soul.

If you have never seen it, I recommend that you run (not walk) to your closest video rental store (erm, do these even exist anymore?) and rent the crap out of it.

You will not be disappointed.

Unless of course, you detest the accordion, because then, well, we may have hit the one and only snag.

No! I cannot say that. Because even if this was the case I would still recommend this film, because I am of the mind that even those who are intolerant (wrongly so, might I add!) of this fantastic instrument will still appreciate the soundtrack – a score that is beautiful and haunting and romantic and sublime.

Just listening to the beginning notes of the first song makes me want to dance in the middle of cobble-stone streets, kiss under water-stained, moonlit bridges, and ride bicycles with baskets filled with fresh herbs, sunflowers, and one (very) well behaved cat – don long, flowing skirts, and fitted, cap-sleeve blouses, and take round the world trips, – drink wine by the gulp, and cafes by the sips.

Alas…

Also, I have also decided that my favourite word in the French language is ronfle. (This, to be fair, is not so romantic. But still awesome.)

To spring, or not to spring, that is (Mother Nature's) question...

In the spirit of adventure and intrigue, on Saturday afternoon Mr. M and I threw caution to the wind, and went on the hunt for escapades and exploits a-plenty.

We started off on Commercial Drive, walking the length of the neighbourhood, stopping in at the fine art and clothing vendors along the way.

We had run pretty hard earlier that morning, so when it came time to eat, we decided to have lunch at the absolutely delish La Grotta Del Formaggio.

Oh my goodness.

Seriously people. GO THERE.

What I love so much about this establishment, is that it is like stepping into a time warp. I’m pretty sure the layout of the store hasn’t changed much in close to fifty years (and I’d wager a guess that the same can be said for the management) – the shelves are stocked with everything you could possibly imagine: dozens of different brands of olive oil, biscotti, dried pastas – a veritable smorgasbord of good eats!

Their sandwiches are also to die for – chose your bread, topping, meat (and if you don’t want meat, you get extra cheese!) and then they toast it up for you in jiffy.

We found two seats outside, sat down with our sammies, and just watched the world go by, stuffing our (very happy) faces with roasted red peppers, and eggplant, artichoke hearts and jalapeno havarti.

That’s another thing that’s so great about this part of Vancouver. The people-watching is tip-top and fabitty fab (aka DA BEST.) The range of individuals passing you by is mindboggling, and it’s unlikely you’d witness such diversity in many other areas of town.

Also, since I am incapable of walking the Commercial corridor without visiting the (always) taste bud tickling Fratelli’s baker (seriously my friends, it is a sensory overload and a half heading into that establishment) I made sure to make a quick pit stop while M was waiting for our paninis to toast.

After finishing up our first course, we set to work on this box of treats:

Due to rampant and soul-crushing indecision (and one massive, massive sweet tooth – or is it many, many sweet teeth?) I couldn’t decide on what to order, so I ended up buying a whole swathe of treats, of different sizes, shapes and varieties.

I think overall, my favourite was the red velvet cupcake, and M gave his gold star to the pistachio cake.

Next we continued on our merry way, ever on the look-out for a used edition of either Mind Trap or Trivial Pursuit.

Mr. M wants to play Mind Trap with his students, whereas I want Trivial Pursuit so we can play it every night for the rest of our lives. I’m a little unclear as to why I find playing this game pretty much the most humorous thing to do ever, but there you have it.

Needless to say, the end goal of this mission did not come to fruition (we are still on the hunt – so heed this search flare (or request) my fellow weirdos: if you know of where to procure good quality, used trivia games, do tell (but also consider letting me know ifncode, just to, you know, appeal to my geekiness.)

Okay, I feel as though I’ve fallen quite a bit from my introduction on the brilliance and beauty of love to some strange tangent about board games and nerdiness (one and the same?).

If I can't have Trivial Pursuit, I'll take this awesome sauce desk.

Soldiering on.

Remember how last Monday I wrote about a dress I tried on at Zara and my feelings towards it hadn’t really disappeared and the fact that I hadn’t purchased it was kind of sticking in my craw? Well, I considered taking Mr. M to the store for a second opinion, but before we even made it halfway there, we made a strange, and rather off-the-cuff pit stop at The Bay.

Now, The Bay has recently decided that it is Holt Refrew Part Deux, so I can’t go in there too often lest I begin to convulse compulsively and just start shouting (at no one in particular): Who do you think you are kidding with this crap?

But as long as I make it to the third floor in relatively stable condition, I am good to go (and not bait for the men in the white coats.) Anywho, to make a long story short, I ended up trying on and purchasing this majorly cute BCBC dress for twenty dollars!!!

(For serious, this may be the most proud I have ever been of a purchase in my life. Plus it has little stars and planets all over it! And pockets! My head explodes with happiness just thinking of it.)

I should also say that I really, really love clothing from BCBG. I know a lot of it can be pretty kooky and out there (two characteristics I should never judge, lest I break all the glass houses with all the stones) but most of their pieces are so beautiful my heart beats faster just thinking about them.

And here I was, purchasing one at an eighty-five percent markdown.

Bliss.

Which, I feel I should point out, probably wouldn`t have happened, had it not have been for a love-fuelled adventure, inspired by a love-filled movie.

So there ya go.

Haters gonna hate, but this lover is gonna rock her discount frock – until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.

We’ve got it down to a tea

Today, as my mother would also say, is a day for the ducks.

This awful perma-drizzle that we’ve going on is pretty much the equivalent of operating within the water arc of the world’s finest (but also largest) sprinkler.

Or, to put it in much simpler terms: it’s like living inside a very, very, low hanging cloud. (Which isn’t that too far off from the truth – the sky is so low, I feel as though I could touch it, if only my name was Ms. Stretch.)

Also, it’s DANG cold.

Urgh.

For someone like me, who has terrifically bad circulation, this is a recipe for disaster.

For one, my hands are always freezing.

This, of course, means that every time I introduce myself to someone and shake their hand, I get the obligatory “your hands are so cold!” to which I have to reply “well…you know what they say – cold hands, warm heart!”(After saying this for some reason I always feel like dancing a short jig, or slapping them on the back, or something equally as strange) and then they think I’m basically a nine hundred year old weirdo.)

Full disclosure: that observation is only half-correct.

Seriously though, whilst at work (when I’m not typing away like a typing thing), I have to alternate warming my hands between my legs (when I have them crossed,) sitting at my desk, lest I lose feeling in them for what can range from a couple of minutes, to pretty much the rest of my day.

There were times in my undergrad when I would be writing an in-class essay and I would lose all feeling in a two, or three of my pen-holding fingers. They would grow strangely stiff, before turning a (terribly off-putting) bone white (with just the faintest tint of blue), and I would be stuck rubbing them for what seemed like hours, post-exam, in order to get them back to a “normal” range of motion and, you know, hue.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure one of my office mates (a rather shy and awkward gentlemen) thinks that I am completely barmy, because every time he walks by my office I have my hands mashed betwixt my legs.

I am sure that his impression of the situation is this: me (el grade pervo) mashing my hands (enthusiastically) in my general crotchular area ALL THE FRIGGEN TIME.

(I am well aware that “crotchular” isn’t a word, but I feel as though it is the best way to sum up what it is I am trying to describe.)

No joke, sometimes when I see him casting (covert) glimpses into my office (although this of course could just be a symptom on my growing insanity, and or paranoia) I just want to yell out “I’M NOT A PERVERT! MY HANDS ARE JUST REALLY COLD!”

Vancouver-20120302-00028 — Even though these are probably display cookies, I still want to eat them all.

In my head, the “I am not a pervert” part would always be done in the voice of Richard Nixon.

(Okay, now I know for sure that I am completely deranged.)

Anywho, today my delightful and hilarious colleague J and I went and had tea and macarons at the lovely little French bakery Soirette, just down the street from us in Coal Harbour.

It was such a brilliant way to spend our lunch hour, on an otherwise dreary and bleak Friday afternoon.

We both decided to order “Pink Champagne” tea (seriously out-of-this-world amazing – it was a black tea with strong raspberry undertones, that somehow came out yellow when poured!) before selecting three cookies to taste.

J chose passion fruit, fererro rocher, and salted caramel, whilst I picked (also) fererro rocher, lemon, raspberry.

For real, I could eat these tasty treats until they started growing out of my ears.

In short: they were simply divine! Crunchy, but smooth – silky and flavourful, but not overpowering, nor were they too sweet.

My favourite was hands down the raspberry flavour, and J gave the salted caramel her top marks.

Vancouver-20120302-00031 — Come on. Dunk me. DUNK ME!

Afterwards, we strolled up the street, talking the long way back to our building. When you are filled to the brim with sweets and tea, facing the rain-soaked murk is such an easier task!

(Although, living in Lotus Land, you have to be extra careful not to have your umbrella crash into the many others parading down the sidewalk. We had a few close calls.)

Also, am I the only one of the mind that if there is even the minutest possibility that an individual could use their parapluie as a substitute for their tent the next time they go camping, it might be just a tad too large for everyday use?

This is the kind of flower power Mario and Luigi fight AGAINST.

Come on people, we’re (possibly) in a recession here. Learn the art of downsizing!

Speaking of outrageous excess, a couple of week ago I was walking the south Granville corridor (I could probably just stop there, couldn’t I?) when I espied the current window dressing at the store Anthropologie.

I don’t know if 1.) I am becoming more and more disconnected from what is actually “fashionable”, 2.) I am turning into a cranky old codger, or 3.) the fashion industry is trolling us all, (perhaps the answer is a mixture of all three) but the clothing on display was (to me and to put it mildly) MAJORLY OBJECTIONABLE.

Skin tight, floral-print skinny pants and some kind of fishing net inspired, mesh top?

Good grief.

Do not want.

But of course I went inside (with the full intention of trying the outfit on to further illustrate my point), however my upchuck reflex was fully engaged when I saw not only that the pants were priced at $240.00 (!!!) but that they also had wide-legged floral nightmares for sale (priced at a similar amount).

Good thing my fainting couch was nearby, because the intake of that information alone damn near well killed me.

(Okay, I won’t lie, I did try on a couple of cute dresses, and some non-violent seizure inducing priced pants, but none of these articles of clothing took my breath away, so they remained at the store for another day.)

P.S. I am still thinking about that Zara dress from Monday. I may just have to return for another try…

In terms of my blue mood from this past Wednesday, I have not been one hundred percent successful in righting myself to my normal level of joie de vivre – but do not despair, my lovely cyber pals – I am getting there.

Slowly but surely – one macaron, one potential party dress, one fashion diatribe at a time –

I am getting there.

Give cheese a chance

So on Monday I wrote about a few things that I have tried to bring into my life, that despite my most valiant efforts, remain firmly entrenched in the lonely city of No Way Jose, and far away from my day-to-day routine.

(Simply put, I cannot like them no matter how hard I try.)

In response to said post, I received a pretty hilarious phone call from my father-in-law, who (being Swiss) was pretty darn unimpressed to read about my general (and enduring) distaste for soft cheeses.

“Argh!” He exclaimed. “I was so disappointed reading your last blog post. I cannot believe you don’t like soft cheese.”

“Don’t give me too much grief!” I responded. “I already know that people are judging me!”

“Well it’s obvious you’re just not eating the right kinds of soft cheeses…” he trailed off. “And that is just going to have to change!”

I sensed there to be plan a foot. (Seriously I could practically hear the cogs and wheels in his head turning at break neck speed – although not said aloud, it was pretty apparent that reading my words had awoken some kind of nationalistic need to bring me over to the dark side, dairy-wise.)

E (or Darth Gruyere as I have come to know him) is a man who really knows, and really loves his cheeses. I’m pretty sure at any given time, you could open his fridge and find at (the very least) four different kinds of cheese (and that’s not even counting those so-called “soy cheeses”) two of which would without a doubt originate in the motherland, or you know – Switzerland.

Add to the mix a good loaf of bread, some landjäger, and some Lindt chocolate for dessert, ship him off to a cabin in the alps, where he could hike and canoe at his leisure, and well, I’m not sure he’d need anything else for the rest of his days.

(On second thought I’m pretty sure he’d want to include the components for a rocking good salad, to the above mentioned foodstuffs. Because as awesome as I imagine a life-long supply of bread, cheese, and meat could be, one would eventually require some roughage – would they not? Plus he makes a darn good vinaigrette. Also, my mother-in-law is pretty much head constable of the vegetable police and wouldn’t like the idea of spending forever sans garden candy.)

Seriously, no she wouldn’t like that one bit.

For reals. If you run into her, ask her about GOMBS – it’ll give you super-immunity and phenomenal badminton skills.

Anywho, on the topic of cheese, last night Mr. M and I had a fabulous fondue, made from raclette, white wine, a touch of brandy, nutmeg and a pinch of salt.

We dipped fresh French bread and pink lady apples into this sweet, smooth, melted madness – it was decadent and filling in the extreme.

After dinner we watched Canada’s Handyman (or woman, or woman) Challenge and completed New York Times’ crosswords; ate heart cookies and lemon bars; drank tea and enjoyed the fire.

Nymeria chose to contemplate her life, staring intensely into the flickering flames. Either she’s finally figured out a way to take over the world, or she’s solved cold fusion.

I’ll keep you posted.

Between the food, the fire, and our funny, funny conversations I was pretty much knocked off my feet by 9:30. It makes me laugh to think of a Valentine’s when you cannot even keep your eyes open past ten o’clock at night – next year I’ll ask for one of those walk-in bathtubs.

Nothing says romance like sitting in your private, old-lady baignoire waiting for your water to drain so you don’t flood the entire floor.

If the ins and outs of plumbing, or just bathroom apparatuses in general aren’t your bag, here are my four of my favourite movies about “love” (this word can be interpreted in many different ways) that are hilarious, moving, and overall brilliant.

1. Rushmore

“Maybe I’m spending too much of my time starting up clubs and putting on plays. I should probably be trying harder to score chicks.”

…

2. Forgetting Sarah Marshall

“Dwayne told me. Chuck told me. Even Rachel told me. I heard about it from everybody. You gotta stop talking about it. It’s like “the Sopranos.” It’s *over*. Find a new show.”

…

3.Four Weddings and Funeral

“A toast before we go into battle. True love. In whatever shape or form it may come. May we all in our dotage be proud to say, “I was adored once too.”

…

4. Annie Hall

“A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”

…

So what about you folks? What movies make you laugh, at love, or otherwise?

Or more importantly, what cheese, amongst other rations would you need to survive a lifetime living in the wilds of the Matterhorn?

There and back again

My husband loves Mike Holmes.

whistler and downtown 039 — One of M's biggest projects was the ski jump for the 2010 Winter Olympics.

When I asked him to sum up his fascination with the man, he responded:

“BECAUSE HE MAKES IT RIGHT! COME ON!”

Erm.

Awesome.

As a journeyman carpenter, he also enjoys the practical aspect of Mr. Holmes’ show.

“I never really got to see the construction of a house from beginning to end. I like how much I learn watching him, and I like seeing how Mike has grown as a contractor, how much he’s learned over the run of his show. He’s obviously committed to helping people, but also encouraging others to perform the best possible work – not only among the people he works with, but within the industry in general. They just do really good work.

“It also gives me lots of great ideas of what I would like to do with our house.”

Um.

REALLY awesome.

I too like Mike. Not necessarily for the same reasons that M does, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t pretty darn affecting to see how grateful people are for the help they receive from Mr. Holmes and his crew.

(I may or may not cry regularly during the last ten minutes of the show.)

For reality programming, it’s certainly not your run-of-the mill “how desperately can one person embarrass themselves over the course of fifty-two minutes?”

(Aka it’s one of those exceedingly rare “positive” breeds of reality tv.)

I mean, other than highlighting all the shoddy work being down by crap, pass-the-buck companies, episodes are enough to make the hardest heart grow three sizes (plus Mike probably has a tool for that.)

And at the very least hopefully viewers be extra careful when considering having work done on their house.

Remember: References people, REFERENCES!

…

This weekend we trekked up to the Sunshine Coast for a mini getaway.

We were gone only two days, but the weather during this time was all over the map.

(This is, depending on your taste, one of the best or worst qualities of life on the west coast of British Columbia. For my part, I like the variety.)

At the ferry terminal, I espied these two birdies, hanging out, having a chin-wag together:

These two feathered friends stirred something in me. The morning of M’s and my wedding, he sent me a beautiful bracelet to wear with my dress. This was the card that accompanied the gift:

YES.

…

Whist on the ferry we encountered some insane fog. I went out to take some photos and the gentleman standing to my right turned to face me as I snapped away.

“It’s like we’re heading into Narnia,” he said laughing.

I nodded. “Either that or the Gray Havens. Being on a ship and I all.” I answered.

“Of course the Gray Havens!” He exclaimed, almost as if he was sad that his brief lapse in nerd knowledge was intensely disappointing to him.

“We’re not exactly crossing walking into a wardrobe here,” he muttered.

Love it.

This was taken facing Horshoebay:

This was heading towards Port Melllon:

Driving past Sechelt, up towards the cabin, we encountered a lot of fog.

I'm picking up a fog bank on my radar...

The route all of a sudden became a little bit more mysterious, and a little bit more exciting. While the mist gave our travel time more character and a decidedly more somber moo (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing), needless to say that the views were not what you normally get when heading up that way.

Not that I’m complaining.

…

As soon as we arrived, I took some photos of the dock, before warming myself in front of the wood burning stove.

Winter.

Heaven.

Later that evening, I froze my feet taking photos of the how spooky the water looked, lit-up amid the night boat lights and fog.

That is some exorcist stuff, if I ever saw it. EEP.

For the rest of the weekend we ran, cooked, watched Eli Manning and his compatriots (no double entendre intended) run over New England’s defence, and played more rounds of Trivial Pursuit Genius Edition (released in 1981!) than we could count.

I was seriously on the verge of peeing my pants at some points, I was laughing so hard.

Every time one of us drew a history card, and it happened to be something like, “Who was Truman’s vice-presidential running mate?” we’d lose it, before guessing some random “American” sounding name.

“Ummm, Harold Williams?”

Classic.

Although, my favourite of the night was:

Who lived at Puddleby-on-the-Marsh, with his pet duck named Dab Dab?

Good grief, I was crying with laughter as I attempted to choke this question out for M. For serious, I now know my life will never be complete until I acquire a duck and name it Dab Dab.

Holy quack.

…

This morning the water was completely frozen over (and again I froze my little feets when I ventured out to take these photos at 7:30am. The clouds looked like milk, frothed, and spotted pink in places, making candy-coloured striations fly across the length of the sky.

IMG_0316 - Copy — Beauty, beauty, Beauty.

As I ran my favourite ten kilometre route (in the whole wide world) my breath hung close, suspended in the frigid air. Couples out walking their dogs nodded to me, and I smiled and waved back, concentrating on my breathing, and stride length.

At one end of the loop, the fog clung to the tall firs, and spindly pines, the air smelled like fresh sod and salt cod, my cheeks stung cold, and my hands burned hot.

My feet, legs, hips, arms – back and forth, one and two, sprinting to my finish line, where freshly strewn pine needles, and the contented call of water fowl mark my place in my self-timed race.

I was home.

(Just like Holmes.)

Ready to run

Today after work I went to the gym and ran sprints until I was about one stride away from ralphing all over the treadmill (and maybe the poor soul to my left.) Luckily, I was able to overcome the seemingly inevitable need to upchuck and continued on with my strictly planned (and even more strictly enforced) exercise in masochism, pun intended.

Tonight, I was in it to win it (or you know, lose control over my most simple bodily functions.)

Full disclosure: THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

So anyways, after running, I went and threw myself into the toughest elements of strength training I could think of (and therefore purposely avoid during my regular nights at the gym.)

These are the parts of the routine I dread with the fiercest fires of Hades – the ones I never feel like doing because they are the worst things invented in the history of invented things: lunges, squats, burpees, push-ups, pull-ups and the piece de resistance, the hardest possible ab workout I could muster without giving myself a hernia (I’m looking at you plank, you evil, torturous pose.)

So why dear readers, did I do this?

Two words: CONCACAF Soccer.

Seriously.

On Sunday night Mister M and I went to the finals of the Women’s Olympic Qualifying Soccer Tournament down at BC Place. The atmosphere in the stadium was electric – over twenty-five thousand jazzed-up Canucks (and a very healthy American contingent) dressed in their best red and white (or blue as may be for the Yanks). Everyone showed up ready to watch an hour of awesome sportsmanship and athleticism.

It was a bit of a throw-back to the Olympics really. A nice reminder of how much support there is for our athletes when we have the chance to take part in their achievements and actually watch them compete.

Do you hear this Mr. The Honourable Bal Gosal? TAKE NOTE!

It was a great night, filled with drama, suspense, and remarkable athletic feats – everything a sporting event should be.

Unfortunately, our ladies ended up losing 4-0. The gameplay was heavily dominated by the American squad, notwithstanding two brilliant efforts by the Canadians, that on any other day most likely would have been goals.

But alas, such is the way the cookie crumbles.

I really however must give credit where credit is due: what else is there to say about an American team that were truly breath-taking to behold. There was no question at all as to why the team is ranked number one in the world.

To put it simply – the ladies are hands down fricken amazing.

Now, I am in no way knocking our Canadian squad, in so far as they played a solid game, however in the end they just we no match for a team that could out-run, out-manoeuvre, and out-skill them.

As a giant aside however, I must give a healthy shout out to our Ace in the Hole, Ms. Christine Sinclair – seriously, she is a force to be reckoned with, and an all around world-class athlete.

In short, she is a complete BOSS.

So it was watching this incredible display of talent, skill, endurance, and passion that really pumped me the heck up to go out tonight and push myself to my physical limits.

Because when you boil it down to its most basic properties, I truly love sport.

I love what sport does for not only others, but what it does for me.

And going to the gym day after day in the winter, after the sun has set (at 4:30 in the afternoon), makes this a little hard to remember.

But it’s true: playing, watching, talking about, arguing over, crying after (or during), running so hard until you feel as though your lungs have caught fire and the only way to put them out is to throw the up – jumping up and down, pulling out my hair, sweating, grunting, exhilarating, liberating, stupefying, beautiful –

Sport.

I love it.

CIMG8406 - Copy — After my 2nd half - I ran for Big Sisters and raised $1,020. Seriously one of the best things I've ever done.

And watching those women last night was just the reminder I needed.

Last year I completed two half-marathons. I ran my first in 1:46 and my second in 1:38. I will begin training for my first marathon this coming May and I am completely dedicated to running it in 3:30:00.

The objective: to qualify for the Boston marathon and I know that I can do it.

I just need more nights like this to remind me – of the beauty of the game, the run, the goal, the win, the loss, the triumph – of it all.

So I will continue to run, and sweat and strain. I will grow stronger. And I will write of that which inspires.

And I welcome you all to share the things that drive, motivate, invigorate and exhilarate you.