Memories – Page 4 – Rant and Roll

And she’s all out of bubble gum

Today I am saying goodbye to my very good friend, and long-time partner in crime Kristy (although our heists have unfortunately been coming few and far between over the last couple of years, as she embarks on a new work adventure in the good ol’ United States of America.

First stop Texas.

Then onto the Big Apple.

As if I needed another excuse to keep visiting New York!

For people who don’t know Kristy – give it a couple of years.

Before you know it, she’ll be running the darn place.

The girl will be kicking butt and taking names.

Now, I’ve written about this lass before – once to give you a general overview of our completely bonkers, and ever important friendship, and the second to regale you with our absolutely absurd fandango of a trip to Boston for a badminton tournament in 2002, but I feel the need to tell you more about his amazing gal (what with the inevitability of her one-day becoming our benevolent business overlord.)

Let’s start shall we?

First, she is a laugh riot when it comes to photo shoots.

We’ve had many over the years. Most normally devolve into us play-acting completely ridiculous situations (such as wearing bikinis and posing as the “before” and “after” of diet pill commercials) or as illustrated below – “pretend to be as drunk as you possibly can be.”

It really is amazing neither of us has attended the Academy Awards for our spectacular acting skills, let alone taken home multiple Oscars.

Second, if there is one thing you should do before you die, it’s attend one of her birthday parties.

THEY ARE FUN.

Third, she is one of the most dependable people I have ever known.

In this day and age it is super easy to flake out on people (heck, depending on the season and the crazy level of my life, I am guiltier of this than most), but Kristy?

Never.

And the girl is not sitting at home all day crocheting afghans.

(It makes me feel weird that spell check wants to capitalize afghans WHEN OBVIOUSLY I AM TALKING ABOUT THE WRAPS HERE GUYS NOT THE PEOPLE OF THE COUNTRY OF AFGHANISTAN. JEEEZE.)

But back to business.

I cannot really communicate how much it means to me that she is there for me whenever I need her – to come see a show, to talk about life and all its madness, to share a laugh, or eat a fish taco. At the risk of sounding like a Ford truck advertisement, the girl is solid as a rock.

A ROCK.

(IRAQ?)

ACK.

Stop that.

And finally, what I admire most about Kristy, is her fearlessness, her drive, and her independence.

I truly believe that if we were all a little bit more like her, the world would be a much better place.

Because if this were true, I am fairly certain there wouldn’t be diet pill ads to make fun of in the first place.

Take me home, country road

Do you ever get homesick for the different places in which you have lived?

I do.

Edinburgh 226 — Marc’s and my hostel in Edinburgh.

Last week I was chatting with our interim receptionist, a lovely young lass named Louisa. She being a native-Londoner, and myself a self-professed anglophile who lived in Jolly Ol’ England (BAH) in 2009, it was natural that our conversation turned towards the things that we missed most about life in the UK.

That morning we lamented about how much we missed GREGGS, a British chain bakery (and the place to procure the BEST 3 for 1£ egg tarts you will ever sample in your ENTIRE LIFE.)

As I walked back to my office I thought about all the things that I miss most about the different cities, that at one point or another, during my short twenty-eight years, I have called “home”.

Here are two of them:

Birmingham.

Cheap groceries.

Oh how do I miss thee! Three big blocks of (GOOD) cheese for five pounds? A massive box of cereal for ninety pence? A dozen free-range eggs for one pound? Organic veg for all but nought?

WHY ARE YOU SO BAD AT THIS CANADA?

Ease of travel.

“Oh hey! Want to go to Bath today? How about Edinburgh next weekend? What about Switzerland for Christmas?

“Hmmm, I don’t know…”

“It will cost us next to nothing, and we will be there in a matter of hours.”

“LET’S DO IT.”

All the candy.

Seriously, walk into a Tesco and IT IS EVERYWHERE. Aisle, after aisle of just the most amazing junk food you have ever encountered.

You can buy different flavoured marshmallows.

And if you like marshmallows as much I do, THEY WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

And it is glorious.

Rugby.

I sure do like me a professional sportsman with cute bum.

Or as Marc was one to say, “Could you stop taking photos of that guy please?”

Classic.

Halifax.

Friendly people.

Seriously, the nicest people you will ever meet (I should probably say SOME of the nicest people) live on the east coast of Canada.

Sometimes I miss the easy, everyday interaction with people who just want to really, truly find out how you are doing.

Bars that have live celtic music.

This point needs no elaboration.

Also this:

Ease of travel.

A little different from Birmingham, in Halifax proper you can pretty much walk anywhere (weather permitting, of course.) In the dead of winter is it unlikely that you want to be on foot going anywhere, lest you freeze to death, trapped in a massive snow bank, or get carried away in a hurricane.

But in the summer?

It’s glorious.

…

On a completely different note, I feel like I’m going slightly mad from watching so much MI-5.

I was taking the skytrain yesterday, and there was a half-drunk frappacino under my chair, and all I could think was, “I’M SITTING ON TOP OF A BIOLOGICAL WEAPON.”

Yeesh.

I should probably give it a rest, and allow my life to be influenced by other things.

Although I sure do want to be spy.

I also find it weird how just watching this show totally ramps up my homesickness for the UK, despite the fact that it regularly rips out my heart, and gives me massive anxiety over the course of both episode and series’ arcs.

What about you dudes?

Do you folks watch MI-5?

And what cities do your hearts call out for?

I want to hear all about them.

To the night, to the trees

I am eighteen.

It’s summer.

I have just finished a closing shift and am walking home because I have no patience to sit around and wait for the night bus.

My legs are tired after eight hours on my feet, but walking feels good; I am exorcising the ache from my limbs.

The sidewalk is shaded by old elms that whisper to each other in the late-night breeze.

The moonlight is splintered by these long-armed giants, so my path is guided by the soft glow of the streetlamps.

It always feels so much more romantic than I think it should.

I take off my tie, and unbutton the top of my blouse.

Roll up my pants.

I like the feel of the light breeze along my collarbones, my bare wrists.

And I think of a boy.

I imagine him saying my name.

When I get home I change into clothes as light as air.

My bedroom is still hot from the now-lost sunshine; the memory of its heat has settled, and nestled itself in every nook.

A phantom warmth.

I open the windows as far as they will reach. I take a deep breath, and smell the sweet scent of night.

My sister is away for the weekend, so I am alone.

In the kitchen I look at the photos taped to the fridge; it’s like my family has been blown far and away by Aeolus’ winds, and my heart tweaks.

I make peppermint tea, and sit in the quiet of the living room. My cat Sophie perched at the window sill, her copper eyes brilliant, but still.

She too is listening to the whispering trees.

I want to pick up the phone and talk.

I would like to talk to the boy.

Feel his hand on mine.

–

Time passes.

My tea cools, and my eyelids start to droop.

I leave my mug, half-drunk on the floor.

As I walk about to my bedroom I realize I have once again forgotten to water the plants.

Tomorrow, I think.

My room is cool, and smells of silence.

I close the window, but not entirely. A sliver of moonlight shines through my curtains – a bolt of lightning etched into the centre of my bed.

Under the blankets I let out a small sigh.

Tomorrow I will eat cherries for breakfast, I whisper.

To the boy.

To the night.

To the trees.

The politics of the situation

Yesterday my province went to the polls to vote in a new government.

In the end, only fifty-two percent of all eligible voters cast a ballot.

FIFTY-TWO.

I feel sick to my stomach.

I cannot understand why someone, ANYONE would consciously abstain from exercising their right to vote.

I cannot, and I never will.

The importance of being politically active was instilled in me at a very early age.

I still remember the 1993 Federal election like it was yesterday – enthralled at how a Progressive Conservative majority could shrink to only two seats in the space of one day; incredulous (and nervous) that a party, whose sole raison d’etre was the Quebec secession from Canada, managed to win official opposition status.

It was the beginning of Jean Chretien’s tenure as one of Canada’s longest serving prime ministers (Mackenzie King holds top spot), and the first time I understood the utter depravity a political party will stoop to when it comes to election attack ads.

And I could not wait until I was old enough to take part.

Ten more years, I thought to myself.

Ten more years and I will help make a difference.

At only eight years of age, I understood just how important these events where – not only for Canadians as individuals, but as a country, as a collective whole.

I understood that if citizens did not take the time to 1.) understand what it was they needed from a government, and 2.) educate themselves on what candidate and/or party best represented those needs, then they were doing themselves (and their country) and tremendous disservice.

So now, twenty years later, when I look at the numbers released yesterday, I despair.

And when I am bombarded by all sorts of self-righteous excuses from those who didn’t end up voting, I rage.

– I’m so busy.

– I’m not interested in politics.

– All politicians are the same.

– All politicians are awful.

– My vote wouldn’t even make a difference.

BLAH BLAH BLAH.

And then I laugh.

I laugh, and laugh, and laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I will cry.

Or punch a hole through my wall.

Okay.

Let’s just call a spade, a spade, shall we?

People, on the whole, don’t vote because they are apathetic, and chose to remain uniformed.

1. The world we (are privileged enough to) live in, allows individuals constant and unrestricted access to information – on the economic, political, social, and cultural climate of our province and country – and if they gave a hot damn about any of that they would take advantage of this information and educate themselves.

Seriously, it’s called Google, and it is great.

So in the end, I don’t care how busy people claim to be, because there is enough time, and an overwhelming number of resources available to help them figure this stuff out.

2. Don’t tell me all politicians are the same.

That is one of the silliest statements someone can make, particularly if they have already admitted that they consciously distance themselves from their province’s politics.

Unless you are living in the Democratic Republic of Congo, or Somalia, or Belarus, (or “insert country whose elections/elected officials are defined by overwhelming corruption/State sponsored fear-campaigns” here), there is most likely an individual that is more in line with your views and needs than all the other potential candidates in your riding, and that if elected could help make your life/community/city/province a slightly better place.

3. Also maybe next time remember that you are not in fact living in a country dominated by censorship, violence, oppression, and corruption, and remember how lucky you are to even have a choice when it comes to the election of your governing bodies.

And then once you remember that, remember your vote does count. Not only when it comes to the actually counting of the ballots, but because by voting have you given yourself agency.

You have given yourself a voice.

And I cannot think of anything more important than that.

…

Ooof.

Writing this has left me exhausted.

There are so, so many other problems I see with the BC electorate and encompassing institutions.

No proportional representation.

Elections run off of slates/political parties (which essentially makes the whole charade a two-party game.)

The futility of running a “positive” campaign.

I just…I just don’t know.

And as I sit here, I can hear little eight year-old that lives somewhere deep in my heart piping up, telling me:

“Why don’t we do it? Why don’t we run?”

And I pause.

Because I don’t know if I’ve ready. If I could hack it. Or even make it out of the starting gate.

I don’t know.

But who knows?

Either way it’s something to think about.

Before, of course, I vote on it.

His and hares adventures

Ooof. I did not sleep well last night.

The rubbish combination of McDonalds for dinner, strong tea before bedtime, and unusually warm spring temperatures ensured that the couple of Zzzzs that I did catch were restless, and even worse, non-consecutive.

(Normally I would never begrudge a meal of fries and a McFlurry because 1.) they happen so rarely, and 2.) DID YOU KNOW THAT MCDONALDS MAKES DRUMSTICK MCFLURRIES?)

However, waking this morning, dehydrated and exhausted, I lamented like hell over my choice in food stuffs. Dinner of champions it was not, especially because I just crammed the whole thing in my mouth on my way to meet with my Little Sister.

I’ve also been rocking this really sweet eye twitch for the past week now, so I can’t imagine that my thirty-two minutes of rest will do much to help out with that.

(If anything, I think it’s gotten worse, EGADS.)

I kind of feel like bugs bunny in the below cartoon (clip starts at 40 seconds):

WHAT A WAY TO RUN A RAILROAD.

It actually blows my mind when I think about how much of my life is influenced by the cartoons, books, and movies I watched and read as a child.

There probably isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t reference or quote (or ever just think about) Looney Tunes, or Kit Pearson, or Shel Silverstein, or The Simpsons.

I think my favourite is when I think I’ve over done it with the make-up, I like to ask Marc (or whomever is around) if it looks like I’ve “set the make-up gun on whore.”

…

Yep.

I’m laughing just thinking about it.

This weekend should be a sweet, sweet mix of soaking up all of the sun rays I can get, (seeing as though I currently look like a specter, this is a VERY good thing), Mother’s day brunches, and hopefully a date night with that long-lost husband of mine.

I tell you, we are two little worker bees he and I, so much so that it’s hard not to fall into a rut that I like to call: “two highly productive, yet sleep deprived ships passing in the night.”

FOOOOOOG HOOOOORRRNNN.

It might also be nice if I could find a dress or two for the weddings that I am attending (and participating in!) this summer.

Honestly folks, time is passing at such a speed I cannot believe that we will soon we welcoming the arrival of June. I’m not sure about you, but I need to buckle up tight, and grab hold of the OH CRAP BAR because –

THINGS. BE. MOVING.

Things be moving fast.

Alas, I cannot complain because at the base of it all is such boundless awesomeness that I feel a little nuts sometimes – I really am too lucky for my own good to be surrounded with such beauty.

My friends, family, fantastic (ship of a) husband.

Our little cat.

Adventures a plenty.

So let’s put on our dancing shoes and boogie the night away.

Happy Friday to you all!