Tag: Opinion

Stop skirting the issue here

Hi Kids! Friday fry-up time.

A can of spam.

Yesterday I received what has to be the funniest spam comment in the history of spam comments.

It reads:

When I think back on all the blessings I have been given in my life, I can’t think of a single one, unless you count that rattlesnake that granted me all those wishes.

What the WHAT?

Talk about pure comedy gold.

Who are you, person who left this comment? Please introduce yourself to the group so we can all give you the round of applause you so dearly deserve. And I truly believe that it was a person, and not a spambot, what with it being a complete, coherent (if odd) sentence and all. (It’s also written in English and not Polish or Russian. Do you many of you peeps get a lot of multi-lingual spam? Because goodness knows, I get a TON.)

All I have to go on is the user name Silver Price and some sketchy e-mail address. So if you are reading this Monsieur Spammer, please step forward I just wish to tip my hat in your direction and let you know that your note will keep me laughing for ages.

AGES!

A close second goes to this comment which also deserves an honourable mention:

Sod costs more; however, it comes mature and ready to lay but prior to that you must prepare the area properly, and that takes time and dedication. If you have a fireplace, inside or outside, or a grill, you can pick up the fallen tree branches and cut them up for use in your fireplace or grill. Fixing your lawn can cost some money depending on how damaged it is. This list of foes continues nevertheless the absolute goal in the game remains to be the same.

BRILLIANT.

Next!

Mini-Me.

So. I recently went and tried on this mini-skirt but couldn’t bring myself to buy it despite the fact that I loved it.

It’s like a flapper skirt! Only fluffier!

KEEEEEY-UTE!

Sigh.

I have this love-fear relationship with mini-skirts. I adore them, but I have crippling anxiety when it comes to wearing them – I tend to, shall we say, over think the whole thing.

Am I showing too much leg? Do I need tights? Why am I so pale? How do I have so many veins? Why are my body proportions so out of whack?

WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT ALL OF THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Good grief – this is exhausting!

This whole thing is weird. I mean, for the longest time (for most of my undergrad actually) I never even wore pants – hey don’t get the wrong idea here – and instead only ever donned skirts (of all lengths and styles – and believe you me, I rocked quite a few minis during this time.)

And it’s crazy to think that now that I am healthy (and oh-so much happier) I have all these awful hang-ups when it comes to this one article of clothing that I actually really like.

(I debated like crazy if I even wanted to post that one picture.)

I just wish that I could get over all of this crap and just move on. No more body issues, no more trepidation over what people will think or not think – just take the plunge and do it. Wear it with tights, wear it without tights – WHO CARES.

Just wear it.

So I’m working on it.

Viva forever.

For some reason I have never gotten over a memory I have of this YM magazine article I read when I was in grade five.

The Spice Girls were on the cover, and in their interview, Posh Spice said that she never wore both eye make-up and lipstick at the same time, less she come across as overdone (I’m not sure how often she or the other girls actually followed this model, but I digress).

Now somehow this rule of thumb has stuck with me for the past sixteen years. For real, to this day, I never, ever wear any eye make-up when I rock a strong lip, and seeing as though that is most days – well, I rarely break out anything stronger than a simple mascara (if that.)

I would never have thought Victoria Beckham would play such a small, but pivotal role in my life.

Huh.

Zigazigah is right.

…

Have a brilliant weekend you beauty cats! Do what you want – wear what you want – find that rattlesnake – and then tell me all about it.

I’m losing it

Hey kids.

Today I am bummed out. You see, yesterday, sometime betwixt the hours of two and seven, some crafty bastard stole my wallet.

DAMN YOU CRAFTY BASTARD!

Sigh.

This – this gives me a major sad. Like, the biggest.

So the majority of today was spent stressing over the fact that someone was sure to steal my identification, ruin my credit score, apply for EI in my name, and sign me up for membership in the CPC – THE HORROR!

As such, I spent a significant amount of time on the blower with Visa to cancel my credit card, waiting in line at ICBC to get a new driver’s license, shooting the breeze with Service Canada, getting a new debit card, applying for a replacement for my CareCard, etc, etc.

Urg. This kind of thing really, really stresses me out.

And as such, I take it as a good time to beat the ever living crap out of myself.

Seriously, just crown me Miss Flagellation 2012 and call it a day. I’ve earned the title.

It goes a little something like this:

First, I cry. Huge, heaving sobs wrack my body like some 18th century Victorian palsy. Once I’m sufficiently exhausted, my skin is consumed by a clammy, cold sweat, while the last of my fat teardrops slide down my cheeks and off of my chin.

Then I spaz.

I pace. I rant.

I blame myself for not taking better care of my stuff. I berate myself for not being careful enough; I chalk it up to bad karma for not buying the homeless newsletter, or for laughing at all those blooper videos on Youtube.

Then I start to make up armageddon scenarios in my head, and play them over and over again – for both M’s and my pleasure.

Repeat.

Of course all of this drives my poor husband up the wall (nay up all the walls.) He is already so busy with work that his threshold for my ravings is rather limited, particularly those that are only precariously balanced in reality (and that too may be up for debate.)

I am so lucky to have him in these silly (but very real for me) times of crisis.

He is the calm to my storm.

He talks me down from the ledge, and has a really brilliant way of not only helping me laugh at myself, but also being kinder to myself.

This is a great thing.

And the good news? None of my cards were used, nothing was stolen (other than my lovely little wallet that I loved.) I don’t ever carry cash, and everything is replaceable.

So while I am still bummed out, I’m working on taking it easy. And it’s getting easier.

Today I was going to write about mini-skirts.

I’ll save that post for tomorrow.

However here is a slight teaser for something that makes me less bummed out, and well, very, very happy:

So remember – same bat time, same bat channel! And keep your eyes peeled – this be bat country.

Life in the fast lane

Yesterday I worked a thirteen hour day. Coming home, I was completely knackered.

This is what I thought about as I rode the metro back to my home:

Such a fantastagorical tale had never been known.

Such was the way of these things.

Reading a bit like a history of popular culture in the early 20th century, and a tiny bit like a teen trash comedy, the combination was meant to amuse and articulate. Perhaps, most terrifyingly of all, it was the clearest representation of the inner workings and thought processes of two individuals.

One of them had come to a realization that he was often too pessimistic for his own good; he sometimes sought humor in disappointment as some kind of weak balm.

This would have to change. And it did.

Genuine excitement should not have to be manufactured. Riding on a jetski at 60 mph – for example – really has a positive effect on this. You cannot help but feel exhilaration, your mouth open and cheeks flapping with the force of the wind as you carve your way up an arm of BC’s mightiest river.

Twisting and turning you see how far you can go before the mechanical power under you can, shuddering, hurls you into the wild, flowing water. You cannot feign emotion on such a contraption, taking those risks.

SO – how to make life more like that? How to seek out, in everything, a sudden charge of passion and fury. What triggers those flags in my mind to suddenly send me rushing headlong emotionally at something or for something. I don’t need a cause to believe in so much as I need a credible dialogue, a wild formulation, a mysterious agenda.

Just think, the first people who ever read the Principia by Newton or Galileo’s letters must have thought they were reading some Clive Cusslerian escapade of fantastic proportions… and yet we now know it to be real.

But does that make Cussler any less exciting than Newton? Or just more poorly written?

(Definitely the latter.)

Also, should belief be THE defining reason for goodness?

I don’t think the best stories are always the truest ones. I like the ones that hover at the very edge between what-might-have-been, the possible, and the barely possible.

In this space we stop our minds from only formulating those images that we can understand and see, and make things that have never been made and will never be made, except inside the limits and demarcations of our own fancies, the thrum of our birthing brains.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

Yesterday I saw a real live cowboy.

This was awesome.

Yesterday I ate mesquite bbq, and black pepper and balsamic vinegar potato chips before heading out on my training run.

This was a mistake.

Thank goodness it was only a six km route, because there’s nothing quite like feeling as though you’re going to ralph at any minute from overdoing it on the heavily seasoned deep friend tubers.

Urg.

I even know how bad I am wrecking myself as I sit there, munching away, but being the classic masochist that I am – I just keep on keeping on.

And it’s not like this is some kind of rare occurrence (although thank goodness it is (slowly) becoming less of a regular thing in my life as I am making more of an effort to regulate my diet leading up to my next long race.)

Irrespective of all this though is the fact that I’ve been knowingly ingesting ticking time-bombs since I started running at the age of eleven.

Someday I’m going to learn my lesson – and but good (and believe me, after the tight spots I’ve found myself over the years, I am terrified to find out what exactly it’s going to take to get me to finally smarten up. ACK.)

In the meantime, I keep calm and carry on.

FRY-UP TIME!

First on the docket:

Individuals who run downtown on their lunch break.

OKAY.

Seriously?

You are actually doing this? You are actually going to let this happen? I mean, I will (barely) give you a pass if you choose to jog along the seawall, but on the sidewalk on Hastings Street? In the bike lane on Horby?

Get out of here.

Running in place at red lights; weaving in and out of the mass of walkers (many of whom are just trying to get back to their office with their take-out fish tacos in peace – or at the very least, in one piece); and stretching in your spandex in your building’s courtyard?

NO.

Look, I get it.

I like running. In fact, I LOVE running. Plus, I understand that it takes a firm commitment to keep in shape, especially if you are a busy professional. It can be a tricky balancing act.

But it is possible to do this without acting like a total arse betwixt the hours of twelve and two.

And look at it this way:

Who wants to be breathing in that kind of exhaust when they are exercising? Who wants to be stopping every thirty seconds waiting for the red light to change?

Also, and these are legitimate questions for those who do work out at lunch: how do you manage to work up a sweat, but not work out that hard so that you’re sweating for the next two hours once you’re back at work? And what about showering? How does that factor in? And when the bloody hell are you actually eating?

Either way, just don’t do it.

Work through your lunch, leave an hour early, and hit the pavement somewhere where you’re not tripping others up, or traipsing from Cactus Club to Cactus Club in your sweatbands, sweatpants, and lululemons.

Check-it.

Next!

2. This is not an amusement park ride.

What is up with people and escalators?

I don’t understand those who refuse to walk (when it’s a single capacity escalator) and those who choose to walk on those that are double capacity and then stop once the track reaches either the top or the bottom of the ramp.

WHY SIR/MADAME? WHY DO YOU DO THIS?

Because, you see, I’m still walking – because that’s the commitment I’ve made as an escalator walker – and as such, I will knock into you (and maybe even step on the back of your shoe.)

Because, you see, I expected that you too, would, AS A WALKER, you know, keep moving.

And then, should they get all snippy and grouchy at me, muttering about how, “I should watch where I’m going!” I will have to bite my tongue from bellowing: “You chose to walk! YOU MUST LIVE WITH YOUR CHOICE!”

Seriously, it’s a good thing that my cheery disposition overrides all of my murderous rage, because if it didn’t, I would be dextering peeps left right and centre. DAILY.

NEXT!

3. Long lost reunions.

Today I am having lunch with my grade eleven English teacher and I am SO EXCITED.

As an educator she was darn rad – super engaged, extremely enthusiastic, plus totally committed to her students. I was pretty off the chains that year, and I’m fairly certain there were a couple of weeks where every single morning she asked me if I was okay.

I know that I told her that I was fine (every single morning) – but just knowing that she cared enough to ask was something that I took to heart.

Plus seeing everything that M does to prepare for his classes/make his lessons fantastic gives me a really solid understanding of what goes into being a terrific teacher – insight I definitely didn’t have as the drama queen teenager that I was.

My respect for those who put their heart and soul into education really knows no bounds.

…

Going into this long weekend, it’s so bonkers to think that we are already at the start of September. This summer has absolutely flown by. August turns to autumn, and I’m already on the lookout for crunchy leaves to step on as I fly about town.

I’m just looking for the right wind to carry me away.

Diet Coke thinks I’m extraordinary? Well isn’t that refreshing!

I saw this advertisement last Friday whilst out on my lunch break:

My immediate reaction?

I think I can in a can? Or I think I’m fat in a can?

I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING THERE COKE.

Now, full disclosure: I drink diet Coke. I drink diet Pepsi, or Pepsi Max or Coke Zero, or whatever other aspartame-infused sodas you care to name. And as any of you who have been reading this blog for a while now, I have no qualms at all about admitting this fact.

My drinking patterns are sporadic – I’ll go for a couple of months without a sip, and then start drinking two to three cans a day without so much as blinking an eyelash. These habits are something I’m cognizant of, but not something of which I lend much weight.

Apologies to any Colorado Avalanche fans out there, but in the words of Todd Bertuzzi*: it is what it is.

(*Now I’m no fan of Mr. T. Bert by any stretch of the imagination – or as I like to call him: Hobo with a Slapshot – he’s just the first thing that pops into my mind whenever I think of that turn of phrase.)

However, to get back to diet Coke and my relationship with this product- the fact remains the same: this penchant I have for these drinks is one of the last remaining holdovers from the years I spent as an anorexic and bulimic.

And because of this, I have a hard time disassociating these drinks from a very painful, very unhealthy part in my life.

Now I know there are tons of men and women who live all across the globe, who lead perfectly healthy lives (or within the parameters of “healthy” – as goodness knows the definition of this term seems to be malleable as heck) who may drink a diet Coke every now and then.

Who knows, maybe there are individuals out there who shot-gun the stuff all the live long day that have zero food/body hang-ups (not to mention faulty brain wiring – like those cats who eat chalk and pillow stuffing), but I would be hard pressed to believe it.

However, of this I’m sure: people ingest things for a whole myriad of reasons, and it would be naive, and rather asinine on my part to assume that because I a.) had an eating disorder and b.) drank these drinks during this time in my life that c.) all people who drink diet pop have eating disorders.

That would be a gross misinterpretation of the Pythagorean Theorum. And a logical fallacy. And just plain silly.

However, it would also be silly of me to ignore the fact that I live in a society that is majorly messed up when it comes to diet, body perception, and self-esteem – indeed, every time I seem to open an newspaper (HAH! Like that ever happens – excuse me, I meant to say: every time I surf on over to the NYT or Globe and Mail or Jezebel.com) I am told again and again about how obsese/anorexic/sendentary/over exercised/stressed out/insecure we are as North Americans, and how we need to fix it using ABC without having to give up XYZ.

It’s madness.

Just the other day I read about a new study released by Emery University in Atlanta Georgia that found that the number of U.S. children who drink sugar-free beverages has doubled in the past decade and that one-quarter of the adult Americans surveyed said they’d had a diet drink in the past day.

And reading this, I cannot help but question what role diet Coke (and by proxy its marketing stratagems and campaigns) plays within our omnipresent constant shame/constant gratification Franken-culture.

Sure, diet Coke isn’t exactly Airstrip One’s Victory Gin, but it’s not small potatoes either. And as such, when I see this ad, I don’t see personal empowerment in a can, I see this:

Have your Coke friend! But statistics tell me that you’re probably fat – or in some way aesthetically unappealing (or at the very least you THINK you’re not good enough!) so don’t have a real Coke (those are only for Olympic athletes and Mark Ronson) – have a diet Coke instead! But it’s totally your decision to drink it – and totally not ours, and certainly not a reaction to cultural norms! YOU’RE taking charge, YOU know what you want! Just one sip and you can take on the world, calorie-free!

(But first, go to the gym, because you totes need to work out first.)

Okay, so this may be a bit over-dramatic and a bit too sardonic – my m.o. might be to approach this dialogue with a heavy hand (heavy tongue?) but I can’t help it.

My experience colours my perception, and this is my honest interpretation.

And for that I will not apologize.

What about you folks? What kind of reaction does this sort of advertisement evoke on your end of things? Do you drink diet pop? Why or why not?

In the mean time I’m going back to my I KNOW I can in a bag:

NOM.