Sometimes fabricated, always real

For almost two straight years I wrote faithfully here at Rant and Roll.

Without exception, I published posts on Monday, Wednesday and Friday (and often Tuesdays and Saturdays, depending on when extra inspiration would strike.)

Nowadays, it’s less that I am uninspired to write (in fact I find myself reaching for my laptop more often than not – what with the unending stream of ideas percolating away inside of my brain. Sometimes I actually imagine these conceptions as small nuggets of gold, and my mind as one giant, ever swirl-swirl-swirling miner’s pan.)

It’s just that, I just can’t seem to keep track of days, hours, space, and time – let alone said nuggets.

Flip open my computer on any given day and you will find three or four half-finished posts (as well as three or four half-read Grantland, Jezebel, and Deadspin articles.)

There may even be a Youtube video or two for your viewing pleasure.

So where does that leave me? Where does that leave us?

Pretty much at the same place where I have been treading water for the last six or so odd months.

You see, I just don’t ever remember life being quite this bonkers – always barmy yes, but never to the extent where I feel as though days are simply slipping between the crooks of my fingers and the dips of my toes.

But the crazy thing is (and the big difference from six months ago), is that I don’t feel scared or upset by this.

(At least not anymore.)

Because these days, the warm weather, and fantastic runs, and fabulous friends, and fantastical reads – and all the other magical magic that make up this incandescent, resplendent, and transcendent life of mine – make me want to cut each day up into one million of the finest fragments and carefully sew each one into a soft and sinuous blanket that I may wrap myself in for all of the ages.

And they make me want to share it all with you.

Whenever,wherever the time may be.

Some things.

Sugar (da da da da da daaaaa)

I haven’t eaten junk food in six days.

That is six more days than my previous longest record.

Prior to this almost-week, I am fairly confident that had I ever been the subject of a medical autopsy (as opposed to all of those recreational autopsies), the corner performing the operation (always Dana Scully in my imaginaiton) would have found my corpse to be comprised of 1/3 Rogers product.

However, in a bid to curb my anxiety, up my health-quotient, improve my running (just in case I ever decided to full-on try that competitive racing thing), decrease my chance of familial-susceptible diseases, and just in general TRY SOMETHING NEW – here I am.

The ex-chocolate bar queen.

And you know what?

It’s been the absolute best six days of life.

(It would seem as though in a bid to replace my discarded crown, I am now the queen of excessive use of hyperbole.)

Marc and I have been cooking amazing dinners, eating the delicious produce grown from our very own backyard, and taking the time to sit outside and enjoy our meals.


I cannot quite explain to you how nice it is to bide my time and prepare a delicious and nutritious dish, instead of eating seven oreos and then complaining about how much my stomach hurts, and then dreading the task of forcing a few bites of a meal down my throat (only to be starving three hours later and repeat the first step which would then ensure a redux of the hurt tummy blahs.)

I think this renaissance (can it be a renaissance if you never remember living the process a first time around?) will be one I stick with.

She was looking pretty beat.

A post-Tough Mudder snap:


On the plus side, I carried my 180 lbs partner 100 meters and was the fifth woman to finish the course.

On the downside:




Old friends.

Revisiting this genius:


So if Bradbury is my all-time favourite author of life, Heinlein is definitely in my top-20. The dude can not only write, but sweet mother of pearl does he ever make you think.

He may not make me quake, and cry, and shake, an die like ol’ Ray, but Bobby A too has a few tricks and treats up his sleeve.

Dance break.


About a boy.

Look at this dude.




This August will mark eleven years that I have had this brilliant, bonkers man in my life.

That is like – more than one third of my life.


How do you even spend that much time with someone and now bludgeon them to death with a pineapple one morning over brunch?

I have no idea.

Good thing we never eat brunch.

Anywho, he’s just such a marvellous person who makes my silly little heart smile all the time, and sometimes I feel like a broken record just waxing eloquent all the live-long day about all of the full-stop brilliant things he is doing with his life, but I don’t care because he is a difference maker and world builder and all of his energy and brilliance shines light into the lives of his many students, and his words, and deeds, and thoughts and passions impact so, so many who come up to him and say “thank you thank you” and those who may not even know it, but who will wake up one morning, on a sun-drenched Thursday morn, and just think to themselves, “wow.”

Because that is what I do.


We are all made of stars

Well, the weather broke.

After enjoying an absolutely beautiful week of balmy, breezy days, solid gold sunshine, and temperatures hovering about the twenty degree mark, we’re officially back to the drizzle.

Dressing myself for work this morning I had to gird my loins, knowing full well that in order to get out the door I would have to face the ever-dreaded “turtle neck and pair of tights” combination.


So sure was I last week that I had seen the last of this much worn duo: “Until (at the very least) next September!” I had cockily crowed to Marc.


Even the thick mist and rain spackled streets can’t do much to temper my mood.

Because dudes I am feeling pretty darn good.

Today I kicked some major butt at work, and now I’m off to do a show tonight at a new room (for me) with a bunch of very funny, and very rad comedians.

Also, this Wednesday I have my first show at YukYuks, which makes me feel all squiggly and nervous, but also very, very happy.

This past weekend I bought a ridiculously cute dress for my sister’s wedding (they had to order my size, so as soon as I get it home I will take a photo!), and last night I made homemade pizza for dinner, and tonight fresh pasta with homemade sauce.

Friday is normally the day that I save for a fry-up, but to mix things up a bit, let me please present you with – the Monday Mash-up.

You can’t fight it, it’s science.

I have a crush on Carl Sagan.

He is my imaginary dead boyfriend.

Is that weird?

Whatever, he was a hot piece with a fab brain.

I just wish that he was still alive to keep doing his mad-genius thing, helping young people the world over get jazzed about space. The future of Canada’s space program is currently up in the air, and I just believe that if our government gave more weight to bright, brilliant, and brave scientists (such as Mr. Sagan) we wouldn’t be facing this situation.

I may just have to go back to uni and take on a whole new career path.

Put on the kettle.



I cannot even being to tell you how happy they make me.

I mean, they are a perfect combination of three of my most favourite things: hot drinks, cursive writing, and my love.


Reading rights.


After lamenting my reading drought, I have been back at the books fast and furious.

The first book I read was Black Snow by Bulgakov. He is one of my all-time favourites, and if you get a chance be sure to check him out. His magical realism will blow your mind, and he shines a light on the absurdities of 20th century Russian society like no other.

Next I re-read The Infinite Wait, a graphic novel by Julia Wertz. Terrific all around. Funny, moving, inspiring – this woman is a gem.

Finally, I just finishing Faithful Place by Tana French.


THIS WOMAN IS AMAZING. One of the best mystery writers I have ever read (and I have read my GIANT share of mysteries.) Plus I am always amazed when anybody can write well from the opposite sex’s perspective, and Ms. French does it absolutely perfectly.

Ch-ch-check it out.

So there you have it folks.

What are you reading these days? What did you get up for the weekend?

Let me know all about it.

We are all travelers here

I daydream a lot.

I think about the worlds and places that we have yet to visit. How we might fly far and away, up past the moon, beyond our stars; a one-way trip to distant isles, and unexplored realms; unsolved probabilities, and untamed possibilities.

I dream.

I close my eyes and breathe.

This past month I haven’t been reading much.

IMG_2711 - Copy
Old loves.

I’ve been too busy with different things – comedy, writing, work, running, volunteering. Things that I love, but things that take time.

On the metro in the mornings I wake my brain with crosswords.

The repetition.

Of synonyms.

Of puns.

I miss the feel of bound paper between my fingers.

At daybreak, my quiet commute, punctuated by the flipflipflip of pages, chapters, worlds.

At nightfall, crisp, cool sheets, and the sweet scent of sleep. My heavy eyelids and my frantic panic to read just one more (just one more) paragraph, before giving in to rest.

I miss this.

So tonight I will not daydream,

I will sit swaddled in blankets, surrounded by text, exploring a distant, but (not-so) long ago land.

And I will feel my fingers burn with envy. With passion. With zeal.

To create.



To write. Read. Believe.

I think Ray Bradbury said it right:

And so to all of you, goodnight.

Safe flight.

I’m really Russian through this book

So I wrote last week about how I’ve jumped back on the Russian literature train (the darkest, gloomiest, most morbidly hilarious train there is) and I cannot believe how much I have missed the ride.

(Alas, Wolf Hall has been relegated to the far corner of my bedside table, YET AGAIN. One day Ms. Mantell! One day I will finish your oeuvre.)

But back to the goods.

The Brothers Karamazov is a bloody long novel – my translation is 985 pages long (I’m a sucker for Penguin Classics and will go to my death promoting their superior products), but reading it doesn’t feel like a slog.

It feels like I am blazing through the work – paragraphs and pages flying by in the blink of an eye.

I need to emphasize that this isn’t a bad thing.

In fact, when I say that reading this work reminds me of travelling by train, that wasn’t just my attempt at a heavy handed simile.

As I sit and read, I watch as fantastical landscapes whiz past – bright colours, flashes of light, villages, country sides, peasants, gentry – all stream together, and I have make sure that I don’t get dizzy and lose my place.

Because the book is delirious; it makes me feel delirious.

It’s maddening.

And passionate, and hilarious, and brilliant.

Also, another thing that I seem to have forgotten is just how much Russian people (in particular, Russian men) love, LOVE to soliloquise.

(That is, of course, if I’m to take Dostoevsky’s prose as a truthful representation of 19th century Russian conversations.)

Because goodness gracious do his characters ever enjoy a monologue and a half.

And if they’re not monologuing, they’re falling prey to crazed, impassioned fits.

Sometimes they’re doing both at the same time.

Not that I have any right to call out anyone for their liberal use of hysterics when waxing eloquent on a matter at hand (pot being black et. al.)

HOWEVER, it never fails to leave me breathless and a little exasperated every time Dmitry starts beating his chest, or when old papa Fyodor starts acting like a classless arsehole (or buffoon by his definition.)

But mostly I am just bowled over by the writing. The attention to detail, the tangents, the word play, the physical descriptions of characters, ranging from the lowliest urchin to the highest ranking official – they all enthrall me.

They ravage, they provoke, they inspire.

I’m about a fourth of the way through, and I find myself fidgeting throughout the day, wishing that I could crack open this tome and once again lose myself in the provincial world of Alyosha and his brothers. To relish in their dialogues, their anguishes, their fears.

It also makes me reminisce about my trip to the motherland.

Two weeks gallivanting about St. Petersburg, presenting my writing around town, exploring museums and art galleries, dancing until the wee hours of the morning, eating dinner at midnight, and drinking coffee so strong it would tickle your fingertips.

What about you friends? What are you reading these days? I want to know.

Spokoynoy nochimalyshi!

Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage

Eggs? Check.

Bacon? Check.

Toast? Check.

Let’s get this Friday Fry-Up on the stove!

And so it begins anew.

The Canadian government has recently announced that a new research project has been commissioned to search for the ships of the ill-fated Franklin exhibition.

As you may or may not know, The HMS Erebus and HMS Terror set out from England in 1845 with the express intent of finding the ever elusive Northwest Passage. Instead, only one year later, Franklin and his men found themselves trapped in the ice. Some died, and some – in an aim to escape a similar fate – set out on foot to try and find a way out of that frozen, desolate Arctic hell.

Only the never made it out – alive or dead.

It was pretty much – poof!

And they were never heard from again.

Okay. I know this was a terrible thing to happen and everything – but what the dickens were they thinking naming their two ships The Terror and The Erebus!?

Talk about starting out on the wrong foot.

If you’re going to take on what is, for all intents and purposes, a suicide mission, wouldn’t you want to bring some levity to the whole situation by naming your boat something like – oh I don’t know, The Unicorn? Or how about The Heat Wave?

It’s called the power of positive thinking here people.

I mean jeeze – Erebus literally represented the personification of DARKNESS. That is some bleak sauce, emo crap right there.

Anywho, one of the greatest things to come out of this (evidently enduring) tragedy is this amazing, song sung by Stan Rogers:

This man is a friggin’ Canadian legend, whose songs regularly move me to tears. There is something just so simple and yet resonating about his tunes  – and I don’t know if I think this way because of my East Coast roots, but even M himself is quick to state that he thinks Stan is easily the voice of Canada.

If you don’t know this man CHECK HIM OUT. Also read The Terror by Dan Simmons. Neither of these works of art will disappoint, I promise.

You got to put one foot in front of the other.

I recently signed up to run the Surrey International Half-marathon, taking place at the end of September. This will be my first half of the year, but I’m feeling really great about it.

My goal is to complete the course in one hour, thirty minutes (or less). My currently personal best is 1:38, but I think I’m in much better shape now than when I ran that previous race.

After 1:38 – feeling pretty good!

At least I think I am in better shape. I could show up that Sunday and end up running a heck of a lot slower than I expect – but I really hope this doesn’t end up being the case. Eight minutes is quite a lot of time to shave off, but I’m certain it’s doable.

And if not, I’ll have a taxi cab at the ready.

I kid, I kid.

It’ll be a bus.

Also, this will be my first race without the use of headphones. This for some reason fills me with zero trepidation, and it is this lack of trepidation that is giving me trepidation.

I will update you on my progress the closer I get to the race.

And my trepidation.

I’m all booked up.

Of late I’ve been on a crazy reading tear – for the past couple of months I’ve been blowing through two (and sometimes more) books a week like some crazed literary fiend.

It’s like an insatiable hunger. I look forward to taking skytrain in the mornings and when I get off work; I can’t wait to get in from my runs, shower and curl up on the couch; I sneak moments in the morning when I’m getting ready for the day; every night I read until I can barely keep my eyelash tips up and book spines straight.

At the moment I’m finishing up Lev Grossman’s The Magician King (await a blog post on this series in probably the next week) and can’t wait to dive into the next story.

80 pages to go!

Do you beauty cats have any good recommendations? What are you up to for the weekend?

Let’s find the hand of Franklin

reaching for the Beaufort Sea;

Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage

And make a Northwest Passage to the sea.