I can feel it in the crackle of the early autumn air.
…
Just breathe:
He lay upon the red clay, and the world shook to swallow him. Under his father’s sodden cloak, eyes closed, he heard nothing, saw nothing. All was sensation, cool knuckles of the thick riverbed gripping his back and arms; he sank a little more before the tremors stopped.
He waited for the cloak to be husked off, ripped from his body. They would find him, soon. He lay yards from cover under this pathetic shroud; they were toying with him. His weeping eyes stared open expecting the clouded night sky, and the coppery anticipation of death coated his own tongue – made his breath stink like the earth.
The silence was all.
He waited for strangers.
His breaths grew shallow under the thick material, slowed with the cold of it and he remembered reaching that point finally, where the immensity of fear was devoured by a monstrous finality, a sense of end, and he decided to die.
The small arm that pulled clear of the muck was stiff and unfamiliar, as if another boy hid there with him, was betraying him.
Then the cloak fell aside, and all was a screaming panorama of the looming forest and the angry darkness, and a total emptiness – their absence. His sniveling helplessness spurred to quicken his blood; he saw himself as if from the edge of the trees, a shaking unreality.
I am currently working down (or around?) my to-do list. Also, I cannot stop listening to Corb Lund and the Hurtin’ Albertans.
Because, THEY BE AWESOME.
I never really listened to much country growing up. Our family had a pretty eclectic taste in music, and it was a total free-for-all anytime we embarked on a long road trip, or family vacation.
But there was never any country.
It was no country for old country. Or new country at that.
I mean, when I wasn’t running around with my dad’s tai chi swords, dressed up in my highland dancing clothes pretending I was Sailor Moon, I was choreographing elaborate dance routines to such musical greats as The Rankin Family or Enya or Bruce Springsteen.
If I wanted to get really crazy I would break out the soundtrack to The Commitments and boogie down.
Of course I wasn’t just a-moving and a-shaking to these rad tunes – I was either lip-synching or belting out the words with everything that I had. Much depended on whether or not there were other people in the house, and if so, how close they were to my bedroom at that given time.
So having recognized my propensity for taking on the musical works of others and making it my own at such an early age, you can imagine just how much I loathe karaoke.
HAH.
Karaoke is one of those things that I very rarely do, but love anyways.
It’s also an activity that is strictly familial – I cannot remember the last time I sang into some broke microphone in front of a bunch of semi-drunk strangers without the support of my wacko sisters at my side.
I used to sing a mean Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” (doing the low voice and everything) but I just haven’t had the heart to sing it much since my friend Brent told me that I didn’t actually sound anything like Cher, and instead was just singing like a depressed man with a potato stuck in his throat.
He might as well have told me that I was a virgin who couldn’t drive. WAY HARSH TAI.
Anyway, as much as this was disheartening to hear, I still think of it as one of my all time favourite karaoke picks. Check-it:
How can you not want to sign along to that? Effin’ rights.
My other two top picks are very much in the vein of Mr. Corb and his hurtin’ band. Because no joke, nothing works quite as well as a sweet, sweet country tune when you’re up there embarrassing yourself for all of Canada.
If you want to get a ton of people on your side right away, I would recommend singing Tracy Byrd’ s The Drinking Bone:
People totally go nuts over this song because it scores absolutely off the chart in terms of ridiculousity and hilariousity.
Plus the lyrics are simple in the extreme.
Do. Seriously. DO IT.
Finally, (and while you may think that this would best for the ladies in the crowd, I’d bet a silver dollar that a dude could bring the whole house down with a solid rendition of this song) – I recommend Shania Twain’s Any Man of Mine.
Goodness do I ever love this tune.
It also scores highly on the outrageous and funny scale plus you have a whole pantheon of amazing lyrics to chose from, including:
“And when I cook him dinner and I burn it black, he better say, mmm, I like it like that.”
GENIUS.
Bonus – at the end of the song Ms. Twain talks you through a sort of mini dance that you can do on stage for all of your cheering fans.
This is a terrific song to do with a partner, or even as a threesome. Results may vary of course, but I’ve never known it to go down with nothing less than raucous, rousing approval.
So get out there and go for it.
But! Always remember to give it your all – nobody wants to see anything half-baked up on that neon lit stage.
Because if you don’t, Cher won’t be the only one waxing poetic about turning back time.
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.
Do you ever get the urge to just shout at the top of your lungs, “AIN’T LIFE GRAND?”
Sometimes I get so giddy I feel like I am about to explode.
There are times when I feel so overwhelmed by the magic and love that is my life that I’m practically moved to tears. Seriously, I’ll be sitting on the chesterfield next to Mr. M and all of a sudden – BAM! I’m choking out words (nay – garbled syllables) in an effort to communicate just how much he and our life together mean to me.
And our little cat? Well sheesh. Nymeria slays me in such a way that I am pretty much a puddle of liquid infatuation anytime she is near.
There are just so many stupendous things coming down the pipe over the next couple of months: M starting a new job as a full-time teacher; two radio show gigs in September; an interview with BC parent magazine about my work with Big Sisters; the United Way Speakers Bureau Series of which I am a speaker (also on my work with Big Sisters); the Hot Chip (!!!) concert with Ms. A; and of course the Surrey Half-Marathon.
On the running front, I have been like Atalanta’s long-lost sister over here.
On Saturday I ran 16km in the morning, and that afternoon M and I (along with his sister and brother in-law) went for a 7.5km hike. Despite a little soreness in my left knee I was feeling great (albeit very, very hungry the next day. Actually, I think I’m still a little peaky from the day’s activities.) The next morning I went for a super slow recovery run, only to be locked out of the house upon my return, as I hadn’t brought my house key with me and during my (short!) absence my darling husband had elected to go for a sunny morning stroll to pick up the NYT crossword and delicious breakfast goods.
I took this a chance to practice my meditation techniques. And to laugh like the loon on loon tablets that I am.
Anywho, moving on, this evening after getting home from work I ran 7 km in 29 minutes.
Then I did three sets of chin-ups/pull-ups (max I could do at a time was 6 for chin-ups) and three for pull-ups, and three sets of twelve push-ups.
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:
Rant and Roll 