Throwback to the 80's.

This pretty much made my day today. I enjoy a good flow chart and 80's love ballads are my favourite.

Total Eclipse of the Heart is now stuck in my head. I'm sure my cubicle neighbour will be sorry she sent this to me as I randomly belt out the tune every so often. This is the pinnacle of flow charts, hands down the best one I've ever seen. Kudos to the genius who created it.

I'm fairly certain that my love of the 80's stems from having a sister who is 7 years older than me. I wanted to do everything and be everything that she was. For example, when I was in grade three I printed a huge Poison banner (Poison was a pretty heavy rock group who used a skull and bones wearing a top hat as their logo). My teacher was concerned and the other kids thought it was weird. I didn't care though, I thought Poison was the coolest band in the world because my sister listened to them. I also knew all the words to all the AC/DC songs ever written and I would bring my cassette to class and dominate the ghetto blaster during lunch hour. Can you picture an 8 year old girl with missing front teeth and a mushroom cut belting out "You...shook me all night long!". There's also a home video of me somewhere lip syncing to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna when I was about 6 years old. When I find it I promise to post it.

I also had a pretty great wardrobe. Awesome hand-me-downs from the 70's and 80's ensured that I was a cool kid. Hairspray, polkadot sweaters, Keds, black gummie bracelets, LA Gear, jean shorts and even the occasional body suit. I also used to wear this fantastic leather bomber jacket that my dad gave to me. There was a Tom Cat patch sewn on the sleeve. How I miss that jacket.

I went through many styles and phases growing up but I always returned to the 80's. To this day I have to control myself when I go shopping. I'll get really excited when I find something I want to buy but when I show it to my shopping buddy I usually get a laugh and a "that's hideous". I play it off like my suggestion was a joke but in actuality I really like it because it's sparkly and colourful. I bought a sweater in my second year of university that was brown with little pink polkadots on it and turquoise hearts sewn along the neckline. My friend laughed at me when I bought it but I wore it all the time and I pulled it off with style. I recently bought a romper (one piece shorts and tube top) and wore it while bike-riding in central park. I own a Ralph Lauren original 80's shirt...it's pink with green stripes. I have bright blue tights, an original red and white Adidas winter pom-pom beret and I have more than one shirt in my closet that has sequins or sparkles all over it. I'm wearing sparkly green nail polish right now.

My music collection consists of, among others, Tina Turner, Guns N' Roses, Def Leopard, Queen, Chris de Burgh...love that Lady in Red! Embarassing? Sometimes, especially when I have friends over. But whatever. I'm old enough to know what I like and I can't deny it. I'm actually hoping to get a bit more bold with my style in the new year. I feel a shopping spree coming on and this time I'm not holding back. My wardrobe's gonna be bitchin'.

I need to get a karaoke machine to appease the 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' diva that's raging in me. It's either that or nothing, and 'nothing' simply won't do.

My Third Annual 26th Birthday.

Remember when you turned a certain age and you were completely blown away by how quickly time had flown?

That happened to me this morning. I turned 28 today but I like to call it my Third Annual 26th Birthday. Usually I don't have this extremely profound feeling of crazy time travel on my birthday, but this morning I did. I mean, I really felt it. Perhaps it's because by this age I had hoped to have a child with two legs as opposed to having two children with four legs. Perhaps I had hoped to be an artist or to be living somewhere in the tropics. Who knows why I got the feeling. I woke up this morning another year older, actually feeling the rush of life and the quickness of it all, for the very first time.

I woke up and zombied my way upstairs to get Swagger's collar and leash on, made a cup of coffee, got my toque, boots, winter coat and mitts on and off I went into the pitch black morning. There wasn't a soul around. This is actually my favorite time of day, it's when I do most of my thinking and most of my big decision making. While walking through the open field with the cold wind on my face, I felt very, very bizarre. I got the sweeping feeling that my time here on Earth doesn't even compare to a mere grain of sand on a beach. I'm one person, and the planet doesn't need me here at all. I felt insignificant, irrelevant, my being was trivial.

Well...what a crock! I could go on and on about life being short so "live every day like it's your last, dance like no one is watching"...blah blah blah barf. I woke up feeling funny, walked through the park for a bit feeling funny, and then the eerie, BS thoughts and feelings were quickly disolved when I noticed Swagger was eating something rancid again. I ran across the field yelling "OFF! SWAGGER OFF! LEAVE IT! SIT! OFF! SIT!", breaking the morning peace with my shrill voice (which Swagger pays absolutely no attention to).

I finally reached him and discovered he was gnawing on a crab apple. Thank the lord (the time I caught him eating a baby deer carcass almost sent me over the edge and I was nearly blinded by the stench). I burst out laughing and I rolled around with my pup on the frosty grass for a good ten minutes. Then everything became less heavy again. Life is short alright, and there really is no rhyme or reason for my existence. I pretty much think that humans were a mistake anyway. Am I supposed to mope around thinking about how fleeting life really is? Nope, I shall enjoy every day as it comes, taking pleasure in the little things: my cat's paws, a bright orange maple leaf, catching someone's eye on the subway, wine with a best friend, tobogganing, avocados, my sister's laugh...there's just so much. And plus, I'll want to check-out at some point anyway, so leaving this place a happy human being is important.

Lucky to be alive I say!

Band of Broads.

About 11 months ago I started taking djembe drumming classes. They were every Friday evening for 2 hours and it was one of the most entertaining and fun things I've ever taken part in. I don't look like the typical djembe playing person...I don't have dreads, I'm not a hippie and I don't have any African roots. I just love the sound of a bunch of djembe drums being played, the rumbling beat that moves through the ground and the happiness that everyone feels while listening to them. I figured I would give it a whirl, and I was right. I loved it.

I was the only girl in the circle with 9 guys. Ha! High five to me, I looked pretty awesome and courageous coming in for my first lesson with a bunch of people that had been there before. I was extremely nervous and the fact that the teacher is a beautiful, tall, beautiful, black, beautiful man from Guinea didn't help. He was intense too...no kidding around, although he did crack up when I told him I was in fact a diabetic wearing an insulin pump and not some kind of new cell phone as he thought. I did as he instructed, followed along as best I could, made my place in the circle and learned a hell of a lot. The sound of us all in unison gave me goosebumps and I was grinning ear to ear while tapping away on my drum. This went on for a few weeks and then I got a puppy. My friday night drumming lessons have been put on hold ever since.

While in the lunch room at work today, my little friend S told me that she was starting ukulele lessons. She's small and ukulele's are small, so I think it will be a match made in heaven. This got me thinking about my love of the djembe. I've decided that I'm going to pick it up again, and maybe even buy myself my own drum. I'm sure my roommate and neighbours will be thrilled. I'm going to get back into drumming and I'm going to get good at it. Good enough to join a drumming circle.

My friend S and I are then going to start a ukulele/djembe band. Oh, and her friend plays an instument too, so it will be a trio. Her friend is Korean and plays the electric guitar, my friend S is Jamaican and will be playing the ukulele, and I'm a plain Jane whitey who will be banging on the djembe. Maybe I'll wear some big beaded jewelry or some awesome, flowing, colourful clothing to make myself look a little more exotic, to fit in with the group and all. Don't worry, I won't be braiding my hair.

We're going to be the most eclectic music group around. It's pretty amazing when you decide to step forward and take part in something you've always been interested in but never had the courage to try. A brand new beautifully hand-crafted djembe will be my Christmas present to me. Cheers to trying something new!

Holy Crap! Is That Edible!?

This completely blows my mind.

After my mind is blown, I'm totally thrown over a cliff when I read this:
"Don’t worry vegetarians, Baconnaise Lite is 100% Vegetarian and certified Kosher."

Please explain to me when and where we went so wrong? I don't have the most perfect diet, but to mix vegetarian bacon with mayonnaise, and then to make it "lite" on top of that...it's just so wrong. If you're a vegetarian, do yourself a favour and don't eat fake bacon mixed with mayonnaise. You may wake up in the morning with a third eye, or some other unwanted body part like a tail, or maybe even an extra set of teeth. If you aren't a vegetarian, then make yourself some good old fashioned bacon in a frying pan or the microwave if you must, and then lather on the mayonnaise afterwards. You can even purchase organic, local bacon these days, so go for it!

While on this topic, let's look at a few other items that throw me through a loop and make me question my existence as a human being.

Marshmallows are weird enough as it is, but this? 

Fluff. Otherwise known as "spreadable marshmallow substance". This terrifies me. What the heck is marshmallow made out of anyway? I'm too afraid to look up the ingredients. I enjoy a marshmallow about once a year but I make sure it's sandwiched with chocolate between a pair of graham crackers. This way, my taste buds are so overjoyed that I'm unable to think about what I'm actually ingesting.

I believe that this bad boy is the culprit of quicky food creation. The one that started it all.

Did you know that SPAM was born in 1937? That's quite a while ago for such nouveau age canned quickness. Are ya hungry kids? Shhhloppppp...the SPAM comes out of the can, cut off a few slices, fry er' up and there's dinner.  Anything to make life easier and more convenient! I just realized that all of the above items (SPAM, Fluff and Baconnaise) can be spread onto a lovely slice of white fluffy:

Wonder Bread! Who doesn't love Wonder Bread!? All this talk of delicious healthy wholesome food is making me crazy! We have come so far...who in the world needs to plant a potato anymore? Potatos come from a bag and now they're called chips! Chicken? It comes from the grocery store, silly. Where did you think it came from!? Orange juice? It comes from a box..obviously. All I have to say is watch out kids, your parents might take advantage of this convenient life and you might just get picked on in school:

Poor souls, they never saw it coming.

My Nemesis Tula.

If you've never had an encounter with a tarantula, congratulations. You've managed to avoid a most unpleasant experience, the kind that makes your toes curl and your skin prickle. When I was living in Roatan I had a faceoff with a tarantula. Because I picture my tarantula to have been a bitchy, fat, spiteful, female spider, I will refer to her as Tula.

After having watched the entirety of Garth Brooks live in concert on DVD with my mom, I was exhausted and ready to hit the hay. It was a balmy evening as usual and I was already a bit jumpy and nervous about stepping on a random living creature because the crab migration had begun. I was tired and walking to my bedroom when right in front of my foot sat big fat momma Tula. I didn't notice her there until the last second. To this day I thank my lucky stars that I did because either my foot would have been eaten or I would have smushed the hairiest most plump spider in the universe. If I had actually squished Tula, I'm sure I would have some weird OCD obsession with wearing a sock on that foot every minute of every day for the rest of my life.

Tula was about 7 inches in diameter and I could see every one of her eyes staring back at me. If I moved a foot to the right, she would shuffle and readjust her body to look at me. Two feet to the left...shuffle shuffle shuffle...there she was, staring at me. I almost threw up from fear that she would pounce on my face at any moment. I was too scared to jump over her because I knew she would jump 4 feet in the air and cling onto my pajamas, catching a free ride into my bed with me.

I screamed for my mom and she came running over with a broom and a bucket. Mom and I were both at the end of the broomstick trying to gently nudge Tula into the bucket without causing her to sprint towards us. She wouldn't budge. I'm sure that if we had put some real force into it we could have moved her but we didn't want to take the risk of her darting towards us or walking up the handle to where our hands were. This would have resulted in one or both of us fainting, and then Tula would have had a free for all with our limp bodies. After several failed attempts of trying to get her into the bucket, we stopped to rethink our strategy.

We wanted nothing more to do with Tula. We especially didn't want to anger her to the point where she would feel cornered. Our idea was to call my sister's boyfriend at the time, who was a local Honduran guy that knew what was what. He came over half an hour later, walked into the house, up the stairs to my room, picked up Tula by a leg, walked back downstairs, out the door and across the lawn. He put fat Tula in the grass and she just slowly walked off into the night. Great, I thought. She would just do a lap around the garden and then come back to guard my bedroom door again.

Tula returned to me, but only in my dreams. In the end she always pounces on my face. My experience living in Honduras was filled with Tula-like stories. There was the time when I woke up in the middle of the night for a glass of water and upon my return to bed I found a rather large centipede in the fold of my sheet. There was also the time (and this will sound like some kind of urban legend) when I got out of the shower and dried my face with a crunchy towel. It turns out there was a scorpion clinging onto my fluffy fresh towel, and I had just exfoliated my face with its body.

A tarantula saw into my soul that day so many years ago. The result of this is that my biggest fear and archenemy remains the spider. Scorpion, centipede, bat, iguana, crab, barracuda. None of these measure up to Tula.

This is why they scare me.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

Once again, I've just cut all of my hair off. This is a pattern with me. I get to a point in my turbulent life when I need a change and the first thing I turn to is my hair. I'm a wanderlust changing paths from day to day and my hairstyle follows my mood, wherever it may go.

I had a mushroom cut until the age of about 6 years old. I can still remember the day when a kindergarten classmate asked me if I was a boy or a girl. As you can imagine this was quite a traumatizing experience for me so I freaked out on my haircut and wanted nothing more to do with mushroom shaped hairdo's. My mom took me to the hairdresser as a result of this boy/girl comment, and it was just a few days before I was going to see Phantom of the Opera with my class. The mushroom cut turned into a hideous pixie cut that made me look even more like an androgynous little being. I was so upset that I convinced myself that the Phantom from the play would be looking into the crowd while onstage, spot me due to the hair, and burst out laughing while pointing directly at me. I cried myself to sleep that night. I've blocked the rest of my childhood haircut experiences out of my memory.

The teenage years were filled with angst and rebellion. I went through short hair, long hair, green hair, red hair, yellow hair, purple hair and attempted dreads. When I was 19 I got extensions. My hair was about 2.5 feet long, and it was all braided with added-in fake hair. It weighed about 30lbs, but it was cool. I used to wear it up in a massive bun and strut down the street like I was some kind of awesome exotic person from another country. I really just looked like some white Canadian girl wanting to have an excess amount of hair. I found a picture of myself the other day with this mass of braids on my head and it truly looked ridiculous. It took about 10 hours to get the braids done, cost me over $200, and it lasted for about 2 months before I actually started to have neck pain from the weight of it all. I took them out and I was free once again.

In my second year of university I started to date a guy who broke up with me after two months. My reaction was to break up with my hair. I went into my room after the boyfriend talk, looked in the mirror, took the scissors out and chopped off my ponytail. Two hours later I was in the salon being tisk tisked by my hairdresser. She fixed it and made it look awesome. The next day I had a class with the ex boyfriend and he got to take a good long hard look at the new me. Ha!

In 2008 I went to Iceland on a little trip and I immediately fell in love with the platinum hair blue eyed look that all the ladies were sporting. They are a stunningly beautiful people and if I couldn't have the blue eyes I was going to get that hair. I got back to Toronto 3 weeks later, went to the hairdresser, got my hair coloured platinum blonde and cut it just below my chin. I did this without warning anyone, including my boyfriend at the time. There it was! That beautiful platinum colour! I loved it...for about 3 months. Then my roots started to grow and my hair started to break and I started to want to shave my head. I killed my hair with chemicals, it was dead. I sucked the life right out of it and the maintenance was overwhelming. I dyed it back to brown and until two days ago I hadn't cut it in a year. Completely unacceptable.

Two days ago I was ashamed to take my hair out of the elastic it had been hiding in for a year. Two days ago I was growing it and it was well passed my shoulders. Two days ago my hairdresser pulled the elastic out and gasped at how damaged my hair was. She gave me a sharp bob with a little fringe, and I love it. It gave me back the pep in my step and I've actually booked my next hair appointment already. The next time I go I'm cutting it boy short and dying it blonde again.

Sometimes I think the life of my hair is almost more exciting than my actual life. Then I remember that it's a bizarre reflection of the life that I lead. Right now my hair is looking pretty darn good.

It's fun being a girl with guts.

Growing Young.

For some reason, I've started going backwards in my life. There are things that I missed out on when I was younger, and I don't mean fun things like learning how to ride a bike or getting your first Nintendo. I mean things that you should do when growing up so that you don't have to face them when you're older.

Let me start with getting my licence. If you've read my older post called A Long Time Coming, you know that I'm working tirelessly to be able to drive a car one day. I have yet to get the road test done. It would have been much better for me to have started driving lessons at the age of 16, but I was dropped off in boarding school for my teenage life so the driving thing never came up.

The other really important thing I neglected to do was math. I've always struggled with that subject, and I passed grade 9 math (the second time around) by the skin of my teeth. Actually, I'm positive I failed it the second time but my math teacher Mr. MacDonald took pity on me and gave me a 64%. Since grade 9 math was a complete disaster I was only permitted to go into low grade 10 and 11 math. I took the art stream and I much preferred finger painting anyway. When would I ever need math?

Well, now that I'm in my late 20's and I do that 'pondering life' thing a lot, I've decided that being a vet would be splendid. What am I passionate about? Animals. I love them, I understand them and I want to know more about them. Apparently you need to be a superstar in the science and math world to even attempt vet school applications. I enrolled for grade 9 math with the Toronto District School Board at the beginning of October. Twice a week from 6 until 10pm, for 4 months.

A lot of free time would be taken up with this endeavour and my dog would probably resent me for the rest of my life but it had to be done. I had to face my math demons and conquer the fear of possibly being called upon in class and not knowing the answer. I was so nervous but excited to know that I would finally pass math with flying colours and not have to be ashamed that I don't really know my times tables anymore. Everyone would be in the same boat, right? I was sure that the other students would be people like myself looking to further their education. Turns out I was wrong about that and the whole experience was a massive disaster.

1) My teacher's name was Mr. I4rf??savx12387#$5, and he was from Sri Lanka. I couldn't understand him...could't even make out his name. I was more focused on trying to make out the words and numbers he was saying and I completely missed ALL of the math concepts.

2) When the principal came in to introduce herself and explain the school policy and rules, she stopped after the 'no hats' rule and looked at one of the young students. He was wearing a hat, and he was peeved. What followed was an 11 minute argument with him not wanting to take off his hat and her threatening to expell him. Really? Did we just waste 11 minutes on this? Where the hell am I?

3) My calculator stopped working mid-class.

4) At least 80% of the class was in the 17 year old range. I was mistaken when I believed most people would be in my age bracket. All of them were there because they had messed around in math the previous semester and now they were messing around in adult ed. Great. Chatter in the back of the class, giggles to my left, some kid sleeping to my right, and there I was squinting my eyes and straining my ears so much trying to discern what the heck the teacher was going on about. I got a beast of a headache as a result of over-squinting/straining.

5) I lost all motivation and hope for success. I never went back to night school and now I'm waiting for my math book in the mail after registering for grade 9 math online. It cost me an arm and a leg, but I would rather suffer from a financial amputation than have to go back to that classroom. If my child ever wants to be an artist, he/she will also be a math genius. Never will I make anyone go to math class as an adult because it's plain wretched.

The last thing I missed out on as a teen was getting my teeth fixed. I had a few retainers here and there, but I didn't wear them often enough so my parents just figured I didn't want to put the effort in to having perfect teeth. The last orthodontics step was skipped, and I never got braces. My teeth aren't horrifying, but they aren't straight either. January is around the corner, and that's when the braces are coming. I want straight teeth so now I have to pay for it and have the train tracks put on my face for 2 years. My roommate is getting braces at the same time as I am. We shall live in metal harmony, complaining together, cleaning our teeth together and cursing our youth together.

I'm doing everything backwards. When I complete these tasks I shall give myself a big pat on the back and throw a glorious coming of age party. I'll let you know how the next few years go.

One Helmet, Two Swimsuits and a Lot of Courage.

One of my favourite people in the world is my roommate. She's a lovely, wiry, blond little gal with a joie de vivre that's unmatched. She's a yes person, up for anything, anytime.

We decided that we wanted to get active in our new community of Greektown and find a sport or recreational activity that we could both enjoy for the remainder of the summer. We thought that swimming in the evenings would be a super idea. My roommate is still learning how to swim and I love the water, so we agreed that this was our best bet. Just for the record, my roommate grew up in Calgary which explains the fact that she's only now getting comfortable in the water. She has come a long way and I'm very proud of her.

We got all geared up for our first swim, and then decided that it was a huge inconvenience to walk to the pool which is about 17 minutes walking from our apartment. We figured that bikes would be the best mode of transportation. It's not always good to have two people living together that sometimes think they're using their better judgement when nobody's there to tell them otherwise. We only have one bike. I will try and paint a picture for you.

My roomie is a petite person and I'm an average Joe, so we decided that she would be better suited to ride on the handle bars. I figured I'd give her the helmet because she's quite uncoordinated, she'll tell you that herself. Safety first! So she climbed onto the handle bars while I held the bike in place, comfortably (but for the bell slicing through her thigh) facing forward. I had the giant backpack on containing our towels, goggles and other swimming paraphernalia, so the backpack and my roomie were balancing each other out. With as much strength as I could muster up, I pushed off the ground with one foot and got my body onto the bike seat.

Although the roommate is small, it's extremely difficult to stabilize a bike that is both front and back heavy. It takes 100% longer to make a turn when a bike is packing as much weight as ours was. I think we probably looked like a shirpa load going down the street. We live in a great neighbourhood filled with lots of families and some children here and there, so the streets have multiple speed bumps. To my surprise, the first one we went over made my roomie yelp "Bebop!" I guess it was because the bell jabbed her thigh and swearing just isn't that cool anymore, so "Bebop" it was.

"Bebop!" turned into our horn since the bell on my bike was out of commission. When rolling down the street while doubling on a bike, you want people to get out of your way quickly because breaking just doesn't work. Momentum is up, steering control is down. "Bebop! Coming through!"...and the crowds would part. It was phenomenal. I'm pretty sure we looked like a pair of 'special' people trying to get to their swimming lessons. We didn't care, we were on fire! "Bebop"!

It took us about 7 minutes to get to the pool every night for a whole two weeks. We enjoyed the bike ride there, getting into our swimsuits, putting on our pink goggles and jumping into the cool summer water. We swam laps for 30 minutes a night, gasping for air and stopping here and there to listen to the awesome tunes the lifeguards were always playing. It made us feel good, we were part of the community and we felt super courageous for getting to the pool on our bike.

Then the air got colder as fall approached and swimming days were coming to an end. We were losing our motivation. Lucky for us the bike had two flat tires on our last attempt to head out. Poor thing, it was so abused. You've served us well bike, until next year. Now we're trying to get into running and I'm pretty sure the helmet will come in handy along with the use of "Bebop!" when jogging up behind someone. Love that roomie o' mine. We have fun.

Things Said and Done, Betes Style.

Being a person that has diabetes, I've discovered many things about myself that put me in a category of my own. These are a few things that I've experienced over the years that a non-diabetic would probably never see (or do) during their lifetime:

1) Watch your finger spray a line of blood across your best shirt (this is after taking a blood sugar of course, my fingers don't just spontaneously combust).

2) Chug a HUGE glass of water mixed with about a cup of sugar.

3) Out of nervousness, tell your skydiving teacher (just before jumping out of the plane) that you're diabetic and that your sugar may drop severely while in the air and expect him to be okay with it.

4) Eat everything in the fridge in the middle of the night due to a low blood sugar, while staying over at your friends parents' place.

5) Pee in your bed (and I mean really pee your bed, like a litre of pee) in the middle of the night due to a high blood sugar. I was 21 years old when this happened and my boyfriend at the time was sleeping soundly next to me. Let me tell you, it was mortifying.

6) Tell your dentist you have diabetes and that's probably the reason why you have a cavity (didn't get away with that one).

7) Use your diabetes to get out of an oral presentation in boarding school and then have to sleep in the infirmary for two days so the school nurse could keep an eye on you.

8) Argue with your university professor about his use of Type 1 and Type 2 diabetes terms in front of everyone during a lecture. He was actually embarassed, and I felt bad...after the fact.

9) Become acutely aware of the amount of carbs in a banana, a pancake, a bowl of pasta, a slice of pineapple, a Starbucks hot chocolate, a cube of fudge (changes depending on size of said cube), anything really. I'm a whiz at carb counting yet I failed grade 9 math. It's still a mystery to me.

10) And last but not least, karate kick a co-workers chair while yelling "NO FOOD!?!?" after having run across the office to a department that usually has some snacks on their filing cabinet. It was very inappropriate and I got a few grumbles after doing that. Sometimes I get a bit aggressive and mouthy when my sugar is low.

All this to say that my diabetes has added a dash of colour to my life. 18 years of having diabetes can get tiresome at times but I keep on trekking and karate chopping, and I'm just fine. There are many more things that I've said or done while under the influence of too much insulin or too much sugar, but the ones listed are some of my favourites.

And for all of you non-diabetics out there: the next time you ask me if I'm going to go into a 'diabetic coma' right before I bite into a lovely piece of 'Death By Chocolate' cake, please watch yourselves. My sugar may be low right in that very moment and I won't be able to refrain from calling you a dolt and then eating my piece of cake, and yours too.

My insulin pump has been wrongly identified as a beeper among other things, on more than one occasion.

Puppy Love and Cat Punches.

I am the proud mom of a cat and dog who secretly want to cuddle and kill each other, all in one movement. This is my dog Swagger. He's half Shepherd, and half pitbull, but the second half doesn't matter.


Swagger

He has a wonky ear and two white hairs on his back that my roommate continuously tries to pull out. Sometimes he runs so quickly that his legs can't keep up and he ends up nose-diving, somersaulting through the dirt. This was witnessed by me just three weeks ago. His tumble was followed by a blood trail to the animal clinic where they tricked him with a cookie and pulled the remainder of his toe nail off. They wrapped his paw in a pink bandage with blue hearts on it. He's really suspicious of the vet now.

This is my cat Hooligan. She is the direct heir to the throne of England. If she could speak she would have an English accent. She's beautiful and she knows it. She's freakishly smart and sometimes I think she's judging me.

Hooligan

I got Hooligan about 2 years before Swagger arrived. Usually a cat will attack an unknown dog intruder or run for its life. Not Hooligan. The first time Swagger came home she just sat in the doorway looking at him, completely disgusted. No fight or flight...she was trying to stare him down.

After a couple of weeks of getting used to each other Hooligan started to take advantage of little 5 month old Swagger. For example, I put her cat food on a small table to make it impossible for him to reach. He was standing next to said table and when Hooligan finished her food she swiftly jumped off the table and used Swagger's back as a stepping stone to the floor. She just walked off with an air of disdain on her face. Swagger on the other hand looked like someone had slapped him. He had no clue what had happened, but you could tell he was horrified at the possibility that the cat may have used his back as makeshift launching pad.

Now that Swagger is bigger and a bit more brave, he actually tries to play with the cat. Sometimes she looks defeated and rolls on her back, and other times she'll let him have it. Just the other evening my roommate, Hooligan and I were all curled up on the couch watching Marley and Me when Swagger came over for some affection from the cat. He jammed his nose in her face and before we knew it she was hanging off of his cheek. She had Swagger in a death grip between her teeth and he didn't move an inch. He stared at us wide eyed and extremely concerned. More concerned than I have ever seen a dog look. Once she knew he got the point she released his face, turned her back to him and proceeded to have a bath. Swagger sauntered off to his crate and snuggled with his stuffed squirrel.

It's a love hate relationship. Swagger adores Hooligan and wants to play with her even if it means being cat-punched or having his cheeks bitten. Hooligan tolerates his presence and when she's feeling extra affectionate she'll walk by him and lean ever so slightly his way, brushing up against his leg. A little love nudge.

My cat may be a bit judgmental but ultimately she loves me. She has been by my side through tough times, curling up across my neck in the night and rattling my wind pipe with her purr. She let's me know that everything will be okay. Swagger brings love and structure into my life, pulling me out of my lazy sleep-in mornings and replacing them with a jaunt through the park, some ball throwing for good measure and a loyalty that I won't ever find elsewhere. What a pair. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

Dear Mr. Subway Voice,

I am completely perplexed by the fact that I can't understand what you're saying. Ever.

Mr. Subway Voice, why do you only speak in half words? I know that if I'm sitting at one of the few subway stops in the city for more than a minute or so your voice will start up. As soon as I hear you the hairs on my arms stand on end and my blood boils. Why would you even bother talking if nobody can make out what it is you're saying? What may I ask, is the point?

Sometimes I can piece together the meaning of what you're trying to say.
"No serv...Spad...apolo...delay...shut" usually means that there's no service between Spadina and some other subway stop, and that you apologize for the delay and that there's a shuttle service running. "Long... medic em...Younge" usually means that there's a longer than normal wait time for subway service due to a medical emergency at Yonge station. This stringing together of words only happens if I'm lucky though. Most of the time your subway passengers aren't that fortunate when it comes to understanding your announcements.

Mr. Subway Voice, would you please put some money into getting some new speakers? I mean really. Why even bother having the announcer job when it makes your passengers feel more cranky than they already are? When you pipe up after a 5 minute wait and you're totally incomprehensible, it makes me want to climb up to the crackly speaker and yell into it with all my might, "HEY MR. SUBWAY VOICE! WE CAN'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE SAYING"!!!

You make me so angry that I feel the need to drop the "F" bomb.

This morning I actually mimicked you out loud after you spoke, while waiting at Castle Frank station due to another delay. I got a giggle or two from some other passengers so this has become my new coping mechanism in dealing with you. It beats trying to climb up the subway car wall to the speaker and then swearing at you in front of everyone.

Your biggest fan,
Chelsea

I Will Never Say "I Don't Believe".

I think I'm one of those lucky people that has kept a good portion of my childhood imagination active to this day. I still believe (well, I would never say "I don't believe") in a lot of things that people would consider weird and maybe a bit disturbing (cough, cough, fairies, cough, witches), but that's fine by me because believing in them is safer than not believing.

When I was about 7 or so, I had a friend named Brunton, and he was a unicorn. This fact was propelled by my dad who gave me a unicorn book by Robert Vavra, the famous horse photographer. After seeing how taken by unicorns I was, my dad encouraged me to write a letter to the unicorn that he had seen at night, trotting across our snowy backyard that winter. I was so freaking excited, the type of excitement that only a 7 year old can feel.

It took me a month to gather the courage to post that letter on the inside of my bedroom window. I taped it facing out so that the unicorns could read it without having to come into my bedroom which I determined would have been difficult and inconvenient for them. I posted it on a snowy Saturday morning, giving the unicorns ample time to respond to me by the next day. I knew they would come at night, as unicorn sightings never happened during the day. Everyone knows that.

I woke up the next morning, and was disappointed to find that my letter was still in the same spot, and there was nothing telling me that there had been a unicorn around. I waited for days and weeks. I woke up every morning with an excitement in my heart that got me out of bed faster than Christmas morning.

About four weeks passed and then one fine sunny morning something had changed. I looked over at my window expecting my piece of paper to be there but instead, wedged on the outside of my window between the ledge and the frame was a small folded note wrapped in a beautiful green ribbon. I leapt out of bed, ran down the hall, jumped into my winter boots and ran out the front door in my fleece one-piece pajamas (they had horses on them, just for the record). I ran towards my window and took the letter from it's ledge then ran back inside, right back into bed. I grabbed my flashlight, threw my duvet over my head and undid the beautiful green satin ribbon. The paper was crunchy and translucent, it was obviously some kind of magical tracing paper. I read the letter taking in each word with absolute admiration for my four-legged friend. It was filled with secrets about the unicorn world which to this day I have never shared with anyone. This breach of trust would clearly threaten their survival.

The letter was signed Brunton and a small hoof print took up the bottom part of the page. He was out there, he thought I was cool, and I was one happy kid. I didn't tell anyone about my letter until I was a young adult.

Sadly I lost the letter in "The Great Basement Flood of 2005" but it's imprinted word for word in my mind. The whole experience led me towards a love of the mythical world and a belief, (or a refusal to say "I don't believe") in hidden beings.

My dad is a good man.

P.S. Unicorns exist.

Joggers. The Bobo Kind.

You know what I don't understand? People who go out jogging on the busiest streets in the city.

I'm out there, already a bit grumpy for having to weave my way through the mess of people, strollers, groups of teens with interlinked arms, dogs...and then you have this jogger, the one wearing the short shorts and the tight white t-shirt with bulging arm muscles showing through and a dainty little bounce in his step. Coming straight for me, I can see that the crowds are parting for him, making room for this person who seems to be on a roll with his jogging time as he glances at his watch every 5 seconds or so. It looks like he's hard at work, music pumping in his ears, sweat coming off of his face, white t-shirt has a translucent streak between his man boobs, sorry, pecks, and nobody wants to get in his way.

Well, I can spot these jogger types from miles away, and let me tell you, I dig my heels in and i stand my ground. I have about three shopping bags with me, a purse that weighs the same as a baby, and I'm on a mission to buy that hat I saw at that store about a week back. I'm walking with a purpose and I will not stray from my path for some goofy dude that thinks he's awesome.

The stare down begins, he can see me seeing him, and then he glances at his watch to make sure he's still making good time. He gets closer and closer, and the sidewalk is so narrow, there's no way his bulging muscles and my bulging shopping bags can both share this space. I battle onwards and lean forward into my walk as I put my focused face on. That jogger knows I won't be moving out of his way. A few feet away from him, I'm definitely at the point of no return and I can't just step off the sidewalk and into the road to let him pass by as this may cause a sweaty collision of muscle and brand new Urban Outfitter shoes. With a huge sigh and a screw-you look, he bounces off the sidewalk, light as a fairy on his feet, and jogs passed me. A few steps later, he's back on track, parting the crowds and glancing at his watch, oh, and grabbing the hem of his shirt and stretching it upwards passed his nipples to dab away the sweat pool forming on his face. Gross.

I won't let those cocky-type joggers, the one's that don't even really fit the profile of a jogger but instead look like bench pressers, the one's that jog through the most crowded streets in Toronto on a Saturday afternoon just to be seen...I won't let them get away with forcing me off the sidewalk. One point for me bobo muscle man jogger, and zero for you.

A Long Time Coming.

Today I'm taking my road test to get my driver's licence, the G2 portion of it. I went to boarding school when I was younger, so I missed out on doing my driver's ed at that time, then I moved to the city for university and never needed to drive. Now I find myself wanting to get out of the city on a regular basis, so it's time to get a move on. It has been a long time coming and finally about 3 weeks ago I was booked to take my road test. This is what happened.

I woke up in the morning feeling well rested and extra chirpy, knowing that I would finally be getting my licence that day. Made my coffee, took the dog out for a walk, I was already feeling very accomplished and successful. Got dressed in my Sunday's best, and headed to work with a smile on my face. My appointment was booked for 3:30pm, and when 1:00pm rolled around, I decided to Google map the location of the drive test. It would take me 27 minutes to get there.

Going through my checklist of what I needed to have with me (of course I did this at 1 in the afternoon from work, as opposed to making sure I had everything prior to leaving home in the morning), it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't have my glasses. My knees went a little weak as the joy and feelings of success drained out of me. Literally, I could feel it all leave me, the chirpiness and the pep in my step was gone. What a complete douche bag. Really? Did you really forget your glasses at home this morning? The frantic rummage through my purse began, out came the address book (yes, I still use a paper address book), my water bottle, papers, my wallet (quick check in the wallet to make sure I actually had my licence with me), my lunch bag, my umbrella, my hand cream, pens, tampons, lip gloss...my glasses were nowhere in sight. No pun intended.

There was only one thing I could do. Let me ask you, would you be weirded out if you got an all-staff email from a co-worker asking anyone if they had a pair of distance glasses to borrow for a driving test? Well, I sent that good old email out, and I got at least six responses back from people asking what part of the city I would be driving in, so that they could avoid that area. Anyway, a lovely email from one of our VP's ensured I could have her pair of glasses in my pocket or on my face within 10 minutes. So, off I go to the drive centre with a tiny pair of glasses that make me look like a cartoon character, with 1 hour to spare. I got to the drive centre 50 minutes later (Google maps you suck!), got to the counter, and this larger than life man looked at his watch and said I was 10 minutes early. I confirmed this fact with a sigh of relief, then he continued on telling me that I was supposed to be there 15 minutes early to leave some time to process papers. What the..."are you joking?" I asked. Nope, the solemn look on his face clearly told me this was no joke.

In the end, I lost my $40 for the first drive test I booked, and had to pay another $40 to rebook it for today. I also had a week of questioning from co-workers asking how my drive test went, and me having to explain a million times over that I didn't get my licence not because I failed the test but because on that day, I was a failure at life in general. Two good things came of it: I'm now friends with a VP at work, and I haven't left my glasses behind since then.

Wish me luck today.

Update: 5:53pm on the same day

Who knew you needed to provide your own car for the road test? In short, I went to the drive centre well ahead of schedule, glasses on my face, licence (G1) in hand eager to get started. "I'm sorry, you don't have a car? And you're here for the road test? Ma'am, you need a car to do the road test. Is it the actual driving road test you're here for?"
I'm sorry, did I studder? is what I felt like saying, but alas, I just left without saying a word. I don't think I'm meant to have a licence.

My Undeniable Bloodline.

Maybe some of you can relate, it's also highly possible that nobody can relate at all. Not even close.

I have a crazy family. I say this with love and affection, and a twinge of bitterness for the disconnect and distance I have with some of my family members.

A little bit of background is necessary for you to understand the brief interaction I had with a few of them this past Saturday afternoon. My cousin and I used to be close when we were younger; we are two years apart. Because my parents are a bit nutty and decided to uproot my sister and I and move to Honduras when I was a young teen, I lost touch with my cousin. I have been living in Toronto for four years now, and it just so happens that my cousin lives down the street from me. I have seen her a total of three times while living here, and prior to that it had been at least 10 years since I had seen her last. You can imagine it's all a bit awkward.

On Saturday, I went to my cousin's apartment for lunch, along with my aunt and my cousin's father, whom I hadn't seen since I was about 7 years old. I was prepared for some awkwardness, some buttons being pushed, and some general discomfort. This is what occurred.

I was greeted by my aunt, a tiny lady with cloud white hair and an attitude to beat the band. We hugged, exchanged a sentence or two, and then she proceeded to pull a small stuffed animal from her purse. She was wide eyed as she held the cat in front of her, and started giggling, a crazy little giggle, one part sweet and the other part a bit mischievous with a slight lip curl. Then, with a burst of delight, she squeezed the cat and it began to laugh hysterically, a wild long winded laugh that I couldn't help but enjoy. After wiping away our laugh tears and making the obvious statement of "it's so great to see you again, I can't believe this much time has gone by!" I sat down at the table and the wine began to flow. If I was going to fit in with the crazies (term of endearment), I had to have a few. Slight side note: I am most definitely part of the crazies, my inner crazy has just been somewhat dormant for the past little while. One time I threw a drink in a bartenders face. Now that's crazy. Another time, I jumped out of a cab without paying. And the last crazy thing I'll mention is the time I threw a frying pan out the window of my apartment. All high on the crazy scale, right? Or at least on the wild scale?

My cousin made some pasta and my aunt probed me about my mom and dad, about the past in general, chit chat, chitty chitty chat. Once the pasta was ready, my "uncle" got up to serve it, and asked my cousin if she wanted pasta and stew, or just stew on its own. This was my cousin's response. She stood up and belted out: "this is what pasta does for me"!!! and then followed her statement with the most ridiculous dance I have ever seen...fist punches towards the floor with a mix of the running man and a big old smile on her face while saying "this is how pasta makes me feel, I don't eat pasta"!!! What the...? I simply love her. I can't explain what it means to me to see someone express the fact that they don't eat pasta through dance. My cousin's boyfriend was at the table silently giggling, shaking his head."Thank God your family is as crazy as we are!" my cousin chimed while looking at her boyfriend as she continued punching the air.

Once the pasta and stew were served and we had poured some more wine, a cry was heard from the other side of the table. My uncle was looking at his sleeve with a hurt expression on his face. He had a stew spatter on his shirt. This is what he did. He took his glass of water and held it over the spatter, while holding his entire arm over his bowl, carefully pouring the water onto the spatter, making sure that all liquids landed back into the stew and not on the tablecloth. We all looked on with absolute amazement. The process was meticulous. Then he put his water glass down, lifted his sleeve to his mouth, and began licking the spatter/water stain, sucking on it, and then rubbed it with his index finger. "Damn it! I made it worse!" This statement was swiftly followed by the fastest shirt removal I've ever seen. Shirt off, spatter located, spattered area in water glass, more sucking on shirt. Looking over at my bare chested uncle and his rapid save-the-shirt movements, I almost peed my pants laughing. And I'm not using that as an expression. My cousin looked away in horror, a feeling which was then joined by her hysterical laughter, and a "Jesus" from my aunt.

After the stew, a few more glasses of wine ensued and some more family chatter was passed around. We talked about age, we talked about jobs, apartments, animals, muay Thai, the fact that I had stew on my chin that had been there for 5 minutes. Then I noticed my lovely aunt was no longer at the table, and hadn't been for about half an hour. I asked where she was, and my cousin said "one sec, I think I know", as she got up and walked down the hall. She poked her head into the living room, then wandered back towards us. "Yep, she capsized". Ummm...what!? My aunt "capsized" at a luncheon. She snuck away and passed out on the couch. She is damn brilliant. Next time I'm at a luncheon or dinner and I'm feeling somewhat tired from a long day and a few glasses of wine, I'm done. I'm going to find the closest couch to me, and I'm going to fall asleep on it. Why not?

All in all I had a fabulous time, and that was just a small glimpse into the window of my family life. Why not act out your emotions through dance, and slurp out stew stains from the shirt you should be wearing? Why not carry around a little stuffed cat toy in your purse to make people laugh? And why the hell would you stop yourself from sneaking away and passing out on a couch when you've had enough? I love each and every one of them to no end, and no amount of time between visits could ever change that. Some would say their behaviour is inappropriate, but I say I would rather be part of the crazies than be an outsider looking in. They are family after all.

Toronto and I Are Breaking Up...Officially.

Dearest Toronto,

I am over you. I feel betrayed and used by you, and I can no longer continue on this way, knowing that you just don’t care. Toronto, you are having an identity crisis and I can no longer play along like it doesn’t affect me. I know who I am, and I don’t have to look elsewhere to figure out what I want to look like, how I should act, and how I want to be perceived. I am unique, I am an individual, and I have a flare for life that you are clearly lacking.

Toronto, you suck money out of me as if it grows on trees. I try to treat you with respect by taking the TTC, but you take and take and don’t give anything back. The TTC is crumbling, and it has become common practice in my workplace to use the TTC as an excuse for being late for work. I pay you $121.00 a month, but your subway breaks down and your streetcars and buses are completely unreliable. Sometimes they don’t come at all. The worst part is that you have made a habit of this kind of behaviour. You take my money and you give back little in return. I cannot afford to live on my own here, so I have a roommate. I work for a non-profit, so I’m on a tight budget.  Why would you charge $121.00 to watch me take your ridiculous subway (and fail at it), the one that was built with two lines, one of which is a “U” with the parallel sides running two blocks apart? Who thought that was a good design idea?

I am leaving you because I really can’t stand the fact that you have no culture, no individuality, and your social scene is completely appalling. I went to a fundraising gala, and apparently you thought it was cool to show up just to be seen. How completely shallow of you. You didn’t even know what charity was hosting the fundraiser, and you just looked passed me while I was talking to you, trying to spot anyone you knew.  I will have no part in this behaviour, in this “socie” scene; I have given up trying to fit in with your crowd. I’m breaking up with you because everyone within your circle is absorbed with their phone. Just yesterday, two people bumped into me on the sidewalk while they were texting. On top of that, they were moving in the same direction as I was. Toronto, you have made it so that I can’t say hello to anyone while walking down the street, as it scares people, and makes them feel uncomfortable. God forbid I make eye contact with anyone on your subway. Oh wait...everyone is on their phone anyway.

Toronto, I just can’t understand the new leader you have recently chosen to follow. The fact that Mr. Ford is a leader at all completely blows my mind. I blame uninformed voting and ignorance, and this just goes to show that you are easily influenced and quite passive. Mr. Ford has the maturity and thought process of an adolescent boy and the looks of someone that doesn’t give a damn about health. Good job Toronto, you’re being led by a loud-mouthed, fat-faced fool. I really do want the best for you Toronto, but when you pull a stunt like this, I have no choice but to throw my hands in the air. It’s laughable really.

On the flip side, you do have some great qualities and this is why I have stood by your side for four years, but it’s not worth it for me anymore. I can’t go on like everything is okay, because it just isn’t. When it gets to the point where I'm stressed out about your attitude and your behaviour, and when I've given you numerous opportunities and chances to be better but nothing has happened,  I then close the door and move on. I know break-ups can be rough and awkward at times, and it will be difficult for me to stick with my friends that are a part of your circle, but for my own sanity and growth, I must leave you behind.
Goodbye Toronto, I hope you’re happy and you find what you’re looking for.

Sarcastic branding. It must be.