Spartan Sprint

Sunday was the much anticipated Spartan Race. Heck yes, it was.

Sandwiched between two beautiful days, Sunday rained cats and dogs (not literally) which didn't exactly add to the experience, but certainly made things interesting. Hardwood Hills is well known for it's "difficult terrain" (home to the Canadian national mountain bike competition) and provided quite the challenge in and of itself. While 5km doesn't seem like much of a hike anymore, add a continuous cycle of hills, 15 random obsticles, and torrential downpour and you have yourself a race.

In and amongst the running and competitor dodging we had:

Rope ladders
Camouflage nets
Sandbags
Various walls of different sizes and materials
Spear tosses
Weight pulls
Confined spaces
And mud. Lots and lots (and lots) of hip deep, thick, squishy mud.

I'm not selling this race very well, but seriously: it was so much fun! Everyone was so excited to be there, helping each other along the way and sharing in the explitives ("Holy f*ck, did I just lose my shoe?") Someone was kind enough to unhook my hair from the barbed wire I was army crawling under, and in return I flicked a beatle off the girl in the mud in front of me. Nice, huh?

By the time we were through (1:04 for me, 1:13 for Orange... girls rule... sorry, had to say it) I was head-to-toe muck. The shoes were a write off but a quick rinse under the fire hose and I was ready for my close up!

If you get a chance, totally sign up for one of these events. Or, as my grandmother said in her email:

"Rather you than me in your choice of 'recreation' yesterday. In the same class as banging your head against a wall. It’s so nice when you can stop."

Why can I not buy a small can of black beans?

I don't want to spend 4 hours boiling my own, and I don't need 600 mL of them!? I'm one person (most of the time) and can't possibly eat 5000 of anything, let alone beans of any sort (and nor should I if you know what I mean...)

Has no one in the bean industry thought of this? I mean, seriously people.

I don't ask for much...

So, this is what I'm doing this weekend...

You?

*jumpy clappy hands*

I'm pretty pumped. Although I'm not sure how I feel about "electric shocks"...?

*shifty eyes*

Date night

It was a beautiful weekend, and as a surprise Orange arranged for a boat tour of the local "pond". It was a lovely sentiment, and would have been a lovely way to spend the evening if not for the two beast children sailing along beside us with their mother. Parenting tip from a non-mother: don't give your two and four year-old toddlers chocolate chip muffins the size of their heads before boarding a small water craft and then repeatedly plying them with the the promise of ice cream "if they behave themselves." The result?

"I WANT ICE CREAM! I. WANT. ICEEEEE CREEEEEEAMMMM!"

Like I said, beast children.

Sail boats in the harbour

Sunset cruise

Captain Byron

After disembarking our 12' bathtub, we struggled to escape the howling children who were at this point literally (literally...) clinging to the ice cream stand wailing so loudly I'm sure only dogs and bees could hear them. We dodged left, and right, and found ourselves drawn to some hypnotizing rhythmic beat... where was it coming from, you ask? 

The outdoor roller disco.

...

...

OMGPONIES?!?!!!

How did I not know this was in my city? Complete with live DJ, and roller pimps rocking their "high 'n' tights" and khaki pants, reliving their glory years. Amazing. If only Orange kept spare socks in his trunk instead of 40 lbs of protein powder and back issues of Maclean's magazine we would have jumped on board and rented us some old school skates (no inline skates permitted on this rink!)

Next time. Orange, you definitely get a gold star for this one. Amazing date night pick (monster children notwithstanding, but I can hardly fault you for them...)

I read a lot of book reviews...

Like, A LOT of book reviews. I probably work through 3 publishing journals a week not to mention a myriad of other sources. And this has to be one of the worst plot lines I have ever seen:

Playing with Matches by Carolyn Wall (July 2012)

Publisher's Weekly: "Wall’s stunning second novel (after Sweeping Up Glass) tells the heart-wrenching tale of Clea Shine, a precocious girl growing up in the shadow of a northern Mississippi prison in the 1980s. Clea, a white girl, has always lived with her black “aunt” Jerusha and Jerusha’s sister in False River, a stone’s throw from the house where her mother frequently entertains guards from the prison and other local men. Though she loves Auntie, Clea’s longing for her mother often sends her across Potato Shed Road, where she sees too much and gets too little from her mother. Meanwhile, Clea consorts with colorful characters including separated conjoined twins born with three arms between them, a boy who lives in a tree, and another boy being held captive under a neighbor’s house. Traumatized and heartsick, 12-year-old Clea flees after she sets fire to her mother’s house, with disastrous results, and only returns to False River two decades later when a tropical storm destroys her own house and she discovers that her husband is unfaithful. Wall’s talent and empathy are evident in this story of learning to forgive."

Really? I'm not sure who should be punished for this: the reviewer or the publisher who sent it to print? Not even the cover can save this hot mess.

Of course I'm ordering it...

I have rebounded back into a relationship with Running.

It was too hard to stay away, what with the sun shining, the warm air smelling of yummy BBQ, and the trees heavy with fat green leaves. That and the funk I've been in was becoming a huge drag and getting my run on seems to have provided some much needed medicine. Because being outside in this weather is good for my soul; I can feel it from my tippie toes to my fringe. So we're both trying this time around: I have promised to give Running more attention, and Running has promised to stop being such a d*ck. It's a work in progress, clearly.

But the truth is I get itchy to strap on my sneaks when the sunshine bursts back on the scene. Amazingly, most other things take a back seat: TV, gossip blogs, gardening, eating... Truly, I think of nothing else when I'm in the mood to run. I liken it to a crack addict looking for her next score, only I'm not a crack addict and I likely won't have to pimp my goodies to pay for my habit. Speaking of which...

In an effort to hold up my end of the bargain I treated myself to a new pair of kicks. They're super pink, trust me I know. But for the record, I always by the same shoe so don't really have much choice in the colour. I would say if more people bought runners based on fit and feel than colour, style, or label, we'd all be much faster and have happier feet. But spending $170 on a single pair of shoes gives me the sweats (see HERE). This time around, however, while driving away from the store I managed to amortizing the cost in my head. This is how my elementary math skills justify the expense:

S = 1 pair of swish new kicks
K = supa' fast kilometers logged
D = days per week
W = weeks per year

S

                      _______________________ = $0.18 per K

(6K x 3D [per W]) x 52W

And this doesn't factor in my races. Speaking of which, Orange and his brother and I have registered ourselves for THIS. The video is a bit melodramatic, I know, but I'm pretty stoked. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into mind you, with the exception of the stories Cousin Toque has regaled on me from a similar race in the Capital. But I figure if I can survive being beaten by a unicyclist in the Paris to Ancaster bike race, I'm sure I can survive this (yes, yes, I know, I cried the entire last 5km of that bloody race, but I blame the volunteers... They kept telling me I was "near the end" when I so wasn't...  stupid 10 year-olds and their damned enthusiasm...)

Hamburgler

Lil C is a worrier. He comes by it naturally, though, what with the long line of worried people in our family (Pop, me, Beef... we all worry...) Why am I telling you this? Because it's pertinent information for the following hilaripuss story:

Last night the Beefs treated themselves to dinner out--the coziness of a McDonald's booth in celebration of McHappy Day. Happy Meals, play place, ice cream cones... All good, right? Not so much. Because it was McHappy Day, McDonald's brought out all the stops including a special visit from the McDonald's characters, i.e. Birdie, Grimace, Ronald, and the dreaded Hamburgler.

"Who's that?" asks Lil C.
"That's the Hamburgler," replies Mr. Beef. "He steals your hamburgers."

You don't tell a worried kid that the man with the uncomfortably oversized head and bandit mask is going to steal your meal.

I'm told Lil C spent the entire dinner with is left hand covering his nuggets (the fact the guy's name is "Hamburgler" and C was eating "nuggets" is a mute point) looking precariously over his shoulder for the dreaded thief, slipping his hand quietly underneath to grab a quick bite before returning to his watchful guard.

I can just imagine what will transpire when we get to the Tooth Fairy... "Oh yeah, she's the chick that sneaks into your room at night while you're sleeping and STEALS YOUR TEETH!"

Dear Orange:

Love,

Library Lady

Whales

I have trouble conceptualizing the size of a blue whale. I always have. I blame it on the fact they are so reclusive. You don't see a lot of blue whales in Telus commercials or modeling for Old Navy like you do your cheetah and your pot bellied pig. They're loners, those blue whales. They float around in parts of oceans I don't get to very often and do their "maaaaaoooooooooooohhhhhheeeeehhhnnnn" thing, eating their krill. I don't suppose I'll be seeing a blue whale anytime soon.

I get it, they're big. They're the biggest. But... What does that mean exactly? And please don't tell me I ought to "google" the answer. I've done this. And a picture comparing the size of a blue whale to a Tyrannosaurus Rex is not helpful because I won't be seeing one of those anytime soon either. They are elusive to me, and I appreciate that about them... Like they're not all "look at me, I'm a blue whale, I'm the biggest." They just are. And that makes them way cooler. Not like those show-off dolphins.

In my esteemed opinion...

... There is very little that Bill Murray can't do. Have you seen What About Bob? The Man Who Knew Too Little? Fantastic Mr. Fox? Ghost Busters? The Life Aquatic for crying out loud?

"Son of a b*tch, I'm sick of these dolphins."

Amazeballs.

He's totally bizarre in all of these films which is perhaps why I love him because secretly I know I"m bizarre, too. For example, sometimes in an effort to zone out I watch movie trailers on my iPad (if you don't have the IMDB app, get it). Weird, I know. There are a myriad of other things I could be doing with my time, like shopping for curtains or painting the back room or baking something nice for someone nice. Instead I watch movie trailers. And this little ditty co-staring Bill (amongst many other hilaripuss actors) immediately caught my eye:



Oh, I will be seeing this. Yes sir. Perhaps more than once.

Like mother like son.

At least I have an excuse... I worked that day! I hardly call militantly eyeballing the bird feeder and negotiating one's girth back and forth between the couch and food bowl a tiring series of events.

Oh, but I lurve him and all his pear-shaped chub.

I really, really, really hate the expression "friendly reminder" or even worse "gentle reminder".

Michael Lewis, I can't quit you!

I'm trying to listen to a "smart person's" book on CD during my commute to work instead of my regularly scheduled program of morning radio and traffic reports. But my facade is crumbling... I'm not a smart person, nor do I play one on TV, and my attention span for this particular subject matter (sub prime bonds and real estate derivative markets) is waning. The first CD is 50 minutes long and I have rewound it three times today alone.

What can I say? Economics are not my forte. But I am determined... Now if only I could convince BG to commute with me and explain what I don't understand (the majority) and pat me on the back when I do (not much).

p.s. I have changed something on the blog ever so slight but ever, ever, ever so important... Can you guess?!

Feed

I read a book for a Masters class called Feed by M.T. Anderson--an ironic satire set in a future world where a media feed is inserted directly into people's brains when they are babies. The result is a chilling consumer society where empty-headed teenagers are obsessively driven by fashion, shopping, the pursuit of entertainment, and by constant self-destructive customized murmurs in their brains of encouragement to buy, buy, buy...

Heavy, yeah? But so good. So, so good.

I remember the class discussion: those who argued the premise was too far fetched and completely science fiction, and on the flip, those who knew felt were weren't far off. I was with side B: we would eventually succumb to a world where we are joined literally and figuratively to our technology. And this was before every hand held a Blackberry, every smartphone was a charge card, and every person (and their dog) had a Facebook account.

For the record, you will never receive a poke from Bert nor I.

Today's Twitter feed (hmm... just noticing the irony there...) brought this little gem to my attention:

Google Owns Your Soul

*shivers*

This is f*cky. And so... I don't know... Wrong? Am I alone here?

S'rsly. Marshall McLuhan, if you could see us now.

Many things with no things in common

Sometimes I secretly worry I'm an elderly person in a 30-something body. I eat a lot of soup, for example, and am somewhat obsessive about my bran intake. I like to watch Antiques Roadshow (as I type it's on the TV in front of me, and two individuals in motorized wheelchairs are arguing over the age of a walnut pie safe..) And I spend a lot of time in my own head debating where exactly in my garden I should place my garden gnome (as it stands he's in a lilly patch but I'm not yet satisfied he's positioned for maximum exposure. He'll no doubt migrate to the daisies before week's end...)

Last night Bert made his way into the bedroom in the wee hours of the early morn to throw up a ribbon. He has a tendency to do this, particularly when he's been into my wrapping supplies or if he's spent a considerable amount of time in the back room with the plants. He can be clear on the other side of the house and he'll seek me out to make it known he's throwing up. On one hand, ew. On the other, I'm kind of flattered he feels the need to share this with me...? Afterall, when I'm sick I want my mommy, too...

This weekend we met a new addition to the family, and what a pumpkin she was. But perhaps my favorite part of meeting her was Lil' C's reaction: at one point we were sitting on the floor of the overstuffed living room, me with 7-month old baby Hannah in my lap, when he came real close and quietly sang the alphabet, followed by Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He then proceeded around the room (in his cords and button down plaid shirt), introducing himself to those he didn't know ("So what is your name? My name is [Lil' C]" and when appropriate, slipping in his legendary knock-knock joke:

Lil C': Knock knock...
Unsuspecting victim: Who's there?
LC: Orange...
UV: Orange who?
LC: Orange banana!

[diabolical LC laughter]

For those of you concerned I have just sucked some of the joy out of a little boy's life by giving away the punch line of his favorite joke, have no fear. He will unabashedly share this gem with you over and over and over again, consecutively, every minute on the minute, regardless of how many times you've heard it. I am confident my leak won't affect his presentation.

p.s. What is it about oranges and bananas that little people find so funny? I'm more of a kumquat girl, myself.

Whistler 2012

So long overdue, I know. March is a gong show in the book hustling business so I'm blaming my lack of interest in blogging on my jam packed schedule. That and the beautiful sunshine in what I think we can safely start referring to as the  So'On banana-belt.

Side note: I can't spell the word banana without thinking of that Gwen Stefani song, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Anywho... Our Whistler trip was ridiculous funtabulous. In the words of Penny, she be "ballsmazing."

Our flight left early Saturday and while we were there well within the required time to fly nationally, Air Canada continues to be one of the most inefficient airlines of all time. If you check in online the night before your flight and print your boarding pass, why should you then have to stand in a one-hour line up to check your bag? How is this efficient? This subsequent line up and the ridiculousness of Pearson actually required us to run for our flight as while Orange was being frisked by airport security for drugs et al they announced "all passengers on flight X direct to Vancouver should now be aboard the aircraft." Feck.

So I booked it and left Orange to totter on behind me, shoes in one hand, death grip on his pants with another, because yeah, he's hiding nitro glycerin in his belt buckle. Needless to say when the drink cart came around at 8:00 am we ordered beer.

Although I spent four years out West, I had never been to Vancouver. I am in love--a beautiful city full of beautiful people. One day tacked onto either end of our trip wasn't enough. Lady G, if you're still reading I'm totally jealous of your set up!

Our hotel was smack in the middle of downtown and was "pinkies up posh" (as in, there were Bentley's and Ferrari's in the driveway...) And as Orange is a quadruple platinum member, they gave us a top floor room, turn down service, fancy-schmany glass bottled water, mixed nuts, and a selection of Purdy's chocolates every night we stayed. Aside from one small goof whereby we took the ferry to North Vancouver thinking we were off to Granville Island, the day was wonderful.

We took a bus to Whistler on Sunday and the day was warm and clear. The views on the Sea-to-Sky Highway were fantastic, and as we were two of five people on the entire bus the driver gave us the guided tour. We arrived at the Fairmont and checked in. They have this groovy ski-in-ski-out service whereby you check your skis and boots with them and they'll take care of them for the week (all you have to do is traipse down in your sock feet in the morning and they more or less put your boots on for you!) We immediately headed out for a bite to eat in the sunshine of a patio.

And then we saw these. Had to have one, right? S'good. And totally worth the $30 a drink we paid for them. Yeah, that's right... $30 a pop. The rest of the events on this day (and some of the next) are vague...

...
...
...

*ahem*

For the record, these aren't all ours...

We skied Monday, Tuesday and on Wednesday did Fresh Tracks--a limited number of people are allowed to take a gondola up the mountain at 7:00 am before the lifts open for others, they serve you a beautiful breakfast, and then ring a bell, the signal for you to take the first run of the day through the previous evening's powder snow. As it had dumped about 6" the night before, we were in heaven! Most days we called it quits by 1:30-2:00 and settled onto a patio for nachos and beer (I think I might have eaten my weight in nachos on this vacation...) We played in the hot tubs (where I was personally assaulted by a giant floating hairball...), shopped the stroll, and napped.

On Thursday we signed on for a snowmobile trip up through the mountains into a bowl where we zoomed around at high speeds. They took us for a BBQ lunch (who knew you could BBQ cookies?) and toured us back down through the sunshine--totally not something I would ordinarily do, but silly fun once I got the hang of it and stopped worrying I was going to zoom off the side of the track into the abyss below), and the day was so gorgeous and clear I can't imagine a better day to experience it.

Orange's good friend lives in Whistler and manages the refrigeration at the Olympic sliding centre (think bobsled, luge, etc.) He gave us an insiders tour of the track where we watched new athletes practicing, standing track side sipping our cans of smuggled Kokanee while the racers wiz by at 130km an hour. He toured us around the city, taking us for dinner at 21 Steps (my mouth is watering just thinking about it...), and out for live music and dancing. Or as Matt calls it, a "sweaty European dance party"... Don't ask.

Friday we had a late breakfast of Eggs Benny and strong coffee and grabbed the bus back to Vancouver for another hit of swank in our downtown hotel. Saturday we walked our buns off touring Kitsilano in the sunshine along with all the other 'hipster duffuses' (or hippycrites, as Oranges calls them) out and about downtown Vancouver on a Saturday morning, Starbuck coffees as far as the eye could see.

While it was a whirlwind seven days and I seriously can't believe it's over, I would do this trip again in a heartbeat (except maybe the hangover from those Margarita things... I could skip that.) What a blast! We ate, we drank, we enjoyed the sunshine and good weather. We did exactly what we wanted to do when we wanted to do it, no two days the same.

I can't wait to start planning next year's trip...

I am beside myself with excitement, our Whistler trip being only two days away!

And with only one day left of work, we are basically on vacation as of 5:00 tomorrow night. The both of us. Together. In the same place. For, like, 8 days. In a row. Together. And no cat (sorry, Bert...)

I'm seriously not sure what to do with myself. It's like I'm 6 years old again and it's Christmas Eve and Santa's coming and I've totally been good this year so I'm due for a pile of gifts under the Fraser Fir. Except swap out the gifts for a pint in the sunshine on Dusty's patio at the base of Whistler Mountain. I'm seriously this stupid silly. Because, ya see, while Orange's work travel is the pits for many reasons, there are some benefits befitting both of us (aside from the obvious...) Such as his approximate 1 billion air miles and hotel points. Meaning we're riding in style door to door, to and from, and pulling a Leon's on the world ('not paying a cent'--or very few cents, that is...) for the luxury.

So'cited...

No Frills

On this week's morning off I attempted to do a quick grocery shop so the house would be full of yummies when Orange got home (read: English muffins and cheese...)

It would seem, however, that No Frills on a weekday morning is not a "quick" option as the average customer is seriously 17 times older than Gallen Weston's oldest aged cheddar. Let's just say that should things in the book hustling business not work out, I have a future as a Stock Boy.

I helped a woman make a difficult decision between a bag of baby spinach and spring mix. I read the indgrediants on a box of frozen pizza. I deciphered the green bananas from the yellow. I spent a lot of time trapped behind two terrible, terrible shopping cart drivers. I helped with bags into a car.

2 hours later...

I don't understand...

Breaded Cats.

Why? And who are these people?

p.s. Happy Valentine's Day!

Dodged Bullet

'Twis my weekly morning off, so up I go to Big C's house (as she refers to herself, nowadays...) to pick up the mail, empty the ice maker (don't ask) and do a general QA/QC on the place. All seemed well.

Heading back into the house after a quick sojourn to the mailbox, I'm stopped by two older ladies. Not unusual, being that the community is aimed at "adult living".

"Do you live here?" they ask me.

"No," I say. "But my mother does," as though I need to qualify my being there, afraid for some reason that this is the Adult Living Gestapo and they've identified me by my loud music and Ray Bans as an interloper.

"Oh, well, perhaps we could come in with you? [out come the Watchtower magazines] We'd love to talk with her about our nice new article on Armageddon."

At this time I do a quick side eye scan of the street and determine I am alone with no foreseeable out for this conversation, so I both physically and mentally restrain myself from asking what could possibly be "nice" about Armageddon.

"Nah," I say. "Mom's maxed out on Jebus. Thanks anyway."

"Another time then?"

"I don't think so. Besides what with the Armageddon and all..."

Dodged bullet, Big C. Dodged bullet.