Newton’s Second Law
For every force acting on an object, there is an equal and opposite force. They say they act simultaneously, but I don’t find that that’s always the case.
For instance, in my previous blog, I mentioned that today began with not too large a shortage of difficulties (See “Warming up the Car”). And then tonight, my good friend Joann found me a Nintendo Wii (refer to earlier blog) and suddenly my three month plight and excruciating search for the coveted game console has ended. It hardly seems real.
I even said to Mark, “This is karma repaying us for this morning….. You’re welcome!”
Good old Newton…. just when you think you’re as far West as you can go….he throws you a little East.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Warming Up the Car
I’m always a bit nervous when I warm up the car. I open the blinds so if someone tries to steal it (while the keys are obviously in it), I’ll know. I’ll know only when it’s too late, but at least I’ll know.
So yesterday, I came up with a solution. I locked the car doors while the car was heating up. And it was perfect because Mark and I could finish getting ready for school and he had a second set of keys and the car was safe in the driveway and it was warm when we got into it. The only setback was that I had heated the car up using my set of keys and, since Mark drives me to school, he has to stop the car to give me my set of keys back and he has to restart the car using his own set of keys.
Today we became even more efficient by starting the car with HIS set of keys right off the bat. Then I decided to put all of my school bags (and my purse) into the car before putting out the garbage. And as I was coming into the house, I locked the car doors (you know, to be really safe). It wasn’t until I was taking off my shoes in the entrance way that it dawned on me what I’d done. I’d locked my set of keys into the already-running car with Mark’s keys.
So we had to call CAA. Except my CAA card was in my wallet in my purse in the car. Good thing (and I can’t believe I’m using those two words in this story) I had an extra copy of my CAA membership registration in my filing cabinet. I phoned and they sent a tow truck. Alas, they were very booked this morning in Mississauga, so Cybil (the Sentra) got to warm up for a solid 40 minutes.
The good news is that no one was hurt, no harm was done and I will never do that again.
I’m always a bit nervous when I warm up the car. I open the blinds so if someone tries to steal it (while the keys are obviously in it), I’ll know. I’ll know only when it’s too late, but at least I’ll know.
So yesterday, I came up with a solution. I locked the car doors while the car was heating up. And it was perfect because Mark and I could finish getting ready for school and he had a second set of keys and the car was safe in the driveway and it was warm when we got into it. The only setback was that I had heated the car up using my set of keys and, since Mark drives me to school, he has to stop the car to give me my set of keys back and he has to restart the car using his own set of keys.
Today we became even more efficient by starting the car with HIS set of keys right off the bat. Then I decided to put all of my school bags (and my purse) into the car before putting out the garbage. And as I was coming into the house, I locked the car doors (you know, to be really safe). It wasn’t until I was taking off my shoes in the entrance way that it dawned on me what I’d done. I’d locked my set of keys into the already-running car with Mark’s keys.
So we had to call CAA. Except my CAA card was in my wallet in my purse in the car. Good thing (and I can’t believe I’m using those two words in this story) I had an extra copy of my CAA membership registration in my filing cabinet. I phoned and they sent a tow truck. Alas, they were very booked this morning in Mississauga, so Cybil (the Sentra) got to warm up for a solid 40 minutes.
The good news is that no one was hurt, no harm was done and I will never do that again.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Thoughts during a Long Slow Run on a Treadmill at 9am on a Sunday Morning
Is that man running next to me Rapunzel? (Rapunzel is a man who proudly wears a ponytail that hangs to his bum and regularly attends the Bodypump classes on Tuesday evenings. He is the reason Mark is not the only guy in the class). Is he leaning on the arm rests? You can’t lean on the arm rests. That’s cheating. Well, he’s only cheating himself. He won’t get a good workout doing that. I wonder how long he’ll keep that up.
I wish they wouldn’t show infomercials on these TVs. That thigh torsion slimming system is a rip-off at 4 easy payments of $46.95. Those women didn’t get those abs from using that machine. It’s still a rip-off, even at 3 easy payments of $46.95. I think the only reason their heart rates are going up is because they’re doing that cool slidy thing with their arms. I’m going to do that too but right here on my treadmill, so I can reap the benefits of the thigh torsion slimming system without buying it. Clever me. Their study involves showing Before and After pictures of people who used the system and dieted at the same time. Any of my grade 8 kids could tell you that that’s not a fair test because you can only change one variable at a time. Otherwise, you don’t know which variable caused the change. Idiots.
Holy cow! I never knew there was a miracle product that could make a person grow their own hair back even if they’re balding. Why don’t more people know about this? I bet the sexual side effects have to do with low testosterone. Male pattern balding is a sexually influenced trait, meaning it’s affected by hormone levels. I bet they’re altering your hormone levels. It mentions the hair cortex. I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with Cortisol. Cortisol weakens your immune system and makes your bones brittle and your teeth fall out. Ah well, as long as you have beautiful flowing locks of hair, right? I wonder if you have to keep spraying your head every day for the hair to stay? I know a few guys who would be willing to fork out some big money for that spray. Again though! Not a fair test…. I can tell they’ve dyed that dude’s hair for the After picture. Sneaky bastards.
What’s with all the Xena Warrior Princess shows on a Sunday morning? Maybe this is that Sinbad show. Common elements include: Women with bosoms busting from their tiny shirts and oddly enormous spiders that spin super-strong webs (in which aforementioned busty women become helplessly tangled). Also, good sword fights.
Is that guy next to me racing me? I mean, obviously I’m going faster (and he IS cheating by leaning on the arm rails), but does he think he can outlast me? It’s hardly a fair competition since I was running for 50 minutes before he got on, but I’m going to take that challenge just the same. Shall I glance at his speed inconspicuously? I wonder if I can pretend to be looking out the window so I can turn my head and then glance at his speed. La dee da dee da…..Just looking at the snow falling……
And finally, the ultimate debate: Does the time go faster when you drape your towel over the digital clock or does it go faster when you stare intently at it?
Is that man running next to me Rapunzel? (Rapunzel is a man who proudly wears a ponytail that hangs to his bum and regularly attends the Bodypump classes on Tuesday evenings. He is the reason Mark is not the only guy in the class). Is he leaning on the arm rests? You can’t lean on the arm rests. That’s cheating. Well, he’s only cheating himself. He won’t get a good workout doing that. I wonder how long he’ll keep that up.
I wish they wouldn’t show infomercials on these TVs. That thigh torsion slimming system is a rip-off at 4 easy payments of $46.95. Those women didn’t get those abs from using that machine. It’s still a rip-off, even at 3 easy payments of $46.95. I think the only reason their heart rates are going up is because they’re doing that cool slidy thing with their arms. I’m going to do that too but right here on my treadmill, so I can reap the benefits of the thigh torsion slimming system without buying it. Clever me. Their study involves showing Before and After pictures of people who used the system and dieted at the same time. Any of my grade 8 kids could tell you that that’s not a fair test because you can only change one variable at a time. Otherwise, you don’t know which variable caused the change. Idiots.
Holy cow! I never knew there was a miracle product that could make a person grow their own hair back even if they’re balding. Why don’t more people know about this? I bet the sexual side effects have to do with low testosterone. Male pattern balding is a sexually influenced trait, meaning it’s affected by hormone levels. I bet they’re altering your hormone levels. It mentions the hair cortex. I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with Cortisol. Cortisol weakens your immune system and makes your bones brittle and your teeth fall out. Ah well, as long as you have beautiful flowing locks of hair, right? I wonder if you have to keep spraying your head every day for the hair to stay? I know a few guys who would be willing to fork out some big money for that spray. Again though! Not a fair test…. I can tell they’ve dyed that dude’s hair for the After picture. Sneaky bastards.
What’s with all the Xena Warrior Princess shows on a Sunday morning? Maybe this is that Sinbad show. Common elements include: Women with bosoms busting from their tiny shirts and oddly enormous spiders that spin super-strong webs (in which aforementioned busty women become helplessly tangled). Also, good sword fights.
Is that guy next to me racing me? I mean, obviously I’m going faster (and he IS cheating by leaning on the arm rails), but does he think he can outlast me? It’s hardly a fair competition since I was running for 50 minutes before he got on, but I’m going to take that challenge just the same. Shall I glance at his speed inconspicuously? I wonder if I can pretend to be looking out the window so I can turn my head and then glance at his speed. La dee da dee da…..Just looking at the snow falling……
And finally, the ultimate debate: Does the time go faster when you drape your towel over the digital clock or does it go faster when you stare intently at it?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Melissa Moment #236: Drama Workshop Pamphlet – How do we register again?
Today I got a pamphlet in my mailbox at school. It was advertising for the Arts Alive workshop. It talked about “activating the mind, body and spirit” and it sounded fun and engaging and entertaining.
And at the bottom, it said something that made me envision walking into a room that morning and, instead of standing in line to pick up a name tag on a rope and a folio and a pen, rushing into a sea of dramatic, yet organized, movement. People gathering you up into the folds of their crowd and sweeping you away immediately…. music playing, people smiling and swinging their arms gaily.
I don’t know why these images pop into my head.
It said at the bottom of the page, “Registration in March”.
Today I got a pamphlet in my mailbox at school. It was advertising for the Arts Alive workshop. It talked about “activating the mind, body and spirit” and it sounded fun and engaging and entertaining.
And at the bottom, it said something that made me envision walking into a room that morning and, instead of standing in line to pick up a name tag on a rope and a folio and a pen, rushing into a sea of dramatic, yet organized, movement. People gathering you up into the folds of their crowd and sweeping you away immediately…. music playing, people smiling and swinging their arms gaily.
I don’t know why these images pop into my head.
It said at the bottom of the page, “Registration in March”.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Half-Wheeling
I learned a new term today while out running with my friend Alpha. You see, I am a slow, slow runner. And Alpha is a faster runner who hasn’t run in a while and is just getting back into it. I phoned him and asked him if he wanted to go for a spin and as it happened, he was already dressed and ready to go. It worked out wonderfully.
So we set out on an 8k loop. And I was struggling to keep up with Alpha, but I was determined. It’s not like with Delia (where I know there’s no way in hell I can keep pace). This was Alpha and he’s a real mortal person. The challenge was whether I could keep it up. At about 3 kilometres we climbed a hill and he almost got away from me, but I pushed through it. And as we hit the half-way mark and headed back (and downhill), I began to feel some relief. Even more so, I am ashamed to say, when he mentioned that an old blister was flaring up. “This should slow him down a bit”, I thought. Yet he pushed on.
Finally, at about 7 kilometres, I got a sharp cramp between some ribs and swallowed my pride and said, “Ok Alpha, I think I need to slow down.” He looked at me with what seemed to be relief and said, “Do you always run this fast?”
“God no!” I responded, “I’m trying to keep up to you!”
“What?” he exclaimed, “I’m just trying to keep up with you! Delia said you were slower, but this isn’t slow!”
“I know it isn’t. I’m dying!”
We both laughed. Then Alpha explained that this phenomenon is called “half-wheeling” in the biking world. You see, two bikers will always try to be just a half-wheel ahead of the other guy. The result is the cyclists slowly getting faster and faster without realizing it.
You’ll be happy to know, we reached the end of our loop before we hit Warp Speed.
I learned a new term today while out running with my friend Alpha. You see, I am a slow, slow runner. And Alpha is a faster runner who hasn’t run in a while and is just getting back into it. I phoned him and asked him if he wanted to go for a spin and as it happened, he was already dressed and ready to go. It worked out wonderfully.
So we set out on an 8k loop. And I was struggling to keep up with Alpha, but I was determined. It’s not like with Delia (where I know there’s no way in hell I can keep pace). This was Alpha and he’s a real mortal person. The challenge was whether I could keep it up. At about 3 kilometres we climbed a hill and he almost got away from me, but I pushed through it. And as we hit the half-way mark and headed back (and downhill), I began to feel some relief. Even more so, I am ashamed to say, when he mentioned that an old blister was flaring up. “This should slow him down a bit”, I thought. Yet he pushed on.
Finally, at about 7 kilometres, I got a sharp cramp between some ribs and swallowed my pride and said, “Ok Alpha, I think I need to slow down.” He looked at me with what seemed to be relief and said, “Do you always run this fast?”
“God no!” I responded, “I’m trying to keep up to you!”
“What?” he exclaimed, “I’m just trying to keep up with you! Delia said you were slower, but this isn’t slow!”
“I know it isn’t. I’m dying!”
We both laughed. Then Alpha explained that this phenomenon is called “half-wheeling” in the biking world. You see, two bikers will always try to be just a half-wheel ahead of the other guy. The result is the cyclists slowly getting faster and faster without realizing it.
You’ll be happy to know, we reached the end of our loop before we hit Warp Speed.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Pedi
I feel like it’s been a draining week. It’s just an amalgamation of nondescript exhausting interchanges, discourses and mini-situations that have put me into this mood. But tonight is Thursday and tomorrow is pay-day and I was determined that things were going to begin to look up….. so I painted my toenails.
You know how it is, you start with the really little guy. For me, today, I noticed that if I’ve recently trimmed my nails, it’s hardly worth getting the brush wet for the pinky. He’s hardly there at all! It’s more like a half-nail, if we’re being honest. A teeny tiny brush stroke. The middle three toes take about two brush strokes each and then I get to my big toe and MAN, I think to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding me! Has my big toe always been so enormous?” It’s tiring even thinking about starting to paint the toenail!
So I got to thinking about the discrepancy. And I decided to measure my toenails’ surface areas.
Mini is 1cm by 0.5cm big (if you can call it that).
The midis are 1cm by 0.8 cm big.
And Gargantuan is 2cm by 1.7cm!
So Mini’s surface area (if we approximate the toenail to be rectangular in shape) is 0.5cm2.
Midi’s surface area is 0.8cm2 and Humungous’s surface area is 3.4cm2.
Just to put it into perspective, it takes almost 7 times as much nail polish to coat my big toe as my baby toe.
It boggles the mind.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Disclaimer: I love all my Tawingo-bound friends.
Tawingo
Three times every year, an elite group of Hillcrest staff pack up their outdoorsy gear and a group of lucky and excited children and drive north to Camp Tawingo. The kids come back with deeper friendships and exciting stories of mud-creatures and overnight campouts and games of stealth, leadership and cooperation. Not only that, but the staff return looking renewed and energized in their new Tawingo sweaters.
I have never been to Camp Tawingo. It’s not for lack of wanting to go. And it’s not for lack of being “qualified”. At least once a year, about half of my grade 8 students are absent from my classroom and all real programming ceases because of Tawingo Week. It would make sense for me to be invited. And it’s not because I’m not skilled. I can canoe and I can use a map and compass, I can build a campfire and I know many songs, like “The Boy Named Sue”. I can even play the guitar. I can whittle useful implements out of wood and I can identify many northern Ontario plants and shrubbery. I can jump out of the mud and chase fleeing children, I can cross country ski by candle light and I can slide down a hill in a screaming mound of teachers on an inner tube.
Tawingo must be a magical place. I can only fathom the kinds of wonderful things that happen there. I recently heard a story of how some of the Tawingo Week programming back at Hillcrest diminished when a teacher who normally plans that stuff felt the need to go to Tawingo one last time before retirement. In and of itself, it’s not an impressive story, except that it is a recurring theme. My good friend Mattie-O is planning on switching schools next September and feels a compelling need to go back to camp one last time. Other friends, for various reasons, seem mesmerized by the freedom of being at camp. They will put off life milestones for this cause. The Tawingo cause. And I have trouble truly understanding only because I haven’t been afforded the opportunity to understand. And the lucky grown ups who get to go, phys. ed staff and retired staff and staff who are the Tawingo favourites, will say they are not an elite group. It's easy to say that when you are someone who has lived the miracle that is Tawingo.
Maybe I want a new quirky nickname. Maybe I want to be thrown off the dock in my clothes. Maybe I want to wear a chieftain with a Manitoba tribe’s headdress on my shirt pocket and eat a secret steak dinner. When will it be my turn?
Tawingo
Three times every year, an elite group of Hillcrest staff pack up their outdoorsy gear and a group of lucky and excited children and drive north to Camp Tawingo. The kids come back with deeper friendships and exciting stories of mud-creatures and overnight campouts and games of stealth, leadership and cooperation. Not only that, but the staff return looking renewed and energized in their new Tawingo sweaters.
I have never been to Camp Tawingo. It’s not for lack of wanting to go. And it’s not for lack of being “qualified”. At least once a year, about half of my grade 8 students are absent from my classroom and all real programming ceases because of Tawingo Week. It would make sense for me to be invited. And it’s not because I’m not skilled. I can canoe and I can use a map and compass, I can build a campfire and I know many songs, like “The Boy Named Sue”. I can even play the guitar. I can whittle useful implements out of wood and I can identify many northern Ontario plants and shrubbery. I can jump out of the mud and chase fleeing children, I can cross country ski by candle light and I can slide down a hill in a screaming mound of teachers on an inner tube.
Tawingo must be a magical place. I can only fathom the kinds of wonderful things that happen there. I recently heard a story of how some of the Tawingo Week programming back at Hillcrest diminished when a teacher who normally plans that stuff felt the need to go to Tawingo one last time before retirement. In and of itself, it’s not an impressive story, except that it is a recurring theme. My good friend Mattie-O is planning on switching schools next September and feels a compelling need to go back to camp one last time. Other friends, for various reasons, seem mesmerized by the freedom of being at camp. They will put off life milestones for this cause. The Tawingo cause. And I have trouble truly understanding only because I haven’t been afforded the opportunity to understand. And the lucky grown ups who get to go, phys. ed staff and retired staff and staff who are the Tawingo favourites, will say they are not an elite group. It's easy to say that when you are someone who has lived the miracle that is Tawingo.
Maybe I want a new quirky nickname. Maybe I want to be thrown off the dock in my clothes. Maybe I want to wear a chieftain with a Manitoba tribe’s headdress on my shirt pocket and eat a secret steak dinner. When will it be my turn?
Sunday, January 14, 2007
6 Weird Things About Me
THE RULES
Each player of this game starts with the 'six weird things about me' blog post. People who get tagged need to write their own six weird things post and state the rules clearly. At the end of the post, tag six more people and don’t forget to leave a comment on their blog to tell them they have been tagged and tell them to read your blog.
1. I love to draw nudes.
2. I enjoy commenting on the chi of a room based on how feng-shui-happy the furniture and colours are.
3. I am a craft junkie. At any given time, I have a knitting project, a crocheting project, a carpentry project and a sewing project on the go (in various stages of incompleteness).
4. I once invented a language (with my friend Hilary) called Melilary, which was based primarily on french, english and the small bits of latin that we’d learned. Its main purpose was to speak ill of boys without them knowing.
5. Ever since I took a typing class in grade 9, I subconsciously move my fingers in typing movements when I think, watch a movie or listen to a song (like during O Canada every mornign). In fact, I am frequently scolded by my fiancé for typing on his knee when we watch movies.
6. Ironically, I just found out from a good friend that I have been misspelling the word “weird” for my whole life. And even more ironically, despite the fact that he corrected me, I misspelled it at the beginning of this blog (and the computer had to correct me).
I tag….
1. Maryann
2. Jay
3. Melissa Dean
4. Kate Anderson
5. Danielle Vliestra
6. Amelia Yassin
THE RULES
Each player of this game starts with the 'six weird things about me' blog post. People who get tagged need to write their own six weird things post and state the rules clearly. At the end of the post, tag six more people and don’t forget to leave a comment on their blog to tell them they have been tagged and tell them to read your blog.
1. I love to draw nudes.
2. I enjoy commenting on the chi of a room based on how feng-shui-happy the furniture and colours are.
3. I am a craft junkie. At any given time, I have a knitting project, a crocheting project, a carpentry project and a sewing project on the go (in various stages of incompleteness).
4. I once invented a language (with my friend Hilary) called Melilary, which was based primarily on french, english and the small bits of latin that we’d learned. Its main purpose was to speak ill of boys without them knowing.
5. Ever since I took a typing class in grade 9, I subconsciously move my fingers in typing movements when I think, watch a movie or listen to a song (like during O Canada every mornign). In fact, I am frequently scolded by my fiancé for typing on his knee when we watch movies.
6. Ironically, I just found out from a good friend that I have been misspelling the word “weird” for my whole life. And even more ironically, despite the fact that he corrected me, I misspelled it at the beginning of this blog (and the computer had to correct me).
I tag….
1. Maryann
2. Jay
3. Melissa Dean
4. Kate Anderson
5. Danielle Vliestra
6. Amelia Yassin
Thoughts on a Chicken
I was in the meat section of Food Basics today when I happened upon what seemed like a good deal. Instead of purchasing a few skinless boneless chicken breasts and paying half a mint, maybe I could buy a whole chicken, already seasoned, for $7.95. And we could eat chicken for dinner and maybe use the rest for salads and sandwiches and maybe dinner the next night. I bought it. And I came home and I cooked it.
However, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the other chickens (the ones that didn’t come seasoned) had a big, black and white label on them that said, “Contains giblets” and then it added in capital letters, “MAY CONTAIN KIDNEY”. Hmmmmm, I thought, are some people allergic to kidney? It doesn’t seem likely since pretty much everyone has several kidneys. And at school, when we were given the list of things to not bring to school because of allergies, kidney wasn’t on the list. Or perhaps kidney is against some people’s religion. Although I can’t think of which religion that might be.
And when I got the chicken home and took it out of the wrapping and began to examine it, I noticed that the legs were bound. No doubt, this was supposed to keep the chicken in the correct position for cooking. Maybe bound feet help keep the flavour in. However, I got to thinking, “What if there are giblets in my chicken?” Is there a regulation that a chicken containing giblets should be labeled? I think they should label a chicken if it does NOT have giblets. I flipped over the wrapping and read the instructions. It said to preheat the oven and take the chicken out of the plastic and put it on a tray and put it in the oven. It didn’t say ANYTHING about removing giblets or un-binding the chicken’s legs. So I didn’t.
And everything was fine.
I just feel maybe there is a loop-hole in the system.
The chicken was delicious by the way. And Mark and I each had a leg and there was lots of meat which I carefully carved off the….the….(I want to say “caucus” here because my mom always used that word, but I’m not sure it’s widely used)….skeleton. After removing the meat (with the skill of a surgeon, I might add), I got to examining the poor wingless, legless piece of a chicken and got a bit sad.
After all the living this poor chicken did, all the being hatched and growing-up and making friends and shooting the chicken-breeze and then being separated from his parents and then being slaughtered…..his whole life had been whittled down to eight bucks. I almost felt like I should have paid more. Like a life is worth more than that (and I’m a very frugal shopper). I normally eat meat without a care in the world, but to suddenly be responsible for consuming an entire being……well, I think that IS a responsibility.
So I stared at the forlorn hunk of bones and the stubborn remnants of meat that clung to them. And I contemplated just tossing it into the garbage. And then I decided that I had a responsibility. It was one I had never understood before. My mother had always done it after meals, and I had wondered why, after preparing an entire dinner, she would want to then tackle a whole other ordeal. Well today I finally understood my responsibility to make this chicken’s life meaningful in a way that two chicken legs with supper just can’t do.
I made congee.
I was in the meat section of Food Basics today when I happened upon what seemed like a good deal. Instead of purchasing a few skinless boneless chicken breasts and paying half a mint, maybe I could buy a whole chicken, already seasoned, for $7.95. And we could eat chicken for dinner and maybe use the rest for salads and sandwiches and maybe dinner the next night. I bought it. And I came home and I cooked it.
However, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the other chickens (the ones that didn’t come seasoned) had a big, black and white label on them that said, “Contains giblets” and then it added in capital letters, “MAY CONTAIN KIDNEY”. Hmmmmm, I thought, are some people allergic to kidney? It doesn’t seem likely since pretty much everyone has several kidneys. And at school, when we were given the list of things to not bring to school because of allergies, kidney wasn’t on the list. Or perhaps kidney is against some people’s religion. Although I can’t think of which religion that might be.
And when I got the chicken home and took it out of the wrapping and began to examine it, I noticed that the legs were bound. No doubt, this was supposed to keep the chicken in the correct position for cooking. Maybe bound feet help keep the flavour in. However, I got to thinking, “What if there are giblets in my chicken?” Is there a regulation that a chicken containing giblets should be labeled? I think they should label a chicken if it does NOT have giblets. I flipped over the wrapping and read the instructions. It said to preheat the oven and take the chicken out of the plastic and put it on a tray and put it in the oven. It didn’t say ANYTHING about removing giblets or un-binding the chicken’s legs. So I didn’t.
And everything was fine.
I just feel maybe there is a loop-hole in the system.
The chicken was delicious by the way. And Mark and I each had a leg and there was lots of meat which I carefully carved off the….the….(I want to say “caucus” here because my mom always used that word, but I’m not sure it’s widely used)….skeleton. After removing the meat (with the skill of a surgeon, I might add), I got to examining the poor wingless, legless piece of a chicken and got a bit sad.
After all the living this poor chicken did, all the being hatched and growing-up and making friends and shooting the chicken-breeze and then being separated from his parents and then being slaughtered…..his whole life had been whittled down to eight bucks. I almost felt like I should have paid more. Like a life is worth more than that (and I’m a very frugal shopper). I normally eat meat without a care in the world, but to suddenly be responsible for consuming an entire being……well, I think that IS a responsibility.
So I stared at the forlorn hunk of bones and the stubborn remnants of meat that clung to them. And I contemplated just tossing it into the garbage. And then I decided that I had a responsibility. It was one I had never understood before. My mother had always done it after meals, and I had wondered why, after preparing an entire dinner, she would want to then tackle a whole other ordeal. Well today I finally understood my responsibility to make this chicken’s life meaningful in a way that two chicken legs with supper just can’t do.
I made congee.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Shopping for Clothes
I need clothes.
Badly.
I have been on a strict budget and I tend to splurge on things like Starbucks beverages or crafty projects or running gear, but not on actual grown-up-person semi-professional go-to-work clothes. And when my second pair of jeans (out of three) sprung a hole in the crotch this week, I decided it was time to head to the mall.
And since I don’t like to drive in the dark or in the rain (and it was doing both outside), I went to the nearest mall, which is the really dumpy one with the reject stores.
First, I go into a store with really great deals! 2 pairs of jeans for $30. And I con myself into the idea that this must be a wonderfully well-kept secret. I select some pairs of jeans (two sizes for each style) and continue to peruse the stacks when I am approached by the saleswoman. And even though she asks if she can help me, I don’t get a warm feeling from her. I show her the jeans I’d like to try on and she asks me what size I’m selecting. When I tell her, she seems to approve. Then I choose a style of jean that is sized by waist size. And they don’t have any 29’s or 30’s. So I optimistically pick up a 28. The woman looks at me and looks at the jeans. Then she shakes her head and says, “No. 28’s won’t fit you!” Now she might have not said it with an exclamation mark. But it FELT like there was an exclamation mark. Especially when someone is telling you not to even TRY the 28. “But there aren’t any 29’s,” I explain. She does a quick once-over of the stack of jeans I’ve been examining, “No. We don’t sell these jeans in the BIGGER sizes.”
Anyway, I went into the changeroom and discovered why the jeans were 2 for $30. And when the woman wasn’t looking, I sneaked out of the changeroom and grabbed those 28 jeans. And as god is my witness, I squeezed my “BIGGER” ass into those jeans!
I ended up coming home with some sugar-free mints, razors and a 5 pound exercise ball.
I need clothes.
Badly.
I have been on a strict budget and I tend to splurge on things like Starbucks beverages or crafty projects or running gear, but not on actual grown-up-person semi-professional go-to-work clothes. And when my second pair of jeans (out of three) sprung a hole in the crotch this week, I decided it was time to head to the mall.
And since I don’t like to drive in the dark or in the rain (and it was doing both outside), I went to the nearest mall, which is the really dumpy one with the reject stores.
First, I go into a store with really great deals! 2 pairs of jeans for $30. And I con myself into the idea that this must be a wonderfully well-kept secret. I select some pairs of jeans (two sizes for each style) and continue to peruse the stacks when I am approached by the saleswoman. And even though she asks if she can help me, I don’t get a warm feeling from her. I show her the jeans I’d like to try on and she asks me what size I’m selecting. When I tell her, she seems to approve. Then I choose a style of jean that is sized by waist size. And they don’t have any 29’s or 30’s. So I optimistically pick up a 28. The woman looks at me and looks at the jeans. Then she shakes her head and says, “No. 28’s won’t fit you!” Now she might have not said it with an exclamation mark. But it FELT like there was an exclamation mark. Especially when someone is telling you not to even TRY the 28. “But there aren’t any 29’s,” I explain. She does a quick once-over of the stack of jeans I’ve been examining, “No. We don’t sell these jeans in the BIGGER sizes.”
Anyway, I went into the changeroom and discovered why the jeans were 2 for $30. And when the woman wasn’t looking, I sneaked out of the changeroom and grabbed those 28 jeans. And as god is my witness, I squeezed my “BIGGER” ass into those jeans!
I ended up coming home with some sugar-free mints, razors and a 5 pound exercise ball.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
On becoming Mrs. Peron...
This title sounds particularly odd because, despite a slight variation in spelling, it is the name of my current principal. And as anyone would agree, it is strange to imagine “becoming” someone you already know, or, even more oddly, work for.
I’ve had friends who have gotten married - girlfriends that is. So I’ve lived vicariously through them the trauma and identity crisis that comes with being, for instance, Laura Rice for twenty years and change and then suddenly having to respond to Laura Fortinsky!
Being a progressive woman, I see nothing wrong with keeping one’s own name. In fact, I strongly encouraged my new fiancé to consider becoming a Loftus. He calmly explained (and my brother confirmed) that for a man, even in this era, to take on his bride’s name would be the equivalent of a social castration.
However, as the engagement progressed, I’ve begun to become quite excited at the idea of becoming Melissa Peron. I’ll get a new sign for my classroom door. I’ll have to develop a new signature. And everyone will know that Mark and I are a family. It’s silly. And childish. But I can’t wait!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
I love DC
I imagine it is something akin to the addiction of cigarettes.
I say I am not addicted.
I can even go several weeks without, but then one day the temptation overwhelms me and I break down and buy myself… a diet coke.
I realized I was having the internal dialogue of an addict the other day, when I’d been dc-free for a few weeks. I was struggling with a very busy Sunday ahead of me. Among the tasks on my list of things to do there was grocery shopping. Now….. I am CONSTANTLY trying to make grocery shopping more fun. I often do it after a long run on a Sunday morning, which means that I am utterly and excruciatingly exhausted. I often have a headache because I am dehydrated (as a consequence of the same action). I usually have a list of things to do mile long and the thought of the following Monday is overwhelming. I sometimes can’t find a quarter and if there’s an inefficient shopping cart with a stuck wheel, I’ll find it. The bottom line is, I thought to myself, “What would make grocery shopping more enjoyable?” (It’s the spoonful-of-sugar attitude towards the unpleasantries of life.) And my spoonful-of-sugar, ironically, has none. It is pure aspartame and carbon dioxide gas loaded with caramel colour and zero calories.
I grip the cold metal can in my hand and already feel calmer. The sound of the pull-tab cutting the top gives me excited shivers. But the I drew the parallel a moment later when, with that first gulp, the cold, tingly buzz hit the back of my mouth and my eyes rolled back in my head a little and I could have been shovelling camel shit wearing a parka in the Sahara dessert and I would have been a happy girl.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Airport Driving
It’s the ultimate irony in driving.
You hope for fast-moving traffic and wide-open spaces on the QEW. You pray for green lights all the way down Erin Mills Parkway.
Then you get to the tangle of airport highways that weave around and swoop in to the kiss’n’ride of the Terminal and then out and back in again. And there’s a man in uniform who gets upset with you if you try to stop in order to pick up your passenger. So we all drive as slowly as we can possibly get away with. We want to be slow. It reduces the numbers of loops we have to do around the network of out and back highways. And if your passenger isn’t there, you drive away slowly. Very slowly so your loop will take longer and the chances that your passenger will be there waiting for you next time are increased. And there is one stop light on the mini-highway of the out-and-back airport loop. As I approach it, I pray for it to be red. That is when I realize I’m in a whole different dimension.
I tell myself that this is calming. “I’m not waiting”, I say, “I’m taking an easy and leisurely drive around a closed-circuit race course with a maximum speed of 30.” “It’s fun,” I tell myself, “Maybe I will time my loops and see how long I can make them.”
I drive around and around. I start to memorize the route requiring the fewest lane-changes. I count the cars which are illegally parked on the side of the ramps with their hazard lights on, waiting, instead of driving the loop repeatedly like me. In my mind, I visualize neatly removing their driver side doors with my front bumper should they choose to open them at the wrong (or right) moment. “I am zen,” I say, “I am peace.”
I start to wonder why this has became the plan. I’ve done the airport loop routine at least a half dozen times in the past year. It’s Mark and my plan each and every time he travels without me. I check the web site for the scheduled arrival time of the flight and I leave about five minutes before the plane should land. I am almost inevitably a half hour early every time. I blame this on the one miserable March Break when it was unseasonably cold and Mark was sick and I arrived what seemed to be an eternity after he had set himself out at the waiting dock in a very thin jacket. So now I err on the early side and I drive the loop over and over again. And somehow, each time he sets out on a journey, I carelessly agree to this insane arrangement.
Around and around. I count the loops. Three….Four…. Five…..or is THIS five? Perhaps I was thinking the NEXT one would be five, which would make this one five….but usually I start to think the next number after a drive-by….hmmmm. Six?
My New Year’s Resolution for 2007:
Will be less cheap.
Will pay for short-term parking at the airport.
It’s the ultimate irony in driving.
You hope for fast-moving traffic and wide-open spaces on the QEW. You pray for green lights all the way down Erin Mills Parkway.
Then you get to the tangle of airport highways that weave around and swoop in to the kiss’n’ride of the Terminal and then out and back in again. And there’s a man in uniform who gets upset with you if you try to stop in order to pick up your passenger. So we all drive as slowly as we can possibly get away with. We want to be slow. It reduces the numbers of loops we have to do around the network of out and back highways. And if your passenger isn’t there, you drive away slowly. Very slowly so your loop will take longer and the chances that your passenger will be there waiting for you next time are increased. And there is one stop light on the mini-highway of the out-and-back airport loop. As I approach it, I pray for it to be red. That is when I realize I’m in a whole different dimension.
I tell myself that this is calming. “I’m not waiting”, I say, “I’m taking an easy and leisurely drive around a closed-circuit race course with a maximum speed of 30.” “It’s fun,” I tell myself, “Maybe I will time my loops and see how long I can make them.”
I drive around and around. I start to memorize the route requiring the fewest lane-changes. I count the cars which are illegally parked on the side of the ramps with their hazard lights on, waiting, instead of driving the loop repeatedly like me. In my mind, I visualize neatly removing their driver side doors with my front bumper should they choose to open them at the wrong (or right) moment. “I am zen,” I say, “I am peace.”
I start to wonder why this has became the plan. I’ve done the airport loop routine at least a half dozen times in the past year. It’s Mark and my plan each and every time he travels without me. I check the web site for the scheduled arrival time of the flight and I leave about five minutes before the plane should land. I am almost inevitably a half hour early every time. I blame this on the one miserable March Break when it was unseasonably cold and Mark was sick and I arrived what seemed to be an eternity after he had set himself out at the waiting dock in a very thin jacket. So now I err on the early side and I drive the loop over and over again. And somehow, each time he sets out on a journey, I carelessly agree to this insane arrangement.
Around and around. I count the loops. Three….Four…. Five…..or is THIS five? Perhaps I was thinking the NEXT one would be five, which would make this one five….but usually I start to think the next number after a drive-by….hmmmm. Six?
My New Year’s Resolution for 2007:
Will be less cheap.
Will pay for short-term parking at the airport.
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