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Not a heart.

A waffle cone.

I actually do not like waffle cones. Or ice cream cones at all. I worked in an ice cream shop when I was 14 where, in addition to a sick forearm muscle and waffle burn pattern on my elbow, I acquired a preference for  ice cream in a plastic cup.

I know. That makes me the lamest.

I waffle cone / love you too Heather.

Hamstrung Haturday

"Guess that's why they call it being hamstrung" my father informed me today, as I hobbled strolled leisurely along St Laurent in the wake of my family's breakneck pace.

"I don't think anyone says that."

I was wrong.

Pulled my hamstring at practice last night. My hairy legs had an intimate introduction with our trainer Mike as he tried to stretch it out to no avail. It sucks: our coach informed us that I would be playing 8 in our intersquad game Sunday - which is awesome - "depending upon the fitness of her hamstring of course."

Stupid mortal body.

Traininq Week

this wildly embarrassing picture found its way
all over my high school year book
note: About to high tackle the shit out of that poor girl.
Not wearing rugby shorts

I have never been given the impression that I don't take rugby seriously enough before. Seriously. I had the nickname H.K. when I played in England (hard kore - with a k... too hard core to respect traditional English spelling norms). Out East, my team mates issued a disclaimer to rookies: "No, she isn't yelling because she's mad at you, it's just how she is. You'll learn to love it."



McGill rugby's training week is something else.

Well, first of all, training week is a misnomer. It's training "3 weeks." Practice every day for the next 3 weeks, save this Saturday, and the Saturday 3 weeks from now. 2 days off of rugby in the next 3 weeks. Each practice goes from about 6:45 - 9:30, but with the bus - because our practice field couldn't be located within the city of course - rugby has me occupied from 5:00-10:30. At which point I go home, shower, eat, and fall asleep.

I am on the fence about how I feel about this. At the end of practice I find myself grinning like an idiot, happy that I haven't embarrassed myself too badly. I am enjoying the practices and am learning a lot, and my fitness is not as negligible as it would have been any other time in my rugby past. But it is taking its toll on my body for sure. Read: my groin hurts. And I'm tired all the time.

And all this has culminated in a shameful lack of blog posts this week. And this cannot be forgiven.

But try.

"Your cats will be your boyfriends"

5 Senses Friday No. I

I have taken this ingenious idea from my lovely friend Aly (who had, in turn, taken the idea from the blog abby try again)

time to find myself some alignment. Yoga soon.

Feeling:

Anxious. About to meet with my thesis supervisor for the first time, need to unpack, need to pick up boxes from the bus station, need to... breathe.

Smelling:

my own clean hair.  Sunflowers.

Hearing:

"Crush" by the band Live. I had heard it once on a coast to coast music show on Much Music when I was about 14, and rediscovered it while I roadtripped with my mum up from California: I had burned a cd for her with it on it. It, and Enrique Iglesias.

Tasting:

nothing. I burned my tongue on hot coffee. I. will. never. learn.

Seeing:

the most obnoxiously cluttered apartment

Chopper, M.A. in Flattery

"You didn't seem too large the last time I saw you."

"I'm athletic"

Where are you in-studio audience???

ChezeBurge

I cannot speak/read French. At all. I can't decide how much energy to put into remedying this. The lovely Claire, my date tonight in the city where everyone is on dates, told me that it is cute that I am embarrassed about not being able to speak French. I think that my lack of French leaves me sounding conspicuously like Bobcat Goldthwait, when the streets are full of the romance language, or at least the English of skinny little French girls with their adorable lilting accents.

On another note, I looked around in vain for my in-studio audience today.
Scene:
I, peeling apart some much needed wax strips (I am sure my brother's friends think I'm some weird gay hippie, scorning heteronormative grooming standards), bump a mug of coffee I had at one time been enjoying; choas ensues.
I put the wax strips down on the coffee-free part of my desk, and jump up to grab toilet paper to mop up with. Getting the bit that landed on my laptop first, I then realize that the coffee free part of the desk was, in fact, magazines and a library book, and rush to get them out of the path of the coffee. In doing so, I stick my thumb and fore finger right on top of the exposed wax strip. Accordingly, I throw the book and magazines across the room and rip the thing off my hand. The wax, obviously, sticks to my hand, rather than the strip. So I rush to the kitchen to wash off the wax (because you can't handle toiletpaper with wax hands!). After a few minutes of scrubbing, I remembered the coffee seeping under my lap top. Shit. Ran back to finish what I started. Picked up my laptop to mop underneath. Left wax on both sides of it.

This comical scene almost makes me feel better about the fact that my laptop sustained damage to certain keys (q, w, a, z, p, backspace AND delete - is that supposed to be some poetic comment on living a regret-free life? Because I would like to slap whoever divined that across their stupid face) as well as the mousepad. And I do miss the days when my laptop could start up without a continuous and nauseating beeping sound. Oh yeah, and apparently my lap top thirsts to spread the word of ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// whenever a text box is selected. I feel like the mom from the Exorcist. The patient is sitting upside down, unplugged, with his battery removed. Hopefully he recovers over night. I considered rinsing the coffee with water, but I think that would lead to a "Little Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly" scenario... I guess she'll die? Oh dear...

Limited Funds + Montreal = contemporary society's drawing and quartering

Montreal has amazing:

restaurants
coffee shops
boutiques
second hand clothing stores
museums

all within 15 minutes of my apartment.

I have:

three well worn 20$ bills
a twoonie
three nickles
fifteen pennies

This is a cruel cruel joke. Groceries or dresses?

She whispered "Are you ready for something new?" and the tabby purred her content

At 5:45 this morning I stood in the dimly lit shower, raspily crooning the words to "Leaving on a Jet Plane" to myself.

I have left the East Coast boys and girls. And it is deeply depressing to think on. Walking around McGill's cavernous and bustling campus and out into the busy streets of Montreal I could help thinking how alien it felt. I miss the openess, the familiarity, the sense of community. Most especially I miss the feeling of having something to look forward to. I mean that in a way that is way way less depressing than it sounds. I mean that I don't know many people here yet to make plans with, my apartment is so crammed with stuff I can't even think about rifling through my suitcases and grabbing workout stuff, let alone get started on setting up my apartment. I am unsure of how to get myself some forward momentum. But this is only the first day, so I will stop being so critical.

If I had some monetary funds I know exactly what I would be doing: exploring the myriad of boutiques and vintage shops within mere minutes of my apartment. It is a cruel cruel joke. I have 60$ in my bank account until the end of the month and am surrounded by beautiful material things.


I am going to miss the East Coast without question. Leaving behind crying friends and familiar streets makes me feel desperate for breath. But it is time for a new adventure...

Friendship Bracelets and Farewells

Saying goodbye may be an even worse part of moving than packing. Last night my friend Jimmy came over. Instead of the movie we were supposed to watch, he filled out an application for a water conservation conference taking place in Alberta while I packed. An "organic" hangout, as Genny described it this morning. It took him a good 2 hours, but we listened to some pretty music, caught up, chatted and occasionally took breaks to cuddle. Jimmy is the best for this. He has a pretty bad reputation for his ways with the ladies in his early university career - "I was all about getting my fun stuff touched back in first year" would be a direct quote, in fact - but I have never had a more rewarding platonic male friendship. When he was done, we laid in my bed cuddling and chatting until I was on the verge of sleep. I am going to miss this boy an incredible amount. 

And upon waking, I had the distinct pleasure of having brunch with Genny W. this morning. A final farewell meal. Well...she is driving me to the airport tomorrow so I am without question buying her a delicious breakfast sandwich at the fast food venue of her choosing - so a penultimate meal I guess.

I feel it is a sign of maturity how well you deal with a generous gesture. Genny bought me breakfast. How hard do you fight such a thing? Obviously you don't let it slide without protest, but it is also really awkward for everyone involved when cards start waving like fencing foils. It makes me almost miss the days when everyone I knew was too broke to even think about buying someone else anything.

But yes, this 'leaving for an indefinite amount of time' business is really hard. There are people out East here who have become some of my closest friends. But I'm not from here. Aside from these friends, who, by and large, are also transient transplants, I have no roots. I have grown to love it here - I have a hair salon, a rugby community, a top notch esthetician, a veterinarian, a trivia night and my aforementioned fabulous friends. I do not like the idea of abandoning any of these things, and like even less the idea of having to replace them with French Canadian equivalents. I don't know which is going to be the worst, trying to find friends of equal calibre, or an esthetician who can do a decent brazilian... 

After breakfast, Genny and I went and bought a wealth of embossing floss so as to indulge in our own personal fashion revival: the friendship bracelet!  Back in the day, I only managed to work my way through 2 of the basic patterns in my Klutz Friendship Bracelets book - the inverse chevron and basic diagonal - but I am determined to match and surpass the accomplishments of the 13-year-old self. This is generally a good goal I think.

A bittersweet post. Learning to make friendship bracelets as I prepare to leave my East Coast friends.

CTMP 2056: Philosophical Perspectives On My Going Away Party

Valuable Lessons Learned in the Past 24 Hours:

1. Never EVER start drinking white wine straight out of the bottle at 2:30 am

2. Waking up alone in a bed covered in lipstick and pizza sauce, naked from the waist down does not phase me anymore

3. I sleepwalk when naked from the waist down

4. The right blend of vodka, mango juice and white wine will incite me to make a guest appearance for the other team


5. When drunk, I have a latent desire to learn how to knife fight.

6. Other beach patrons do not appreciate it when you take a single stride off the beach path to vomit

7. Will Smith is a God amongst mere mortals.

8. Hangovers impede my logic skills to the point that, despite 3 case studies that show unequivocally that I am not going to be able to digest food, I ate a slice of chocolate cheesecake before being driven home by a friend's dad

9. The worst time to find out your house has no hot water is when you are covered in your own cheesecake vomit

10. Yes, you can still be horrifically hungover at 11 pm

How's my what?

I visited my friend Heather in Sambro yesterday. It was like the Never Ending Journey - which means I rode that dog-dragon from the Never Ending Story there. Or I wish.

She has had her ACL replaced with the ACL of a dead person. She is basically a cyborg necromancer. Donna Harraway and Newton would be proud.

When I broke my foot two years ago, I was working in a very typical office, doing very typical secretary administrative assistant work, in Alberta. A typical office in Alberta means that wearing a pant suit makes you a very over dressed administrative phone answerer; my direct superior wore jeans and flannel and advised me that people with thick accents ought to learn to speak English before working in our country. Yup.

It is in this scenic pastoral setting that I encountered the phrase "How's your wheel?"

My what? What the fuck did you just say to me?

Oh. My foot. It's broken in 2 places and the whole thing up to my sock line is the colour of our H.R. girl's vericose veins. Thanks for asking.

Conclusion: Heather and I are cyborgs constructed from the usable (and useless) parts recovered from demolition derby Segways.

Featherless Feather Duster

I am packing. And packing, for those unfamiliar, is the worst.

I'm not talking about packing for a tropical getaway or for a trip home where you will get to do all your laundry for free. I guess I should have more accurately typed 'I'm moving'...but it's too late for that now.

My room is a disaster. And by "my room" I mean the room I am subletting. I can only imagine what my brother's apartment - also known as my future apartment - looks like, as I already shipped out the contents of my storage locker. One bachelor apartment - furnishings enough for two.

I should probably be in better shape. But here is my dilemna. I am shipping some of my belongings via bus to Montreal. You know - bulky things. Like my pillows and comforter. Ah yes, here in lies the rub. I want to pack up these boxes and get them the fuck out of here, but to do that I will have to deprive myself of most of my luxurious bedding.

I am a diva surrounded by cardboard.

I already packed my featherless featherduster.

Do It Yourself Pore Strips as Seen on Youtube? Why Not?

In a fit of feminine enthusiasm - or "feeling really girly" - my roommate E. decided that the two of us ought to follow a youtube tutorial she had found that instructed you how to make your own pore strips. You know, those little strips you place over your nose, tear off and torture yourself over because, no matter how minuscule your pores or non existent your blackheads, that devilish little strip reveals all sins, latent or not. I don't. My mum would never let me buy them because she was certain that something would go ary and I would lose all the skin on my nose. So needless to say my inner 13-year-old relished this opportunity.

As instructed by the well made up Asian youtube girl, we mixed 1 tablespoon of gelatin with 1 tablespoon of milk, microwaved for 10 seconds, and proceeded to slather all over our noses and chins, leaving it to sit for 10 minutes. Or more. We wanted to be very thorough, so we put an excessive amount on.

Side effect: it looked like someone blew their load all over each of our well cared for faces.

But, graphic porno allusions aside, it was tingly and fun and maybe even kind of effective. I saw one gaping blackhead removed, and that is good enough for me. Though beware, I was not especially diligent when applying to the area between my brows, and this thing removes hair from its follicles just about as well as it removes oil and dirt from your pores.




Don't worry though - I still look stunning.

Law & Order and Leftovers

Not exactly the glamorous start to my blogging career I was hoping for. I am eating the Chinese food leftovers that made me ill last night. Instead of going for a run. I will never learn.