Crossing the Picket Line

There is some weird, unspoken rule in the world of blogging that no one blogs on Saturday. I was left out on the meeting where everyone who blogs was corralled and told that no one, under punishment of death (read: total internet anonymity), is to blog on Saturdays. So I'm going to do it.

Blogging isn't work - it's respite from work! This nonwork-ethic is probably evident in the haphazard nature of most of my posts (exception being my recent, painstakingly composed post on Dirty Dancing). Apologies - the more I inundate myself into the world of blogging the more lovingly do I plan to craft my posts. But, furthermore, Saturdays are probably full of bustling excitement for most people who blog themselves: you lucky ducks - I have no such bustle.

This is not to say that I haven't had a lovely Saturday. I have. Complete with productive errands, yoga, froyo and another 2 hour chat with Papa B. Today is the first hint of summer in Montreal. I had been thirsting for spring, but my shoes-without-socks blisters and slightly pink decolletage tell me that it has come and gone and summer is, instead, on my doorstep. Sweet. Spring is overrated anyways - we only like it so much because it isn't winter, that frigid bitch. So here are some of my favourite summer things of the moment:

My new orange manicure. I have really decided to invest the time (and this time, the money) into making my tips look tops, and taking the opportunity to play around with some fun colours. My darling Yule and I did mani pedis yesterday after brunch, during which we contemplated potential colours:
"I have no idea what I want!" - Yule
"Me neither - I want something new..." me
"Yeah. Me too. Just nothing orange though..."

c'est inspiration!

 Also holding a special place in my heart are all the adorable flats which I have been coveting for seasons. I remember last spring, lusting vocally, but fruitlessly, over a pair of grey oxfords while I was on vacation in Turkey with my parents ("Oh mom! LOOK at those shoes! Oh they are just so precious. Think of those with shorts, or a little skirt, or jeans, knee high socks - they are just so perfect!"    "You're not getting anymore damn shoes." sigh)

I am a footwearphile, it's true. But my closet haphazardly strewn apartment floor boasts very few cute summer flats. Sandals, sure. Even a couple of pairs of espadrille wedges and some varyingly well maintained sneakers from my days of Puma and Lacoste obsession (thank God I never parted with those babies after two seasons of highschool neglect!). But slip ons? I have an adorable pair of patent yellow Arnold Churgins, but I can only wear them so many days in a row before the absence of any give in the patent plastic inflicts truly ruinous injury to my toes.

Long story short, I felt completely and totally justified in purchasing the following two pairs yesterday.  Maribou moccasins and (my first ever!) Ked's saddle shoes.

Clarks Women Desert Boots Oakwood | $119.99CAD

 In my shoe future? Fingers crossed for a pair of cute suede ankle booties: either these Clark's or the Dolce Vita Scholin ($110CAD) would be right up my alley - adorable with my hot pink J Crew shorts!

I'm also desperately thirsting for these topsiders. Blue, grey and pink dock shoes? This is the love child of my hightop obsession and my desire for
adorable slip ons. I even have a coupon for 40$ off at the store which brought these darlings to my attention.

Seriously. You may need to get me to a self help group of some sort: my dad was talking to me about an article he read about how to be a millionaire when you retire, and about how much easier it was if you started when you were in your 20s, and all I could think was "but there are too many cute things to spend money on!"

Sorry Dad.


Also on the docket for summer is copious amounts of Yeh frozen yogourt (a serve yourself frozen yogourt sundae bar. Four minutes from my house. So. Dangerous) and patio sangria. Maybe some colour blocking.

Dirty Dancing: the Untold Tale of Unrequited Love

I have been so blessed lately to have had two - count 'em, TWO - opportunities in the past 2 weeks to watch 80s classic and girls-night-in staple Dirty Dancing, in the past two weeks. What a treat.

So I was feeling particularly perceptive, if not entirely sane, the inaugural rewatch; today, while I was getting my nails done with Yule, I thought back on my more ridiculous statements, and found one of them to in fact be hilariously well founded.

Question: How does Baby even meet Johnny?

At that party with all the dirty dancing! But how does she get there? She carries a watermelon - she says so herself. But wait...who was that guy carrying the other watermelons? That kinda gingery kid who is Johnny's cousin? Do you have any idea who I'm talking about?

this guy

 If you were like, "Uh, Billy Kostecki, obviously!" then you must have eaten some of the brownies I ate before viewing Dirty Dancing, because to the rest of the world he is "idiot who tried to carry three watermelons."

I think there would be room for an excellent spin-off dramatization about Billy, who is present throughout the whole movie (he ends up dancing with Lisa, Baby's ludicrously large chested idiot sister in the final dance sequence, in fact). And that drama would in fact be a tragic love story.

Seriously. Think about it. If you sat down and watched the first 20 minutes of Dirty Dancing and were somehow unfamiliar with the plot and had the cover hidden from you and are blasphemously unfamiliar with Patrick Swayze's canon of work AND missed the title of the film - should all these stars align, you could be expecting a story of romance between Jennifer Grey and Neal Jones (don't recognize the actor's name - well, it came after a character named Tito Suarez in the final credits [whothefuck?] and the character's most recent work was portraying a serial killer on Criminal Minds...so don't sweat it...).

Where was I? Oh yes, film's opening. In the first 5 minutes of the movie, Baby and Billy meet, and it looks something like this:

"Hey! Thanks! You want a job here?"

does that face say a job occupation is what she wants.

Then we get to see a dance class, Baby gets insight into the classist hierarchy and sexism of the 1960s hotel industry, we see Johnny and Penny dance and then - oh and then - our iconic staff quarters dance party scene. Usually we just view the watermelon business as a mean to get Baby closer to Johnny, but let's break this down:

Baby runs up, eager to help poor, idiot Billy with his ludicrous mound of watermelons (who brings watermelons to a debauched dance party, precisely?). He tells her to go back to the main house where he says he's seen her "dancing with the little boss man." So, we can fairly say that he's been keeping an eye on young Baby, sizing up his competition. He then risks his job, and later his watermelons, to gallantly bring her up to the party.

yeah, you really seem to be in the best position to be opening doors for ladies. Got to woo her somehow though I guess. Access to all the watermelons a girl could want doesn't quite have the appeal it may have in, say, the 1930s.

 If you watch the movie closely, you will realize that Johnny isn't even remotely nice to Baby until after their dance together at the other resort (or, more accurately, after he creeps her in his rearview mirror as she changes in the back seat on the way back from their dance). Billy proudly explains to Johnny, who dickishly implies why she's at the party; "She came with me. [with pride and disbelieving laughter] She's with me." It is actually so endearing (and kind of heartbreaking) that you'd better check it out yourself (3:45).

From there on - when Johnny blatantly cockblocks his younger cousin (who, if you look closely, actually tosses his arms up as she walks away) - Billy becomes a rather background figure. He is credited after Emily Gilmore Kelly Bishop, Baby's mother, who has approximately six lines. This is a tragedy, and our attention has been unduly directed at the creepy, kind of pedaphilic Johnny-Baby romance, and the botched abortion story line, and we do give far too much of a fuck about Robbie.

Rewatch Dirty Dancing, paying attention to Billy; the plot could not be furthered without him, yet we give no voice or credence to his obvious heartache.

Billy Kostecki : a regular Oedipus Rex

The Big Reveal

alright, you probably forgot about this "new project" I mentioned nearly a month ago. But perhaps my rare discretion (voted most likely to kiss and tell in high school, right here) and shadiness piqued your interest.

Well, the moment is here:

Being and Burgers: A Philosophical Assessment of the Burgers of Montreal.

My compadre and Claire and I have adopted pseudonyms and a mission to share our unqualified opinion of the city's various burger profferings with the interworld.

We will, however, be going international soon. Or rather, I will be. In a week She Ra and I are packing up and spending a month or so in California. Because we can. In-n-Out Burger, here I come!

If you're from Montreal (or know some great burger places in the Palm Springs area) then please pass the word along!

Black-Choptiany Pan-Provincial Bi-Weekly Culinary Throwdown?

If you were wondering "So...someone concede defeat in this cooking throwdown or what?" The answer is technically no. I would never concede defeat willingly. But the lapse is all my fault. Well, I think Chopper has some blame to share as well, but he has diligently sent me 3 different recipes over the past two weeks, so, really mia culpa.

After the pasta ponza week, Chopper came back at me with what was personally my greatest cooking obstacle: Chef Erik's Roasted Brussels Sprouts and Asparagus.

Seriously? Brussels Sprouts? [which, until moments ago I would have sworn did not have that many Ss...]

An engrained, though not actually tested, resistance to the sprouts as well as an ardent dislike of blanching anything, led to me putting off testing out this recipe.

Until tonight.

The occasion? Why, I have 3'000 words to write by tomorrow at noon, obviously. So best spend my valuable time cooking and watching Criminal Minds. They are never going to give me a degree if they know what's good for them.

Anyhow, I didn't have asparagus, and I didn't sacrifice my lone red pepper to the cause (I was very skeptical that I would be packing up leftovers for later), so I really did ad lib the recipe. While I was tossing the sprouts and zucchini with olive oil, I missed a call from my dad - you know, oily hands and all. I returned his call after sticking the dish in the oven, talked taxes briefly, and mentioned in parting "well, I gotta get back to these god damn brussels sprouts. I'm not looking forward to this - I don't think I've ever even had brussels sprouts." (which yes, I realize is just blatant and ignorant vegetable bigotry), when my dad, an only occasional cook, chimed in "I used to put them in stew all the time." Ok. So I HAVE had brussels sprouts before. But from that random exclamation, my dad suggested something really fairly sage; according to Papa B, the sprouts have a fairly strong and sometimes bitter flavour, which is complimented very well with bacon and caramelized onions. Sold. Well, half sold: I don't actually have bacon on hand, but I have been keeping some reserved bacon fat from way back when Chop and I did the Cauliflower Soup recipe. So I caramelized some onions while I waited for the sprout mixture as well as - check it - the tomatoes for my pasta ponza. That's right - I doubled up on the throwdown recipes. 

Check, Chopper.

I also let a not infrequent inclination come to pass while caramelizing the onions; I added wine. I had made some risotto the other day, and so had an open bottle of red wine. Since my dad had said that the sweetness of the onions complimented the sprouts, I figured adding a dash of wine to them would only make them better. And then, just to be safe, I added another dash. And some to the sprouts themselves.

Brilliant. The onions actually make the dish. Turns out - I don't hate brussels sprouts. There's my serving of humble pie. But I don't love them - they just worked out well with my Dad's sage wisdom.

Still no camera - tragic, because this meal was so colourful! I have made some adjustments to how I prepare the pasta ponza, upping the ratio of tomatoes to pasta, making it particularly colourful. Add in the charred green of the sprouts and zucchini and the plum-brown of the onion and I have quite the pretty plate. Which I haven't even finished devouring!

Hope everyone is having a more sane week than I am!

J'adore Papa B

"Sometimes in politics you just need a change. It's like with clothes - you want a new dress, even if there's nothing wrong with the dress you have." - Ken
"Aren't you glad I don't view politics like I view dresses? There would be lots more political parties." - me
"That's for sure." - Ken

As well as, my laugh out loud favourite:

"Pierre Trudeau was an absolute political animal - he would have eaten his own children if it would have made him more powerful."

Had to make this addition - oh my god, amazing, amazing man;

"I'm a big admirer of him." 
Who?  
Franco

Childhood Ruin

I have been jamming out to country lately. It's just such ideal summer music, and though summer is scarce, it was sunny about 4 days ago, and I haven't been bothered to switch off of my country playlist.

Until today.

I actually paid attention to the lyrics of a classic old Garth Brooks song, Two of a Kind, Workin' on a Full House. I loved loved loved Garth Brooks when I was little. I used to wake up early, sneak down to the basement, and listen to the Compact Disc, In Pieces, on our stereo system and dance around like a crazy person. Which is about the only proper description of a twelve year old choreographing dance moves to country music in the privacy and secrecy of the basement at 6:30 in the morning.

Back to the trauma, however.

This fairly classic song contains the most horrifically sexual line that had gone completely unnoticed by my prepubescent brain. I must have subsequently blocked it out so as to not ruin the embarrassing, though charming, childhood memories of my brother being so impressed that I knew every song on whatever G.B. album my mum would play in the van. "You know all of them! That's amazing!" I know. It is. Was.

However, in this tongue-in-cheek love ballad (get it - it's like cards, but he means people!). Check out 1:06-1:14 (which is paired with inexplicable chest pumping and pointing...)




So, if you didn't catch that, "she's my honeycomb and I'm her sugarcane. We really fit together, if you know what I'm talking abooooouuuuuuuuuut."

No Garth, your upbeat and completely asexual demeanour had me completely misguided. But now, after 11 years, I know what you're talking about. And I want to cry.

Grindstone

I've really been trying to become a legitimate grown up lately, and do legitimately grown-up, responsible things. But, after being introduced to Hyperbole and a Half's This is Why I'll Never be an Adult I realized that this may be a futile struggle. So, while I do need to finish the first chapter of my thesis for this Wednesday, which I have done virtually no work on and I have a sink full of fairly disgusting dishes, I choose instead to go grab a burger. After sharing with you a random 90s epiphany I had the other day.

The 90s were the hey day for triple barrel named celebrities. Check it:
Sarah Michelle Gellar
Melissa Joan Hart
James Van Der Beek
Jennifer Love Hewitt
Haley Joel Osment
Rachel Leigh Cook
Freddie Prinze Jr

ok, not all of those necessarily counted, but we were youths inundated with multisyllabic named teen heart throbs. Except Haley Joel Osment. I'm not fucking crazy.

30 Thoughts on 30 Days - plus, some serious bad karma

I was brainstorming for a catchy title of this one-day delayed post while I was in savasana this morning (I know, I know - not the point of savasana...) and came up with this. Which, I realized afterwards, meant I would have to record 30 yoga-related thoughts. So here they are, in varying relevance and depth, 30 thoughts which either occurred to me during one of my many (35, in fact) yoga classes over the past 30 days, or cultivated off the mat.

1. How the hell am I going to get to yoga every single day?
2. 7:00am classes really do require a 5:50 am wake up
3. My balance is truly awful
4. I sweat lots. Lots and lots and lots. More than everyone around me, and even more as I practice more regular yoga
5. I sure hope this increased efficiency in my sweat glands doesn't apply to my non-yoga life...
6. I don't know how to not scrunch up my shoulders in Crescent moon pose.
7. Must. Drink. More. Water
8. I love Wednesday morning classes with Caro - she is far and away my favourite teacher
9. It scares me to think about how my body would function without yoga - even with it, I have ludicrously tight hamstrings and an occasionally achy back.
10. My tummy does not look nice in seated forward bends...
11. I really am going to have to do laundry twice a week now.
12. I can't handle the crowded classes where I can't open my arms when I swan dive into a forward fold
13. Did the Moksha series at home. Barely sweated. The hot room makes a huge difference
14. I wish my hair was long enough to get into a top bun instead of these ridiculous pig tails
15. I want more yoga clothing.
16. Starting my day with yoga just puts my mind at peace - I've accomplished something, I've prepared my body for movement, and I have spent 75 minutes focusing on myself.
17. I hope one day I will be able to clothes my eyes in Tree pose
18. My friend Heather can do the most beautiful Dancer's pose
19. My leg hair is fascinating - haven't waxed since about a month before the challenge and I've become oddly attached.
20. I wonder how most men get into yoga...
21. How can anyone leave the studio after class without showering???
22. I really want more yoga clothing.
23. I am really getting much more flexible in the backs of my legs and my low back
24. I love love love Reclining Hero's pose.
25. I find it impossible to not stare at the person next to me when we do a supine spinal twist - I think that may be one of the most beautiful positions.
26. Yoga has a mixed effect on my body image. My own body gets stronger, and regardless of whether it changes shape, I take pride in its increasing ability. At the same time, I find it impossible to not compare myself to other women in class, who are sometimes just impossibly beautiful.
27. I still have not managed to figure out the perfect amount to eat before my morning class. I always have to burp before going into Dancer's pose.
28. I love it when the instructor will actually touch me and adjust me.
29. I finally touched my toes in Paschimottanasana!
30. I made it! And I'm going to keep going...

Quite across the board, I know. On a rather disheartening karmic note, the Moksha studio was robbed last night. Who breaks into and steals from a yoga studio?? They are taking it in stride, but their computer (and who knows what else) was stolen. Pretty deplorable.


It is a dreary day out, complete with freezing rain, so I am opting to work at home, doing some laundry and tiding up for Brielan and Yule who are coming over tonight to watch a movie and nosh on some psychedelic baked goods. Happy April 20th, one and all.

Power Flops and Coffee Shops

I decided to avoid the arctic wasteland that is the McGill Arts Library - thanks McGill, for renovating the heating and cooling system during the last weeks of the semester and exams - and have set up shop in a coffee shop. A masochistic measure, given that today marks the beginning of my coffee cleanse. I have been having some stomach problems lately, in the form of painful cramps whenever I eat anything, and so I figured that cutting coffee out (again - I had been abstaining since New Year, but my resolve collapsed after vacationing with my parents) could prove to be the solution.

In a true nod to an ironic God, I spilled boiling tea on my stomach this morning. It's blistered. So much for avoiding stomach pain...

After signing in at Moksha this morning, the instructor, Jason, informed me that tomorrow will be the last day for my 30-day pass. Which means that tomorrow marks the end of my 30-day challenge! So brace yourself for a post full of reflections. But not now. Instead I will regail you with my first Power Flow class. It was not as abysmal as I had expected. That said, some cruel fate had my mind and body crushed by some inexplicable hangover. I think I'm going to have to wade back into the world of alcohol a bit more slowly - two pints and I felt like death all morning! It's truly unfair. I think that, compounded with all the yoga sweating, my body is just really dehydrated. Anyhow, my hungover self was not a very impressive contributor to the PowerFlow class. That said, I would definitely be up for it in the future. It wasn't necessarily harder than any 90 minute Moksha class - just more flows and a more varied series of postures, which I love. Got to try my hand at crow pose. Which I can't do. Yet. I think the more challenging class will be a good addition though. Unlike a lot of people I know, particularly those who can only appreciate yoga when it is a challenging cardio and strength work out, I like a variety of classes, and find the long-hold Yin classes as satisfying as the more active Moksha classes. I kind of disdain the yoga snobbery of "I get too bored in those long holds!" That. Is. The. Point. Settle your mind and try to cultivate calm.

Ok, this has been a very indulgent break from marking. I am only half-way through my first essay of grading for the day - I am feeling the hurt of no coffee after a 7am yoga class, for sure. Best get my ass back at it though - I'm tired of this little brats e-mailing me asking when they will get their papers back.

Bad Blogger

I know I tried to explain away my absence from blogging, but I still feel like a fundamental blog-failure right now. I have been growing increasingly addicted to reading blogs, and I realized today that one of the reasons the weekends strike me as a bit of a bummer (since I have no discernible weekday schedule, you understand) is the break all my favourite bloggers take from their otherwise religious updates.
I am particularly obsessed, as of late, with the Peanut butter runner, See Jane, and, as always, the Sartorialist. Check them out, if you aren't already obsessed.

Sad news today kids. My trusted, drop-proof, water-proof camera died on me. I tried a couple of days ago to capture some pictures of my favourite subject, aside from myself, Miss She Ra Mae, who has settled back down into my humble abode just swimmingly. But it wouldn't take the picture. Odd. After charging the battery for, oh, two days, and doing the most my inept little mind could do to tinker with technology beyond my capacities (read: treat it like an SNES game cartridge that wont start and blow baby blow). No luck. It wont even start. So all of my lofty dreams for beautiful culinary or sartorial posts are on hold.

Particularly tragic given my new project. I know I said I would share with you what the new, vaguely labled "project" is (what is a project exactly? Like, you're eating 12 hot dogs a day now, or what?          I wish), but I am waiting on a contribution from my partner. Soon. I promise.

Had a couple of beers tonight, and a brownie (and hot chocolate...ugh) and am now fighting to urge to cab down to NDG to carry on my partying ways. I think bed is in my future though. Followed far too closely by brunch (who does Sunday brunch at 9:30 in the morning?? Yule and Brielan, that's who) and my first ever PowerFlow yoga class. I am excited and skeptical. I think I'll die. But, with only three days left in the 30-day-challenge, I figure I am in the best position I will ever be to try it out. I will let you know how it goes. If I survive.

Good night my night owls.

"Opinions may differ over whether Jack Nicholson is charming or vulgar, menacing or sexy, but it seems unlikely that his image will be read as conveying innocence and moral purity."

I am stuck in the library working on a paper which I have truly left to the last minute.

Today: researching.

Tomorrow: writing.

Friday: submitting/drinking.


**Will let you in on my new project when I am next able to post - until then you will have to wait with baited breath...

Weekend Survival. Mostly.

Ok, beloved team. Sit down. There is something I need to tell you.

I fell off the wagon. And hit the ground running.

I know - you're all heartbroken, right? My brother's reaction? "About time!"

I realized a while ago that I wasn't going to last until a draft of my thesis was done, which had been the original goal, and as long as abstaining didn't feel like an inconvenience or an obligation I was happy to do it. But on Saturday night, I just really wanted a beer. And it was fun.

I wanted to die Sunday, however. I would have been upset if I had missed yoga Sunday, but I managed to drag my butt to the last class of the day. I think that, my friends, is a truly impressive feat. But I had to do laundry today because of it - my towel stunk of alcohol sweat.

So, what I am doing these days is not drinking when I really don't need/want to drink. The casual "well, I guess if you're having one" beers are a thing of the past. Mid-day burger beers, for instance. But as it gets increasingly nice out in Montreal, a cold beer or a pitcher of sangria on a patio is just too irresistible.

Of course, no drinking the rest of this week - I NEED to get my ass moving on this paper. Groan.


Nine days left on the yoga challenge! I don't know if I'm going to drop the daily habit though...We'll see...

Five Senses Friday VI

It has been ages since I've done one of these, so I thought it was time to get a little retro on you.

Feeling:

oddly peaceful. That's what yoga, coffee, cappuccino and a morning of effective, completed work does to you I guess

Smelling:

Cleaning products. In my future. I am going to spend my afternoon spring cleaning, and I couldn't be more excited.

Hearing:

Adele's new album. I have been listening to it on repeat. Adore "Rolling in the Deep." It works to ease me into waking at 6:00am and is remarkably well paced for a runner of my calibre to clop along to.

Tasting:

Listerine. My dad got me hooked when I was on vacation with them. It was washing away the only-ok coffee from Pain Dore - guess I will stick with La Vielle Europe for my cappuccinos

Seeing:
Sunshine, and my watermelon coloured manicured fingers. Are "spring" coloured nails cheesy? I'm thinking of swapping to a flesh tone (mannequin hands, as last month's Elle called them). Thoughts? I've just started to inexpertly embrace painted nails, so any guidance is appreciated. 

Idiot Genocide

I noticed I have been having some somewhat passively murderous inclinations while I've been marking the papers of first year students. Not passive as in passing, or mildly felt. Literally, I have been considering very passive methods of murder.

"Hey - who here thinks you can cite Britannica Online? Yeah? Well have some of this free and tasty Kool-Aid!"

and

"I am going to hunt this kid down, kidnap him, lock him in my garage and run all the cars."

Racist Pastry Addiction

Ok. So I may have a problem.

I have found the font of the most amazing croissants.

I'm not too concerned with the anti-Islamic connotations - I would eat crucifix cookies if they were this delicious - I am more concerned that I am becoming alarmingly dependent on my morning pastry.

This is truly not like me.

This morning, after yoga, I stopped in at La Vielle Europe, where I've been grabbing my cappuccino and croissant for the past two and a half weeks, but lo and behold - no croissants! I looked at the other pastries, covered in pistachios or carmalized apples, and thought that a plain butter croissant was a big enough indulgence as is, so I left with my lonely cappuccino and a determination for finding some delicious sustenance for my post-yoga snack.

I actually started to get kind of worried about what I was going to eat! I have food in my apartment, but nothing really snack-worthy (deliberately so, because I am the WORST for subconscious boredom eating). And I remembered "Hey...I am pretty sure there is an actual bakery near my apartment. I will have to walk a half block out of my way, but it's nice out and they will probably have croissants..."

I will take you all home with me

I am actually walking out of my way for my completely superfluous pastry indulgence. Bad. Sign.

Worse sign? There was a line up at La Pain Dore of people wanting pastry. Read: They are damned god pastries.

And they don't even look like crescent moons, so my anti-Islamic indulgences aren't even remotely racist in shape!

And they are so good that, where I had been previously been considering kicking the habit, I am now convinced that I will be having daily croissants. I had been holding off on the weekends - there are other amazing decadent things to indulge in then. No more. Croissants every day-ay-ay, croissants every day.

I actually walked out of my house today, having just polished off my croissant-and-coffee-while-reading-a-fashion-magazine post yoga ritual, yellow patent leather ballet flats, rolled up cigarette jeans and aviators on, listening to Adele's new album, thinking "Who the fuck am I?"

Who indeed...

A Half-way Treat for Me

Before I got sidetracked by my sudden internet fame I had been planning on celebrating being half way through the yoga challenge with you. Celebrate it!

Or your big bird and rotting steak costumes.
Whatever says "Good Times!" to you

 

I hope you all have your sparklers aloft and party hats adorned.

I have completed, in fact, sixteen says of the thirty-day-challenge. I will still be getting up at 6:00am tomorrow for class though, making it far more likely that I will watch Party Monster than live it.

It's been going well. Only the past couple of days have I started to feel worn down. I think I need to start drinking much, much more water. I feel perpetually thirsty. But then again, I'm peeing all the time! Who knew thirty days of yoga would be so taxing?

Now that I am half-way, I thought I would set some goals for myself: my goal up to this point was survival.

I have already noticed that my spine and my hamstrings have both become more flexible. The latter, in particular, is a huge accomplishment. I am still looking like my sad pink washing gloves laid out in my drying rack right now when I attempt standing split (who are the freaks of nature who can do standing split???), but it's coming along.

I've decided that I really want to work on my depth in Dancer's pose. I have never been good at it, but I've found that, by sticking to proper alignment, I have been slowly but surely making progress. I also have decided to conquer my fear of Wheel. I have been feeling much more empowered and much less like I'm going to die in Bridge, and with my increased back flexibility, I think it's time to pony up and give it a shot.

I bought myself a little treat yesterday too, a congrats on making it thus far. Ok. Only kind of. Mostly it was a way of getting out of doing laundry so often. I invested in another yoga towel! And I even branched out; under the recommendation of Guillaume, with whom I'm secretly in love, I bought a Manduka towel, rather than another Yogitoes. This was a grudging recommendation, I think because the Manduka towel was almost 20$ cheaper (40$CDN, as opposed to the 58$CSN Yogitoes), but he was clearly backing Manduka.

So what's the difference?

Well, the Yogitoes, which I've been using for a year now, have plastic beading on one side, to better grip your mat, even after you've thoroughly soaked it with your sweat [groooooossssssss]. They also are the market favourite, available in a wide array of colours and patterns and sold at corporate yoga's favourite salon, LuluLemon (I have zero hate on for Lulu, but many of the more pretentious yogis do. Probably because they find it pretentious and elitist. Ironic). The Manduka mats, on the other hand, do not have this gummy grip tactic, and are generally much more muted and "calming" in colour, but are much more absorbant.

I thought the lack of beading would prove to be a problem. And I wont lie - it is. Particularly in any pose where I need to walk my feet back (ie. transitioning from Warrior I to Warrior II), the towel gets dragged around with my foot. It is annoying, and only having done two classes with it thus far, I still find myself anal retentively adjusting it mid-class, when my attention should clearly be elsewhere.

That said, the big advantage the Manduka towel has over the Yogitoes makes this slight inconvenience inconsequential: as the towel gets damp, it gets grippier. This is the opposite of what happens with the Yogitoes, and I often find myself (particularly if my mat hasn't been washed since last class - which these days is more often than not [grooooooosssssss]) having my hands slip away from my in Downward Facing Dog. I would really rather not crash face first into my mat half way through class. But often times when we slow down to take a few breaths in downward-dog, I have that stomach-dropping experience of having one hand suddenly skid over the top of my Yogitoes. The fact that my abundant sweat [grooooossssss] becomes an aid, rather than an obstacle, with the Manduka towel is invaluable.

So, if I can learn to pick up my feet, the Manduka towel gets my gold star. Thanks Manduka, for keeping me for having sudden and embarrassing encounters with gravity.

HEIGHT OF FAME

I don't think I will ever be more famous than I am right now. On the internet. 1408 people and counting have decidedly "thumbs upped" my facebook status from last week, which apparently made its way onto failblog.


It's all downhill from here kids.

Pasta Ponza and Long Distance Party-Crashing

It's been a pretty good Friday night for a girl abstaining from drinking.

 Had JC over for dinner after yoga. I made the long awaited Pasta Ponza (I had it all prepped and ready to go for Wednesday, but ran out of time since I had a movie date with some girls from the History Department). It was delicious, and I am happy to say that I have ample leftovers. I served it with grilled endive as well. It doesn't make for a very colourful plate (which I thought it would have, actually), but it was super tasty. I had never cooked endives before, and I will be honest, I just brushed them with an olive oil-salt-pepper combo and threw them on my George Foreman grill that so rarely sees the light of day. I will definitely be having them again soon.

Then JC and I went around the corner to the pub for a beer (or soda water in my case). I did get to crash the King's Rugby's Athletic Awards afterparty courtesy of Chopper's iphone and some videoskype. I got passed around the party, lucky witness to all the drunken shenanigans. Miss those jokers. And, though she admits that she doesn't read my blog, I need to give a huge shout out to my darling Genny, King's Rugby's MVP this year. I couldn't have chosen better. Congrats girl - you're the you're the best.