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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...