Again with the bashing.
I have half a mind to flag all of the comments following that story as inappropriate.
Although, I’m sure if Vancouver fans saw the commercial that plays prior to each Leafs home game, which depicts the Leafs as “Canada’s Team” and “the only Canadian hockey team with 6 home arenas” there’d be more where this latest article came from.
Come on, boys. Shut these Vancouver folk up and win a game already! You’re making it too easy for them.
p.s. Go Yankees!
Fine. The cat may have won more fights than I have but it doesn’t matter how many fights one wins, it really comes down to who wins the war. I’m confident that I’ve won the war.
Penny’s scratching has been an issue for me in the past. She’s torn up the leaves on my little palm tree, scratch up one of the couches and my arms. In preparation for our new (expensive) couch, I’ve decided to teach her who’s boss. I bought softpaws.
I set up shop in the living room. Attempt: unsuccessful
Alright, so my first attempt at applying the caps ended with a gash across my cheek and I only managed to clip 2 claws. I had to leave this one to the professionals. She went to the vet tonight et voila:
Pennysnacks showing off her manicure
super close up
They seem to be working, although it has only been a few hours. These softpaws may be the greatest invention ever. My couch may own it’s life to them.
I’m home sick today. What’s better than surfing the net on a day alone at home and diseased? I was checking out my Twitter and unofficially approving my followers when I came across a strange little French man.
His photo caught my attention, it’s kinda creepy. Little did I know what I would come across once I clicked on his profile:
“What are you doing? As ivano nothing. I just enjoy to read what the ivanas are doing around the world.”
“Kisses to all the Ivanas. You have the most beautiful name in the world. la “grâce de Dieu” ou le “pardon de Dieu”… Jewish origin.”
“I be happy to talk with all girls you have the name of Ivana. My mother wanted to call me Ivana…but I born as a boy…Ivano. Funny”
This is just a sample of what he’s tweeted. I then clicked to see who he’s following… ONLY IVANA’S. What to do? Allow him to follow me and entertain me with these silly tweets? Or block the crazy?
Remember a while back, I was desperately seeking donors to support me in my walk for breast cancer, benefitting The Princess Margaret Hospital (which happens to be one of the top 5 hospitals for cancer research… in the world). Through numerous (desperation soaked) emails to friends and several fundraising events at the office, I met and (just barely) exceeded my goal.
The walk took place this weekend, starting at the Direct Energy Centre aka Exhibition Place, day one ending at Downsview Park and back again the next day, totaling 60 km (just over 37 m for those of you down south).
When I had first registered for this event, I was told that training was important. I thought, who needs to train for a walk? Nonetheless, I had gone out for a few long walks to prepare. One of my first attempts was walking home from work (I don’t live there anymore, so stalkers back off) and although I did make it home in 2 hours, I was hit by a car. Nothing dramatic that required medical attention, a man had reversed his car and failed to see me, then failed to apologize for hitting me… although the way I had confronted him may have startled him.
Team Harlequin met at 7am to get ready for the opening ceremonies. It was amazing to see a crowd of 4,616 walkers work together to raise over $11 million dollars for women’s cancer research.
I really didn’t know what I was getting into, I didn’t know what an emotionally and physically draining experience this was going to be. Those who know me well, know that I’m a cryer. And boy did I have the water works on high this weekend. This walk challenged me, it challenged me to get creative – baking over 100 cupcakes for a fundraiser and it challenged me to push myself and not give up.
Day 1 went well, I had excellent company which helped make the 30+ km walk go by quickly. As did games like, spot the nearest Starbucks to nurse my caffeine withdrawal headache and get to know you better questions such as, If you could own any kind of business, what would it be? We made it to camp around 6pm and I dug right into my free booze (thanks Steamwhitsle and Yellowtail!) and dinner. Come night, only 5 of the 9 team members staying overnight made it past dinner. We got to know each other better, chatting the night away over a few beers before I retired to my tent.
Day 2 started early, I arose at 4 am (thanks to the early birds in the tent next to me) and spent a good hour stretching out my sore feet, breakfast and packing up before our 30 km trek back home. My Day 1 walking mates had gone home (they were participating in the one-day walk), so I rejoined the rest of Team Harlequin. Day 2 took us through downtown and I was looking forward to it, seeing as TIFF is going on, I was hoping we could get some stargazing done – in the least obvious way possible. Although I didn’t spot anyone, I could’ve cared less. The only thing that concerned me at that point was the monstrous blister that had formed on my heel and had developed a limp in my step. Ack!
I had one breaking point, it was after lunch on day 2, the limp was taking a lot out of me, it was hot as heck and I had reached my breaking point. I was ready to call it quits and have one of the sweep vehicles pick me up and take me to the finish line. It was at that point that I spotted a man and his daughter sitting out front their apartment and clapping for us, saying, “Thank you!”. I was overcome with emotion, tears began to fall and I got my second wind back.
Crossing the finish line, was amazing. Boy and Olgie were waiting for me, cheering me on and the waterworks were on again. I even made it on the local news, even if it was for 2.43 seconds (click on news from Sunday September 13th and skip to the 11:47 mark – I’m in the pink tank top and the next shot is of my team members).
This past weekend was a life changing experience. Whether it was at the opening ceremonies when family members of those who have fallen victim to breast cancer carrying the running shoes their loved ones were to wear on the walk before cancer had claimed their lives. Or walking down King St. in Weston, where a loving community was very much alive. This street was lined with neighbours supporting us with a hose to give us a light mist on a hot day, watermelon slices, lemonade, chocolate, applause and even… shots of beer. Walking through Downsview, where cute Italian families handed out freezies, pannetone, popsicles and fresh fruit.
The most inspiring part of this walk was having breast cancer survivors cheering us on and holding signs saying, “I’m alive because of you”. It’s so overwhelming. People thanking me for raising money and walking 60 km? It seems so bizarre to me. Needless to say, I cried a lot, laughed loads, shared stories and am really proud of myself for completing the entire 60 km. Congrats to all who participated.
Here are a few more photos from the weekend:
A clever sign an optometrist had up for us.
My favourite team logo... so hilariously creative
Me, Tripetripeandmoretripe.blogspot.com, and another friend at the pirate pit stop.
Team Harlequin heading toward the finish line
Thanks again to everyone who supported me in my walk. I really appreciate your help and thank you for giving me the opportunity to experience this.
I was eighteen, dating a boy, T here on out, in a small town about an hour north of my house and was using my Dad’s car to get me there. My Dad (well both of my parents, actually) really didn’t care for T who took their lovely daughter and turned her into a punk with a new (terrible) attitude.
When I got my driver’s license my Dad did not let me drive his car, a large 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Her name was Beastly, she roared like a monster and had a sexy sunroof, that’s all that mattered to me. The first night I actually got to drive on my own my Dad was out bowling, I had managed to break down my Mom and went out for a couple of hours. It went downhill from there. For my parents, that is.
I was a selfish teenager who began taking the car without asking, my parents eventually caught on to my game and started asking my permission to use the car. It was great. That is, until my parents met T.
Making time to see T was beginning to cause some real tension between the three of us, Pops would put up a fight whenever I’d leave the door, threaten to take the car away from me. Not good. So what was my logical reaction to this? Buy my own car.
I had first revealed my plan to T, who loved it. I’m sure it was because he loves cars more than me, than this huge financial step I was taking. We visited a dealership in his town and I found THE car I wanted, a Mazda Speed Protege. I took it for a test drive, well, T drove since I didn’t know how to drive standard (smart, Ivana, buy a car you can’t drive). I wanted that car. I had planned to get my financing in order and come back with an offer the very next morning.
Next morning, I’m all smiles and drive to the dealership only to find out the car had been purchased. Who purchased it? None other than T!!! I freaked because I knew he didn’t secretly buy it for me, he wasn’t that thoughtful (or rich). He bought the car for himself, behind my back and didn’t have the decency to tell me. What a monster.
I promptly drove over to his place and immediately transformed into doormat. I tried to confront him but took it back the second he turned the confrontation on me. He knew I was afraid he was going to dump me at any moment, so I gave into whatever he wanted the moment he got upset. This was the young, dumb, fat girl in me (I’m much meaner now).
I settled for something similar but not nearly as sporty. A peppy Mazda Protege5. When I was signing the papers, the salesman asked if I had something to trade in. Without thinking, I had just blurted out, “Yes. A ‘94 Cutlass Supreme.” Eeeek. Not. My. Car. He explained to me that I’d have to have my Dad sign over permission to trade the car in. What the eff was I going to do? My parents didn’t even know I was buying a car.
I thought long and hard about how and what I was going to tell my Dad and every scenario I had thought up ending up with me, dead. So what was my decision in the end? I chose to write my Dad a letter, explaining the situation, leaving the filled out paperwork with the signature line highlighted and placing it on top of his lunch bag for him to complete before he left for work that morning.
I came down to the kitchen hours after he had left to find… the signed form, no bloodshed and no complaints when he came home that night. Had I finally cracked my Dad? Figured out how to ‘ask’ permission? Maybe. I’ll be honest though, I seriously thought he would take the day to think up all sorts of mean things to say but they mean things never came. He was actually ok with me trading in his car. Bizarre.
I’m still driving my peppy baby, named Baby. She let me ride shotgun through many of life’s adventures, when I got rid of T, got my full-time job, moved out of my parents place and met Boy. Boy and I love her and her hatchback and have had many adventurous (and extremely humourous) moments with her, like a happy little family. I’ll be forever grateful to Pops for not freaking on me. Maybe he knew that my buying a car of my own would make me grow up, learn how to budget and be responsible?
What was your first car? Did you ’steal’ it like I did mine?
*If you have a sensitive stomach and enjoy pesto, please consider losing your love for pesto after reading this entry. I will not be held responsible for those who can no longer eat pesto.
I have a problem. I can be really negative. Negativity has begun to consume my life. I find I’m always complaining about something or someone and I can’t stop myself.
I had a breakdown and cried to Boy a whlie ago. I went on and on about how I wanted so and so to change, this and that to change, everything needed to change… but me. He suggested I look at my situation and grab hold of issues I can control. Reluctantly, I took inventory of the issues at hand: People, I cannot control how people act, so not something I can control. Things (aka work), I cannot control what goes on at my company. Me, I have total control over me.
Now that I knew what I could control, I tried to come up with ways to change. It’s tough. I mean, when someone or something irks me, how am I supposed to change my reaction to something other than my natural reaction (anger, complaints, general blahness)? I thought maybe I could have a go-to song that I’ll play on my iPod when I’m upset. This didn’t work. I hate that song now. Early one morning, I unexpectantly woke up to my solution…
First, some background. There’s a boy on my street (my old street that is… Roomie still lives there so I run into him from time to time) that I really just can’t stand. His hair upsets me and his squeaky, lady-like, projected voice makes me cringe. It also doesn’t help that he’s always around.
On this specific morning, I woke up at 5am to someone shouting in the neighbours backyard. It was annoying boy I don’t like. I sat in bed trying to make out what he was screaming.
“Make sure you cook the penne just right!”
I thought to myself, is he talking in his sleep? I didn’t hear anyone elses voice and what 13 year old (boy, at that) is cooking penne at 5am? He then shouted (stop reading now if you love pesto),
“I don’t want the tomato sauce, cook it with the shit diarrhea sauce”
“Shit diarrhea sauce!”
“Shit diarrhea sauce!”
“Shit diarrhea sauce!”
“Shit diarrhea sauce!”
This went on for a good 30 minutes before it suddenly went silent.
Now how is this the solution to my negativity issue? Well, every time I’ve seen that boy since, I can’t help but laugh. Laughing is better than crying or complaining or hating, n’est pas?
Now if only my nemesis were a sleep talker.
Lame billboard in B.C. poking fun at Torontonians:
Photo courtesy of Kathryn Morton
Even lamer retaliating Bud Light billboard, showing B.C. posers that we care:
Photo courtesy of Ian S.
The result? Beerboard fight from one coast of the country to the other. They say: Torontonians are cold, think their province is the best in the country when really they’re the ‘have-not’ province right now. We I say: Quiet posers! Winter’s approaching, shouldn’t you be hitting the tanning beds with your boarding goggles? So you can show tourists that you’re the king of the Rockies (this tidbit was shared by a B.C. resident).
Issues aside, these ads don’t make these beers taste any better, they still suck.
It’s official! I’m in my new place! I’ve spent the last week unpacking and organizing and last night Boy and I unpacked our last boxes.
Up until last night, the office was a complete disaster. The only room you couldn’t walk into, was cluttered with boxes and a total eyesore. We didn’t realize how many books the two of us had collected over the course of our lives and just didn’t have the space for it all. So last night we purged. Our unwanted/less important/don’t make us look smart books.
I came across my collection of Trixie Belden books. Back in the time when the majority of my friends were into Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and Sweet Valley High, I dug my nose into Trixie Belden mysteries. My aunt had read them as a young girl and stumbled upon them at a second-hand store when I was but 11 years old. I fell in love with these books. They were clever, quick, and fun. Much better than that Nancy girl (ironically, that’s my aunt’s name).
An old cubemate of mine enjoyed this series as well and even purchased this adorable Christmas tree (see 3rd from top) for me a few years back. And once, when my life was turned upside down and I had an unwelcomed visit from and Green-Eyed Girl, we made this:
This website allows you to create your own Trixie cover. I still have this baby in my cube today.
I swear I had the majority of the published collection but when I was sorting through them last night, I found that somehow my collection had dwindled down to a mere 12 books (and not in order of publication!). I’m on this case and will find out what happened to my missing books – or just find them on ebay or convince Roomie’s (awww, ex-Roomie) boyfriend’s Mom to give up the collection in her basement. Regardless, the Mystery of the Missing Book Collection will be solved.
Disclaimer: I’ve taken some time to write some short stories, so just so you know, this story is real(ish), exaggerated to give the impression that I lead a fairly exciting life.
I tuned in to an episode of That 70’s Show that centered on the first time Eric went errr numero deux at Donna’s house. It got me thinking, have I ever had that first time with a BF? It’s a big step to be able to toot or numero deux with someone close by. You have to have a very high level of comfort (or not a care in the world) to expose yourself and not worry of any insults that may be headed your way.
Up until now, I’ve told past BF’s that I don’t do that because, like, you know, girls don’t have butt holes. I guess it’s time to come to terms with the truth. My first time…
It was my 20th birthday, I met my boyfriend of 2 years at his house, where he gave me my birthday gift. Excited to start the night off right, I hurriedly unwrapped the girl (rather, pulled it out of the bag) and what did I find? A lame cordless phone. 2 years and that’s the best you could do? He asked what was wrong and I just shrugged it off blaming illness for my attitude.
Frustrated, I asked, “Where are we going for dinner?”. Bracing myself for his response – meals out usually consisted of 2 can dine for $9.99 at McDonalds, explains why I got so fat within that 2 year span – he says, “Hunter’s Tavern”. This is the type of place you meet your buddies for a beer, not a place you take your girlfriend for her birthday dinner. The walls are decorated with wild animal heads, there’s rustic wood everywhere and the menu reads fried everything. I was a 20-year-old-suburban-girl-trying-to-impress-a-boy-and-convinced-herself-that-she-could-live-in-the-country, so I really didn’t know any better.
I ordered the chicken parmesan, a large enough to feed a 500-lb man, far too heavy for my sensitive stomach. Immediately upon completion, I felt bad. Really bad. Fortunately, my crappy gift had me feeling crappy and I had already began to feign illness. Phew. Now just to remind him that I wasn’t feeling well.
We arrive at his house to watch a movie and I had to go, I tried to wait out but there was no stopping this high carb/high fat/high fried/high sauced/cheese covered meal. No way, no how.
I casually head downstairs, to the washroom. It’s a rickety old room, the floor is falling apart and I have to balance myself on the toilet. It’s resting on one of the support beams and when I look at the “floor” I can see into the basement, which is more of a mudroom. I’m working up the courage to do this and my confidence is shaken by a noise. I realize that his brother (who’s room is sharing the bathroom wall) is likely to hear this all go down. I do what, I think at the time, is the most logical thing… I make pukity puke puke noises as I get down to business, covering up for my bowel movement. Oye.
I think I overdid it, I hear a knock at the door and BF’s mom asks if I’m alright. Shit, I’m caught! I quickly rummage through my purse and dig out a pack of matches and light as many as I can and throw them down the toilet. I wash my hands, open the door and am greeted by the entire family with very concerned faces – BF, Mom, Dad and brother. I turned to BF and said, “Thanks for dinner. I’m going home.” Off I went on my hour long ride home through the bush.
It was never brought up again. Phew.
Day 37 of the Toronto Union Strike and the light at the end of the tunnel is near. A tentative deal has been reached and we’re just waiting with, soon to be stinkless, anticipation on the official decision.
The reasons I want this to be over? Firstly, the wall of stink I hit when I walk out my front door is becomming unbearable. I can’t even imagine the maggots and such growing, breeding, eating in my compost bin. Secondly (and most importantly), this means that ferry service will be back!
One of the things I was looking forward to most in my first summer in the city, was spending my weekends at the island. It’s so calming, peaceful and inspiring. Yes, that sounds like the most cliched load of crap, but it’s honestly true.
I wanted to spend the summer writing, just dumb nonsense. Short stories, mainly and I haven’t been able to get motivated to do so. My backyard is extremely uninspiring (it could be, in part, due to the countless times I’ve heard the neighbour nextdoor shout, “I’m on the toilet!”). My bedroom is for sleeping, not writing. The parks around me are mediocre (with the cemetery across the street, but I feel wrong sitting next to a burial plot and writing something mildly witty). The Island is the perfect writing location.
I went camping at Sandbanks a few weekends ago and brought along David Sedaris‘ Me Talk Pretty One Day. It was the first book by him that I had started reading (thanks to Punnery) and I was hooked. He writes witty short stories. It was perfect for camping because short stories don’t require a lot of commitement. I was looking forward to a day at the beach with my book and was heartbroken when I’d discovered that I had left it on the roof of the car as we drove away. Le sigh. I needed more Sedaris. I made the Boy and I drive into town, to the nearest bookstore to find another of his books. Success.
I’m now reading his book When you are Engulfed in Flames and it’s just as good. Sedaris has motivated me to write (realish) short stories. Now I just need this strike to end so that I can reach my inspiration destination (without a $40 water cab fee).
_____________________________
Update on my own strike: I slipped on day 21. I lifted the ban for my friend, B. Only for her. No one else. I was on my best behaviour. Was offered the opportunity to cheat the system, resisted and paid my $2.75 fare (eeer… B did).
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