I decided a while back that I was going to shy away from relationship discussion. For this instance I have changed my mind. I’m not going to write an irate review of the opposite sex. Instead, I am going to tell a story as constructive criticism for all. It goes hand and hand with a Mark Driscoll video uploaded about how men have the potential to be cowards. Now, I never said men are cowards. I just think this story is testimony to what will happen if people choose to fart around in the field.
So once upon a time there was a country named France. And there were men that were native to this country. They were enjoying the good French life of baguettes and cigarettes, until many of them became enticed by foreigners that came to their country. They began a feverish pursuit for these exotic beauties that would come from far away lands to vacation and enjoy the romantic French culture. They had a gay old time drinking wine by the Seine, going for long moped rides with their lovers and running out of gas far from home and picnicking and making out near the Eiffel tower.
In the meantime, their French female counterparts started to wonder what was wrong with the men from their country. They began to get impatient and annoyed with the men’s silly games. They didn’t have to play 2nd fiddle to loose women from far away lands.
During this time, there were many men from across a channel in the country of England. They decided one day to take the train to their neighbouring country, France, and discover hidden adventures that awaited their arrival. Upon stepping foot on French soil, they discovered love starved French women in all of their prowess. They swept them off their feet and took them back across the channel where they lived happily ever after for the most part.
Meanwhile the French men became sick of the pursuit of unattainable, unrealistic and inconsistent foreigners. They came home from their gallivants around the country and returned to their villages to discover that in fact all of the women that they were excited to kindle true love with had in fact been snatched in the night. The French men threw baguettes in the streets and kicked the gypsies when they walked by.
This story is translated from the original French version told by a very dear friend of mine who has a daughter who married an English bloke and moved to England. As much as gross exaggerations are gross, there is an element of truth to it as I encountered living proof of the situation.
The moral of this story is multi-faceted. If you’re a female that feels like a French woman, don’t worry there is hope and don't act impatient. If you’re a French man, wake up and smell the French Roast. If you’re a British dude, you sly dog.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The 'T' Word
The ‘T’ word.
There is nothing more dreaded than TAX season. I think when my father set out with the vision to create a self-sustaining woman out of me, he hoped to achieve a good dowry or something by teaching me how to do my own taxes. And now that chickens are allowed in urban areas, maybe his dream will become a reality. How many chickens could a tax savvy woman go for? Side tracking.
Either that, or he suspected there may be a male armaggedon some day. And doing taxes is not a male job -- I might add, I'm just so used to my dad taking care of the books. It would seem natural to reserve that task for a male counterpart in my life. Alas, as there are in fact roughly 100,000 more women than men in Vancouver, I will just have to suck it up and do my own taxes for the time being.
Point is, when April dawns early every year, I always bemoan that weekend where I’ll scribble away and rattle through the cobwebs at the back of my brain to muster feeble attempts at basic arithmetic. I’m discovering that I am a rare breed. I do my taxes by scratch – no tax programs, and all by hand. Computers? What are those? It may be archaic but that’s how I was taught and that’s the way it will be. Plus me and math don’t get along so my cross-checking is better on paper. I’ll whine about what I have to go through and friends say, Oh, I get my accountant to do them. Really now? Are your finances just that complicated? It is valid for some, but not everyone. Granted it is circumstantial but still, I believe this season every year, builds my character somewhat. Maybe in an ogre-esque fashion but builds it nonetheless.
You get to a certain point when you view your return at the end and you know you made a huge error when the government wants to pay you money, as in large enough sums that you can vacation off of. I discovered that erroneous situation this year when I attempted to apply for the Working Income Tax Benefit. Yes, I am poor and I realized that I am on the higher end of a low tax bracket but I figured I would look into what poverty truly means by the Canadian standards. Inevitably, there was no really clear answer because it is a percentage basis. Easy? That would be just too straightforward but what I suddenly realized was that I must not qualify for it when the outcome = generosity from the government.
I have always received a return on my taxes. This year, however, I did not. I am crying slightly on the inside. I owe money sadly. Last year was the ending of a beautiful time in my life. That whopping cheque the year that a student only has one semester or less in school and yet works for the remainder of the time is glorious. You get school credits as well as impoverished worker credits resulting in a great return.
I am done, thankfully, and my eyes can uncross. I am blood-letted and poor -- but not in spirit. The word Revenue I’ve discovered will forever look weird to me but I am starting to blame that on bilingualism and categorize it as one of the many Anglophone words that looks French. Otherwise, I think we’re good. My i’s are crossed and my t’s are dotted.
There is nothing more dreaded than TAX season. I think when my father set out with the vision to create a self-sustaining woman out of me, he hoped to achieve a good dowry or something by teaching me how to do my own taxes. And now that chickens are allowed in urban areas, maybe his dream will become a reality. How many chickens could a tax savvy woman go for? Side tracking.
Either that, or he suspected there may be a male armaggedon some day. And doing taxes is not a male job -- I might add, I'm just so used to my dad taking care of the books. It would seem natural to reserve that task for a male counterpart in my life. Alas, as there are in fact roughly 100,000 more women than men in Vancouver, I will just have to suck it up and do my own taxes for the time being.
Point is, when April dawns early every year, I always bemoan that weekend where I’ll scribble away and rattle through the cobwebs at the back of my brain to muster feeble attempts at basic arithmetic. I’m discovering that I am a rare breed. I do my taxes by scratch – no tax programs, and all by hand. Computers? What are those? It may be archaic but that’s how I was taught and that’s the way it will be. Plus me and math don’t get along so my cross-checking is better on paper. I’ll whine about what I have to go through and friends say, Oh, I get my accountant to do them. Really now? Are your finances just that complicated? It is valid for some, but not everyone. Granted it is circumstantial but still, I believe this season every year, builds my character somewhat. Maybe in an ogre-esque fashion but builds it nonetheless.
You get to a certain point when you view your return at the end and you know you made a huge error when the government wants to pay you money, as in large enough sums that you can vacation off of. I discovered that erroneous situation this year when I attempted to apply for the Working Income Tax Benefit. Yes, I am poor and I realized that I am on the higher end of a low tax bracket but I figured I would look into what poverty truly means by the Canadian standards. Inevitably, there was no really clear answer because it is a percentage basis. Easy? That would be just too straightforward but what I suddenly realized was that I must not qualify for it when the outcome = generosity from the government.
I have always received a return on my taxes. This year, however, I did not. I am crying slightly on the inside. I owe money sadly. Last year was the ending of a beautiful time in my life. That whopping cheque the year that a student only has one semester or less in school and yet works for the remainder of the time is glorious. You get school credits as well as impoverished worker credits resulting in a great return.
I am done, thankfully, and my eyes can uncross. I am blood-letted and poor -- but not in spirit. The word Revenue I’ve discovered will forever look weird to me but I am starting to blame that on bilingualism and categorize it as one of the many Anglophone words that looks French. Otherwise, I think we’re good. My i’s are crossed and my t’s are dotted.
Monday, April 6, 2009
How much thought makes the thought count? Good question.
When I first laid eyes on my cave of a basement suite, I knew that it would be home to me during this interim stage of my life. Being the footloose, carefree young adult that am I knew that the house was nestled in the midst of a neighbourhood that took me back to my favourite childhood memories in Ottawa, Ontario.
My greatest memories of living in Ottawa were having a ton of friends my age on my street. Melanie’s pool. The huge garden in our backyard where I would pick carrots right from the ground and eat them. Heading the warnings from my mother to wash the veggies and fruit before I ate it really didn’t matter much to me.
Picking the rhubarb from the back corner of the backyard where the creepy crawlies created underground metropolis settlements. Secretly grimasing the whole time knowing my mom would serve steamed rhubarb with dinner and then make enough strawberry rhubarb pie to last a lifetime. The bitterness of such a stalk still makes me shudder when I think of it. And yet, the is a very fond memory now.
The time my best friend Nicholas had a huge hives break out when I fed him green jello on our back stoop of our house. And my wonderment to his mother’s explanation to his absence in my life for well over a week. My friend Sarah and I visiting him while he looked like a swollen pillow with red blotches all over it.
The one surprise party anyone was ever really truly able to surprise me with. I went around for a week thinking that all my friends hated me because they all suddenly had plans when I wanted to hang out with them. Being the planner isn’t always in your best interest when it comes to having other people surprise you.
And selling lemonade on the corner of Drainie Drive when I was 8 and selling Lemonade for a 1.00 a cup. Granted it was a gourmet glass of lemonade but a dollar nonetheless over 15 years ago.
These memories flooded my brain this weekend as I was approached by a freckly 7 year old in my new neighbourhood asking me if I wanted to bye a cup of KoolAid© for 25 cents. I was thinking that he was going to say it was a 1.50 with considerations for inflation etc. Instead, it was a mere 25 cents. Don’t tell me this recession is driving down the price of a glass of KoolAid©?
I stopped and pulled all of the spare change I could find in my spare change drawer. The boys looked ecstatic to see a tip. Although at such a bargain basement price I suspect that everyone gave them more than the asking price. I asked the boys what they were saving up to buy. They both gave me a very earnest answer: to buy flowers for their moms. They had 5 dollars at that point.
I did a quick calculation of how much it probably cost mom for the cartoon cups that were used for the KoolAid, plus the KoolAid as well.
It may just be a break even proposition where mom bought the KoolAid in exchange for some flowers. But really, only an adult would do this mental calculation. At the heart of it, it’s the most precious gift ever. Mom won't care when its all said and done. Because of the time, effort and thought she'll melt. I think we can all learn a lesson from these youngsters. How much thought makes it a gift where the thought counts? I suppose if you give it any thought and effort really.
My greatest memories of living in Ottawa were having a ton of friends my age on my street. Melanie’s pool. The huge garden in our backyard where I would pick carrots right from the ground and eat them. Heading the warnings from my mother to wash the veggies and fruit before I ate it really didn’t matter much to me.
Picking the rhubarb from the back corner of the backyard where the creepy crawlies created underground metropolis settlements. Secretly grimasing the whole time knowing my mom would serve steamed rhubarb with dinner and then make enough strawberry rhubarb pie to last a lifetime. The bitterness of such a stalk still makes me shudder when I think of it. And yet, the is a very fond memory now.
The time my best friend Nicholas had a huge hives break out when I fed him green jello on our back stoop of our house. And my wonderment to his mother’s explanation to his absence in my life for well over a week. My friend Sarah and I visiting him while he looked like a swollen pillow with red blotches all over it.
The one surprise party anyone was ever really truly able to surprise me with. I went around for a week thinking that all my friends hated me because they all suddenly had plans when I wanted to hang out with them. Being the planner isn’t always in your best interest when it comes to having other people surprise you.
And selling lemonade on the corner of Drainie Drive when I was 8 and selling Lemonade for a 1.00 a cup. Granted it was a gourmet glass of lemonade but a dollar nonetheless over 15 years ago.
These memories flooded my brain this weekend as I was approached by a freckly 7 year old in my new neighbourhood asking me if I wanted to bye a cup of KoolAid© for 25 cents. I was thinking that he was going to say it was a 1.50 with considerations for inflation etc. Instead, it was a mere 25 cents. Don’t tell me this recession is driving down the price of a glass of KoolAid©?
I stopped and pulled all of the spare change I could find in my spare change drawer. The boys looked ecstatic to see a tip. Although at such a bargain basement price I suspect that everyone gave them more than the asking price. I asked the boys what they were saving up to buy. They both gave me a very earnest answer: to buy flowers for their moms. They had 5 dollars at that point.
I did a quick calculation of how much it probably cost mom for the cartoon cups that were used for the KoolAid, plus the KoolAid as well.
It may just be a break even proposition where mom bought the KoolAid in exchange for some flowers. But really, only an adult would do this mental calculation. At the heart of it, it’s the most precious gift ever. Mom won't care when its all said and done. Because of the time, effort and thought she'll melt. I think we can all learn a lesson from these youngsters. How much thought makes it a gift where the thought counts? I suppose if you give it any thought and effort really.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Treading in Turds
Rarely do I find enough time to maintain the blog, but on rare occasion, I sneak in a couple minutes for more than one blog at a time. Especially when I read ludicrous things.
So I logged into my computer this morning to read this:
It’s an article about suggestions for busy dog owners fitting in their dog walk into their schedule. One of the proposed options is to put the dog on a treadmill if you can't find the time to walk your dog.
For the dog owners out there that are trying to surpress the laughter. Don’t. Be my guest. Laugh until you pee your pants.
Chances are, the author of the article is new to the paper and got the short end of the stick with this article. So he decided that he would have some fun with the article just to raise some attention.
The more likely alternative response is that he has no flying clue about raising pets. Which makes me wonder as to why he is writing for that section of the online publication.
The point of a walk is so that the dog will do their daily business somewhere other than within the house. Add a treadmill into the equation and if you can convince/train a dog that treadmills are fun (good luck) then finding the time to clean up flying poo is going to be more of a concern to you than actually taking the dog outside.
Let me guess, if I were to call the author on the issue, he would probably say that all dogs use the litter box and will eventually graduate to be potty trained, just like the rest of us.
The point of having a dog is to remind you to take time out of your day and go get fresh air, to take some time alone with your thoughts and to unwind. Yes, as much as it is one more thing to do in a very scheduled life, it is supposed to be a de-stressing thing. If you just can’t find enough time to spread some affection to a furry friend, then it’s time to give that furry friend up rather than having it fly across the room because the hills setting is too strenuous on the poor pooch.
the swiftest boot kick of my life
So Bootcamp. Exactly. I don’t really know how I get myself into these situations. It probably had something to do with watching this living breathing version of a weightloss commercial – my father -- and years of watching him slim down almost approximately a 3rd of his body weight. At some point, I mumbled the words, bootcamp sounds like fun and the next thing I know, I am pushing an ex track star runner/personal trainer from
Before it all started.
I go for my assessment at a Seniors Citizens Recreation Centre. This does not bode well in the back of my mind. What are they trying to say about me? I find out later that they just rent space there.
They take my BMI and I find out that I’m 2% off of my target weight. Not bad. I thought I was way worse off. The irony in all of this is that my lean body mass is a 128 pounds. No wonder people thought I looked anorexic when I was 120 lbs. I was just skin and bones at that point.
As for the not so lean body mass, well we’ll leave that up to the imagination. I just imagine that it doesn’t exist.
Then, they shove some papers in front of me and tell me to sign my life away. I look down, and it states that we are to not “indulge” in treats while we’re in the programme. Something to do with getting the best results possible or something? Who knows? There are no guarantees.
The fact that I can’t have “treats” makes everything that I wouldn’t normally consume, that much more appealing. Don’t ask me why, but perhaps it has something to do with the nature of us: we always want what we can’t have. Instead my strategy is just to stuff my face with what I can have so I don't crave the junk.
1st week:
1st day. I get up exhilarated by the unknown workout I am about to experience. Sheer naivety and eagerness drive me to seize the day.
Get there. See a sea of faces. I’m the 2nd youngest in this crowd. Start running. They all take off. My lungs and arse set something resembling a pace. Shortly thereafter I get lost in the woods. I make a shortcut through the field so that I’ll make it back on time. The coach is picking up pylons in the field. He sees me and tells me to run back to the picnic pavilion shelter where we work out. I take off like a bullet. Bad idea. Why? He watches your every move.
2nd day: Body Screaming
Every muscle in my body is screaming obsanities as I roll out of bed and get to the field. Hassan, the trainer, decides that my sprint the previous day proves just how much harder he needs to work me. He gives me the same weights as all of the men in the program. Bad News Bears.
3rd day: I sleep in.
There is no point to getting up at this point because I verbally wail every time I have to adjust in my chair at work. If I sit for too long, I get stiff. If I walk for too long, I have to sit. There is no such thing as a solution other than to make a bee line for the hot tub at the pool and just veg.
4th day: My body is beginning to forgive me.
The pain is there. I just decided at this point I’m going to have to just deal. Go do the work out, feel surprisingly refreshed and muscles are in agreement that this might be a good thing to explore.
5th day: It’s Friday. Need I say more.
Every part of me likes this. Plus, there are two days of rest coming up which I can really use. Plus, it’s casual Friday at work so I get to wear jeans rather than nylons. The cherry on top of the Ice cream Sundae that I cannot eat.
This first week is over and I have come to conclude that I need something to continue after this gruesome month is over. I refuse to return to a state of jell-o again. At any rate, this has all been a rather interesting wake up call. Literally and otherwise. Updates to come. Hopefully it includes an improvement to the point where my dad doesn't beat me at everything. That is the only embarassing part about this whole gongshow of an adventure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)