The Cold Meat and Dairy War

My guy is what I refer to as a Lazitarian, too lazy to cook, he eats whatever is laid in front of him. When he first moved in under cover of habit (see Stealth Cohabitation) he became a vegetarian out of necessity - I do all the cooking and I don't cook meet. Though he was gaining weight due to regular meals and careful attention to nutrition, his mother was sure he was malnourished and starving because...well, a person can't live without meat, especially her only child person. Eventually, he went back to eating meat when dinning out or at either of his parent's places but remained vegetarian at home.

He is a stubborn one, my guy and if pushed one way, will run the other (sound familiar to anyone out there? Hands up if you are dating one) and he can be spiteful, though rarely, just for the sake of it. It is the latter attribute that is waging a full on cold war in my refrigerator. I say "my" refrigerator because a) I bought it and b) the kitchen is my domain, much like gardening is his. It has nothing to do with gender or cultural expectations, each sticks with what they know. Food prep, weight training plans, hand-to-hand combat, plumbing and feudal weapons are my things. Bicycle repair, planting and watering things that grow, wood working, guns and grocery shopping are his. Don't even get me started on his rigorous miltaresque policies regarding bed making. I've been known to fight my way out of the restrictive covers.

When my guy worked in a factory and had access to a refrigerator and microwave, I made his lunches. Usually I just made enough dinner to ensure he had a meal for the following day. This summer he started trimming and removing trees then added landscaping and decks to his repertoire. Outdoor work that necessitated the need for sandwiches or at least foods that did not require heating. I assumed he could make a sandwich for himself, it requires very little culinary skill. That's when the luncheon meat started appearing in and contaminating my refrigerator. Then the chicken toquitos (if you don't know what those are, consider yourself lucky, microwaved there are the most offensive smell ever to waft from my kitchen). When I announced my decision to transition from vegetarian to vegan, nearly everything he brought home from the grocery store contained meat, cheese or egg. 

The cold meat/dairy war is upon us. He now even buys potato chips (my weakness) with dairy in them. Nothing gives him more pleasure than eating chocolate covered almonds in my presence and offering me one about every 3 minutes. He goes out of his way to grocery shop for things I cannot eat, even though I am the cook in the house and he knows what I prepare for us will be vegan. He has no complaint with the taste or quality of the food I prepare. He likes my cooking, even my vegan cooking. Really, my being vegan doesn't effect him at all, and yet he intentionally tries to thwart me at every opportunity. The better my diet becomes, the more processed junk he eats. He's at a barbeque tonight, stuffing his face with steak and domestic beer, while I'm home, drinking craft beer, eating a decadent cashew butter and vanilla pear jam sandwich, playing music too loud and dancing in my underwear. 

Rest well my dear, for tomorrow I reclaim my refrigerator, "Once more unto the Veggie Crisper, dear friends, once more....

Mind the (Generation) Gap

When people find out the age difference between me and My Guy, I usually receive high-fives, mock fawning and bowing or titles like "Queen of the Cougars". On rare occasions, though, I encounter "I could never...", which initially makes me think of a Dylan Moran bit regarding hookers and cocaine in a hotel room. I never see what the big deal is. As has already been established, My Guy is an old soul, or I'm very immature. Possibly it's a combination of both. 

For the most part, we don't notice the difference. I credit my career in fitness and a fabulous gene pool for his lack of awareness. Where I do sometimes feel like we come from entirely different worlds are in my far too numerous pop culture references. I am, after all, a Gen Xer, gratuitous pop culture references is our thing.

Once, early on in our budding relationship I made a joke, in writing, about him waking up with a horse head in his bed. Apparently, if you've never seen The God Father this is an incredibly distressing thing to read in a lively online chat. It also became apparent that he just wasn't raised right! How does one grow up in an English speaking country and not at least hear about one of the most infamous scenes in filmmaking history? And how does one then explain the scene to an already traumatized reader? Particularly when you can no longer type because the laughter has you shaking violently. Obviously he got over the shock, as we're living together (see previous blog "Stealth Cohabitation"). Though it could be a matter of precaution on his part, presuming I would not put a horse head in my own bed (he still hasn't seen the movie). Won't he be surprised when he wakes up!

*Written entirely on my iPhone so do not question any typos or spelling errors. There are no errors because iPhone autocorrect knows better than we....

My Life As A Letter Writing Crank

Update: Nike responded to my email with a statement of regret regarding their decisions to sever ties with Armstrong. Nothing takes the wind out of your comedic sails like a form letter email that refuses to acknowledge your sarcarsm

I sent an email to Nike head office the day they announced they would stand by Lance Armstrong, suggesting they could use this opportunity to re-brand. Here are some of the slogans I suggested:

Nike - Cheat to Win
Nike - No Needles, No Gain
Nike - Just Do Drugs, Libel, Slander and Perjury
Nike+EPO

It perplexes me that they would change their minds and drop their sponsorship and association with Armstrong rather than use my suggestions.

In the Neighbourhood

Inspired by one of my fave bloggers David Thorne, and the assurance from my therapist that I am ready to talk about it, I am finally ready to write about my sudden move back in December and the neighbours who drove me to it...

Meet the Cast of Characters:

I should have headed the warning signs on day two of the move in to my new townhouse, when the neighbour across the street yelled at my son (from across the street), "hey, number 24, what's your name." I would like to say that this bellowed greeting from across the way belonged to an adolescent child but it did not. I belonged to a young mother of a fetal alcohol syndrome toddler. A toddler who was wrapped in a durag and being pushed on a push bike by his clingy, polyester, short dress and knee high boot clad mother. I shuddered, decided to keep my distance and closed the door.

The next neighbours I met lived on the other side of my adjoining walls. There were the couple who regularly got drunk in the back yard and lost their own toddler and on the other side, their drinking mates who grew pot in the back yard (of a town house complex, may I remind you), had a confederate flag strung up in their garage and who thought nothing of setting up water slides, Halloween exhibits, projection screens, karaoke machines and all manner of annoyances on my lawn 

The Boyyyz played basketball on the street, and were unable to do so without hollering profanities I could hear in my basement with the windows closed, despite being directly beside a playground filled with children. They could not go 20 minutes without a screaming match and chest bumping erupting though a full fight never happened.

The committees: Everything in the townhouse complex was decided by committee based on how much you partied with the committee members and board of directors. Being a light social drinker and non-smoker who regularly exercised, I was persona non grata. Attending meetings was like was like watching guest selection for the Maury Povich show

Be sure to check back to this blog and follow our cast of characters through just over a year of mayhem, hijinks and poor life choices

Left for Dead – The Family Edition or Why My Rotting Corpse Won’t Be Found Until the Neighbours Complain About the Smell

For several weeks I had been planning and favorably anticipating attending the Canadian National Cycling Championships with a friend and meeting some other friends on course. I was a little let down when my friend told me, just before the event, that he had other obligations. I was a little more concerned when, already on the GO Train, none of my messages to the other friends had elicited a response. Ah well, being out alone isn’t new to me and it doesn’t generally prevent me from venturing forth. I met the obliged friend at the train station and he very generously brought me coffee and drove me to the ideal course vantage point, the brute of a climb Rattlesnake Point. In under a minute of being dropped off I heard my name called. There were my friends, fortune was smiling on me. Little did I realize this would be the last fortuitous event for several hours.

The race kicked off and the action got crazy right away, with a crash on lap one. Riders settled down a little and attacks were made. It was good racing. My friends left after about 4 laps. I was a little concerned, but had assurance that, if I really needed a ride back, I should just phone.  My mobile phone battery has the lifespan of a mayfly, so I turned the phone off to be safe and happily soaked up the National Cycling scene, watched the podium presentations and pulled out my phone. I discovered, to my horror, that it had somehow turned on in my bag. I had enough battery to send two texts and then it died. I was stuck, atop possibly the worst climb in Ontario (let the arguments begin!), with no option but to start the long trek down into town and public transit. Why didn’t she just ride to the course? You may well be asking yourself. Well, here’s the punch line, I had been ordered off the bike due to a foot injury.

So I walked, and I walked, and I walked, on an unlit side road. Down, down, down into town, with support vehicles blowing past me well above posted speed limits.  Rising from a steep drop somewhere in the darkness I could hear the sounds of the riders, somehow having restored their energy, partying to thumping beats and digital sirens. I marched on. Two young men did drive down and offer to take me back to the party. I politely declined but suggested they might be helpful in, say, calling me a taxi. The laughed and drove off in the direction they had come from. My white Pearl Izumi rain jacket must have caught their attention in the dark (and prevented me from being hit by other racing motorists). I began to feel a little sorry for myself, but then I watched the fireflys float through the fields and realized it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was a nice night for a walk. Probably not the best thing for my injury, but we don’t have to tell my doctor about it.

Finally I came upon street lights, traffic lights, sidewalks; all the trappings of a civilized world. When I hit the first gas station I broke down and called a taxi out of concern for making the last train. The taxi took 20 minutes; I missed the last train by 12. With nowhere else to turn, I hesitated and then called my father collect from a pay phone. He promised to come collect me from the station. He never showed up. So I waited, and waited. Walked to the 24 coffee shop, walked back. Repeat. Finally, at 7:17 am I was on the first train heading home. Two hours fifteen minutes later I walked in the door to find a message from my father, left at 8:30 am. After hanging up the phone he decided that his headache (an issue he never mentioned while we were speaking) was too great for him to drive.

The moral of the story? Even the Canadian cyclists like bad Eurobeats….


(Please, before you think I am blaming my father, read the tags on this blog. I realize MY sole culpability in the outcome of these events)

Rollin mixing it at the front before his frame cracked

Team Ontario hanging in

A treble for Team Spidertech in the Elite Men's Road

and top spot on the podium for U23 (nice to see Ontario on the  podium)

Felt sorry for those prairie boys

Post-it Traumatic Stress

I found this Post-it note in an equipment storage area at my work. I am awaiting to hear from a psychotherapist friend of mine if she thinks this would qualify me for a stress leave.

Conversations With My Martial Arts Students:

As another session of karate wraps up for the summer, I am reflecting on the interesting encounters I have had over the years. Here are some of the conversational highlights from my teaching career.

“Please stop licking the walls” (it comes up surprisingly often)

“The style of karate you are learning is not kung fu” (it may not seem amusing to you, but when you have to make that distinction about every 2-3 weeks to the same group it becomes funnier)

“I find it hard to believe that hitting me in the back was an accident when you started at the back of the room and the drill did not include the movement of legs or feet”

“Your question is; what should you do if a Samurai tries to hit you with his sword?” (The answer, of course, is call me or at least take a photo for me – just where are these children hanging out?)

“No, I don’t live in Japan” (bitch of a commute to work that would be! side note, adults have also asked me if I plan to move there and when I respond that I would love to but what would I do, they assure me I should teach karate....in Japan....to the Japanese....I'm sure to make a killing! )

Me: (to students hesitant to do as they are asked) Do you know how to say “no” in Japanese?”

Students: shaking their heads side to side

Me: EXACTLY!

Me:  You don’t want to lean forward when you punch as that will put you off balance. It also brings your forehead closer to your opponent, which we generally try to avoid

Adult male student:  (pointing to his frontal lobe) I’d rather take a punch here (then pointing to his chin) then (sic) here

My teaching assistant:  Looks like you already have

Adult Female Student: (upon my demonstrating the proper pivot for a sidekick) that can’t be right, that looks stupid

Me: My mistake, it’s your 2 second class, I’ve been teaching for 6 years; naturally you know better

Student: I couldn’t believe it, she was dropping c-bomb after c-bomb (I have borrowed the “saying I can’t will get you 20 pushups” rule which I strictly enforce, and thus the phrase “c-bomb” was born)

“It’s not so much that you take off your warm up pants after skipping, it’s the way you make a production of tearing them off in the manner of a male stripper” (dear friend, you are sadly missed)

This one actually occurred in the hallway of a rec centre I teach at. Two guys walked past me, one wearing a "Tap Out" t-shirt, went quite a distance down the hall and then one of them said

"Nice belt, did you buy it at the flea market"
To which my my teaching assistant, without a moment's hesitation, responded
"You tap out so often they gave you a t-shirt, huh?"

The Morning Man

Every Monday morning for about two years now I have encountered the same man at the bus stop. In all that time he has never glanced at me or shown any visible sign that he is aware someone else is near. There is also an older gentleman who often joins us and he and I exchange pleasantries and polite conversation. Morning Man remains stoic amid this conversation. Hoodie pulled over his head regardless of the season; he just sits and stares up the hill in the direction the bus approaches from. I thought this behaviour a little antisocial so I enlisted the opinions of friends. They suggested the behaviour was not so much antisocial as outright weird.

Perhaps long bus rides to work give me way too much time to think, but I wonder if this man were ever to be mugged at the early morning bus stop, would he be able to give an accurate description of his assailant to the police? Is he as unaware as he seems? Does he suffer anterograde amnesia and so every Monday morning is a new experience for him?

I’m tempted to show up one Monday in a gorilla costume to see if he notices.

The Next Five Years: A Photo Essay

Start at the pub. Drink until one of the patrons becomes a soul-mate

Soul-mate identified, you'll need a dress

You'll want to look your best on your big day

Indelible proof of your love

You'll need to entertain your guests

Mesmerize the crowd with your first dance together as husband and wife

Everything you need to set up your home

and live happily ever after

I originally posted this photo essay to facebook but I felt it needed it's own space. All these stores and services are located in the same strip mall in Ajax, Ontario. I used to pass it every day on the bus and always thought it was so serendipitous that, of all the stores that could be put together in a plaza, these establishments came together perfectly to tell an impossible story.