It's raining again

In constant fear that my internal organs are going to start tumbling out through my jitch, I’ve revived The Kegel Pole-ka^TM exercise regime.¹ You'll recall this involves a fair bit of walking, so I wisely decided to start yesterday, which happened to be the hottest, sunniest day we’ve seen for what seems like forever.² I walked pretty far in bad shoes, sweating and turning a bright and melty shade of red that had my satellite-office³ employees diving for the phone to call 911 when I arrived there looking all heart-attacky-ish.

So today I was working at Mount Saint Vincent University. (Note the name.) I didn’t have the car and had printed off a bunch of bus schedules so I could take the bus home. Unfortunately, in my printing frenzy I forgot to bring money or tickets for the bus, so I set out to track down some change. It was after 5 pm, and it’s summer, so the only thing open in the Seton Academic Centre complex was the library.

“Is there a bank machine here or would I have to got up to Rosaria?” I asked the friendly librarian, who must have been bored stiff and miserably lonely because she jumped up and ran towards me as soon as I opened the library door.

“I’m sorry, you’d have to go up to Rosaria.”

Rosaria is behind the library. It takes about three minutes to get there. But it’s up a hill. A steep hill. (This is where you recall the university’s name. The MOUNT.⁴) And there’re A LOT of crows there that time of day.⁵

So instead, in my infinite and ever-surprising wisdom, I opted to take the half-hour walk to the grocery store instead. In the rain.⁶ Actually it was more of a drizzle – one where an umbrella won’t even help⁷ because the drops don’t fall down, they just sort of hover and slide around through the air, making them impossible to escape. If you’re stunned enough to venture outside. Which I clearly am.⁸

Do you know what was going through my head as I walked? Yep, you guessed it: the theme music from Sex And The City. It’s not that I think I’m anything like Carrie Bradshaw (I wish), but it sure makes the walk more fun if you strut a little and pretend like you don’t know the bus with your picture on the side is about to come along and splash mucky water all over you and your pink-leotard-and-tutu dress.⁹

So I’m prancing (yes, prancing) down the Bedford Highway during rush hour, and it’s not the most picturesque sight – the railroad tracks on the left mar the view of Halifax Harbour and giant concrete retaining walls flank me on the right. But then I see this:

Here it is up close:

That’s right. It’s raining rose petals.

Be open to the happy, my friends. It’s out there – rain or shine.

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1. I’m also concerned that if I don’t start losing some weight, I’m going to need a new postal code now that Canada Post is back in action.

2. It’s been raining incessantly here for the past few months. We all have Seasonal Affective Disorder and want to kill each other. I’ve even taken to sniping at strangers on other people’s blogs and FaceBook about the stupidest things. I haven’t been this bitchy since I made a girl cry in Grade 10 debating. The topic was “smoking in bingo halls.” I have no idea if our team was pro or con. All that matters is that we won, bitches.

3. Starbucks.

4. Please – no nun sex jokes, k?

5. Like, thousands. No joke.

6. Did I mention that the hot sunny weather was short-lived? Mother Nature has a serious hate-on for us right now. I blame the NDP.

7. Not that I had the fucking foresight to bring an umbrella, of course.

8. By the time I reached Superstore, my hair had frizzed to such a size that I couldn't fit through the door.

9. Sorry – that’s the SAD seeping in.

Fly, snowbird, fly!

Sure, I’d love to fly south, but unfortunately I can’t because I’ve adhered to my chair thanks to an errant glob of wax soldered to the back of my thigh. That’ll be pretty later.

Yes, it’s that time of year again, when seasonably hypothermic Canucks (including me) make a break for the border and the warmer climes to our south. Which can only mean one thing:

Pedi-waxi time! Yay!¹

Normally, I love a good pedicure², but winter presents a whole pile of problems I hadn’t considered before.⁴ The main concern was that in the summer you wear flip flops so as not to squish the polish, which can take up to a day to really set. I did come up with a solution though that did not involve me suicidally wearing flip flops into the slush and ice: I wore my big-ass rubber boots instead. Worked like a charm, so long as I remembered to keep pressing my toes down. Awesome!

But, sadly, my glee at finding a solution to one of the more pressing issues of our time was vastly overshadowed by the pain and discomfort of part deux of the snowbird combo.

Remember the 40-year-old virgin? Steve Carell getting his chest waxed? Remember squirming in discomfort at his anguish?

Well direct that anguish at your crotch, and the tender, bendy bits where your thigh ends and your body begins. I know many of you are familiar with this particular form of torture and I think we can agree it’s a necessary evil for most to avoid disgusting-smelling hair-removal creams or—horror of horrors—shaving.⁵

It’s not a surprise that it hurts like hell—I mean, a stranger spreads hot wax on your skin, then presses a cloth on it and RIPS hair and wax away. How can that possibly be good? But at least you know it’s relatively quick, and the results are generally worth it. And I’m not talking anything fancy here—just a little tidying up along the edges so the kids at the pool don’t think the Yeti’s escaped from the Everest ride or something. A little off the sides. You know?

Apparently my aesthetician didn’t know. Even though I clearly stated that I wasn’t going to be doing any bikini modelling or porn starring any time soon, she attacked her task with a passionate gusto that I might admire in an Olympic athlete. Or a car mechanic. Or a civil servant.

Yes, I realized just a little too late that this lovely lady was the type who inevitably ended up with bald Barbies because she just had to keep cutting to “even things up.”

It’s like going in and asking for a sideburn trim and walking out with no sideburns, no beard and just an Addams Family mustachio left behind.⁶

I dunno, maybe I looked like the string bikini type to her.⁷ Whatever her deal, I’ll tell you this—she’s cured me of waxing ever again. Yep, no more candle’s are getting sacrificed for my beautification, folks.

Whatever your spa status, do enjoy your winter break if you get one. I’ll be sure to say hi to Mickey for you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a call—some Ron Jeremy fellow wanting to make me a star or something?

Seeya in the movies!

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1. NOT.

2. At least while I’m having the pedicure. Afterwards it’s bloody awful when you’re trying to walk but you’re all full of lovely cream so you’re sliding around in your flip flops and every speck of dirt between you and your car finds the aroma of said cream to be absolutely irresistible and so they thrust themselves at your flip-floppity feet and, thus, by the time you get home your feet are filthy and sore from sliding awkwardly around your greazy³, silty shoes.

3. Props to Patrick Swayze and John Cougar. Mellencamp.

4. A major problem today being what to do with my child who was home IN THE BLISTERING SUN due to another SNOW DAY. Yah, I popped a vein or two over that this morning. At least I found out about the closure before I walked daughter to school—but not before we were all dressed and ready to go. I mean, seriously, the thought of checking for school closures never entered my mind at all this morning. Due mainly to the, you know, BLISTERING SUN.

5. Ugh—I’m scratching just at the thought.

6. I mentioned Sports Illustrated hasn’t been calling for several years now, right?

7. Which leads me to conclude that she needs some serious cataract surgery. Or a cochlear transplant so she can HEAR me saying NOT TOO MUCH.

WTF was I thinking?

More advice for you, my friends.

Say you receive an e-mail that says something like this: “So-and-so’s going to call and ask you to do something. Please say yes.”

My advice?

Run the other way.

For reasons I’m still trying to suss out, I did say yes when the call from so-and-so eventually came. And now my leg has a repetitive stress injury from continuously kicking my own arse over my own sheer stupidity.

What in the effin’ jay was I thinking?

Part of it was that, like many women, I have trouble saying no and an inexplicable need to help and/or please people.¹ All the time. Part of it was that I was flattered to be asked.

Ahhh, yes—pride. We all know what that comes before.

What I foolishly accepted was an invitation to be part of a panel of speakers at one of my almae matres, Mount Saint Vincent University. They are celebrating writing next week and asked me to be on the “Writers Talk Publishing” panel. Which is rather frigging hilarious when you consider that I am completely and utterly unpublished. Absurdly so. (Perhaps because I use too many adverbs? But I digress. Predictably.)

The line-up for the day includes Alexander MacLeod (yes, that Alexander MacLeod), Crystal Garrett and Chris Benjamin on the morning panel (“Writers Talk Writing”); uber-author-extraordinaire Sheree Fitch as the keynote speaker; and Jon Tattrie and Jan Morrison on “my” panel in the afternoon.
Well cluck, cluck!² Look at Miss Fancy Pants on the fancy panel! I’ll fit right in, right?

F*cking idiot.

You see, what all of these other people (with one exception³) have in common is that they are published authors. Some ridiculously prolifically so.⁵

Apparently, someone⁶ thought I could add to this discussion amongst these distinguished and accomplished people because I’m flailingly submerged in the lengthy, soul-wracking, ice-pick-to-the-brain process of trying to get published. I’m in the research phase—sorting out the mysterious and sick and twisted labyrinth⁸ that is the publishing world.

There’s just so much information out there. Of course, the same could be said for anything these days—everything is on the information-overload highway somewhere, so there’s no excuse anymore for not being able to find out about any conceivable topic. “I didn’t know” just doesn’t cut it. Read publisher websites. Read agent blogs. Read author websites and blogs. Learn how to fix your plot, your characters, your dialogue, your jitch—whatever. It’s all “out there.” In overwhelmingly choking detail.

So, WTF can I possibly bring these people that they haven’t already found out for themselves or heard from one of my learned and published co-panellists?

Ummmm... Comic relief?

OK. So I’ll try to bring the funny.

Wish me luck—I’m gonna bloody well need it.

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1. Hubby says WHAT?!?!? Where’s the line for that?

2. Props to my sister and her crazy friends for one of my favourite phrases ever.

3. I don’t think Crystal Garrett has a book published, but she’s a professor at Kings and the Mount, a broadcaster whose work has appeared on CNN, and she’s represented Canada internationally as a long-distance runner. Show off.⁴

4. Just kidding! About the show-off part. Yah. Kidding.

5. Adverb theme! Adverb theme!

6. ..who shall remain nameless here but is emblazoned permanently on my brain in the radically overdeveloped “revenge” compartment...⁷

7. Just kidding! About the dish best served cold. Yah. Kidding.

8. Polysyndeton, just for someone.

Say “Squeeze!”

There are few things I dislike more than walking. One of those things happens to be Kegels. Oh dear God, how I loathe them.

The other day I decided to see if two wrongs could possibly make a right, and so I combined these least favourite things into one activity I coined “The Kegel Pole-ka™.” Surprisingly, it’s not nearly as fun as it sounds. (Trust me.)

The idea is that, as I walk, once I reach a telephone pole I squeeze my abs in and up and attempt¹ to do Kegels at the same time. (I am woman. I am nothin’ if not a multi-tasker.) At the next pole I relax and just walk.² Then I repeat till I want to chew out my own eyeballs for the sheer distraction of it.

So if you see me out walking at a seemingly normal pace but I’m grimacing like I’m in the homestretch of a marathon³, keep in mind that, though you can’t see it, I’m actually trying to pull my jitch⁴ up to my navel, and my navel up to my cleavage⁵.

All that squeezing has to be good for something, right?

I’ll keep you posted.

How about you—do you do Kegels faithfully? rarely? ever? Do you not feel the need or (as one character in a book so brilliantly witty is just HAS to be published some day says) can you pretty much drive a Mack truck through there? Do you hate Kegels as much as me?

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1. I say “attempt” because who the hell knows if they’re ever doing the dastardly things right anyway? The best description I ever read was in The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy, by Vicky Iovine: “The way you know if you are doing [Kegels] correctly is you begin to feel anxious and uncomfortable...it makes you feel slightly nervous inside. You can even feel lightheaded.” Enticing, no?

2. Note to self, there are no telephone poles on one side of Macara Street. Holy tight twazzer, Batman!

3. ...or like I discovered Nickelback on my MP3...

4. Props to Brenda D. for introducing me to the BEST. WORD. EVER.

5. A distance that is, of course, shrinking with every passing year. Eventually I’ll have to aim for my chin instead.