I had once again misplaced my sense of humor. Funny how chronic that is with me. I searched high and low for it until I eventually discovered it had been left in the back pocket of a pair of Levis'. Of course, the jeans went through the wash and with them, my sense of humor. When I pulled it out, it was a sorry looking thing: all crumpled and hanging at odd angles. I tried ironing it. I couldn't find the right heat so it now has two burn marks on the back side. Then I clipped it on my gold chain, along with my yin and yang pendant.
I'm thinking of having a beeping system installed on it for the next time I loose it. I mean, I find it in the most ludicrous places sometimes. Once, Fatso had swallowed it and I pulled it out by the last thread. Another time, it fell in the pan while I was cooking and it stank of fish for a week. People have sat on it which never improves its looks. It has a lifetime warranty but I have to work pretty hard to keep it from going sour and turning sarcastic.
Still, I've had it for so many years now, I'm sort of fond of it. Good thing I thought of looking in my jeans.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sometimes
I know everybody asks a least once in their lifetime "why?" or "why me?"
Things happen and you can't make sense of them. Whether it is parents who can't conceive, a child that's gravely ill, a pregnancy that ends too soon… sometimes, eventually, you understand why it had to be that way. Most of the times, you never do.
I have a difficult child. I have the most difficult child I have ever met. I'm apparently destined to have only one, and that one is impossibly hard to deal with. He's been difficult since the age of one.
Friends and family see him only occasionally, and therefore are all very doubtful about his being difficult. You have to live with him to understand it, see it, and witness it. I know. My mother knows. Nobody else understands.
Sometimes I feel so helplessly furious about this. And sometimes I wonder: "WHY? Why did my child, the only child I'll ever have, have to be so unrewarding, so angry, so difficult?" I love children. I had always dreamed of motherhood. I had never thought it would mainly bring me frustration and disapointment. I know I'm harsh. Don't get me wrong, I'd jump in front of a train for my son without even thinking about it. But sometimes, I am just fed up. I ask "WHY?"
Because it wasn't in the cards for me. Because I was meant to be tested that way. Because I have something to learn. Because I have something to give him that no one else could.
I won't give up, dammit. I am smart, I love him. This is just another challenge. I will use my brains and my heart and my patience. Just like I can conjure magic, I will make motherhood a joy.
Things happen and you can't make sense of them. Whether it is parents who can't conceive, a child that's gravely ill, a pregnancy that ends too soon… sometimes, eventually, you understand why it had to be that way. Most of the times, you never do.
I have a difficult child. I have the most difficult child I have ever met. I'm apparently destined to have only one, and that one is impossibly hard to deal with. He's been difficult since the age of one.
Friends and family see him only occasionally, and therefore are all very doubtful about his being difficult. You have to live with him to understand it, see it, and witness it. I know. My mother knows. Nobody else understands.
Sometimes I feel so helplessly furious about this. And sometimes I wonder: "WHY? Why did my child, the only child I'll ever have, have to be so unrewarding, so angry, so difficult?" I love children. I had always dreamed of motherhood. I had never thought it would mainly bring me frustration and disapointment. I know I'm harsh. Don't get me wrong, I'd jump in front of a train for my son without even thinking about it. But sometimes, I am just fed up. I ask "WHY?"
Because it wasn't in the cards for me. Because I was meant to be tested that way. Because I have something to learn. Because I have something to give him that no one else could.
I won't give up, dammit. I am smart, I love him. This is just another challenge. I will use my brains and my heart and my patience. Just like I can conjure magic, I will make motherhood a joy.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Red
Jean-François Asselin once wrote and directed a short film where different people incarnated the multiple aspects of the hero's personality. I like the concept.
I'm trying to identify who is up in arms this morning. Since last night, nine o'clock, I am enraged. I seriously thought about punching the wall but I decided it would be too inconvenient.
I had a boyfriend who punched a wall once…made a hole and badly damaged his knuckles.
In my last year of high school, one of my classmates died in a motorcycle accident on the day he turned eighteen. When his best friend heard about it, he punched the brick wall of the school...and broke his hand. But I digress.
I think it's the Frankenstein in me who's angry. The clumsy, mute, yet sensitive brute. Stung by a bee, roaring in pain but unable to know what hurt him, he wrecks havoc in the laboratory, shattering glass and turning everything upside down.
You've got to love my images.
I'm working today. You can just imagine how much opportunity Frankenstein will have to express its rage. It's one of them days when you bite the heads off of the people closest to you, who least deserve it, just because they're there. I won't do it, I'm just SAYING it's that kind of day.
I'm pissed off. I'm outraged. I'm angry. I'm furious. I'm incensed. I'm fuming. I'm steaming. I'm wrathful. I'm livid and seething.
You've got to love my vocabulary as well.
The only company I want today is that of animals. Only they could soothe me. We wouldn't talk, we would just interact. Of course, I'm working. Not a pet in sight. I wonder if I could go find an ant to keep me company.
BEHOLD MY WRATH
I'm trying to identify who is up in arms this morning. Since last night, nine o'clock, I am enraged. I seriously thought about punching the wall but I decided it would be too inconvenient.
I had a boyfriend who punched a wall once…made a hole and badly damaged his knuckles.
In my last year of high school, one of my classmates died in a motorcycle accident on the day he turned eighteen. When his best friend heard about it, he punched the brick wall of the school...and broke his hand. But I digress.
I think it's the Frankenstein in me who's angry. The clumsy, mute, yet sensitive brute. Stung by a bee, roaring in pain but unable to know what hurt him, he wrecks havoc in the laboratory, shattering glass and turning everything upside down.
You've got to love my images.
I'm working today. You can just imagine how much opportunity Frankenstein will have to express its rage. It's one of them days when you bite the heads off of the people closest to you, who least deserve it, just because they're there. I won't do it, I'm just SAYING it's that kind of day.
I'm pissed off. I'm outraged. I'm angry. I'm furious. I'm incensed. I'm fuming. I'm steaming. I'm wrathful. I'm livid and seething.
You've got to love my vocabulary as well.
The only company I want today is that of animals. Only they could soothe me. We wouldn't talk, we would just interact. Of course, I'm working. Not a pet in sight. I wonder if I could go find an ant to keep me company.
BEHOLD MY WRATH
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
A visit
Marseille. I was fourteen and visiting my father and his girlfriend. We were quietly talking in the microscopic kitchen one evening, when a thunderstorm broke out. In the South of France, thunderstorms tend to be short but violent affairs. Jojo, afraid of thunder, ran screaming to close all the wooden shutters. The rain was battering the building. My father and I looked at each other: “Let’s go watch!”
Ignoring Jojo’s vehement protests, we went outside and sat on the stone step of the small garden. We let the rain soak us through the bones and watched the fury of the elements and the lightening show around the Bonne Mère. We were strangely happy. We felt alive.
When we went back in we were as wet as if we had jumped into a pool. We took turns in the bathroom to strip completely, towel off and put on dry pyjamas. Then we made a pot of hot chocolate. Jojo was half angry, half laughing at our foolishness. My father and I were grinning like Chesshire cats.
Last night, the ghost of my father visited me and sat on my bed. He put a diaphanous hand to my face.
“Brigitte” he said, “you are my daughter. The magic I once conjured runs in your veins. It’s all around you. Seek it. Tame it. I’ll help you.”
He came because of my previous post that said to let go. I was wrong. I shall seek it and tame it.
Ignoring Jojo’s vehement protests, we went outside and sat on the stone step of the small garden. We let the rain soak us through the bones and watched the fury of the elements and the lightening show around the Bonne Mère. We were strangely happy. We felt alive.
When we went back in we were as wet as if we had jumped into a pool. We took turns in the bathroom to strip completely, towel off and put on dry pyjamas. Then we made a pot of hot chocolate. Jojo was half angry, half laughing at our foolishness. My father and I were grinning like Chesshire cats.
Last night, the ghost of my father visited me and sat on my bed. He put a diaphanous hand to my face.
“Brigitte” he said, “you are my daughter. The magic I once conjured runs in your veins. It’s all around you. Seek it. Tame it. I’ll help you.”
He came because of my previous post that said to let go. I was wrong. I shall seek it and tame it.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Noël
When I was a little girl, Christmas was magical. Really, truly, sparkles and all... Magical! There was magic to all our celebrations but Christmas was the very best. I cannot adequately express it.
When I reached my teens, to my despair, the magic started to fade. Like water flowing through my fingers, I could see it disappear and was powerless to hold onto it.
Now, in spite of all my conscious efforts, Christmas has become an ambiguous time. Here and there, I catch little drops of the old magic, whimsical, elusive, short-lived…the lights on a Christmas tree, the wrapping on a present, a Christmas choir, sparkling snow…
But it's also a time of stress. Financial stress, because of the presents. Schedule stress, because of the shopping. Social stress, because of the annual gatherings, where you have one evening to catch up on a year of news. Psychological stress, because the magic never comes back and in the end, you always feel disappointed and let down.
I’m so sad that I now rather fear Christmas instead of being all joyful expectation. Every year, I think about that, and I'm ready to do whatever it takes to bring the magic back. I'm not one who's bothered by social conventions. I could stop shopping, stop making presents (except to Yann), stop going to Christmas get-togethers. I am ready to do anything but I never found a measure that would work.
I think I've finally realized why. There was one person who created that magic. I don't know how he did it, I wish I could reproduce it for my own son, but I can't. My father brought the magic to the celebration. He could create a moment unique and memorable just like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. The day we no longer celebrated with him is the day the magic went away, for all events: birthdays, Easter, Christmas.
Now he's dead. It's October and I once again face the prospect of Christmas. I once again think: "This year MUST be different. This year, I will not be stressed about it, only happy. I will not think money, time and obligations. This year, I will be childlike, I'll find the magic." But the magic is dust, lifted and dispersed by a breeze in a tiny cemetery surrounded by pine trees. Let it go, Bridge. Let it go.
When I reached my teens, to my despair, the magic started to fade. Like water flowing through my fingers, I could see it disappear and was powerless to hold onto it.
Now, in spite of all my conscious efforts, Christmas has become an ambiguous time. Here and there, I catch little drops of the old magic, whimsical, elusive, short-lived…the lights on a Christmas tree, the wrapping on a present, a Christmas choir, sparkling snow…
But it's also a time of stress. Financial stress, because of the presents. Schedule stress, because of the shopping. Social stress, because of the annual gatherings, where you have one evening to catch up on a year of news. Psychological stress, because the magic never comes back and in the end, you always feel disappointed and let down.
I’m so sad that I now rather fear Christmas instead of being all joyful expectation. Every year, I think about that, and I'm ready to do whatever it takes to bring the magic back. I'm not one who's bothered by social conventions. I could stop shopping, stop making presents (except to Yann), stop going to Christmas get-togethers. I am ready to do anything but I never found a measure that would work.
I think I've finally realized why. There was one person who created that magic. I don't know how he did it, I wish I could reproduce it for my own son, but I can't. My father brought the magic to the celebration. He could create a moment unique and memorable just like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. The day we no longer celebrated with him is the day the magic went away, for all events: birthdays, Easter, Christmas.
Now he's dead. It's October and I once again face the prospect of Christmas. I once again think: "This year MUST be different. This year, I will not be stressed about it, only happy. I will not think money, time and obligations. This year, I will be childlike, I'll find the magic." But the magic is dust, lifted and dispersed by a breeze in a tiny cemetery surrounded by pine trees. Let it go, Bridge. Let it go.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
A very weird experience
That day I went to give blood. It was the first time in three years that my iron level was high enough for them to accept me! They usually turn me away with a "thanks but no thanks".
That night I had my usual workouts, boot camp followed by spinning. About 30 minutes into spinning, I took a sip of water then somehow missed the bottle holder on the bike. The bottle fell to the floor. I stopped pedaling, got off the bike and picked it up. The rest is black. When I opened my eyes next, there seemed to be a huge crowd around me. I was lying down. My instructor's face was the only one I recognized. It seemed a mile away but a second later reappeared to my left, very close. Apparently, I spoke a little, apparently my pulse was over 200 for a while, with goose-bumps and muscular tremors. (The guy spinning behind me turned out to be a doctor, how convenient is that?). In fact I instantly had a doctor, a nurse and a cop looking after me, all in my spinning class! After a little while, the doc pronounced my pulse to be ok and I was allowed to sit up. In my hands, I had the instructor's towel and no idea how it had gotten there. Then I stood up, wildly embarrassed at being the center of the whole room's attention.
I have a very painful bump on my right temple and a cut and a black bruise where my mouth hit the side of a bike. It looks a bit like a half-mustache. I look very sexy with a half-mustache maybe I should grow one.
After scaring everyone, I will be the butt of affectionate teasing for a good while in that class.
Lesson of the day: It is not recommended to work out hard on days you give blood :)
That night I had my usual workouts, boot camp followed by spinning. About 30 minutes into spinning, I took a sip of water then somehow missed the bottle holder on the bike. The bottle fell to the floor. I stopped pedaling, got off the bike and picked it up. The rest is black. When I opened my eyes next, there seemed to be a huge crowd around me. I was lying down. My instructor's face was the only one I recognized. It seemed a mile away but a second later reappeared to my left, very close. Apparently, I spoke a little, apparently my pulse was over 200 for a while, with goose-bumps and muscular tremors. (The guy spinning behind me turned out to be a doctor, how convenient is that?). In fact I instantly had a doctor, a nurse and a cop looking after me, all in my spinning class! After a little while, the doc pronounced my pulse to be ok and I was allowed to sit up. In my hands, I had the instructor's towel and no idea how it had gotten there. Then I stood up, wildly embarrassed at being the center of the whole room's attention.
I have a very painful bump on my right temple and a cut and a black bruise where my mouth hit the side of a bike. It looks a bit like a half-mustache. I look very sexy with a half-mustache maybe I should grow one.
After scaring everyone, I will be the butt of affectionate teasing for a good while in that class.
Lesson of the day: It is not recommended to work out hard on days you give blood :)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Chain
To be transparent or not /To be alone in a crowd /The deep blue of the Mediterranean /The fragrance of the mimosas /An orange for Christmas /The wind that blows through loss /The empty bottles by the bedside /The apartment so hollow /A small golden plaque /An Emptiness that fills everything /Forever searching but never quite there /To every picture a piece missing / Flying high but where to land? /Don’t look through me, let your eyes stop /You don't know the truth /Breathlessly running in the wheel /Kiss me before I die /I could love you /The loss of security /The loss of trust /Blood the only link, and only when it sips out /And crashes in crimson beads /I hurt therefore I am?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The sun always shines on TV
This morning, the sun rose behind the mountain turning the sky orange and I had a flashback to one morning in Eilat, Israel, where the sun rising behind the Jordanian range had turned the whole sky blood red. I still have those slides somewhere. Beautiful stuff.
The World Vision Christmas Catalogue reminds us that "Pigs make plump and perfect presents". I had never thought of that. I suppose saying "Plump pigs can be turned into delicious bacon" would be hurting the sensibilities of the benefactors, but I think that's the general idea.
When you're put on the spot, and questioned, and watched, and doubted, it can prove to be pretty destabilizing. The support I get from my friends these days is incredibly precious. They have my back, they support me, they're on my side and I am SO grateful for that.
Please don't send me a "plump and perfect present" for Christmas. They're hell to package adequately and they’re very noisy under the Christmas tree.
The World Vision Christmas Catalogue reminds us that "Pigs make plump and perfect presents". I had never thought of that. I suppose saying "Plump pigs can be turned into delicious bacon" would be hurting the sensibilities of the benefactors, but I think that's the general idea.
When you're put on the spot, and questioned, and watched, and doubted, it can prove to be pretty destabilizing. The support I get from my friends these days is incredibly precious. They have my back, they support me, they're on my side and I am SO grateful for that.
Please don't send me a "plump and perfect present" for Christmas. They're hell to package adequately and they’re very noisy under the Christmas tree.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
One airplane
I watched United 93 yesterday. I had mixed feelings about watching it. I’m in a video store looking to pick-up entertainment. If I take that, does it reduce it to entertainment? But I read that it was a sober piece, shot in an almost documentary style. I knew it would be hard to watch. In the end, I think being willing to relive horrible moments as I watch is my tribute to the people who died. It’s not closing my eyes, shying away, ignoring the disturbing reality.
It is indeed an excellent piece. It caught the ambiance of a flight so well, the routine, the boredom. It reminded me that you NEVER know when your life can change or end. It struck me how all the people about to die had only one thing to say: “I love you” “Tell them I love them”. Just like the text message the teenage girl sent her parents before being killed, recently. It is worth considering. Whatever love is, it appears to be the only crucial thing to us when we’re about to leave.
The last shot is the ground jumping up at the camera and then the screen goes black for what felt like several minutes. For these people, the fear, the pain, the panic, the heartbreak was over. Life was over.
I did watch it as a documentary. I think what kills so many people in catastrophes is that we are not prepared mentally for our world turning upside down. Short of doing catastrophes drills, seeing what really happens in case of highjacks, of hurricanes, of floods may be the best exposure we can have in order not to be totally helpless should it ever happen to us.
It was hard to watch but perhaps it is owed to the victims of United 93.
It is indeed an excellent piece. It caught the ambiance of a flight so well, the routine, the boredom. It reminded me that you NEVER know when your life can change or end. It struck me how all the people about to die had only one thing to say: “I love you” “Tell them I love them”. Just like the text message the teenage girl sent her parents before being killed, recently. It is worth considering. Whatever love is, it appears to be the only crucial thing to us when we’re about to leave.
The last shot is the ground jumping up at the camera and then the screen goes black for what felt like several minutes. For these people, the fear, the pain, the panic, the heartbreak was over. Life was over.
I did watch it as a documentary. I think what kills so many people in catastrophes is that we are not prepared mentally for our world turning upside down. Short of doing catastrophes drills, seeing what really happens in case of highjacks, of hurricanes, of floods may be the best exposure we can have in order not to be totally helpless should it ever happen to us.
It was hard to watch but perhaps it is owed to the victims of United 93.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
History of a nickname
Papou: French for Papuan: a member of any of the native peoples of New Guinea and adjacent areas of Melanesia
When I was pregnant, I looked at pictures of embryos. Small bodies, big heads, big black eyes... So I nicknamed my baby "The Alien", which absolutely horrified my girlfriends. Héhé. Well, there was "something" growing in me, that would eventually come out in a pool of blood...I think it was a very appropriate nickname.
When he was born, I was still living in the States. The nickname changed to "the papoose" because there was hardly a time when I was not carrying him.
Then we moved back to Quebec, in a French speaking environment. The papoose became the Papou. He was a little guy, very strange, which screamed a lot, moved very fast, and came with no instructions whatsoever. I often felt as lost with him as I would have with a short painted aboriginal, speaking an odd language, with different traditions and a bone in his nose. Hence the nickname "Papou". It stuck somehow. Even though my son's name is Yannick, I still, most of the time, call him "Pap"...and he answers it :)
Photo: Vince
When I was pregnant, I looked at pictures of embryos. Small bodies, big heads, big black eyes... So I nicknamed my baby "The Alien", which absolutely horrified my girlfriends. Héhé. Well, there was "something" growing in me, that would eventually come out in a pool of blood...I think it was a very appropriate nickname.
When he was born, I was still living in the States. The nickname changed to "the papoose" because there was hardly a time when I was not carrying him.
Then we moved back to Quebec, in a French speaking environment. The papoose became the Papou. He was a little guy, very strange, which screamed a lot, moved very fast, and came with no instructions whatsoever. I often felt as lost with him as I would have with a short painted aboriginal, speaking an odd language, with different traditions and a bone in his nose. Hence the nickname "Papou". It stuck somehow. Even though my son's name is Yannick, I still, most of the time, call him "Pap"...and he answers it :)
Photo: Vince
I write therefore I am
Why would someone put there self (your desires, wants, flaws and accomplishments on the web for the worlds review?)
Such was the question asked by my ex-husband. Indeed why? What I hear in this question is implicit criticism of... a lack of reserve? a tasteless display of things that should remain private? a lack of common sense or decency perhaps?
It reminds me of what a friend had told me once about a female acquaintance that was totally open in what she was saying, so open that it bothered him and made him want to ask: "Ok, would you like to take your clothes off now?"
Unsolicited confidences, excessive openness may be as disturbing as unwelcome nudity. It can make one feel drawn into an intimacy one has no desire for.
Once in a while, I wonder if I cross the line of "Would you like to take your clothes off now?"
I am certainly no exhibitionist. Every piece of personal feeling I communicate on this blog takes a conscious effort, a deliberate will to be transparent. Those efforts tend towards a personal goal that concerns only me (see I don't tell EVERYTHING!).
Here's what my brother had to say:
(…) But one thing is for sure, for people who are more secretive (or less inclined to expose their private life), your posts must sometimes be quite shocking. You do talk about most personal feelings with a "desinvolture" that's probably hard to understand for some (…)
I think it’s mostly men that are nonplussed by how open I am on the blog. We women are more used to intimacy and sharing our emotions, it doesn’t shock us as much. But men! Big, strong silent, type! Men don’t cry. Men hardly acknowledge feelings.
I suppose men don’t talk about their latest crush in the locker room…:)
In the end, what I think is: if you have to ask why... then don’t worry about it!
Such was the question asked by my ex-husband. Indeed why? What I hear in this question is implicit criticism of... a lack of reserve? a tasteless display of things that should remain private? a lack of common sense or decency perhaps?
It reminds me of what a friend had told me once about a female acquaintance that was totally open in what she was saying, so open that it bothered him and made him want to ask: "Ok, would you like to take your clothes off now?"
Unsolicited confidences, excessive openness may be as disturbing as unwelcome nudity. It can make one feel drawn into an intimacy one has no desire for.
Once in a while, I wonder if I cross the line of "Would you like to take your clothes off now?"
I am certainly no exhibitionist. Every piece of personal feeling I communicate on this blog takes a conscious effort, a deliberate will to be transparent. Those efforts tend towards a personal goal that concerns only me (see I don't tell EVERYTHING!).
Here's what my brother had to say:
(…) But one thing is for sure, for people who are more secretive (or less inclined to expose their private life), your posts must sometimes be quite shocking. You do talk about most personal feelings with a "desinvolture" that's probably hard to understand for some (…)
I think it’s mostly men that are nonplussed by how open I am on the blog. We women are more used to intimacy and sharing our emotions, it doesn’t shock us as much. But men! Big, strong silent, type! Men don’t cry. Men hardly acknowledge feelings.
I suppose men don’t talk about their latest crush in the locker room…:)
In the end, what I think is: if you have to ask why... then don’t worry about it!
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Thanksgiving
Congratulations to SYWRD for finishing the Royal Victoria Marathon once again, within 2 minutes of his time last year!
The man has recently been given professional responsibilities the scope of which, if they were on my shoulders, would immediately earn me a straight jacket. So not only does he have strong shoulders, but his legs and cardio-respiratory system seem in pretty good shape also. Good show SYWRD! I hope you'll have steak and beer tonight!
Here in B***, the weather is astonishing. A gorgeous sun shines through the foliage, with a romantic fog in the early morning. I really ought to take pictures. If Vince were here, he'd have a field day.
To be perfectly honest, I am rather moping. I am not proud of moping on such a beautiful weekend. It's TLM's fault. Short of spending time with him, absolutely NOTHING is tempting me. How pathetic am I? Abjectly if you ask me.
The Papou and I nevertheless went on a wild pumpkin hunt. It was a treacherous and dangerous expedition.
Risking our lives, we slaughtered two, then we carved them. Such is the harsh law of Nature.
The man has recently been given professional responsibilities the scope of which, if they were on my shoulders, would immediately earn me a straight jacket. So not only does he have strong shoulders, but his legs and cardio-respiratory system seem in pretty good shape also. Good show SYWRD! I hope you'll have steak and beer tonight!
Here in B***, the weather is astonishing. A gorgeous sun shines through the foliage, with a romantic fog in the early morning. I really ought to take pictures. If Vince were here, he'd have a field day.
To be perfectly honest, I am rather moping. I am not proud of moping on such a beautiful weekend. It's TLM's fault. Short of spending time with him, absolutely NOTHING is tempting me. How pathetic am I? Abjectly if you ask me.
The Papou and I nevertheless went on a wild pumpkin hunt. It was a treacherous and dangerous expedition.
Risking our lives, we slaughtered two, then we carved them. Such is the harsh law of Nature.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Little darling...
...It'll be a long, cold, lonely winter.
Well, to my utmost surprise, the spinning situation has improved drastically. The main factor for the improvement is that I discovered the bike I used was faulty and when the tension was supposed to be down to zero, it actually remained at a 2 or 3 level. I didn't realize that until I tried another and then I discovered what a real tension zero is. Aaaaaaaaah. All the difference in the world. I think the risk of losing my lunch is now a thing of the past. Not only that but somewhere endurance must be kicking in because I swear, I finished my spinning session last night, after a boot camp class, with almost some energy to spare. Considering my recent state after spinning, it's nothing short of a miracle.
My claims to wimphood were therefore a little premature. But try having a best friend training for a TRIATHLON, you'll see how quickly you're reduced to wimphood.
I'm on the verge of, no, not of a nervous breakdown, but a long weekend. And I have zero plans! Nothing whatsoever. So anything and everything that will happen will be on the spur of the moment.
Here comes the sun…and I say…It's all right.
Well, to my utmost surprise, the spinning situation has improved drastically. The main factor for the improvement is that I discovered the bike I used was faulty and when the tension was supposed to be down to zero, it actually remained at a 2 or 3 level. I didn't realize that until I tried another and then I discovered what a real tension zero is. Aaaaaaaaah. All the difference in the world. I think the risk of losing my lunch is now a thing of the past. Not only that but somewhere endurance must be kicking in because I swear, I finished my spinning session last night, after a boot camp class, with almost some energy to spare. Considering my recent state after spinning, it's nothing short of a miracle.
My claims to wimphood were therefore a little premature. But try having a best friend training for a TRIATHLON, you'll see how quickly you're reduced to wimphood.
I'm on the verge of, no, not of a nervous breakdown, but a long weekend. And I have zero plans! Nothing whatsoever. So anything and everything that will happen will be on the spur of the moment.
Here comes the sun…and I say…It's all right.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Divecat
I've nothing to say today so I'll just put an advertisement I found randomly that cracks me up.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Suffer the children
I cannot really write about this because it upsets me too deeply. I know the world is a big place where horrible things happen. Still when I heard, in Beslan, that they shot the children in the back while they were running away, my paradigms were shaken and remain crippled to this day.
Here's to five blameless, helpless little girls who died yesterday in what was supposed to be a peaceful community in Pennsylvania.
Folks, be horrible, be angry, be disturbed, be sick, be evil, be in pain, but don't you get it?
DON'T. KILL. THE. CHILDREN.
Here's to five blameless, helpless little girls who died yesterday in what was supposed to be a peaceful community in Pennsylvania.
Folks, be horrible, be angry, be disturbed, be sick, be evil, be in pain, but don't you get it?
DON'T. KILL. THE. CHILDREN.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Pastafarians
It was a dark, rainy and windy Sunday. My mother made a large dish of pasta and we all dug in. I ate in my office, fork in the right hand, and book in the left. When I brought my empty plate back to the sink, nose still glued to my book, the kitchen was very quiet. Under the low kitchen light, my mother and my son were sitting eating pasta, nose glued to their own book. Three generations silently eating while lost in a book…perfectly content. I burst out laughing and said: "What a family!"
Can you tell we don't have very formal meals, in my home?
Not much on the radar this week. SYWRD is running a marathon in Victoria at the end of the week. I wonder if there is a correlation between being in shape and having a sense of humor. Vince, if you're around, say hi for me. He's easy to spot; he's a man, with dark hair. Seriously though, my best wishes to him. His ambition is to finish with both brains and shoes. I think the shoes shouldn't be a problem.
On my map, very little. I saw TLM walk in, Saturday, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a loose striped shirt. The kind of vision that makes your knees weak. It'll take me two days to recover. A male friend of mine was telling me, last week: "Ah, Bridge, but we men are so weak before the flesh…" Oh and do you think we women are not?
Can you tell we don't have very formal meals, in my home?
Not much on the radar this week. SYWRD is running a marathon in Victoria at the end of the week. I wonder if there is a correlation between being in shape and having a sense of humor. Vince, if you're around, say hi for me. He's easy to spot; he's a man, with dark hair. Seriously though, my best wishes to him. His ambition is to finish with both brains and shoes. I think the shoes shouldn't be a problem.
On my map, very little. I saw TLM walk in, Saturday, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a loose striped shirt. The kind of vision that makes your knees weak. It'll take me two days to recover. A male friend of mine was telling me, last week: "Ah, Bridge, but we men are so weak before the flesh…" Oh and do you think we women are not?
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