Princess of the World

Lydia looked, winced and snapped on some gloves.

“How you like?”

“Uh, I dunno, what do you think?”

“I don’t know you. We just met. You want strip? You want triangle? I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

“Uh, strip I guess? What do you think?”

“…(GLARE)”

“You pull there. NO! PULL! Trust me, you pull this way, I pull that way. Is better. Now do me favor. When I say so, stop breathing. Trust me. Is better.”

“…………..(Oh fuck?)”

“NOW!”

Gasp.

RRRRRRRRRIP! Rippity rip rip! RIPPAROOO! RIPARINO! RIP RIP RIPPY RIP!
R.r.r.r.r.r.r.
I.i.i.i.i.i.i.i.i.
Pah.

Done.

Thank fuck for that.

I am clumsy. This is because I am a girl. SCIENCE.

Along with my floppy ankles (aka medically validated clumsiness), I also just do stupid stuff. I have sliced into my finger so many times I almost have no fingerprints left (Woo! Life of crime!), and bang my head onto kitchen cupboards so regularly that one day THEY’RE going to break due a life of stress fractures from my skull. I also burn myself with fantastic regularity.

When I was about 6 I snuggled so close to the kerosene heater that I burned my ass on the metal cover, burned a big Z into my butt. My mum told everyone she knew and called me Zorro for months. I once got so excited at an episode of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos that I jumped up from my bean bag (!) with a large bowl of 2 minute noodles, filled to the brim with boiling water, in my lap. The boiling water really pooled up nicely in my lap as I fell back into the bean bag and nothing says funniest home videos like a crotch covered in red, fleshy blisters (people, never trust a cockatoo, they do funny shit that can cause DANGEROUS BURNS).

About a week ago, GB was busy doing that very annoying thing where he stands watching me cook (in frilly knickers and Louboutins, obviously) and flinches and winces and gasps as he watches me chopping vegetables, as if the mere act of being close to a knife is a sure bet I’m going to lose a digit. My feeling about this is I cook every night and of course sometimes you lose a finger here and there, who HASN’T secretly enjoyed their broccoli with a whisper of blood? (Also, if it’s going to cause him such terrible emotional angst I suggest that he just cooks us dinner instead, gender equality isn’t just about waxing ya know). I took on that particular tone of voice that partners take and told GB that it had been WEEKS since self inflicted injury. WEEKS. Sigh. Huff. Eyebrow.

So cut to last night when as a reward for doing a 60km mountain bike race (holy moly, that’s far!), I was doing a roast chicken (with garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus and green salad) for my brave sporty husband type. I went to pick up the pan for the asparagus (on a burner that wasn’t on) and the oven had heated up the handle so much my hand stuck to it a bit. I ran my hand under cold water and cried. I cried! Usually when I hurt myself I just run through my list of obscenities until I run out of ideas and go on my merry way, but this time I couldn’t take it out from under the cold water without bursting into tears again. I had to call GB over (I know, I know, I acknowledged weakness, next time we’re picking gladiator baseball teams where the stakes are life or death by cougar he won’t pick me to be on his team) to help finish the gravy. Also, I LET A BOY HELP WITH THE GRAVY AND THE WORLD DID NOT END. Lesson learned.

Anyway, I went to bed with a ziploc bag filled with ice and a wet cloth and at some point during the night it stopped hurting. There is only one blister that has raised (it’s the shape of Lake Ontario) but there are two massive white pockets under the skin around the blister. It’s gross, and a bit sore but I think I’m gonna be okay. I will accept gifts though. Just in case.

UPDATE* – I just went to get icecream and shouted to GB “I updated my blog! And I linked to yours! Because I’m a better wife who links to your blog even though you never link to m…” and at that point I hit myself in the face with the freezer door.

I ride my bike from about March to November. I try to be a good cyclist, and as always, I am opinionated about what that means.

A cyclist was killed three weeks ago here in Toronto, after he and a car were in a standard(ish) altercation. After the first shouty/ angry/ argument between car and bike, the cyclist then chased after the car on foot, grabbed onto the driver’s side window frame (and possibly the steering wheel, I guess we’ll find out when it’s in court), and then the driver made the terrible (and one can assume panicked) choice to drove onto the wrong side of the road to try and knock him off the car by scraping him along post boxes, street signs and anything else he could find. It eventually worked.

The cyclist a bike courier, was drunk (and a drunk) and had just had an altercation with the cops. The driver was the former attorney general of Ontario.

This tragedy has raised the hackles of the cycling community and the driving community who hate the cycling community. I rode in a large cycling rally after it happened, that I probably shouldn’t have ridden in. I was riding because I think cyclists have a right to be on the road and to have the respect of other drivers, and to feel safe. Unfortunately I think that by chasing after the car and grabbing onto the driver’s side, a fact I learned after the rally, the cyclist took this incident from a fairly standard bike vs car daily unpleasant incident, and into the realm of stupid aggressive fight, where everyone behaved terribly and now someone is dead. I imagine it’s pretty scary when an angry drunk man chases your car down and tries to grab your steering wheel, but scraping him off with a post box? Ugh… I dunno, I wasn’t there but the situation is horrific and has ruined the lives of everyone involved, most especially the guy who ended up dead.

I think for cyclists to demand respect, and we do (usually in a whiny, angry, self righteous way), we need to start respecting the rules of the road. Every day I see cyclists not stopping at red lights and stop signs and, certainly, most of the time nothing bad happens. But sometimes it does and the consequences can be pretty bad. We don’t have a right to disobey the rules of the road just because our machines aren’t as dangerous as cars, it’s still against the law and it bloody hurts when you get hit by a bike. And just because some drivers are total douche bags doesn’t give us the right to roll through a stop sign, in fact, it’s all the more reason not to. Don’t allow drivers take any moral high ground! Boo for moral high ground in an SUV!

Now for some language I picked up at Catholic school…

STOP LISTENING TO YOUR FUCKING IPOD WHEN YOU CYCLE YOU NUMBFUCK DICK HEADED IDIOT. It takes away 50% of your ability to ride your fucking bike safely, and forces me to have to deal with you. If you don’t pull over far enough because you don’t hear my bell and you ride your loser hipster fucking bike into me and into the path of a douche bag car, I will sue you (American stylze mother fucker) for every cent you and your parents have, and further more, I will beat the living SHIT out of you you selfish fuck. Also, if you get hit by a car when you’re listening to your ipod, you deserve it. Pop some Aimee Mann on your ipod next time you can get on your bike after leaving the hospital and CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER. Grow the fuck up and leave your heap of shit, I heard them first, indie band tunes for the fucking gym.

Finally, if you’re a boy and you think you’re faster than me so you pull in front of me when I’m stopped at a traffic light, you. better. be. fucking. faster. than. me.

That’s all. Princess of World’s rules of the road, some more official than others. That we are doing our bit to lessen pollution, unclog roads, strengthen our lungs and get outside isn’t enough, we gotta obey the rules like everyone else and maybe by being great examples we can lead the way for others.

Now this, this I can respect...

Princess of the World.

But I Do Like A Little Bit Of Butter With My Bread.

As I am always delightful, I feel it my duty to help GB find his way in the awkward and often delicate field of manners. He LOVES it. For example, he eats bread (at dinner) like he was raised by wolves. I’ve met his parents, they’re nice and generally unhairy, but I can only assume the babysitter had fangs.

I was raised to tear a small piece of bread roll off at a time, as I was ready to eat it. I would put a bit of butter on my bread plate and butter the roll from there, not going back to the butter dish every time. I do not cut my bread roll with a knife ever, nor do I hold the roll in the air while I butter it, it is ingrained in me that such things are deeply common.

Also, it is deeply common.

Now, you can butter your bread roll however you want. Except with my family in which case do. not. cut. your. fucking. roll.

Let’s just be clear that I judge you and, more specifically, your parents when you cut your bread roll. And I am right.

Don’t worry about it though, we can still hang out if you want. I’ll probably just be here, on my own, at the table with my roll wondering where the party’s at.

The King's Breakfast

Hey, you know how Walmart sucks and so we don’t shop there? You know how if you buy an apple that was grown more than 13 metres away you half expect a large, hairy, croc clad foot to come down from the top of the screen and squoosh you into a Monty Python-esque carbon footprint shape? Well I have similar feelings about Skype and now I’m going to tell you why.

I live far from many of my best friends and am repeatedly asked if I have Skype. For those of you who live under a rock, Skype is a communication company who offer live chat (like msn and googletalk) and free, or very cheap phone calls from your computer or phone, great for people staying in touch over long distances. I don’t use it, and I want to tell you why, so you can decide if you care or not.

Early last year our favorite nerd discovered that Skype in China was monitoring and archiving people’s chat conversations (for the benefit of the Chinese government). This is despite Skype execs claiming that (in China) ‘full end-to-end security is preserved and there is no compromise of people’s privacy’.

You can read more about this, written by people who know shit about shit on Nart’s blog, the NY Times, Wired Magazine and a billion other smarty pants sites that you can look up yourself (lazy bones).

We all know about the Chinese government right? We got that memo? They do some bad shit to lots of people who don’t deserve to be treated like that. I think it’s really disappointing that Skype have chosen not to follow all of this up with a resounding fuck you to Tom Communications and come up with a method of not enabling this to happen. I guess there is too much money to be made in the Chinese market to simply make the ethical decision not to be involved in this case. Anyway, I just think this shows highly questionable ethics and is a clear warning that Skype isn’t as secure and private as we all thought.

Now, I make hypocritical decisions constantly, I admit that. I have organic foods delivered to my house but I get them to bring me avocados in winter. I find people who eat McDonald’s a total mystery but I love Cheezies (or Twisties in Australia). I despise George W Bush but am totally addicted to opium AND love cheap Afghani rugs. The list is so extensive that I could go on for EVER. I guess I’m trying to say that I understand that other people will be able to look past this – Oprah uses Skype for all out of town interviews for God’s sake. However, if you don’t approve of the Chinese government doing whatever the fuck they want then just have a think about whether you want to support a company that actively chooses to enable this and is most distinctly not honest about it. That’s all.*

*That’s not really all. Skype claimed after this all came out, that they were shocked! and were looking into it immediately! good heavens! exclamation! So I’m going to email them and ask them if they did do anything about it, if they did, that’s definitely a step in the right direction. GB is doubtful. I’ll let you know.

So a few years ago I realised I felt really strongly about something. I try not to yell about it to everyone because it’s a pretty divisive issue, but in much the same way that I read a bit of Dawkins and realised calling myself agnostic WAS hypocritical and utterly ridiculous, it’s time I try to muddle through my thoughts on paper.

I don’t understand why women change their last name when they get married.

Further to that, I find it makes me cross. Sure, it’s your choice, but you know what? I think your choice is stupid. Now, there are certainly exceptions to that. A not super close friend got married recently and changed her name because she didn’t like her own last name. Her last name wasn’t McStinkycrotch, but it was a harsh sounding name that she didn’t like, so she took the next name that came along. THAT makes sense to me as it wasn’t for him, it was for her, he was sort of incidental. Changing your last name because you can’t wait to ditch your shitty family and your lecherous uncle or your sucky, unhappy upbringing, THAT makes sense to me.

Changing your last name because it’s easier? Because hyphenated names are so complicated? Because what about the kids? That makes no sense to me. I think it’s lazy and false and I find it an offense to feminism. I know! IN YOUR FACE TOLERANCE!

I like equality. My smart, femmo, lesbo, artsy, fantastic parents made sure that equality is so ingrained in me, so obvious, it rarely occurs to me that it’s even a thing still. And that’s one of my problems with the surname issue, most men still don’t change their name and would NEVER dream of it. Some of you guys do, I know that (my father did in fact), but generally, it is the women who do it.

It’s certainly not easier, doing nothing is easier. Changing all your bank cards and driver’s license and all of that malarkey, is a big kerfuffle so pretending it’s easier just seems ridiculous. And tradition just doesn’t cut the mustard for me anymore either. Tradition involves women getting lesser pay (still), less political representation, dowries, corsets, staying at home with the kids – you know what I’m saying. I just don’t see why it is more important for the man to keep his last name, and by the same token expect that a woman should change hers. Why should she?

And what IS the drama with hyphenated names? You wanna show the world you’re a team and can’t bear to have separate names? It’s a new concept I suppose because traditionally women never had the choice before, so it’s one of the steps we have to take towards modernity in relationships. I would argue that in 20 years (hopefully sooner) nobody bats an eyelid at hyphens. If a hyphen kid marries another hyphen kid they can figure it out for themselves, and a woman sacrificing her name for her husband’s for the future sake of their children? Pish posh. Anyway, if me and GB’s future robot kid marries our friends’ kid (a Villeneuve-Moody blend) their last name could be VillaBunMoonPee. HOW AWESOME IS THAT??? If the kid chooses instead to marry the child of the Smeaton-Love couple, we could have a SmeePeeBunLove marriage. So great!

Also, SURELY loving each other, respecting each other, holding hands through the tough times and competing for who makes the best pasta sauce is a much better way to show the world you’re a team? Showing the world that you are one strong couple that defers to the man when life decisions need to be made just doesn’t seem so strong to me. And raising your daughter so she understands she got her dad’s name instead of her mum’s because that’s just how it is, is pathetic. I’d much rather sit and make up fantastic anagrams of last and middle names that sound like exotic animals and robot astronauts than talk about how one day she’ll find the man she marries and give up her name too. Because it’s “nice”. Puke.

Of course women can make their own decisions, that’s a big part of feminism but I don’t see why she would choose that. Unless it’s to please her husband. And in the case of a patriarchal (and misogynist) tradition, it’s a funny way to show your feminism.

So that’s all. I think it’s stupid and false. And if you’re going to defer to your husband’s wishes because it’s easier or because that’s the nice thing to do, then call it what it is so you can hold your head high and claim your 80% of his wages. Be proud of your choice, because I think it’s a shame.

So, we did this weight loss pool thing based on this article from the NY Times in February. I sent it to GB and bish bash bosh! a bunch of us fatty boombas (all from his work except me) put in $50 each and whoever lost the greatest percentage of weight in 8 weeks won all the money. It was a great kick in the ass for summer as most of the winter I didn’t wear a coat, I just rolled my fat wherever I needed it to be and it kept me warm.

I lost 20 pounds in the 7.5 weeks. I did it by exercising a lot and eating well (it’s pretty much rocket science, I don’t expect you to understand). 63 visits to the gym in that time and my first 10km run through the City.

My goal with the run was to trip up the Kenyans and take home the gold. Unfortunately they ran it in slightly UNDER half the time it took me to run it so I didn’t get a chance to trip them because I never saw them. I did trip a random tourist who was wearing a Richard Pryor tshirt, just to prove I could. I also had an excellent rabbit to chase in the morbidly obese man in bright red shorts who managed to be in front of me the whole fucking race. Seriously. Obese. Terrible red shorts. Kicked my ass. I ran it in 1 hour and 41 seconds. A miracle of some sort I think. By kilometre 9 I decided that the man in the red shorts was probably Gwyneth (fucking) Paltrow in disguise again, this time for some sort of thought provoking and suicide inducing blog entry.

I had a running partner with me too, which made the whole thing much more fun. She is a teeny tiny Japanese lady who, based on my rapidly declining and her ever increasing energy levels throughout the race, somehow sucked out my energy in some sort of Japanese ninja vampire thing and used it to her advantage. Cheeky.

In all seriousness I’m really really proud of myself, especially given I hadn’t run for two whole months due to my ridiculous geriatric type knee injury. The night before the race I found a miracle thingy that enables me to exercise without crippling knee pain due to having wonky slack jawed yokel knees. If you have tracking problems, please buy this. It helped me a lot. GBe took these but there’s not many as we were running SO INCREDIBLY FAST THE CAMERA SHUTTER COULD BARELY KEEP UP. I look like I’m about to eat Irene in at least two of the five photos.

The pool has been over for two weeks now. I didn’t win, some dick took up Atkins (which he is claiming is a good healthy weight loss)(seriously whipped cream okay, brown rice bad? Please. That guy is a heart attack in bad east coast jeans, 39 pounds in 7.5 weeks? Come on). (Also, despite the tone of this post, we like him even if he is a (really, really skinny) jerkface). He lost an incredible amount of weight and I just didn’t have it in me to eat any less and I couldn’t quite bring myself to not have a glass of wine on the weekend. Is all good. I am still working out every day (one day off a week of course), but it’s SUCH a joy not to go to the gym twice a day. Holy moly that was hard work. I look pretty good though and I hope to sleep better and to make it through the summer feeling a little less exhausted after a 65 hour week.

Tomorrow morning I meet with Eurotrainer. He’s a trainer at my gym who seems to do horribly unpleasant things to his clients, all the while looking on with long, wavy flowing black hair and a miscellaneous European accent. I feel like I’m gonna be doing some push ups and he’ll be quietly explaining how Serbia is going down because he’s gotta plan…

Work is suddenly bananas again. Not much to say about that yet. Hours have crept back up and I already have nearly a week in lieu time built up. Am hoping by the end of summer I have three or so weeks in lieu plus vacation time? That’ll cover my trip to Australia and a week off for when Daaaaaria comes. Daria’s coming! Hurrah! I’m practicing my margaritas already.

Alright. I broke the drought on blog posts. I can write again soon now. Thanks for coming by! I’ll update again this weekend with tales of gardening (by gardening I mean stabbing those little squirrel plant ruiner motherfuckers with my rake and hanging them on the fence so the other little fuckers learn) and Eurotrainer. I can’t quite come up with the perfect name for him yet, Euro-something. Trainer isn’t quite right. I am trying out The Eurovision. Suggestions?

This smile is because I ate fries for the first time in 2 months. All of the fries.

This morning I went to a very nice young pedorthist at Women’s College Hospital, so he could make me some orthotics. He looked at my feet a bit, then told me to walk up and down a corridor whilst he judged my posture, how I sold the outift and my signature pose at the end of the corridor. He snapped his fingers in the shape of a triangle and said ‘Girl! You look fierce.’ Okay, maybe he only snapped twice. Anyway he said I had some latin thingo and when I said wha? HE SAID I WAS KNOCK KNEED. Wtf? It makes some sense I suppose and you can kinda see it in the shape of my legs, my lower legs are not perfectly straight below my upper legs. Whilst it’s only really the merest hint of hillbilly legs I am basically Kleetus the slack jawed yokel.

Then he made me kneel on a bench and he wiggled and waggled my ankles around a bit and said ‘do you find you trip over a lot?’ … Seriously? There is a medical reason for why I’m so clumsy? That’s FANTASTIC. My ankles are so flibberdy jibberdy that I could go anywhere at ANY TIME. I’m like a ninja. Or one of those big wavy figures that car dealers use outside that have air blowing up in them so they wave and spasm all over the place. Also, if you’re in the area, come to Downtown Toyota for an amazing deal! I’ll be there daily from noon to nine.

Then we stuck my feet in some oasis (like the oasis you put in the bottom of flower arrangements to hold them in place, it’s a really fine foam) and he made casts of my feet. He was fascinated at how high my arches were, and how quickly they collapsed when moved. He even said ‘Wow! They’re like ski hills’ and ran two fingers up and down the arch in the cast we’d just made like his fingers were ski-ing. Things like this add credibility to my assertion that basically, I am doctor.

So in three weeks time I shall have some horrible full length orthotics to stick in my trainers. He has recommended a style of sneaker that has motion control and essentially is like strapping a plank to your foot. A very ugly plank. I will wait to see how the orthotics go in my current, perfectly good, medium support trainers. Having to wait three weeks before I can run again has really put the final nail in the coffin of me doing the 10km run on May 3. I will only have been running for 2 weeks again by that time and it is almost impossible that I’ll be running fit by then. I’m disappointed, not least because I’ve paid for the run AND enlisted a friend to do it with me, so I can’t really back out. I’ll just run/walk it, and try not to be embarrassed at how long it takes me.

Was at the gym 6 days last week. Then drank far too much wine with Jenny and Matt yesterday. Swings and roundabouts my friends. I don’t want to never have fun again (and not drinking and only eating salad is anti-fun, let’s make this perfectly clear), I just have to limit my fun to infrequent. Pinched and humorless folk are fantastically thin I hear.

And that’s it. Back to the gym for me now. After a whole day off I miss the smell that my bra gets after I’ve worked out for an hour. Stink boob. That’s me.

So. I’ve been on hiatus from writing in this thing because I am very lazy. And easily distracted. Squirrels!

Update on Supermodelness:

I was running a lot. Well, three days a week. Seemed like a bloody lot to me. Still not terribly good at it, but I had a black terry toweling sweat band around my head, and I think that counts for quite a lot. I was even following a plan to prepare for my first public run in May. Given I’d never run more than 5km in my entire life, and the 5km run was in Grade 6 AND I came last, I was incredibly proud after my first 5 mile run.

That was a Friday and I gloated to all and sundry for the entire weekend. The next Monday when I hopped on the treadmill, I lasted about 4 minutes before the crippling vice grabbed hold of my right knee and refused to let go. I had a little walk, slowed down my pace (tricky when the only difference between me jogging and walking is the level of flailing about my arms do) and stopped after only half an hour.

My first legitimate sports injury! Hurrah! I guess my knee had been in some pain before but I always assumed it was because fat people should not run UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. This day however my left knee was fine and I knew I had finally reached the ranks of professional athlete, by injury rather than success (but whatever, I can take your scorn, I’m a professional now, I expect your jealousy. Also, I am now sponsored by Kenya, so if you don’t agree, you’re a total racist).

It’s been two and a half weeks now, and I haven’t run since. I do have unlimited physio coverage with my benefits, so went to see a nice lady who took one look at my feet and said ‘oh, you need orthotics’. She did not shout LIKE A TEENAGER at me, but we all knew the subtext.

So off I shall go next Monday to see a pedorthist (Wtf? “Pedorthist” is the most made up name I’ve ever heard) and they will fix me. Truth be told, I miss running. Well, I miss jogging slowly. I have tried to keep up my fitness, using the elliptical which I loathe and doing weights and some classes, but I’m not inspired. I felt so proud of myself for doing something I never thought was possible. And I had the headband. That was pretty inspiring, you know?

Once I have orthotics, my knee bones should stop grinding against my tibia and femuribula (or whatever the fuck is down there) and I should be able to run like Forrest Gump again. It’s also warm here! 16 degrees today! Obviously that won’t last but it’s warm enough to get outside finally, and start my jogging/ having forward propelling seizures in the open air.

I will try to be a bit more regular in my updates. I have so many things to tell you about friends!  I need to tell you about my new hair brained scheme, also about not drinking for a month (that is a boring post, heads up) and how the chubby receptionist at the physio is a total bitch and I am going to fuck her up.*

*The views and opinions expressed herein do not necessarily state or reflect those of Kenya. Look guys, Kenya loves peace! Obviously.

Hi!

Do you have a slow cooker recipe that tastes good (and is possibly healthy as an added bonus)?

We were given a slow cooker and I know y’all swear by them but I can’t make food taste good in them. I can make food taste okay, but there is no magical releasing of flavors or anything remotely like it.

Beans/ egg/ fish/ nuts are tricksy but we can often work around them if the recipe is worth it.

Please help! Email me or comment here and let’s make the party in my mouth. Thanks!