1) Pawn-Da-Rosa: … and how does she feel about that?
2) pcroom: I know what they were going for, but it just looks odd
3) Hot Pepper, Expressive Thai Food: nothing inherently wrong here, except that I read the script-like font as Expensive Thai Food every time I go by.
I’ve been neglectful of some key details relating to where I am and what I’m doing. This is my attempt at filling in the blanks, but if there remain some glaring questions left unanswered, post a comment and I’ll do my best to clarify.
[Hey, what the heck! Post a comment regardless. If my mom can figure out how to “hug” me via Facebook, I have complete faith in you, The Reader, and your Internet abilities. Although, she did “hug” me about 11 times in a row and then “bit” me; well, it’s been a steep learning curve.]
I arrived in
I’m here for dance, specifically to take class weekday mornings with Peter Boneham and the amazing dancers of Le Groupe Dance Lab. Peter is a multiple award-winning artist, the longest-serving artistic director in Canadian contemporary dance, overall genius, and at 72 years of age, will not hesitate to kick your ass.
Although I analytically understand the main principles behind Peter’s technique, this hasn’t (in my mind) made it much easier to achieve these principles in my body. Especially the turning. Oh boy, is it rough! My right leg is one thing, there’s a possibility, a glimmer of hope. But my left leg is still in the process of post-injury relearning – although, to the leg’s credit, it’s mostly during the advanced work that I feel a disparity between the two sides.
But oh, I love it! The entire place is so kind and welcoming. Every morning, everyone – dancers, Peter, admin, tech – greet me by name. Even Rudy, the studio dog, comes to see me. I haven’t witnessed any bullshit. And it feels like home.
After class, James strutted around the studio, saying in a put-on deep booming voice, “D’oh, d’oh, d’oh! My name’s Josh and I’m a man.”
To which Josh replied, “Lalala, my name’s James and I’m jealous!”
It could have been just the end of the week of a long, but I found it quite funny.
Ali’s #1 Top-Ranked Utopic Daydream:
All the people I love – friends, family – live in the same neighborhood. And I get to see everyone pretty much whenever I want. And we have large “family” meals, and game nights, and afternoon tea, and block parties, and there’s always music and laughter…
A therapeutic process wherein, Step 1): the entire muscular system is removed from the skeleton, then Step 2): all knots, scar tissue, calcium deposits, and other nasties are worked out (possibly with the assistance of meat tenderizer or papaya extract), and finally Step 3): the tissues, now smooth and supple beyond description are spread back evenly onto the bones.
Like butter.
When Exhibit 3 first made its appearance, I was so awed by its glories that I was determined to ensure that it receive the pinnacle of blogging gold-star treatment. Bells. Whistles. Stars. Exclamation marks the likes of which have never been seen outside an 11 year-old girl’s diary. But life, housing-hunts, and everything took precedence and the entry didn’t make it onto the blog before the astounding denouement of Exhibit 4.
And frankly, after that Exhibit 3 suddenly seemed a lot less awesome. Like Orbits after it had been on the market for a while (you know… the drink from the early 90s with the colorful bits stuff suspended throughout it).
Oh sure, Exhibit 3 is still pretty cool, just like Orbits – I mean, there’s stuff suspended through out it! and you can drink it! – but, I don’t know, something happens: the novelty wears off or something way more amazing comes along, like gel-candy in a tube or OK soda (remember The OK Manifesto? “It’s OK to be OK.” How do you compete with that?!)
I probably shouldn’t talk down my own blog posting in such a way. Hopefully, this preamble won’t result in a marked drop in readership…
And so, I give to you Exhibit 3:
The Saturday at the end of my first week in
Exhibit 3 begins simply enough with a bubbly redhead named Isabelle striking up a conversation with me after the yoga class. She’s joined by her boyfriend, Christian, and the conversation switches back and forth between French and English. When I give a brief explanation of why I’m in
The following weekend, I’m visited by the luminous Tracey Norman for rehearsals in preparation for performances in
After a very long day on Saturday, we find ourselves ravenous and still downtown at
“Hi, Isabelle!”
“Hi, Ali! That’s weird…”
“I guess… although, I gotta tell you, not really for me these days.”
“I was just going to call you. We’re going out to this club. Wanna come?”
“Thanks anyway, we’re dead-tired.”
“OK. Hey, did you know this was the place we were going to take you last Saturday? Pretty good, huh?”
“No, I didn’t know, but that’s not the least bit surprising.”
Ps: Yoga outside = amazing! Beth, Sarah, Jane, and any other lovely yogis who may be reading this, two words:
I have a decent relationship with my bike. We get along most of the time. I’d even go so far as to say I love my bike. But I have a confession: I am not in love.
“So what?” you’re thinking, “there’s nothing wrong with that!” In fact, many of you in this blog’s readership are probably thinking it would be a little unusual if I was in love with my bike.
But I lament this absence because I was in love with a bike once. My heart got broken and most of my bicycle relationships since have been tumultuous at best.
I bought my glorious steed from Canadian Tire with money from my tax return. It was blue and silver, had shocks, and went really fast. We had an instant connection. Of course, it was quite a step up from the $10 cherry-red piece of junk I had been using, with unbelievably warped wheels and breaks that could only be described as decorative.
We had a great summer – like most first loves, ours was pure and innocent and full of joy. And then, while in a job interview, my love was stolen. On
Back to the shop. Jeffcote introduced me to AnnaBelle Blue. The price was right and the name Jeffcote had christened her with was so charming. But she came with a warning (I’m not even making this up): Jeffcote was convinced she was cursed. I thought that was a little extreme.
In retrospect, I believe that AnnaBelle Blue harbored an unrequited crush on Jeffcote. He was eager to get her out of the shop because no matter where he was, somehow, he would trip on her, or she would fall over when he passed. It went on and on. I giggled and took the bike, because he was always teasing me, anyway.
But I should have listened. AnnaBelle made it so she had to go back to see Jeffcote on a regular basis. With every visit, the initial “good” price steadily became less so. And every time he saw her coming through the door, Jeffcote would shake his fist and through gritted teeth, grumble, “AnnaBelle Blue…!”
After that, the next bike I rode regularly had actually been in my possession since I was a teen. The Green Bee was a bit of a clunker with a too-small frame, but it got the job done. Springtime rolled around and it became clear that I’d be happier with a new bike. And though I had intended to get a mountain bike, I was reluctantly persuaded to get a hybrid. I think that faint resentment is why there’s a lack of love between me and my current steed.
I guess bike relationships kind of work like human relationships. There’s really no way to recapture that first-love elation, is there?
Riding my bike is a great joy for me. So I honestly took pleasure in the rather long trek to and from the place I was house-sitting for the past three weeks.
It’s such a good route, too! Once I get on the path, it’s smooth sailing through the Experimental Farm, across the locks, and along the canal. Ah, Experimental Farm! I’ll miss you.
The first time I heard it mentioned, Adam was giving me directions to get back to
Which makes me think of On the Far Side of the Mountain. Which makes me think of a story, completely unrelated to bicycles. I’ll tell you anyway ‘cause it’s my blog and I can do that.
At one point when I was quite young, my brother received copies of my dad’s favorite childhood books: My Side of the Mountain and On the Far Side of the Mountain. I was ridiculously jealous of the gift. I was the reader, not Josh. Why weren’t the books given to me? In hindsight, I imagine my parents were trying to foster a love of reading in my brother. Yeah, it didn’t really take.
Please don't think I’m some bookish-snob looking down my nose at my little bro, tsk-ing his lack of literary pursuits. On the contrary! My brother and I have always had very different interests and aptitudes. I liken his interest in reading to mine in, say, golf. I’ve played miniature golf a handful of times (oh man, this analogy doesn’t even extend to real golf!) and it’s ok, but not necessarily something I’d seek out for entertainment.
Not enough?
My brother at 13 could do things with computers that even now I can only explain as “magic.” And as far as welding and metal-work, he’s got the sibling market cornered. I learned how to knit this spring. That’s the sum extent of my craftwork skills.
[I just think I should have gotten the books, that’s all.]
Riva and Jeremiah’s mother (who has yet to meet me) calls Jeremiah’s place, where I’m house-sitting. We chat for a bit. She asks how I like the city, house-sitting, etc.
“Oh, good. I’m just in the process of trying to find a room closer to the studio. I doubt the 50-minute bike ride will be as appealing in late November.”
Pause.
And with complete sincerity and genuine motherly concern: “Ali, there is a bus.”
Ah, the country-bumpkin impression Momma Soucie must have had of me in the moment before I reassured her that, yes, I was familiar with the public transit system.
