Shacking Up

My BF and I are pretty solid, as evidenced by this conversation I had with a tranny in a bar a while ago, while he was off buying us drinks:

Tranny: "So you guys are together?"
Jess: "Uh, yeah."
Tranny: "Do you live together?"
Jess: "No."
Tranny: "So it's on again/off again?"
Jess: "Nooo, it's pretty much just... on."
Tranny: "So are you pretty casual though?"
Jess: "No... uh, pretty serious."
Tranny: "Pretty serious?"
Jess: "Uh-huh."
Tranny: "Too bad."

So when the BF suggested the time had come for us to shack up, I jumped at the opportunity to show Toronto's trannies that my man and I are committed to each other.

Until I had a look around my digs -- my home... my sanctuary -- and my unfounded fear of co-habitation kicked in, and then I wasn't so sure it was a good idea. I started thinking things like, What if I get really bad diarrhea, and have to sit on the toilet farting and making loud squirting noises?

Actually, I never thought that. I just thought you might laugh at that. But I did think, What if I want to do anything weird? I don't know what exactly... but when I'm not broadcasting my most embarrassing thoughts and private fears to anyone who'll listen, I'm actually a very private, secretive person. That's because I think that my real, true self is hopelessly bizarre and way stranger than anyone realizes, and that if anyone finds out, I will be rejected by society as a whole and forced into lifelong solitude among unfriendly wolves.

This attitude has softened with age, though. It formed in late childhood and peaked in adolescence; but ever since I started drinking (read: having "deep" conversations), I've realized that everyone's weird and twisted. Actually, reflecting on that statement, I realize that I think about 99.9% of everyone I know is significantly weirder and more twisted than I am. All the same, sometimes I like to sing like I'm debuting at Carnegie Hall, and sometimes I get really bad gas -- like really bad. And I've never lived with anyone in the romantic sense, except that one time, and I pretty much hated it.

But I also thought, What if I just can't live with anyone? I grew up an only child to a quiet single mom who worked hard to keep me in frozen dinners and so needed to rest a lot: i.e., I might as well have been raised by wolves for all the human contact I had until high school. I've had my share of roommates, but those years only served to hone my extreme territorialism. My only experience "living with" someone was when an old boyfriend and I moved to a ski hill and shared a single bed in a small room for six months... in an apartment about the size of the one I live in now, and with five other roommates. It wasn't until I moved in with my best friend Stephen that I ever enjoyed sharing a home with another human being. And I had kind of taken it to heart that that would always be the case.

After I thought about all this, and felt totally freaked out by the fact that I had agreed to give up my privacy and the sole control of my domain -- as well, possibly, as convenient access to grocery stores, video stores, coffee shops, restaurants, spas, bars, bookstores and full afternoon sun -- I went over to my BF's house for dinner, and I watched his face as he talked, and thought about how much I love that face, how I love its every familiar angle. And we made each other laugh, in the way that only we can make each other laugh, with that unspoken and carefully specialized understanding of each other's language and nuances. And I told him that I was afraid we would move in and grow to hate each other once we started taking each other for granted, and that "de-camping" would make the worst break-up of all, and he nodded sagely, and agreed that it's the risk you take. And then I starting thinking about how great it would be to stop shuttling back and forth in twos between our apartments. How satisfyingly domestic it would be to share the same toiletries storage area with this man. How nice it would be for the cat to not have to be moved back and forth, like we shared custody.

I thought about cutting my internet bill in half, about new spaces with offices and bike rooms, about the two of us quietly puttering and being together without feeling like we have to be together. I thought about this step as a representation of a greater step: the building of a whole new life. Not just us building a life together, but also me building a self who doesn't have to be alone to feel safe, who isn't worried that something intrinsic about her is so wrong -- even if she can't name what it is -- that no one must find out about it, whose need for control isn't channelled into possession and ownership. A self who isn't going to look at the piles of receipts Rodney collects on every surface and never throws out and feel anxiously disorganized, but who understands that two people living under one roof make two messes, and that it isn't the appearance of a tidy life that makes sense of a crazy world, but that it's our relationships that anchor us. No amount of artfully arranged side tables can replace the love of another human being. Unless it looks really, really cute.

And now I'm super psyched to know that I'm pretty much guaranteed a sleep in those arms every night, and that trannies on the prowl will be more easily persuaded that Rodney's off the market. And I'm SUPER psyched about being a new, secure me, who takes risks and has her priorities straightened out. The first step in this transition will be to unload a full HALF of my possessions. This will undoubtedly make the move easier (gawd, I hate moving), but it's also a symbolic purging. The old I-Need-To-Live-Alone-Because-I'm-Weird-And-Have-An-Inflexible-Nesting-Instinct Jessica collected and held onto things because having stuff gave her a false sense of security. See, I have a subconscious drive to collect things so that I won't feel poor (deprived), or be caught without something I need when I can't afford to buy it.

I learned it from my mom. I hate to go on, but I have a very topical anecdote on this matter. Here's my story, as told to Rodney:

Jess: "When I was about 16 I drank some Neo-Citran, but instead of putting me to sleep it made me uncomfortably wired."
Rodney: "Okay."
Jess: "So I talked to my mom tonight, and she said, Remember that time you drank that Neo-Citran and it made you feel all wound up? And I was like, Yes, and she said, Well, I used to think it was because we had the cherry-flavoured kind, but I had some of it last night and it had the same effect. Now I think it's just that one box. Like maybe it's tainted or something."
Rodney: "What?"
Jess: "Yeah. So I'm like, Do you mean you had it from the SAME BOX? And she says, Yeah, it's the same box of cherry-flavoured Neo-Citran that made you feel that way. So she's been holding on to this box of Neo-Citran for, like, FIFTEEN YEARS!"
Rodney, stunned: "Holy shit! That means she moved it to Vancouver with her!"

And I know why, too. Because my mother doesn't want to waste a perfectly good (?) box of Neo-Citran, nor be out of it when she's sick. But I also suspect that somewhere in her motivation is a little child whose needs were insufficiently met by a mother who couldn't juggle five kids and the running of a household with her all-consuming drinking problem, and that inner child probably eyes a medicine cabinet full of dusty, expired medication with satisfaction, feeling secure just knowing it's there; like she's made sense of a crazy world by tidily arranging her own private world around her in a way that looks like everything's taken care of.

God love her for dealing with her shit in her own way, but that box of Neo-Citran is going to be foremost in my mind as I drag box upon box down to Goodwill, and as I bag up another round of my childhood misimprinting to take to the curb. I am moving. I am purposely introducing havoc into my carefully ordered life, I moving in with my boyfriend, even though it means we'll start fighting about petty things like who does the dishes, and introduces a level of instability to our relationship. I am moving in with the man I love, even though he leaves receipts everywhere he goes, because what will really make a home is having him in it. What will really make a successful life is connecting with and loving another person, not stockpiling mugs like there's going to be a shortage or keeping the sofa cushions tossed just so. I am too old and smart to go in for this idea that I am safe if I look normal and have Neo-Citran in the medicine cabinet and no one around to use it up or throw it out if it's expired. I am anything but normal... as Rodney's about to find out.

Girl on bike, guy in car

>>> "Margot" 6/26/2008 1:39 PM >>>

Yup. I would blog about it myself, but my will to blog has not yet been completely revived…

I thought you’d enjoy it.

Here’s the official link: http://toronto.en.craigslist.ca/tor/mis/733465380.html

-----Original Message-----
From: Jessica
Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2008 1:32 PM
To: Margot
Subject: Re: I am hilarious

There are no words for HOW AMAZING THIS IS!

Totally made my day!! Can I put it on my blog?

>>> "Margot" 6/26/2008 1:25 PM >>>

I just posted this on Craigslist in “missed connections”


Girl on bike, guy in car

Yesterday, 5 pm, heading south on Don Mills Rd. You were a chubby charlie in an older beige sedan; I was the amazing girl on a bicycle. You honked for no reason, and then drove dangerously close to the curb so I had nowhere to go. I'd like to see you again so we can exchange more than just a one-fingered salute. I could give you diet, fitness and fashion advice; you could give me the name of your anger-management therapist.

Get a life, fatso.

PS - I'm so lazy

I HAVE TO write my performance review for work before tomorrow and I also feel that I HAVE TO eat a bagel with cream cheese, so I am walking to Sak's even though I will probably not be done my review until 2am and I have to wake up at 5am.

I should just do shit, instead of, like, putting it off.

My Hand, My Bike, and My... Palace.

Hey, look - since the last time you saw it I've gone from forearm cast to this delicate little splint. Ain't it a beauty?

I switched to this 5 days after the accident. If you don't move a broken finger - even while it's broken - the tendons will fuse to the bone. Tricky concept. I "make fists" at least 12 times a day, soak my hand in alternating hot and cold baths three times a day for 15 mins each time, and visit an occupational therapist once or twice a week... all because of a broken finger! Next week we start ultrasound! My therapist is a little disappointed about how shitty my fists are, which is kind of a drag, because it means a return to full mobility is looking less and less likely... but I am sure I will be able to achieve my dream of becoming a good piano player in retirement because I have a lot of determination and discipline. The good doctor just doesn't know that I always come around to things in my own time: i.e. slowly.

In the hopes of grossing you out I took pictures with my web cam, but because of shitty web cam quality, you can't even see the scar. I feel like my friend Susannah in particular will be disappointed. I wonder if that means that I think she has a taste for the unsavoury?

Nonetheless:

Still swollen and numb. Hate that shit.


The scar's long - I swear!

I'm wearing a special silicone pad at night now that helps scarring by keeping the scar tissue "active" (as opposed to hardening up, I think). And the bi-weekly ultrasound treatments are for scarring as well, so it's going to look pretty good. I just can't wait for the swelling and unable-to-move-this feeling to go away.

So, splint in all, I rode 200K this past weekend for the Ride to Conquer Cancer with my buddies Sara, Margot, and Brian. It felt like an accomplishment because my first thought after the accident was "But the ride...!" I asked the doctor in ER, the post-op surgeon and the occupational therapist if I could ride. They all said "No way". I was totally devastated because I had raised $2500.00 for this event! Do you know how much freaking work and asking that is? And it still goes to the cause whether I ride or not, but I felt like the people who had given had also kind of done it for the experience of being involved in the ride somehow, if that makes any sense.

I emailed our "Ride Guide" - coach, mentor, counsellor and funny-joke banterer - and asked him if I could ride in the support vehicles. Dedicated cyclist, he replied:

"I’ve seen a guy mountain biking in the Don Valley with a broken arm. He just held it to his chest while going along. I asked him how it happened when he went by, and he said ‘mountain biking, here, last week.’ Biking with a busted arm is possible, but lay off the percs for that weekend. See how things heal and how you are feeling over the next little while."

It sounded like he was calling me out. Broken arm! And that email came right at about the time the swelling started to go down, and it didn't look like I was completely out of commission for two months. So I figured I would do it after all.

Here's the picture Brian uploaded to Facebook - the only photo I have since my camera's broke:

Aren't we cute in our matching tops? My little, unobstrusive splint curves nicely over the handlebars and riding is no trouble. In fact, riding a road bike was easier than riding my city bike. One more reason to put drop bars on my city bike!

And the ride was amazing. I'm so glad I didn't miss it!

Here we are leaving the Ex (thanks, Brian!):



We started out riding rrrreeeeaaaaalllllllllllllyyyyy slowly. We were near the back of the pack, and there were a lot of novice riders, after all, but eventually we picked up enough to feel like we were travelling - if with little effort. There were four pit stops from Toronto to Hamilton, so we were never long without food, water refills, or portable toilets. And unlike a group quote-unquote training ride, like the Donut Ride, we were well spaced out from each other, too. Thousands of riders leisure-riding in proximity to each other versus, you know, peloton.

The way out of Toronto is getting to be old hat for me - it seems there's only one way out of the city westward by bicycle - but the country roads not far from here are really beautiful. Margot and I relived our trip to Stratford at every turn: "And that's where you peed while I ate a sandwich!" Aww.

Coming into Hamilton, we rode down this incredible descent along the escarpment. It was surely a couple of kilometres long and I called out to Margot, "I am terrified and exhilarated at the same time!" as I tried my best to release my brakes and just go for it. Of course, in the world of physical endurance, what goes down must come up, and the last leg of our ride was a long uphill climb, several times longer than the incredible descent. Powerhouse that I am, I pushed up the whole thing steadily, passing every cyclist I came across - literally 30 to 40! Or more! I felt so good about myself! And rolled into camp fired up by the climb instead of worn out by it.

M and I located our tent, out of the hundreds and hundreds of tents in the camp, showered, and found a sunny patch of grass to begin partaking of the free beer on. If you've never had a beer after a 100K bike ride, I strongly urge you to make this a goal. Baking in the sun while drinking free beer after a long bike ride is basically why the good lord put me on this earth. Amen! I was floating. By the time Sara and Brian found us, we were toasted.

"Tent City" was the camp joke.

Dinner was a totally tasty affair, and a series of speeches about cancer research and the $14M we had raised for it were surprising stirring, perhaps because of the free beer. By the time the one-legged cyclist came out, we were all in tears. One-legged cyclist, you ask? You freaking bet. This woman had ONE LEG, and had ridden just like the rest of us and cried onstage while she told us her story and we gave her a standing ovation. Amazing. I can't believe I can't find any news items on this woman on Google. The only reference I found to this was on someone else's blog, and he says it well enough. Toughness and perseverance, indeed.

As expected, I slept poorly in the tent, uncomfortable and praying against hope that the rain wouldn't leak through, but the campground, at least, was dead silent. The other cyclists breathed not a sound all night, sedated by health and booze as they were. When the communal shuffling began at 5:30, I told Brian that I couldn't decide if it was worse to get up, or to continue lying on the ground. The lesser of two evils! But breakfast won, after all, and before long we were on the road. So much more efficient than real camping when there are no tents to take down, or gear to pack and carry on our backs!

The ride to Niagara Falls was straight and smooth, and Margot was ready to give 'er on her hybrid. Decked out, as I was, with my Cervélo Soloist Team, I could hardly imagine myself sweating after anything without performance tires, but Margot is pretty much the strongest person I know. She burned along on her Kona Dew and I had trouble keeping up. "You really clip along on that thing," observed a road cyclist she was eclipsing. "I was supposed to be on a road bike but it fell through," she replied. His closing comment was "I'd hate to see you on a road bike." No shit. I told her she should start racing.

Our pace high, we came into the final stretch which was sectioned off by pylons. Three riders were cruising abreast at about 15K in front of us, and Margot politely warned them, "Passing on your left!" They shuffled over awkwardly and one of the riders snapped bitterly, "It's not a race!' I told Margot later that I would go to my grave wishing I'd responded, "It's not an obstacle course either, fatso," which rebuke I thought of later - much later! - but ultimately I've remembered that it's better not to have said anything at all. He was probably feeling nervous and tired, right? So I'm trying to be a nicer person - even when shitheads piss me off.

On a side note, Margot called me tonight to tell me that she'd yelled "Get a life, fatso!" at a guy who was delighting in being dangerously aggressive with her on the road, and I feel a peaceful sense of closure knowing that "Fatso", the ultimate insult term, was productively put to use today.

So back to the ride, we coasted in on a kind of wooden plank version of a red carpet while onlookers cheered, changed our tops in full view of the crowd, and laid down on the grass to enjoy more free booze! Between the exertion, the sun, and the booze, we both passed out on the grass. We had time to kill, anyway. Although we arrived in Niagara Falls just after one, we didn't get back to Toronto till just after 7. We should've booked an earlier train.

I got home and looked at the special part of my anatomy, which Margot and Sara and I dubbed "The Palace", and which was particularly sore, and discovered real live sores... in the worst possible area. I called Margot right away, knowing she was the only person I could tell. Then I called Stephen, showed Rodney, and told my team at work. And now I'm posting it on the internet.

The Royal Family could learn from the policy of transparency I have at my palace.

PS - They healed.

The miracle which is the human body

It's been two and a half weeks since I mashed up my paw, and except for two tiny spots that are still oozing pus - "seepage", it's called - things are coming along swimmingly. I'm a far braver soul today than I was when I was casted up to my elbow and figured I'd never be able to do anything ever again. There's some nerve damage and scar tissue forming, but these days when people ask how it's healing, I say "Really well!" with enthusiasm, because most of my hand looks normal, and I can move my fingers, and I might even be out of the splint in a week. The wound's knitting up, and there's even a part where a whole new swath of skin has grown over the cut, scar and everything. Apparently, I'm a skin-growing machine - I had no idea, but I think it might have something to do with all the "good skin" supplements I take.

In short, the human body is amazing. It is absolutely amazing to watch it heal itself. I mean, sure, I supplement it with zinc and fish oil, but like an ultra-sophisticated robot, it runs itself. Nineteen days ago, the back of my hand was torn nearly in two, and my pinky was almost removed. A doctor set the bone and sewed up the laceration. Then my hand swelled like it's never swelled before and I was exhausted, A) because I was popping percocet like it was candy, but also B) because the body was hard at work repairing the wound - or as I like to call it, when I imagine that my body is actually a fully-manned spaceship, the breach. This is the "inflammation" stage of healing, and it's when helpful healing cells, like white blood cells, rush to the injury site like an army of first-wave responders. They get to work immediately, sealing off the breach, constricting blood flow to the site, beginning coagulation, and seeking out and removing bacteria and debris. This is when your injury - my hand, say - swells up to capacity; my skin was pulled to maximum tautness and my arm throbbed in the cast as blood tried to get through. My exposed fingers were two fat, bruised, orange and green sausages I couldn't even bend.

Considering the near tearing in two, if you'll forgive me the graphic description, it feels like nothing short of a miracle that nineteen days later, my hand looks more or less the way it did before the injury: a little weird around the pinky end, and boasting a long red scar, but nothing like the pulpy mass I brought into the emergency room. That's because I'm already well into the "proliferation" stage of healing, when the sealed-up wound gets contracted (swelling goes down) and collagen deposition begins. Collagen, incidentally, comes from the Greek word kolla meaning glue, and its role is to rebuild all the damaged tissue that got all fucked up when you got hurt. This is when the scar tissue starts forming and when, if you have a hand/finger injury like I do, you have to keep your tendons and ligaments moving constantly - fracture and all - to keep them from fusing to the bone. Okay, it's an amazing process, but it's not perfect.

Later, when shit's calmed down and my hand looks totally normal, relatively speaking, the body'll still be working away at smoothing out all the kinks, refining all the extra bone and collagen that built up around the wound and break, in a near constant process of returning to normal. This last step is called "remodeling", and it's kind of like the body finishes all the repairs, steps back to take a look at its work, and goes, "Shit, there's too much calcium built up around the bone and that scar tissue is too hard!" And then it diligently goes back to work, because it's a tireless little perfectionist.

It's magical.

I feel really grateful and blessed to be housed in this amazing, forgiving, malleable shelter of tissue and bone. I wish I didn't spend so much time berating it for its poor little flaws. Sure, there's a few things I might nip and tuck if I could design myself from scratch, but I live an amazing life in this flesh: bending and overheating it in yoga poses, hammering it against the pavement in long runs, racing against other bodies, pushing my heart rate beyond its limits, connecting with other physical bodies (including the cat, who has a hilarious and entirely commendable aversion to being touched by naked human bodies), swimming in oceans and lakes, bathing in the sun, curling it into the shelter of loving arms, hot baths, just breathing...

And just think, while you enjoy your body, it does all the work: regulates systems, heals injuries, beats the heart. Astounding!

My hand and I say goodbye to you for now!

the pros of being hit by a car: an exercise in positive thinking

1. percocet
2. important life lesson about rolling with the punches and how being a control freak brings me nothing but frustration and grief
3. discovering on the internet that the antibiotics i'm taking by the truckload to fight infection are also sometimes prescribed for acne!
4. important insight about self re: 2 of the 3 pros i've listed are the medications i've been prescribed.
5. learning that writing/communicating is so important to me that i'll even type doggedly away with one hand, when i expected that i would probably just spare myself the exasperation, the same way i'm sparing myself the exasperation of washing my hair, clothes, or dishes, or picking half-eaten food off the floor and putting it back into the fridge or into the compost.
6. watching television like the rest of society: i rented the first season of dexter. i think it's weird.
7. reading books on the subway. i have a bunch of books i stopped reading 'cause they were boring, but i felt like i couldn't start a new one till they were done. now i'm finally making my way through man's search for meaning, and i'm embarrassed to tell you that i keep relating its themes of 'unbearable suffering' to my broken finger, and then viciously chastising myself for comparing my broken finger to the holocaust. so shallow!
8. being reminded that i have really great friends and a really strong support network; that despite my constant fears of abandonment and isolation, i seem to have somehow amassed a family of kind souls that care for me even though being close to me is an unpredictable merry-go-round of neediness vs intimacy-fearing aloofness which is a product of my own mis-learned socialization and by no means any fault of your own.
9. having dedicated cyclists tell me i can still do the ride to conquer cancer, despite what the doctors say, and feeling like one of them, that they would even think me that hardy!
and 10. thinking i might actually be that hardy. having a little skip in my heart that tells me that i may well be able to get my shit together, modify my workouts so that i can still train for some of my goals this summer, and not totally lose my mind and gain 10 lbs just cause i'm not riding my bike to work. that i might be able to tirelessly harass the metro toronto police until they track down and charge the fucker that hit me, that i might be able to be strong, and ignore all the voices in my head that say 'see? you are not meant to exercise because you keep injuring yourself!' and remind myself that shit just happens and *i* make my own choices, not destiny, because like sarah connor i'm all 'there's no fate but what we make', and i choose to be positive and not bury myself under and throw up my hands and give in and say 'fine, universe, is this what you want for me? a shitty life? fine, you win, i give up.' which is kind of big for me, 'cause normally when i take a licking i just stop, completely, ticking. but this time, maybe not, even if i do occasionally mistake my broken finger for the holocaust.

hit by a car

i was hit by car, and this typing is hard. i won't be doing too much of it in the coming weeks, i suppose, but i wish i could capture all the thoughts i've been having - like the essential humanity in all of us, even us hardened, cold city folks... i don't know if i can anymore, so much time has passed, but if nothing else, i record my accident for my own archives.

from moment one, there was an incredible outpouring of kindness. i couldn't even handle the actual accident, and without the handful of freaked out dudes who were passing by when it happened and called 911 and shouted 'sit down!', 'breathe deep!', and 'don't look at it!' in unison, i would surely just have stood on the street, screaming and horrified, until i passed out.

i was clipped by a pick-up truck/trailer combo being driven by what i think were city workers, on my way to the pool. i was dragged briefly b4 the truck stopped - poss by my left hand -- gross!! when i stood up, i marvelled at the fact that i was fine and my bike was unscathed, too. then i looked at my hand and was hysterical for the next 3 hours until i was finally administered percocet. my pinky was laying across the back of my hand pointing towards my thumb and a little bit of bone was poking through the back of the hand. i tried to push it back in and the skin fell away, causing blood to stream down my arm and spatter my clothes, my legs, and the road. totally sick, but let me tell you: no matter how hysterical you are, when you see your insides on the outside, every primeval urge in your body cries out to put it back in. then i just held my hand together and waited for the ambulance, since those guys yelled 'don't look at it!' in unison every time i started thinking i'd better see if i should reassemble it myself.

despite arriving by ambulance, it was almost four hours before i saw a doctor. in the first 2 hours, pre-percocet, i was crying, and pacing, and semi-hyperventilating, and generally putting on the big spectacle for the other patients. an old indian woman - old as the hills, and beautiful in a tinselled headscarf and earrings - approached me with her arms outstretched, enfolding me in a hug and telling me that it would be okay, and that god loved me. now i'm not normally the kind of person who answers 'you're very kind,' when people call me 'my child' and tell me that god loves me, but in this instance i did, because i recognize true kindness when i see it. also, hours later, when i was in a cast, and calmly waiting for my i.v. to run out so i could finally go home, a man who'd been there all night, too, and was finally sitting in a wheelchair being attended to, asked after me, 'all better now?'

'yes,' i said, considering sheepishness, 'much better.''

here's a testament to my e.r. waiting room antics: today, at the hospital for a follow-up appointment, a young fella with a matching cast on his arm greeted me and said, 'i remember you from the waiting room. you were in a bike accident, right? i could tell 'cause you had clip-in shoes.' aww. he broke his thumb landing a bmx trick, which means he doesn't get to direct his anger towards anyone but himself; which sucks, but at least he doesn't have to schedule daily phone calls to the cops. enough time has passed since my accident that i'm thinking it's going to be pretty hard to charge the motherfuckers who ran me over, and that is so shitty, because it was 100% the driver's fault - i think he may even have been trying to scare me by driving too close. and that shit needs to be punished severely. hard to track them down though, since they LEFT THE SCENE after the ambulance took me away and before the cops got there. poss because they'd been drinking. i'm not saying, but i'm saying.

so that's it from me for a little while, i guess. i've got 6-8 weeks ahead of me of no writing, no biking, no swimming... and no ride to conquer cancer, which i've raised almost $2000 for. did i ever mention that i have a history of depression? this shit is going to kill me. for now, though, there's percocet - which i WAS popping when there was pain, but now save for when i start tearing up - and of course, there's always heavy drinking. and the rest i'll just figure out as i go long.

Day Off

"Dear Boss," I typed frantically, "I totally need a day off! Please let me take Friday!!! PLEASE!!!"

My boss - a long-time fundraiser - worries about burn-out and working us too hard.

"Of course!" she replied quickly. And then, "I work you too hard!"

And so here I am at my desk at home at 10am on a Friday morning, fartin' around.



Even in this dim, grainy web cam photo I look exhausted. I went out last night and drank Bailey's and champagne, book-ended by white wine. All in all, it wasn't too much, I guess, but I was drunk, and got less sleep than I like. My beautiful, stylish friend Natalie - who works in the fashion industry - off-loaded some of her old clothes on me (that's why I'm wearing a strapless dress in the morning; it's one of the things she gave me), in what was the one of the best nights out I've had in a couple of weeks. I drank and laughed and tried on clothes with Stephen, Natalie and Rodney, and didn't have a care in the world about what time I was going to get up at today. There is SO MUCH I could use this time for, but I'm going to try to get away with the bare minimum.

Speaking of the bare minimum, I'm obsessed with lingerie and sexy clothes. I've already spent about an hour looking at beautiful lingerie online, like:

this,

this, and

this.

Me-ow! I guess it's a blessing that my credit cards are maxed out.

God, I wish someone would make me breakfast and give me something to write about. And clean my apartment. What the fuck are you good for, anyway? Jesus.

Waiting to Exhale

Please imagine that I am running into your internet browser, breathless and panting: "Here I am!"

My life is really happy and full and perfect right now -- well, maybe it's not perfect, it's never perfect, I guess, but it's really good. It's also really, really busy. Between happy, wonderful, near-perfect moments, I collapse into my bed every opportunity I get and have really deep, exhausted naps. More things are falling by the wayside than I would like. I am desperately writing lists to keep chaos at bay. Would you like to be my assistant, please?

The Bod and I went to Québec City a couple of weekends ago. It was super fun and I kept thinking about how I ought to blog about it so I could look back later and refresh my addled memory. But I never had a spare moment, and now I'll never do it justice. To summarize:
Québec is beautiful and we went with Rodney's hockey team who were playing a tournament there. I watched their games every day with the other girlfriends and wives, and went out in the evenings with the team, too. It was fun. We always ran into each other in the small-ish confines of the old town, as if we were all on a school trip. The Bod and I stayed in a beautiful bed & breakfast, in a room which was often strewn with smelly hockey equipment, à la chambre de locker. We went to two of the world championship games that were taking place there, too. I'd never been to a real, professional hockey game before and totally loved it. The lights! The noise! The crowds! The enthusiasm! The poutine! And the fighting! It actually reminded me of the Ice Capades... well, except for the fighting... And that in turn reminded me that I was drinking beer and cheering hockey players with my 40 year-old BF (well, almost) and his two dad-friends, whose daughters were sleeping back at their hotels, and that in turn reminded me that the Ice Capades were a long, long time ago. I am a full-fledged, dyed-in-the-wool adult woman. When did this happen? I kind of thought I was a really together 18 year-old.

I've been having a lot of deep thoughts. These usually take place on my bike ride home. In fact, they always seem to come to me in the vicinity of Avenue Rd. I don't know what that's about, but anyway, I'll be crossing Avenue Rd and I'll be waxing major philosophic about some universal human nature shit and I'll think, when I get home I totally have to blog about this, because this is brilliant, and then I get home and I have a million other things on my mind, and I have to eat some dinner, or flex my super-athlete muscles, or get that laundry in the machine, or do something about the out-of-control compost situation, or just fall into bed for 30 blessed minutes of rest, and it's all ancient history faster than you can say I think, therefore I am. I am only smart when no one is around... kind of a tree falling in the forest thing.

Speaking of being dumb, I did an infamous group ride on Sunday called The Donut Ride. Let me quote this link in case you miss it:

"The Donut Ride is an informal Toronto road cycling tour run every Saturday and Sunday as well as public holidays. Typical summer numbers range from 100 to 125 riders forming a large pack, and weather permitting the ride continues year-round and often sees a dozen riders even in mid-winter. The ride is known for being fairly fast paced, often reaching speeds of about 50 km/h on straightaways. It is also known for being fairly unforgiving; riders who are dropped from the pack are on their own."

Totals hardcore. Rodney does it at least once a week, and I never thought I'd be able to. At least, last year I didn't think so. This year it suddenly seemed a go. I'd like to do at least a 100K ride every weekend - especially as I gear up for the Ride to Conquer Cancer (more on that later -- get your chequebooks out!!). So anyway, I went out, filled with dread and fear, and it was kind of worse than I expected, harder and faster, but also the best exercise of my life... Rodney hung back with me and urged me on like a diligent herd dog to my wandering, wide-eyed sheep. By the time we'd got back to the city, I'd dropped off from the group and we made our way home alone, soaked through to the bone with rain, and fighting highway-speed winds. I was so cold by the time I got to Rodney's house that I had lost some of my basic language skills, motor skills, and visual acuity. No lie! A hot shower and a cup of tea brought me around again, but I can't be sure there wasn't some irreversible brain damage. How did this paragraph sound? Did it make sense? Or do I only think it makes sense, like a stroke victim trying to communicate and only making mangled noises?

That's it for now, dear diary. I gotta go sculpt my guns, learn to swim, visit Natalie to try on her clothes, go to my tax-filing boyfriend's house, and somehow, somehow try to find eight hours for lying still in bed and not doing anything before tomorrow starts. Help me, daytimer!

Unfriendly Train Staff

In a previous post about my trip to Switzerland, I mentioned that a "mean-spirited fare collector" brought me to tears on the train. I did not further mention that a kindly fellow passenger tried to intervene on my behalf, only to be reprimanded herself, nor that she then took down my address with a promise to seek restitution, because I never expected anything to come of it. Her gesture was so unexpectedly considerate, and I thanked her profusely - or tried to, but struggled because of the hyperventilating - but I thought it empty and strangely involved. In Canada, my scene would have been simply ignored and quietly frowned upon.
In recounting my tale to Rodney and his co-workers in Neuchâtel, they agreed that I could count on some sort of follow-up, citing the legendary Swiss efficiency, and I laughed politely at their joke.
I laughed much harder today, though, when I received this letter:

SBB, Division Personenverkehr, Kundenbeziehungen & Services
Bahnhofplatz 4, CH-5200 Brugg

Brugg, 25, April 2008
Ref. KUD12283814

Unfriendly Train Staff

Dear Mrs. M*****,

From a train neighbour of you, Mrs. Susanne Vögeli, living in Aarau, Switzerland, we received an e-mail. I will try to answer you in the best English I can find.

On 12 April 2008 in the InterCity train 518 from the airport of Zurich to Aarau (or further), you were very much annoyed at the services of SBB, especially at the behaviour of our colleague on the train. We regret that because of him you had to pay a supplementary ticket of CHF 35.- up with considerable inconveniences and stress, for which we apologise very much.

While checking tickets, our train staff cannot tell if passengers are purposefully travelling without a valid ticket, or if they have genuinely made a mistake. At the time, the ticket checker can only see if a valid ticket has been presented or not.

If a customer is found to be travelling without a valid ticket, our ticket check staff are instructed to charge the difference to the correct price, plus a supplement fee of CHF 5.-. Of course, in this cases we try to treat all customers equally.

We have demanded a statement of the involved train staff member on 12 April in the ICN 518:

We understand your annoyance and can see how the 'stubborn' and unfriendly behaviour of our colleague annoyed you. As already mentioned it is not easy for our staff to tell if a customer has a good reason for not travelling without a valid ticket, or if a customer is purposefully abusing the system. For this reason the procedure in the trains is very strict.

He and his chief of staff send you their excuses for this behaviour! If we anyhow can refund you the supplement payed in the train, tell us. Then we try to find a solution.

We hope our information helps you to understand also our situation, and demonstrates why there was a problem in the first place. We thank you for giving us the opportunity to present our case and remain at your service.

Yours sincerely,

Hannes Geissmann
SBB Customer Relations Region Solothurn-Aargau

Latte Hill

Three things came to mind this morning:
1) Lattes
2) Nutella, and
3) It was time to go down that hill

Yesterday my friend ordered a latte at breakfast, and I followed her example on a whim. I don't usually drink lattes or cappuccinos, or caffeinated drinks of that ilk, probably for the same reason I don't drink martinis or cocktails; I think on some level I find all those things a bit precious. But I sure do love me a café-au-lait, and that, of course, is what a café latte is. So I ordered one and it was about a thousand times more enjoyable than a regular coffee, and now I'm sold on it: bring me lattes, bitches!

Usually coffee is the first thing I think of when I wake up, and my mind is scrambling for a reason to get out of bed, but today it was latte. Why have coffee when you can have a latte? And then when I thought about breakfast I just knew I had to have Nutella. I feel like it is almost criminally decadent to have chocolate (and modified palm oil) for breakfast, but reassured myself that the French do it... I mean, that doesn't make it any less decadent, but at least I wouldn't be alone. And so Rodney and I planned to get our hands on some Nutella for breakfast, and I said "Today I'm going to go down That Hill."

Several months ago - I suppose it must've been November or December - we were in a park - possibly Etienne Brulé, possibly not - trying to teach me to ride off-road: cyclocross. And we came to this hill - it's not very long, but it's, you know, steep(-ish), and it's just a thin dirt path between trees, over roots and rocks and leaves - and Rodney zoomed down and waited for me at the bottom.

"C'mon!"
"I can't!"
"Sure you can! It's easy!"
"I can't! It's too steep!"
"Just try it!"

So I nudged my bike forward slightly, felt the front wheel tilt over the lip of the hill, and instinctively squeezed my brakes, unclipping my feet and slamming them into the ground. I waddled awkwardly down on foot, the nose of my saddle bruising my butt as I manoeuvred my way to the bottom.

We made our way back up to try it again. "This time I will do it!" I declared, but once again I got to the lip of the hill, braked urgently, and scrambled down on foot. This continued until finally I decided to call it a day. There was no way I was going to ride down that hill.

That's the short and unremarkable story of The Hill, and this morning I decided the time had come. I was going to be a brave girl.

We fuelled up on Nutella and headed to the park. I adopted my usual terrorized-snail pace, but Rodney is a good coach. I fought my survival instincts and did what he said, until finally I succeeded in going down some other hills - hills I realize, in retrospect, were steeper, longer, and more treacherous than The Hill, but simply hadn't been built up as much in my mind - and then we hit The Hill, and I promised myself that if I went down The Hill I could have my latte, and that if I didn't go down The Hill then it would be instant coffee for me. I gritted my teeth, and released my brakes; I prayed desperately to God, without even apologizing for not believing in Him up until now, I thought about how delicious and milky yesterday's lattes were, and how good that coffee would be goin' down, and I flew down that hill.

It was amazing!

We continued through the trees: up steep, muddy slopes, down long, terrifying inclines. Soon I was covered in sweat, panting and completely exhilarated. Riding off-road is awesome. And I felt like someone better than myself. Someone daring. Someone who barrels down muddy hillsides with her heart in her throat while the rest of the normal world is still sleeping. Someone whose life includes lattes and Nutella and the feeling of flying.

I got home and went across to the coffee shop in my sweaty jersey, feeling pretty hardcore.


This ain't pyjamas.

Nutella!

Latte!

Switzerland and Fatigued Malaise

The last thing I should be doing right now is writing a rambling blog post. I am baaaacked up at work, and really need to get on top of shit, but I'm just sitting here barely holding it together.

Last week I flew off to Switzerland - exciting jet-set lifestyle! - so I stayed up all night on a plane, and then I had a long trip back too, and then it was immediately fundraising event time at my work. We have a big annual event which requires that I work late (and hard) on Thursday, and then work even harder on Saturday, starting at 3am in the morning. Determined not to let the tower climb fuck up my weekend, and still totally confused, internally, about time, I stayed awake for the rest of the day and then went out at night and drank heavily.

I need to catch up with and be a good friend to a million people. I need to pick all the shit up off my floor. I need to do about 12 loads of laundry. I need to take some vitamins and get some good, quality, night-time sleep. And I need to do everything that's been asked of me at work. But the motor in my brain is burning out, and I just keep drinking coffee and staring at the clock, wishing it would become 5pm, or tomorrow, or next week, and that everything will go back to normal again. I really shouldn't mess with the delicate balance of my internal monitors.

Shit's feeling kind of heavy right now, but I think that's probably the fatigue and feeling of being overwhelmed talking.

***

My co-worker, also zoned out, and the only other person in our department right now, just took me out for lunch where we discussed the necessity of not working too hard today, and leaving early, too. God bless. It feels like there is hope.

Let me tell you a little bit about my trip.

I flew overnight to Zurich, and arrived pale and shaky with exhaustion, dragging a one-million-pound snowboard bag behind me, with further travel to Neuchâtel ahead. The bag was difficult to manoeuvre, and by the time I had settled in on the train to Neuchâtel I felt fragile and delicate. When a mean-spirited fare collector refused to direct me out of first class and threatened to have me arrested if I did not pay an additional fare, I burst into snotty, hyperventilating tears, calling him every English swear word I could think of, and laying curses on him like an old gypsy. I arrived at Neuchâtel in a rare state, still teary and less able than ever to carry the snowboard bag. I found the hotel and fell finally into a heavy, drooling sleep.

I was not quite my usual robust self when I awoke, but less prone to tears and refreshed by my nap and a shower. We headed out for what I called dinner, and Rodney called lunch, with his co-worker Nenad. In between meals as we were, the bar was not serving food... except for fondue. What a glorious option! There was nothing else I wanted to eat, anyway. We put away about six beers with our fondue, and I was feeling happy, if not entirely 100%. We toured around Neuchâtel a little bit, explored the castle, and then headed to Rodney and Nenad's co-worker's house for dinner and insights into the ex-pat lifestyle.

The next morning I was ultra-psyched about the prospect of having a French breakfast!!! The most delicious of all the breakfasts!! We headed down to the hotel buffet and I had a croissant, a pain chocolat, some pain-de-campagne bread with gruyère, delicious unpasteurized European yogurt and jam, Nutella, butter, and coffee. My favourite things!!! And then we rushed off to meet Anouk, who was driving us to the ski hill, and a day of speaking French.

God, the gears switch slowly in this old brain, let me tell you. Rodney speaks a perfect, effortless French, and after doggedly trying to keep up with both of them, I expressed a wish to "repose la cervelle un peu", but it was hard to tune out. I actually understand French almost as well as English, so when I hear it, I can't help but listen to it. I just can't express myself with the same ease. It became easier as the day went on - in fact, it was really fun to have an excuse to speak French again - but when we were alone at the end of the day, I was relieved at the prospect of speaking nice, easy English again.

We drove to Champéry where Rodney and I would be staying, and headed up to the hill with Anouk, who is another one of Rodney's co-workers, and her friend Arlette. The sun was shining and the weather was a balmy plus-something. I was nervous about snowboarding in the Alps, but we took easy runs all day and I felt really comfortable. It was probably one of the best days I've ever had on a snowboard. When we settled in for après-ski, I was pleasantly worn out from a day of outside fun, cheeks flushed with windburn, and nose sunburnt. For dinner, we walked all over tiny Champéry and found an open restaurant where we ordered raclette and had many drinks.

The next day, the Bod and I headed back to the hill, but a snowstorm had moved in and the light was impossibly flat. Unable to see ahead of me, I see-sawed back and forth down the runs, falling-leaf style - murder on the quads - until we made it across the border (that's right!) to France. The light was better in France - go figure. We had a delicious lunch of crêpes, complete with nerve-relaxing chocolat rhums, and had a nice afternoon of snowboarding. Back in Champéry at dinner-time, we wandered aimlessly looking for another open restaurant, and stumbled upon the local rec centre, whose restaurant was practically bustling, and the most full-service operation we'd seen yet.

The next day was full-on pea soup. I didn't want to snowboard through thick clouds, and elected to take the train down to nearby Aigle, instead. This proved to be a pretty good decision, as the train ride took us down through the Alps, past the snow line, through some incredible scenery, and so much amazing Swiss-ness. Aigle was a little bit ghetto, but we saw some middle-ages style architecture, the local castle, and made our way down to Cycling Union headquarters which was pretty cool, and nice for my cycling-fan BF. I learned about the Tour de France and watched some Russians train on the track, and we took some shitty pictures with Rodney's camera-phone.


The following day, our last, we woke up early and took the 7:30 train out of Champéry. We changed trains twice more before pulling into Geneva, where we took a quick walking tour and had lunch. We saw a lot of banks and watch stores. In the afternoon, we flew to Frankfurt, in the evening, we flew to Toronto. Overall travel time was almost 20 hours.

And the next day was tower climb, day one. And here I am, pretty wiped out, and anxious for tomorrow or the weekend.

Huh, I have a meeting. Guess I'd better go.

Lingerie + lycra; surely someone else has thought of this?

I hate to make a clichéd joke, but I mean it: I suddenly understand what Victoria's secret is.

My bathing suit, which I bought at a store called something like Garage Outfitters for somewhere around $20 to $40, is literally dissolving on my body. Since I am a) learning to swim, and b) rehabing (rehabbing?) my broke leg, I am swimming three times a week. It's difficult to remember to throw my bathing suit in the laundry when it's always in use! So the chlorine is eating through that cheap fabric like maggots through rotting flesh. I'm not too put out, though, since it doesn't hug my modest curves with the clingy firmness they deserve. That is to say that it looks a bit like I'm wearing my mommy's bathing suit (well, not my tiny mommy's, but maybe someone else's). And this condition is worsened, obviously, by the degrading fabric.

So I've been looking far and wide for a nice new bathing suit built with some of the clever trompe-l'oeil features that make so much of my lingerie look like there's still a woman in it when I take it off. I figured it would be easier to find a bathing suit like that anyway, rather than the unflattering formlessness of my current bathing suit. After all, it is impossible to buy a bra - at least in my size - that isn't padded. And bathing suits are like underwear you wear without the overwear. I mean, if anything should be designed for vanity, it's swimwear. But alas, I turned this city upside down (in the winter, granted) and found nary a reinforced shelf.

I was seriously starting to lose hope, until I stumbled upon good ol' Victoria's Secret today. I'm not sure what search led me there, but suddenly I was browsing through their swimwear and it was all lingerie-style bikinis - padded tops, push-up tops, embellished tops... oh my! Mix and match bottoms! Colour and style to choice! And then I finally got Victoria's Secret. It just makes sense. There is more to undergarments than triangle-shaped pieces of fabric - well, at least for most of us - I'm sorry to tell you this, boys, but it's true - and Victoria's Secret is hawking the amped-up, filled-out, pulled-in, tweaked, towering architecture ladies like me are gagging for.

At least, it looks like they are. I think I'm going to put them to the test and see if they can't sell me something in lycra that looks like I'm wearing my skivvies - my molded, engineered, figure-enhancing skivvies.

And speaking of rehab and thus running, let me end this post on a sad note by saying that yesterday's run, my third since I got the green flag to run again, ended with a persistent, throbbing pain in the exact area of the most severe fracture. Looks like I am off the road again for a little while. And just after I discovered the wonder of my Nike+iPod, too. I won't let it get me down, though. It's plenty of fun to swim. Plenty.

More diary times!!

The other thing that's great about the new shamelessly-diary incarnation of The Devil's Tools is that I'm spending a lot of time in front of my computer and it's such an easy way to distract myself.

It's beautiful outside! Just like yesterday! And once again I am holed up indoors for what looks to be the whole day.

I went out this morning, though, for a run and then brunch with Jill. Here I am eating my leftovers at home:

I am a world-class glutton. I can binge-eat like you've never seen binge-eating before. Unfortunately my body has started to rebel against bingeing in my old age. I get wicked acid reflux when I eat too much, and sometimes I hurl, too. The only preventative is slow, measured eating. So in this case I only ate half my delicious brunch, then carried the other half home in my hand to finish later. It makes me crazy because I want to eat all the time. I'm really full right now, for example, but could totally go for some cookies and tea. I took these pictures five minutes ago, so that sandwich is long gone.

It sure was good while it lasted, though. Look at how much I'm enjoying that thing!

Going back for more! Yes, you like that, don't you?

Tasty!

Yes!

Re: run. Yesterday I wrote that I was easing myself back in with a killer 2K. Today I finally remembered to take out the Nike+iPod sensor I got for Christmas and learned that I am in fact running almost 5K. Oops. Don't tell my doctor.

The iPod sensor is amazing. At the end of my run, a soothing female voice told me I'd run for 20 mins at less than 5mins/K - way better than the 10mins/K I thought I ran! - and then Lance Armstrong himself congratulated me for doing my longest workout yet! Thanks, Lance! I'm going to put it on my bike shoe tomorrow to see once and for all how long and how far my commute to work is.

See? Exercise news and chronic stomach problems update! That is all this blog is going to come to. I knew it.

Free to be me!

A couple of months ago, I had some blogging issues - not like, software problems, issues like... mental problems. I didn't know whether my blog was coming or going. Well, I was all wrapped up in how dumb it was... Anyhow - I got it all sorted.

I have a new blog. I did really and truly start another after all. But not at the expense of this one. I need a diary blog - for complicated psychological reasons I don't care to guess at - and I also need a blog that embarrasses me slightly less. So now I have this very reasonable, functional other blog.

No, you can't have the address. It's not for you!

And so now that I have a place to try to be smart (other blog), there is no more pressure for me to do anything respectable here.

Actually, I love diary blogs. They're my favourite kind of blog to read. So that's not so bad.

One of the things I've noticed makes a great diary blog is pictures. My camera doesn't work, because of my negative force field, but I do have a web cam, and I am going to start putting it to use.

My natural expression is one of complete vapidness.
If I had facial expressions, I would probably look like this when I was thinking hard.
Or like this.
And now you know that I didn't make the bed.

I am also going to blog to my heart's content about my powerhouse athletic activities and my chronic stomach issues. I am no longer worried about boring you! If you don't like it, get out of here!

I will start with today: it was meant to be a two-activity Saturday, but yesterday I had to admit to myself that I was tired and sore with overtraining. I used to ignore that feeling, and then I developed stress fractures in my leg that took me off running for four and a half months. So I'm learning to balance the need to push myself with the need to be patient with myself. Last summer I was so frustrated that I couldn't seem to get to the level of athleticism that I wanted, and I just kept running and running and running... You could say that I ran until I broke my own leg. I like to think of it that way. So I noticed that I was pooped and took the day off. I've spent the whole of it writing, with way more to go, so it's been time well-spent.

Tomorrow I am running. RUNNING! It will be my third time out since my doctor officially sanctioned my return to running last week. I am doing 2K at a time, and it is really incredible how hard that is, despite having kept in relatively good shape through cross-training. Running is hard. I'd forgotten. But I'm harder. At least, I like to think so.