You Are What You Eat

There are few chores in life that I take as much pleasure in as grocery shopping. Scrubbing down the kitchen? Nah. Getting my hands dirty in the bathroom? No way. Even vacuuming, with its loud noises and immediate gratification, isn't really on my radar. Spring cleaning at my house is me, halfheartedly waving a broom at the cobwebs that have accumulated on my ceilings, and dusting. I'm not a neat freak.

But grocery shopping really gets my blood moving, chore-wise. First of all, it gets me out of the house: I'm not choking on chemical cleaners or room sprays or what have you. In the winter, this can be kind of a drag for a non-driver like myself, but in the spring months, it's a lovely treat to hop on my bicycle and breeze over to the Loblaws. Grocery shopping on my bike is one of the top-tier instances of feeling like A True Cyclist. I'm not at the trailer-hauling level that some folks are, but a girl can dream.

Once I'm actually at the store, and have wrestled my bike into the (never adequate) bike parking, I'm free to wander, exploring the possibilities. I can generally gauge how optimistic I'm feeling based on the kind of food I pick up: tomatoes and brie are a staple, bananas are a solid maybe - hey, even if they go bad, I can always magic them into delicious banana bread - and mangoes are like a shot at the wild blue yonder. I eat, like, one mango a year. do I buy one mango a year? I buy...more than that. And they rot.

Grocery shopping let people try on new personalities without having to invest in, say, a condo on the waterfront. Am I the type of person who eats goat yogurt and organic salsa? Let's find out! And it won't cost as much as either tickets to a monster truck rally or a spa visit.

I know that kind of argument can be specious. I've called bullshit on defining yourself through what you consume, but food is so fundamental to survival, and there's such a range or ways you can eat. Some folks are very much of a soymilk and manuka honey mindset, while others are completely content to graze on Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew. Most of us fall somewhere in the happy medium, scarfing down both free-range eggs and Twizzlers. I know you're supposed to shop the periphery, leaving the centre aisles - the ones that contain delicious things like tacos - out of your cart. But in the words of Mandy Patinkin, fuck that bullshit, they can blow me. Tacos, butter chicken sauce, rice cakes and tins of tuna all live in the centre aisles. And they are good.

In grocery shopping, the stakes are so low: you hate something? Just don't buy it again. It's not like you have to sit your veal chops down and tell them "It's not you, it's me." Some days, you feel fancy, like a quinoa and walnut salad would be the perfect accompaniment to your Perrier. And others...well, let's just say I've had several evenings with Wine Gums and my couch, and they were very nice. After all, we are what we eat. Sometimes we eat crap, and sometimes we eat fancy.

Eat hearty, my pretties!

Gearing Up For Riding Season

Today I went to the 24th Annual Toroto International Bike Show, and it made me feel grumpy.

Don't get me wrong: I love bikes. But most of my bikes in the past few years have been either tooled up from scratch, or bought from independent dealers in Toronto. The Bike Show is not like either of those things; instead, it's rows upon rows on ungodly expensive cycling machines, ugly jerseys, and things that are labeled with an incomprehensible series of letters and numbers. Shimano Ultegra 6700? Sounds like something that would get into a harbourfront rumble with Godzilla 3000. I saw hundreds of really, really nice bikes...and nothing that got my blood pumping.

I know it's sort of a hipstery thing to be really into your bike, and talk about parts and routes and how you rebuilt your bottom bracket using only, like, dental floss and an avocado pit. But for us lesser peeps, what ends up happening is an us-v.-them style dichotomy, wherein we have the experts - both trained and lay - and then we have everyone who gets nervous entering a bike shop.

Which happens to include me. I'm not a pro: I like riding my bikes, and I'm interested in cycling culture and making our communities safer and more open to those who choose to put the fun between their legs. But I'm certainly not a gearhead, and bikes are machines. Oh, sure, there's more to them then that: increased mobility on a global scale, a healthy alternative to sit-on-your-butt methods of commuting, an economical way of getting around, a fun way to meet people. But they are first and foremost a machine, and machines have parts. And anything with moving parts will inspire a range of low-to-high knowledge bases. I fit in the most awkward part of that: I know how much I don't actually know.

In addition to feeling totally out of place, the Bike Show was super frustrating because it only repped the gearhead side of the cycling community. I would have liked to have seen more stuff, in a wider range: bags and spoke cards, magazines and books, clothes that weren't tacky jerseys (or the line that was designed especially for women-type folks, and I can't decide if that's condescending or cool), family-oriented stuff, more BMX stuff, and maybe a hey-how's-your-bike-running setup. I realize it's a trade show, but unlike the annual auto shows, cycling actually inspires some people to feel part of something. It would have been nice to go and feel included, even though I'm not a pro.

Sleep On It

Whoo! Sorry, I've been AWOL for a week or so. I wish I could be all, "Oh, I was jet-setting around Europe with my Siamese cats and my manservant Raoul," but that would be a stinking lie. I've mostly been lazing around: Reading week was last week, so there was skiing, snowshoeing, and watching an entire season of The Office. This week, it was coming home and disrupting my sleep schedule to the point where I've been falling asleep at dawn and then lurching through my days like a scary zombie. Going without sleep is a terrible, terrible thing.

When my mom mentioned that babies make people into early risers, it was the first inkling I had that maybe parenthood wasn't going to be my bag. After a terrible run-in with insomnia in my first year in university, I've been what might be characterized as a bad sleeper: it takes me forever to fall asleep, I'm tired all the time, and it's way too easy for me to go completely off the rails, vis-a-vis scheduled bedtimes. I'm terrible at naps. I hate sharing the bed (and I'm not alone). Sometimes, I'd prefer just to sleep on the floor. It's tricky, because these things aren't exactly easy to explain. And sometimes, they make me sound totally insane.

Sleeping is a non-negotiable. It isn't like fancy bottled water or internet access: sleep deprivation makes me people go crazy, in a very real way. The torturers in Gitmo use it as a way of fucking with the enemy so deeply, it can rearrange selves and personalities. And while my sleep-suckitude is a very different levels than those people, the difference between well-rested, sleep-scheduled me and falling-asleep-at-dawn me is astounding. If I were a different kind of writer, I might say it was night and day (rim shot!); not sleeping properly makes me feel enough nausea without needing to devolve into Jack Paar-esque comedy.

I've tried it all: turning the light off at eleven means that I toss and turn for hours; reading in bed means I'm sucked into a Stephen King book and then can't sleep because I'm too busy wondering if there's something trying to get in my third-floor window; watching TV is no good, because I just keep watching, leading to TMZ viewings that are no good for anyone; warm milk helps, as does a hot bath, but only a little.

It's troubling: my body seems to crave the most zzzs between the hours of eight am and noon. This is going to make getting a real-person job sort of a nightmare once I leave the Magical Garden of University Living. Most jobs - ones with benefit packages, anyway - seem to require some sort of commitment to being there in the morning. I've worked a few jobs wherein I had to be there at nine; these were summer jobs and the sun was already pouring through my window, being cheery and heating my bedroom up like a convection oven. Let's just say it was better to leap out of bed at eight than sweat to death under the duvet until noon. But I've never really had a job through the winter, where I had to get up under the cover of darkness, bike somewhere as the sky was lightening to gray, and slog through the day. That sounds terrible!

Over the next couple months, I need to figure out a way to get better at sleep. I quit piano lessons in elementary school, because I didn't want to practice. Practicing my sleep sounds equally lame, but I figure getting those forty winks in an appropriate timeslot is one of the best steps I can take towards becoming a functional grown-up. Plus, I figure it's best to practice sleeping; that way, if I do have a baby someday, I'm already a seasoned vet, not some junior-league amateur.

You Can't Go Home Again

Stratford is weird.

I guess any small Ontario tourist town in the middle of winter is a little bizarre, since so much small-town charm is a direct result of having things like leaves on trees and quaint shopping districts, but Stratford is particularly strange, since so much of its appeal comes from the Festival. Stratford's downtown, without its throngs of prettily dressed tourists, is pretty grim in the winter months. Stratford in the summer is like Woody Allen's odd 1996 musical Everyone Says I Love You, which featured lots of natty white people and some randoms bursts into song. Stratford in the winter is a little more like Wendy and Lucy, which was depressing and kind of bleak.

Anyway, reading week has descended on U of T, so a mass exodus from campus has erupted. Instead of heading west, towards the outpouring of national pride and jacked-up prices that is the Vancouver Olympics, I slunk home to spend some time with my family. Whom I love. And I went for tea with a friend, which was nice. Coffee with my mom. Whom I love. In Stratford. Which I snoorrrreeee... sorry, I dozed off there for a second.

The curse of the tourist town is that, while the season is lush and lovely, the off-season often seems seedy. The factories, which are constantly belching along, seem more prominent without the concealing greenery. The university students are all off in their respective classes, leaving towns that seem to be all teenager and middle-aged. Stratford's downtown, which caters to the out-of-town visitors that come to wine, dine, and see plays, has a dearth of basic amenities downtown. All the grocery stores are on the edge of town; there's no place to rent a video; sandwhiches cost, like, nine dollars. Other small towns manage to provide the people who live in their downtowns with some basic services, while Stratford leaves them high and dry.

When I went to high school here, the town was small enough to be accessible. One of my best gals lived on the edge of town, and I could walk to her place in twenty minutes. That's perfect for a sixteen year old with no car. Ten years later, that same accessibility seems stiflingly small. There aren't a ton of extracurriculars here. If I was interested in obscene drinking, then yes, this place would be perfect. But I'd like to keep expanding my horizons, instead of making them fit into the bottom of a pint glass.

Now, when I come back, I come back almost as a tourist. I get to eat in fancy restaurants over Christmas break and bask in the sylvan downtown in the summer. On the other hand, most of my friends have relocated to more cosmopolitan settings, and seeing my family is a treat that doesn't overlap with the frothy delights of the Stratfordian downtown scene. This is a place to visit, not to live.

Bad Things Happen In A Variety Of Numerals

You know those weeks where you wake up early, and the sun is shining, and your favourite ice cream stand is open for the first time in the season? And the best TV shows have magically all come back on the air? And you go to the library and you don't have any overdue fines? And the new issue of your magazine is perched in your mailbox like a little literary butterfly? And you see an ex-lover on the street, and it's sweet instead of terminally awkward? And you just feel like everything is going right, like the world is on the end of your string, and that you're going to make it after all?

So not me this week.

I'm having a week that's making question if going skiing this weekend is a bright idea, because with my recent luck, I'll somehow manage to set my hair on fire while sipping on apres-ski hot chocolates. Not only did my wallet grow legs and wander off at a house party last weekend, my computer also somehow managed to become infected with a deadly virus.

Trying to open Microsoft Office led to a pop-up that advertised, in less polite terms, what could be euphemized as "warm feline." The internet curled up in a fetal position and whimpered. I spent no less than three hours on hold and $150 in cash monies to rectify the situation. Plus, I was a bit of a dillhole to the tech support people, because nothing in my parents' house works properly, including the phones, which meant that I had to sprint back and forth between the kitchen wall phone and the computer room whilst trying to secure our previously unsecured network. All of this also meant a huge screaming fight between me (who doesn't understand anything, apparently) and the rest of my super-technologically savvy kinfolk.

I am not saying that it's not my fault. There was probably some virus that was hanging out on the back corners of my computer, picking its teeth with a pocket knife and sneering at my iPod. It's just frustrating, because this hadn't happened on my secured Toronto network; it happened at my parent's (previously) unsecured Stratford network. That mofo is locked down tight now, but I might be shutting the barn door after Mr. Ed is long gone. And my entire family was all, "YOU did something! YOU must have downloaded a file! YOU have unleashed the monster that is currently ripping its way through downtown Computeropolis!" which makes me feel even worse. My computer wasn't even on when the virus entered the system.

Anyway, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Since bad things apparently come in threes, I'm waiting for the aforementioned scalp fire to happen, or for someone to slip me LSD at the bar, or to have Godzilla crumple up my bike like a tissue. If I was a christian, I would think that God was punishing me for some transgression or another; since I'm not, I can only blame the fickle bad-luck wind for blowing so hard these past few days. On the other hand, since I'm apparently now putting stock in the mystical and mysterious, my horoscope did mention that, after a run of lousy luck, my stars will align to make a more positive change.

Weeks like this make me believe in the three-bad-things rule. I feel like once there's been two moronic events, it's hard not to wait for the third. On the other hand, that might just be putting out bad karma. After all, no one bemoans the fact if good things come in fives, or whatever that rule is. I'm going to try to do some Lamaze breathing until my computer drama is resolved, be grateful for the fact that aside from all my cards, only six dollars went missing from the Great Wallet Caper of 2010, and that I probably won't break an ankle on the ski slopes. Wish me luck, and I'll accept any and all get-well-soon cards on behalf of my sick computer.

Fun and Winter Games

Tonight we ventured forth into the freezing night to attend the somethingth-annual Icycle event at the beautiful Dufferin Grove Park. Icycle, for the uninformed, is an event where tough bike men and bike women ride their bikes on a hockey rink, racing for bragging rights and augemented toughness skills.

The event itself doesn't sounds like it's all that amazing. I mean, ice rinks aren't really all that sexy, and winter biking tends to be the domain of the spandexed or the crusty. However, when I saw those dudes whipping around a corner that is by definition pure ice, at speeds faster than I would travel on a dry May day, I'm impressed. The bikes are kitted out with studded tires, enabling a higher grippiness than can usually be tapped by a bike tire, but the skill is evident.

The highlight of the event was the so-called "rubber race," which is done on street bikes sans studded tires. Two of the competitors bravely stripped down to their skivvies and raced in the nearly altogether. Did they crash? Oh yes they did. To be fair, everyone crashed, including the racer we dubbed L'apostrophe: the unbelievably cute and bearded cyclist whose bent-over posture and skintight black racing suit made him look like a wiggly comma. Sigh.

At one point, I turned to my friend Liz and told her that small towns could eat it: cities are where it's at. She looked at me strangely but agreed that cities do offer the chance to raise your kids in a place with events that sort of defy the imagination. There were little kids in attendance, despite the high number of probably-drunk and definitely less-than-fully-toothed spectators in attendance. I think that's nice. Exposing your kids to wackjobs in a fun, safe environment is a cornerstone of good parenting.

The event provided a nice contrast to the Olympics that are currently dominating the airwaves/columns/national imagination. I will totally cop to the fact that watching the opening ceremonies last night made me feel very rah-rah Canada. I watched them in a bar, surrounded with friends and other Canucks, with the sound off and the Talking Heads blasting. It was the best way to watch 'em, really. Even though we're hosting the games, though, the Olympics aren't really about sports; rather, they're about watching sports on TV, which isn't really an activity I indulge in, like, ever. I liked seeing how we think of ourselves translated into song, dance, graphics and atmosphere, and was pleased to note that the program didn't focus exclusively on Native culture and the Canadian Shield. In fact, spoken word artist Shane Koyczan capped off the pageant with a bombastic poem while an urban nightscape shimmered around him. That was cool, and felt very honestly Canadian.

We'll see how much my friends and I end up watching; I'll probably check out some of the bigger moments, like hockey and figure skating. I tend to identify more with events like Icycle: accessible, a little irreverent, thrillingly athletic and definitely not for the faint of heart.

Travel Time

As I was sitting in class tonight, listening to my adorable and probably-gay professor act out religious discourses from Joseph Andrews, drifting between rapt attention and total space-cadet mindlessness, it occurred to me that I will never be a great adventurer.

My godfather is the type of person who will jaunt off to, like, the DRC at the drop of a hat, whereas I can barely muster the moral fortitude to venture outside when it's cold. I like to think of myself as devotedly Canadian, but I've seen far less of the country than some folks, and I definitely haven't approached the wilder and woollier parts of this great nation. Am I a total wiener? Moreover, is my lack of enthusiasm for great, worldly travel some sort of personal failing?

I would have made a lousy Puritan. Not only are those shoe buckles outrageously ugly, but crossing an entire ocean in order to strike out on my own, with only my dour husband and malnourished children to keep me company? No thanks. I totally would have become a courtesan, because even being pimped out sounds good if you're trading sex for the privilege of not being a Puritanical jerkwad.

I am distinctly urban. Oh, sure, I love the beach and the prairies and the mountains and all that, but the truth is, I needs me some community. That's hard to come by in the most remote regions of the world. Sure, the view from Everest is probably pretty breathtaking - literally - but who's up there with you? A bunch of American tourists and some National Geographic staffers? Thanks, but I'll take my surly baristas and my goofy cycling events and the chance to be hit on by strangers at bars. I like the creature comforts that come with a familiar city.

For example, every time I go to Montreal, I feel totally lost. That isn't some great meta statement about the world and my place in it: I literally cannot figure out where I am. Ever. There I am, in a firmly established and totally cosmopolitan city, complete with subway system and a freakin' navigational landmark, and I'm all, "Where am I? Where's Mordechai Richler? Is that a bagel? Who speaks English here? Let me talk to them." I can only imagine how well I'd do in, like, Thailand. As an Echo Boomer, I'm legally obligated to travel there at least once in my 20s, but let me tell you: I'm not looking forward to it.

But let's confabulate for a moment. Imagine that we had been born a scant century earlier. Back when they sold tapeworms as diet aids, before the rise of the car. Back when travel by ocean liner wasn't the sole property of wealthy Baby Boomers who want to see the Caribbean without leaving the buffet option at the Mandarin, but the most legitimate option for crossing the Atlantic. Would some dormant adventurous side of my soul awake? Would I yearn for the glories of the Western plains, the Amazonian thrill of discoveries, the delights of the capes? Or would I be the crankiest potato farmer in Polish history, constantly whining about the cold and the invasions? Honestly, I'm leaning towards the latter.

I wish I was the type of person who just jets off wherever, whenever. Even on a stricter budget, I rarely bus myself anywhere exotic (like, say, Windsor), just the sake of seeing something new. I got homesick in Ann Arbor, for crying out loud. It's a totally sweet college town less than 500 clicks away, and I was freaked out. I guess I should consider myself lucky to have found a town that fits me so well, so I don't have to jaunt around the globe in a fit of uncomfortable pique, waiting to find the places that will settle me down.