tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65169889680748465742023-07-18T02:29:31.350-04:00Herd in the 'hood: my own version of a modern familyWhat started out as a blog about my slightly neurotic Australian shepherd-border collie mix has evolved into one about my own version of a modern family: me, hubby, no kids, and, of course, our crazy dog. We laugh a lot as we go through life together. I hope you will too as you read about our adventures, sometimes with and sometimes without barking!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-46758970607219182582016-07-25T15:42:00.000-04:002016-07-25T15:42:11.636-04:00Moving on... An open letter to the new owners of our former home<div class="s2" style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 21.6px;">I</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 21.6px;"> sat at this island on my wedding day as one of my best friends did my make up. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 21.6px;">Then I walked up those stairs to my bedroom, where my Mom helped me into the wedding dress that she wore - and that my grandmother sewed - 35 years earlier when she married my Dad. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Then we walked out that front door as our neighbour stood by giddily to tell me that I was a beautiful bride, and to wish me luck on my wedding day. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">This house - and this neighborhood - have been at the centre of my life for the past 12 years. And if walls could talk, they would tell you stories. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">They would tell you that this very house saved our relationship. Before finding it, my husband and I were living in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment - MY apartment that he moved into. We were driving each other crazy. I'm not sure we would have lasted very much longer without divine intervention in the form of real estate. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">They would tell you that it is a bad idea to build a deck together. That day, we fought and fought and fought and fought and then fought some more. I was so mad that I didn't talk to my husband for the entire length of the deck building process. But 12 years later, that deck is still standing. And so are we. (It is also a great place to catch a few rays with a friend).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">The walls would tell you that there ain't no party like a kitchen party. Countless gatherings have been had in this kitchen, at this island. 11 New Years Day Levees, Friday night tapas parties, casual potlucks, formal family dinners, birthday parties, and even the occasional dance party. Always we congregate in the kitchen. It's a good thing we tore down the hideous wall that was there before. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">These walls would tell you about how we grew our family. How we adopted one outrageously neurotic dog named Fergus, who barks at and herds all the neighborhood kids. And one fiercely independent and bossy cat, Sadie, who spends her days plotting how to catch every squirrel that dares to run through her yard. Within these walls, these two rescues became the very best of friends, and found their "forever homes".</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">These walls would tell you how much we love this neighborhood. How it has everything we need. Coffee shops, restaurants (you must, must, must try DiVino Wine Studio, and tell them we sent you), access to the Ottawa River, the canal and the Arboretum for running and snowshoeing, a yoga studio to recuperate from running. And it's only the shortest of walks to the neighboring 'hood of Hintonburg, where I get my nails done (look for Forbes Beauty Company on Fairmont) and where I get the best almond milk latte in town (Ministry of Coffee on Wellington). In the other direction, Parliament Hill is only a 25 minute walk. But on Canada Day, you don't even need to walk that far to have a perfect view of the fireworks. Just walk up to Lebreton Flats. It's one of the best views in town. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 21.6px;">Most of all, these walls would tell you about love. Because they were filled to brimming with love. This is where Hubby and I truly started our life adventure together. Every trip we've ever taken has been planned from a spot on the couch in front of that fireplace. Every life decision - from whether or not to take a new job to when to get a dog to when to get married - has been debated in this space. We have laughed here. We have cried here. We have fought and made up here. We made a life for ourselves here. It is where we truly became life partners. </span></div>
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These walls provided <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">the perfect setting for a pair of eager young professionals starting out in life. Leaving them behind is not easy. We love this house. It is a part of us forever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">And now, we hope, that it will forever be a part of you. That you will love this house as much as we did. That you will put your stamp on it and make it your very own. That you will grow together here as partners. And that these walls will continue to have good stories to tell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Congratulations, and we wish you all the best. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-50659539021587909102016-07-03T21:43:00.000-04:002016-07-03T21:43:15.121-04:00What's in a name?On June 12, I told this story on a new podcast called <a href="http://onenewmessage.com/" target="_blank">One New Message</a>. One New Message is inspired by those calls that we have all made because we had something really important to say to someone, but for some reason, we couldn't say it. It's a great show, and you should definitely check it out. Especially episode 105, which you can find by clicking <a href="http://onenewmessage.podbean.com/e/105-whats-in-a-name/?token=abcd3fa34835be01fd711a4be62528ba" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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If you are more inclined to read than to listen, here you go...<br />
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**********<br />
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It seems weird leaving you this message... I mean, we've never even met.<br />
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How could we have. You passed away 28 days before I was born.<br />
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Did you know that your son, my father, was planning to name me Dawn? I'm sure you did. Dad was always so close to you. How is it even possible that he wouldn't have shared absolutely everything with you, his mother, about his soon-to-be first born child. All his fears. All his hopes and dreams. And all the various names they went through before they settled on Dawn if I was a girl, and I'm honestly not even sure what if I was a boy.<br />
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But then you passed away in early November, 1976, after a long battle with cancer, before you had the chance to meet, or hold, your fifth grandchild. And when you passed away, an incredible sadness must have descended upon my father, who loved you so very much. How difficult it must have been for him to think about the happiness that a baby would bring to his life when he had to deal with the crushing sadness of losing you, his mother and closest confidant.<br />
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He tells me that he prayed very hard that I, sex unknown, would be a girl. So that he could give me your name. So that your soul that had just departed this earth could somehow breathe life into my own soul just as it was about to enter. So that he would have a daily reminder of you each and every time that he called out to me.<br />
<br />
And so my name is not Dawn. It is Jeannine. It is your name.<br />
<br />
I have to tell you that I hated my name growing up. No one can pronounce it. How could you even stand always being called Janine? Like the nerdy, shrill-voiced secretary on Ghostbusters? Which of course, you never saw. But still, you must know the irritation that comes with constantly having to correct the pronunciation and the spelling of your own name.<br />
<br />
And then there was the fact that it was an old-person's name. At least I thought it was when I was a tween trying to find myself, wondering why I didn't have a young, hip name like Lianne, which was so de rigeur at the time.<br />
<br />
But mostly, it was the pressure of having your name. Of hearing all the stories about your kind heart and your never-ending generosity. How you constantly sacrificed for your family. How you guided all eight of your children to know right from wrong, to become good, strong people like you. Aunts, uncles, my grandfather, Dad - they all told me how lucky I was to have your name, and what big shoes I had to fill. Shoes I never asked for or wanted. Shoes I wasn't sure could ever possibly fit me, since you were such a giant in everyone's minds and hearts.<br />
<br />
And so I hated my name. And secretly wished that I was someone else.<br />
<br />
Until sometime around my 12th or 13th year.<br />
<br />
I had long since given up saying the nightly prayers that my parents made us recite before bed. But on this night, as I was feeling a particularly deep pang of teenage angst, I knelt alongside my bed, bowed my head, and recited a prayer. Not to God, but to my guardian angel, a prayer taught to me by my Mom when I was just a little girl: "Angel of God, my guardian dear. To whom God's love entrusts me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide."<br />
<br />
And it struck me that I did not have some randomly-chosen-by-God angel fluttering around heaven on wings charged by God to take care of me and watch over me.<br />
<br />
No. I had you.<br />
<br />
And so began our life-long relationship. From that moment on, when there was no one here on earth who would understand what I was feeling or what I was going through, I had you. When Dad and I fought, and I howled at him that he did not understand me, I had you. When I was excited about a special event in my life or a success that I had, I had you. When I made mistakes, when I cried, when I laughed, when I celebrated, I had you. I talked to you about it all. You saw it all from wherever it is that you are. And I felt you beside me at every step.<br />
<br />
So no. We've never met. But you are one of the most important people in my life. And my name is one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. Through it, you and I share something that has allowed us to cement a spiritual bond, although it was impossible to form a physical one. You have helped me through my darkest times. I have felt you smile upon me through my greatest achievements. Dawn may be a perfectly lovely name. After all, it was given to my younger sister. But were it mine, it would not have brought me close to you. I would not feel your love and guidance ever present in my life. And I would not be who I am today.<br />
<br />
So I guess I just really wanted to say... I love you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-76982442223185799192016-03-28T15:39:00.000-04:002016-04-07T15:06:57.570-04:00Nashville - more than just a hit show on ABCI <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">pulled my groin in Nashville. </span><br />
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It happened on our first night. I can't tell you exactly how. And I can't pinpoint the exact moment. But I'm pretty sure that my brand new cowboy boots, a shot (or 6) of a nasty "whiskey liqueur" called Fireball that tastes like flammable cinnamon hearts, and trying to keep up on the dance floor at a bar <i>actually </i>named the Honky Tonk Central with a group of 20-somethings, all combined to have something to do with the injury. </div>
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I should know better than to try to keep up with millennials. Especially when it involves new shoes. Doubly especially when it involves shots of whiskey. It led to a sluggish, gatorade-filled next day, a solemn vow to never touch Fireball again, and hobbling around<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> Nashville on a bum groin for the next 4 days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Oh, but it was worth it. Because I had a great time. Nashville is definitely the kind of place to go and let your hair down. It's a party town - bachelorette capital of the United States of America, according to one of the servers we met at one of the many fine live music establishments. You don't have to look hard to find fun. It just kind of finds you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Here are highlights of some of that fun:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">If you have ever wanted to buy a pair of cowboy boots, Nashville is the place to go. Every three doors on the strip is a boot shop, and at least one of them offers up the ridiculous deal of buying one pair and getting two more free. Now there is a small part of me that has always wanted a pair of cowboy boots, but just couldn't imagine when and where I would ever wear something like that back here in sleepy old Ottawa. Luckily for me, I found a <i>gorgeous</i> pair of cowboy booties, and I <i>know</i> I can pull these off with any number of outfits. So I am now the proud owner of a certified pair of cowboy boots. Even if they are ankle height!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKLHPD8bnqDGAdAOLoc4N6qm48P2P-Wp4ZEFt_DMj8x-XGTu9XAJwz9K9pYrG5CVUckouYXTUfqeNndYaGrT5DQg_tEkIQ4lbOeBVy0abnobIwuZihAHW3iIh7Cx9SVu_prMIvjUZX98/s1600/IMG_0837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKLHPD8bnqDGAdAOLoc4N6qm48P2P-Wp4ZEFt_DMj8x-XGTu9XAJwz9K9pYrG5CVUckouYXTUfqeNndYaGrT5DQg_tEkIQ4lbOeBVy0abnobIwuZihAHW3iIh7Cx9SVu_prMIvjUZX98/s320/IMG_0837.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">As for the strip, it is not just a place to buy cowboy boots. It is also a place to go and get your fill of live music. Up and down either side of Broadway, for about 4 or 5 blocks, there are close to 20 bars to wander in and out of. All of them open up at 10am. All of them have live music starting at 11am. All of them close at 3am. And all of them have lots and lots of whiskey. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkwODVYCqAZ_HZ-j1uILfymsT5EXVlng1QJx2RTI0_BdU6ihNn-6SU6X_zenxSvh_sGNm0xU5iy7twOEmqyv2FiGzZa5JSpjgSdqdtyCxoJnJt40wcYD2_LD9_4nhecorE6nZW0ompLk/s1600/IMG_0827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkwODVYCqAZ_HZ-j1uILfymsT5EXVlng1QJx2RTI0_BdU6ihNn-6SU6X_zenxSvh_sGNm0xU5iy7twOEmqyv2FiGzZa5JSpjgSdqdtyCxoJnJt40wcYD2_LD9_4nhecorE6nZW0ompLk/s320/IMG_0827.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A shot of the strip at night, just as the bars are starting to fill up.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwWTb5YuWjAgpavciO-H6hiZEXIrmUCFd1WqRvUSNSx6L2ghRlEnCaTXeU5PI67szuxiw2wydRnNopGcfZRCe5BguCZIxZPhxskVkIPGMJ_ssL3tgf9jf16q3hefRUAsex9l6ybXDSzA/s1600/IMG_0882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwWTb5YuWjAgpavciO-H6hiZEXIrmUCFd1WqRvUSNSx6L2ghRlEnCaTXeU5PI67szuxiw2wydRnNopGcfZRCe5BguCZIxZPhxskVkIPGMJ_ssL3tgf9jf16q3hefRUAsex9l6ybXDSzA/s320/IMG_0882.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The afternoon band at Robert's Western World - you have to love a band with a stand-up bass AND a fiddle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Enpn4ubfCNigHXiqOHwFPEP3RCqqdS3kj4XerwiCDwBaobAqBlcWjnCFLspyyu-W492sue-R_UszuEuHMpGefQra-_hzc0pyF8LG491bEsNlg6WhtaS5YzO6WSpoLoU0-hIe3GSd1CM/s1600/IMG_0821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Enpn4ubfCNigHXiqOHwFPEP3RCqqdS3kj4XerwiCDwBaobAqBlcWjnCFLspyyu-W492sue-R_UszuEuHMpGefQra-_hzc0pyF8LG491bEsNlg6WhtaS5YzO6WSpoLoU0-hIe3GSd1CM/s320/IMG_0821.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shots of "medicine". Or Fireball Whiskey. Very liberally poured. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Now most of the bars on the strip definitely cater to the country music lover. But you can find other genres. B.B. King has a blues house just off the strip, where we heard some pretty tight blues. And the Acme Feed and Seed, one of the newer bars on the strip, caters to the alt-indie crowd. On our first night, we walked into a battle of the bands for a spot at Bonnaroo Music Festival, one of the biggest alternative/indie rock festivals in the world, where we ended up listening to this incredibly entertaining indie-heavy-metal duo who knocked over a gong at the end of their set, while Hubby screamed out "Yeahhhhhh!" at the top of his lungs! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcU_h9_GtSX4LJVjd_6wg97OOS_6cTNzxtjXPx55avhSvuFXJY_kMhd1k2T1OvyDTZdryUvFELPoF9mCYa3SjWU3LeaaavKwWeCAGDWFhTuI4MrB5kHJVT16zvn8_HyvUqDNmszgdPMJE/s1600/IMG_0824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcU_h9_GtSX4LJVjd_6wg97OOS_6cTNzxtjXPx55avhSvuFXJY_kMhd1k2T1OvyDTZdryUvFELPoF9mCYa3SjWU3LeaaavKwWeCAGDWFhTuI4MrB5kHJVT16zvn8_HyvUqDNmszgdPMJE/s320/IMG_0824.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neither the drummer's man bun nor the gong would survive this heavy metal set!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Maybe you don't like to get your fill of music in the local bars. And that's okay too. Because Nashville is the home of the Grand 'Ole Opry, the radio-show-turned-television-variety-show that took country music out of the shadows of the Ozarks and pushed it into the national limelight. Growing up, the Grand 'Ole Opry - and it's spin off comedy show, Hee Haw - were often on our television set. So I had to take it in and see what it is all about. Even if you aren't a country music lover, it is still worth it to take in a show. Hubby can't stand country, but thoroughly enjoyed the Opry. There's a lot of magic to it: its history, the fact that the show is still produced primarily for radio, how much it means to the singers who perform on the stage, and the wide range of talent that performs week after week. It's a pretty special place, and I'm really glad that we got to take it in. Even if I hardly recognized any of the performers. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmCfLY-v_2fg16_AgOA6Ls7XLS7xnlM6hTOm4ZZD6w9NRYMN-rqWUS7MatkjOfm47PRJXODTGeQdoBzgmCXSyU_qztTwnp1SHv0vl5hLf0nb1Bluwrc48qNLFomCDz9eazNRcLjpg9Q4/s1600/IMG_0839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmCfLY-v_2fg16_AgOA6Ls7XLS7xnlM6hTOm4ZZD6w9NRYMN-rqWUS7MatkjOfm47PRJXODTGeQdoBzgmCXSyU_qztTwnp1SHv0vl5hLf0nb1Bluwrc48qNLFomCDz9eazNRcLjpg9Q4/s320/IMG_0839.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby and I before the show. There are lots of rhinestones in Nashville. I don't own any. So I wore sequins instead. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVXU1rlsvsSSwzBqaThPwwQc6MCPvOozGx5RA4PVuNeHDL1UulRNF9cCoP_wKH9a_4c-v7fgp_mPUznzKLEFABCkRKoS33KAq9B8pyayvhrfyBH9fqZ1Tsz-8LilbtLmzTx9Te92KSzA/s1600/IMG_0846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVXU1rlsvsSSwzBqaThPwwQc6MCPvOozGx5RA4PVuNeHDL1UulRNF9cCoP_wKH9a_4c-v7fgp_mPUznzKLEFABCkRKoS33KAq9B8pyayvhrfyBH9fqZ1Tsz-8LilbtLmzTx9Te92KSzA/s320/IMG_0846.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Performers abound at the Opry. From "mountain music" bands...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfvZq8F7LLMw3jKKDrPrVwxchCFRaYVBIHRCLJIL2M7I0hA7wUHoN5Xdlc5wf3sJv-OfAobX4mPznkLYyAl0IBuKRMPOsnAEFww-A2vz5EpxOCDJZEXDQqojxitkXNiWkp0jCVRwpQUs/s1600/IMG_0850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfvZq8F7LLMw3jKKDrPrVwxchCFRaYVBIHRCLJIL2M7I0hA7wUHoN5Xdlc5wf3sJv-OfAobX4mPznkLYyAl0IBuKRMPOsnAEFww-A2vz5EpxOCDJZEXDQqojxitkXNiWkp0jCVRwpQUs/s320/IMG_0850.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... to solo artists who do heartbreakingly sad country music songs.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">If you need a break from live music but still want to soak up some music history, there are a couple of really fun museums to check out in Nashville. The first is the Johnny Cash museum. And who doesn't love the Man in Black? It is totally worth a visit to go behind the scenes and see an in depth glimpse into Cash's life and his extensive body of work. Plus, you can get your picture taken with Johnny Cash through the magic of green screen technology. Seriously. How cool is that! The price of admission is a little steep at 22$ per person (which translates into what, 45$ CDN these days?), but it it was totally worth it just to see the extensive exhibit retracing the history of the famous Sun Studios, where the biggest names like Johnny Cash, Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Roy Orbison were all discovered and recorded their hit albums. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wall of Johnny Cash album covers. My father would die.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonuUFeXmj34rEORwaWawRxm1L3koAYf43CrAaaSas7cfWfLUGA6B3SgTPh7mMREnkKBouumg6VxXWx4gAx1Z4tS3oSpuWc3jenJ8GPjw_b-TJ3BFjNq8U_FUqVv7Hl8mtIvV3CnbrGRc/s1600/IMG_0893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonuUFeXmj34rEORwaWawRxm1L3koAYf43CrAaaSas7cfWfLUGA6B3SgTPh7mMREnkKBouumg6VxXWx4gAx1Z4tS3oSpuWc3jenJ8GPjw_b-TJ3BFjNq8U_FUqVv7Hl8mtIvV3CnbrGRc/s320/IMG_0893.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How bad ass are we?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Nashville is also home to the Country Music Hall of Fame, another great museum, even if you don't love country music. Did you know that in the 60s, a lot of non-country music stars - like Bob Dylon and Jimi Hendrix - came to Nashville to record albums? I didn't know that either until I visited the Hall of Fame. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIED1HO2Amul29RInhLAqe1WDf0GkBDrtfgWmSI8QYKJskZyFE2QFMYNLrph5ZGYZ6C6_vNvyx4vy7adAMbpsQe2Of8juHtvHJ7Buc7ORSJauLCyhGCoRp0EZ8ArtAkuh_GndnWKaVsI/s1600/IMG_0894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIED1HO2Amul29RInhLAqe1WDf0GkBDrtfgWmSI8QYKJskZyFE2QFMYNLrph5ZGYZ6C6_vNvyx4vy7adAMbpsQe2Of8juHtvHJ7Buc7ORSJauLCyhGCoRp0EZ8ArtAkuh_GndnWKaVsI/s320/IMG_0894.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hall of Fame. It's shaped like a piano. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzuBewjzG6tPj024MiPoOU56MNUl7YKShDL7BxPPvLcDoKJis7-Hx39C0_9nD4GZgdIiLGfOC_0ttJhIaahr4DPGhsG763HSc6F5QRQJjsN_yKTubAZVkmprSW85-V3hWldRDIcnKqsdQ/s1600/IMG_0896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzuBewjzG6tPj024MiPoOU56MNUl7YKShDL7BxPPvLcDoKJis7-Hx39C0_9nD4GZgdIiLGfOC_0ttJhIaahr4DPGhsG763HSc6F5QRQJjsN_yKTubAZVkmprSW85-V3hWldRDIcnKqsdQ/s320/IMG_0896.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Jimi Hendrix</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrrtY4KgmHc05qt41ja-Ecz3jV5kFlqfp8oFjnkER0nNILl1cWSA24AtZFBfWR5HT-3ovSE7tYwGsMF8UygbU6567hlKvNZf5stJedlEzQRVMVRInR4Brz_rgAr5MQ8lerF7OebFupJg/s1600/IMG_0897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrrtY4KgmHc05qt41ja-Ecz3jV5kFlqfp8oFjnkER0nNILl1cWSA24AtZFBfWR5HT-3ovSE7tYwGsMF8UygbU6567hlKvNZf5stJedlEzQRVMVRInR4Brz_rgAr5MQ8lerF7OebFupJg/s320/IMG_0897.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is for Dad. Me and Roy Orbison</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilHsK6TVX7Vi9OAY3zBpuubc150eZPfk0sK9CgLB_1nlGuoPTbGyfw1kEDrWclo4oTUiogY3jY8mt3dOhBffklrfGBrjk3oOkVFiIsoiaXW1jhSJHtY0a6h2himrL_z1UjSehgeRu3xA/s1600/IMG_0902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilHsK6TVX7Vi9OAY3zBpuubc150eZPfk0sK9CgLB_1nlGuoPTbGyfw1kEDrWclo4oTUiogY3jY8mt3dOhBffklrfGBrjk3oOkVFiIsoiaXW1jhSJHtY0a6h2himrL_z1UjSehgeRu3xA/s320/IMG_0902.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wall of gold and platinum</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I've already mentioned the copious amounts of liberally poured whiskey to be had in Nashville. Of course, the most famous of Tennessee Whiskeys is Jack Daniels, made from the cave springs of Lynchburg, Tennessee. We decided to take a little trip through the bible belt to check out the distillery, which lies smack dab in the middle of a dry county. The only reason that they are allowed to continue to make whiskey in these parts is because Mr. Jack Daniels himself agreed to pay the government copious amounts of taxes back during the prohibition years so that he would not be shut down. Which was a smart move given how big his name has grown. The distillery tour is definitely worthwhile. I don't consider myself a connoisseur of whiskey - or even that big of a fan - but it was still really neat to see the production site and to learn a little bit about what sets Tennessee whiskey apart from bourbon (in case you are wondering, both come from corn, but Tennessee whiskey is filtered through charcoal, which is why it is no longer considered a bourbon). </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ijQo9T03HbQgEdMJJ9E0RBVw1TuRdAinPGP0SM_XbmSwLq6cVraCAUSDV04tl1y2l6tS1R1JRK8DpSCtKxgfTvR5k-DFWSa8cH55HE0qKuACLUmuw8Yh_EbpXlPRg-Yc1ZLILMvwF-o/s1600/IMG_0832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ijQo9T03HbQgEdMJJ9E0RBVw1TuRdAinPGP0SM_XbmSwLq6cVraCAUSDV04tl1y2l6tS1R1JRK8DpSCtKxgfTvR5k-DFWSa8cH55HE0qKuACLUmuw8Yh_EbpXlPRg-Yc1ZLILMvwF-o/s320/IMG_0832.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the distillery</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_qm-HZGBQYNofdKp8IwaQkGs5vPhq3me_9yCtaWIp8r86JjpXKCFVP7own6L4GyqXPS9naXLqg0Hap0b_0J3iIZzp83JPFqPQ5zVRWBkxDtXCwXsZezfa6hh69XL3SNp4JNBbVTNwpU/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_qm-HZGBQYNofdKp8IwaQkGs5vPhq3me_9yCtaWIp8r86JjpXKCFVP7own6L4GyqXPS9naXLqg0Hap0b_0J3iIZzp83JPFqPQ5zVRWBkxDtXCwXsZezfa6hh69XL3SNp4JNBbVTNwpU/s320/IMG_0833.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The location of the distillery was chosen for this cave spring. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW61prBhkbx5UaJCS1CylwOq0Kk7erOxjB95sfu3KxFc0jsMVmt04B-Dl8zzj8PrS2iwSXghNlhmyfi5ExUczj2Kjtio8MF4bbzA98Ad_HRQgTWsideqm4KyQozdtNOWzj4NmbbHkzSBE/s1600/IMG_0835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW61prBhkbx5UaJCS1CylwOq0Kk7erOxjB95sfu3KxFc0jsMVmt04B-Dl8zzj8PrS2iwSXghNlhmyfi5ExUczj2Kjtio8MF4bbzA98Ad_HRQgTWsideqm4KyQozdtNOWzj4NmbbHkzSBE/s320/IMG_0835.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every single drop in every single bottle of Jack Daniels comes from this water source. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">And finally, Nashville is just a really pretty city. It's not a bustling metropolis like New York or Chicago. It's much smaller and more quaint. There are only a couple of towers that make up the downtown skyline. It sits along the Cumberland River, which has a nasty tendency to flood and cause all sorts of damage. In 2010, the Opry sat under water and suffered significant damage. Concerts had to be moved to other locations around town. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2xbe7f6f0IyzPqtraJeBMORHKtFpIm1Jw9QIiZfxHQVB9YWQ-s-E_6DXcnUHEjg1UG-qsLH2D7xXLNPBuSHLUtizwKhAhw9mC-V44vGoutV5WDCboLRzEOFujbiZl88_Z99qJGv_ohk/s1600/IMG_0856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2xbe7f6f0IyzPqtraJeBMORHKtFpIm1Jw9QIiZfxHQVB9YWQ-s-E_6DXcnUHEjg1UG-qsLH2D7xXLNPBuSHLUtizwKhAhw9mC-V44vGoutV5WDCboLRzEOFujbiZl88_Z99qJGv_ohk/s320/IMG_0856.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The river figures prominently in literature, and in the history of the city. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpOXtu-0s9zXxBrohcGbdfAWnvJviUH-lF_Sft6ICa-eNF5oo1z9B1L9gmVpVZ0MGuHWkkxJIUBuLGpci6FtJLYuPm3iLj-_dJlBGRCThQstt3bymffjANWmd0CWRqaJ-YAXjqX1BCjI/s1600/IMG_0857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpOXtu-0s9zXxBrohcGbdfAWnvJviUH-lF_Sft6ICa-eNF5oo1z9B1L9gmVpVZ0MGuHWkkxJIUBuLGpci6FtJLYuPm3iLj-_dJlBGRCThQstt3bymffjANWmd0CWRqaJ-YAXjqX1BCjI/s320/IMG_0857.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So prominently that river navigation is recognized as an inherent right in the Tennessee Constitution.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAUSCNPH1lHPQFkxfh1gYBkI8bDzVFXCCkqqc36LNEP3ZAGzbIZHTUQHlusx-Ld9E-lwfaEl7-aCj9BG6xGjC9Rkk4GObih3tK68EkOdn2doL_36SSENUJszEiGeI63BpcQ7WC1L_hHs/s1600/IMG_0887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAUSCNPH1lHPQFkxfh1gYBkI8bDzVFXCCkqqc36LNEP3ZAGzbIZHTUQHlusx-Ld9E-lwfaEl7-aCj9BG6xGjC9Rkk4GObih3tK68EkOdn2doL_36SSENUJszEiGeI63BpcQ7WC1L_hHs/s320/IMG_0887.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Nashville skyline along the banks of the Cumberland River.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15AENMpi69mGv-v8yQ0pbViwM7E43G2Jpyjd6lxFXhGQqhXuQ-blgQeIPDS9zbXTFk-GUiz6XGvgEg528UnJZOtTYKUrAsWp1UbNyaTU5SXrjHFLZ9vW6dAts8lPeaZ8_pYj5cJNPinY/s1600/IMG_0889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15AENMpi69mGv-v8yQ0pbViwM7E43G2Jpyjd6lxFXhGQqhXuQ-blgQeIPDS9zbXTFk-GUiz6XGvgEg528UnJZOtTYKUrAsWp1UbNyaTU5SXrjHFLZ9vW6dAts8lPeaZ8_pYj5cJNPinY/s320/IMG_0889.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the skyline</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t_QsEOkmQsfRrOcMYMZnmSp99pfJafRb-yWSIKT9ZRWzTeqmQlYm3A5D8caFi64glPdQ_d6Jn2duh8cbrRxKxsbL9Rzrfx496jk_EcnpMqG-x3C2Z9-AgzNnok8uGhct-_kuQdg42xI/s1600/IMG_0890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t_QsEOkmQsfRrOcMYMZnmSp99pfJafRb-yWSIKT9ZRWzTeqmQlYm3A5D8caFi64glPdQ_d6Jn2duh8cbrRxKxsbL9Rzrfx496jk_EcnpMqG-x3C2Z9-AgzNnok8uGhct-_kuQdg42xI/s320/IMG_0890.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River basin is a great place to go for a run!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Nashville is also the state capital. And a beautiful state capital it is. Although one has to climb a few stairs to get there...</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO39hEVmDfN1W9ygsmtwBDXyv21hil1OSMbeIZA0IrVdfEcu-7N3tKdPWsHzh5drqlDTaF0J6OB46T-F9XFjpHI3vY9DGoS8JCcMU7j4JQ4mnbWMlu9P9dAEiYeFJTnVnICV9yYsvxVw/s1600/IMG_0861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO39hEVmDfN1W9ygsmtwBDXyv21hil1OSMbeIZA0IrVdfEcu-7N3tKdPWsHzh5drqlDTaF0J6OB46T-F9XFjpHI3vY9DGoS8JCcMU7j4JQ4mnbWMlu9P9dAEiYeFJTnVnICV9yYsvxVw/s320/IMG_0861.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up we go to the State Capital</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeLP4gjIJXK2Deo8mjeH3FdZrcZvoPHVdYOVdbxcWW4-py_yTJPPWII3rxzLfwRTVudoY_UPqvd39nA-IFLew8J9yq-Qmg8reN9RUz22KcP_W9_niH5fMmpXAqp6Kuh8ijhIkA7Uq04k8/s1600/IMG_0865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeLP4gjIJXK2Deo8mjeH3FdZrcZvoPHVdYOVdbxcWW4-py_yTJPPWII3rxzLfwRTVudoY_UPqvd39nA-IFLew8J9yq-Qmg8reN9RUz22KcP_W9_niH5fMmpXAqp6Kuh8ijhIkA7Uq04k8/s320/IMG_0865.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The State Capital</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHW_LSscfllaOTkZ46IhUuz_rnRcETPvZFZgACPpHMX1gO4BeGcgYQK3VkxKyTsbj1GT8wnpOsNnkoGtXo_ryk8r7JF_aFj7nCPBeYo5dRogV4bbHa4ZaxY0kSk92tFUnbDtYIlumMV8/s1600/IMG_0870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHW_LSscfllaOTkZ46IhUuz_rnRcETPvZFZgACPpHMX1gO4BeGcgYQK3VkxKyTsbj1GT8wnpOsNnkoGtXo_ryk8r7JF_aFj7nCPBeYo5dRogV4bbHa4ZaxY0kSk92tFUnbDtYIlumMV8/s320/IMG_0870.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had to take a rest before climbing the rest of the stairs. Because I pulled my groin, remember...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMh-wkeqgE2XClbqcVqbwbAirhDGexJX3D9wxAw-Yfgev8013L3wj-pwZvH5c3VZLGkC_1dgf9lA8a6peqF7lA5CaltzmWiBDrs6qeGceVmvYAG8YQJuxTw413rNDRMASm7XYf3SPvi24/s1600/IMG_0873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMh-wkeqgE2XClbqcVqbwbAirhDGexJX3D9wxAw-Yfgev8013L3wj-pwZvH5c3VZLGkC_1dgf9lA8a6peqF7lA5CaltzmWiBDrs6qeGceVmvYAG8YQJuxTw413rNDRMASm7XYf3SPvi24/s320/IMG_0873.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The war memorial</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8t6prfmnk0GHkCjB-CJsEQNKX0gnjUYZH79_IQ6X1L-ytnRC4PLyGMqKZ_BP5yaPaLtM9LPm8aOeokHWHkCduBPvJ4S_MjOGonNH8RSYZ46kQ_Kd7TKY28IxOxtZBp2-zSfS9rzPxYU/s1600/IMG_0875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8t6prfmnk0GHkCjB-CJsEQNKX0gnjUYZH79_IQ6X1L-ytnRC4PLyGMqKZ_BP5yaPaLtM9LPm8aOeokHWHkCduBPvJ4S_MjOGonNH8RSYZ46kQ_Kd7TKY28IxOxtZBp2-zSfS9rzPxYU/s320/IMG_0875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The war memorial</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgss2szqKx3eQk3hdt-ngJjY9vLjg1eA_7y212koXaDCPOcFr9f-xCZd2G-G42571j91vWv-IdZTfnrz1jDo9zddI8VJpSvgKElxvEUOtkwZ18xHarL-NxBf7_u8lCpjvR3quy-93Y8a5k/s1600/IMG_0876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgss2szqKx3eQk3hdt-ngJjY9vLjg1eA_7y212koXaDCPOcFr9f-xCZd2G-G42571j91vWv-IdZTfnrz1jDo9zddI8VJpSvgKElxvEUOtkwZ18xHarL-NxBf7_u8lCpjvR3quy-93Y8a5k/s320/IMG_0876.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The war memorial plaza and its view of the Capitol Building. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">So that's Nashville for you. Live music, bachelorette parties, museums, history, good looking architecture, cowboy boots, and whiskey. A pretty fantastic way to spend a long weekend.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">So I've booked a couple of appointments with my physiotherapist to start rehabbing my groin. Cause I have every intention of going back to Nashville. And I want to be ready for it!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-8871220688432002342016-02-14T13:53:00.001-05:002016-02-14T13:53:59.092-05:00"We said we'd walk together..."It's true that Valentine's Day is <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/02/love-is-in-air.html" target="_blank">NOT my favourite holiday</a>. Hubby and I don't exchange gifts. We don't go out for dinner anywhere. There are no grand, romantic gifts of flowers at the office.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But that doesn't mean that we are not romantic in our own little way. He is the king of bringing home "just because" gifts, like a piece of jewelry from one of my favourite local boutiques. And I once hand wrote him a journal of my memories from our entire first year together. So yeah, we've been known to make people groan at our sappiness.<br />
<br />
Which is why when CBC Ottawa Morning had a little give away for the couple who shared the best story about "their song", I just had to flex my romantic muscles and tell ours. I mean, the prize was a good one - cooking lessons for two at the Cordon Bleu School. But I also just <i>knew </i>that we could win this, because the story of our song is just that good!<br />
<br />
And so, on Thursday morning, I dropped Hubby off at work, pulled over into a visitor's parking spot somewhere on Tunney's Pasture (what a bureaucratic image this is), called the CBC Ottawa Morning voicemail box, and told a little story. The next day, I listened nervously to find out if we were the winners. And just before 8 o'clock, there was Robyn Bresnahan, announcing the winning clip. And then I heard MY voice, telling Ottawa about our song. Hubby seemed genuinely touched that I had submitted the story in the first place. We both got a little misty eyed at our memories as we did a little happy dance in our kitchen to celebrate winning such a great prize.<br />
<br />
Ottawa is a small town, and tonnes of messages on Twitter and Facebook and email started streaming into Hubby and I, including from people who had heard about the contest but missed hearing us on the radio. Unfortunately, there is no link to share with you. But I can use this blog to tell you the story of our love song. With a little more embellishment since I don't have to squeeze it all into one minute. And with some pictures. Cause everyone likes pictures.<br />
<br />
So here goes...<br />
<br />
When my husband and I got married a few years ago, I knew that I wanted to surprise him by singing a song to him during the ceremony. And since my love of the Boss is legendary, it is probably not a shock to anyone that I chose a Bruce Springsteen song, in this case, "<a href="http://brucespringsteen.net/songs/if-i-should-fall-behind" target="_blank">Should I Fall Behind</a>."<br />
<br />
I have always loved this song. It is about sticking together regardless of the obstacles that life might throw your way, and drawing on one another's strengths to pull you through. But now, on the eve of my wedding, this song took on a whole new meaning. It was the perfect message for kicking off our lives together as husband and wife.<br />
<br />
And so on our wedding day, to Hubby's great surprise (and everyone else's too), I stepped forward to sing to my soon-to-be-husband. Who, it must be said, got just a little bit teary-eyed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDY2VbulonImlO6wySv7mJiaH-u_kOsx4koquGgFPMhX9zI_YPRlCj4FlHNKpiFoeWrhFGlOEAdW-m7v3vhaIt5PouhSAyWkTgWI_u2vKStd3kYF47oe8DNxF4yASlIzT2E-4vqMRn9w/s1600/Image-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDY2VbulonImlO6wySv7mJiaH-u_kOsx4koquGgFPMhX9zI_YPRlCj4FlHNKpiFoeWrhFGlOEAdW-m7v3vhaIt5PouhSAyWkTgWI_u2vKStd3kYF47oe8DNxF4yASlIzT2E-4vqMRn9w/s320/Image-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few shots of me and Hubby as I surprised him with a song on our wedding day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But when this song was really solidified as our own was not until 10 months later, when we went on a late honeymoon to Peru. For most of my adult life, I have wanted to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and in May of 2010, we joined a group of Canadian and British tourists to do just that. </div>
<div>
<br />
The Inca Trail is a 4-day, 43 km hike at elevations significantly higher than those to which I am used. To put it into perspective, Ottawa sits at a lowly 70m above sea-level. Cusco, the beginning of the Inca Trail, sits at 3,400m. Machu Picchu itself is slightly lower at 2,400m. But during the hike, you climb to the highest point of 4,200m, known as Dead Woman's Pass. This is a long, windy, up-and-down kind of trek, and even though it does not require technical skills or specialized training to complete it, all who undertake it are warned of the possibility of altitude sickness. The locals implore you to chew coca leaves and drink coca tea to ward off its symptoms, but the real trick is to go slow and steady to give yourself time to adjust to the thinness of air at these heights.<br />
<br />
But I am not your everyday Jane. I am a former bodybuilder. I am a runner. I have a resting heart rate of 60 bpm. I am one of the fittest people that I know. And I am also one of the most competitive. And although I have had a low-grade headache since landing in Cusco, I have armed myself with pocketfuls of coca leaves, a couple of litres of water, and am ready to hit the trail. Day 1 is a piece of cake. So on Day 2, as we begin to climb the infamous Dead Woman's Pass, I make up my mind that I will be first of our group to the top. <br />
<br />
I was not the first. I was the 3rd, hot on the heels of another couple in our group (but I am okay with being behind them because they have more experience than me, having just done Everest base camp a few months earlier). Hubby was 4th, just one step behind me. The view was spectacular. We stared out along that pass, proud of ourselves for our accomplishment and in awe of the view at 4,200m above sea level.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_0i2ZOE9ZC7gnHj1ACAwpCNXSKMH98b76ehf3mLQB4AM2dGZws0ggkZTQuZqsaXihrtsCRqRqk96QoP-K-1IcBUYSZCXQ2-r-SIFqGCrySL5MpPOQdiMavF25u6KKdtq3sR3PyetUiY/s1600/IMG_0789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_0i2ZOE9ZC7gnHj1ACAwpCNXSKMH98b76ehf3mLQB4AM2dGZws0ggkZTQuZqsaXihrtsCRqRqk96QoP-K-1IcBUYSZCXQ2-r-SIFqGCrySL5MpPOQdiMavF25u6KKdtq3sR3PyetUiY/s320/IMG_0789.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little tired, but mostly ecstatic to be at the top of Dead Woman's Pass, 4,200m above sea level.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And then we started our descent. My low-grade headache turned into a pounding drum in my head. Despite sweating from a day of hard labouring, I started to feel cold. My heart started to rise up into my throat. And by the time we made it to camp half an hour later, I could barely stand upright. The head guide brought me straight to our tent and ordered me to lie down. He went for the first aid kit and started administering some kind of traditional remedy. To this day, I have no idea what it was. But I know that it did not work. Because within an hour, I was violently ill.<br />
<br />
Altitude sickness.<br />
<br />
There was nothing to do for me but to rest. And so I curled up in a ball inside of my sleeping bag - with a bucket strategically placed right outside the flap of my tent - and I tried my best to sleep. Nausea and the headache prevented me from getting more than an hour or so, and I'm sure I kept the whole camp awake with me that night as I paid the price for climbing Dead Woman's Pass too quickly. <br />
<br />
The next morning, I skipped breakfast to stay in bed a little longer. The head guide came to me with a bowl of quinoa porridge and implored me to eat. "We have a 17km hike ahead of us today. You will need your energy." I could not muster any more than 4 or 5 bites. But I knew that there was only one way off of this trail, and that was to make it all the way to Machu Picchu. So I crawled out of the tent, stiffened my resolve, and concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other until we arrived at the next camp.<br />
<br />
We spent that day above the clouds, exploring Inca ruins along the trail. The views were so gorgeous and so inspiring, that I somehow found the strength to keep moving forward, despite being able to hold down no more than a half of a bun and a few sips of soup at lunch time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnEcpfk478zmOdqwrsQAnnBreHUGMOVMM4H_D1Vh6r-v1_PIB0yaSIbofg3d1yDqSpqaSOsf3xKfgKvwtlHpIWJoVxCnNV3iWYMHpQMn7m3gAZhkIECwywrOBtdR6ZmULfV3ECZd1MdQ/s1600/Image-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnEcpfk478zmOdqwrsQAnnBreHUGMOVMM4H_D1Vh6r-v1_PIB0yaSIbofg3d1yDqSpqaSOsf3xKfgKvwtlHpIWJoVxCnNV3iWYMHpQMn7m3gAZhkIECwywrOBtdR6ZmULfV3ECZd1MdQ/s320/Image-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A day in the clouds, exploring Inca ruins on the Inca Trail.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And then, with about 3 or 4 km left to go until we reached the camp, I began to run out of steam, as nausea overtook me yet again. One by one, the members of our group passed me by, even the slowest of the slow pokes from the previous day's ascent to Dead Woman's Pass. By the time the last person had passed us, I was practically crawling along, willing myself not to throw up. I looked up at Hubby and said, "You go ahead without me. Go and catch up to the group. The guides will take care of me and make sure I get back to camp. I'll be okay."<br />
<br />
Hubby told me not to be ridiculous, that he would stay with me until we got into camp together, and that it didn't matter to him how long it took. We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Jay, what song did you sing to me on our wedding day?"<br />
<br />
And there it was. The first line of "Should I Fall Behind" loud and clear in my mind.<br />
<br />
"We said we'd walk together, baby come what may..."<br />
<br />
And I just...<br />
<br />
started...<br />
<br />
to cry.<br />
<br />
Hubby put his arms around me, as I cried not-so-softly into his shoulder. I felt ashamed of myself for being so stupid as to climb up 4,200m so quickly. I was upset at myself for ruining our honeymoon. I was still so damn sick that I could barely stand up straight were it not for him holding onto me. But mostly, I cried because I knew in that moment that we were absolutely meant to be together. That our song was more than just a song. It was a vow for how the two of us would spend the rest of our lives together. In moments of weakness, one of us would be the other's strength.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes like that, I noticed the guide kind of awkwardly waiting for us to get going. So I gently pushed Hubby away, and teasingly called him a jerk for making me cry. Then he took my hand and we slowly walked the final few kilometres into camp.<br />
<br />
I woke up the next morning feeling well enough to finally eat something. And while not my normally energetic self, I was able to keep up with our group for the final push into Machu Picchu itself. Which was incredible. So incredible that it made being sick for most of the hike entirely worth it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvAC6LbmxCoavbCX9W0FBnV1GMY940fom25mRqLIjecvzl5IMYY5z9ja-1Zk9HOLE_xTCSjbgIahMI4W-OSaGqBTrjQELhTft3brnICxpdTxtCwK72OCLuzSJVPAtCN2r336E-fLQ-84/s1600/IMG_0796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvAC6LbmxCoavbCX9W0FBnV1GMY940fom25mRqLIjecvzl5IMYY5z9ja-1Zk9HOLE_xTCSjbgIahMI4W-OSaGqBTrjQELhTft3brnICxpdTxtCwK72OCLuzSJVPAtCN2r336E-fLQ-84/s320/IMG_0796.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally standing at Machu Picchu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But mostly incredible because I did it with Hubby. Who never once let me fall behind.<br />
<br />
Happy Valentine's Day. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-8315516323732822832016-02-01T22:41:00.000-05:002016-02-01T22:41:03.355-05:00On zebra print and other signs of agingLast night, I sent the following message to three of my best friends:<br />
<br />
"I am sitting in a hotel room. In Bethesda, Maryland. Drinking chamomile tea. And wearing a... wait for it... zebra print negligee. And I'm by myself... This, ladies, is me staring 40 right in the face..."<br />
<br />
Before you get too worried that this is going to be an R-rated post, what with me talking about negligees and all, I want you to stop and think about what I just said. A <i>zebra print negligee</i>. Who in the world finds a zebra print negligee remotely attractive? Except maybe a zebra... So no, dear reader. I promise you I am not taking you down a torrid, sultry path. Because there is no zebra in this story.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnSfpYbntOcP_sLi4XhtydTGqZxuGFYON1_bSSrCKPeZI1ipIAGh17bURy9-W3zKuMuQ26neaWnMVVrZsDDrPsMxZnknL9udkDvgwDKhWQ-s_lp68Q8XKl9qlgm5B7xKB2jFOv07513o/s1600/IMG_0772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnSfpYbntOcP_sLi4XhtydTGqZxuGFYON1_bSSrCKPeZI1ipIAGh17bURy9-W3zKuMuQ26neaWnMVVrZsDDrPsMxZnknL9udkDvgwDKhWQ-s_lp68Q8XKl9qlgm5B7xKB2jFOv07513o/s320/IMG_0772.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The garment in question. Or shall I say, the<br />questionable garment...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Really though, this garment is patently ridiculous. So ridiculous that I'm really not even sure why I have it. Let alone why I packed it for a 2-day business trip to the suburbs of D.C. I mean, normally, I wear a Bruce Springsteen concert tee and shorts to bed. Plus, I don't even like overt instances of animal print! Come to think of it, I honestly can't even tell you how this little ditty came into my wardrobe in the first place. Did Hubby have a momentary lapse in taste and buy it for me? Or worse, did <i>I</i> have a momentary lapse in taste and buy it for myself?<br />
<br />
How it came to be lounge wear in my personal collection aside, there I was, at a Marriott hotel in Bethesda, MD, at 11:54 pm, having just come back from dinner with friends in a kitschy American eatery owned by none other than Ted Turner in Crystal City, VA (from one interstate D.C. suburb to another), sipping on a chamomile tea, climbing into bed with my Kobo, wearing a silly looking zebra-print negligee, with nary a zebra in site. And I just had to tell my best girl friends about the ridiculousness of it all. Mostly because I knew that it would make them laugh. But also because I had one of those self psycho-analysis moments where I see my life - and the decisions I make about it - in perfect clarity.<br />
<br />
This zebra thing has nothing to do with fashion (clearly). And everything to do with me turning 40...<br />
<br />
That's right. I turn 40 this year. In precisely 10 months, in fact. Gulp.<br />
<br />
Now those who know me well know that I have been very vocally and vehemently fighting this milestone birthday for over a decade now. Since my <i>actual </i>29th birthday, Hubby has been inviting friends to celebrate my 29th birthday. Every. single. year. And they all joyfully play along, clogging my Facebook page every year with "Happy 29th!" messages and little winky faces.<br />
<br />
Everything was right on track for me to celebrate yet another 29th birthday in November 2015 - the 11th, to be precise. Hubby and I were in Winnipeg for the Grey Cup. My Ottawa Redblacks were playing in the big game. The Ottawa Citizen got wind that I had traveled to see my team play. So they sent a reporter out to track me down and interview me. He must have read <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.com/2012/11/birthdays-football-and-being-canadian.html" target="_blank">this post</a> about how growing up, I thought my parents were throwing me a big birthday party each year when in fact, they were just throwing a Grey Cup watch party. Because he asked me all about it. It became the centerpiece for his story about my love of football. And it was a <a href="http://ottawacitizen.com/news/local-news/redblacks-in-the-peg" target="_blank">great article</a>. Except for one thing...<br />
<br />
He stated in his article that I was turning 40...<br />
<br />
This article came out a few days before my actual birthday. And friends who saw it posted it over and over and over again on social media. Which means that everyone and their dog saw it. So on my actual birthday, instead of saying "Happy 29th, J, wink-wink", I got "Welcome to your 40s!!!" messages. All. Day. Long. When I walked into the office the day after my birthday, my assistant had a cake waiting for me, lovingly in the shape of a football, with "HAPPY 40TH" scrawled across the top. And she got me a Happy 40th birthday card, signed by a whole bunch of my team.<br />
<br />
All of this was ONE WHOLE YEAR EARLIER than my actual 40th birthday!<br />
<br />
No, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!! I am still supposed to have one more year of being 29!!!! It's a mathematical fact!!!! Everybody knows that you get 11 29th birthdays before you turn 40!!!! Not 10!!!! 11!!!! Oh cruel world, what ever have I done to deserve this!!!!<br />
<br />
Believe me when I say that I shouted from the rooftops that it was not, in fact, my 40th birthday. Although I'm not proud to admit this, I even considered asking the Citizen for a retraction. Because I was not yet ready to face - one whole year earlier than anticipated - that my 30s were truly and rather quickly coming to an end. I knew that I had two choices before me. I could either continue to rage against the tick-tock of time, or I could just accept that I am, indeed, a woman on the cusp of her 40s.<br />
<br />
A small dose of introspection made me realize that I could no longer fight this stark reality. My body, after all, has been giving me signals for a couple of years now of the impending doom that is my 40s. Somewhere around a year and a half ago, my metabolism gave me the middle finger, demanding that if I wanted to keep my 29-inch waist, I could no longer eat ice cream and chocolate every other day. Despite weekly yoga sessions, my knees practically graze my ear lobes whenever I sit cross-legged. And in the past six months, going up and down stairs hurts so much that I told my real estate agent (we are in the midst of house hunting) that our next home <i>must</i> be a bungalow. My body is clearly trying to tell me to give up the fallacy of the repeated 29th birthday.<br />
<br />
So if my body is ready to accept the dawn of a 5th decade on earth, why can't my mind? What is so difficult to accept about being forty, anyway? It is, after all, just a number. It does not take away or give me additional success. It does not take away or give me any more love. It is simply a repeat of the day I was born.<br />
<br />
And so somewhere during the past 2 months, and I can't pinpoint precisely when, I decided to start listening to that steady tick-tock of time. I've stopped eating chocolate every day, and accepted that from here on in, maintaining my waist line will take more discipline. I've come to terms with the fact that I could do yoga 7 days a week from now until the end of time but that it won't undo decades of abuse on my body. And I seriously am looking at bungalow after bungalow after bungalow for our next house.<br />
<br />
And, I'm wearing animal print negligees to bed. Not because I find them particularly attractive. But because, at a certain point in a woman's life, it is just okay to wear animal print. It's like a rite of passage, a welcome to that age where you don't have to give a shit anymore about what people think of you because you've walked a path in life that includes success, sorrow, joy, contempt, and every other gamut of emotion. You have <i>earned</i> those (zebra) stripes. Or leopard spots, if you prefer. And you don't have to apologize for any of it.<br />
<br />
And so there it is. This ridiculous looking zebra-print negligee - and it <i>is</i> ridiculous looking - is actually my emancipation from a life of denying the progress of time. It is a symbol of the hard-fought battle that has been my life up until this point. It is a mark of all the successes and defeats that I have had. It is...<br />
<br />
Oh, who the hell am I kidding. It is a ridiculously ugly zebra-print negligee and I really don't know why I own it, or why I packed it instead of one of the other more me-like sleepwear outfits I own. But I did. And I'm wearing it. And I am quite sure that I would have never worn it in my late 20s or early 30s.<br />
<br />
But I'm not in my late 20s or early 30s anymore. I'm knocking on the door of 40. And it's probably time that I start being proud of that.<br />
<br />
So bring on the damn animal print.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-57965963720659000992015-09-05T11:50:00.005-04:002015-09-05T11:51:38.300-04:00Over half of my life...I was 3 months shy of my 18th birthday when I left the sleepy prairie town of Killarney, Manitoba to come to the University of Ottawa. I stuffed everything that I owned - which at the time consisted of clothing, my c.d. collection (made up mostly of REM, the Tragically Hip and Pearl Jam), and 17 volumes of my adolescent diary - into the back seat of an already-crammed 1980-something Ford Mustang. Already crammed because my friend Harley, the owner of said mustang, was coming with me to Ottawa to attend Carleton University (where the K stands for Kwality, as we UofO'ers like to say).<br />
<br />
The night before we left, a tornado ripped through Harley's family's farm, knocking down trees and whipping bails of hay around like ping-pong balls. But that little mustang survived unscathed, and we pulled out of town on the eve of September long weekend, 1994 with not a c.d. or diary out of place. Perhaps this was an early sign that Ottawa was my destiny. Even though I didn't know it then.<br />
<br />
Frankly, I didn't know much then. I was, after all, only 17 years old. I was a small-town girl. I had a high-school sweetheart. The school from which I had just graduated had 700 students from kindergarten to grade 12. The town's population hovered around 2,000 people - 1,996 of whom were white-Anglo Saxon protestant (the Chinese restaurant was owned by a Vietnamese family). There was nothing by way of cultural diversity. There was nothing remotely metropolitan. There was nothing to prepare me for a move halfway across the country to a campus that I would share with 40,000 or so other students from every corner of the world.<br />
<br />
I was scared shitless.<br />
<br />
Those first few weeks were difficult. I missed my boyfriend. I missed my high school friends. I missed my parents. I missed my dog. I even missed my pain-in-the-ass siblings. I missed looking up at night and seeing a million stars. I missed wide-open spaces and big prairie skies. I missed the sound of silence. I missed dry heat and dryer cold. I felt like a complete stranger everywhere that I went. I kept getting lost on campus because I couldn't (and still can't) read maps. I was no longer one of the smartest kids in any of my classes. Everything was just so different. <i>I</i> was just so different. And I felt alone.<br />
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But that loneliness didn't last. Ever the extrovert, it didn't take long for me to start reaching out to the people around me. In the process, I met some wonderful people who introduced me to new cultures, taught me how to play euchre, got me into a lot of trouble, and nursed me through heartaches. Block by block, I explored the city of Ottawa and discovered its many treasures: the locks of the Rideau Canal, Parliament Hill, green spaces like Strathcona Park, the nightlife of the Byward Market, unique neighbourhoods, the hiking trails in nearby Gatineau Park. I voted in my first election. I became an adult. I got my first real job as soon as I graduated, and rented my first apartment all to myself, becoming an independent, contributing member of society. Eventually, I joined the public service. Not long after that, I met Hubby. We bought our first house together in Little Italy. I went back to school at St. Paul University for a Masters degree. Hubby and I got married. We adopted our pets. I chose the REDBLACKS over the Blue Bombers.<br />
<br />
I don't remember the exact moment that I decided to make my life here in Ottawa. (Although I suspect that meeting Hubby tipped the scales heavily in that favour). But at some point I just knew that this is where I was meant to stay. I still miss the dry cold and the stars and the wheat fields and the skyline of the Prairies. I still miss my family fiercely. But I can't imagine a life that would take me away from this city. The place where I truly discovered myself.<br />
<br />
Twenty-one years ago, on the eve of September long weekend, a girl climbed into the passenger seat of a crammed 1980-something Mustang to drive halfway across the country. Little did she know that this Mustang was taking her home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-40939758304374389762015-06-27T14:28:00.000-04:002015-06-27T14:28:24.765-04:00All grown upDear M,<br />
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I remember the first day that I met you. You were 3 weeks old. You had these really long, skinny legs and long, skinny arms. Your hair was so blond that you looked bald. You either slept or cried. Frankly, you weren't that much to look at.<br />
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But my god, did I ever fall in love with you. From the very first moment that your mother laid you in my arms, I knew that I would love you fiercely.<br />
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I loved you when you made me watch Teletubbies a thousand times, and then made me dance around the living room while you sang, "Tubbies, auntie! Tubbies!"<br />
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I loved you when we had our very first sleepover, and you told me that we had to sleep in your mom and dad's bed because "Your butt is too big for my bed, auntie."<br />
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I loved you when you were so excited to be a flower girl in your parent's wedding.<br />
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I loved you when you yelled at me for cutting off my hair.<br />
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I loved you when your little brother came into this world, and I watched as you enthusiastically embraced the role of big sister.<br />
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I loved you when, before you met Hubby for the first time, you asked if he was as tall as your dad, and when I said, "No," you asked if he was a midget. Because everybody shorter than your 6'3" father was tiny in your daddy's-little-girl eyes.<br />
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I loved you as I watched you goaltend in hockey, goalkeep in soccer, and tear it up on the basketball court. (That was me squealing when you got Female Athlete of the Year at your graduation, by the way.)<br />
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I loved you so much when you stood beside me as one of my bridesmaid's on my wedding day, when I got to see for the first time what you would look like when you became a woman. You took my breath away.<br />
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And now, you <i>are</i> a woman. Eighteen years old, graduated from high school, and about to embark on the adventure that is university. Over the past 18 years I have watched you grow from a kind, generous, intelligent, curious, and strong girl to a kind, generous, intelligent, curious and strong woman. When did it happen?<br />
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<br />
In the blink of an eye. A very teary eye...<br />
<br />
M, being an aunt - being <i>your</i> aunt - has been one of the best roles that I have had in this life. And not just because I got to give you back to your parents when you were screaming for a diaper change. Or when you were throwing a tantrum. Or when you and your brother were fighting. But because there is a truly special relationship that develops between a niece and an aunt, especially from this point forward. I am no longer just another adult looking over your shoulder. I hope to be your friend, your confidant, someone that you can just have a drink with and talk about life. This is what I now have with my aunties. And it is a special bond unlike any other.<br />
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And so, from one friend to another, let me leave you with a few tips as you begin to write the next chapter in your life:<br />
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- Wear sunscreen on your face and your hands every day. Even in the winter. You don't think about it now because you are young and beautiful. But I promise you that when you are knocking on 40s door, and counting the spots on the back of your hands and the wrinkles around your eyes, you are going to wish like hell that you had bathed in SPF every single day.<br />
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- President's Choice white cheddar macaroni and cheese kicks Kraft Dinner's ass every time.<br />
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- It's okay if you skip a class every now and then. Just don't skip so many that you end up with an "incomplete" on your transcript, which will dog you for the rest of your undergrad.<br />
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- Make new friends. In university, you will meet people from so many diverse and unique backgrounds. They will enrich your life in ways that you never knew were possible.<br />
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- Keep old friends. They remind you of who you are and where you come from.<br />
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- Sometimes, after your heart has been broken or you bombed an assignment, you just need a really good cry.<br />
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- Create a playlist of breakup songs. Because when you break up with someone, I promise you that you will want nothing more than to listen to breakup songs on repeat. Bonnie Raitt's <i>I Can't Make You Love Me</i> got me through more than one broken heart.<br />
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- Surround yourself with people who make you laugh until your cheeks hurt and until you have tears streaming down your cheeks.<br />
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- If you ever use a friend's I.D. to get into a bar (in a province where you aren't of legal drinking age), make sure that said friend doesn't work at said bar... THAT will get you into a lot of trouble.<br />
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- Form and voice your own opinions. Engage in debate. Exchange ideas. Defend your point of view. Be passionate about all of the things that you believe in. Even if you're wrong.<br />
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- Learn new things outside of the classroom. Like how to play euchre and pool.<br />
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- Learn to like beer, because it is always the cheapest drink in the campus bar. And at the liquor store. Which will start to matter when money runs low. It's an acquired taste, but you will learn to love it if you practice enough.<br />
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- Find balance. Take a study break to grab a drink with a friend, or to go for a run, or to read a silly novel.<br />
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- All-nighters are always better with coffee, snacks, and a good friend to share your procrastination pain.<br />
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- Love fiercely, even if it hurts. There truly is no other way to love.<br />
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I love you to all the way to Ottawa and back.<br />
<br />
Auntie Jay.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-36300297709574824052014-11-08T21:50:00.001-05:002014-11-09T06:39:55.056-05:00On getting inkedWhen I was in university, it seemed like every other week, another one of my friends was coming into the campus bar with a tattoo.<br />
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I wanted one too. The trouble was, I didn't know what I wanted. Until one day, a close friend of mine grabbed my notebook and spelled out my name in Arabic cursive:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQ5y5A04JrCIguCF3Zo9htiIWkCRCaYOm_tOhPOEYHbM8ENpZmQelcmMNsA1rUYJAM7Mf8FIEX_tJRQNh8P7AvAuCYaJsRjExh_8xyis4yYHIhtkHBgjOo6iVFikLBmmhrqEsShTrHXs/s1600/Fetus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQ5y5A04JrCIguCF3Zo9htiIWkCRCaYOm_tOhPOEYHbM8ENpZmQelcmMNsA1rUYJAM7Mf8FIEX_tJRQNh8P7AvAuCYaJsRjExh_8xyis4yYHIhtkHBgjOo6iVFikLBmmhrqEsShTrHXs/s1600/Fetus.png" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't speak or read or understand Arabic. But 19-year-old-me thought it was one of the most beautiful things that I had ever seen. I just <i>knew</i> this was going to be my tattoo.<br />
<br />
Until a few days later, a classmate spotted my notebook and said, "Fetus?"<br />
<br />
"Excuse me?" I said.<br />
<br />
"That word," he said, pointing to the cursive. "It means fetus."<br />
<br />
"No it doesn't," I said, as though I was suddenly an Arabic linguist. "It's my name."<br />
<br />
"Maybe," he said, "if your name is fetus."<br />
<br />
"My name is Jeannine," I said. "NOT fetus."<br />
<br />
"Well," he said. "that says jea-nay-na. Which means fetus."<br />
<br />
Well shit, I thought to myself. Good thing I found that out before I got it tattooed on my hip.<br />
<br />
The experience of almost permanently marking my body with something that I didn't entirely think through and that I would have surely regretted left me feeling pretty gun shy about the whole getting-a-tattoo idea. I still wanted one. But I needed to be sure I was telling the right story. You know, <i>not</i> one about fetuses.<br />
<br />
My story started to come together in 2006, when I decided to enter a competitive bodybuilding competition. This was, and always will be, one of the most difficult things that I have ever done. From twice-a-day everyday cardio sessions, to gruelling weight lifting sessions followed by gruelling posing sessions, to a steady diet of plain tuna from a can, to steadily increasing carb deprivation, to a pulled groin that haunts me to this day, to pre-show dehydration, it was 16 weeks of <i>pure</i> <i>hell</i>. Not to mention that I had to completely give up wine.<br />
<br />
But as hard as it was, and as miserable as it made me (and Hubby for having to deal with me), I stuck with it until the bitter end. And I got on that stage. And I posed my sore, tired ass off.<br />
<br />
And I got second place in Eastern Canada.<br />
<br />
And I'm not going to lie. I'm pretty damn proud of that. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Even though I cried a lot when I didn't get first place.</span><br />
<br />
Hubby was pretty damn proud too. Which is why he surprised me with the gift of a session with a professional photographer. This was doubly nice, because let's face it, I'm never going to have a visible 6-pack again.<br />
<br />
Of the 90-or-so photos that I got back from the session, this one is my favourite:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_LmBJLb0Sknty_-FkkzKiBlyztg0hjoJF-pzKNI9FLO9pYer1HjzisY5FZytBdP2h76CL8N7ebJHA3qm9AXbkyNxS6FSresP2OmA0OMQJ6G19tpPBI9ZHhoZ5mDJyUQ8HDNGKbcWHMc/s1600/IMG_0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_LmBJLb0Sknty_-FkkzKiBlyztg0hjoJF-pzKNI9FLO9pYer1HjzisY5FZytBdP2h76CL8N7ebJHA3qm9AXbkyNxS6FSresP2OmA0OMQJ6G19tpPBI9ZHhoZ5mDJyUQ8HDNGKbcWHMc/s1600/IMG_0935.JPG" height="249" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Something about the neutral, almost vulnerable, expression on my face, juxtaposed against a chiseled back and bicep (that I no longer have) made me fall instantly in love with the soft edginess of this photo. To this day, every time I look at it, two words come to mind: strength and femininity.<br />
<br />
And <i>that</i> was what I wanted my tattoo to capture. Except that I had no idea how.<br />
<br />
Until last New Year's Eve.<br />
<br />
Fergus and I were in the Arboretum when we met another border collie. The puppies played together while we humans chatted and walked along together. Through the course of our conversation, I discovered that he was a tattoo artist. I've never met a tattoo artist before. So as ridiculous as this sounds, it felt like a sign. That 2014 was the year I would finally get my tattoo. By the time we left the Arboretum and went our separate ways, I'd taken down his name and the name of his studio, and I vowed to give him a call to talk about a tattoo.<br />
<br />
About a month later, I dreamt about that tattoo. In my dream, the lyrics to <i>Thunder Road</i> were recited over and over and over again. When I woke up, I knew that I had the rest of my story. Because <i>Thunder Road</i> isn't just my favourite song of all time. It is the song to which I walked down the aisle on the day that I married my best friend. The man who supports me through it all. Even when I'm a carb-deprived, bodybuilding basket case.<br />
<br />
The next day, I called the tattoo studio and booked a consult. I brought the picture above, as well as photos of the car that Springsteen drove when he wrote <i>Thunder Road</i> (because the last lines of the song urge Mary to climb into his car so they can leave their "town full of losers"), and some of storm clouds over the desert. And we talked. About strength and femininity on the one hand, and about escaping and love on the other. And could we marry the two concepts somehow.<br />
<br />
This is what he came up with:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6HvGDl-1zEnvJHBJ7N6R_Yf7sDOtEGCpv1ifPKMmnjJgg-JUZRARXB_eGTufJ_ogDVipCTJNVRv41uQcBqt-irLT3DFSOLSgVGAKdu7uGXbxGOLJvRn2fsiyHqD0-of0mc9JiWBvLjU/s1600/IMG_4661.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6HvGDl-1zEnvJHBJ7N6R_Yf7sDOtEGCpv1ifPKMmnjJgg-JUZRARXB_eGTufJ_ogDVipCTJNVRv41uQcBqt-irLT3DFSOLSgVGAKdu7uGXbxGOLJvRn2fsiyHqD0-of0mc9JiWBvLjU/s1600/IMG_4661.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I had no words when I saw it. In part because I wasn't expecting the "me" to be so prominent. In part because I had a cheesy vision of a car driving off into the desert storm. But as I spent more and more time with it, I fell in love with it. The intricate details of the car. The mythical quality to the female figure. Her hair blowing in the wind of a storm. It didn't match the picture in my non-artist's mind. It was infinitely better. We made some minor adjustments, to make "me" recede a little more into the storm clouds. And then I spent two and a half hours straddling a chair, as I lost my tattoo cherry.<br />
<br />
(In case you're wondering, it doesn't hurt so much as it is annoying. In what I imagine to be a Chinese water torture kind of a way).<br />
<br />
This was the result:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9kWgb3nxHDgbGRjIJ5Xfr4V2wd-GUqcfeZQzLVjncNImaajbZQcda-FP-FEQMZisv_E99BNwuGRAO-ebTHfaP2v9npjPU06cdPVFju_blJ54QbGzkrhd8VJvzP4xgvC74CrFDw9EPW4/s1600/IMG_4663.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9kWgb3nxHDgbGRjIJ5Xfr4V2wd-GUqcfeZQzLVjncNImaajbZQcda-FP-FEQMZisv_E99BNwuGRAO-ebTHfaP2v9npjPU06cdPVFju_blJ54QbGzkrhd8VJvzP4xgvC74CrFDw9EPW4/s1600/IMG_4663.jpg" height="320" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh off the chair - with a little bit of blood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG1Zsk-OFEA5eQ7gYU0sAtmu5QEy6aXPLVJl6LTDXg9Dj0eLFCLnIRDiknVXI7QNF3UxaBrv2WwWH6dPlAlJ9Ggs9W0whPs9kU18UdICXjMJG7ZP6J5P6t2R-2rAQKjWTlt2b7Tf2Xlaw/s1600/IMG_4666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG1Zsk-OFEA5eQ7gYU0sAtmu5QEy6aXPLVJl6LTDXg9Dj0eLFCLnIRDiknVXI7QNF3UxaBrv2WwWH6dPlAlJ9Ggs9W0whPs9kU18UdICXjMJG7ZP6J5P6t2R-2rAQKjWTlt2b7Tf2Xlaw/s1600/IMG_4666.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The next day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Believe me when I tell you that pictures do not do it justice. And the more I look at it, the more I see that even though it is another person's interpretation, it a perfect reflection of the story I wanted to tell. My love for my husband (and maybe a little of my love for Bruce) in the picture of our wedding song. Strength and femininity in the image of the "Thunder goddess" hovering over the desert sky. Two seemingly distinct concepts that I never would have imagined together, making a piece of art more perfect than I could have hoped for.<br />
<br />
I am so proud to wear this masterpiece on my back. Thank you to Glen and Barnstormer Studio, for a tattoo that was well worth the 20-year wait. <br />
<br />
And thank you Fergus for finding the only other border collie in the Arboretum last New Year's Eve. Had you not insisted on harassing that poor dog for his stick, Glen and I would have never met. And I'd still be trying to figure out how to tell this story.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-4697834597564097422014-10-23T21:21:00.000-04:002014-10-24T07:22:38.047-04:00The Ultimate Sacrifice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The Sargent-at-Arms receives a 4 minute standing ovation when he enters the House of Commons. As Members of Parliament sing O Canada, a single tear falls down his cheek. </div>
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<div>
"You are so loved", the words repeated over and over to Corporal Nathan Cirillo by civilian Barbara Winters, who rushed to his aid once shots were fired so that she could administer CPR alongside other like-minded civilians, as he clung to life. </div>
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Corporal Cirillo's dogs peeking under his fence, which has become a makeshift memorial, waiting for their master to come home. </div>
<div>
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These are the words and the images that are stuck in my mind on this day. The day after.</div>
<div>
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<div>
The day after the young, strong, beautiful Corporal Nathan Cirillo, reservist of the Argyle Sutherland Highlanders, was killed in cold blood. He has performing an act so sacred that it is enshrined in our National Anthem - "stand[ing] on guard" for our national treasure - and the memory of the brave men and women who have served in our country's name - that is the National War Memorial. </div>
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<div>
Mere seconds later, the gunman rushed to Parliament Hill, where Members of Parliament were gathered in their respective caucus meetings. They heard shouting and gunfire in the Hall of Honour. They took cover under tables and chairs and in closets. They had no idea who or what was waiting outside those doors. They were scared. Some of them prayed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It finally ended moments later when Kevin Vickers, the very brave Sargent-at-Arms of the House of Commons, shot the gunman. Just outside the doors of the Library of Parliament. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My Library of Parliament. Your Library of Parliament. Our Library of Parliament. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our Hall of Honour. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Our Parliament Hill. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Our National War Memorial. </div>
<div>
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Our Ottawa, and our Canada. That in less than 2 minutes, someone tried very hard to take away from us. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6r9VNB27Biyh9HvuhWslBKCNS96KMvpsCwiLvf9nUJzwcjAg71RxNvWKQFfTHFB3DqhDryfSnJ9vbpL2npItNiaeSW4PsVvoO-Sv9U5KIbOQ277d29izlbbVCcAkOETF7eguFWYKCdkY/s1600/IMG_0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6r9VNB27Biyh9HvuhWslBKCNS96KMvpsCwiLvf9nUJzwcjAg71RxNvWKQFfTHFB3DqhDryfSnJ9vbpL2npItNiaeSW4PsVvoO-Sv9U5KIbOQ277d29izlbbVCcAkOETF7eguFWYKCdkY/s1600/IMG_0014.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view outside my office window<br />
from Langevin block</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Parliament Hill means something different to everyone. Many of us see it for the first time as tourists, and are excited by the chance to see the city from atop the Peace Tower. Some of us think of it as merely a place where politicians scream at each other from across the way. Many of us view it as a symbol of our democracy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's what it means to me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I love Parliament Hill. I burst with pride when I tell people that this beautiful place was my "office" for four years. First as a page in the Senate, where I had the privilege of standing in the Hall of Honour to greet <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/12/mourning-hero.html" target="_blank">Nelson Mandela during his state visit in 1998</a>. Then as an MPs assistant, in a tiny office tucked away just below the House of Commons. Even once I became a public servant, my office in Langevin building had a clear view of Parliament Hill. Once every week, my colleagues and I would walk across Wellington, up the Hill, into Centre Block and into the Cabinet room just outside the Prime Minister's Office. I can't describe that feeling of privilege that comes from serving your country. Even now, years removed from working on the Hill, the Peace Tower takes my breath away. Every time I run along the Quebec side of the river and catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the Library of Parliament, my heart skips a beat. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlaRcqLNB0_s19hy_SvM3E883J04v6uLkeo60OpJff-hPktsH-5gb41hMfxjo4WAB1GT3ICqAqY3xj1e-BHdr95f_0Bsx33GSbHhs6oy_Lber-04YeJucHa_PtEoHkmHZPSe2KY_TEvg/s1600/IMG_1263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlaRcqLNB0_s19hy_SvM3E883J04v6uLkeo60OpJff-hPktsH-5gb41hMfxjo4WAB1GT3ICqAqY3xj1e-BHdr95f_0Bsx33GSbHhs6oy_Lber-04YeJucHa_PtEoHkmHZPSe2KY_TEvg/s1600/IMG_1263.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Peace Tower pokes through the fog<br />
on an early morning run</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
And just off to the East of Parliament Hill stands the National War Memorial. With that beautiful guardian angel watching over our fallen soldiers. With the tomb of the unknown soldier at her feet. A place where thousands of Ottawans gather every November 11th to honour the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform throughout this last century. A list to which Corporal Cirillo's name is now added. As well as Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent's, struck and killed in a hit-and-run attack in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu a mere two days previous. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These places are so much more to me than monuments. They are so much more than <i>representations</i> of democracy and freedom. They <i>are </i>democracy and freedom. They are my country. They are my city. They are me. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdZOtHKzNykQTOWhRz5zGIU09VdWjTV3LvQ5me9B9cGodkD0KUMTDqsPzciMUUq2xcIRI2irtDhnuYyAKIuvxWVvvPWT7VVfHexSrpVGWCQH9JZdyOLZaKoE-iLxAzWG3T0M33joV7hQ/s1600/IMG_0520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdZOtHKzNykQTOWhRz5zGIU09VdWjTV3LvQ5me9B9cGodkD0KUMTDqsPzciMUUq2xcIRI2irtDhnuYyAKIuvxWVvvPWT7VVfHexSrpVGWCQH9JZdyOLZaKoE-iLxAzWG3T0M33joV7hQ/s1600/IMG_0520.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The National War Memorial to the right as I stand with my <br />
fellow citizens on Remembrance Day to honour the fallen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
As the capital went on lockdown yesterday, I was about 3km removed from the sheer terror of that 2 minutes. But I felt it deep within me. I felt it as I thought of all of the many friends of mine who still work on the Hill or in offices that overlook the War Memorial - close enough to see and hear the tragedy. I felt it as I thought of the childcare workers in the Parliament Hill daycare, who worked to keep the children calm during a 10+hour lockdown. I felt it as initial reports indicated that there may be a second and even a third shooter running free.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I also felt love. As my 17-year-old niece texted me to ask "Auntie, are you guys okay?" followed by an onslaught of texts and Facebook messages from other friends and family. As one of my colleagues at work shared her lunch with me because I had not brought my own and could not leave our building in lock-down. As reports of the various acts of heroism began to trickle in. Like those civilians who did not know whether or not there was another shooter but who ran to Corporal Cirillo's side nonetheless to revive him. And the Sargent-at-Arms who, while wearing his ceremonial uniform, retrieved his weapon and led the charge of RCMP officers to contain the shooter. As the Pittsburg Penguins lit up the ice with a red maple leaf and sang our national anthem, even though they were not playing a Canadian team. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRA5JIKUJh3y_P-onpdE9nznwXYhY64Rfn2zWMBHxxtsdu9y6HCEF4e0uLg1BHHpJsyX_7ZJf_OqRkE0j-EgTz1z2NhC25FZmXehl3k-MSTcaDrcNTZo6ymXdvBVg7uQFEjcneaUzzpgw/s1600/IMG_2857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRA5JIKUJh3y_P-onpdE9nznwXYhY64Rfn2zWMBHxxtsdu9y6HCEF4e0uLg1BHHpJsyX_7ZJf_OqRkE0j-EgTz1z2NhC25FZmXehl3k-MSTcaDrcNTZo6ymXdvBVg7uQFEjcneaUzzpgw/s1600/IMG_2857.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The National War Memorial on Remembrance Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
These acts - some small and some indescribably big - are those moments of humanity that are hidden within the darkest of terrors. And they are what I want to remember the most about the past hours.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the aftermath of an event like this, many will say, "I never thought it could happen here." I am not one of those people. After 9/11, after subway bombings in various European cities, after the death of the London soldier by machete, we know that this can happen. Even here. Even in sleepy Ottawa. And we as a nation have made the conscious choice - and I believe with all of my being that it is the right and <i>only</i> choice - not to lock up our national treasures. Because they belong to us. Because they can hardly be symbols of democracy and freedom if we can't access them. But in making that decision, we must also accept that it <i>can</i> happen here. Indeed, now we <i>know</i> that it can.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thankfully, the Corporal Cirillo's, the Warrant Officer Vincent's and the Kevin Vickers of this world have agreed, through the jobs that they do day in and day out, to protect our national treasures. And in so doing, they protect and serve us. They sacrifice themselves so that Fergus and I can run by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier or up Parliament Hill. So that thousands can gather in front of the War Memorial every November 11. So that Moms and Dads can visit Ottawa and bring their children to the top of the Peace Tower. So that Members of Parliament can debate the issues of our times. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
God bless the men and women who dedicate their lives to making sure that we are free to enjoy all that it means to be Canadian. Including our national monuments. May we never take for granted the burdens that you carry so that we do not have to live in fear. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My heart overflows with love. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-82801024141482132612014-09-15T21:09:00.000-04:002014-09-15T21:10:02.320-04:00"We are the (B-side) champions, my friends!"Some of my earliest - and fondest - memories are of playing baseball.<br />
<br />
I must have been really young - like 3 or so - when my Dad first taught me how to swing a bat. He bought me this big red plastic bat and a plastic ball, and while Mom stayed home with my napping baby sister, he took me out to the park to practice my swing. Over and over again, from only a few feet away, he would lob that plastic ball at me until I finally figured out how to make contact. The most memorable batting practice was the day I cracked the ball right between his legs. He fell like a tonne of bricks, in obvious pain but delighted nonetheless that he had sired a little slugger.<br />
<br />
From that day forward, he stood a little further back when he pitched the ball to me...<br />
<br />
I've been playing baseball ever since. Dad enrolled me in fastpitch when I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. Throughout junior high, I dabbled as a windmill pitcher before moving over to first base. (I've always been better at catching a ball than throwing one accurately). I played in a league right up until the day I graduated from high school. During most of my university years, I was too busy drinking at the campus bar and playing euchre to play ball. But I missed it. So when the opportunity came up to join a softball league the summer after I graduated, I jumped at it. It was a super small Thursday night league, with only 5 or 6 teams. But it was better than nothing. And it felt great to get back out there, even though I was rather overweight and out of shape at the time...<br />
<br />
The next summer, I was a little leaner and I had quit smoking. And I was asked to join the Parliament Hill Softball League. I agreed to join the team as long as I could play first base. The captain told me I had to earn the position. Which meant I had to be able to catch the bullet-fast throws from the short stop. So he "let me" play first base my first time out.<br />
<br />
That was 16 years ago. 16 years and a couple of iterations of the team later, I am still playing first base in the Parliament Hill Softball League. Every Friday night. (Well, unless the Ottawa Redblacks are playing at home. I <i>am</i> a season ticket holder, after all...)<br />
<br />
This year's iteration of the team is the Forbes Beauty Co. Nailers, so named because we are sponsored by the <i>best </i>boutique spa in all of Ottawa, <a href="http://www.forbesbeauty.ca/" target="_blank">Forbes Beauty Co</a> in the ever-trendy Hintonburg 'hood. (Check her out on Twitter @FBCspa). She's the best sponsor ever because she gave us hot pink shirts. Our boys look particularly smashing in hot pink! (#realmenwearpink)<br />
<br />
She is also a good luck charm. Because this past weekend, we played in our softball tournament. And we won! Woooooooohoooooooo!!!!<br />
<br />
Okay, so we won the B-side of the league tournament. The "Best of the Worst", as we like to call ourselves. But still. We had to win <i>4</i> games, <i>in a row</i>, to get there. And we <i>never</i> win 4 games in a row. So who cares if it is the B-side! We won! And there was a trophy! And we drank beer our of it!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uN3W-3xmJoPNXgT_wj4_G1w32X0lG1oGN2EY9pPYntmD5phwLjTXQjAXf2lOX6We9coJDFa4yCtmhyyjLAMDBm06TaW2C48dJ5Z-kXajz12F3j9i_QkLfRJOvELpaF8zUHI1twFaxvw/s1600/IMG_4230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uN3W-3xmJoPNXgT_wj4_G1w32X0lG1oGN2EY9pPYntmD5phwLjTXQjAXf2lOX6We9coJDFa4yCtmhyyjLAMDBm06TaW2C48dJ5Z-kXajz12F3j9i_QkLfRJOvELpaF8zUHI1twFaxvw/s1600/IMG_4230.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#realmenwearpink! Before we went on our winning streak!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPN_onudt8IJTM2k8aHkzfU1Id13qwGfMBIfG3HS_T3Oz-eT_p_XxUpGfDyRc6ryvQB6V0w_mkSXEaZEbQz4CXsy2tSOvR317yMhSjAzykOWOI68Thq9U-Hgh9OSSffnecdfqEuJYSSgc/s1600/IMG_4298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPN_onudt8IJTM2k8aHkzfU1Id13qwGfMBIfG3HS_T3Oz-eT_p_XxUpGfDyRc6ryvQB6V0w_mkSXEaZEbQz4CXsy2tSOvR317yMhSjAzykOWOI68Thq9U-Hgh9OSSffnecdfqEuJYSSgc/s1600/IMG_4298.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We are the (B-side) champions, my friends!" Taking home the (B-side) trophy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am super proud of us for pulling this off.<br />
<br />
I am proud because we played through a freezing cold downpour on Saturday, making the field a soupy, quick-sandy mess. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnnAVF4dkZu-fNFSNBrsqir06JJdqzZEYKB0EEmCMU9mVTGWnwoD1egDF1FYQKhNn6bACbrcauO643u6pZsmqx7NE0elLiejyKS80aDqizTbhktahxDP1cd57zK_LU3usDxm8Z_t2RZQ/s1600/IMG_4242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnnAVF4dkZu-fNFSNBrsqir06JJdqzZEYKB0EEmCMU9mVTGWnwoD1egDF1FYQKhNn6bACbrcauO643u6pZsmqx7NE0elLiejyKS80aDqizTbhktahxDP1cd57zK_LU3usDxm8Z_t2RZQ/s1600/IMG_4242.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at that infield. Yuck!</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpl-iUPeIfifw_ZuNMXAmNWGdFV9aRmf97Tk5zQLFSdxL_oCQNghHLvxb0-DEK1PjnkvqwKpuc-GANQ4D9zFQSRL8SvA367cyk_mMqXs7GJKoXNddzAq16cJR-DsLczPsIbh99xRJADo/s1600/IMG_4243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpl-iUPeIfifw_ZuNMXAmNWGdFV9aRmf97Tk5zQLFSdxL_oCQNghHLvxb0-DEK1PjnkvqwKpuc-GANQ4D9zFQSRL8SvA367cyk_mMqXs7GJKoXNddzAq16cJR-DsLczPsIbh99xRJADo/s1600/IMG_4243.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A girl gets dirty playing first base on a day like this. My leg after diving (or maybe tripping) while making a play.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDFdzHGoRynQFo7vIIyo-eOcqeFzKqPgSgZINw-g4jLrfPJ4b0_KSHTBydHZ4R7fyo54ZZZOB-V7YpygWJccbl2QOYA3avCwbKUSVzv6QsQ8-AEkuNU-1VITugtV-adpvxLfxBOxsz-E/s1600/IMG_4297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDFdzHGoRynQFo7vIIyo-eOcqeFzKqPgSgZINw-g4jLrfPJ4b0_KSHTBydHZ4R7fyo54ZZZOB-V7YpygWJccbl2QOYA3avCwbKUSVzv6QsQ8-AEkuNU-1VITugtV-adpvxLfxBOxsz-E/s1600/IMG_4297.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These cleats weigh 5lbs more than they did on Friday, and I am sure they will never be clean again...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am proud because despite the shitty conditions, we had fun!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxyDb2Odk_KsVYlX7TTUbcLJoW2xr0J-7ugxtsi9r0OMGvDYrIk8WyU6ql98dZrPdDIsbGUrKzPwzRt2efJug' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWeflSRQ4IPCwOu_ItLGj-MLak1LUndl4pY2Hl9G7uhxlNPDIPGBYhZOKJ2sDW-PqpmyFcbOi5UDsdIpY1JJuq6TGuAQkUgAhDll4hnpIuAO3MoBfwSG2X4zhoMKj2kEdgSFGf6SsI0o/s1600/IMG_4244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWeflSRQ4IPCwOu_ItLGj-MLak1LUndl4pY2Hl9G7uhxlNPDIPGBYhZOKJ2sDW-PqpmyFcbOi5UDsdIpY1JJuq6TGuAQkUgAhDll4hnpIuAO3MoBfwSG2X4zhoMKj2kEdgSFGf6SsI0o/s1600/IMG_4244.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, my second baseman and my shortstop. Just a little dirty...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am proud because we frankly don't have such a great record, yet we found a way to pull off the wins anyway, and when it mattered, we all played our best damn softball!<br />
<br />
I <i>love</i> Friday night softball. And I <i>love</i> my teammates. I am hard pressed to think of a better or more fun-loving group to spend my summer Friday nights with!<br />
<br />
So what the hell am I going to do with my Friday nights now that the season is over? Probably mope around a little until I figure out something else to keep me busy.<br />
<br />
And start planning for next year. Because we have a title to defend!<br />
<br />
Or maybe, just maybe, we'll win the A-side....<br />
<br />
Here's to you, Forbes Beauty Co. Nailers! #bestoftheworst #realmenwearpink #bestdamnpeopletospendmyFridaynightswith<br />
<br />
See you back on the diamond in May!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7kMgZ7HtJVslirfBk5sVJbSZWFWgWqxdIISjtBPPcI9t7lKbi2l_9EjCjw9FcrBAb-0tgLgMZ7jgVDmRPI93abS6iC_n1341JMidOA4STv8AGeO-7VoMHTBCz7ofYV9WGcQ1zY3b6Sg/s1600/IMG_4253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7kMgZ7HtJVslirfBk5sVJbSZWFWgWqxdIISjtBPPcI9t7lKbi2l_9EjCjw9FcrBAb-0tgLgMZ7jgVDmRPI93abS6iC_n1341JMidOA4STv8AGeO-7VoMHTBCz7ofYV9WGcQ1zY3b6Sg/s1600/IMG_4253.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victory tastes good!</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-73121210161568922222014-09-09T07:26:00.000-04:002014-09-09T07:26:13.961-04:00For shame...<div>
When I was a teenage girl, my bedroom was wallpapered with posters of all the stars that I loved most. The list is more than a little embarrassing. I mean, it includes the New Kids on the Block and Kirk Cameron... You know, the regular crew that appeared in all of those teeny-bopper magazines back in the 80s. But it also includes professional athletes. Like World Series winning David Justice of the Atlanta Braves and the forward-who-once-had-the-hardest-slapshot-in-the-NHL, Stéphane Richer of the Montreal Canadians. Okay, also a little embarrassing... But my point is that I didn't just idolize sitcom stars and singers. I idolized professional athletes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I admit it... I idolized guys like Richer and Justice partly because I thought they were cute (oh so embarrassing). But I also just really loved sports. I loved what these guys could do. I loved how talented they were. I loved how they led their teams. When they won, I won. When they lost, I lost. My life became wrapped up in their on-the-field/on-the-ice performances. As did the lives of most of my peers who idolized their own respective professional heroes. We'd gather around at recess to trade baseball and hockey cards and talk about our heroes. Because that is what they were to us young, impressionable kids. These athletes were our heroes.<br />
<br />
Which is why I am disappointed in the NFL. No, disappointed isn't a strong enough word. Sickened, is a better one. Sickened with a healthy dose of enraged.<br />
<br />
By now, everybody knows the story about Ray Rice of the Baltimore Ravens. On Feb 15, he was caught on surveillance tape dragging his fiancée out of an elevator. He admits that he hit her, and in an interview with the League and the team, at which Rice was present, she tells everyone that she provoked him and that he's actually a good guy. One month later, they get married. Following a hearing, the NFL gives Rice a 2-game suspension. Then yesterday, TMZ released full video surveillance of the entire elevator episode, so the world can now see first hand 8 vile seconds during which Rice punched his fiancé in the face - twice - causing her to fall backwards so that her head hit the handrail, knocking her out cold. He then dragged her body out of an elevator.<br />
<br />
The NFL claims that it hadn't seen the video before making its decision on a 2-game suspension. Now that they have, they have suspended him indefinitely, and he has been released by the Baltimore Ravens.<br />
<br />
Neither the NFL nor the team should have had to see the video before making these decisions.<br />
<br />
And here's why. Because millions of little boys grow up watching these guys on the field, and end up wanting to be these guys both on AND off the field. And when they see their idols smacking a woman around with no repercussions, it sends them the wrong message. How does that stop the devastating cycle of violence against women? It doesn't. And the league and the franchise should have known that, even <i>before</i> they saw the severity of the assault.<br />
<br />
But here's what <i>really</i> bothers me about it. Millions of little <i>girls</i> also grow up watching these guys on the field. They idolize these men. Some of them dream of ending up with a guy like that.<br />
<br />
And some of them do.<br />
<br />
What are we teaching our girls if one of the biggest mass producers of media for public consumption, the NFL, is condoning domestic violence through its abhorrent protection of players who hit women?<br />
<br />
We're teaching them that it is okay to be hit. Especially if the guy doing the hitting is semi-famous and adored by throngs of fans. Especially if the guy doing the hitting has a SuperBowl ring or two. And especially if the guy doing the hitting is just <i>so</i> important that his team couldn't possibly live without him for more than 2 games.<br />
<br />
The NFL and the Baltimore Ravens want us all to think that they did the right thing today by taking action against Rice and unveiling a new "policy" on domestic violence. Don't let them fool you. All they have done is sent a message that violence against women is okay. Or at least it's okay until you get caught on video.<br />
<br />
Shame.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-30829798214064824062014-08-31T13:35:00.002-04:002014-08-31T13:35:48.024-04:00Scars I have three scars along the left side of my body: one on my shoulder, one on my elbow and one on my knee. They are the result of an unfortunate rollerblading accident about 18 years or so ago... My first time ever on rollerblades. No helmet. No knee pads. No elbow pads. And no wrist pads. Stupid, I know. But I was trying to impress a boy.<br />
<br />
Jason was his name. And to this day, whenever I catch a glimpse of one of these three scars, I think about him.<br />
<br />
Jason was a year ahead of me in high school. Mostly, I saw him around at weekend parties - one of the guys that could buy the rest of us minors our beer and coolers (yes... I drank coolers). But I really got to know him when my then-boyfriend's sister started dating him, and the four of us would hang out together.<br />
<br />
I remember this one time, in the middle of winter, my parents went out of town, and the three of them convinced me to have a party at the house. I wasn't much of a rule-breaker (well, except for curfew... I <i>always</i> blew my curfew), but they wore me down. As far as parents-are-out-of-town-high-school-parties go, it was pretty tame. By 1:00 am, everyone was gone except for the four of us. But we weren't done partying. Over and over again, we blasted <i>She Sells Sanctuary </i>by the Cult on my Dad's state-of-the-art stereo system, dancing, singing, and playing air-guitar around the living room, using the coffee table as an <i>ad hoc</i> stage. Then we all stripped down to our underwear, filled the two-man jacuzzi hot-tub in my parents' bedroom, cranked open the window, squeezed ourselves in, and smoked cigarettes and drank beer until 4 in the morning. (Mom and Dad, if you read this blog, I guess I'm busted...).<br />
<br />
By the time of the rollerblading accident, I had been away at university for two years. I was home for a couple of weeks visiting my family and friends. Jason and I bumped into each other at the bar one night. He asked if I wanted to go rollerblading with him sometime. I didn't even own rollerblades, but I said yes. Then I drove to the closest city an hour away to buy a pair at Canadian Tire. The next day, he came to pick me up and we drove down to the beach. He was a pro on those things - skating backwards, sprinting ahead of me, turning around on a dime... I, on the other hand, was a total knob. He very patiently taught me the basics, and off we went to blade around the lake.<br />
<br />
Everything was going great until we came to a pretty steep hill, sloping downwards. "You going to be okay going downhill?" he asked me. "Of course!" I said, not wanting him to think that I couldn't handle myself.<br />
<br />
And then the inevitable happened. I started to pick up more and more speed. I began to panic. Jason was screaming at me, "Use your brake!". I turned my head to see where he was, and somehow swerved onto the gravel shoulder. I fell forward, skidding a few feet and scraping the hell out of myself in the process. When I picked myself up, I had three nasty gashes along the left side of my body: one on my shoulder, one on my elbow, and one on my knee.<br />
<br />
Jason was by my side within seconds, helping me up and making sure nothing was broken. Once we had determined that I would live, we both started laughing, and he screamed out, "That was AWESOME!" Then he led me back to his truck so that I could get home and clean up my wounds (which involved a considerable amount of painful gravel extraction).<br />
<br />
That was the last time I ever saw Jason. The next day, I hopped on a plane back to Ottawa. A year later, my parents moved away. I came back to Manitoba less and less as I got more and more busy with school and work. And when I did go home, there wasn't really a reason to drive down to Killarney. And as happened with so many of my high school friends, we didn't really stay in touch. At least not until Facebook came along.<br />
<br />
Today, I learned that Jason passed away. Turns out that he was battling cancer. I've been gone so long that I didn't even know that.<br />
<br />
It's true that we didn't keep in touch. And I didn't know any of the details about his life for the past two decades. Still, the rollerblading and hot tub episodes are two of my favourite memories of life with the high school gang. I've recounted these stories often throughout the years. And I've thought of Jason often too. Like every time that I look down at one of my three scars.<br />
<br />
You had too little time on this earth, Jason. And during what time you did have, we may not have been the closest of friends. But you left an indelible mark. On my left shoulder. On my left elbow. On my left knee.<br />
<br />
And on my whole heart.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, my friend.<br />
<br />
P.S. Fuck cancer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-27023516546219992692014-07-23T08:28:00.001-04:002014-07-23T08:28:51.997-04:00Sexy Back on a Tuesday night in OttawaMy 17-yr-old niece is not talking to me anymore. Because last night, <i>I</i> was at the JT concert. And she was not.<br />
<br />
Now to be completely honest, I didn't even realize that JT was touring. Hell, I didn't even realize that he put out a new album. These days, I think of him more for his guest appearances on <i>The Tonight Show</i> with Jimmy Fallon (that #hashtag skit makes me cry every time). Plus, I'm a Springsteen fan. I live in the blue collar world of the musical anti-hero, and not in the glammed-up world of pop/R&B. Still, when the opportunity came up to see JT, I jumped on it. Cause, well, it's JT. And let's face it, ladies. He is one good-looking man!<br />
<br />
And an extremely talented one! He can sing, he can dance, and most importantly, he can play the guitar. Is there anything in this whole wide world more attractive than a man with a guitar? I don't think so. Am I right, ladies?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1FEL30lLFY1PLWT9qKHzufmVGUcQvABU-Ico9LJNQt-G9quNbq3aUQwxcQ1lnm7SjOU5hZBWfGrffxvxfRNcHJ5AeRBnOWJWv62iBta1YCtbSOl2hlMpx-DVHDxw_s3nz01qiDrE6lw/s1600/IMG_3961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1FEL30lLFY1PLWT9qKHzufmVGUcQvABU-Ico9LJNQt-G9quNbq3aUQwxcQ1lnm7SjOU5hZBWfGrffxvxfRNcHJ5AeRBnOWJWv62iBta1YCtbSOl2hlMpx-DVHDxw_s3nz01qiDrE6lw/s1600/IMG_3961.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pulling out his guitar. Oh my...</td></tr>
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<br />
Oh no, wait a minute... there is. And it's a man with an undone bow tie and a slight southern drawl who travelled across the crowd on a mechanical, elevated stage so that he could do a guitar solo of Elvis' <i>Heartbreak Hotel</i>.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pywLYqMK7mXvkZuTWjmVPZAyOMahnCvhwAJCsL31_YKZuxIatUHwjDVjPgMO1AsiXetIcFVvtTzeZsKXjOsaPO4qyAWdnDp3k8NiH2ewTLS3_B74KaTt5IDm5NQmIDQZBIDBAg6CKNs/s1600/IMG_3974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pywLYqMK7mXvkZuTWjmVPZAyOMahnCvhwAJCsL31_YKZuxIatUHwjDVjPgMO1AsiXetIcFVvtTzeZsKXjOsaPO4qyAWdnDp3k8NiH2ewTLS3_B74KaTt5IDm5NQmIDQZBIDBAg6CKNs/s1600/IMG_3974.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heartbreak Hotel</i> cover - made me a little weak in the knees</td></tr>
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Seriously. I. Lost. My. Mind. I was born in the 70s and raised by a mother who, like all women with a pulse at the time, was in love with Elvis. So a shoutout to the King gave me goosebumps. Not to mention that it was one hell of a classy way to acknowledge his Memphis roots. Because let's face it - without the groundbreaking musical movement that was Elvis, he wouldn't be doing what he does now.<br />
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Props also went out to Michael Jackson, with a cover of <i>Human Nature </i>from the <i>Thriller</i> album. Another album that I grew up with, and a song that I haven't heard in over 20 years. And another classy move to acknowledge the man who was undeniably at the core of the pop music movement. It just felt right that he would honour the memories of two of music's greatest who paved the way for him to do what he does.<br />
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And then, of course, there was his own stuff. Which, admittedly, I'm not all that familiar with. With the exception of the few songs that are on my running list - <i>Sexy Back</i> being one of the best running songs of all time. But you don't have to be familiar with it to appreciate it. Because whether you can sing along to the lyrics or not, that man puts on a show! Yes there is all the dancing and an incredible light show, but what got me about this concert was the floating stage.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2TYF11huAwBpC2JxvfohvNpPyNb8rtDKEoZyR5bA3kxrwgPhUZkiG8Po2FBUrn8Um1PRqNyu2Y_SueyAn_spTxsfCKfeGyVMkaSELHWZLV21Ixlr3hVKIRU3wLbBWxMnjDZ7IYq8aJI/s1600/IMG_3962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2TYF11huAwBpC2JxvfohvNpPyNb8rtDKEoZyR5bA3kxrwgPhUZkiG8Po2FBUrn8Um1PRqNyu2Y_SueyAn_spTxsfCKfeGyVMkaSELHWZLV21Ixlr3hVKIRU3wLbBWxMnjDZ7IYq8aJI/s1600/IMG_3962.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">The stage that "floated" across the entire crowd</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WPHOd0XvZek9SbU2Wa8ZWRSo7_mJDkjK6gwrTDOBeSS8KFpe9WKpK0ON085eyuahessvv3vsG36n-_ZgREJ42QpvWOHligUNiiDQsJuCSFKEOsIIx3YjGLJtwDytnUTBQqCkbKNgVzM/s1600/IMG_3971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WPHOd0XvZek9SbU2Wa8ZWRSo7_mJDkjK6gwrTDOBeSS8KFpe9WKpK0ON085eyuahessvv3vsG36n-_ZgREJ42QpvWOHligUNiiDQsJuCSFKEOsIIx3YjGLJtwDytnUTBQqCkbKNgVzM/s1600/IMG_3971.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reaching out to his fans while travelling across the Canadian Tire Centre</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXCyIS3hQmn_WMKpLdQUt8dzAiOI0_GlBHZDtBxo_kU2rLYyyDEeuwGG6TLOpFKF2HRcPyfFidNa7MegIOZsQHG2DPE-v0Jns0BigTNMNfTWqVBEt4lngHKJcSkrUwYzGaaqM6JpAoY8/s1600/IMG_3969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXCyIS3hQmn_WMKpLdQUt8dzAiOI0_GlBHZDtBxo_kU2rLYyyDEeuwGG6TLOpFKF2HRcPyfFidNa7MegIOZsQHG2DPE-v0Jns0BigTNMNfTWqVBEt4lngHKJcSkrUwYzGaaqM6JpAoY8/s1600/IMG_3969.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was <i>right there</i> in front of us! I'm sure he is waving at me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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A floating stage is cool - no doubt about it. But it's also a way to reach out and "touch" everyone in the crowd. To make them all feel that, no matter where they may be sitting in the stadium, they are just as important to him as those who got lucky enough to get into the first few rows on the floor. Props to you, JT, for this element, and for staying at the back for a few songs before floating back up to the main stage. You made us all feel like you wanted to be an intimate part of <i>our</i> experience, even if just for a minute or two as you floated across the crowd. But it was enough to make us all feel special!<br />
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And a word or two <i>must</i> be said about the incredibly talented musicians and performers backing him up. The Tennessee Kids are outstanding in their own rite. From the back-up vocals to the horn section to the dancers - they bring raw energy and talent to support their front man, and they have fun while doing it! Which guarantees that the crowd will have fun too.<br />
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And speaking of the crowd... Ottawa, I am proud of you. Because let's face it, this city has the reputation for being the place where fun goes to die, in part because Ottawa crowds don't stand at concerts. Worst yet, they get angry at those around them who want to stand and dance. I've even seen security haul someone out - at a Prince concert, no less - just because she wouldn't sit down. It kills me every single time. But last night, for the first time in my 20 years of concert-going in this city, you were on your feet! Every single one of you. From start to finish, the entire crowd, minus a few stragglers here and there, was up. And <i>vibrating</i> with energy. So very un-Ottawa! And so incredible to see. Maybe I just need to come to more pop/R&B concerts!?!?!<br />
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So yes, it was a great night. Proving once again that music is the eternal equalizer, bringing us all together to share a few hours of magic. Well worth the 45 minutes it took to get out of the Canadian Tire Centre parking lot. And well worth the seven cups more of coffee that I am going to have to drain to get through today after such a late Tuesday night.<br />
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A few more snap shots of the night:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnz0ueHrE3YuDFpH2OKQApOX9k8lgSi9gVNgHNU6MTBf7MNEdROvGMwn4863DxazBo2bt7NMj6jpKWn0CpK6Ejg59xtyw-rgPnhY7yRD9uetMwSZwLWto-kMCmQBtfPNfeXje7MIDi_XQ/s1600/IMG_3952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnz0ueHrE3YuDFpH2OKQApOX9k8lgSi9gVNgHNU6MTBf7MNEdROvGMwn4863DxazBo2bt7NMj6jpKWn0CpK6Ejg59xtyw-rgPnhY7yRD9uetMwSZwLWto-kMCmQBtfPNfeXje7MIDi_XQ/s1600/IMG_3952.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's only one way to experience a JT concert, and that is with your best girls! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSxrpRYclKrWp4noxeYGrewdQQDXoQx1Yp8DGyZZLfWHlDO0zIn2Ys9Ib_H591HJf3ff5S8u2_dFtAWz69RlJGT0ZB-TkKBkeHe0ru1bRQqGRFBxszhl0_FnqgKQQnWtD13pTreUvwbk/s1600/IMG_3944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSxrpRYclKrWp4noxeYGrewdQQDXoQx1Yp8DGyZZLfWHlDO0zIn2Ys9Ib_H591HJf3ff5S8u2_dFtAWz69RlJGT0ZB-TkKBkeHe0ru1bRQqGRFBxszhl0_FnqgKQQnWtD13pTreUvwbk/s1600/IMG_3944.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First glimpse of the stage </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1CtvVoYJORmmaYN5Tt0G1dfXvneDe8WZaCrWl1tPMgjdwPgeZxOtvks4cvaSz92lu3oh0VjU1hZImAq4EiKLDipBFjs81h4nujF1P-CFCCQqMdyjSDe8_VRkERjaN2QZVaKeCNThacM/s1600/IMG_3953.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1CtvVoYJORmmaYN5Tt0G1dfXvneDe8WZaCrWl1tPMgjdwPgeZxOtvks4cvaSz92lu3oh0VjU1hZImAq4EiKLDipBFjs81h4nujF1P-CFCCQqMdyjSDe8_VRkERjaN2QZVaKeCNThacM/s1600/IMG_3953.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First glimpse of the man himself</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgCFxZ4rmzlAL7JrZXJB1VJi22EoZnbdRBhqMWJW4H6GG_HZFc7L-b7IWVfw9VxyQe8ytzekKzsbDAs1mEsoQJc3KJ27Ski-ST1t8ShrQLaYNnkH8s4J_RxZaVSm0ZU3bb2Z_aILln7g/s1600/IMG_3954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgCFxZ4rmzlAL7JrZXJB1VJi22EoZnbdRBhqMWJW4H6GG_HZFc7L-b7IWVfw9VxyQe8ytzekKzsbDAs1mEsoQJc3KJ27Ski-ST1t8ShrQLaYNnkH8s4J_RxZaVSm0ZU3bb2Z_aILln7g/s1600/IMG_3954.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crowd was asked to pull out their cell phones. And they did!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5QlB1OFeRu03y8GxKRcVYCeBzMmWx06SB1AV7dCB6d3nUv3cGiPXzzbRwrVmnCv5Abnm6N-QIHB963-c0KfdBDdLvCYbt291-vIQwIGrKnotKCRzu1QdGntlle-PNLtwZaPhzWRYIaw/s1600/IMG_3946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5QlB1OFeRu03y8GxKRcVYCeBzMmWx06SB1AV7dCB6d3nUv3cGiPXzzbRwrVmnCv5Abnm6N-QIHB963-c0KfdBDdLvCYbt291-vIQwIGrKnotKCRzu1QdGntlle-PNLtwZaPhzWRYIaw/s1600/IMG_3946.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The light show</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-32400020772445441842014-06-02T16:55:00.001-04:002014-06-02T16:56:01.271-04:00A non-racer's race report - Ottawa Race Weekend<div class="p1">
On May 24-25 (yes, this blog post is late), hordes of the sweaty, the carb-loading, the hopped-up-on-electrolytes, and the wicking-fabric-and-compression-sock-clad descended on Ottawa as the city celebrated the 40th anniversary of Ottawa Race Weekend. From the 2k, 5k and 10k runs on Saturday evening to the half and full marathons on Sunday morning, 48,000 runners of all shapes, sizes, ages and skill-levels joined together to participate in the fun. </div>
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I was NOT one of those runners. </div>
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If you've read <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2012/07/why-i-wont-train-for-marathon.html" target="_blank">this post</a>, then you know why. If you haven't, what are you waiting for? Go read it!</div>
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(Or read this recap instead:)</div>
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- I'm too non-conformist to do something that has become so mainstream;</div>
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- Some people need the throngs and a training schedule to motivate them. I'm not one of those people; </div>
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- Going for a run is my way of having <i>alone</i> time, and there is nothing less <i>alone </i>than being surrounded by 48,000 strangers;</div>
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- The only sentient being I like to spend time with on my runs is Fergus, who is the BEST running companion. Partly because he keeps unwanted company away from me; and</div>
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- My whole athletic life is best described as one giant injury, interspersed with moments of non-injury.</div>
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So basically, I don't run marathons because I don't like people and because I have convinced myself that my TFL and my knees and my groin and my multitude of other injuries could not withstand the extra mileage without demanding payment in the form of years shaved off my running life. Which means lost time for me to do one of the things I love most in the world - go for early morning runs with Fergus. If I only have a certain number of kilometres left, then I'd rather drag them out for as long as I can. Or at least until Fergus retires his paws. Because let's face it - that furry little gong show needs his exercise or else he will drive Hubby and I to drink more than we already do! </div>
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So THAT is why I did not join the 48,000 runners in their pursuit of the finish line. </div>
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All of that said, I still love Ottawa Race Weekend. Because I love running. And the weekend is a celebration of all things running. It's exciting stuff! Like on Friday morning before the races began, when Fergus and I were out running along the river behind Parliament Hill and were passed by a group of elite runners out for their last "slow-and-easy" run before the marathon. I knew they were elite runners because their "slow-and-easy" pace smoked our own respectable 5:30, making it look like we were merely crawling along. Slow as they made me feel, I got all giddy thinking that I had possibly just shared the path with the soon-to-be winner of the marathon.</div>
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I also have a number of friends who run in the half- and marathon. And so, with the marathon starting at 7am on Sunday, Hubby and I got up bright and early, abandoned the ritual walk with Fergus, and made our way down to the 9-ish-km mark on the course. We wanted to make sure we would get there in time to see the elite runners blow through. And blow through they did, sometime around the 23 or 24 minute mark (I wasn't paying attention to the pace car). With their long strides and effortless breathing, they were pure poetry in motion. About 20 minutes later, the crowd of runners thickened as pace group after pace group made its way down the street, still early enough in the race that the runners were all smiles. Hubby and I saw a few of the friends we had come to see, and excitedly yelled out to them as they ran past. And we cheered for the thousands of people we didn't know, some who were clearly seasoned pros, and others who were obvious first-timers, many of them thanking the spectators as they ran by. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidQ9rscGnocJehQFh7nwYWUl16BO9HKDyJ7UBK-VXCIX2KWSRIHN5uSfo3yMt40AYLOJ05C1mR_GpjkJzZWAkduBuKJd3shdKRZe3NKpQk-j6yuukYiSjVL5WfpyOmvFe2Ak78lC3cuY/s1600/IMG_3653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidQ9rscGnocJehQFh7nwYWUl16BO9HKDyJ7UBK-VXCIX2KWSRIHN5uSfo3yMt40AYLOJ05C1mR_GpjkJzZWAkduBuKJd3shdKRZe3NKpQk-j6yuukYiSjVL5WfpyOmvFe2Ak78lC3cuY/s1600/IMG_3653.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The church on the corner of Fairmont and Wellington marked the 9k-ish mark</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39PT2GhG6-zRZIMNrnXovTL6vxJbPLl6ChjB9FEQJdeLzNF2ZJUYZt1oGSlb8iGXhbOi9SY8KjuLq_FPpCEzDn9bYpv6XRhkHbIXo0xShbz_C07ID0aAFbyB8l2qPKrrwBIK6MpMPE7o/s1600/IMG_3654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39PT2GhG6-zRZIMNrnXovTL6vxJbPLl6ChjB9FEQJdeLzNF2ZJUYZt1oGSlb8iGXhbOi9SY8KjuLq_FPpCEzDn9bYpv6XRhkHbIXo0xShbz_C07ID0aAFbyB8l2qPKrrwBIK6MpMPE7o/s1600/IMG_3654.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Had to round a pretty sharp corner before continuing into Hintonburg</td></tr>
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As the crowd of runners started to whittle down, we headed home where we were greeted by a very excitable Fergus who was not at all impressed that he had not yet had his morning walk. So he and I took off to his favourite place on earth, the Arboretum. After about an hour of working out his demons by playing fetch, swimming and chasing other dogs, we started to make our way home. Except that I'd misjudged the time and our way out of the Arboretum was blocked by the half-marathoners who were now coming down the Queen Elizabeth parkway in droves. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpEMwf-xuVLKr-XzAGqHTB1FqaF8wlBV9IZjftp6PJsIcoBoq_fq79nNLarVU64Z6nbfDEiwJ4DxmgpGVwU_YtqIN8IZS21bBlgUVb8tfmq5zYsJjObt50LOzg9UJ7KwtzjrR1GMgY94/s1600/IMG_3655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpEMwf-xuVLKr-XzAGqHTB1FqaF8wlBV9IZjftp6PJsIcoBoq_fq79nNLarVU64Z6nbfDEiwJ4DxmgpGVwU_YtqIN8IZS21bBlgUVb8tfmq5zYsJjObt50LOzg9UJ7KwtzjrR1GMgY94/s1600/IMG_3655.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The high-point of the half-marathon - Queen Elizabeth Drive is FULL of runners</td></tr>
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While I hadn't intended on it, Fergus and I made our way over to Carling Avenue where I split the next 45 minutes between keeping an eye out for friends of mine who were running the half and keeping Fergus from barking and jumping into the crowd to run along. Thanks to the liver treats I had in my pocket, he was remarkably well-behaved, even earning a few compliments from dog-loving runners as they went by. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZp-hsnSpTXGxSUWnuzT44sUbmenkAzNFJTcSjrFHn92vn9iOtwozRey9o1u7tTrY-joTpBzNu0lcE6frwk5sL9pCeJOf4qQ-JmxMqbVS0aILYUE3mt1oBZJTYghpy7PJUZuSGhMWExs/s1600/IMG_3656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZp-hsnSpTXGxSUWnuzT44sUbmenkAzNFJTcSjrFHn92vn9iOtwozRey9o1u7tTrY-joTpBzNu0lcE6frwk5sL9pCeJOf4qQ-JmxMqbVS0aILYUE3mt1oBZJTYghpy7PJUZuSGhMWExs/s1600/IMG_3656.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The half-marathoners making their way down Carling Avenue</td></tr>
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And Fergus clearly enjoyed the atmosphere. Because when the crowd thinned enough for us to dash across the street to make our way home, he kept pulling me back towards the runners. Clearly, I'm not the only one who gets excited by race weekend in our household!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6T1P-cqBhqLyOzhW1BuNB4nfpolu7w2m9ihifTtg7ye5Vjx230JhT-J83TvSKwwJEl4f_TLLZ2Tu-07PEApUCHurZACtqAFN05wm1vVgWV4ftBX2A73Zju9SpLgwvnaTwLK--M57Baus/s1600/IMG_3659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6T1P-cqBhqLyOzhW1BuNB4nfpolu7w2m9ihifTtg7ye5Vjx230JhT-J83TvSKwwJEl4f_TLLZ2Tu-07PEApUCHurZACtqAFN05wm1vVgWV4ftBX2A73Zju9SpLgwvnaTwLK--M57Baus/s1600/IMG_3659.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm not ready to go yet! There are still lots of runners coming through here!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIBvtBfvT26ZNtlvl5-PkWPb7beahslHYZpQYokrpYCk7ty5-D0ODREyUaLLUkceeIHt3qWoSTuX_uO52icL46hTmzzJzn75MeyVon_rPD1YhgQOnZnSviQYK78nU9QE6KHlU31rN1Rc/s1600/IMG_3657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIBvtBfvT26ZNtlvl5-PkWPb7beahslHYZpQYokrpYCk7ty5-D0ODREyUaLLUkceeIHt3qWoSTuX_uO52icL46hTmzzJzn75MeyVon_rPD1YhgQOnZnSviQYK78nU9QE6KHlU31rN1Rc/s1600/IMG_3657.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So mesmerized by the runners...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
We got home just in time for me to make my way down to the finish line to celebrate with a few friends who had completed the marathon, including Fergus' second favourite running companion - my neighbour, <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/03/running-with-kate.html" target="_blank">Kate</a> - who has taken him out for a few 20+km runs while training for this race. She was positively elated, having broken the 4 hour mark and shaving over 20 minutes off her previous time to set a new PR. So off we went to a local pub for a well-deserved pint (it's tough being a supportive neighbour and spectator!)</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As I sat there and listened to the runners breaking down their races, I couldn't help but be inspired by what they had accomplished. And not just them. Ottawa Race Weekend is filled with stories, big and small, about triumph. Like the fact that the winner of the marathon set not only a course record but a record on Canadian soil with his time of 2:06:54. Or the 22-year-old autistic man who ran his first marathon ever, coming in at 2:39:21 and capturing 28th place. Or the woman we saw wearing a shirt that said "Keep calm and fuck cancer" on the front and "I run for Judy" on the back. Or the runners who thank the spectators for coming out to cheer them on, as though we are the ones doing all the hard work. More than one moment and more than one story brought on goose-bumps, and maybe even a tear or two. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And so, the real lesson here is that I might have to start leaving town on Ottawa Race Weekend. Before I get so inspired that I abandon my disdain for marathon training and jump into the fray myself. Who knows. Maybe you'll see me on the course next year. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Cheer for me if you do, okay? </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-43473317877724954232014-04-30T11:16:00.001-04:002014-04-30T11:16:26.250-04:00It's a girl!<div>
Many couples that we know had the "Honey, I think it's time for us to have kids" conversation. We never did. We knew from the beginning that we weren't the parenting kind. That does not mean, however, that we have not had plenty of conversations about bringing life into our home. Only that we talk about bringing <i>furry</i> life into our home.<br />
<br />
The issue, however, is that Hubby is a cat person, and I am a dog person. [Insert gasp here] So there was an awful lot of talking, but not a whole lot of agreeing. Here are a couple of sample conversations:</div>
<div>
<br />
Me: "I grew up with a dog. It sure would be nice if I had one again."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "No"<br />
<br />
Me: "But you work long hours and I'm here all by myself. I need company!"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "You work long hours too."<br />
<br />
Me: "Not as long as you!"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "That's not really true, is it?"<br />
<br />
Me: "But I'll take care of it! You don't even have to do a thing! I'll walk it, and feed it, and pick up after it, and train it!!!"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "No."<br />
<br />
Me: "My friend just got a wiener dog and he's sooooo cute! Come on! Can we get a wiener dog?"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "No."<br />
<br />
Me: "Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog?"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "No. No. No."<br />
<br />
Me: "Don't you even love me?"<br />
<br />
[long awkward pause]<br />
<br />
Hubby [furrowing his brow in deep concentration]: "Yes. But we're not getting a dog."<br />
<br />
*****************<br />
<br />
Hubby: "Let's get a cat. I grew up with them and I miss having one around."<br />
<br />
Me: "Over my dead body."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "They're not a lot of work, Jay. Not like that dog idea you are always going on about."<br />
<br />
Me: "I hate cats. They're aloof. They lick themselves and then cough up fur balls everywhere. And they track their kitty-litter-soaked paws all over the house. Gross! I'm not having one here."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "They're not that bad, Jay."<br />
<br />
Me: "Yes. They are. They are assholes. They are just waiting for you to die so that they can eat your organs for breakfast."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "What happened to you when you were a kid?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Nothing. Why?"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "You seem a little aggressive about cats. Why are you okay with the ones that we pet-sit for our friends?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Because I know those little assholes are eventually going home."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "You're cold, Jay."<br />
<br />
Me: "Shhhhh..... I'm trying to watch the football game!"<br />
<br />
*************<br />
<br />
... and so on, and so on, and so on...<br />
<br />
I thought <strike>I'd won</strike> the conversations would end when I finally convinced Hubby to get a dog, thanks in no small part to the <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2012/01/streets.html" target="_blank">crazy man running around our 'hood hitting women over the head with hammers</a>. And as I watched the <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2011/08/warning-this-will-be-sappy-post-its.html" target="_blank">ever-deepening bond between Hubby and Fergus</a>, I was sure we both felt that our family was complete. No more conversations about cats! Yay!<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzU4nqnCNNHkQJN1dOflWauNt1WCPpFNGfM-LM6w--fHt2ocALDgOYHNpx2uB5OYHsgIvBV2ThIuoNgQ9AywFailm1GSAv-5I0C-fN6NcAAZZU4BbpiPK78qUWTSMI-WKg5Z44-Eq6f7M/s1600/IMG_0302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzU4nqnCNNHkQJN1dOflWauNt1WCPpFNGfM-LM6w--fHt2ocALDgOYHNpx2uB5OYHsgIvBV2ThIuoNgQ9AywFailm1GSAv-5I0C-fN6NcAAZZU4BbpiPK78qUWTSMI-WKg5Z44-Eq6f7M/s1600/IMG_0302.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our very first family outing, and the very first picture of Hubby and Fergus together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkQ8gICQYHhPM2G-HbYfjf_aiYIkw4eA7iYMOUwTKt3k8LxrmCJk1TBeg4thyczM2E8ZYbwxLIUi7_-41VFEMwQh-Gz6npZBlU6Vyn-3BDm7qdejrRWMCkQ_LP7d3cAwz3nYPZRxcP8k/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkQ8gICQYHhPM2G-HbYfjf_aiYIkw4eA7iYMOUwTKt3k8LxrmCJk1TBeg4thyczM2E8ZYbwxLIUi7_-41VFEMwQh-Gz6npZBlU6Vyn-3BDm7qdejrRWMCkQ_LP7d3cAwz3nYPZRxcP8k/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching t.v. together</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvWPzKPd6ndM7dEBioP9KhFk9hJqEc8nteSy9Eryc_nNYqGM1BRhuTx4lEmvcdUoZDpLU3dfsO20Jmk8kaGADS4jJwVAP86CX1Y0xUfNBN7O1PL5l2CmJEk9RxjHWnnREVOLSvYuqnEk/s1600/IMG_1951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvWPzKPd6ndM7dEBioP9KhFk9hJqEc8nteSy9Eryc_nNYqGM1BRhuTx4lEmvcdUoZDpLU3dfsO20Jmk8kaGADS4jJwVAP86CX1Y0xUfNBN7O1PL5l2CmJEk9RxjHWnnREVOLSvYuqnEk/s1600/IMG_1951.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best friends hanging out and playing in the Arboretum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But as it turns out, <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2012/03/adventures-in-babysitting.html">Mr. Fergus is also a cat person</a>. After pet-sitting a friend's cat for a week (affectionately nicknamed Princess Kitty, but known as Sadie), we discovered that he absolutely loves having a cat around. Particularly <i>this </i>cat. When Sadie left, he pined over her for days and days and days on end, running up and down the stairs as he futilely searched every corner of the house for her, whining and barking the whole time. Which of course, Hubby used against me. Leading to this conversation...</div>
<div>
<br />
Hubby: "Huh. Will you look at that. It looks like Fergus wants us to get a cat!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Shut up."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "Are you really going to say no to Fergus? Look at him! He's miserable and lonely. He needs a little friend around."<br />
<br />
Me: "Shut up."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "Really, Jay. What <i>happened</i> to you?"<br />
<br />
Me: "I'm going to punch you in the face."<br />
<br />
***********<br />
<br />
Things only got worse for me when Sadie came to live with us for a year after her human got an excellent career opportunity in California. The deal was that she would take Sadie back when she returned to Canada. But with each passing day, Hubby became more and more used to having a cat around. And Fergus was more and more thrilled to have a constant companion and playmate (by playmate, I mean something that he could herd up and down the stairs). Even Sadie started to relax into her new setting, getting particularly attached to the F-Bomb, mewling and howling whenever he wasn't around for her to torture.<br />
<br />
Soon, we were a mere month away from our friend's return. As the time drew nearer and nearer to sending Sadie home, I started to dread having to give her back. I worried that her departure would lead to a renewed debate about whether or not to get a cat. I worried that Fergus and Hubby would mope around the house for weeks on end. I even worried that Sadie would be a little sad without her big, dumb, high-strung friend around to mercilessly taunt.<br />
<br />
Damn it!<br />
<br />
And so it was that, over the Christmas holidays, Hubby and I had one more conversation about growing our family.<br />
<br />
Me: "I don't know who will be more depressed when she is gone. You or Fergus."<br />
<br />
Hubby: "Ahem.... Definitely Fergus."<br />
<br />
Me: "I'm not so sure about that. You want to keep her, don't you?"<br />
<br />
Hubby: "Ahem... ahem... Well, Fergus wants to keep her. That's for sure."<br />
<br />
Me: "And you?"<br />
<br />
Hubby: <i>cough, cough, sputter, sputter</i> "<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Yes.</span>"<br />
<br />
*********<br />
<br />
The next day, Hubby sent our dear friend a note that went something like this:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You love Sadie. And Jay and I love Fergus. I know that we all want to do what is right for our pets. They have become best friends, and I worry that separating them may not be the best thing for them. If you agree, Jay and Fergus and I have a loving home waiting for Sadie.</blockquote>
....<br />
<br />
And so now, we have a cat.<br />
<br />
I am still firmly in the dog-person camp. And I still get grossed out by her kitty-litter soaked paws. And I make Hubby clean the kitty litter because I refuse to touch it. But even I have to admit that she has weasled her way into a tiny little corner of my heart. The way she comes running to the door alongside Fergus to greet us when we come home. The way she cuddles up to me as I am doing my post-run stretching routine. The way she curls up in my lap when I'm watching t.v. or reading a book. <br />
<br />
Fine! I admit it. I like her. And I'm glad that we adopted her into our home. She makes our little family complete.<br />
<br />
She may be an asshole. But now she is <i>my </i>asshole.<br />
<br />
Welcome home, Sadie. And thanks, JJ, for making it all possible.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsDFBVMGkID9kqEKSvK6GaZJJIbWwbvWW3xGuxm1nUsu64uoukUiGDQCsKV_vzS0qd6vAiG1RmaI8gEfDCfuKSE_WZY0yYLCIdfJ2HCjZU4fR2_pWrzggKMPgZtGd-G21y1zvh15RhWw/s1600/IMG_3304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsDFBVMGkID9kqEKSvK6GaZJJIbWwbvWW3xGuxm1nUsu64uoukUiGDQCsKV_vzS0qd6vAiG1RmaI8gEfDCfuKSE_WZY0yYLCIdfJ2HCjZU4fR2_pWrzggKMPgZtGd-G21y1zvh15RhWw/s1600/IMG_3304.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadie has become the real boss. She gets the dog bed, the dog hides under the table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRLyXBjuj1OJ7wOeocTu6I3kisQUFUmxNsw1AFVHT_XvRH5yOVHhZ5PzbZILqVOLmboeozH5DKTncc-N4ONFq2gCog9LKEuizsgXyqZTGPCJJ2eeNCI5m1ybX8yJfN_q2pXr3wpB3pbY/s1600/IMG_2823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRLyXBjuj1OJ7wOeocTu6I3kisQUFUmxNsw1AFVHT_XvRH5yOVHhZ5PzbZILqVOLmboeozH5DKTncc-N4ONFq2gCog9LKEuizsgXyqZTGPCJJ2eeNCI5m1ybX8yJfN_q2pXr3wpB3pbY/s1600/IMG_2823.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unless she is in a good mood. Then she will share.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoTKIyZPms-jdklGXPBdOm8clsd9SNT0g5x5voxLna3gry3JSjr5qns2ZiNIYSzVGnG2gsdcZWJXMI7-rPWgMxX_dzkuWWo-0jzhbDO7Q0ClSTccPXtG8Nx28JZYZ6Y0UZzqbWje1SAs/s1600/IMG_3282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoTKIyZPms-jdklGXPBdOm8clsd9SNT0g5x5voxLna3gry3JSjr5qns2ZiNIYSzVGnG2gsdcZWJXMI7-rPWgMxX_dzkuWWo-0jzhbDO7Q0ClSTccPXtG8Nx28JZYZ6Y0UZzqbWje1SAs/s1600/IMG_3282.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I run with Fergus. But I do my post-run stretching with Sadie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGbIyzOZ1VTAa3aWL1i66t-a75kStdn8YuTTwQmLfgHygk5ke9A4ZRvv9DCVnrC0SpmHdFXKRMDc-x7JqMjKUnaBi0KBPxf0akYnnuck1llTDFZkxxd3rhLxW8KMJGiRRGMDUAMft--o/s1600/IMG_3234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGbIyzOZ1VTAa3aWL1i66t-a75kStdn8YuTTwQmLfgHygk5ke9A4ZRvv9DCVnrC0SpmHdFXKRMDc-x7JqMjKUnaBi0KBPxf0akYnnuck1llTDFZkxxd3rhLxW8KMJGiRRGMDUAMft--o/s1600/IMG_3234.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A family moment - Sadie cuddled on my lap and Fergus at my feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgON1iqtuBRX-dofmBIMRp3v5pJZIN-D-Kglq4DAy_-GUV3RJ8bIhdKAZFBISZT85ToxF7U9vrQIitepCZlOxytPMVOdiOkUWvpCqK62I31eYrD0gFjx-nHcn4B1LnFPmOQmIT0FztI55g/s1600/IMG_3254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgON1iqtuBRX-dofmBIMRp3v5pJZIN-D-Kglq4DAy_-GUV3RJ8bIhdKAZFBISZT85ToxF7U9vrQIitepCZlOxytPMVOdiOkUWvpCqK62I31eYrD0gFjx-nHcn4B1LnFPmOQmIT0FztI55g/s1600/IMG_3254.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby and his herd hanging out watching t.v.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjm96naQ8Irf9PrRNLv-LSIGPyhCYLBQAvyzXHUU_xYojeKs7H6tkApllvHk5Q23sMoyNwCcep5XssdSq5LuZFCulm_745tWOFBsxUTNfHydd_KmmTYwyIXBsavDneecOUVsnSAs02ko/s1600/IMG_3488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjm96naQ8Irf9PrRNLv-LSIGPyhCYLBQAvyzXHUU_xYojeKs7H6tkApllvHk5Q23sMoyNwCcep5XssdSq5LuZFCulm_745tWOFBsxUTNfHydd_KmmTYwyIXBsavDneecOUVsnSAs02ko/s1600/IMG_3488.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rare quiet moment - Sadie hunkered down for a nap. She is actually pretty cute when she sleeps.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRs85wbxbxffd8zSNF9K2sVyq924h6bEdNT0lOQlPCPrGXWQ82MCrKPr_XYh9B3ZhKKFK25o1FnEmE0yTZSaW1VsG2y8hUwqb0o2SJGsfHKPA7YQ9rKHHguwzRLZNQBwCxohP9JoWxH9U/s1600/IMG_3317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRs85wbxbxffd8zSNF9K2sVyq924h6bEdNT0lOQlPCPrGXWQ82MCrKPr_XYh9B3ZhKKFK25o1FnEmE0yTZSaW1VsG2y8hUwqb0o2SJGsfHKPA7YQ9rKHHguwzRLZNQBwCxohP9JoWxH9U/s1600/IMG_3317.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a break from chasing and swatting at each other. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-60119750414585519182014-04-06T15:01:00.001-04:002014-04-06T15:01:02.987-04:00Generation Y is the new Generation XA couple weeks ago, a friend of mine shared this video on her Facebook page - Kevin Bacon explaining the 80s to Millennials:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/09q04Dlh7r8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Of course, I had to watch the video. Because like all almost-40 women I know, I <i>love</i> Kevin Bacon. That is because like all almost-40 women I know, I grew up in the 80s. Ahhh <i>Footloose. </i>What girl didn't want to dance with Ren McCormack? Am I right, ladies?<br />
<br />
Being a child of the 80s makes me more than just a Kevin Bacon fan. It makes me a member of Generation X. Which is why this video was particularly amusing. Not only did I rock the parachute pants (watch the video), but I often feel like an out-of-date Gen-Xer who appears irrelevant to the new crew of bold, tech-savvy, short-attention-spanned Generation Y. I mean, I only <i>just</i> figured out Twitter in the past six months!<br />
<br />
At no time did I feel the difference between our generations so acutely as I did last weekend, when I returned to my <i>alma mater</i> - the University of Ottawa - as a guest judge for a 4th-year Public Administration case competition. My job was to play the role of a Minister being briefed on a matter requiring an urgent decision, while group after group of students disguised as public servants led me through a just-the-facts briefing. A policy geek's dream weekend!<br />
<br />
Now as an alumnus of the U of O, I return to campus often enough. But every single time that I do, I am struck by the same thought: "Wow, these kids are just getting younger and younger every year."<br />
<br />
Of course, <i>they</i> aren't getting younger. <i>I</i> am getting older. A fact which became all to clear when I introduced myself to this particular cohort as a proud alumnus of the University who started 20 years ago, prompting one girl to yell out, "Wow! I was only 1!"<br />
<br />
Ouch!<br />
<br />
Let me tell you. A whole lot has changed since she was 1 and I was... um... older than that. First of all, this was my computer:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKTxg5Gg5GiwIatcIgEsxTgeb0JcTMA0EeZ461Qu_eQRdvdiZkvONTb5K7WPVHN8xDBBdnG6sSf9AX9YzpQ2lqFZvORiMzJMaIsX0eLBgDc8K9fXHE-DMDOowXIoxlt1k2Mwa0qrReio/s1600/compaq386sx25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKTxg5Gg5GiwIatcIgEsxTgeb0JcTMA0EeZ461Qu_eQRdvdiZkvONTb5K7WPVHN8xDBBdnG6sSf9AX9YzpQ2lqFZvORiMzJMaIsX0eLBgDc8K9fXHE-DMDOowXIoxlt1k2Mwa0qrReio/s1600/compaq386sx25.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: http://www.garethjmsaunders.co.uk/pc/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It took up an awful lot of room on my desk, it crashed all the time, and it took <i>forever</i> to process a simple command like "save". And it wasn't even connected to the Internet. That's because the Internet was still so new in the early 90s as to render it relatively useless for anything other than email. And if I wanted to use it to check my email account, I had to go to the computer lab, an occurrence so infrequent because no one was really using email back then. We talked to each other over the phone. And by phone, I mean a land line. Or we just hung around the campus bar waiting for each other to inevitably skip class and show up.<br />
<br />
Because the Internet was still in its pre-Google and pre-Wikipedia days, we used the library for research. I spent hour after hour combing through microfiche and journal articles. I threw my back out every two weeks from stuffing 20 hardcover history books into my backpack so that I could write my research papers. Information was never at my fingertips. It was at least a five-minute walk away.<br />
<br />
And this is what passed for classroom technology:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZbloYvQKjre6zosINhw_IhHadbkGbP4JyDQannx2Mi5YGYUpMS83CvRYT0eTcSRprT8814DnbqIWpV3OE7kDdQD9cM80qqLOtmg0ZYv3149n7gtjJIejWlG3KYhePXw18ewnjt7Kl2g/s1600/800px-OHP-sch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZbloYvQKjre6zosINhw_IhHadbkGbP4JyDQannx2Mi5YGYUpMS83CvRYT0eTcSRprT8814DnbqIWpV3OE7kDdQD9cM80qqLOtmg0ZYv3149n7gtjJIejWlG3KYhePXw18ewnjt7Kl2g/s1600/800px-OHP-sch.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transparency_(projection)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That's right. A transparency projector. The professor would photocopy lecture notes onto a transparency and project them onto the wall at the front of the class for us to copy down - with a paper and pen in a notebook - during the lecture. My more "technologically savvy" calculus professor (part of my very short-lived attempt to secure a math minor) would bring clear transparencies, and write on them in "real-time" with coloured markers during the lectures. Pretty big step up from the chalkboards of high school!<br />
<br />
Compare that to what I saw last Saturday when I walked into an undergrad classroom for the first time in almost two decades:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>There was not one note-book, not one pen, not one paper. Save the pieces of paper that <i>I</i> was using to take notes so that I could evaluate the presentations.</li>
<li>Every single student had a laptop or a tablet with a keyboard. So did the professor.</li>
<li>Students used their laptops to build PowerPoint or Prezi presentations. They then hooked up their laptops to the class projector in under 30 seconds, without the help of a tech guy. </li>
<li>There was a class projector. And it is <i>always</i> in the classroom. It's not special ordered from AV services for a once-in-a-while special need. It's the tool of choice for lectures.</li>
<li>During breaks, students were projecting their favourite YouTube videos, most of which seemed to be Lady Gaga videos.</li>
<li>Between presentations, when students weren't using the projector to present, they were using it to scroll through live tweets of the event, for which they created their own hashtag. And it wasn't even distracting for them to read through the tweets <i>and</i> listen to the feedback they were getting from the judges. Cause they are damn good at multi-tasking, those Millennials!</li>
</ul>
It all kind of blew me away. And made me feel old all over again.<br />
<br />
It also made me think a lot about these Millennials, and the impact that they are having on public policy and public dialogue. They are often accused of being lazy, spoiled, self-serving, uncommitted, and apathetic. They don't vote. They don't trust their institutions of government. They question everything. And they don't contribute to public dialogue.<br />
<br />
But I don't think that's true, especially now that I've spent a day with 50-or-so aspiring policy wonks. I think they are trying to find better ways to contribute to public dialogue than the traditional channels to which government clings. I think they are trying to raise legitimate questions, not because they dislike authority, but because they want to affect change. I think they are making use of social networks and forging more connections than any generation before them so that they can advance their aspirations and beliefs. And I think that they have found their identity in being able to use today's technologies and networks to solve complex social problems, and can't really understand why the rest of us aren't jumping on board.<br />
<br />
I left that classroom feeling rather inspired. Public policy <i>is</i> alive and well among this younger generation. They just talk about it in different ways and on different channels. They want to find solutions to complex social problems, but they want to do it using different skills and tools than those we know and understand. And they want to forge new partnerships and new connections to help them make the world a better place.<br />
<br />
I'm feeling pretty hopeful about the future of the public service. I hope they invite me back next year so that I can keep learning from this impressive group of Millennials.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-74211496061452829122014-02-10T21:02:00.000-05:002014-02-11T07:05:59.138-05:00Yah, Mon!This morning, I was here:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrh7u76mjH_RB1Ok7nt5ohAm35CHzu7eHFxMEeHKVBdKZ_zt282u715LM3m2cfhnjIcYNFq7OF0Un7ex0BykIvoyasGCJkU5AQDv_G2LIHh8eflAs0n7buNGiXkwLver_s9QwHlHwVQg8/s1600/IMG_3217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrh7u76mjH_RB1Ok7nt5ohAm35CHzu7eHFxMEeHKVBdKZ_zt282u715LM3m2cfhnjIcYNFq7OF0Un7ex0BykIvoyasGCJkU5AQDv_G2LIHh8eflAs0n7buNGiXkwLver_s9QwHlHwVQg8/s1600/IMG_3217.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter in the Arboretum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One week ago, I was here:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4Bb6xb9-4To3_y8SoA978Q7Y6230X5IHq-DafskRLVlbHrvWPMuuNaPRs3p9EGH4s-5ZWWjMJMymQZMhgZptod40aqnR2Rl1O4_dVVvtR0eGgEBAFVst3vPIbvEK_CfQMRYLTJyL0Bc/s1600/IMG_3141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4Bb6xb9-4To3_y8SoA978Q7Y6230X5IHq-DafskRLVlbHrvWPMuuNaPRs3p9EGH4s-5ZWWjMJMymQZMhgZptod40aqnR2Rl1O4_dVVvtR0eGgEBAFVst3vPIbvEK_CfQMRYLTJyL0Bc/s1600/IMG_3141.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter in paradise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Oh what a difference one week and a four hour plane ride makes.<br />
<br />
Welcome to the <a href="http://theoasisjamaica.com/" target="_blank">Oasis at Sunset Resort</a> in Montego Bay Jamaica. (Admit it, you have that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXjVd0TeOX0&feature=kp" target="_blank">Bobby Bloom song</a> in your head, don't you. You're welcome).<br />
<br />
This is where Hubby and I recently spent seven days and seven nights, basking in glory of +30C weather. Our wee getaway from this year's polar vortex. A chance to kick back, relax, and rejuvenate.<br />
<br />
With my entire family.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's right. We went to Montego Bay with my entire family. Mom, Dad, sister, brother-in-law, niece, nephew, brother, sister-in-law, and us. <i>All </i>ten of us.<br />
<br />
Romantic, n'est-ce pas?<br />
<br />
Well, the truth is that Hubby and I would likely never have chosen a resort vacation if it were just the two of us anyway. Lounging around is not really our thing. Specifically, lounging around is not really <i>Hubby's</i> thing. I have no trouble doing as little as humanly possible for a few days. Hubby, on the other hand, goes squirrly after a couple of hours. Which is why we tend towards more active vacations.<br />
<br />
But this particular trip was not about the two of us. It was about my Dad. And his 60th birthday. Which was actually <i>last </i>year. All he wanted to do was bring the whole family together for a vacation. But <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/01/dad.html" target="_blank">we failed to make it happen</a> in 2013. So we were all bound and determined to make it happen this year. And make it happen we did.<br />
<br />
Here are some highlights:<br />
<br />
<u>Running along the beach</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Everywhere that I go, I bring my running shoes with me. Because there is no better way to get to know a new city than by running through it.<br />
<br />
Except not every city has a travel advisory out stating that you should exercise a high degree of caution due to the high level of violent crime.<br />
<br />
Gulp....<br />
<br />
Okay. So no leaving the resort for me. No problem. Because there's a beautiful beach and a beautiful ocean right outside my cabana door.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6Gjalkow4xzZXEI0FlrwDP7-psuA52q5b71bFNKiiKqTvJ_v5pqS6G2FmNOvMewlubWHMgUZ_2wQcWhP6yqPmD6vRyMOAT1XTbXmKpgETWfw36NlQTqxjqFwaI0chxy8nDQiipoDkd4/s1600/IMG_3140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6Gjalkow4xzZXEI0FlrwDP7-psuA52q5b71bFNKiiKqTvJ_v5pqS6G2FmNOvMewlubWHMgUZ_2wQcWhP6yqPmD6vRyMOAT1XTbXmKpgETWfw36NlQTqxjqFwaI0chxy8nDQiipoDkd4/s1600/IMG_3140.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the beach from my balcony</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
With a view like this, who needs to leave the resort!<br />
<br />
Well, the thing is that the resort is small. Like really small. Like <i>really really really </i>small. To run from one end of it to the other is less than 1km. And since I don't really consider it a workout if I get any less than 5km under my belt, it meant that I had to run back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth again across the beach and through the resort. My route looked like this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTs_N2YePq31mP5rdz73-u-RuLwghEQpuGDcO6w1RRfWF9glJ576va8tq74AOdgblIUbWr9YODGB49YbONl9V7FtyGTQARFJ_kIoHvXGOMpuU8fDMmNBlLCCSrepuy6ajdji9vd3qn_9U/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-02-09+at+12.11.24+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTs_N2YePq31mP5rdz73-u-RuLwghEQpuGDcO6w1RRfWF9glJ576va8tq74AOdgblIUbWr9YODGB49YbONl9V7FtyGTQARFJ_kIoHvXGOMpuU8fDMmNBlLCCSrepuy6ajdji9vd3qn_9U/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-02-09+at+12.11.24+PM.jpg" height="176" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screen shot from my RunKeeper app</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I have to tell you, it's pretty boring to run the same route over and over and over and over again. Every single day. It's almost as monotonous as running on a treadmill, something that I hate so much that I run outside during Canadian winters, even when the temperature hits -40C. The only thing that kept me going day in and day out was the knowledge that I was burning off all those sugary calories from all those pina coladas I was sucking back.<br />
<br />
Then again, I <i>was</i> running along a beach instead of through slush and snow. And I <i>did</i> have the beach all to myself on those early morning runs. Well, almost to myself...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeMgvm--s5OKPVdYHryZFu3Qmt8wqAotIbMdZ2fDSv0NSICC5rJmZrrGVSOjl-ntihXpDsqiSkrpCenaVNiu6oN0q0XBO77wT9Sj6HzoeHWC4aUK6lGvTF_OVokcfRlU4CK_SzEbOgq4/s1600/goats.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeMgvm--s5OKPVdYHryZFu3Qmt8wqAotIbMdZ2fDSv0NSICC5rJmZrrGVSOjl-ntihXpDsqiSkrpCenaVNiu6oN0q0XBO77wT9Sj6HzoeHWC4aUK6lGvTF_OVokcfRlU4CK_SzEbOgq4/s1600/goats.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goats on the beach. Of course!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There was that family of goats frolicking along the shore. But no other humans, which was kind of nice, I guess. And I <i>did</i> get to hop right into the ocean to cool off after each of my sunrise runs, which is a pretty spectacular way to start the day. So I guess running the same loop over and over again wasn't all bad.<br />
<br />
<u>Snorkelling</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
I don't snorkel. Something about putting a tight fitting mask over my face makes the claustrophobe inside of me get a little anxious. Plus, I'm not smart enough to figure out how to put the darn mask on in the first place...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rSJkmlmjq1wfYm2UtH8856jevEarxiaE5YMjiE3d7EEIVod_03PastVHguvIbHvsVwf0fbws1X-WTxEw0vqIt1Tal1Cyn8G7VsQYSMGde6WAckU0Hssv5ZgCaplBb7mFsuxiUtZTsCA/s1600/P1310705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rSJkmlmjq1wfYm2UtH8856jevEarxiaE5YMjiE3d7EEIVod_03PastVHguvIbHvsVwf0fbws1X-WTxEw0vqIt1Tal1Cyn8G7VsQYSMGde6WAckU0Hssv5ZgCaplBb7mFsuxiUtZTsCA/s1600/P1310705.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me... Trying to figure out a snorkel mask. Genius.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then again, I don't get to hang out with my eleven-year-old nephew - who I am convinced is part fish - every day. So I agreed to give snorkelling a try just for him.<br />
<br />
I lasted all of 15 minutes. I'm not a strong swimmer, and couldn't really keep up all that well anyway. And both my mask and my snorkel kept filling up with water, making it difficult to appreciate the bounty of the sea swimming below me. So I gave up, and left the snorkelling to the pros, like my Dad. Who spent hours out there looking at the coral reef, and who never hesitated for even a second when my nephew asked, "Who wants to go snorkelling?" Thanks for saving me from having to go back out there, Dad!<br />
<br />
As for me, well, I took up this position with Hubby:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnq94c9LcNOMfqYKoeT7lR6v76LZw-ntwhkTVFHyfYeLVWt0iK7eh0plthRzHeImC78ghDDHkjpurvlOiTI_BuHYPjtBcCR47tnzHAC3oJ5KAUNY40CAVUVR6c1WLtWp6xtPDQtP-wkQ/s1600/IMG_3152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnq94c9LcNOMfqYKoeT7lR6v76LZw-ntwhkTVFHyfYeLVWt0iK7eh0plthRzHeImC78ghDDHkjpurvlOiTI_BuHYPjtBcCR47tnzHAC3oJ5KAUNY40CAVUVR6c1WLtWp6xtPDQtP-wkQ/s1600/IMG_3152.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And from our poolside perch, we could watch Dad and nephew snorkel through the bay - 2 little dots on the horizon, bobbing up and down, coming up for air every few minutes to excitedly rave about all the different types of fish they found. They were best buddies out there, and it pulled at my heart strings to see them having so much fun.<br />
<br />
<u>The pool</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Having no children of my own, I don't usually hang out at water parks. Plus Hubby hates water. So I didn't really expect to spend all that much time on the resort's water slides.<br />
<br />
But then that pesky nephew of mine begged me to go down the water slides with him. "Just once, Auntie!" And so off I went with him to the top of this monstrosity:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltmIAg0WIEY4y2q24Wgf2W9u6Hrbimv5H7j0YCzFJuc35yU4eU0WA-4XFqE5TFYR4mFlsgc867lPlBxCrWK85rVZLRyWu_1SzUdzhQeqV_uGjJVGTUhlONIIf1jy-wup8Kaziu6Gfrtk/s1600/waterslides.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltmIAg0WIEY4y2q24Wgf2W9u6Hrbimv5H7j0YCzFJuc35yU4eU0WA-4XFqE5TFYR4mFlsgc867lPlBxCrWK85rVZLRyWu_1SzUdzhQeqV_uGjJVGTUhlONIIf1jy-wup8Kaziu6Gfrtk/s1600/waterslides.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I thought I could sneak away after one or two slides. But I didn't really want to. I'd forgotten just how much fun water slides can be. Especially when you are hanging out with an eleven-year-old whose eyes are shining with excitement. And so up and down we went, over and over and over again, racing each other to the bottom of the slides and then hurrying back up the stairs for another go. He even taught me how to go super fast, by lying on my back with my arms by my side and lifting up my bum so that only my shoulders and feet were touching the slide. Less resistance equals more speed. And a bigger splash when you enter the water!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFiMqG7xrJmIHgp6mAzWtymq_uHlR4yqvhmTSjWsGd9Dp5Zjn4lA9LHmpqgby2mpTofdSY09lY8bzFcWj9EJkfdF6KEpeXSsX5CQ_ofXQ-SRheBeTB1zpWRRk43i6tQhoFetq-XKu5Y8/s1600/P2020223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFiMqG7xrJmIHgp6mAzWtymq_uHlR4yqvhmTSjWsGd9Dp5Zjn4lA9LHmpqgby2mpTofdSY09lY8bzFcWj9EJkfdF6KEpeXSsX5CQ_ofXQ-SRheBeTB1zpWRRk43i6tQhoFetq-XKu5Y8/s1600/P2020223.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for my brother-in-law at the bottom of the slides</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When we weren't tearing up and down the slides together, we were hanging out in the pool. Where my favourite thing to do was to lounge around on a tire tube.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFpdyyr3EkWU6qGs56DzMjOEMrZxdH514Rp_-wodwv4IILbInYqsARXKK1kGJH_J6EXU8Od5TATnkPdvOnvLO5L3R5hig9gBTrNHUDQEESs4bVJsfF7jU_oMpHxcPaurDzfqqwe-Kips/s1600/P1310092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFpdyyr3EkWU6qGs56DzMjOEMrZxdH514Rp_-wodwv4IILbInYqsARXKK1kGJH_J6EXU8Od5TATnkPdvOnvLO5L3R5hig9gBTrNHUDQEESs4bVJsfF7jU_oMpHxcPaurDzfqqwe-Kips/s1600/P1310092.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me, gracefully trying to get into the tube</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But my nephew's favourite game was to sneak up to me while I was lounging on said tire tube and to flip me over. So I was particularly happy to watch him get a taste of his own medicine when he and his grandpa were hanging out in the pool:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlscTskSbgpFC3YmzHiXpv68EuLwOx0_LpZKCyEyxjtQ-KWI037rfJAYQEAuZxG0ska6kPYftAYAqS6JtIzoMehwf80oW1_iXsXUoH3vskQ3tYg7lzAAm49Bw-lJ5s1IJjemft_Y3PkI/s1600/IMG_3154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlscTskSbgpFC3YmzHiXpv68EuLwOx0_LpZKCyEyxjtQ-KWI037rfJAYQEAuZxG0ska6kPYftAYAqS6JtIzoMehwf80oW1_iXsXUoH3vskQ3tYg7lzAAm49Bw-lJ5s1IJjemft_Y3PkI/s1600/IMG_3154.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ooops!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
While I spent my fair share of time in the pool with the nephew, there is no doubt that I much preferred being outside of the pool, with my niece. Lounging on a chair, reading a book, sipping a pina colada, and taking the occasional selfie:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwlfsgwryyZ9k_Jerl8sQZiQStdYeppcx-nJeYgXhmPEgVHnCaEiuJTUjP_sFBAG3ClqvtuOmNHPcgbBfgQq7I76G_QsQsLma-Pi_g8-Nf7h9Y9YJwX0XyvglScf-ePRJn6V4ha77_qI/s1600/IMG_3162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwlfsgwryyZ9k_Jerl8sQZiQStdYeppcx-nJeYgXhmPEgVHnCaEiuJTUjP_sFBAG3ClqvtuOmNHPcgbBfgQq7I76G_QsQsLma-Pi_g8-Nf7h9Y9YJwX0XyvglScf-ePRJn6V4ha77_qI/s1600/IMG_3162.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now <i>that</i> is more like it!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01r-kmZURdP9lLqZq3WhGw67g5eZznwb3GAIHs4QJ5vP8OYbRvX3o2gQ0b7CVldUw-8W7WzmXbbv2kddIvXYu0SidmK62TS4hDuDWcewtc-NS_crXwjyBqWmIwNZ-pXlG-nFYx0VSG2E/s1600/P2020219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01r-kmZURdP9lLqZq3WhGw67g5eZznwb3GAIHs4QJ5vP8OYbRvX3o2gQ0b7CVldUw-8W7WzmXbbv2kddIvXYu0SidmK62TS4hDuDWcewtc-NS_crXwjyBqWmIwNZ-pXlG-nFYx0VSG2E/s1600/P2020219.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stranger, my sister, me, and Dad</td></tr>
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<u>Private beach</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
The Oasis is part of the larger Sunset Resort, and it's a bit of an upgrade to stay there. You get an <i>a la carte</i> restaurant for all three meals instead of a buffet. You get to stay in a cabana instead of in an apartment tower. And best of all, you get a private beach, away from the hustle and bustle of the larger resort. And away from all those people fighting over beach chairs.<br />
<br />
We spent most of our mornings and a few of our afternoons on the private beach. And for the most part, we had it to ourselves. It was fantastic. Peace and quiet, a nice cool breeze coming off the water, and the sound of those bleating goats. The perfect place to catch up on the many books downloaded onto my Kobo.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSmPfbhpnrspZDO3oPpTUdY9uHAsvu8aacjY2j05Iv7GJVAD_wLqTGHkn6ftoQqGPRhVamZiJpYgSgJw_-x1E6c-JsoNE6N8gOTC-d6d3YXxDPfd19FLVNItUHWzMq8potuHxdNIoysc/s1600/P1310714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSmPfbhpnrspZDO3oPpTUdY9uHAsvu8aacjY2j05Iv7GJVAD_wLqTGHkn6ftoQqGPRhVamZiJpYgSgJw_-x1E6c-JsoNE6N8gOTC-d6d3YXxDPfd19FLVNItUHWzMq8potuHxdNIoysc/s1600/P1310714.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riveting!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Incidentally, I tried all week long to get Hubby to get into the water with me. The Bay isn't very deep and it was nice and warm. So I thought for sure I could convince him to come for a dip. But alas, this is as far as he went:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2yD03gV_qFJti7Cg5ZWeXjCRJ9rwKJdoXHtfISJSiYKRiLDHTl2kbYoXyVVQN5SwayxFpvwUSJWE6J-uNYI2sEZ0WGbi9f4NMnaPvgFlLlA-c1GcKijUWeeGi4A4jQBJwK3I9KlEmKfs/s1600/IMG_3142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2yD03gV_qFJti7Cg5ZWeXjCRJ9rwKJdoXHtfISJSiYKRiLDHTl2kbYoXyVVQN5SwayxFpvwUSJWE6J-uNYI2sEZ0WGbi9f4NMnaPvgFlLlA-c1GcKijUWeeGi4A4jQBJwK3I9KlEmKfs/s1600/IMG_3142.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Wouldn't even take his shirt off. Have I mentioned that he hates water?<br />
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At least I got him to pose for a couple of pictures with me, even if I couldn't get him to take off that shirt:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEnu5LJUCcanEpsaj9Df62nRsFgVrnzT295_DHyu8JZv9rYfINLYEEf72p-0wH446DwdHjnn2fyxaFyZdmDu-lfxmbsGjwDKjnGvz-BWDThgJeJCaWZhW0nOuhT_b7zJtzvFFPi7F9dg/s1600/IMG_3149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEnu5LJUCcanEpsaj9Df62nRsFgVrnzT295_DHyu8JZv9rYfINLYEEf72p-0wH446DwdHjnn2fyxaFyZdmDu-lfxmbsGjwDKjnGvz-BWDThgJeJCaWZhW0nOuhT_b7zJtzvFFPi7F9dg/s1600/IMG_3149.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZ4-Tg60FYXXa7B27HrnMk80H1ARzwAIzMBwFw5FUiQ-b5UYfx8NAHRhL5htY8MeHG9p5YZhW5X_XUCqf8fOLawZUvbEBsTQXa780SsEGBVcn_NK3QTeM0JMntv536TDbga3Kvsyg-mI/s1600/IMG_3210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZ4-Tg60FYXXa7B27HrnMk80H1ARzwAIzMBwFw5FUiQ-b5UYfx8NAHRhL5htY8MeHG9p5YZhW5X_XUCqf8fOLawZUvbEBsTQXa780SsEGBVcn_NK3QTeM0JMntv536TDbga3Kvsyg-mI/s1600/IMG_3210.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<u>The local craft market</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
One of my favourite things to do when travelling to a new place is to check out the local market. Markets are so vibrant, the heart of many a city. Whether on the streets of Lima or the cobblestone squares of Bratislava, I have spent many an hour wandering from stall to stall to stall, checking out local wares and soaking in the aromas of local foods. And so Hubby and I were thrilled to learn that we could hire a taxi to take us into town to check out the local markets. We rallied the troops and set off for a couple of hours of shopping and people watching.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoIk0-TUzeP8CIbOujKA3n2wYh5wF9UUujnQqiPEsguXZuxvtt71iC8FZlJh7pBQlxoEpDb-CNoasfPOhH_BTEb8bdV3ahirjvsR0xU67LefNTq9ui1zh5c7tZyJ4G6m1ow3VqWXuv1w/s1600/IMG_3190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoIk0-TUzeP8CIbOujKA3n2wYh5wF9UUujnQqiPEsguXZuxvtt71iC8FZlJh7pBQlxoEpDb-CNoasfPOhH_BTEb8bdV3ahirjvsR0xU67LefNTq9ui1zh5c7tZyJ4G6m1ow3VqWXuv1w/s1600/IMG_3190.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What 16-year-old girl doesn't want to go shopping?</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrO1oIoE4b3g2M30QXDU4VAw3Lwv1ZU4Cu2Y_z3KPC1UYHOSh6zsyhAvDXiMJPLyRMaSw7hBEFJySqQzvNs-JEfEFWWNBv3_YdoDKkI1-Khimtu4LrKwQVbMsSb1zyVTJIa3BmYV39jA/s1600/IMG_3192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrO1oIoE4b3g2M30QXDU4VAw3Lwv1ZU4Cu2Y_z3KPC1UYHOSh6zsyhAvDXiMJPLyRMaSw7hBEFJySqQzvNs-JEfEFWWNBv3_YdoDKkI1-Khimtu4LrKwQVbMsSb1zyVTJIa3BmYV39jA/s1600/IMG_3192.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby and Mom gearing up for some good deals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRFGjXZuu9mb4TlGZPw8Ip_Y0O_spoRwk0sA_LkbTWAnCzKoYS9qiFtgGT7Bf8Pj796hBxMKpALmHUSghF5xpYHdEWQO2nGZRvEe0NIodyrLih-y1MLcZ-035y8H2hjBdk5FcEMg5wp0/s1600/IMG_3193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRFGjXZuu9mb4TlGZPw8Ip_Y0O_spoRwk0sA_LkbTWAnCzKoYS9qiFtgGT7Bf8Pj796hBxMKpALmHUSghF5xpYHdEWQO2nGZRvEe0NIodyrLih-y1MLcZ-035y8H2hjBdk5FcEMg5wp0/s1600/IMG_3193.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother and sister-in-law ready to spend some dough!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Now like with any market, I expected that there would be lots of vendors trying to dupe tourists into buying junk. And this one was no different. Each and every stall carried an array of identical stuff - carved wooden snappers and turtles, woven bracelets, messenger bags, photos of Bob Marley, all of which looked to have been mass produced in China. But I was not prepared for just how aggressive things got at the market. The minute the taxi pulled up and the doors opened, vendor after vendor after vendor jumped all over our group, pulling all of us in separate directions to go and see their stalls first. "My lady, my lady! Please let me show you what I have." "Sir, bring your wife over here when you are done. You promise, okay?" "I have better prices over here. You come to my stall." It was overwhelming. And I quickly learned that the preferred tactic of every vendor was to practically push you into their stall and block your exit until you bought something. A few of the ladies even offered me "free" gifts if I would buy something from them. One went as far as to tie a bracelet on my arm, despite my protestations, which I had to forcefully remove as I muscled my way out of her stall. I just didn't like it at all. By the time the taxi driver came back to pick us up, I could have hugged him, I was so happy to be taken away from there.<br />
<br />
Hubby, on the other hand, was in his element. He's a lawyer, after all, and so arguing and negotiating are two of his favourite things. While the rest of us were getting visibly more and more frustrated, Hubby played it cool and let vendor after vendor lead him from stall to stall, looking over piles of stuff before calmly making an offer for something that caught his eye, and then even more calmly walking away when the vendor wouldn't accept his price. He had vendors chasing him across the entire market, practically throwing their wares at him for a fraction of their original prices. "Sir, sir, I can give it to you for 10$. But you can't tell anyone else that I gave you this deal. Promise me that you won't tell anyone else!"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2Ev7vbod1on5eS2XU_56phDkgHf_iTI2REzjCv--PF287aM0G9q0VCnjHWmJmu64Sm3vv3U7mANc1uDbZjydRPbqfe_IFfNnZ6mzSpXhyI5z9gqG-l_wowssvP1c667QCNxW64KDFvI/s1600/IMG_3195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2Ev7vbod1on5eS2XU_56phDkgHf_iTI2REzjCv--PF287aM0G9q0VCnjHWmJmu64Sm3vv3U7mANc1uDbZjydRPbqfe_IFfNnZ6mzSpXhyI5z9gqG-l_wowssvP1c667QCNxW64KDFvI/s1600/IMG_3195.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the market from the safety of my taxi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<u>Swimming with Dolphins</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Ever since she was a little girl, my niece wanted to go swimming with dolphins. So when my sister and her family booked a trip to Dolphin's Cove in Ocho Rios, I decided to tag along for some quality time with the kids.<br />
<br />
You had the option to swim with either one or two dolphins. Sis and I chose one while my brother-in-law, the kids and Dad chose to swim with two. The big difference is that when you swim with two, you lie face down in the water and the two dolphins swim towards you, plant their noses on the balls of your feet, and push you forward and up until you "walk on the water like Jesus Christ", in the words of the dolphin trainer. We watched as my Dad and nephew took turns giving it a try, but neither one of them was lifted straight up. More like they were propelled forward until they nose-dived back into the water. But then when it was my niece's turn, up she went, like a freaking pro, arms out over her head like she'd been doing this her whole life. I screamed out loud as soon as I saw it, I was so impressed. But what really got me wasn't her acrobatic, aquamarine grace. It was her smile. Her face lit up in the biggest smile that I have ever seen. I've never seen her look quite so happy. I wish I had a picture, but there are no cameras allowed in close range, and you have to saw off your right arm to pay for those taken by the staff. So the memory of that smile will have to do.<br />
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As for my sister and I, we got paired up with dolphin Mitch, the alpha male of the herd. Mitch is the sire of five baby dolphins in the cove, all of which have five different "baby-mamas". Bit of a Casanova, is Mitch! Our swim with him consisted of treading in place and tapping the surface of the water to call him over, at which point he swims up right between your arms, you grab onto his pectoral fins, and he drags you a few metres. Belly to belly with a dolphin for a few metres. Not something I ever really expected to do in this lifetime, and probably not something I would have done were it not for those kids. So thanks, niece and nephew, for this one of a kind memory!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxBIp--x0cHDCd1zKBooGL584nk8UHmQrPb_A4u9_4HTljCloBqKFfecj9TKzqY4PW7Bj_ZAcNEZGnJTNyE8SCW0nT72caI4LwmnLzaCHHni8A1jHMdniESoUigkexfHu-UFfc7yU2WE/s1600/P2030332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxBIp--x0cHDCd1zKBooGL584nk8UHmQrPb_A4u9_4HTljCloBqKFfecj9TKzqY4PW7Bj_ZAcNEZGnJTNyE8SCW0nT72caI4LwmnLzaCHHni8A1jHMdniESoUigkexfHu-UFfc7yU2WE/s1600/P2030332.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't see a thing, but this is the cove where people swim with the dolphins</td></tr>
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<br />
<u>SuperBowl</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Who goes and books a family vacation during SuperBowl?!? Well, we do. Which had a few of us football fans worried that we would miss the big game.<br />
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Not to worry. As soon as we checked in, Hubby and I asked the resort staff if they would be showing the SuperBowl anywhere, and they assured us that there would be a big beach party, complete with traditional SuperBowl fare. But then they went a step further, and set up a private room just for our family. Two t.v.'s, our very own chili, nachos, and chicken wings, and a bartender coming in to check up on us. Talk about service!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjab8hZoFlVmVlsWFG__q6H5c9pu27s1BetHjHVnEtiQKyNgQvmEUMa0wHlBEuloHipiuHl-U7Hx5ffPjL80PR15QKkfP0p81bubMijhEEo-TC7VqH3Wrrzd4YBZw-1OBqaVEkq6Pt8VN8/s1600/IMG_3197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjab8hZoFlVmVlsWFG__q6H5c9pu27s1BetHjHVnEtiQKyNgQvmEUMa0wHlBEuloHipiuHl-U7Hx5ffPjL80PR15QKkfP0p81bubMijhEEo-TC7VqH3Wrrzd4YBZw-1OBqaVEkq6Pt8VN8/s1600/IMG_3197.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice set up - just for us!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ebAivTVSqjLekr36HlvKWVSTh4I8Ok4Syctud2OodywDEN92j86l6828XUX5F25D_pJoxgUYOL9hLDwxn-w4fZ-zJr3BhB2wMgyl7174gQhb2hNLI1UwumZB9MBDKl3XB5etpqgmsaw/s1600/IMG_3198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ebAivTVSqjLekr36HlvKWVSTh4I8Ok4Syctud2OodywDEN92j86l6828XUX5F25D_pJoxgUYOL9hLDwxn-w4fZ-zJr3BhB2wMgyl7174gQhb2hNLI1UwumZB9MBDKl3XB5etpqgmsaw/s1600/IMG_3198.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bringing in the food!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_039CdsWgZCESM4lhWe3JSfJnYxHcrFzOveG3-zXGThZhR4PfrlbzyhM6kW13M4ND2lpoePLWZGD9pTFfufzkVBAy0VV2dN6zvkVIZ_9rLOJ9uY_SBrRCK3UQBJRiOx7un-ESWt4rL3c/s1600/IMG_3199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_039CdsWgZCESM4lhWe3JSfJnYxHcrFzOveG3-zXGThZhR4PfrlbzyhM6kW13M4ND2lpoePLWZGD9pTFfufzkVBAy0VV2dN6zvkVIZ_9rLOJ9uY_SBrRCK3UQBJRiOx7un-ESWt4rL3c/s1600/IMG_3199.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perfect SuperBowl food!</td></tr>
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Now if only the game would have been a little more entertaining.<br />
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<u>Sistas!</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
I always knew that there was a strong family resemblance between my sister and I. But I didn't realize just how strong it was until I was walking alongside the pool with my nephew and a lifeguard screamed out, "Hey! Where's your sista?" About five minutes later, my sister and I walked by the same lifeguard, and he started exclaiming to his colleagues, "Hey! There they are! The sistas!" "They ain't sistas! They twins!" the other lifeguard hollered.<br />
<br />
And so it was that for the rest of the week, my sister and I were known by staff and guests alike as "The Sistas". Everywhere we went, we were asked if we were twins, and had to explain that we were in fact separated by two years. On more than one occasion, my sister was even mistaken for me or vice verse.<br />
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So you be the judge. Do we really look that much alike?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOOnK9mF5bTcUjM2lQl4UKloqYv6wmNHSW_a5NbfEnC7HrJ2Q8knQTv7q-og2ZHM5Ad9jUXlfaHhv0Kf8dvraQcxsggJhGz22j9yathypfEhK8ULeTpmoNAL21X9nBegh63gSDc8m8qc/s1600/IMG_3107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOOnK9mF5bTcUjM2lQl4UKloqYv6wmNHSW_a5NbfEnC7HrJ2Q8knQTv7q-og2ZHM5Ad9jUXlfaHhv0Kf8dvraQcxsggJhGz22j9yathypfEhK8ULeTpmoNAL21X9nBegh63gSDc8m8qc/s1600/IMG_3107.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<u>Family</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last night together</td></tr>
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Let's be honest. The idea of spending an entire week with one's family can be a little daunting. Especially for the in-laws. In the lead up to our vacation, I may have overheard Hubby once (or ten times) say, "Yeah. We're going to Jamaica. With her <i>whole</i> family." Followed by him mouthing the words "Help me!"<br />
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And who can blame him. We're a crazy bunch. Like all families, we get on each other's nerves. In such close quarters, how could we not drive each other nuts?<br />
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But the thing about my family is that we are pretty tight. My sister is my best friend, and she married a great guy. Their kids are two of the most special people in my whole life, the closest thing I will ever have to children of my own. Being their auntie is probably one of my most satisfying roles. Then there is my brother and his partner, who go out of their way to help us out when we need it. And it's nice to have them in the same city as Hubby and I when everyone else is so far away; it makes me feel a little less isolated. Then there's my parents. It wasn't always easy back in the teenage days of living at home under their rules. But once I got over those awkward pubescent years, my parents and I genuinely became friends. Really good friends. And they <i>love</i> Hubby.<br />
<br />
So being together, even on such a small resort where we couldn't easily get away from one another, wasn't really such a chore. It was actually a lot of fun. So fun, in fact, that my cheeks still hurt from laughing so much for seven days.<br />
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So here's to my crazy, loud, water-logged, wonderful family.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie time for uncle and nephew</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw63bW5HdQ9MP8U6nodFOG96HAYnnOMwwyjGy0WGRyMPF6Trb_8FL1zQ4PYcKIzOqHVr4XEZn3y4mDXDJpy4pAKq98xjoPviCxhnPj8_tEjni1C4lkXOQ2bgXn35h6UIS0twK63uaiNyg/s1600/IMG_3116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw63bW5HdQ9MP8U6nodFOG96HAYnnOMwwyjGy0WGRyMPF6Trb_8FL1zQ4PYcKIzOqHVr4XEZn3y4mDXDJpy4pAKq98xjoPviCxhnPj8_tEjni1C4lkXOQ2bgXn35h6UIS0twK63uaiNyg/s1600/IMG_3116.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie time with Auntie</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0PZ76w22sn9OYMGmSSbgt7aDnQlO-NneowujrRsIFNpQmqKyHEOp-xDJxg0EYbbbJ5CMJ5DhLXW1T_x9VEQE4lbbV1-Jmbe5pFiPQY5FmX7vr5vK7RuJGVoWehFK6lAd5yBIa2r8O9o/s1600/IMG_3114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0PZ76w22sn9OYMGmSSbgt7aDnQlO-NneowujrRsIFNpQmqKyHEOp-xDJxg0EYbbbJ5CMJ5DhLXW1T_x9VEQE4lbbV1-Jmbe5pFiPQY5FmX7vr5vK7RuJGVoWehFK6lAd5yBIa2r8O9o/s1600/IMG_3114.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sight not often seen - Mom relaxing with a beer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9Wmh9uNE-aCXqkyzvtAFbvwwzN6JZk5y4UJp_SHyheT4dF9o6e17-eO5KtlDSU-GweDCoEr9Te-z5EPO9zvUt2Vn4uSHqLubOgI2b2Rqg8ItnsQ0mFBpIy2KlU7reIx7nvzHumO0K5Y/s1600/IMG_3176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9Wmh9uNE-aCXqkyzvtAFbvwwzN6JZk5y4UJp_SHyheT4dF9o6e17-eO5KtlDSU-GweDCoEr9Te-z5EPO9zvUt2Vn4uSHqLubOgI2b2Rqg8ItnsQ0mFBpIy2KlU7reIx7nvzHumO0K5Y/s1600/IMG_3176.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother-in-law and niece hamming it up for the camera</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbqrq68tW6zYhpXrOpKTnVIEhVzCft4qMFlDZDIlJx_hbqteY6KbIayrJRrdhYp60064bT3YnShyRIHaMJlQwbsXqPUWOkMgOyWF5GI0zJ2qCOVQLbsT3DoKyxNVneu8T2eZCwFJYP4I/s1600/IMG_3169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbqrq68tW6zYhpXrOpKTnVIEhVzCft4qMFlDZDIlJx_hbqteY6KbIayrJRrdhYp60064bT3YnShyRIHaMJlQwbsXqPUWOkMgOyWF5GI0zJ2qCOVQLbsT3DoKyxNVneu8T2eZCwFJYP4I/s1600/IMG_3169.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby and I</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpVXZagkiEsa5DGMt8wEf_35RWVpbIkj_9C7p45GOG99hHpVetvMSYjdREASlo95X4Y9ZrNeeKDa5QITf2JvzGOgmCxOjk2zVCeiWu4t_afdqULcdq6W-HGgPIBC9f8ahG_tPE7TcTnQ/s1600/Me+and+Adam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpVXZagkiEsa5DGMt8wEf_35RWVpbIkj_9C7p45GOG99hHpVetvMSYjdREASlo95X4Y9ZrNeeKDa5QITf2JvzGOgmCxOjk2zVCeiWu4t_afdqULcdq6W-HGgPIBC9f8ahG_tPE7TcTnQ/s1600/Me+and+Adam.JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That nephew of mine is such a clown</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfamdNKk3LI6GKEg3WfI5Exnhvjzx_ZQqG94-ZOPaLRw3SWGtQWKUFQGsxbl9ez2VocbDdfG9mbSLSwpOaTCvcgXTy62sRlgBimt9y2w6uwX0-9Yi_McMv1x67d3fzJ7Xr686yYIBFmSQ/s1600/_DSC0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfamdNKk3LI6GKEg3WfI5Exnhvjzx_ZQqG94-ZOPaLRw3SWGtQWKUFQGsxbl9ez2VocbDdfG9mbSLSwpOaTCvcgXTy62sRlgBimt9y2w6uwX0-9Yi_McMv1x67d3fzJ7Xr686yYIBFmSQ/s1600/_DSC0002.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa and grand-daugther</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaY9SPuuSPijZdST1VTH15gEX-ULrTTa2Enl0f0UYl2iREkeTAQmy47mu925vHrfSwA5qoWOcRp8PEGBAFVUveaVVZQWTexwEgT0OcNswkkqsLoP-dVu9RZlX3wFDzA4xDP_qrBWnQu9I/s1600/P1300678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaY9SPuuSPijZdST1VTH15gEX-ULrTTa2Enl0f0UYl2iREkeTAQmy47mu925vHrfSwA5qoWOcRp8PEGBAFVUveaVVZQWTexwEgT0OcNswkkqsLoP-dVu9RZlX3wFDzA4xDP_qrBWnQu9I/s1600/P1300678.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing cards with my sis</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjt6w1S8EQbLIPc2ceA0ghsRhV746Ua-wG4-TsNx5jW2VK9hBKVBwMfwmi0M77OkfC0djAYGhnJZ9nm1LCEyZWBrER3CopmdbSHv5Q5Bvb_uMpGc6rHX_lJziphYgrvQM8SCW2Egy_LI/s1600/P1300697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjt6w1S8EQbLIPc2ceA0ghsRhV746Ua-wG4-TsNx5jW2VK9hBKVBwMfwmi0M77OkfC0djAYGhnJZ9nm1LCEyZWBrER3CopmdbSHv5Q5Bvb_uMpGc6rHX_lJziphYgrvQM8SCW2Egy_LI/s1600/P1300697.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie and niece cuddling up</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2AqGGQFNxEQmWTLTAod0qLHMt6u0XjDgp5FefbZuvrLT9RYAIkee882EAERI3Fshrf8hMNa5WXdN1oKdjD3O4UDmk-cTEfSLIB_9Oa6HCymAONm2yyhWgyUf_xqjp0FHETyquVYQl1k/s1600/P2050822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2AqGGQFNxEQmWTLTAod0qLHMt6u0XjDgp5FefbZuvrLT9RYAIkee882EAERI3Fshrf8hMNa5WXdN1oKdjD3O4UDmk-cTEfSLIB_9Oa6HCymAONm2yyhWgyUf_xqjp0FHETyquVYQl1k/s1600/P2050822.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling with Mom</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going for a dip in the waterfall with Dad</td></tr>
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I guess resort vacations aren't that bad after all. Especially if you surround yourself with those you love the most in the whole wide world.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-16535693573719973062014-01-19T21:52:00.001-05:002014-01-19T21:52:03.792-05:00It's a tough life, but someone's got to love a sommelierI like wine. A lot. (Hiccup)<br />
<br />
So you would think that I consider myself one lucky lady to be married to a trained <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sommelier" target="_blank">sommelier</a>. I never have to worry about what wine to serve with what I am cooking, because Hubby takes care of that. I rarely run out of wine because we have a cellar. And I go on all of these great vacations to wine destinations, like <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2012/12/another-year-for-history-books.html" target="_blank">Bordeaux</a>. What the heck is not to love!<br />
<br />
But I gotta tell you... It's not always easy to be married to a sommelier. For instance, I can't enjoy a glass of wine without first being forced to stick my nose deep into the glass to determine its "nose". And I get in trouble when my answer is "grapes". "Come on Jay," Hubby will say with some measure of exasperation. "You must get [insert green peppers or caramel or tobacco or jam or any other appropriate wine smell here]. It's so obvious!" And heaven forbid I have a Malbec when I'm not eating barbecue meat, even if I really just feel like a Malbec. "It doesn't go with white fish, Jay. You can't have a Malbec with that. Here. Try [insert name of wine that goes well with white fish here] instead." Oh, and that wine cellar we have? I'm not allowed to take a bottle from it without first consulting the house sommelier. Seriously. I'm a grown woman, and. I. am. not. allowed. to. choose. wine. from. the. cellar. on. my. own. But don't worry. I <i>am </i>allowed to touch the "every day" upstairs supply whenever I want. "Every day" being code for "the stuff that the dumb girl who doesn't understand wine can have."<br />
<br />
Perhaps the most difficult thing about being married to a sommelier is that Hubby is a member of a wine guild (sounds positively Middle Ages, wouldn't you say). I end up going to an awful lot of wine events, where I am surrounded by a whole lot of people who know a whole lot more than me. With their sophisticated palettes and their love of debating one another about the merits of a super Tuscan over a CĂ´te de Rhone, I haven't got a chance of being the life of the party, a role I hold dear. Because you see, when you are not a wine connoisseur, going to a wine guild event is kind of like being an antelope stumbling right into the lion's den. Chances are pretty good that you <i>will</i> be the centre of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. You're likely to get eaten alive. Especially if the most insightful thing you can say about the glass of wine you are sipping is that it tastes like grapes.<br />
<br />
Yes, as much as I love wine, wine events make me feel positively insignificant. And oh so very out of place.<br />
<br />
But I am a supportive wife. So the same way that Hubby humours my blue collar passions like Springsteen and football, I cater to his love of trying to be the smartest wine professional in the room by going to guild events with him.<br />
<br />
Some of them are really quite fun. Like the "speed dating" event where we worked our way around a room full of wineries, 8 minutes per winery table, sampling their award winning wines. Pretty effective way to get a Tuesday night buzz on in less than an hour, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
And then there was the reception at the Argentinian embassy, where not only did I get to taste about 25 of my favourite varietal (Malbec), but I also met a talented Argentinian artist and purchased some of his beautiful art, which, one of these days, I will actually hang on a wall...<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBEwTGQiNZrlS_cU6AlaC0mD1nV_q7bx1EN5fT46Jsud4WfVEaFHVjtgAlLvKYyxoQgEQ9lP1pE4OwUEUZ6-3Gn6HEMAuGbGxakevmeTmWAEKAlmUAdcFFU_Hs026CHeiQt9FSQwkXbI/s1600/IMG_3092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBEwTGQiNZrlS_cU6AlaC0mD1nV_q7bx1EN5fT46Jsud4WfVEaFHVjtgAlLvKYyxoQgEQ9lP1pE4OwUEUZ6-3Gn6HEMAuGbGxakevmeTmWAEKAlmUAdcFFU_Hs026CHeiQt9FSQwkXbI/s1600/IMG_3092.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But by far, the best guild event is the yearly holiday dinner, refreshingly held after Christmas instead of before, and hosted by one of Ottawa's premier chefs. It is a five course food and wine pairing that makes foodies, sommeliers, and even regular folk like me, weep. And this year's dinner was just last night.<br />
<br />
The first year that we went, I was seriously intimidated at the thought of being seated at a table full of wine experts and being forced into conversations about wine with them. So I adopted a strategy. Trophy wife. I was going to play the part of a trophy wife. Surely that would earn me some attention. Hubby could regale our table mates with stories about wine and I would charm the pants off of them by being the best dressed person and by making people laugh. So I went out and dropped an absurdly high amount of money on a sparkly holiday outfit, complete with new shoes and jewelry. Surely my lack of wine knowledge would go unnoticed!<br />
<br />
It did go unnoticed. But not because of anything I did to divert attention away from my ignorance. But because wine lovers are <i>really, really, really </i>focused on their wine. And they don't really concern themselves with the fact that you can't contribute to the conversation, because they are happy to fill the void with the sound of their own wine-soaked voices. So I spent most of the meal in silence, a remarkably different scenario than most dinners I attend where I can't be shut up.<br />
<br />
Still, dressing up is not something that a football-loving Springsteen fan gets to do very often. It's nice to get all dolled up for a fancy event once a year, even if it doesn't result in me being the centre of attention. So we keep going back. If for no other reason than I like to wear pretty dresses!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2013 dinner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2014 dinner - I don't know why I am squinting so much... This picture was taken before we started drinking all the wine...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And of course, there is the food. It is incredible. Where else would I ever try veal tongue pastrami. Yes, you read that right. And yes, it was <i>delicious</i>. This isn't a food blog, so I didn't take pictures of all of the courses so that I could describe them back to you in vivid detail. Just believe me when I say that no calorie was left behind last night. Even if I have to be in a bathing suit on the beaches of Jamaica in a mere ten-days time.<br />
<br />
And you know what? Over the years, these events have actually become a little less intimidating. Partly because some of Hubby's knowledge is starting to rub off on me (but don't you dare tell him I said that). But mostly because those who know and love wine are simply very passionate people who love nothing more than to share their passion with you. They're not showing off. They're sharing their knowledge in the hopes that you will be as excited as they are and that you will find beauty in the sediment left behind in your wine glass just as they do. And when you finally accept that you don't have to be the centre of attention at each and every event that you attend, you can sit back, relax, meet some pretty fantastic people, laugh a little, and see a whole new and wonderful world unfold in front of you.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah. And you can drink some damn good wine. Wine that tastes and smells like grapes. Damn good grapes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-61548497689571646252014-01-11T10:47:00.001-05:002014-01-11T17:02:55.429-05:00Resolutions? They're not really my style...<div>
Last weekend, my normally two-thirds-empty hip-opening-flow <strike>torture </strike>yoga class was packed. I couldn't salute the sun without hitting at least three people.<br />
<br />
Hubby came home from the gym last Sunday morning, a generally quiet time, commenting on all the duos of brand new training buddies helping each other muddle through a workout using one strange machine after another.<br />
<br />
Earlier this week, one of my colleagues left the office kitchen carrying a big ole' plate of lettuce for her lunch. With no dressing. And washing all those leaves down with water.<br />
<br />
Yep. It's January. The month of self-improvement and resolutions. From spending less money to drinking less coffee to losing 5 pounds once and for all this year to vowing not to lose patience with the kids/husband/colleagues, everyone is making a resolution to be a better person.<br />
<br />
I hate this time of year.<br />
<br />
Okay. That might be a bit of an overstatement. I don't <i>actually</i> hate New Year's. The day itself is always quite lovely. One of my favourite traditions is hosting our annual Levée (a fancy word for open house), when all of our friends and neighbours stop by for some hair-of-the-dog and some made-with-love-by-me appies. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAl-JRASZBotxZ9SDVCkr28Qgux0HbqEr9nrcYVh09TLwMyf4H3zvlsxkuNMLiRWOtQquZiyBnEujI5X9YC9bod-6PQxGbkgYzEbFWqPu7Pnvfp8y_ItpP8UCx2nVjnL51TpsONEYehtE/s1600/IMG_3062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAl-JRASZBotxZ9SDVCkr28Qgux0HbqEr9nrcYVh09TLwMyf4H3zvlsxkuNMLiRWOtQquZiyBnEujI5X9YC9bod-6PQxGbkgYzEbFWqPu7Pnvfp8y_ItpP8UCx2nVjnL51TpsONEYehtE/s1600/IMG_3062.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is always too much food...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVSJjRWFKU926Mi_GJS7NdsbtkZHHabuZXIR3lLDyVryaf74ghCZGY5_8ZD-yLmLYBard-yDg1zZ7tPk98uREbYBfEegbQUw0GwUepI1tplx4kc0guu00eu1j5QfQuaX0y4fkDkACQbM/s1600/IMG_3063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVSJjRWFKU926Mi_GJS7NdsbtkZHHabuZXIR3lLDyVryaf74ghCZGY5_8ZD-yLmLYBard-yDg1zZ7tPk98uREbYBfEegbQUw0GwUepI1tplx4kc0guu00eu1j5QfQuaX0y4fkDkACQbM/s1600/IMG_3063.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And cure your NYE hangover with another drink... or two...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I don't <i>actually </i>hate being surrounded by all new people in my gym and in my yoga studio. Even though I almost got kicked in the head three times during last Saturday's yoga class. And even though I can't find an empty locker in the overly full gym change room. It's a great thing that people are joining gyms and yoga studios and getting more active. And besides, by February, most of them will be gone and I'll have room for full sun salutations again.<br />
<br />
And I don't <i>actually</i> hate vegetables or eating healthy. See? This is an example of last week's lunch. Broccoli, celery, and even spinach hiding in my sandwich. Disgustingly healthy, isn't it?<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEv22DpAPVpNmi-Tp6Wn05UVApbMNIgWOyT6Xj5aoohxkwi2VRtJPxmsUBzzf0fPeVYm7VsrY2huYVs6gDxtzqwXDPS42grn15qJc6mZO1Y3we01X4W8e8-faQI8a__snJTvqgO8HYaQ/s1600/IMG_3067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEv22DpAPVpNmi-Tp6Wn05UVApbMNIgWOyT6Xj5aoohxkwi2VRtJPxmsUBzzf0fPeVYm7VsrY2huYVs6gDxtzqwXDPS42grn15qJc6mZO1Y3we01X4W8e8-faQI8a__snJTvqgO8HYaQ/s1600/IMG_3067.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
No, it's not the day itself or the idea of new beginnings or the idea of being more healthy that I hate. It's the arbitrariness of January 1st as <i>the</i> day to decide to change your life. As though April 12th or July 27th or October 3rd weren't perfectly good days to decide to do something to improve yourself.<br />
<br />
And so, I don't really make any big, meaningful resolutions at this time of year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not that I don't believe that I could be a better person. God knows that there are a million things that I could stand to improve about myself. For instance, I could stop nagging Hubby. I could stop eating so fast that I forget to breathe during ingestion. I could cut back on my wine consumption, even <i>if</i> Hubby is a sommelier. I could stop eating as much sugar as I do, even though I exercise regularly. I could be better with my money, and pause to consider whether I <i>really </i>need a 14th winter jacket before I drop a couple hundred bucks. I could clean my house more than once every couple of months (or at least hire someone to do it for me). I could stop procrastinating and use my time more wisely. I could be more patient, especially with my father-in-law. I could volunteer more. I could try to focus more on the positives in my day rather than the negatives. I could stop complaining. I could find ways to better manage my stress. I could...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...well, you catch my drift.<br />
<br />
But ultimately, I won't resolve to do any of these things. At least not right now. Because, well, I don't like to fail. And of all the New Year's Resolutions that I have ever made - whether it be to stop smoking (something I eventually did in June, by the way) or to lose 5 pounds or to stop drinking wine on week nights or to be kinder to people - I've not succeeded in sticking them out much past January 23rd or so... And it feels awful when I cave. And I don't like feeling awful.<br />
<br />
So instead, I like to focus this time of year on the things that I am looking forward to in 2014. Like:<br />
- our family trip to Jamaica at the end of the month;<br />
- our trip to Croatia later this fall;<br />
- a new Springsteen tour likely to be announced any week now;<br />
- my fifth wedding anniversary, which we plan to spend at the same winery where we spent our honeymoon;<br />
- some key renovations we want to do to our house;<br />
- more runs through the Arboretum with Fergus;<br />
- more laughs with friends and family; and<br />
- more yoga and gym-going and healthy-eating to continue to keep me strong and healthy and fit, even though I don't sleep nearly enough, carry far too much stress, and binge on too much sugar every now and then.<br />
<br />
As for when I'll decide to stop nagging Hubby... Well, I guess that depends when he resolves to stop driving me crazy.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-80404487898056369212014-01-03T19:40:00.000-05:002014-01-03T19:40:00.177-05:00Were you paying attention in 2013?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">About a month ago, I found myself trying to write a holiday letter to send out with our Christmas cards. I gave up and wrote a quiz instead, which I thought might be more fun and quirky than the overly formulaic "2013 was quite the year..." type letter.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For the past hour, I've been trying to write a blog post about 2013 in review. An exercise about as formulaic as writing a holiday letter. So I'm giving up and sharing the quiz with you instead. Also, I'm too lazy to be creative because it is Friday night and there is wine to drink.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At any rate, play along and let's see if you </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">were paying attention in 2013!!!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">************</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Edwardian Script ITC"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A Holiday Quiz</span></u></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">How well do you
know Jay, Hubby and Fergus? Take their holiday quiz and find out! If you creep
them on social media, this should be pretty easy! Answers below!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
Spring 2013, Hubby and Jay embarked on another<a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/and-away-we-go.html" target="_blank"> European adventure.</a> Which
of these cities was <i><u>not </u></i>featured
on their tour?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/the-great-viennese-contradiction-and.html" target="_blank">Vienna,Austria</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/how-to-survive-jet-lag-in-few-easy-steps.html" target="_blank">London,England</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/day-trip-to-bratislava.html" target="_blank">Bratislava,Slovakia</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Prague,
Czech Republic<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">e.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/beer-bratwurst-and-football-sounds-like.html" target="_blank">Munich,Germany</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/05/on-december-1-2012-i-woke-up-at-300-am.html" target="_blank">Why did they go to Europe in the first place</a>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">To
see Springsteen in concert<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jay had never been to Vienna<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Planning
for their retirement<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">To
see if there is good wine in Austria<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Which
musical acts did Hubby and Jay see in concert in 2013?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Pearl
Jam<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bruce
Springsteen <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Imagine
Dragons, Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers and the Cure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Patti
Smyth and the Avett Brothers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">e.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">All
of the above<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
2013, Fergus took his love of herding to new heights when <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/07/love-adrenaline-and-whole-lot-of-barking.html" target="_blank">he chased which big game animal</a>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
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bear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our
neighbour’s 16-year old<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
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elk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
deer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/10/road-trip.html" target="_blank">Our first road trip in our new car was to see Pearl Jam in…</a>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Boston<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Buffalo</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Philadelphia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Brooklyn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jay and Hubby travelled to which cold prairie city for the <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/11/quirky-canadiana-at-its-finest-101st.html" target="_blank">Grey Cup</a> this year? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Winnipeg,
Manitoba<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Calgary,
Alberta<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Edmonton,
Alberta<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Regina,
Saskatchewan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who
played and who won?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jay started a <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2013/08/lasts-and-firsts.html" target="_blank">new job</a> this year with which department?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Canada
Revenue Agency<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Parks
Canada<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Canadian
Heritage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Public
Health Agency of Canada<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hubby won the lead role in a play at the Ottawa Little Theatre. What was the name of
the play?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lost
in Paradise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still
Lost in Paradise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
Another Day in Paradise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Paradise
City<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">For most of 2013, we welcomed a long-term
visitor into our home. Who is she/he?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sadie
the cat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">b.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fritz
the cat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">c.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bella
the husky<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hobbes
the French bulldog<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Answers:
1(d); 2(a); 3(e); 4(a); 5(c); 6(d); 7(Saskatchewan beat Hamilton); 8(d); 9(b);
10(a)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Edwardian Script ITC"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Happy (belated) holidays!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-3872080777215765392013-12-14T08:53:00.000-05:002013-12-14T08:53:01.921-05:00Cold snap<div>
When I woke up this morning, it was -22C, -29C with the windchill. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
People think I'm nuts because I love this weather. I'm outside all the time in it. I walk to and from work in it. I walk the dog in it. I even run in it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Why on earth would you want to go out in that cold?!?" they say.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is my answer:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuDSW9PA3acKqXl58_uABcY3QJUfj94J3O-aax4hFej_Dw2wGp4Q2YRK0HVLT1sL20yMe1W66B5WI9mv06W0XwvbRUpqg96IKeY0UaX6HhQzeYTi1n9tfO4PMNIwiRWbo0Ivkjp4Nw2s/s1600/IMG_2990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuDSW9PA3acKqXl58_uABcY3QJUfj94J3O-aax4hFej_Dw2wGp4Q2YRK0HVLT1sL20yMe1W66B5WI9mv06W0XwvbRUpqg96IKeY0UaX6HhQzeYTi1n9tfO4PMNIwiRWbo0Ivkjp4Nw2s/s320/IMG_2990.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rWts0Dv_uym2Bvm00XAGrpAxZY7hmOcenyR_pxFeKcw_CsjR2opdws_5RWsbajihWvLfHyp__1E6W4BsDLrymfTElAOuYT1fg_lzPepnenzC4yx2xq2rh19k18RzJW_j7_vNu7wDxVM/s1600/IMG_2992.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rWts0Dv_uym2Bvm00XAGrpAxZY7hmOcenyR_pxFeKcw_CsjR2opdws_5RWsbajihWvLfHyp__1E6W4BsDLrymfTElAOuYT1fg_lzPepnenzC4yx2xq2rh19k18RzJW_j7_vNu7wDxVM/s320/IMG_2992.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These photos were snapped this morning at sunrise, while Fergus and I were wandering around the Arboretum at 7:00 am. There was no one else around. We had the place entirely to ourselves. All we could hear was the hard snow crunching under our feet (well, my feet and his paws...). Neither of us were bothered by the cold. I was bundled up in layers of merino wool and my Canada Goose parka, and Fergus has puffed out nicely in his winter coat (which means less dog hair all over my floor!)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was fantastic.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wish every morning could be this spectacular. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Get out there and enjoy winter, folks!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-8105079002199397962013-12-05T17:27:00.001-05:002013-12-05T19:55:42.540-05:00Mourning a heroI once stood in the presence of Nelson Mandela.<div><br></div><div>It was 1998. Mr. Mandela was President of South Africa. He was on a state visit to Canada. He was invited to address the House of Commons. And I was a page in the Senate. </div><div><br></div><div>There are few things glorious about fetching water and papers for members of the Senate. Save this one thing. Parliamentary pages are members of the honour guard of a visiting foreign dignitary. </div><div><br></div><div>I will never forget that moment. Not for as long as I live. There we were. A group of 20 or so House of Commons and Senate pages, gathered in the basement of Centre Block. The Clerks of the respective Houses of Parliament were giving us our instructions. In a few minutes, we were to head upstairs to the foyer. We were to form two lines, through which then-Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Jean Chrétien, and his guest of honour were to walk on their way to the House of Commons. We were to make no noise. No applause, no talk. We were just to stand there like statues and respectfully watch as the greatest man of our time walked by. </div><div><br></div><div>As we waited, we watched the news coverage of his visit. He had spent the morning meeting with Aboriginal leaders. Fitting given the parallels between Canada's reserve system and South Africa's apartheid regime. Cameras rolled as the Prime Minister's car pulled up to the front door of Centre block. We watched as Mandela emerged from the car. That image is forever etched into my mind. Mr. Mandela was wearing a Métis sash, given to him earlier that day by a Métis elder. I was so very struck by this, my own family history being intricately connected with the birth of the Métis Nation in Canada. Somehow, in that moment, I felt connected to this great man. </div><div><br></div><div>On cue, this gaggle of pages of which I was a part made its way to the foyer to form Mandela's honour guard. As we stood there waiting, we <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">were all so nervous. The solemnity and the importance of the occasion was not lost on any one of us. We had all been born into a world in the grip of apartheid. We had all grown up flipping through the pages of our parents' Time Magazine, which, during the late 80s, featured a story every few weeks about the tumultuous South Africa. We had all struggled to understand how it came to be that Nelson Mandela could be thrown in jail, simply because he believed that his people should be treated equally. We all understood the triumph that was finally his when apartheid died. </span></div><div><br></div><div>And then, after standing around for what seemed like an eternity but what was probably really only five minutes, we heard footsteps coming down the hall. We heard voices murmuring in excitement. We saw the millions of flashes from the herd of reporters mulling about the foyer. </div><div><br></div><div>And then we saw him. </div><div><br></div><div>Nelson Mandela. </div><div><br></div><div>The man who spent 27 years in prison for being black. </div><div><br></div><div>The man who never stopped believing in his country's potential. </div><div><br></div><div>The man who had an unending faith in humanity. </div><div><br></div><div>The man with a heart so big and a spirit so indomitable that he forgave those who betrayed him, choosing instead to rebuild a nation rather than to let it be destroyed by hate. </div><div><br></div><div>There, a mere few feet away, stood a hero. Still wearing a Métis sash. </div><div><br></div><div>I am quite sure that I stopped breathing. Beyond all other sounds, I could hear my heart pounding violently. </div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">The Prime Minister, barely noticing that we were there, tried to lead his guest of honour quickly through the foyer. But Mr. Mandela paused. "Hello," he said, nodding in our direction. None of us said a word, having been warned that we were merely to melt into the background. "You are a quiet bunch," he said, his lips curling upward into a smile. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">And then, he stepped away from the Prime Minister and came towards his honour guard. His hands extended in friendship. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said, before turning back to his host. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">As the Prime Minister led him away, our eyes met. He had the warmest and wisest eyes that I had ever seen. He nodded at me. I fought an urge to reach out my hand to touch him. Instead, I mouthed "Thank you" as I shed a silent tear. </font></div><div><br></div><div><div>And just like that, as suddenly as he came around one corner, he disappeared around another, whisked into the House of Commons to deliver what must have been an inspiring address. Although I can not say for sure. I honestly don't remember what he said. I only remember the overwhelming sense of awe that came from being only a few feet away from true - and humble - greatness. </div><div><br></div><div>Today, the awe is replaced with an even more overwhelming sense of sadness that this bright light has been taken from the world. This world where there are so many trivialities. This world that, amidst stories about crack-smoking mayors and over-spending Senators, can seem utterly void of inspiration, direction, and hope. </div><div><br></div><div>How will this world go on without him?</div><div><br></div><div>I do not know. </div><div><br></div><div>But I do know this. Our lives - my life - is better because he walked this earth.</div><div><br></div><div>Rest in peace, Nelson Mandela. You have suffered long enough. It's our turn to demand change. </div><div><br></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-82342511950837766742013-11-28T14:23:00.000-05:002013-11-28T14:24:17.471-05:00Quirky Canadiana at its finest - 101st Grey Cup in ReginaLast Friday, Hubby and I were relaxing at the Ottawa airport bar, having a beer and waiting for our flight to Regina, connecting through Toronto. Flying in winter can be dicey in Canada, but the weather looked good in all three cities, and I had checked the status of the flights before we got to the airport. No delays were reported, and all looked to be clear sailing.<br />
<br />
And then, midway through my beer, I got an alert on my iPhone. AC465 to Pearson delayed. "Oh shit," I muttered. "What's wrong," said Hubby. "Our flight to Toronto is delayed, and we've got a really tight connection to make it to Regina." "Let's go see what this is all about," said Hubby.<br />
<br />
And so off we went to the RapidAir desk. Where an Air Canada agent informed us that heavy winds in Toronto had closed down all but one runway - for inbound and outbound flights - at Pearson. "But don't worry," he said, "we still think you'll make the connection, and we're working on back-up plans just in case. We'll at least try to get you to Winnipeg tonight. And if you don't make it all the way through, we'll put you up in a hotel."<br />
<br />
There was nothing to do but wait. So we waited. We waited while boarding was delayed by 30 minutes. We pulled away from the gate and then waited on the tarmac for another 30 minutes before leaving. We waited while we circled Pearson a few times because the one open runway wasn't ready for us to land yet. Finally, we landed. And it was 9:15 pm. One hour and twenty minutes later than intended. And five minutes after the flight to Regina was scheduled to depart.<br />
<br />
As soon as we could turn on our cell phones, I checked to see if the flight to Regina was delayed. It was showing on time. "We missed it," I said. "Maybe they can get us to Winnipeg tonight and my sister can drive us to Regina tomorrow. It's only a 6 hour drive. I'm sure she won't mind."<br />
<br />
Before Hubby could tell me what a stupid idea that was, one of the air flight attendants announced that the pilot of AC1119 to Regina was holding the plane. She kindly asked those not trying to make this connection to sit back and let those of us who were exit the plane first. This, of course, did not happen. But we made it off the plane quickly enough, and ran through the terminal to the right gate. There were about a dozen of us, all breathlessly handing our boarding passes and i.d. to the gate attendants.<br />
<br />
We've all been on a plane stuck at the gate because it is waiting for the couple of stragglers. I admit it - I <i>hate</i> it when that happens. I usually mutter under my breath at the jerks responsible for making me sit in a plane a minute longer than I have to. So I was quite sure that we would face some fairly surly people when we boarded that plane. I put my head down - to avoid making eye contact - and shuffled onto the plane. But there was no grumbling. Only cheering. "Yay! You guys made it!" and "We were worried you wouldn't get to Regina in time!" and "Thank goodness the pilot held the plane for you!" Hubby and I got high-fives all the way down the row as we made our way to our seats at the back of the plane.<br />
<br />
At any other time of the year, I would be willing to bet that the pilot would not have held the plane. That the passengers would not have so patiently and willingly waited for us, nor cheered us as we boarded. And that Air Canada would not have offered to put us up in a hotel were we not to make it to our destination. But at any other time of the year, the whole nation is not converging onto one city to celebrate that most Canadian and most quirky of events.<br />
<br />
Yes, welcome to Canada in the days leading up to the Grey Cup.<br />
<br />
Those of you <strike>with nothing better to do</strike> who follow this blog know that I am a regular <a href="http://herdinthehood.blogspot.ca/2012/11/birthdays-football-and-being-canadian.html">Grey Cup pilgrim</a>. Even when my team doesn't have a hope of making it there (it's okay, Winnipeg. I know we're rebuilding). And even when it takes me into the arctic chill of Regina in November. After all, that was my excuse for finally purchasing one of these <a href="http://www.canada-goose.com/women/" target="_blank">bad boys</a>:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90T9nJ9u5SDkLCO_kpfFxIEHEoYIjiHF2uzMvwzqRh5lGAEG3AHfQacEFDRsdLPjFXHMD34cSdEkerurnqJtzBNJXe_RH7d0SdGmePF0khT5Z4JL4OluYdDSrJ9HhnMFVz7qutkxfbxU/s1600/IMG_2876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90T9nJ9u5SDkLCO_kpfFxIEHEoYIjiHF2uzMvwzqRh5lGAEG3AHfQacEFDRsdLPjFXHMD34cSdEkerurnqJtzBNJXe_RH7d0SdGmePF0khT5Z4JL4OluYdDSrJ9HhnMFVz7qutkxfbxU/s320/IMG_2876.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I might have spent a small fortune on this Canada Goose parka...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The tight connection through Toronto was not my only challenge in getting to Grey Cup this year. First, there was booking a hotel. Hubby and I tried to book a hotel back in December of <i>last year</i>. But all these Grey Cup tour promoters bought up large blocks of rooms in advance so they could sell ridiculously overpriced ticket-and-room-packages. And with Regina being as small as it is, that meant buying up <i>all</i> the rooms in town. They even bought up all the rooms in hotels that were yet to be built! There was not a room to be had in all of Regina. Even neighbouring Moose Jaw, about 70k down the TransCanada highway, had no rooms available. For a while, it looked like Hubby and I were going to sleep in a snowbank outside of the stadium. Luckily, through a friend of a friend of a friend, we found the one Regina-ite who was <i>leaving </i>town for Grey Cup weekend, and we rented her townhouse. Which turned out to be much better than staying in a hotel anyway. Take that! - all you suckers who paid thousands of dollars to stay at the Super 8!<br />
<br />
Then there was getting the tickets. Season ticket holders in the host city always get first dibs, followed by season ticket holders across the league, followed by the rest of the country. I hold season tickets with a good friend of mine in Montreal, and so I wasn't too worried about getting four tickets. But I didn't realize that we would be offered the worst seats in the whole place. I don't want to complain because at least we got tickets. But those who entered the lottery for the third wave of seats - you know, the guys who get to go <i>after</i> league season ticket holders and who weren't supposed to have any guarantees of even getting tickets - got great seats along the 40 yard-line. Ours, on the other hand, were in the corner of the end zone. In the temporary stands. Where there is absolutely no coverage from that cold, howling, prairie wind. Cra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-p-py! Here's the view:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKWMD0_tbGoM2wATQVmOu5D3cm4bUGxyHcGVvAcsSBMNDyzrDuYtrNzHK7cuQrgJCHITasAscqzOVoD4nUxG5y3BcJXqJY_RJtBviFYXazO_zuu5TToY0rd4LYg_jo8uiDtrCglfobp8/s1600/DSCN0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKWMD0_tbGoM2wATQVmOu5D3cm4bUGxyHcGVvAcsSBMNDyzrDuYtrNzHK7cuQrgJCHITasAscqzOVoD4nUxG5y3BcJXqJY_RJtBviFYXazO_zuu5TToY0rd4LYg_jo8uiDtrCglfobp8/s320/DSCN0005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard to see from way back here... At least that sky is spectacular!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvXM_lkPYvMB1DqYWbpyx_PpqGahnN_2NBBrFw4cdFTO_swPuuAv_eGfLFRHYyGWPNc4zbmXwYpSxMTBhI8wD7bl0JN0Q99K7AaZ6tFC6XzF6DP1IWbZu89Ic0pSkKY0zX6-sdzi3Nm8/s1600/IMG_2947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvXM_lkPYvMB1DqYWbpyx_PpqGahnN_2NBBrFw4cdFTO_swPuuAv_eGfLFRHYyGWPNc4zbmXwYpSxMTBhI8wD7bl0JN0Q99K7AaZ6tFC6XzF6DP1IWbZu89Ic0pSkKY0zX6-sdzi3Nm8/s320/IMG_2947.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It gets cold in those stands! Bundle up!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Okay, so the game-day view kind of sucked. But Grey Cup - even for the most hardened fan of the game like me - is about so much more than these four quarters. <br />
<br />
It's about two great teams who battled hard all year to play in the big game. This year, the Saskatchewan Roughriders in the West, and the Hamilton Tiger-Cats in the East.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcsGp-D-TST8YRtJBR4lkueZcRKdpvWTej6QYRDEn2Dy7Tn8qfUEYlp0EX1JOQ-9cTbPpiFr5qs6B0DyUaror7RBYBcVEq9dXkSKJ325yRIx1yHrqlq6eMxypOr48FH43h5QB6G2tbLQ/s1600/200px-Saskatchewan_Roughriders_logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcsGp-D-TST8YRtJBR4lkueZcRKdpvWTej6QYRDEn2Dy7Tn8qfUEYlp0EX1JOQ-9cTbPpiFr5qs6B0DyUaror7RBYBcVEq9dXkSKJ325yRIx1yHrqlq6eMxypOr48FH43h5QB6G2tbLQ/s1600/200px-Saskatchewan_Roughriders_logo.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXJ9eOohm6P1OWCIXTt6pVap7NWDH8RRI1IbUy4WG97gjDztEvOm-L8RopTm3Y91__z35IzCSIsjItHGY1KFEw07vG89TRZ-3XzHhhEq1HILXMsPvqDD1aN2og_HpQ7f2ybKPv-_Hf6A/s1600/120px-Hamilton_Tiger-Cats_logo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXJ9eOohm6P1OWCIXTt6pVap7NWDH8RRI1IbUy4WG97gjDztEvOm-L8RopTm3Y91__z35IzCSIsjItHGY1KFEw07vG89TRZ-3XzHhhEq1HILXMsPvqDD1aN2og_HpQ7f2ybKPv-_Hf6A/s1600/120px-Hamilton_Tiger-Cats_logo.gif" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">VS.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's about their fans who come from across the country to see them play. In this case, Saskatchewan ex-pats returned to their home province in droves. And the infamous "Box J Boys", who've held season tickets in Box J of Ivor Wynn stadium in Hamilton since its construction, donned their kilts and descended on the prairies.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalquWPCPg5CMQny_3_MOwIdc0Er6Csb1lLuUVbsCbNxU7L0kt6vlttIQQSVop4ARsme9lg9olbR-SJIQK3TvMRkZioCGOl1GGS3ZWaXZIeJrIuHQoHxQaNZi6XxFvsc4HjbKWI9Qsl60/s1600/box_j_boys___Content.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalquWPCPg5CMQny_3_MOwIdc0Er6Csb1lLuUVbsCbNxU7L0kt6vlttIQQSVop4ARsme9lg9olbR-SJIQK3TvMRkZioCGOl1GGS3ZWaXZIeJrIuHQoHxQaNZi6XxFvsc4HjbKWI9Qsl60/s320/box_j_boys___Content.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Photo courtesy of the Hamilton Spectator</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's about all the other devoted (and crazy) CFL fans who don their team colours with pride. Even when their team isn't playing. Even though their team had a <strike>horrible</strike> re-building season. Even when their team doesn't even exist yet (Hubby represented you well, soon-to-be Ottawa RedBlacks).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjGpj0NFUUtOfNtT4HrPs7dhvX8Y7w96yJtCcNIEj7nnCxDPWTDPYnyD_wzFYQKPeX4V3870ltcHiV-oC_aW5cU-E9NbGdG70xLC9oQPFhaFG3lvxqYlZhwm9S5boYAriNk33YCVjUIY/s1600/IMG_2912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjGpj0NFUUtOfNtT4HrPs7dhvX8Y7w96yJtCcNIEj7nnCxDPWTDPYnyD_wzFYQKPeX4V3870ltcHiV-oC_aW5cU-E9NbGdG70xLC9oQPFhaFG3lvxqYlZhwm9S5boYAriNk33YCVjUIY/s320/IMG_2912.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Representing our teams!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's about spending time with old friends, and making new ones along the way. Both of which always seem to involve beer...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyPLh8j34eke8wVVxcBTICF7RRXxGju2D-EjBCp1Xpgz5mOW2JwPtEm9ER2V0RB8fI440L6kJEXi_xyt90rqmKSGFQKW5TpRytt-8ub-5sijaN351wm2hOsbTbZFpZIrstjk2tCZP-QY/s1600/IMG_2913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyPLh8j34eke8wVVxcBTICF7RRXxGju2D-EjBCp1Xpgz5mOW2JwPtEm9ER2V0RB8fI440L6kJEXi_xyt90rqmKSGFQKW5TpRytt-8ub-5sijaN351wm2hOsbTbZFpZIrstjk2tCZP-QY/s320/IMG_2913.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally meeting my fellow Twitter trash-talker. Of course, he <i>has</i> to be a Rider fan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNkfqNx_aBOax_nZuVPWsQQb-31mLGxGLmkrxmPfSlJaYAwd7A1JeyOC1nyo0Ij-XGkgnlpWRZ7M4FLIKxtvxDXK3dY07ZGoTclI_RZWx52-7BOk9a195XqAPLPOtFpugkmEw34dei1hA/s1600/IMG_2917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNkfqNx_aBOax_nZuVPWsQQb-31mLGxGLmkrxmPfSlJaYAwd7A1JeyOC1nyo0Ij-XGkgnlpWRZ7M4FLIKxtvxDXK3dY07ZGoTclI_RZWx52-7BOk9a195XqAPLPOtFpugkmEw34dei1hA/s320/IMG_2917.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a break from the cold outside to come into the Underground Tent and enjoy some music - and beer - with friends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's about meeting some rather interesting characters... Like this guy:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfponNR45n517soB8CCtSjM1yGM3DWz7HyDt2oPEbtShuc9SxHh9vOz3t-T-O5eynHvtDyIhzuQyUoGOCZNAbWJfzhKDqf5YivO21NkHF8sqTjbnwakLaa3IM3QJnK_U7uFWCg90TtxEY/s1600/IMG_2910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfponNR45n517soB8CCtSjM1yGM3DWz7HyDt2oPEbtShuc9SxHh9vOz3t-T-O5eynHvtDyIhzuQyUoGOCZNAbWJfzhKDqf5YivO21NkHF8sqTjbnwakLaa3IM3QJnK_U7uFWCg90TtxEY/s320/IMG_2910.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Simmons. I can't make this up...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
...or this guy, who must have frozen his arse off in those temporary stands:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge265gImERBorGK1lpHobs4GCbuKHhit16hxOEeKKfAuV7X6NFwy6KcGNZu0d5ybNGaSUK9u7c2OS4582P6FymLJfLGQmHFOhp2u0XPrqW4IDnFffKNQZ7vnlEZxU7wtERGDxv9XvZRFE/s1600/DSCN0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge265gImERBorGK1lpHobs4GCbuKHhit16hxOEeKKfAuV7X6NFwy6KcGNZu0d5ybNGaSUK9u7c2OS4582P6FymLJfLGQmHFOhp2u0XPrqW4IDnFffKNQZ7vnlEZxU7wtERGDxv9XvZRFE/s320/DSCN0003.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cowboy Saskatchewan?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's about RiderNation, the members of which are the craziest of the crazy CFL fans (you saw the picture of "Green" Simmons above, right). Especially this year - when the game was on their turf and you could not turn around without running into a wall of green or stumbling over a watermelon. They even got their storybook ending. Hosting only their third Grey Cup, and winning only their fourth, their team - which they so passionately love and support - gave them an early Christmas gift. RiderNation, I'm sure, has never been so pumped. And while it pains this Bomber fan to say it, Congratulations, RiderNation. I really am happy for you (and my fingers aren't even crossed behind my back... mostly because I wouldn't be able to type if they were).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3dvDBYUGDEA0MZ67YNACnjqudjHDGpPfwQwsCofXzgNObob14SeUmZKARhSExh1EQssUuh_VZ4XoDyEMYYGHh2Bc-ohdFyroPhp3qymDejsuz4voik7Xvlg0s5azscbeXReddQgXNX4/s1600/9208113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3dvDBYUGDEA0MZ67YNACnjqudjHDGpPfwQwsCofXzgNObob14SeUmZKARhSExh1EQssUuh_VZ4XoDyEMYYGHh2Bc-ohdFyroPhp3qymDejsuz4voik7Xvlg0s5azscbeXReddQgXNX4/s320/9208113.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Green Mile - RiderNation takes over the streets of Regina after the game<br />
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWA8ekJYEGS2dMtfDgJHutqEFQvs89kR2LdFI6UZbVzDHu-3QPkkCNf2TfrX2TqA3ECJ6NQ2RRsRhrQ48xLXfXAeQVMjd3P7Wlar7xulWe8wIckMjf3plVwFzptn2LOKmkcYmXDxqdfoM/s1600/riders-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWA8ekJYEGS2dMtfDgJHutqEFQvs89kR2LdFI6UZbVzDHu-3QPkkCNf2TfrX2TqA3ECJ6NQ2RRsRhrQ48xLXfXAeQVMjd3P7Wlar7xulWe8wIckMjf3plVwFzptn2LOKmkcYmXDxqdfoM/s320/riders-30.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dwight Anderson hoisting the Grey Cup during a victory parade at the Saskatchewan Legislature<br />
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Even Fergus, who faithfully watches every Bomber game with me, became an honorary member of RiderNation this year. Of course, that's because he was brainwashed by the people who care for him while I'm away... But if sharing this picture doesn't show you how happy I am for you, Rider fans, I don't know what will!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphFeizIEdO1JKykrtSTUn1JsGVXsgpLuGc4ZJE5S2Da22MGyivM27BUDVxKBJcCM2-Bh0h4r2xJESbS5bnf8mMGscE-eWYSWXza-8PhFsenBAeuPURYFnsbPw5nWYPuixQdUWae0ZPmE/s1600/IMG_2918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphFeizIEdO1JKykrtSTUn1JsGVXsgpLuGc4ZJE5S2Da22MGyivM27BUDVxKBJcCM2-Bh0h4r2xJESbS5bnf8mMGscE-eWYSWXza-8PhFsenBAeuPURYFnsbPw5nWYPuixQdUWae0ZPmE/s320/IMG_2918.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Dogs at Camp Ottawa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Grey Cup really is that one week of the year when we all put aside our team rivalries and support one another in our mutual love of Canadian football. We take a time out from our regular lives to embrace our quirkiness. We meet each other again, or we see each other for the first time. We share a few laughs together. We drink beer together. And we do it all in a parka and a pair of sorels.<br />
<br />
Is there anything more Canadian than that?<br />
<br />
Probably not.<br />
<br />
See you next year in Vancouver.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-65005772861128207252013-11-11T18:11:00.001-05:002013-11-11T18:11:13.883-05:00Lest we forgetWhen I was in the first grade, I memorized the poem <i>In Flanders Fields</i> by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-UfOJALuzppKB1pUFZlDgtcWDJJxMuF0PXY9DZvOG2-iUn4jiTuzoUbCT5ueZUSCqPq-r1PMj4jW4BYVmr3_gRZOvn3YeIzOyUXoirjTT4fr-8LOrpAImzrOpqslTz3w7KpYPGsT79A/s1600/19760596-002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-UfOJALuzppKB1pUFZlDgtcWDJJxMuF0PXY9DZvOG2-iUn4jiTuzoUbCT5ueZUSCqPq-r1PMj4jW4BYVmr3_gRZOvn3YeIzOyUXoirjTT4fr-8LOrpAImzrOpqslTz3w7KpYPGsT79A/s320/19760596-002.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of the Canadian War Museum</td></tr>
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I don't specifically remember how I came to learn this poem by heart. I doubt that my teacher would assign a memorization assignment of this scale to a bunch of six year olds, although surely she read it to us. But I do remember the big blue book in which it was published, that I used to carry with me around the house. And day after day after day after day, I would read and re-read and re-read and re-read this one poem, until I knew it's every word without needing to glance at a page. And then I would recite it to my mother, to my father, to my sister, to my baby brother, and to anyone who would listen to me.<br />
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Where did this come from? I honestly don't know. There is no tradition of military service in my family. Grandpa was too young to have served in World War II, and Pepère was so arthritis-ridden that his service was refused. I have no siblings, no uncles, no aunts, no cousins who chose to join the forces. I myself never considered it. </div>
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And yet, for whatever reason, this 15-line poem captured my young girl's imagination like nothing I had read before it. Perhaps it was because it left me with so many innocently child-like questions about why men and women kill each other. Whatever the reason, from the time that I was but a young girl, I have loved this poem. And Remembrance Day has long held a special place in my heart.<br />
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When I was 19 and attending university as a history student, I enrolled in a cooperative education program. My first placement was with the Canadian War Museum as an interpretive tour guide. My job was not only to give tours of the museum, but to do so in period garb to demonstrate the various wartime roles that Canadian women performed throughout our history. I was a colonial camp follower, a World War I nursing sister, a World War II Rosie-the-Riveter, and a member of the Canadian Women's Army Corps. And in these various states of dress, I would lead bus-loads of school-aged children and senior citizen tour groups through Canada's military history. It was a great way to spend my first summer away from home.<br />
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What made this job so special was not the fact that, for the first time in my life, my pay cheque was derived from something other than waiting tables for minimum wage. It was not that I was marrying my deep love of Canadian history with earning my keep. It was not even seeing the look of delight on children's faces when they turned the corner and saw the Spitfire. It was because of the many veterans who I had the honour to meet.<br />
<br />
Like the Korean War veteran, who, in response to a young boy who asked him what all his medals were for, humbly replied, "Those, son, are for eating chocolate bars."<br />
<br />
Like the best friends - both World War II veterans - who were at Dieppe together. One day, I caught them shedding silent tears as they followed me through the Dieppe memorial section of the museum while I gave a tour to a group of grade 7s. When they thanked me for my retelling of this tragic battle, I not-so-silently fought back tears of my own, overwhelmed with the ridiculousness of <i>them</i> thanking <i>me</i>.<br />
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Like the World War II veteran who, when he saw me dressed as a nursing sister, came in the following week with the veil that his wife, a real nursing sister, wore, asking me to wear it the next time I chose this particular costume.<br />
<br />
Like the American naval veteran who, when he saw me dressed as a member of the Canadian Women's Army Corps, started singing to me "All nice girls love a sailor" and proceeded to regale me with stories about the pretty girls he dated when he was in the army.<br />
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Like the World War I veteran, one of only twenty-five remaining in Canada at the time, who told us stories of how, in the trenches of Vimy, he used to have to kill rats with his bayonet.<br />
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Like the former UN Peacekeeper, whose jeep had been overturned by a land mine in Bosnia, but who lived to see the unveiling of the new (at the time) Peacekeeper section of the museum.<br />
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Like the women who could not sign up for combat roles, but who joined the forces to help out in other ways because they wanted to support the Canadian troops.<br />
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It was these brave men and women who made this job the most rewarding that I have ever had. With their humility and with their quiet strength, they touched my heart, each and every one of them.<br />
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Fifteen years later, the make-up of Canada's veteran corps has changed dramatically. The last World War I veteran has passed away. There are fewer and fewer World War II veterans with each passing year, and at the national remembrance ceremony, their dwindling numbers can not but be noticed. There are more blue berets - from Korea and other peacekeeping missions - to be seen in the parade. And of course, there are the men and women who have served in more recent conflicts such as Afghanistan. These veterans are my age. They are younger than me. Some of them are friends of mine.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They are fewer and fewer in numbers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Veteran's parade</td></tr>
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And so, like so many others, on November 11, I pause to remember. To remember my six-year-old's infatuation with a starkly beautiful poem. To remember Norm and Jerry and Nelson and all the other veterans I met during that long-ago summer. To remember the friends of mine who have, much more recently, done a tour of duty in Afghanistan. To remember the sons and daughters who gave their lives so that we could be free.<br />
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And to thank them.<br />
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Lest we forget.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The National Remembrance Day Ceremony</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14713942102009999056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516988968074846574.post-23299687153195776642013-10-24T23:23:00.000-04:002013-10-24T23:23:55.838-04:00Road trip!This past Sunday, Hubby and I were driving through Upper State New York, down the I-85, on our way to Philadelphia to see Pearl Jam play back-to-back shows at the Wells-Fargo Centre.<br />
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I know that you are surprised that I travel to concerts that don't feature the E-Street band. But I do it for love. Hubby is a <i>HUGE</i> PJ fan. It is his all time favourite band. Which explains all those <strike>awful</strike> law school pictures of him with long, scraggly hair, Doc Martins, and plaid shirts... And since Hubby followed me all the way to Europe to see Bruce, I figured it was only fair that I tag along for this ride. Besides, Eddie Vedder's got some serious cred with me. He and the Boss are tight! He gave <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3X5-lsycKds" style="font-style: italic;">this moving tribute</a> to Springsteen when the latter was inducted into the Kennedy Centre. Plus he performed a few songs with Bruce at the Wrigley show in 2012 (I was there - I saw it with my very own eyes!). If he is good enough for Bruce, he is good enough for me!<br />
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And he <i>is</i> good enough for Bruce, who left the swamps of Jersey to come to the concert. See:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cXLPL-80DrZ2LE_HARXIBM5AT7zzwn5b-Q4WKZ709AUTBmoN_VSwOt5ZgYqKl6p8o7QaSeeKiqETL1192xvWFIjhBYOiteDmPyNkV5XRJOm0MrJYJlZUpBS9vmVj50RVYMf9x-RURVE/s1600/BXOzEJrCAAA41Iw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cXLPL-80DrZ2LE_HARXIBM5AT7zzwn5b-Q4WKZ709AUTBmoN_VSwOt5ZgYqKl6p8o7QaSeeKiqETL1192xvWFIjhBYOiteDmPyNkV5XRJOm0MrJYJlZUpBS9vmVj50RVYMf9x-RURVE/s320/BXOzEJrCAAA41Iw.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Confirmed sighting of Springsteen at the Philly Pearl Jam concert on October 22, 2013<br />
Photo credit: @PJ_Updates (Twitter)</td></tr>
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(I went weak in the knees just knowing that the Boss and I were in the same building, watching the same concert.)<br />
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Anyway, I'd never been to Philly, so this road trip seemed like a doubly good idea. Make Hubby happy by seeing his beloved Pearl Jam (once from the Pit and once from the nose-bleed section), and add another push pin to my map of visited U.S. cities. Win-win!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4lRKbeWQulWdciwYxgajfxMlb21l5uz0eWZ4p4qqVoN9HShZ1NCjSJ5NWQuphopkkEkyt63CseRkrZr2mtUyYYwwt3NKQtQ3-el4qAf1_VuFFhqN8m-y25sWRfT0hthyKCRHZYHHSb8/s1600/IMG_2753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4lRKbeWQulWdciwYxgajfxMlb21l5uz0eWZ4p4qqVoN9HShZ1NCjSJ5NWQuphopkkEkyt63CseRkrZr2mtUyYYwwt3NKQtQ3-el4qAf1_VuFFhqN8m-y25sWRfT0hthyKCRHZYHHSb8/s320/IMG_2753.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, we were <i>that</i> close - First night from the Pit,<br />
second row behind the rail. Eddie still looks good.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUu53ISI0pXmX3magPLIHhEaxF1S9twSmKPX54PY9zYo-k0SRxz7A4LRrpUKKloUiTDSbjOjbkVZ6AHcCSAyWs0Fx4S_gUTo_1tqZG6QZbo0BDjGxB4Qkd59XVrP5QZaOZIQQsul6rLs/s1600/IMG_2795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUu53ISI0pXmX3magPLIHhEaxF1S9twSmKPX54PY9zYo-k0SRxz7A4LRrpUKKloUiTDSbjOjbkVZ6AHcCSAyWs0Fx4S_gUTo_1tqZG6QZbo0BDjGxB4Qkd59XVrP5QZaOZIQQsul6rLs/s320/IMG_2795.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A different view on the second night...</td></tr>
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With two of our evenings eaten up by hanging out with 20,000-or-so plaid-clad grungers, there was not a lot of opportunity to explore the Philadelphia night life or food scene. But our days were free to wander around and add to our knowledge about this city.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJIkHc8QqOUeQn_2KZhYu91NfXxnyyFbwZMvQQBE9SvB7r2AXSPQqVFk7VW-lMklyMa0rDhtUKcl9QOGItkmRPwXCJAeD38bAiCQJ4bomgC3hS6x6yP5hOBl4STY2vP9SgdU9CoAFAa8/s1600/IMG_2702.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJIkHc8QqOUeQn_2KZhYu91NfXxnyyFbwZMvQQBE9SvB7r2AXSPQqVFk7VW-lMklyMa0rDhtUKcl9QOGItkmRPwXCJAeD38bAiCQJ4bomgC3hS6x6yP5hOBl4STY2vP9SgdU9CoAFAa8/s320/IMG_2702.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
Here's what I knew about Philly before this week:<br />
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<ul>
<li>there's a movie featuring a Bruce Springsteen song (you <i>knew</i> I was going to work that in somehow);</li>
<li>the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Rocky are from Philly;</li>
<li>the Philly cheese steak is the city's most famous dish; </li>
<li>there's a big ole bell.</li>
</ul>
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Thanks to our trip, I now know a few more things. For instance:</div>
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<u>Philadelphians love their Rocky:</u> Or at least they love that tourists love their Rocky. From postcards to tee-shirts to desk-sized bronze statues to books about how the famous Rocky steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art have inspired millions to believe in their ability to do anything they put their minds to (including kitchily running the stairs), there is no shortage of Rocky in Philly.<br />
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And frankly, who am I to argue with a decades-old tradition of visiting the museum and running the stairs:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Y7ezAqudZbC6a4mLcyvkavlHCZhKt3GPNRSxjH5w6YG2nu2NVe3dL7xZC5UHdawYjnJ369yEZGLgfKdYtuz_DRQO8E58LL2jxqUobPs4ljft1K9HasaEDCgAkq1mSFd5JPr3o1UFMZo/s1600/IMG_2699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Y7ezAqudZbC6a4mLcyvkavlHCZhKt3GPNRSxjH5w6YG2nu2NVe3dL7xZC5UHdawYjnJ369yEZGLgfKdYtuz_DRQO8E58LL2jxqUobPs4ljft1K9HasaEDCgAkq1mSFd5JPr3o1UFMZo/s320/IMG_2699.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
(There's a video of me doing it too, but Hubby wouldn't sing the theme song while I did it, so it's not as entertaining. He can be a jerk like that. At least he snapped some pictures of me jumping up and down victoriously after I smoked him all the way to the top.)<br />
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<u>I still have no idea what a Philly cheese steak tastes like:</u> I couldn't bring myself to eat one. Something about that gooey, processed cheese makes my stomach threaten outright rebellion. Instead, Hubby and I made our way to Reading Terminal Market, which we were told is the oldest covered farmer's market in the U.S., and got ourselves a roasted pork and provolone sandwich from <a href="http://tommydinics.com/">DiNics</a>. It was incredible. And the best part is that after running the Rocky steps, I had absolutely no guilt for having consumed all those delicious calories!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love Park at JFK Plaza</td></tr>
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<u>Philadelphia <i>literally</i> means "brotherly love":</u> I always knew that Philly was called the City of Brotherly Love, but I had no idea why. Are Philadelphians a particularly friendly lot? Is the city full of good Samaritans? It's true that I found everyone I met to be quite friendly and helpful. But it turns out that the word "Philadelphia" is derived from two Greek words - "philos" (love) and "adelphos" (brotherly). Thank you to the kind gentleman running around the Old City dressed like a colonial town crier for giving me the answer to this trivia question! And Sir, I hope you were an actual tour guide of some kind. Otherwise, you were just a touch creepy.<br />
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<u>It is an incredibly charming city:</u> Maybe it is because we stayed in the Old City, where narrow cobblestone streets are lined with beautiful old brown-stones. Maybe it's because of the history - Philly being the cradle of the American revolution - that seeps out of its every pore. Maybe it's because not one, but two rivers run through it. Maybe it's because of the multitude of universities. Or maybe it's because the city has taken great care to preserve its greatest relics and buildings. Whatever the reason, Philly stands out in my mind as the most charming American city I've been to thus far. (Sorry Boston. You had that title right up until this week. At least your baseball team is in the World Series.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nestled in among a block of skyscrapers</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm_L5HUy6R0-iMKp-gHJc4BJyijAHgVbCaCEmOhG951fWUQE8WvRLs5bbEx3zsDSXjV-pPSyvrV8vcy5_VUzfm-ka7XA1iz4_dNcZjtWjqRlDrwwFXJ4ymh_TvOwnAnBCze5JdufC958/s1600/IMG_2778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm_L5HUy6R0-iMKp-gHJc4BJyijAHgVbCaCEmOhG951fWUQE8WvRLs5bbEx3zsDSXjV-pPSyvrV8vcy5_VUzfm-ka7XA1iz4_dNcZjtWjqRlDrwwFXJ4ymh_TvOwnAnBCze5JdufC958/s320/IMG_2778.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Residential street in the Old City</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tomb of many unknown soldiers - British and American - from the War of American Independence</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2foaE-vFziohZnm4sJrRAgpDP4E1npFYg4-C992fdPFk_CzdmGSOtJnqUUZw0KoQ8US2wBA-FQHMBmSWFSayiInbisUqxk2kKC25DV-ldU7J3ck4uR1k829j3HHkmqfxpPkv7pLbTGiI/s1600/IMG_2784.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2foaE-vFziohZnm4sJrRAgpDP4E1npFYg4-C992fdPFk_CzdmGSOtJnqUUZw0KoQ8US2wBA-FQHMBmSWFSayiInbisUqxk2kKC25DV-ldU7J3ck4uR1k829j3HHkmqfxpPkv7pLbTGiI/s320/IMG_2784.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<u>The big 'ole bell has a big 'ole crack in it:</u> Why? Apparently, because it was shoddily made. The crack rendered it unusable. Still, millions flock to stand before it and revel in its emanating aura of freedom. Having stood in front of the remnants of the Berlin Wall, Hubby wonders if perhaps the Liberty Bell's hype is exaggerated. Especially since, at the time that it rang through the streets of Philadelphia, the Founding Fathers all kept slaves. Nonetheless, the Liberty Bell - crack and all - remains an enduring symbol of independence and freedom, and an important part of the American psyche.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBZjsLTs70AsdWhurTA8VTbKhmYy1zBQ4KEMwU4ULB4GIWaoEolaib66VB8mmuy5qWLV9ZomYl5TWoC_hCdUKOpT4Z_AXk3ANRXv6NuB3YVCuOS7m5qsA6eML7QoIpaRRgSAra18MdAY/s1600/IMG_2792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBZjsLTs70AsdWhurTA8VTbKhmYy1zBQ4KEMwU4ULB4GIWaoEolaib66VB8mmuy5qWLV9ZomYl5TWoC_hCdUKOpT4Z_AXk3ANRXv6NuB3YVCuOS7m5qsA6eML7QoIpaRRgSAra18MdAY/s320/IMG_2792.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like my Yuengling moustache?</td></tr>
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<u>Good American beer <i>does </i>exist:</u> Canadians are known for being beer snobs. For good reason. We make good beer. While our American friends make that 4%-alcohol-crap that tastes vaguely like water. So yes, we enjoy haughtily making fun of Budweiser and Coors while we sip on our vast selection of microbrews and the like.<br />
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But it turns out that there is some pretty good beer local to Philadelphia. Like that from the hipster-iffic <a href="http://www.ripsneakers.com/nodding/">Nodding Head Brew House</a>. Or <a href="http://www.yuengling.com/">Yuengling</a>, from the oldest brewery in the United States. And unlike Budweiser, these beers are good. Like really good. I know because I had a few pints. A girl gets thirsty for a good lager when wandering the streets of Philadelphia.<br />
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I'm sure that I could have tried a few more local lagers at any number of breweries or Irish Pubs. And I would have liked to make it over to University City to explore the University of Pennsylvania campus (because I like to make myself feel old by hanging out with college kids). And there is a vibrant museum scene that would have been pretty cool to check out. And it would have been truly awesome to see a football game in Philly. But alas, Hubby and I only had a couple of days off before we had to make the 720km trek back to our everyday lives. And so it could be but a short road trip.<br />
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But we're already looking for our next concert destination. Any ideas?<br />
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