CN Power

Riddle Time folks! What is classified as one of the 7 Wonders of the (Modern) World,  weighs  130,000 tons,  stands 1,815 ft tall, cost $63 million to build over 40 months by 1,500 workers (24/5) and receives 1.5 million international visitors annually?  

Want more?? It gets hit by lightning 75x each year, has a hollow center that was used for the world’s tallest successful egg drop (yes, weird and wonderful) and has been the landmark for raising millions of dollars for in support of wildlife and natural habitats for the past 23 years.

Ok, I’ll shut up. You know it’s the CN Tower.   

On April 27^th, I climbed that bad ass beast for the first time - and perhaps not the last as part of the WWF  Camada Life CN Tower Climb.

Along with a few equally insane friends, we bust out our moves of glory and hit the stairs just past 7am ready to reach the top! It takes the elevator 58 seconds, travelling 20km/h, to reach the glass floor level (our goal). It took us 22:46 to climb almost 2,000 stairs. I’d classify that pretty awesome.

Take that Lanny Potts, Jim Walker and George Schupp.

     

O'Noir

I read a great book serveral years ago called Tongue First: Adventures in a Physical Culture. Essentially a experiement of body behaviour, the author journeys through a number of physical endeavors (from shaving her head to floating in a sensory deprivation tank) to examine how we use, abuse, depend on and deprive our bodies based on varying measures of self-awareness, habits and boundaries. It was cool. 

I thought of that book when developing my list. In particular, when deciding to go to O'Noir, the dinner-in-the-dark restaurant that I went to a few weeks ago, for the First time.

(post yet to be finished, in the meantime - see pic above. The "Exit" sign wasn't even there/visible - that's how dark it was!)

 

Ms. Power's Class Meets Mayor Rob Ford

  

Oh what fun! For the first time, I met a Toronto celebrity ;)

He did not grab my butt.
He did not appear to be on cocain.
He did not solicit for donations.
He did not read the newspaper during our visit.
He did not refer to students as "sucky little kids".
He did not demand that 2 TTC buses pick us up (although the gesture would have been nice)
He did not attack us for taking photos of him.
He did not gay bash.
He did not speak of Ford Nation.
He did not lecture the kids about graffiti.
He did not tell us to drive cars, not bikes.

He did however, not look one of my students in the eye the entire visit. And, he was awfully huge.   

Keep Calm & Can On

It's a SNOW DAY!! As a teacher, I think of being able to enjoy this illustrious Canadian celebration as the ultimate commission. So, as I cozy up at my desk in front of the window white-out for a day of lock-down, I naturally drift toward thoughts of sock slippers and faux fur blankets, spicy Rooibos and baked goods, neglected books, old movies (by that I mean from the 90's) and of course; frequent naps and constant eating. Absolute, blissful hibernation.

Thankfully, for the First time, I stocked my shelves with home-made canned goods earlier this season. Yes friends, my domestic evolution continues. Sometime back in November, I took my First stab at canning pickled beets, garlic-pepper beans, mustard pickles and carrot soup. One would think such a methodical project to be quiet, perhaps even soothing. It seems however, that I'm able to make mayhem of anything.

The day started by dragging my Mom around to a half dozen farms and grocers in and around Brantford. I should have realized at that point how overzealous I was being to can 4 different things on first attempt. I get excited though. Once back at the homestead, the peeling and chopping began. Holy Hanna!! I'm convinced I developed carpal tunnel, dermatitis and some kind of sous-chef aversion syndrome from those dreadful 5 hours. Once my purple stained fingers had gained feeling again, I started sterilizing the jars. Opps, scolding hot water doesn't feel that awesome on tender extremities. Keep calm and can on! Then came the cooking and mixing (relatively easy) followed by the processing set up. Turns out each batch required a different processing time (the time needed for filled/sealed jars to sit in a boil bath to kill-off bacteria), so I could only put a few jars in at a time (at 10, 20 and 30 minutes each turn). Bottom line, a lot of time watching water boil.

Idle time is not my friend. As I watched and waited, I started Googling. "bacteria from canning", "botulism", "food related illness" etc. Curse the Internet. As my paranoia increased so did the boil time. By the last few batches, I was letting the jars sit for almost an hour. The sun set, every pot in my Mom's kitchen remained dirty, my eye lids quivered and my soul whimpered as I strained to accept that I might not be confident enough to eat my own canned goodies....after all that.

A few weeks of research eventually eased my worry and I finally unveiled my hard work. YUM! They were wonderful, I am healthy and so are all of the people who received jars as holiday gifts. (That's right, I'm not goin' down alone!!)

So here I am, snowed-in and thankful for it as I enjoy a bowl of beef stew with a side of pickled beans thinking to myself, "it's just about time for a nap".   


 

Puzzle Party for Two

Today, for the First time, I put together a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle! Not alone though. Along with my talented and charming puzzle partner, we embarked on a 22 hour marathon (minus a nights sleep and only a few breaks for food) to bring the masterpiece you see below to completion. It was enlightening in ways I won't go into and ultimately, so very satisfying. The most exciting part however, is knowing that this is only the beginning. I look forward to fitting many more pieces together. xo

 

 

I blame it all on my Mom!

I spent the first 7 years of my life as a single kid, raised by a single mom.  Living on MacDonnal St. in Peterborough, Ontario, my mom's home town, the two of us lived a humble, dreamy little life. My mother is the most incredibly creative, resourceful person I know. She is brave and energetic and limitless in being able to bring her ideas to life within the most modest context. Our entire universe was a product of her imagination and handy work. The furniture we lived on was refinished and upholstered by her, the pictures on the wall were made from wood and books she had cut up and pasted, the clothes we wore she had sewn; even the neighbourhood we lived in was inspired by her. She used to give all the block kids popsicles in exchange for picking up a bag of street garbage and brought the first flower bed to our street. Seriously - she's totally amazing. I love her for everything she is and for everything she is not.   

One of my greatest memories with my mom was riding in the kiddy seat on the back of her bike. It was so freeing and I felt completely in her care. It was a sense of both comfort and adventure which I find rare to achieve as an adult. When I became too heavy for the bike we advanced to a navy blue Vespa scooter and got matching white helmets. For several years this was our thing. A wee scootin duo kickin around the P.Dot. Little did I realize when she decided to sell the Vespa a decade later (after I said, "no way - I won't drive that thing") that it would be one of my greatest regrets. Needless to say, owning a scooter has been something I've promised myself I will one day do to make up for that. 

Funny story. A few years ago now, I did actually buy a scooter. It was a beautiful, fully restored 1964 cobalt blue Piaggo. I bought it from a friend of an ex boyfriend, but not because I was ready, because when I took it for a test drive one day after work (so cleverly in heels and a tight pencil skirt), I flinched on the clutch, stalled, dropped, scrapped and dented it! It was a break it - buy it purchase that ended up sitting in my neighbour's garage for the next year. It sat because I was grudgful and angry at myself for being such an idiot (idiot!!) and also because, I never got around to getting my M2. I eventually sold it to a nice guy from Hamilton, but remained determined.

On this Fifty2First list, to "get my M2", was intended to make my scooter dreams come true. It turns out though, I own a car. A 1996 purple Saturn, notably with over 260,000km and a black matte hood (another funny story you can ask me in person). Not that having a car prevents me from getting my M2 or a scooter, but the terrible misfortune of my expert skills in acquiring parking and driving infraction tickets apparently does. Tickets are expensive when you reach my level.

Perhaps my childhood sense of road riding "comfort and adventure" has something to do with it? I'm too relaxed for how reckless I am. Regardless, the bottom line is that I will not be getting my M2 this year. With lessons, which I obviously need, it would cost over $400. Instead, I have done the right thing and put my available funds toward my ticket collection. Get ready...

Not my proudest moment, but today, for the First time, I paid 6 tickets at once - totaling $343.25. Ouch! That brings my grand total for 2012 to $1234.36!

16 parking tickets
2 court appearances
2 speeding tickets
1 illegal left turn
1 expired plate sticker
1 illegally used hand held communication device

I'm sure this will all warrant a well deserved "Oh Sarah!!" from my mom. Scornful, but accepting. Similar to when I got a nose piercing at age 15, when she was clearly disappointed, but said only that I would likely get hit by lightening (I had braces at the time) and left it at that. Thanks for loving me for all that I am and all that I am not mom! But mostly, for teaching me to laugh at myself no matter what.

Perfect Strangers

Remember the DOS and DONTS photo section that Vice Magazine used to (or maybe still do) publish?! That stuff was beautiful. It was cutting and offensive (not at all why I liked it), but most importantly, it was a magnified peep show of rawly real people that begged the question of what is "cool". Some may argue that it was a sneaky way to poke fun while desperately trying to define cool, but from my vantage, I just saw a messy collage of people who ultimately all fit under the same headline. Hilarious.

I've had a conversation with many people on many occasions about how Toronto seems to have grown a goiter of a too-cool-for-school vibe in the past while. I hope this isn't just me getting older and crustier, and don't get me wrong, I adore this city, but sometimes it feels a bit serious about itself. Loaded finger pointing (at self or others) is a common symptom of this. Either by claiming fame, "I did it first" (who cares!), or placing blame, (I did not mean for that to rhyme by the way). Maybe it's the pronounced access we have to each other and the flooding forums we share our opinions about him/her/them/it (girl says curtly on her blog). I don't know. Anyway, I'm digressing from what is actually a really chipper entry. 

While I didn't meet my goal of 100 photos, I did exceed my expectations in thrill! A while ago now, I toured Toronto on foot, Keele to Broadview, Front to Bloor, to chum with and take photos of 54 willing strangers. Some of them I had to sweetly convince, others posed and hoped I wrote a fashion blog while others I sat drinking pints with for hours (great meeting you Ed & Harry!) 

Everyone (of course you know what I'm going to say) was a DO!! Here are few that stick out to me. To meet the rest, click HERE. 

Private Dancer

Earlier on in this project I learned the hard lesson that 7 songs is far too long when you're a paying customer. Reverse the roles (and remove the transaction) however and surprising things can emerge. I'm not one for public speaking or any type of live presentation for that matter, but give me a few glasses of wine, a video camera and a Korean muse and boy do I become a performer! That said, I've completed Fifty2First #20 (in my own Tina Turner sort of way). 

I'd originally thought that I might benefit from some expert instruction to harness my bau-chicka-bau-bau. It turns out, according to my one testimonial, that lessons were far from necessary. Acknowledging that I'll never claim Smooth Operator as a stage title, I'm still taking that to mean my sexy moves could not possibly be learned in a class as opposed to lessons wouldn't have made a difference. Right!?

At any rate, 7 songs remains too long, but I can handle 2 pretty well ;)

On the topic of 7....only 7 more Firsts to complete! Stick around.   
   

Tender Totse & The Final Count Down

On this 12th day of the 12th month of the 2012th year, I Sarah Margaret Power pledge to complete this precious project (that I started almost a year and a half ago) over the next 12 days! Yes friends, all I want for Christmas is to finish what I started. 

My intent with this new entry was to throw together some corny lines (as I do) and post a few pics documenting my most recent First. Time is ticking. As I'm writing now though, I realize that I'm way too sentimental to fake a no big deal attitude about my final days as a blogger. So, I've decided to complete Fifty2First #9 - "tell someone how I really feel". It's quite fitting as I have 9 more Firsts in the count down before the curtain closes. So here it is folks, I'm telling - you.   

A few months before I began this Blog I was in a crumby place. Newly fired, cheated on, homeless (living in a friends basement) and feeling pretty sorry myself. A real hot mess. I wanted to feel valid, but had no idea how. This really pissed me off because I'd always thought life was fairly easy. With time of course, that all went away as I learned and rebuilt (as we do).  

So, looking back and looking forward, the most true thing I can tell you is that I feel tender. (A word that makes me think of my friend Andy describing his Sunday hangover - in a good way). That light, vulnerable bounce when everything feels raw and real. I'm tender about my little life and about all the crazy incredible things so much bigger then it. Tender for the people around me and tendered by the guarantee that I'll live through many more hot messes with, without and because of them, but 100% gracious that I get to. 

Oops, didn't fully abandon the corniness after all. Anyway, hold tight (but not too tight, I'm tender) as I race through the next 12 days and 8 remaining Firsts. It's the final count down!
  

Dear Kendra

I’ve been asked what my favorite First is (so far) by a few people. I’m not much for defining things in that way, but I will say that there have been a handful of things that have really made an impact to get me thinking in a new way.  

 

This past May, I experienced a day-in-the-life of a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farmer, and immediately fell in love. She was gentle, giving and forgiving of my fumbling fingers. Dear Kendra is the darling cow I milked for the First time on Val’s CSA farm just north of Toronto.  

CSA is a farming model that was developed in Japan and Europe in the 1930’s to provide security of access/consumption to non-farmers and a consistent/sustainable market to growers.  As a co-op (NOT an organic buying club or home delivery service), CSA provides share holders who invest a set fee at the beginning of the season with locally grown food (or sometimes milk - but there are very strict rules for that).  

Apparently, we could reduce our use of fossil fuel by 1.1 million barrels of oil (per week) if we each ate one locally grown meal a week. If you’re curious, visit the Ontario CSA Directory to get connected with a local farm.      

Anyhoo. Rather than detail my day, which was full of surprises, learning, interesting characters and quirky fun, I’ve put together a little photo strip to tell the tale. NOTE: this First was sweetly set up by my super awesome friend Ben who brought along his alter-ego, Uncle Speedo. If you find Uncle S. as dreamy as I do, you can see more of him on Etsy.  

 

Dr. Brooks & the Magic Fire Truck

People are so incredible. One of my greatest pleasures in life is to meet new people, hear their stories, discover their uniqueness and ultimately; experience some kind of adventure with them. Sometimes these adventures last decades, some only brief moments. The most important adventures for me are the ones I think back to and question; did that really happen?! How was I SO unbelievably lucky to have met that person/people leading to THAT crazy event!? Might as well be magic ‘cause I have no other explanation.  

In Lunenburg, NS, a quaint little coastal fishing village south of Halifax, I had such an adventure. Starting with a polite hand shake and introduction to Dr. Brooks and his lovely wife Cheryl, I was quickly aware that this visit would be all but ordinary when I was casually related to “Sister Sarah”, an alias for a once was brothel babe from Maine. Weird - my favorite.

The adventure gained its true momentum however with a tour of Dr. B’s private replica fire hall. Here’s where it gets unbelievable. This man, an extremely involved volunteer fire fighter and successful psychologist has been collecting fire fighter paraphernalia for decades. Most recently, his “hobby” evolved to include the purchase of 2 fully functioning vintage fire engines. That’s right, he owns 2 fire trucks! Not stopping there though, wife Cheryl skillfully contracted the building of a replica fire hall to store these fine trucks. Of course! Adding to that, the hall has a museum of Dr. B’s private collection and a guest room where we were kindly welcomed to stay.  

Over the course of the 48 hours spent in Lunenburg, I often stopped to exclaim “Can you believe we are here!?” The entire town was like a pulsing movie scene. It seemed only appropriate that before leaving Lunenburg and the Brooks’, we ride around town on the truck.  

Last month, for the First time, I took a private tour around small town Nova Scotia on a fire truck...on one condition; the driver received a kiss of thanks. Easy peezy Sister Sarah ;)

Thank you Will. It was a magical adventure!

Fishy Business

Why is it that catching a fish is so satisfying? Dominance? I’m not a vicious person, nor do I assume anyone else is either. Somehow though, feeling the sudden tug, race to reel in the line and discovery of a frantic fish desperately gasping for air at my mercy makes me want to fist pump and hiss “yesssssss”.   

It’s a bit sick when you consider it. I certainly do not feel this way about birds or mammals (despite being a happy carnivore) but with fish, I’m down for the kill.   

Hanging out on PEI a few weeks ago, my killer instincts set sail. Near Brackley Beach at Cove Head Harbour, my hunting partner and I boarded Richards Deep Sea Fishing liner hungry for fin. First jigging for mackerel to use later as bait, our crew had a slow start. We wormed our way around a few different areas and finally snagged a hot spot to caste. We eventually hooked enough keepers to move on to cod. This is when the knife came out.  

I was shown how to swiftly sever the body into suitable pieces of bait. Excited by what was to come, my hands were steady as the blood gushed and the kids on the boat screamed zombie fish!”  
A few hours later, with little success by most, we were on our way back to shore; chased by gulls under the most gorgeous setting sun I’ve ever seen.

I’m proud to report that of 26 fish caught by our crew of 15, we caught 50% of them! 12 mackerel and 1 of only 3 cod; snagged by yours truly.   

The following night, over an open camp fire, we cooked up our prize prey. Served with new PEI potatoes and green beans, we tore through their salted, tasty flesh with groans of delight. This I decided, is why catching a fish is so satisfying. Delicious!   

Naughty by Nature

Some of my favorite memories as a kid living on Raleigh St. in Brantford were of the times we would set up my Grandfather’s Boy Scout army tent for summer sleepovers in the shared backyard that stretched behind our row of townhouses. Constructed of deep, dense green canvas and held upright by dozens of 1” thick poles that required meticulous assembly plans and great physical commitment, setting up the tent was rarely free of argument and near surrender. Eventually however, the tent would always rise and the rewards of our hard work savoured.

 Needless to say, camping has always been a part of my life.  I love the sensation of huddling beneath the low roof, zipping up tight in the dark, the click of the flashlight and waking to the murmurs of random creatures. When in a proper forest, camping of course becomes more about the surrounding environment and “survival” activities: collecting wood, starting a fire, tying up the dry line, cooking dinner, tarping against rain etc/etc. And sometimes, as I’ve always wanted to do in Algonquin, portaging to the site.   

Unfortunately, I did not get to Algonquin this summer. I did however, have the amazing experience of spending 24 days driving to and around the east coast during which I camped in 11 different places, for the “First” time. Here how it all went down...  

E18 - Whale Cove Campground, Digby, NS
13 - Blomidon Provincial Park, Minus Bay, NS
XX - Darrel’s back yard, Louisburg, Cape Breton
33 - Hideaway Campground, Dingwall, Cape Breton
T1 - Adventures East, Baddeck, Cape Breton
412 - Ponderosa Family Campground, Hopewell Rocks, NB
144 - Cabot beach Provincial Park, Cabot beach, PEI
22 - Green Park Provincial, (near) Tyne Valley, PEI
31 - West River Countryside Inn, backyard of Power family cottage rental, Charlottetown, PEI  
38 - Cymbria Campground, Cymbria, PEI
54 - North Beach Campground, Burlington, VT (USA

Thanks to advances in camping equipment (and a healthy competitive, must-beat-our-best-time spirit), setting up camp reached a personal best of under 5 minutes. My Grandpa would be amazed!

Never Start a Fire Nude

As I move through this list of Firsts, I'm noticing that some of my original goals now lack luster. Some haven’t been attainable, some I chickened out on and some...are just not things I care to do anymore.  Why did I want to hang around in the nude with a bunch of strangers again? 
I looked into a few places and genuinely did consider attending the nudist volleyball weekend, nudist glow stick party, nudist golf cart parade and/or the “Bare as you Dare” dance. But, when I read rule #2 on the Nudist Policy stating that, “When in the nude, always use a towel to sit on” (to avoid sharing body goo I would guess??) and then #7 which said “All persons MUST be nude when using the swimming pool, hot tub or sauna.” I somehow felt....conflicted.
As a runner up to visiting a nudist camp, I decided to do something as equally dangerous. Start a fire. Perhaps it took a weeks’ worth of newspaper and 20 minutes to light and perhaps it smoked more than flamed and just maybe it burned less than 5 minutes, but dammit - if you stuck your hand in it, it still would have hurt.

Lus-ter: radiant, luminous brightness; brilliance, or glory.” Yep, that pretty much describes my fire ;)

Screaming Trapeze

It’s difficult to describe the madness that is trapeze, especially by a person fairly threatened by heights.

Originally meant to be a sky dive or bungee jump, when gearing up for this activity I reminded myself that this project is not about conquering the world, but discovering it. I’m proud to share that, for the first time, at The Toronto School for Performing Circus Arts, I briefly surrendered my fear and found that (even subtle) adventures in the sky can be thrilling. I also reminded myself that it’s completely ok to scream in public, enclosed spaces.

Wedding Crashers

At age 15, I got a (yes, totally cheesy) tattoo on my right ring finger. I remember thinking, “I should get this on my wedding finger as a protest and claim my eternal independence!” Much less radical than I thought I was, I opted out and quietly maintained a pseudo sense of resistance. To this day however, I love attending weddings.  Nowhere else can you indulge in so much awesome slow dancing, chicken dancing, jiggin’ with Grandpa or bust out the Running Man and still have friends the next day.For the first (and just recently, second) time, I paired my teenage desire for radicism (is that a word?) with my love of wedding receptions to succeed in crashing a total of 4 weddings!!

Inspired, planned and accompanied by one of the most good-fun-times guys I know, weddings #1, 2 & 3 took place at a classy, multi-venue joint near Jane & Steels called the Paradise Ballroom.  Dolled up and determined, we began our journey north on the Jane St. bus with cans of beer in paper bags of courage.  Well prepared with alias names (Frank Journey & Penny Power), background stories and quick escape plans, we arrived about 9:30 ready to hit the floor.
Folks, if you’re ever craving something new and quirky to do on a Saturday night, I highly recommend the P.B! I couldn’t believe how simple it was to walk in, grab a drink and start twisting the night away. We ate, did I mention drink (for FREE), got pics with the brides...we did it all...and we didn’t know a soul!

Just the other week, while tearing through Louisburg on Cape Breton Island with my new favorite guy, the universe sent out another crash test. Wedding #4 was the best yet! Held at the local fire hall and attended by some unruly randos and seriously drunken Capers, we arrived just in time to participate in the garter and bouquet toss. Within 3 minutes, we had drinks in hand, found a crowd of new friends and were two-steppin’ until closing time. Islanders are a different bunch to say the least. I received two warnings that night: not to claw at eyes when chasing the bouquet and to never meet a man’s eyes on the dance floor. I see. Sloppy and aggressive was apparently an understatement.


Sadly while away, I missed a family wedding here in Ontario. Congratulations Deanna & Joe!! Couples like you keep me believing that love can last as long as my tattoo (ya, I already said it was cheesy...).  xo

Salsa Off the Scoville

Who doesn’t like to shake a tail on the dance floor, right?! Boppin, groovin, tappin n’ clappin - all good things. While I’m all about the group dance hall thing, I’ve always been curious about the mechanics of synchronized dancing as a pair. Communicating with your body to move in unison while remembering all the steps, (eek!) is seriously complex (in my mind). Add to that, the fact that I am leaps and bounds from having any notable rhythm or sexuality in my stride. Nonetheless, I decided I wanted to master Salsa.

I met a friend at Lulu Lounge on Dundas to take part, for the Firtst time, in their early evening lesson. The idea was that there would be many “available” men to introduce me to the dance floor (and their hips). Here’s a breakdown of the night.

8pm - No Latin Lovers. No problem, I was fine learning the steps in a line with the other solos.

9pm - I’m ready. I stand on the rim of the floor. No takers.

9:15 - Impatience sets in. Somebody take and shake this body!

9:20 - Panic. Hands on hips, hair flip, licking lips, sultry glances....what’s a girl gotta do?!   

9:25 - Desperation. I will Salsa tonight - even if with my girl friend! And, so we do.  Thanks Jen! xo

9:40 - Confidence on the rise. The girl on girl thing may have attracted some attention ;)

9:42 - Salsa! I find an older, experienced (shorter and sweatier. no biggie) man who is more than happy to make me look good on the dance floor. I laugh more than I twirl, but finally learn that Salsa is about following the man’s lead. Perhaps this is my glitch...

10pm - I pull the guy (who I really want to be dancing with) to the floor, ditch the rules of Salsa and we get ridiculous. My kind of fun!  xxx

Whore-A-Scope

I confess. I dig my daily horoscope. I don’t study the zodiac (much), but find the idea of astrology pretty intriguing. The way I see it, the sun, moon and planets obviously have a kinky relationship with Earth who is fully getting it on with humanity. So, if we’re all in bed together, as Sun journeys around the earth every 12 months and hits the right position (ya ya, ohh right there) it doesn’t seem that absurd for things to feel a little frisky now and then. Like on a full-moon night.
This affect, first suggested by Carl Jung by the way, is said to influence our behaviours (not occurrences or doings - huge difference) based on where and when the Sun penetrates Earth. I dunno - the fact that we’re even alive and will likely never understand why is pretty out there, so why not subscribe to a little magic under the mattress.
That said, I do read my horoscope with a slight snicker. Instead of investing in the message though, all too corny, vague and applicable to anyone, I pay attention to my reaction to it. Whatever thoughts or feelings rise in response to my horoscope I trust as something I likely need to put some work into. Like today “A huge heated battle between Uranus and Pluto is causing you to feel trapped in a hopeless situation”… I have a few minor conflicts going on at the moment (as we all do), so I’ve taken this as a reminder to contemplate these particular things more. Anyway, that’s how I do. And, thanks to Phil Booth, I indulge in this affair every morning after receiving his daily email update. A while ago, I met Phil in person to have my First astrology reading.
I entered his dim room late in the afternoon. His mystical eyes lowered me to sit closely to him.  Without hesitation he began to undo my mind. He knew what I came for. He circled my story with hunger as each new secret drove itself gently inside me. His words were teasing and made me plead for more.  In what seemed like only minutes, he whispered that my time was up and that he accepted Cash or Visa. I sighed and thanked him meekly as I left, realizing I’d just been seduced and conquered by a master of the stars. I looked up to the sky as Sun, Earth and all the rest snicker down at me, “silly tramp”.   

I Heart ______!

Without training, looming rainstorms, a snagged chain and a 6:30am start time, why wouldn’t cycling 75km (ok, I only completed 50km...) across the Gardiner and up the DVP, and back again, be the first thing that comes to mind for a Sunday activity?!  

Celebrating 25 years, the Ride for Heart took place this past weekend to raise funds to save lives touched by heart disease and stroke.

My personal connection aside, I was thrilled to be part of this momentous event and to have commemorated the occasion appropriately with burgers and beer directly following.  

Thanks to everyone who donated their generous support! xoxo

Screen Sneaks

Last weekend, accompanied by an experienced adventurer, I snuck into a movie for the first time. It takes skills folks, but I highly recommend it. Here’s how:

1.  Select a rainy day when you have hours to kill, but don’t bring an umbrella - it creates too much baggage in the case of a mad dash (at which time, pantyhose over the face are ideal)

2.  Choose a viewing companion you really like. You may end up spending the night in jail together.

3.  Abandon all fear, flashy clothes and sunglasses. Looking guilty or drawing attention could be deadly.

4.  Pre-plan. Timing is everything & re-routing may become necessary, so be prepared with a few well scheduled options

5.  Scope out the scene. Know your exits, staff stations and where the washrooms are; your safest refuge

6.  Rehearse your story - if caught, interrogation and torture can be intimidating.  

7.   Pay for and see the good movie first. Your thief show should be dispensable to reduce suspicion.  

8.  Secure an aisle seat & avoid single viewers. They're spies!   

9.  Never abort the mission - you will prevail.

10. (I didn’t, but...) pack snacks and rations - concession prices are more criminal that the sneak!

Peterson! (and the Notorious Bollywood Mob)

Each year, to celebrate International Dance Day, Canada’s National Ballet School puts on a flash mob performance. This year, for the first time, I joined in for their Bollywood number thanks to a suggestion from the lovely Zoe and her mail-lady friend.

Defined by Wiki as “a group of people who assemble suddenly in a public, perform an unusual and seemingly pointless act for a brief time, then disperse, often for the purposes of entertainment, satire, and artistic expression” the mob (in my opinion) lives up to its reputation. It’s a super quirky activity that if nothing else, creates a space for participants to do something out of the ordinary. I’m an advocate for complete ridiculousness and fortuned from a healthy dose with the mob experience. I have next to no coordination (curse all those hours of tap and jazz as a child!), can’t remember a routine to save my life and bungrah like a drunk child.

Thankfully, my charming dance crime partner abstained from mocking me at rehearsal. He certainly didn’t bust-out laughing when I commonly pivoted the wrong way or lost my footing. He always arrived sober and with fresh smelling feet (essential criteria for such a serious dancer). He was swift, regimented and undeniable passionate about expressing himself through movement. Unrelated, but noteworthy, he also has a fascinating awareness of hotels, in particular the lobbies, in the downtown area. I indulged in a post-rehearsal tour - more than once. Delightful. I look forward to more dancing (and more tours).

When mob day finally came, after weeks of rehearsal, it sadly felt a bit too contrived. None the less, it was a total buzz and far from pointless.

Check out the skills in jays hat and white fedora!!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjM5MSDzZJE&feature=related

Official Video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nncjoSVAHwA

Giddy Up

Call me simple, but I really enjoy clichés about...keeping it simple. “It is what it is - as luck would have it - it’s all good - easy as pie - simple stupid - kick your feet up - life’s a beach”...you get the point.  So, when I realized that snowshoeing was not going to happen last winter, I scanned my repertoire and settled on “whatever will be will be” knowing that  something as equally thrilling would eventually turn up to First. And oh boy it did. It came with horns, a control panel operated by a nasty, angsty 20-something bleach blonde and a saddle made for slipping.  

While in Orillia coordinating the MS Walk, one of the committee members invited me to a bachelorette party in Barrie at The Ranch, claimed the largest country bar in ON. To myself I thought, Option #1: get a good, responsible rest for the 6am event start the following day, or Option #2, drink ridonculous amounts of girly cocktails and dosey doe with a bunch of cowfolk strangers til 3am. When I discovered the venue had a mechanical bull, the choice was obvious. 
  

Not many of my friends are married and in fact I don’t think I’ve even been to a hen party for someone I actually know (so perhaps another first?). When the wedding bells do start ringing for my crew though, I’m convinced I will never experience what I did on this night in Barrie. Bull Riding is likely a once in a lifetime thing for me, especially with the bum knee I now have as a result.  

A photo tells a thousand words - another great cliché. See below, and let the good times roll.