So, How You Comin’ On That Novel?

You may recall that back at the beginning of May, I announced that I was planning to write a novel in 30 days.

Well, since no one asked it’s the official halfway point, I figured I’d give a little update on how it’s been going.

So far, I’ve written approximately 22,500 words. That’s roughly 45% of the 50,000 word target, or, about 1,500 words per day.

Not bad, right? Except that it’s all total and complete garbage. 

Guys, I’m not kidding. The stench of rotten manuscript wafting from my minimized items right now is almost too much for me to handle. I call it “Eau de Broken Dreams and Misguided Aspirations”

The thing is full of plot holes, it’s totally unbelievable, and I currently have four different characters named Sergei. But that’s OK. The goal of this exercise is simply to get my words on paper- not to fuss with silly things like grammar, sentence structure and plotline.

….Right?

I won’t lie, it’s been pretty painful so far. I kind of want to kill myself/ throw my computer out the window/ eat 10 lbs of chocolate/ run away and never come back. But like a phoenix from the ash, out of my misery rise a few key lessons to be learned from all of this. Like…..  

 Writing Fiction Is Hard

Sometimes, I feel like the entire right side of my brain has been completely inactive for the past 10 years. Sure, I use it occasionally to write blog posts, but for the most part, it just sits there, dormant, letting its domineering evil stepbrothers logic and rational thought do all the work.

Writing a novel feels like grabbing the creative side of my brain with both hands, shaking it violently and waking it the hell up. As expected, for the first few days, ol’ righty remained slow, lethargic and low-functioning – sort of like me before I’ve had my coffee in the morning. 

But eventually it came around. Sort of. I’m still dealing with the giant hurdle of coming up with 50,000 words of original material in a ridiculously short period of time.  

Writing Fiction Is Fun!

(Did I convince you with that exclamation point? No? I didn’t really convince myself, either.)

Once you get past the fact that novel-writing is destroying much of your will to live, there are actually a few good things. Writing can be really fun when you’re not inhibited by pesky little parameters like “truth” and “accuracy”. Plus, it’s sort of cool to live vicariously through your characters. My main character is smart, sassy, and tells people off all the time- something I wish I could do more often.  

Plus, no matter how much it sucked, I still feel like this whenever I get my daily words in:

You’re Going to Run Out Of Ideas.. and That’s Where the Ninjas Come In

No matter how hard I tried, I still found it tough to come up with the recommended 1,667 words a day. I Googled some suggestions, and discovered something called a “Plot Ninja”.

A plot ninja is something you drop into the plot whenever you are at a loss for ideas. Traditionally, this has taken the form of actual ninjas who come crashing into the scene, disrupting things, but it can really be anything you want. My plot Ninja so far has been my main character going for drinks with her best friend. She’s pretty much an alcoholic at this point, but it’s also resulted in a few interesting scenes that never would have ended up in the plot otherwise.

When In Doubt.. Make it up

Another thing I didn’t anticipate was how much research was involved in novelling. Part of my story takes place in Russia, and the first few days, I spent hours Googling everything from typical Russian surnames to what year the Kremlin was built. Eventually, I decided to either leave what I didn’t know blank, or just make something up and go back and fix it later. Currently, the characters in my story consume only caviar, drink an excessive amount of vodka, and wear fur hats everywhere. That’s accurate, right?

Be Prepared To Hate Your Life

Not to be a Deborah K. Downer, but I have to admit that it’s extremely mentally and physically draining to write this much every day while working full-time, trying to do blog posts, keep up with my 52 book challenge and actually maintain a social life.

…………..Yes, I realize I did this all to myself, and yes I would like some cheese with that whine.

Only Dawson understands me

So to recap -  my first 15 days of Novelling: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I don’t know what comes after that.

Question of the Day: Have you ever written a novel?

…..Any tips to keep me from strangling myself with my computer cord?

P.S.  I nominated myself  was nominated for Funniest Blog in the 2013 Badass Blogging Awards! I would love you long time if you’d please take a second and go vote for me!

http://theindiechicks.com/badass-blog-awards-vote-for-your-favorite-bloggers/

 

Throwback Thursday: 90′s Edition

Fasten your seatbelts, kids- because I’m about to take you on a trip down memory lane the masochistic nostalgia highway with yet another round of have beens, washed ups and never-weres.

Yes, it’s Throwback Thursday again- and this week, we’re kicking it 90′s style.   

The inspiration for this TBT actually came from an experience I had at a play a couple of weeks ago here in Toronto.

Yes, you read that correctly: BreezyK went to the theaaaataaah! Clearly I’ve been spending way too much time with Intellectual Dachshund.

All the world’s a stage and…. hey, who moved my scotch?

Anyway, I was standing in line at the box office waiting for my homies, when suddenly I spotted a handsome gentleman to my immediate right. I was like

I turned my head to take a closer look, only to discover that this “cute guy” was actually BRANDON FREAKING WALSH!!!

 Yes- Jason Priestley was standing directly beside me, breathing the very same air. I wanted to say something snarky like “hey, wanna go to the Peach Pit after this?” or  “how’s Brenda? still reeling from that pregnancy scare?”

But I refrained, and instead focused on obsessively studying every detail of his face. He was wearing a red K-Way type jacket, and looked a little worse for the wear- sort of like a hot dad post-soccer practice.

He was also shorter than I expected, but had movie star eyes: the kind that melt your heart and haunt your soul at the same time. We held eye contact for roughly 3 seconds. (I counted.) 

Obviously I had to Google him afterwards. It’s the responsible thing to do once you start dating someone new. I discovered that after such career highs as Choices of the Heart: The Margaret Sanger Story and People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful 1991, Jason bounced around for a while before landing the role of a morally flexible car salesman on HBO’s Call Me Fitz. 

The show has received some critical acclaim and firmly re-trenched the Canadian starlet in D-List celebrity territory. Priestley is also starring in David Mamet’s new play “Race”, opening here in Toronto on Sunday. So, if you need me, I’ll be sitting in the front row, wearing my ratty old 90210 shirt and cheering on my man until further notice. Jason, if you’re reading this- let’s try to make it 4 seconds this time.  ;) 

Savage Garden

This TBT is brought to you by the Bellagio hotel lobby, whose unofficial radio policy is: “All Savage Garden, All The Time”.

I swear I heard their songs more times in the past 4 days than in the past 10 years combined.  (Not that I’m complaining.)

For those of you who didn’t slow dance to “Truly Madly Deeply” with your grade 6 boyfriend like I did, I’ll give a little background: Savage Garden was an Australian pop/rock duo who first hit it big in North America back in 1998. Something about “Chicken Cherry Cola”.

The band consisted of Darren Hayes on vocals and Daniel Jones on instrumentals. After producing a handful of hits in the late 90′s, the pair split up in 2001 so Hayes could pursue his solo endeavours. 

Hayes came out with the song “Insatiable” in 2002 which I never heard but somehow has over 4 million YouTube hits???

I initially credited this to his glorious frosted tips in the video:

but joke’s on me, because Darren Hayes is actually a legit TBT success story! He has done four solo albums since Savage Garden, all of which have been commercially successful. According to Wikipedia, he also came out as being gay in the early 2000′s and is a huge a Star Wars buff. Who Knew!

Chumbawamba 

Now I know y’all remember pissing the night away to this one:

But what has happened to the Brit band since?

Well, apparently Chumbawamba has been together for almost 30 years (!!) and was originally formed as an anarchist movement.

After gracing the world with their surreptitiously anti-facist party anthem “TubThumping”, Chumbawamba had a bit of an identity crisis. They signed under multiple different labels, recording songs in basically every genre possible: techno, punk, world, a capella folk. They even released a Japan-only mini album (wtf is that?) consisting entirely of country and western versions of their greatest hits. Oh, and I almost forgot- they also sometimes go by the name “Skin Disease”.

Apparently they got tired of being the weirdest band on earth, because in 2012, they decided to call it quits.

So I know I say this about everyone, but this band REALLY needs their own reality show. I would totally watch that noise.

Off to find a way to make that happen!

Question of the Day: Any 90′s stars you wonder about?

Ain’t Got No Love For the Ding Dong?

So I know you’ve probably had enough of me after that long-ass diatribe I wrote last night about my experience at Sleep No More, but shockingly, I’ve got a few more things left to say.
Let’s just call this the “Friday Roundup of Randomness” shall we? (Or don’t, because that’s awful. )

1. Can we talk about Jamie Foxx hosting SNL last weekend?

Nailed it. From his monologue featuring 2 Chainz, to his portrayal as host of the game show “B*ttch, What’s the answer?” to his performance as a disgruntled Hostess Ding Dong, 2 thumbs way up.

2. I have no time for impatient people (<;;— see what I did there?). Especially the ones in line behind you at the grocery store who load all their stuff onto the belt and then push their empty carts alongside the register and edge you out completely as you're trying to pay. God FORBID you want to go back and get that package of mentos you've been eyeing, because face it buddy, you're f*cked now. You have nowhere to go but OUT.

3. My new favourite person to Twitter-stalk is Judd Apatow. Not only does he tweet back all of his fans, he posted like 100 self-pics from the This is 40 premiere. I’m working on the perfect tweet to him as we speak. I’m thinking something short, sweet, and to the point. i.e.:

“@juddapatow: Who’s Leslie?”

3. Instagram tells me that Lena Dunham and Aubrey Plaza are friends now.

WHY AM I NOT IN THIS PICTURE

4. I tuned into Real Housewives of New York the other night after a brief one-season hiatus. Apparently, I missed a lot. Like who are all these new b*tches? Where’s crazy Jill Zarin? And wtf is “Yummy Tummy”? Someone fill me in.

5. (This one I’m really excited about): My dad is coming to Toronto this weekend! Frequent blog readers know him as the crazy, reindeer print making husband of the even crazier neat freak/religious zealot that is my mother.. but I just know him as dear old dad. He’s in town for the Buffalo Bills game in Tdot on Sunday and we’re gonna paint the town red. (And by that I mean visiting the hockey hall of fame, going to church and eating at diners).

6. I wrote this post on my iPhone with my WordPress app. #sotechy

And finally, who wants to hear track 2 from my highly anticipated year in review mixtape??

EVERYONE? Ok, here it is:

Question of the Day: What are you doing this weekend? or, any random things to complain about?

P.S. for all you techies out there : in the words of Drunk Uncle: twitter me! Twitter me! @thecamellife
Or, holla at my Instagram: @breezyk1

This One is for the Boys With the Boomin System

So no one guessed what I was going to be for Halloween. Guess that’s cause no one cares I made the clues too hard.

If you couldn’t already tell from the title of this post, I was Nicki Minaj!

Or, as her friends (and crazy inner voice) sometimes call her.. Roman:

Let’s back up a bit first though, shall we?

Pulling off a Nicki Minaj costume as amazing and true-to-life as this one was no easy feat. First I had to find the perfect wig and accessories:

Then, I had to scour the mall along with all the other last-minute WhoreHall-o-weeners to find the outfit. The tank top and leggings are from American Apparel (which was basically extortion. $50 for leggings? I am wearing them every day to justify this) and the tutu I had from last year when I was a ballerina:

“Upcycling” at its finest.

Tutus are amazing, by the way, and should totally replace Spanx. They circumvent all that uncomfortable squeezing and smoothing by simply covering your entire midsection with layers of fluffy pink tule.

#tutudietplan.

Then I spent a good 2 hours putting makeup on:

Seriously. I had so much makeup on that it actually hurt my face. I don’t know how b*tch does it.

In the end I think I pulled off a respectable Nicki. Although I was no Sophia Grace…

I was all ready to go and then… disaster struck. I opened the fridge to get my bottle of wine for the party, and it tumbled off the condiment shelf, cascading towards the ground. I dove to save it like a wide receiver, screaming “Nooooooooooo” in a sort of slow motion, distorted groan… but it was too late. It hit the ground and smashed into a million pieces, the wasted sweet nectar spilling all over the floor. It felt like this scene in The Spy who Shagged me when Austin Powers drops his Mojo.

I realize that this analogy is actually sad on many levels.

Since lapping it up would have been too dangerous (even for me), I was left to pick up the pieces.. both literally and figuratively. I mourned all of the good times we could have had together while sweeping. That particular bottle was extra special to me because, while buying it, I had bonded with the checkout lady at the liquor store over my nails.

She complimented me on my great manicure, and I was like “oh, It’s not actually a manicure, it’s these new Sephora nail polish strips”. Then she was all “Cool! it’s perfect for Halloween, without being too over the top”. and I was like “that’s EXACTLY the look I was going for!”

………And then the guy in line behind me got pissed off. So we parted ways. But I’ll always have the memories.

I searched my fridge for something to take its place, and found half a bottle of vodka in my freezer. I worried that it might no longer be good, because, as Lucille Bluth taught us, if you don’t drink the whole bottle after you open it, it goes bad.

But I am happy to report that all worked out OK. Depending on your definition of “OK”..

My friends were dressed as “birds of a feather” and luckily tolerated having Nicki in their presence even though that makes no sense and would never happen IRL.

After a little pre-game, where I forced everyone to listen to “My jams” while I rapped (badly), we hit up a Halloween party at the Toronto hipster bar Parts and Labour.

I had a few reservations going in, given that the theme of the event was “A Smithfits Halloween”; a tribute to british indie-rockers The Smiths and horror-punk group The Misfits.

I wasn’t quite sure how Nicki and all of her VaVa Voom would fit in.. but agreed to go anyway.

Man, they took this theme seriously. Those who weren’t dressed as Danzig or Morrissey had cool, indie costumes… like John Travolta from Pulp Fiction or Scully from the X-Files.

Trying to fit in by instagramming everything in sight.

The downstairs bar, which is usually a sweaty hip-hop dance party, had been transformed into an emo post-punk shoegazing fest, full of kids with painted skull faces swaying to “There is a Light That Never Goes Out.”

And I’m just there in my tutu, like “Can we get some SuperBass up in here?”

Morrissey would not have been impressed.

Anyway we bailed pretty soon to get poutine. Then stood on Queen Street West trying to hail a cab for almost an HOUR. Torontonians are mad serious about Halloween. Mad.

Then, when I got home I watched last week’s episode of Parks and Recreation which made me CRY LIKE A BABY.

And as I sat there, eating my saline-tinged french fries, openly weeping over Lesley Knope and Ben Wyatt’s engagement… I thought maybe, just maybe, this is a new low for me.

Then I remembered the smashed wine bottle.

Sigh. What could have been

Question of the Day: Did you celebrate Halloween this weekend? How? If not, what are your plans for Wednesday?

Thanks’gettin the Hell Outta Here

Season’s Eatings, friends! I am currently blogging to you live from the wonderful piece of Canadian majesty that is the Toronto Pearson International Airport, on my way home to Nova Scotia to spend Thanksgiving with my family.

I know, all of you Americans out there are probably like “say whaaaat Breezy, Isn’t Thanksgiving in November?” But no! Not up here in the Great White North it isn’t! Here we celebrate Thanksgiving in October… I can’t really tell you why, but it’s probably because we read that dang calendar thing wrong again and got confused.

Speaking of confused, before we go any further, I should probably warn you that I am currently battling cold and flu like symptoms, and am writing this post on about 4 hours of sleep and under the heavy influence of Dayquil, ColdFX and a Starbucks Grande Americano. I’ve also eaten like, two entire packages of Halls already today…. and its only 7:30am. The combined effect of all of this is sort of making me feel like I’m on speed. I also can’t feel my right leg.

…..Here’s hoping they let me on the plane!

Anyway, I haven’t been home in a while and i’m really looking forward to it. I hear they installed a new sidewalk on our street.(!!!!) So stay tuned over the next few days for more enthralling posts about me fighting with my brothers and sisters and not moving off the couch except to get another glass of pepsi… Or when my mother guilts me into exercising with her. God damn that woman and her boundless energy!

And for those of you heading home to your respective families this weekend like i am – drink wine have fun and be safe! Ive already put in a good word with Saint Christopher, the Patron Saint of travel for you guys. Can’t help you on the 5-10 lbs you’re going to gain between now and January, though. That’s all on you and your deep, deep love affair with pumpkin pie.

Ok I’m going to stop talking now and instead give you all a little Friday ditty to help get the weekend going. Warning: it has nothing to do with thanksgiving.. Or cold Fx. But it’s catchy as a mofo, so enjoy!

Question of the day: what are you doing for thanksgiving? (or, to my non-Canadian friends, any fun weekend plans?)

The Mystery of the Long Stem Roses

It all started innocently enough: I was struggling to fit an oversize bag of garbage down the chute in my condo building when I noticed a bouquet of a dozen, long stem red roses, still in their original packaging, sitting on floor beside the chute.

My immediate reaction was one of intense curiosity. Whose roses were these? And why had they thrown them away? Perhaps there had been a lover’s quarrel? (Red, of course, being the universal colour of love). I needed more information.

I opened the flap of the packaging and found that no note had been included. This only added to my intrigue. Had the recipient removed the note prior to disposing with the flowers? And if so, why? Or maybe there had never been a note at all. Maybe this was a secret-admirer type situation. Or a stalking one.

I briefly considered taking theses roses myself- rescuing them from the metal clutches of certain death and bringing them back to my apartment where they could live a happy (albeit brief) life on my coffee table beside all of my US Weeklys and old Wal-Mart candles. But ultimately, I decided against it.

Like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, these roses seemed too good to be true. What if I took them and it opened up a Pandora’s box of heartache and unhappiness?

Don’t do it, Pandy!

I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with a friend recently, where she told me about a plant she had agreed to inherit from a woman at work who was leaving. “You better make sure you think long and hard about that decision,” I told her. “Like what are the circumstances of her departure, for one thing? What if she was miserable and hated her life? Do you really want to bring a plant into your office that had to live with that woman’s unhappiness for years?”

Eventually, I was satisfied when my friend assured me that the woman was, in fact, retiring after a very happy and successful 30 year career, and planned to travel the world with her husband – and thus was in need of a good home for the plant.

I could get no similar comfort, however, with these roses. Whatever the circumstances surrounding their disposal, it didn’t seem positive. And I didn’t want any of that bad energy messing up my apartment chi.

And so I left the roses untouched, and instead focused on solving the mystery of who left them there in the first place.

Everyone I encountered in my building became a suspect. Could it have been the punk-rock clad university student sharing an elevator with me? Judging from her heavy eyeliner and spiked backpack, she seemed no stranger to misery. Or perhaps it was the middle-aged man, picking up his Amazon package from the concierge. His eyes held a profound sense of sadness.

There was no way of knowing for sure.

The whole thing began to depress me, and I began wracking my brain for other, less distressing explanations. Maybe there had been no lover’s quarrel at all, I thought. Maybe the recipient was simply allergic to roses.

This seemed plausible. I once received lilies from an ex-boyfriend and had to throw them away due to my severe allergies. I tried to live with it, but in the end, I just couldn’t stand it.

A metaphor, you might say, for how the relationship itself eventually became.

Unfortunately, a quick google search confirmed that roses are among the least common of all allergies. Foiled again.

I have since resigned myself to the fact that I may never get the answers I’m looking for… and just like that damn movie Inception, I may never fully understand what went on that day. Whatever the case, I hope that the recipient of those fateful roses has since found peace. And to the person who gave them in the first place: I’m rooting for you, buddy.

Question of the Day: Would you have taken the roses?

10 Olympic Sports Team Canada Might Actually Win a Medal In

I noticed today that Canada has won a measly 5 medals so far this Summer Olympics.

5 medals. For a whole country! That’s like, not even one medal per Brangelina kid. Michael Phelps HIMSELF won almost twice that many in 2008.

If you ask me, this lackluster performance can be attributed to two main factors:

1) I’m not on the team; and

2) They’ve chosen all the wrong sports to be part of the Olympics.

Seriously.

Archery?

Fencing?

Table tennis?

Racewalking?

….. the hell, IOC?

No wonder we Canucks aren’t busting out any medals in synchronized swimming or the Pommel Horse. We’re all too busy trying to keep our igloos warm and catch falling groceries out of Charter planes to engage in that foolishness.

In all seriousness, I think the problem with Olympic sports is overall more an issue of inaccessibility. How is the average Canadian supposed to afford  all those fancy equestrian Jodhpur,  or 18 years of gymnastics lessons with the Bella Karoli? Don’t those b*tches know it’s a recession?? And who has 8 hours a day to devote to weight lifting or swimming laps in an indoor pool? Not me, my friends. That would totally cut into my reality tv time.

If I had my way, in addition to swimming, tennis and gymnastics, the Summer Olympics would also include some activities that cater not only to elite athletes, but to the average Canadian as well. And since I’ve had some experience at being both average and Canadian… I figured I’d help the IOC out by giving them a few suggestions:

1) Beer Drinking

If there’s one thing we Canadians are good at, its drinking beer. And although we may face some stiff competition from our American cohorts, I’m confident that Canada still maintains the upper hand  for a few reasons:

• Our beer has a stronger alcohol content on average = increased resiliency of our athletes.
• Longer winters = increased level of training.
• umm… Have you seen the movie FUBAR?

• Or this guy?

I rest my case.

2) Barbecuing

While again, some might argue that this activity is not specifically Canadian, let me just ask you all you non-Canadians out there a couple questions: Ever fired up the grill when its 50 below zero outside? Cooked a moose steak the size of  your own head? Didn’t think so.

3)  Being Affable

Everyone loves a Canadian- what with our friendly, welcoming nature and our adorable little accents. Who else says crazy shit like “eh” and “aboot”?  #goldmedalshooin.

4) Going For Long Drives.

Canada is the second largest land mass in the world. Translation? Everything is really f*&cking far away. While in Europe you might drive for two hours and be in another country, in Canada, you might drive for 2 hours just to reach your closest neighbour. Or the liquor store. Undaunted by what some might perceive to be a challenge, we Canadians have embraced the fact that, as Tom Chochrane so aptly said, life for us, is a highway. Give us a few double doubles,  a good friend, and some Tragically Hip CDS and we’ll drive that sh*t all night long.

……….gimme gimme gimme yeah…

5) Complacency

If fence sitting were an olympic sport, Canadians would be the world champions. While some countries like to invade others and spend billions of dollars on defence, we aren’t really big on the whole “confrontation” thing. Sure, we’ll keep the peace and get involved if we have to, but for the most part, us Canadians like to stay home, watch old reruns of SCTV  and generally just give zero f*&ks about everything else.

And if that’s wrong, then I don’t wanna be right.

6) Canoe Sex

I don’t even think I need to comment on the extremely high degree of difficulty and technical skill required here.

7).  Cottaging

We Canadians have got the art of lounging dockside with a magazine and an ice cold drink down to a science. Sure, it might get a little boring for the at-home audience, but combine it with one or more of #1, 2, 5 and 6 and its bound to make for some serious must-see tv.

8) Road Hockey

Like maple syrup and original CBC programming,  road hockey is  yet another integral part of any Canadian upbringing. Best experienced in cul-de-sacs, this quintessential Canadian activity, which requires one or more players to carry the net offsite and re-set every time someone yells “CAR!”, combines the elements of speed, endurance, perseverance and most of all camaraderie.

9) Poutine Eating

There are few things Canadians take more pride in than this home-grown concoction of french fries, cheese curds and gravy. And what better way to show this pride than by eating copious amounts of it? (Best results achieved when combined with #1.)

10) Sewing Flags on Backpacks

Almost as famous as our poutine is our Canadian tradition of sewing miniature flags onto our backpacks and travelling around the world with them. Combined with both #4 (our affable nature) and #1 (our experienced beer drinking), we have made a reputation for ourselves worldwide as being both impeccable houseguests, and  just generally super awesome.

It’s true. Ask anyone.

So there you have it folks! If that list doesn’t get more Canadians atop the podium in 2016, then I don’t know what I’ll do.

……..Drink more beer probably.

Question of the Day:  What “sport” would you like to see in the Olympics?

What Happens at Summer Camp Part 3: There’s a Mouse in the [Cabin]

***Apologies to those who have already read this post, but for some reason it disappeared from my blog?? Wordpress must be trying to save me from myself, I guess.. but I just won’t let it! Here’s my mouse story again in all it’s run-on sentence filled glory….***

So after pulling the proverbial ‘chute on the  Saturday night”Full Moon Party”, my friend Caitlin and I headed back to our cabin to wash off all of our bad decisions   blacklight paint, and finally get some sleep.

But first: nature called. I had just gotten settled in the “bathroom” (AKA a toilet half-concealed behind a pinned-up garbage bag) when a flash of grey caught my eye, darting past my feet and disappearing into a hole in the wall.

I let out what can only be described as a blood-curdling scream, jumped up from the toilet (pajamas still firmly around my ankles), stumbled in a slow motion-fall/jog into the other room,  and begin shouting ”MOUSE! MOUSE!!! MOUSE!!!” at the top of my lungs.

“Oh yeah?” Replied my friend Caitlin, nonchalantly. “you alright, then?”

How to answer this question. I mean physically, I guess so. The thing hadn’t bitten me, or accosted me with a set of miniature nunchucks.. But emotionally.. well, that was a different story.

For as long as I can remember, I have had an extreme case of Musophobia. (fear of mice. google it, b*tches). Their feet.. their tails… those bendy exoskeletons. uuugh. My skin crawls just thinking about it.  This fear manifests itself in a number of ways. I will not go anywhere I know mice have been, for example. Restaurants.. bars.. random alleys. If you tell me you have a mouse in your apartment…. well your bad news just doubled cause I will likely never come visit again. I actively boycot anything with a mouse as its mascot or symbol.  Disney, Chuck-E-Cheez, they’re all on my sh*t list.  I even refused to play the board game “Mouse Trap” as a kid. It was clearly a dull childhood.

My Musophobia only strengthened  in my second year of university when I had an apartment in an old historic property in Halifax with four other undergrads that became infested with mice partway through the year. I remember the first time I saw one there I was on the can, too.  Those little f*&kers just love to catch me off guard.

Anyway, I spent the rest of that year living in fear of the vermin. I would stuff a towel under my door each night and pray that they wouldn’t come in…. but inevitably, they always did. We eventually moved out, but it took me years to get over the constant paranoia. To this day I have regular nightmares about mice. All it takes is for someone to mention the word “mouse” in a sentence and BAM. Nightmare.I blame this experience for the fact that at 26, I receive regular dye treatments to cover my premature grays. That or law school. Yeah, probably law school.

Anyway, moral of the story: I am effing terrified of mice.

So I knew after seeing this one in the cabin, I was screwed. Caitlin tried to be patient with me- helping me fold my queen-size duvet with girl guide precision so that no part of it would touch the floor, lest the vermin use it as a lifeline to infiltrate my bed. I made her talk me down for a bit longer until she eventually fell asleep.

By this time my PTSD had kicked into full force and I lied awake in my bunk, listening for the sounds of little feet. I was paralyzed by fear. Or maybe I had just wrapped my duvet cocoon too tight. One of the two. I was unbelievably thirsty,  but refused to drink any water, lest I have to pee and be forced to return to the scene of the crime once again.

I had just calmed down enough that I thought sleep might actually be possible, when I heard the pitter patter of little feet once again on the shelf above my head. Ever dramatic, I  began screaming again, waking a very unimpressed Caitlin, who cursorily calmed me down before immediately falling back asleep. How could she be so composed?? She must have some sort of superpower.

After that, it quickly became clear that our cabin had a full-on mouse infestation. Intermittently throughout the night, I would hear people screaming, including my friend Lia who awoke in the middle of the night to find a mouse running over her arm.

Thank God that didn’t happen to me. I don’t think I’d ever be right again.

I didn’t sleep a wink the entire night, praying for daylight when these nocturnal beasts would return to their evil lairs and give us a reprieve from our misery.  As soon as daylight broke, I couldn’t handle the need to pee any longer… but my memories of the bathroom experience were still too fresh. So I did what any normal, self-respecting girl with a toilet immediately available to her would do: I peed in the woods. This was pretty comical in and of itself, but I’ll spare you the gory details.

On our way to breakfast, we quickly discovered that most  of the other cabins had been similarly terrorized by mice all night. Walking around that place felt like the zombie apocalypse-  it was clear no one else got any sleep either.

As great of a time as I had, I simply could not wait to get off that island and burn  disinfect every item I had brought with me. Luckily, soon our good friend Daniel picked us up and took us to our waiting cars.

Overall, Adult Summer Camp was quite the experience. I had a great time, met some new people, and learned a lot about myself….like the fact that I am a giant baby trapped in a 26-year-old body. But seriously.. I will remember this experience forever… I just hope none of those mouse bastards were carrying lime disease. Cause that sh*t is for life.

Until next year!

Question of the Day: Are you Scared of Mice?

…Remind me again why I signed up for this?

This past Sunday I participated in the Toronto Sporting Life 10k in support of Camp Oochigeas, a summer camp outside Toronto for kids with cancer.

The race was a huge success- over 22,000 people registered to run, and altogether, almost $2 million was raised for Camp Ooch.

I was excited to be running for such a great cause, but also a little nervous. I mean, it was running after all… not drinking wine and not bidding on any of the silent auction items like I normally do at charity fundraisers. But I thought, what the hell? I’d put in a few miles on the moving vessel of death treadmill over the winter, and even if I had to walk,  I knew I could probably finish it.

Although, my performance might look less like this:

and more like this:

… or maybe just this:

The morning of the race, I prepared the best way I knew how: by making an awesome playlist of “Call me Maybe” and the entire Mariah Carey Greatest Hits collection, and  wearing an obnoxious amount of pink:

Yeah. This’ll make me run faster.

As soon as I got to the race, I immediately set out in search of port-a-potties. I had gone before I left home, but because I have the bladder of a four year old child of my pre-race jitters, I needed to go again. I noticed, though, that the line was a good 100 people long. Probably because for over 20,000 runners, there were ONLY 12 PORT-A- POTTIES!! I knew if I waited, I’d never make the start, so I made my way back to my corral and tried to forget about the anvil sitting on my bladder.

I was amazed by the energy of the other participants. The race had drawn in people of all ages and fitness levels, and everywhere I looked, people were jumping around, laughing and cheering. I even saw some people doing a few “warm up laps”. Try-hards.

Then, the gun went off. The first km I didn’t even think about running because I was so busy trying not to get trampled to death. Sh*t felt like the running of the bulls, without the ambience.

I said a few prayers and let the sweet, sweet sound of Mariah guide me.

The course ran straight down Yonge Street in Toronto, which meant that (thank GOD) it was mostly downhill. The thing about closed courses though, is that there are no crosswalk lights. When you’re an urban runner like me, you get used to having those little 15-20 second reprieves from pounding your ass on the pavement, and so without them, I was really feeling the burn.

I tried people watching to distract myself, and found it funny how quickly some of the shiny-happy people I had witnessed at the starting line lost their veneer. Only about 2km in, I saw a number of people walking, some looking disgruntled and in pain, and even heard one agitated (and clearly undertrained) man screaming clearly over my Mariah: ” I just need some f*&*&ing WATER OK??”

After that, I tried to zone out and enjoy myself, but it was hard having to weave through so many people. I tried to channel my concert-going experience to jostle my way through the crowds, but the incentive just wasn’t the same. Instead of getting a better view and the rogue sweat droplets of an indie rock god  at the end, you just got to run more. Womp womp.

oh, and did I mention that this whole time I was dying of an intense and overwhelming NEED TO PEE?? They had promised port-a-potties en route, and at every mile marker, my eyes darted past the crowds and ironic homemade signs in search of that sweet, sweet blue goddess.  Finally, at km 7, I saw her- shrouded in a halo of blue light, in all her plastic, unsanitized glory: a port-a-potty.

I immediately made a dash for it, cutting off several runners in my path, and was just within reach, when a middle aged man wearing sweatpants cut me off directly and darted in, slamming the door behind him.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I could not believe the audacity of this sweatpants wearing gentleman. As I stood there, shifting my weight from leg to leg like an impatient child on a shopping trip, I thought of the many ways I could get back at him. You’ll pay for this, Sweatpants, I thought. Finally, SP finished his business, and the blue goddess and I had our much-anticipated moment.

There’s something to be said for the whole “objects in motion” thing. After my little potty break, I had a tough time getting back into it, and had to break up the last couple of km with a sort of run/walk system. I tried making it fun by picking out people in the crowd as benchmarks: “just run to the guy with the booty shorts” I told myself “..and then you can stop. And when you do, ask him why he’s wearing booty shorts“.

But finally, I crossed the finish line at 56:56.

I don’t have a pic of me at the finish, but here’s a pic of Kara Goucher at the 2008 U.S. Olympic Trials instead, because obviously I looked just like this:

Just kidding. I totally looked like a dying, waterlogged tomato.. but we can all dream, right?

Question of the Day: Have you ever run a race?

Move over Duggar family, I’ve got another sibling in town….

Happy Easter peeps! (<— see what I did there?) I hope you all have fantastic long weekends with your friends and family. I know I will- wanna know why?

Cause my older sister, Sherene, is in town to visit me for the weekend!

I know, I know. You all are probably getting sick of hearing about the never-ending ensemble cast that is my family (see Exhibits A, B, C, D, and E ) But I’ve had to put up with that sh*t for 26 years…. you guys can handle a few blog posts.

We should probably just have our own reality show by now.

Jokes, jokes. I’m lucky to have been blessed with an amazing family, and my two older sisters are pretty much my BFFs in life  (yes, I realize it is probably sad to admit this).

Sherene and I have shared a lot of great memories over the years, and she’s a pretty cool cat to have around. Besides just taking amazing self-pics (see above), she’s good for a lot of other stuff too:

She’s my travel buddy:

my partner in crime:

my entourage:

my fellow teetotaling wino:

And a great mom to my amazing, and funny as hell niece Lola:

I know this is now the third time I have posted this photo on my blog.. but I can't help it. it's just that awesome.

my mom gets to be in this pic too.. because she rules.

We’re going to have a bomb weekend that’s gonna involve a lot of this:

Yah that clock says 9:18.. AM bitches. Thats how we roll

Some of this:

Eggies will do. But mini eggs are better

and a little of this:

only it'll be 2012. Not 1997.

Have a great weekend everyone- I’ll pray to the saint of delicious chocolate and drunken family dinners for all of you! And make sure you check in for updates on all of our adventures :)

Question of the Day: Are you doing anything special for Easter?