B-I-T-C-H

It has come to my attention that I come across not as the awesome person that I am, but as a bitch.

A biatch.

Let me explain.

I’m a very funny person and, like, super pretty (please don’t disagree with me – my false sense of self-esteem is all I have right now), but it seems that I do not present myself in such a way. Last night I was out for dinner with my Mom and her best friend (who is pretty much like my aunt). We had a lovely dinner, during which my Mom was sure that our waiter was smitten with me.

Ok, really? Who could blame him, right? Except that I had on baggy jeans, an unflattering sweater, and red plaid shoes. No, I’m not kidding. Also, my Mom thinks that every guy we come across has a thing for me, and we all know that isn’t true (I love her confidence in me, though – I can always count on my Momma).

I can safely say that this guy wasn’t paying me any more attention that he would any regular customer. He was doing his job. He did, however, express that he hoped we enjoyed our show (we were going to the movies).

I, unable to let things slide, answered, “I thought you said ‘I hope you enjoyed THE show,’ and I was like ‘ummm yeah, sure, you were great.’”

It was supposed to be funny. Sarcastic. That’s my sense of humour.

Apparently I seemed to have hurt his feelings. And now I feel super bad. See, when I meet a new man, I usually put up an “I don’t care; I’m hilarious and don’t need you” front. It doesn’t matter if I find him attractive or not. It’s just my defense mechanism, something I do so that he can’t judge me. (No, I have not thought this through).

I also pulled a major biatch move the other day when I said goodbye to one of the bootcamp trainers, who was also sitting with his buddy at the table. I high-fived the trainer (I’m bringing high-fives back in style – pretty soon it WON’T be uncool to high-five after sex, which, apparently, it is now) and quickly glanced back to his friend, acknowledging him with a flippant point and a “bye…you” as I walked away.

You? It would have been better if I hadn’t acknowledged him at all. I basically told him, with my flippancy (new word of the day), that he’s not worth the time to even stand still to speak to him, let alone to actually catch his name.

I’m sorry, Boston Pizza man. I’m sorry, bootcamp trainer’s friend (aka “you”).

I’m not a bitch. Honestly. Friends tell me that I look like one, but that’s just my face. I’m nice! Promise.

Let’s all be friends.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Love and Other Drugs

K came to visit us this weekend. Well, okay, she came to visit M, but that means she gets to really become immersed in our household. For better or for worse.

Usually, I’m not included in many of the things they do. For the dates, I get it. I don’t want to be there any more than they want me to be there. But for the things they do with friends, it usually takes an invite from K, a mention from our mom, or a very enthusiastic “can I come?!” from me that makes M relent enough to have his little sister “tag along”.

Apparently, I’m still 12. It’s okay. I know I’m hilariously fun to be around. It’s not my fault if no one else sees it.

Anyway, on Friday evening, I went with M and K to the local pub to meet up with M’s best friend, who we will dub D.

Good times were had. Lots of laughs, a few drinks, and then 10 pm rolled around and it was M’s bed time. D had meat deliveries to attend to the next day (and no, he is not a traveling prostitute. His family sells beef. That’s not to say that no jokes were made about D’s “meat”, mostly in the context of M enjoying it. I’m not kidding. It was as though K and I weren’t even there at that point. They were so excited by the innuendo brought upon by this latest development that they literally couldn’t get the jokes out fast enough).

After D and M hugged and said good bye (and D waved at K and I), we began our walk home. At this point, perhaps brought upon by the alcohol, M and K were in their “oh let’s be all lovey and nice to each other” mood.

Awesome.

I walked behind these two lovebirds as they held hands and giggled like 2 fifteen year olds at the beginning of a relationship.

I pretty much wanted to throw up.

They leaned on each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes. They shared private jokes that brought upon soft laughter as they smiled those big stupid smiles that couples share.

I continued to walk alone along the dark street, feeling rather sad for myself and my lack of, well, anyone.

M and K expected this post to be funny in a depressing manner, coloured by my own self deprecation. It kind of is. But then, most of what I write has some sort of depressive factor. It’s just how I do.

Really, though. I’m happy for them. They not only clearly are really into each other, but they also like each other. They’re friends. They have similar senses of humour, they share the same values, and have a lot of the same interests. They’re happy. And that makes me happy.

It’s not everyday that you find someone to be in a relationship with that is also your best friend, and who you know only has eyes for you. Trust is important, but honesty is vital. You don’t want to trust someone who lies. To find that person that you can trust to be honest, that you can laugh with, cry to, and want to spend time with is special. It can’t be taken for granted.

So yes, seeing couples in love is annoying and sometimes vomit inducing. Sometimes they really are grossly sweet to each other. But most of it is jealousy and wanting to find my own someone to share that with, one that I can trust to be honest and know that, at the end of the day, he’s ultimately my best friend.

But M and K? Keep it to a minimum until I find someone, will you?

Thanks a bunch.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Oh, and M? Please refrain from the multitude of comments that I know are flooding your brain right now. You can let some of them go. Love you, though.

Always Remembered. Never Forgotten.

I’ve been trying to think of how I can convey my feelings about Remembrance Day and the men and women that fought, and continue to fight, for our country, and have come to the conclusion that I honestly don’t think it’s possible to put those feelings into words.

It’s easy for people to sit back and judge what they don’t know. But it’s not easy to face death every day. It’s not easy to see your friends die. It’s not easy to live with the memories of war for the rest of your life. But our soldiers do it. For us. For you.

How do I accurately articulate my respect for the Canadian military? What can I say that will truly express the gratitude that I feel for the men and women that risked, and lost, their lives for Canadians? How can I communicate the hatred I feel for the people who don’t support the troops, who sit in their warm, safe houses and criticize the very people that allow them to live freely?

I won’t even begin to try. All I can say is thank you.


Thank you to the veterans of past Wars.

Thank you to the veterans and active military personnel of the current war in Afghanistan.

Thank you for putting your lives on the line for the people you love.

Thank you for putting yourselves through unbelievable emotional pain so that we don’t have to.

Thank you for fighting and dying for us.

Thank you for our freedom.


Canadians will forever be indebted to you.

Lest we forget.

A Shout Out to My Work Lovelies

Not everyone gets to work with really great people. Personality clashes make for some seriously tense situations and make 40 hour work weeks feel 100 times longer.

I, however, have always been lucky to work with awesome people, especially right now.

One of those people, E, asked me today why she hasn’t been mentioned in the blog lately. “Do I need to be funnier or something? Because I’m pretty sure that M is in it all the time and he’s pretty mean.”

The girl is actually hilarious. I can’t even tell you what she says, because it’s not like she spews off joke after joke. She just comes up with these one liners that are timed so perfectly that I, on a daily basis, end up laughing so hard that I cry.

I was talking to my grandma the other day about a friend she used to have who would make everyone laugh, put them all in great moods, and just generally make everything fun or brighter in some way. I agreed, telling her how, during boot camp, we had to do the wheelbarrow exercise and E dropped my feet, yelling to the trainers that her wheelbarrow “was broken”.

“She sounds funny,” Grandma commented.

“She really IS!” I try to be as funny as her. It doesn’t always work out that well.

I asked her today what she and JR were talking about so I could reference it here, because listening to those two banter makes me laugh even if I’m not in on the conversation. “Well, we’re generally pretty funny, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” Touche.

In the year and a half that I’ve known her, E has become an amazing friend and confidante. Man problems? Contact E. Feeling blue? E will make you feel better. She’s just awesome all around. Her husband once told her not to “corrupt” me. I’m really glad she did.

Two summers ago, JR worked in a unit close to where E and I were working. We invited him to lunch, saying that we met in the lunchroom. Which is true, we did. (We DID, JR!). He just didn’t know where the lunchroom was, so we never really knew him until about a week before he left to go back to school. When he FINALLY joined us for lunch, we were shocked at how funny he was.

When we found out that he was coming back to work after graduation, we were both really excited. “JR’s coming back?! Oh, awesome! I love him! He’s so cool!” I’m fairly certain that the woman I said this to, and the one who works closest with him, was concerned for him due to my apparent overexcitement at his return.

I honestly don’t think I could get through some days without them here. They’re always there to listen, laugh with, complain to, and get advice from.

But mostly laugh with. Case in point: I’ve just been notified that they will be performing a duet in the talent show here. Their top three picks are Barbra Streisand & Neil Diamond - You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Sonny and Cher - I Got You Babe (with E being Sonny and JR being Cher, obviously), or John Travolta feat. Olivia Newton John - Summer Nights.

This is why they are awesome.

Maybe it seems a little sappy to write about my lovelies from work (except that I was receiving complaints, so I felt it was necessary), but they make work enjoyable. There are no airs about them, no pretenses. I can be myself, and that, above all else, means the most to me.

Heart you both, E and JR!

Hugs and Kisses,

Bella

Devil's Day

Halloween weekend. All Hallow’s Eve.

I hate it.

I like the chocolate part. Obviously. I loved dressing up as a kid and I love seeing the cuties now all dressed up in lion, tiger, and bear costumes. Oh my. (Oh, come on, I couldn’t let that go).

I do not, however, enjoy dressing up nowadays. I’m just not that creative. M loves Halloween. More than Christmas. It’s not for the chocolate, though (it would go straight to his hips). It’s not for the spookiness (he gets scared at nothing. I’m fairly certain K scares less easily than he does). He just loves to dress up (in a completely non-creepy way, let's just clarify that). Every costume he wears, save for his Ron Burgundy one (my personal favourite), shows off his body. He gets into character like no one’s business - I think it's the actor in him. This year, he and K dressed up as Mr and Mrs Smith, dressed in white shirts and underwear. I’m sorry to say that it wasn’t K’s idea to dress in basically nothing. It was all her boyfriend’s.

They looked great, though. K rocked the dark hair, despite being blonde. Hey, K? I hate you a little bit for looking better with dark hair than I do. All said with love.

I digress. For Halloween, I went to visit my bestest, J, as she was FINALLY home from school. As well as being my best friend, she’s pretty much my other half and my non-blood related sister. Not having her just an hour away was horribly lonely. Shout out to J! Love you doll!

(I’m just so full of love right now).

J’s church family gets together every Halloween for a party, playing music and handing out candy and hot chocolate to neighbourhood families. I was lucky enough to join in on the festivities this year, and I even somewhat dressed up (well, I wore a wig, black clothes, and adorned my face with dark makeup. That’s my version of dressing up). My heart melted at the costumes of the younger kids, and stopped when I bumped into a particularly freaky looking costume worn by one of the older kids. I had some great laughs with all of the fantastic people that I know in J’s town. Never have I felt as welcomed somewhere I don’t usually frequent as I do when I visit J and her (biological and church) family.

Once kids started coming around for Halloween treats, I stepped back and watched the kidlets frantically reach for their candy, desperate not to be lost in the fray. I thought about how wonderful it will be when I, one day, have children of my own to dress up in cute costumes and take out trick or treating.

Okay, that’s a bit of a lie.

I watched the Dads. Please don’t judge me. I mean, the kids are cute and everything, but I'm in my 20s. I'm not dreaming of my future kids. I'm ogling the hot Dads, and there are a LOT of young Dads out there that just so happen to be the ones that take the kiddies out. The wives may have been with them, but I didn’t really search for them. The Dads walked by, all doting to their kids, and I was seriously attracted to them.

Okay, it’s not like I would ever pursue a married man, nor would I want to date to someone with a child, per se. I’m just saying that there’s something about seeing a man that’s great with kids that is really attractive. And that’s not a bad thing.

However, I may or may not have smiled at them a little more slyly than would be considered appropriate.

What?

Hugs and Kisses,

Bella

S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y, Hey!

(You have no idea how long it took me to write that title properly. Getting those little dashes between each letter takes skill).

I’m not sure why I feel the need to write about the pathetic moments of my life, but that’s the plan for the post today. Talking with M last night and giving him the details of my Saturday night, he suggested that I just write about my life. Forget meaningful posts about organ donation or bullying – no no, he thinks that reading about my life would make others feel much better about themselves. In his own words, my life would “be like one giant FML.”

“What’s that mean?” My Mom called out.

I effectively ignored the question, as I still can’t bring myself to intentionally swear around my parents.

“What’s FML mean?!” And then, “Oh, never mind, I know what it means.”

M was quick to point out that our mother didn’t rush to my defense and, instead, just laughed.

Can’t say I blame her. She was there on Saturday night. She saw me.

Let me explain.

See, I do a lot during the week. I work. I go to the gym. I participate in boot camp. (You’d think I’d be a lot skinnier). I don’t get a lot of time to watch my favourite shows or read books that I keep meaning to read (and party. That, too).

I spent Saturday night at home. With my parents. I didn’t really talk to them, but we were all home. We had a delicious dinner together. I went out and bought wine (I had a craving – you understand). I didn’t plan to drink it all. Really, I didn’t. It’s just that I was bored and it tasted so good.

I decided to get caught up on my TV shows, the first being The Biggest Loser. Great show.

I sat on my bed with my glass of wine and settled in to watch these amazing people on their journey to weight loss.

By the end of the first commercial, my wine glass was empty. Time to fill ‘er up!

Second glass. The contestants were competing or something. I don’t know. One of the new contestants didn’t give herself immunity, causing me to exclaim, “What?! Oh, dumb move.” I looked around for agreement. Oh, right. No one else is with me.

Second glass half empty. Another contestant is talking about how worthless she feels. I start to cry. Take another sip (okay, gulp) for fortification. Nod my head along with Jillian as she tells the contestant that she IS worthy of everything that she has and that it isn’t her fault that her son died of cancer. I also state, to said contestant, that she had nothing to do with him getting cancer. I felt as though the contestant could really hear me, you know?

Third glass. Something funny happens. I laugh hysterically and almost spill my drink.

Third glass gone abruptly. I run downstairs to fill up and tell my mom that I have a crush on contestant Mark. She asks if there is a way to get in contact with him. I don’t know but think it’s an amazing idea. Fill up a fourth (and last, but only because the bottle’s empty) glass. Stumble back upstairs.

Between these glasses, I’ve also started drunk texting my friends. Tell one about my crush on Mark and also that I think I might be black. Send five texts to every one of his. Eventually, I stop getting responses from people. Doesn’t stop me from texting, unfortunately.

I go on Facebook and search for contestant Mark, and think of how nice it would be to send him a message on his Wall. For a bottle of wine later, I write a rather coherent post: “You’re my favourite Biggest Loser! I’m rooting for you!”

I actually did get a message back. He said, “Thanks! Just working hard!” Or something.

I was expecting him to tell me how pretty I was and ask me for my phone number.

Whatever, though. Totally fine.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Seriously?

Okay, no offence to all the loved up couples out there, but why are there so many fucking loved up couples out there?

Seriously! Everytime I open Facebook there's something on there about how much in love one person is with their significant other, quotes that make me want to barf due to their lovey quality, and people getting shacked up/married left, right, and centre.

I get it. Now's about the time when you start to settle down, or something. Me? I'm still figuring out what I want in my career and my own life to worry about bringing someone else into it. (Not that I have anyone else to bring into it, but that's beside the point).

Am I jealous? A little. I want to feel that love for someone that everyone and their brother seems to have in their lives. But I also don't want to settle for it, and I don't want someone here that's going to hold me back from moving somewhere else, like out West or the States or Europe (it could happen).

But I mean, really. Love is great, whatever. But it's not the be all and end all of everything. Why is it everyone's goal in life to find The One?

Anyway, that was a little rant on my part.

Happy Thanksgiving?

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Boot Camp - Yet Another Exercise Adventure to Add to the Repertoire

E and I, on our never ending pursuit to skinny jeans and bikinis, decided to join a local boot camp at the urging of a woman we work with.

Great idea! We were looking for another means of exercise after our belly dancing adventure, but this time we wanted an activity that didn’t call for fancy costumes and getting in touch with our feminine, um, organs. Being of the body type where we both have a lot of muscle, I felt like the Incredible Hulk when I walked into the room that was filled with skinny, mousy women (I can’t speak for E, but I know she wanted to do something like boxing instead of dancing, so I’m pretty sure she held the same opinion as I did).

We signed up for boot camp about a month ago and eagerly (?) awaited October 4th, when we would start our journey to hotness. That morning (which happened to be yesterday), I woke up terrified. E was surprisingly excited when I saw her at work that morning, and MT, the person responsible for the boot camp signing up madness, was jogging on the spot when I looked over. What? Their enthusiasm was so not catching.

E sent me an email later in the day confessing that she was “slowly having more anxiety about this tonight.” Yeah, me too.

We started the class with a run. Oh, goody. By the end of it, I was bent over gasping for air and it was only supposed to be a warm up. “Then why push it hard?!” You might ask. Yeah, that’s just it. I didn’t.

Each member was to have a personal kettlebell swing lesson by one of the trainers – a male, and the only one in the vicinity – who looked like he would rather be anywhere than with us. He said I could use the small kettlebell or the heavier one. The heavy one was about 14 pounds. Seriously? I did like 30 pound swings with I worked out with M. I totally wanted to show off. However, he was extremely unimpressed with my skill, and gave me a simple “yep” when I asked if what I got was good. Fine.

Boot camp consisted of agility drills, cardio sets, and strength sessions. Strength, for me, isn’t much of a problem. I had to go down to knee push ups at the 30 second mark to finish off the minute, but I can usually hold my own when it comes to lifting and pushing things (See? Incredible Hulk! I wasn’t making that up).

Here are some highlights of the workout that I found particularly challenging:

1) Running - We had to run in between each circuit, so by the end of the hour class I was wheezing my way through the workout.

2) V Sits/Supermans - During these rotational exercises, E and I kept rolling into, and kicking, each other as we tried to get through it. We basically got tangled in the grass for the minute long set.

3) Bunny Hops (aka my personal hell) - It’s hard to jump over things, okay?! I almost hit myself in the chin with my boobs.

Really, though, it was actually really good. My calves are burning today and I know we got a good workout. We laughed our way through it, which is what I wanted more than anything.

And then I had a wee bit of chocolate when I came home. E said she had pizza. And MT had leftover birthday cake.

We’re superstars.

Hugs and Kisses,

Bella

First Day of the Rest of My Life?

Orientation at a new place of work (or of volunteering) is never usually a riveting, glued-to-the-edge-of-your-seat kind of experience. The orientation at the mental health hospital wasn’t really any different, except when they took us on a tour of the hospital and brought in people who have suffered from mental illness themselves. That stuff was awesome.

As we walked through the halls of this new building, I was shocked at how bright and modern it is. There are no announcements being made for doctors, no stretchers in the hall, and no uniformed nurses walking the corridors. On the contrary, there are huge windows that face the lake, designed to give the patients a view of nature that is meant to be calming and serene (I kind of think it would give the illusion of the possibility of escape). Nurses and doctors are in plain clothes and the patients walk around freely in the halls, greeting visitors and workers as though they are welcoming you into their home. The layout strongly discounts the stigma of mental hospitals, physically representing the statement of the hospital that promotes patient recovery and reintegration into society. Gone are the days of strait jackets and padded rooms, a la Shutter Island. Patients are free to roam the grounds, taking in the serenity of the lake or interacting with workers and peers during a game of pool or foosball (something missing? Dart boards – I guess for good reason).

In the lobby, there is a large piano for use by those patients with musical talent or who desire creative expression. A great idea for those patients who take solace in the calming notes of their favourite song. A not so great idea for a volunteer who was seriously disturbed by the movie Patch Adams, where the mental patient played Fur Elise right before he killed his nurse. If he had been playing that song, I would have been out of there faster than if someone had told me there was chocolate cake in the next room.

My mom has said that her biggest fear is getting trapped in a mental hospital with no way to escape. I somewhat understood that fear my first day at the hospital. I was leaving my appointment with the nurse after getting my blood taken (worst thing EVER) and was walking back to the conference room where the session was taking place. I kept walking. And walking. Nothing looked familiar because I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was during the tour. I was too busy smiling at all the people.

I didn’t think to read the signs and all the halls look the same. Seriously. Why do all the halls look the same? To confuse the patients? Call me crazy (actually, don’t), but wouldn’t it be better to have halls that are, like, recognizable? Because I’m pretty sure it’ll freak the patients out if they can’t find their room, and that’s not good for anyone.

I walked past the forensics unit (criminally mentally ill) talking to myself in an effort to calm myself down, and it went something like this (not at all politically correct, might I add): “Oh, my God, the criminally insane. Walk fast. Don’t run, though.” “Oh! A patient. Smile. Or not. Shit, he looked mad.” “Maybe I should stop talking to myself in a mental hospital.” “MY PHONE DOESN’T WORK!”

That last thought provoked a mild panic attack as I tried to text my mom to share my terror. Also, I didn’t yet have my pass to show that I was an employee there and one very nice worker had already used “that” voice when saying hello to me. Perhaps the fact that I felt as though I could be easily mistaken for a patient should be a cause for concern for me, but it really isn’t.

I thought for sure that I was going to be attacked and, without my phone, I was imagining myself screaming “I’m not CRAZY!!!” in a padded room.

Managed to escape my fate that time, though. Can’t say I’ll be so lucky next time.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

A Precursor To An Upcoming Post About Volunteering with Mental Health Patients

Mental health has always been an interest of mine. I find it fascinating and I love learning about the different ways people think, feel, and function in the world as a whole.

You’d be surprised by how many people are affected by some sort of mental health disorder – in fact, 1 in 4 people have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Severity varies, but it’s so common in today’s society and it shouldn’t be a taboo subject. I’d like to write more posts on mental health and the different degrees of it, because it affects everyone differently.

However, I thought I would take another approach on mental health – one that I use to address just about everything: humour.

Seriously, if you can’t laugh about things, your life will be very sad. Being able to laugh about things not only makes it easier for people to talk about, but also gets rid of the “hush-hush” mentality that so many of us employ when addressing the issue of mental health.

I’ve started volunteering at the local mental health centre in a town near mine, and they talk a lot about the stigma that follows mental illness and it’s perception in society. It’s true, everything thinks of mentally ill people as being crazy or nuts, but I think it’s because they don’t understand. And who can, really? What we have to understand is that people with mental health issues are still people, and they still have the same feelings and thoughts as everyone else. You don’t call someone with cancer a “cancerous person” (or maybe you do, but that’s your deal); why would you call someone with schizophrenia a “schizophrenic person”? It’s not an identity.

So laugh about it, if it’s easier to deal with it that way. Make jokes, but do it with the knowledge that it is serious, that there’s so much to learn about it, and that more people than you realize suffer from it.

Now that I’ve expressed the fact that I get the importance of creating mental health awareness and that people who suffer are wrongly represented in society, please stay tuned for a soon to come post detailing my experiences of my first day of volunteer orientation.

The Art of Meditation

S and I have become addicted to hot yoga. Sure, part of it might be the knowledge that it burns almost 1000 calories per 90 minute session (!!) but it also makes our skin feel amazing and we feel super cleansed.

I even feel like eating salad afterwards.

I know, right?

We went to another class on Monday night, S wanting to work off a McChicken sandwich and me wanting to work off a large amount of chocolate consumed earlier in the day (some of which may have been eaten before lunch. Don’t judge me).

I don’t know if the heat was on higher than usual or we were just in a spot that got very poor circulation, but it was bloody hot in that room. The thing is, when I’m working out with a lot of people around, I tend to push myself a little more so I don’t feel quite so inadequate.

Newsflash? You can’t do that in hot yoga. Seriously, your body, like, won’t let you. My heart started pounding, my head was spinning, and holding my arms in the air felt like the hardest exercise in the world. If you push past your limit, you will die.

So while everyone is holding Warrior 3 for hours on end, I curl down into Child’s Pose to catch my breath. Also, I can’t see everyone else so I forget that there are much fitter people all around me.

Well I mean, really. Watching the little blonde Gumby-like freak ahead of me curl her body into ridiculous poses while I couldn’t even touch my foot with my legs straight just makes me feel really bad about myself, and that’s not what yoga is about, okay?!

Ahem.

So, it was hot. The studio just got new windows installed that open (novelty!) but they obviously don’t open them very much because that would defeat the purpose of hot yoga. Maybe they think people won’t sweat as much? Which, unless you’re me, is probably true.

The windows were open the tiniest little crack. I, in my desperation for air that wasn’t thick with the sweat of 29 other people and cranked to a toasty 100 degree Fahrenheit, crouched toward the window in the hope of catching a tiny breeze.

Ah, bliss! I found that if I knelt in front of the window, tilted my head to the side at about a 90 degree angle, and pressed my nose directly against the little window so that my nostrils were placed quite prominently on the window’s edge (think Miss Piggy), I could breathe cold air. And that’s what I did.

Please keep in mind that the windows face a very busy street. And they don’t have curtains on them.

Whatever. It helped. So suck it.

Finally, the end of class was upon us. Since meditation is an integral part of the yoga practice, we ended the class with a collective “om” that would release any tension that built up as a result of some of the more difficult moves.

Or something.

All I know is that I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs to last even halfway through the “om” and, even if I could, it wouldn’t have happened because S couldn’t hold the laughter in any longer.

And, by extension, that means I couldn’t, either.

It started with hearing S snicker. As soon as I heard her, I lost control of my own laughter and started to shake uncontrollably as I prayed to Buddha (what? It’s yoga, it’s like his thing) that I wouldn’t snort. I kind of hope it looked like I was crying, what with being so emotional as I became in tune with my body.

S tried to cover her hysterics by pretending to sneeze into her towel. She’s actually that awesome.

Everyone meditates differently. We just happen to do it by laughing ourselves into hysterics.

And you know what? A laughing fit with a close friend is better meditation and relaxation than any yoga practice.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

(Oh, yeah, the hugs and kisses? It’s kind of this new thing I’m trying, you know, as a sign off. Jury’s still out.)

For the Love of the Game

(Disclaimer: I have no idea who this pitcher is. I just searched Blue Jays Baseball and that's what came up. My apologies to you sports fanatics).

M has played baseball for as long as I can remember. I pretty much grew up around ball diamonds in the summer and hockey arenas in the winter.

I did my own activities, but his always took more time and I wasn’t old enough to stay home alone. So I tagged along with my parents as we took in game after game after game. There were perks, though, like the away game trips to different cities and to Europe. They were pretty awesome.

As soon as I was old enough to stay home by myself, I took full advantage of it (unless, of course, I was in the throes of young love with one of his teammates, which was more often than not. And by being in the throes of young love, I mean I admired the boy in question from afar while he had no idea what my name was).

(Actually, I think I stayed in love with one of them for about three summers. Of course, there was always another one of the many boys who I also lusted after – usually if he so much as looked my way – but there was one in particular that I thought was amazing. That being said, I think I developed a crush on every boy that M played hockey and/or baseball with. Naturally, I thought they were all in love with me, too).

Anyway, M’s last game of the season was last night, and my parents, R, my Grandpa (Grandma was trying her luck at her favourite sport – gambling), and K were all planning on attending to cheer him on. I figured I could make an appearance and act as the supportive sister, so I joined in the fun.

I realized the two reasons why I never liked going to the games in the first place. 1) It’s boring. Seriously. It may be fun to play, but not so much to watch. 2) Watching M play makes me really nervous. It always has. I hate if he doesn’t do well and my stomach is in knots every time he throws a pitch, even if he’s having a really ‘on’ game, which is more often than not. He’s a great ball player. Maybe it’s a protective sibling thing.

I was more interested in arguing with R (he eventually told me to stop talking to him) and giggling with K about the catcher’s nicely fitted pants (they were wonderful) and the bent over stretches executed by the players right in front of us as they readied themselves to hit the ball.

However, one thing I never really got a taste of in all my spectator experience is the conversation topics that the players discuss on the bench. I was sitting right beside the dugout (not a strategic placing, trust me. I looked like a bum and they all have girlfriends) and was privy to the delightful discussions of these mid 20 year old men.

Definitely not what I was expecting.

Please enjoy the snippets of chatter that I eavesdropped from the dugout:

“I had eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a cup of tea, and my bill was $22!”
“A cup of tea?” (My thoughts exactly)
“Yeah, I drink tea, fuck you.”

“I don’t bake, but she’s really good at baking. She doesn’t eat cake but she bakes cake and it’s really good. I don’t use recipes, though, so I can’t bake. I just cook. Like, I couldn’t use a recipe.” (Thanks, Captain Obvious. I think we got it. Also, to whoever “she” is, I would like to ask the following: Who the hell doesn’t eat the cake you bake? You’re skinny, aren’t you? Bitch)

“You are no longer a convenient store. I am a convenient store.” (Don’t ask me)

Good to know they were paying attention to the game.

The World of Hot Yoga...Is Sweaty

My awesome friend, S, and I decided to branch out on our exercise experiences by partaking in a hot yoga class on Saturday morning.

(Haha, I never realized that I use the first initials of my friends like Gossip Girl does on, um, Gossip Girl. S, E, J, L – it’s like how Serena and Blair call each other by their initials and how Gossip Girl totally uses initials to maintain some anonymity but everyone KNOWS who they actually are and – ahem…)

By walking into the building of the hot yoga experience, we inadvertently walked into the world where people think they are awesome all of the time and believe that everyone in a 20 feet radius wants to hear their stupid stories about how fantastic they are. Um, advice? Maybe you don’t want to yell about your awesomeness, as there will always, more often than not, be someone around that WILL judge you. S and I were those people. Just saying.

We sign up, though after being told that we should have registered online. Woopsy. Our bad. When the instructor then told another girl that there may not be room, S and I made sure to make it known that we would gladly give up our spots for an already registered person.

Haha, please. We definitely looked the other way and acted as though the room wasn’t small enough that we could hear the conversation clearly.

What? We really wanted to try hot yoga.

As we entered the holy temple (seriously, it wouldn’t surprise me if some people regarded the room as such), there was barely room for our mats amongst the people chilling out in Savasana (or something).

We giggled our way into setting up our towels, mats, and water, and then promptly settled in to make fun of all the people that were stretching their limbs and waving their hands in time to the haunting music playing on the loudspeakers.

I wish I was kidding. I’m not.

S made note of the creepy way all the people were laying so still, and then we shared in a moment of snickering.

I told her to “sshh” as she cleared her throat, and then burst into laughter at my charming wit.

We both had trouble swallowing our laughter as the instructor started the class and the breathing began. I could hear S’s exhalations tinged with the shaking laughter that only arises when you know you aren’t supposed to be finding anything amusing in the present situation.

As we were “losing ourselves” in our present minds, I instead looked over at S every five seconds to see if she was finding this as funny as I was. She was.

We both couldn’t contain ourselves as the room was filled with heavy breathing that sounded as though it belonged in an orgy. I could practically hear S thinking, “Who breathes like this? What losers!”

I was thinking the same thing.

Class began, and it wasn’t long before sweat was pouring off us in a way that I’m fairly certain neither of us has experienced before. Thank God all the fit people were sweating, too. I think I would have walked out if they were all fresh and dry as I was trying to do downward dog in a puddle of my own sweat.

I was blinded by my sweat more times that I could count. I couldn’t grip anything by the end, so when we were told to hold our knees to our chest, I was frantically trying to get a hold on my slippery leg (and failing miserably). As I glanced over to S, she looked at me with tears in her eyes.

Okay, it was sweat. But the tears would have made sense to me. I was feeling a certain amount of emotion, and it wasn’t because I was getting in tune with my body. It was hot in there, yo.

We managed to finish the class and, let me tell you, there was no laughter going on at the end. There were moments when I felt consciousness slipping away. Seriously, that exercise is frickin’ crazy, but it feels great, and it does wonders for your skin.

Oh, and the breathing we made fun at the beginning? I’m pretty sure we were the loudest ones practicing the extreme exhalation at the end as we tried to keep a hold on our consciousness. Guess those yogis know what they’re talking about…

Who knew?

Writer's Block - Otherwise Known As Being Completely Clueless

Ok, seriously? How do people come up with things to write about every single day?

M writes his own blog about sports, but I don’t read it because I don’t understand half the things he talks about (I also don’t care). We differ in the sports that we like (he prefers baseball over hockey, whereas I love hockey and loathe baseball). He might argue that I know very little about the Toronto Maple Leafs, my favourite team (I use that term loosely as I don’t even know the players). He would be correct.

However, having grown up in hockey arenas due to his former love of the sport (sure, now, when I would like to be surrounded by hockey playing men, he decides that he "doesn’t like it” - I think he was too concerned with his looks being compromised by playing a rough sport), I do know the rules and the fast paced excitement is enough to make me fall off the exercise bike in anticipation of a goal. True story.

However, I don’t know enough about the sport of Canadians to write posts about it, nor do I want to. Why would I want to write about stats of players? All I care about is whether or not they’re single and if they have all of their teeth – or at least really good dentures.

The other blogs I read are about amazing causes like finding a cure for Cystic Fibrosis (difficult to devote a blog to when I know very little about the disease), but I don’t suffer from a disease myself – besides craziness, but that doesn’t count. The others are about family life and kids (which I don’t have). I could write about politics, but I don’t really care or know about that, either.

Actually, perhaps the problem isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about, but is because I’m too clueless to know what’s going on in the world.

Interesting. Maybe I should try to broaden my horizons a bit. Come to think of it, I bet I would be able to handle myself in conversations that didn’t revolve around television, Hollywood, or 18th century literature if I knew about politics and world news.

(Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t talk about literature anymore. I spend my time reading chick lit and autobiographies by authors of said chick lit).

But the news is just so…boring. Granted, I do know about things that are happening, like the boatload of foreigners that were turned away by Australia and Thailand (I think?) but welcomed with open arms and wads of cash into Canada. (Stupidest move by our government EVER, if you ask me). I’m just not so in tune with the whole story so I don’t think I should be writing my opinion based on hearsay information and tidbits of information that I glimpse on thestar.com before clicking on my favourite section – the crossword puzzles.

I have, however, started watching the news in the morning. I figure that’s a start, right? I mean, it’s Breakfast Television and most of what’s on at the time I’m watching is traffic and weather, and my hair dryer usually drowns out most of the sound, but it’s an improvement on my usual choice of morning entertainment – listening to radio shows that detail the latest gossip in Hollywood.

(Umm, there’s a reason I’m so knowledgeable about Brangelina and Lindsay Lohan’s stints in jail).

So I think that’s my goal. To read the paper and watch informative news shows in order to become well-versed in the goings on of my country and the world around me.

With a little bit of gossip mixed in, of course.

My Own Personal Technology "Fail"

Today we’re doing interviews for a position that is currently filled by an employee soon to be leaving to have babies. Two of them. I don’t know whether to be happy or seriously freaked out for her. She seems happy, though, so I guess I’ll go for that.

It’s a job that I would love to do but, judging by my own stupidity shown when trying to set up for said interview, perhaps it’s best that I didn’t apply. The interviewers are two people that I currently work for, and I’m afraid that not only would I not be chosen for this position, but I would also be fired from the job I do now. Best to keep up the illusion of my intelligence.

Interviews at my place of work consist of an oral discussion and a written test. While the candidate is cleverly trying to prove that they are the best person for the job, I was to set up the test room with the spare laptop, instructions, and data stick.

No problem, right? Maybe not for normal, observant people.

I used to pride myself on my attention to detail. Indeed, my resume currently boasts my “excellent attention to detail to ensure accuracy of information.” I’m beginning to think I need to remove that little tidbit.

See, we all have our own log-in information. I can log onto any computer within the company and be able to access all my own information and documents. So, you can imagine my panic when my settings wouldn’t let me connect to the network. I hadn’t planned for any mishaps and time was running low before the first candidate was scheduled to appear.

This was not an ideal way to start the morning and I was producing a worrying amount of sweat for my current sedentary position. No matter how many times I entered in my passwords, it still wasn’t working. Not to mention that I had a difficult time even opening the damn thing. I’m fairly certain that it was made in the 1990s.

(Really, guys? You can’t spring for new laptops? They’re not that expensive now. I think it’s a problem when we still use laptops that have little red dots to scroll on things. And maybe while you’re at it, you could think about some new desktops? I have to beat mine to a pulp every day because it makes extremely annoying noises. The tower is dangerously close to splitting open as a result of my punches. PS – not my fault.)

Scrambling, I ran (hobbled, I was in heels, after all) back to my desk to call E and ask if she had ever set up a laptop here before. Negative. My panic transferred to her. That’s why I love her – she doesn’t let me panic alone.

I frantically dialed IT while looking up all the technologically inclined contacts (2) I have in the company. Neither IT nor my contacts were available.

I was ready to start crying when JR, one of my work buddies, came over to see why I was becoming a puddle.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING AND I CAN’T SIGN IN TO THE LAPTOP! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO???”

JR calmly (he is remarkably steady amongst chaos) asked if the laptop had its own log in information.

Huh?

Instead of trying to explain to me what he meant (he knows better by now), JR took a look at the computer himself.

“Yeah, the log in information is right here. On the left side corner.”

My hand was covering it when I was trying to sign in. MY HAND.

“It’s okay. They hide it.”

I wish I could say that they at least present it in very little font.

They do not.

JR signed in for me, and everything the candidate would need was all right there on the desktop.

“Thank you so much. And please don’t tell anyone about this. It’s very embarrassing.”

“I’m putting it in my newsletter. You’re welcome, though.”

Guess I can’t really blame him.

Caution: Floor Slippery When Wet

This weekend, I visited J before she leaves for teacher’s college. We’re not the coolest people in the world and, while people our age would usually plan to hit the town, we decided to partake in a viewing of Step Up 3D.

(It was fantastic, by the way. Hot men that can dance? What’s not to love? I’ve also decided to take hip hop dance lessons in the hope that it will either a) make me look like the gorgeous female dancers; b) win me a man that resembles one of the male dancers; or, in a win-win situation for me, c) all of the above).

Anyway, after the movie, we decided to head over to a local ice cream shop for a wee treat. It was pouring rain out and, in order to avoid getting soaked in the 2 seconds it would take to walk from the car to the shop, I decided to run. Quickly. Right into the store.

Did you know that linoleum floors are extremely slippery when wet? Or that $4 sandals have very little traction on them?

Well, I certainly do. Now.

In my haste to get into the store, I swung the door open, looked back to see where J was, stepped into the shop, and slid through the doorway.

I just didn’t stop sliding.

I’m sure you can guess what happened next, but let me fill you in on the more intricate details.

As I went sliding in the ice cream shop, my thought process went a little something like this: “This floor is extremely slippery … Oh dear God, I’m not stopping … WHY AM I NOT STOPPING?? … Oh shit, I’m going down … I am on my ass in the middle of an ice cream shop … I wonder if there’s a chance no one saw that…”

Let me tell you something: people saw it. J couldn’t stop laughing. She was laughing so hard she couldn’t (wouldn’t?) help me up. All three of the, thankfully female, workers came rushing out of the back of the shop, eyes wide and smiles playing on their stupidly pretty (I hated them) faces.

Perhaps the icing on the proverbial cake was that I didn’t gracefully slide onto the floor (I’m beginning to rethink this whole hip hop dancing career). Oh, no. I can only speculate, but I assume I held a resemblance to a (overweight) baby deer trying to stay on a surfboard during a tsunami. I wobbled fiercely. The arms went out, Surfer Dude style. My knees stayed together whilst my legs involuntarily spread from the knees down, a la Bambi. I tried so hard to stay upright that I crashed into the high chair that was located just inside of the door.

The high chair was the loudest fucking high chair in the history of the world. The tray fell off and clattered to the ground. On the floor at this point (I may have still been hanging onto the door handle), I flailed my legs hysterically in my urge to stand up and kicked the high chair tray around the floor (I left it there, by the way. Stupid wet ice cream shop floor).

One of the workers’ responses at my booming exclamation of “THE FLOOR IS SLIPPERY” (trying to save face, you know how it is) was “the sign is up, right?” Yes, thanks Barbie. The sign notifying me of the wet floor is indeed right in front of me. What the hell did that do for me, huh?

I didn’t even get a free ice cream out of the deal.

However, I wonder if they have a video of it… That would be some funny shit to put on YouTube…

Friday Night: Walmart. Alone.

Alone on Friday night (parents are watching TV. Together). Decide to write blog detailing my evening.

Partake in lovely, restful nap. But very odd dreams. Woke up unsure if the events that happened were real or fictional. Extremely confused.

Dad calls me for dinner. Promptly forget about weird dreams in excitement for food.

Eat delicious tomato and mozzarella salad. Pretend I am in Italy.

Sit on bed, very bored. Wonder where friends are. No one returns texts.

Talk to best friend on phone. Giggle about guys. Feel much happier.

Sit on bed again. Contemplate cleaning room, as it is difficult to see the floor.

Quickly disregard that ridiculous idea.

Decide to venture to Walmart. Mom suggests going to see new Walmart two towns over. Get very excited.

Briefly address excitement of Walmart trip, but decide it is best left alone. Not sure it's something I want to delve into too deeply. Assume it will be depressing.

Sing Journey really loud in car ride on way to Walmart. Think that ‘Faithfully’ would make perfect wedding dance song.

Realize that marriage will probably not be something in which I partake.

Change music to avoid depression.

Arrive at Walmart and realize that every Walmart looks the same. Somewhat of a let down.

Get lost in Walmart because it is so huge. Walk in circles before finding Cosmetics area.

Think that the layout of all Walmarts should be the same to avoid customers getting lost.

Realize that I am probably the only person to get lost in Walmart.

Walk around shoe area.

Hear music playing, and look in disgust at young couple who MUST be listening to their music on their phones.

Listen closer. Realize music is coming from own phone. Which is located in bra. Laugh hysterically to self.

Remove phone from bra with some difficulty to turn off music.

Replace phone back in bra and continue on merry way. Ignore weird looks from fellow shoppers. They can suck it. (Not literally, though. That’s weird.)

Awareness Monday: Organ Donation

I’ve decided to write a weekly post about an issue that I feel is important for people to be aware of. Sure, it’s fun to write about the trivial experiences that I go through in my daily life, but there is so much out there that is important to me, and having the ability to write about it in a public forum is an opportunity that can’t be overlooked.

I’ve always been an advocate of organ donation, but it wasn’t until I started reading blogs about Cystic Fibrosis, and experiencing the loss of a young cousin, that really drove the point home for me.

I’ve never been directly affected by Cystic Fibrosis. In fact, I never really knew much about it. I fundraised for Shinerama during my Orientation Week at University, but any knowledge that I gained about the disease was quickly overshadowed by the new experiences that were unfolding in front of me. It wasn’t until I read a story about Natalia Ritchie in the Toronto Star that I realized just how serious CF is.

(I’m not going to try and explain Cystic Fibrosis, because I don’t have a real grasp of what it is. It’s not my place to describe something with which I don’t have any experience).

Natalia was writing a blog about the experience of having her daughter carried by a surrogate, being unable to carry a baby herself due to her illness. She didn’t, however, let her disease rule her life. It wasn’t until she was close to death that it seemed as though CF might win the fight. With her new daughter in her thoughts and her family surrounding her with unwavering support and faith, Natalia received a lung transplant.

One of the most admirable traits about Natalia was her refusal to hope or pray for lungs. She recognized that, in order for her to receive her transplant, someone would have to pay the ultimate sacrifice. Her humanity and compassion truly make her an inspiration.

The relief and happiness I felt after I found out that Natalia received her lungs showed me that I don’t have to be personally affected by anything to have it matter. That’s what makes it necessary to create awareness about topics that people may not consider. We have the ability to make changes in so many people’s lives, so long as we care enough to make it happen. We have that power.

Through Natalia’s blog I came across one written by Ronnie and Mandi Sharpe. They share their lives with their readers, allowing us into their love story and into their campaign for creating awareness of Cystic Fibrosis. Ronnie’s positive outlook on life and CF, Mandi’s support of her husband and their campaign, and their great personalities are motivating to enjoy life to its fullest, as well as showing us that true love isn’t just in movies and books. They’re an amazing couple.

As seen with Natalia’s story, those suffering from CF may one day require an organ donation. I’ve chosen to be an organ donor. The woman who saved Natalia chose to be an organ donor. And so did Christie Rose.

Two years ago, my second cousin, Christie, passed away from injuries suffered in a car accident. She was 18. She had her whole life ahead of her, a loving family, and a huge network of friends. I’d never been to a funeral like the one that was held for her, nor do I think I ever will be again. Her school auditorium was filled with friends and family, all devastated by their loss. Christie had such an impact on everyone who was lucky enough to be close to her. I wish I had the chance to experience her personality to the extent that was described in so many tributes to her.

Christie chose to be an organ donor, giving the ultimate gift to help those in need - an ideal that she advocated and followed in her own life. Her organs were donated to many people, one of whom happened to be a young mother. Because of Christie, that woman’s children will grow up knowing the grace of a mother’s love.

Organ donation is one of the most selfless acts a human being can be part of. If you aren’t one, please consider it. If you are, know that you may, one day, allow someone to live the life they’ve always dreamed of.

From Bella to Quasimodo

First off, I’m writing this on the recommendation of M’s girlfriend, K. She got a front row seat to my allergic reaction and, as a result, decided it would be a good idea to “write a blog about [your] face.” An inspired thought, I must say. But then she’s pretty cool, so it’s not exactly surprising.

Allergies have never been a huge problem for me. Sure, I get stuffed up and sneezy in warmer months and I can’t be around cats without getting itchy and watery eyes (not a huge problem as I don’t even like cats), but that’s about it. It wasn’t until I was about 18 that I had my first experience with hives.

That experience lasted 3 days and left me with laboured breathing and swollen lips.

Since then, hives pop up usually during or after a work out (I MUST be allergic to exercise!). Most times, my lips swell. I know it’s the style to have Angelina Jolie type lips, but there are three problems that hinder my ability to look like one of the sexiest women in the world (at one point. She’s kind of skinny now). First of all, I already have large lips. Second, the swelling tends to be only in one area. It ends up looking like an unfortunately botched collagen injection. And third, I’m not Angelina Jolie.

You can imagine my distress, then, when I started experiencing hives symptoms last night. Burning ears, check. Itchy skin, check. Swelling, check.

Only this time, it wasn’t my lips. Oh, no. It was my eyes.

It started out with just a wee bump. I was in aerobics class, so I thought nothing of it and put it down to either sweat or from rubbing my eyes.

Then it started growing. By this time, the class was almost done and I could see the bump when I looked into the mirror, which was on the opposite wall to where I was. Well, shit.

Now, a little bump would have been fine. Not ideal, obviously, but I could have handled it. But it didn’t stop there. By the time I got home (this all happened within the span of about 20 minutes), my left eye was almost swollen shut and the other eye was getting bigger. Thank the Lord for sunglasses.

I took two Benadryl and sat on my bed with an ice pack on my face. I think it made it worse.

At this point, dinner was being served and M and K were outside my bedroom door, excited to get a look at my hideous deformation. They promised they wouldn’t laugh.

M had his hand over his mouth. K covered her amusement by expressing her concern.

“Oh! Ooh, what happened? You might, uh, want to go to the Doctor’s.” Good advice, but there was no way in Hell I was leaving my house and going into the world looking like Quasimodo. If I was going anywhere, it was to a bell tower to live in shame of my deformity.

My Mom, while obviously expressing concern, had a hard time keeping her laughter to herself. My Dad, still trying to be serious about the issue, couldn’t control his emotions so well that I couldn’t see his face tighten up in order to bite back a smile. J and E, both of whom I sent pictures of my face to, burst out laughing at the sight of me.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have had it any other way. This is the reason I love my family and friends so much.

M, however, was perhaps the most insensitive of them all, asking me to keep my head down as I was sitting across from him at the dinner table and he was disgusted looking at me.

“You look like you’re from the circus.”

I charge $50 a ticket.

New York, New York!

So it's been a while since I've last written here. Truthfully, I couldn't get the energy to put my thoughts into a coherent post that would be both interesting and entertaining. I still haven't, but I thought I would give it a shot anyway.

My best friend, J, and I took a trip down to New York City to see our University friend and to take in the sights.

We drove down in my cute, white Cobalt, which didn't seem so cute after being cooped up in it for 7 hours, driving through small upstate New York towns and desperately hoping that our lives wouldn't become ideal models on which to create an epic horror film.

Aside from the toothless gas station attendants and jovial (or creepy, whichever you prefer) man with the Buffalo Bill type van, we managed to get to Poughkeepsie, New York with little more than sugar hangovers from the copious amounts of chocolate consumed on the road.

Fast forward past the uneventful train ride from Poughkeepsie to the City, and we had arrived. New York City. The Big Apple.

I don't know how many times we got hit with doors as New Yorkers hurried through and didn't think to (or didn't want to?) hold the door open as we struggled with our fully packed suitcases (so we packed too much. It was NEW YORK. You never know what you'll need there).

"We should get a cab to the hotel." I just wanted to be in an air conditioned room and lie down.

"Okay. Where?"

"This looks like a good place for taxis. How do you do it?"

Obviously, our naivety was extremely apparent, as we were charged $35 for a cab ride that, on the same route back, cost us $10. Woops.

NYC - 1. Bella and J - 0.

It was hot, muggy, and so busy that I couldn't walk two feet without touching someone else. For those of you who aren't familiar with me and my pet peeves, I do not like to touch people. I don't mean anyone, as I will gladly embrace family and close friends (and I always make an exception for good looking men), but touching strangers is not something that thrills me to pieces. I was ready to sucker punch everyone by the last day of our trip.

NYC - 2. Bella and J - 0.

We got lost on our way to Soho, because the metro lines were all weird and NOT clearly marked as to which direction they were traveling. It took us 2 hours to get to a place that was barely a 30 minute ride on the metro.

It may have been my fault. J was kind enough not to mention it.

NYC - 3. Bella and J (mostly just Bella, though) - 0.

Above all, though, seeing our friend was so fantastic, and he spent some of each day with us. We couldn't have been better taken care of by him and he truly made our time in New York worth while. A, we love you!

We saw Mamma Mia on Broadway (kick ass), ate over priced food in Times Square (didn't even care), sampled New York's best cheesecake (anyone see that Friends episode where Rachel and Chandler steal cheesecake from their neighbour? I'm pretty sure it would have tasted like this), saw the lights of Times Square, and stepped foot in the Plaza.

We even took ballroom dance lessons, but that's a story for another time.

New York City may have beaten us, but it truly is the Empire State (of Mind - holla! See what I did there?). It was noisy, smelly, hot, and busy, but then that's New York. I don't know if I would rush back there, but it was amazing to experience. I did, however, learn something about myself amongst the noise and heat and crowds.

I am not a city girl.

Effing CrossFit Workouts

So with my amazing workout that I’ve been doing (ran twice in the morning last week, put that in your pipe and smoke it), when M asked if I wanted to work out with him today, I was all for it. Thought I would show him how in shape I am now.

Things didn’t go quite as I had hoped.

Let me start from the beginning. He and I were at the same party for his friends’ going away do last night. (They all loved me more than him). I drank way more beer than I had originally planned, what with all the flip cup playing, the need to drink away the awkwardness I feel when I know very few people in the room, and the great taste of Bud Light Lime.

Anyway, I felt so skinny when I woke up this morning, which I attributed, again, to my awesome workout regime. Granted, it could have been the dehydration from drinking, but I prefer to think it’s the former.

Off we go to the track at a local high school (which, by the way, is so nice. We certainly got jipped in the athletics department at our high school). I was pretty excited to get started as I was wearing my new, pretty running shoes. I ran a little on the track and could feel a breeze ON MY FEET. It was so cool (pun not intended but kind of funny anyway).

Our workout was as follows: 400m run, 50 squats, 400m run, 40 lunges, 400m run, 30 burpees, 400m run, 20 pushups.

M’s was different. I don’t know what he did between the runs but it looked pretty difficult.

“Ready, set, go.” And we’re off! I start at a great pace in my pretty shoes (M also got new shoes. I think they’re pretty. I don’t think he appreciates that description). I was feeling great.

Apparently M didn’t think it necessary to run alongside me so we could chat and laugh about our day. He was about 100m ahead of me about 5 seconds into the run.

Fine.

Now, you have to realize that this boy loves himself so much (or is just really proud of his hard work) that he always, without fail, works out without his shirt on. Today was no exception. Thank God he isn’t my sister, because if I had an older sister in as good of shape as M, I would seriously consider eating myself into oblivion. Seriously, I could see his muscles even when he was 200m ahead of me. Like, come on. Put a shirt on (for any ladies that read this and are interested, he is not single. So back off).

I ran the first 400m in under 2 minutes. And then it just went downhill from there.

“Bella! Run!” I got yelled at a LOT as I walked around the track.

“You run.” My comebacks are pretty awesome.

“Cut out the pushups.”

“Can I cut out the burpees?!”

“No.”

God dammit.

I thought that “cutting out the pushups” (which I can do a hell of a lot better than burpees) meant also cutting out the run that went with them. Found that out the hard way. I may have blacked out.

“One more run.”

*gasping for air* “WHAT?”

If Running Doesn't Kill Me...

I started my running program today. And by running program I mean I just started running in the morning. There’s no program. I basically just go until I want to stop and then walk for a bit.

It’s pretty well thought out.

I’ve never been able to get up early – I’m just not a morning person. Thing is, I’m also not a night exerciser, either. I just don’t want to do physical activity that isn’t going to get me immediate results, such as walking to the bar to drink myself into believing that I’m freakin’ gorgeous.

Seeing as how I collapse on my bed every evening after work after talking myself out of working out all day, I figured that a morning run would be the lesser of two evils. I set my alarm for 610 and jumped out of bed, ready to face the world.

Actually, I really had to use the bathroom. I just didn’t let myself flop back into my bed as per usual.

I even bought a new workout bra from Lululemon. That’s how serious I am about this. And I lost my other one.

The air was stagnant outside, and it was already hot. I have the lung capacity of a 2 year old (self-diagnosed), so I wasn’t anticipating an Olympic worthy run. I was, however, anticipating being able to completely run the route I had set out.

Armed with my iPhone and my old running shoes, I took off down the street in a light jog, feeling great about my ability to actually get out of bed.

I didn’t feel so great about my ability to run after I started walking about a minute or two later.

Hm. I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Even my angst filled workout playlist couldn’t keep me going, despite the loud, slightly concerning lyrics of Godsmack’s “I Fucking Hate You” pumping through my ear phones.

I’ve tried to run to Top 40 songs. The happy beats and sunny attitudes of Katy Perry and Kelly Clarkson make me want to punch someone in the mouth. I much prefer heavy tracks that mirror my own anger as I participate in a physical activity that I don’t even enjoy.

I have to say, though, that it was a nice start to the day and, after I took out my earphones, the quiet morning and birds chirping was actually…relaxing.

That’s not to say that I’m going to start getting up at 5am to complete hour long runs, but I may be able to keep this regime up for a while.

Or at least until my body realizes what I’m doing and stages a protest when I try to drag it out of bed.

It’s only a matter of time.

The Art of Belly Dancing

E and I vowed to start eating better and exercising. Then she caught me at the dollar store buying candy. So the eating better part isn’t going so well. We did, however, sign up for belly dancing lessons.

We’re not sure why we did it, either.

The brochure advocates its health benefits while being a “low impact” workout, yet I sweat so much that it looks I’ve run a marathon at the end, and all we’re doing is shaking our hips. I am in such good shape.

E is probably the best person to do the class with, though, as she doesn’t take herself too seriously and can have a laugh at how ridiculous we look. And, believe me, we do.

Case in point: I hunch over and shake my legs during the hip shimmy. E punches the air. E yells out in the class in enthusiasm, only to realize that no one else is cheering with her. Including me. And we both run into each other as we glide (read: march) around the room and then laugh hysterically to each other. Who needs a teacher? We basically run the class with our hilarity.

We do, however, have a teacher, who I’m fairly certain is high every time she comes to class (in a belly baring top, no less), which is further evidenced as she tells us to feel our fat and let it jiggle. Um, there is a reason why I am in an exercise class. It’s to get rid of the jiggle. I’d rather not let it go and risk taking out the fragile looking girl beside me whose waist is the size of my leg.

I knew we were in for an interesting ride when our teacher asked us to sweep the air with our arm, bringing it down across our faces and towards our vaginas. Yes, vaginas. I was seriously concerned that “belly dancing” was a new found term to disguise “lesbian support group” and that we were going to have to start inspecting our own hoohas and comparing them to each other’s.

That, thank God, was not the case. But the number of times in class that she mentions anything to do with lady parts is seriously disconcerting…

Perhaps boxing would have been a more appropriate choice.

Let's Party Like It's 1999...at My Funeral

It’s not weird to plan your own funeral.

Well, maybe it is when you’re in your 20s.

I used to think that I was going to die in my 30s, because I just couldn’t see myself living past 39. Then I read The Secret and learned about the law of attraction, after which I decided that not putting my death sentence out into the Universe would probably be a bit safer for me in the long run. Now, I like to say that no, I am not planning on dying anytime soon.

It’s just that when you go to one or two funerals a year, you begin to think about your own “finale” and how you want to be perceived when that time comes.

I don’t want sad songs, like You Raise Me Up, Amazing Grace, or other things that are, you know, sad. It’s already a sad event – I don’t need kick these people while they’re down. And they will be down. I mean, I’ll be dead. That’s enough to make every person whose life I’ve touched to want to assume the fetal position and then erect a statue in my honour.

I want I’m On A Boat to be playing as people walk into the venue (which will not be a funeral home, P.S. I’m thinking a party room at a movie theatre. Or at a McDonald’s, and then people can have a tour of the back after the funeral). Other songs that will be featured at this memorial will be Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, Sweet Caroline, Total Eclipse of the Heart, On the Wings of Love, and any song from Glee and Brad Paisley. All songs that mean something to my friends or family and allude to the awesome times they’ve had with me.

There will be a dress code. No black. Bright colours only. Preferably pink.

And balloons! This is a celebration of life. My life. There had better be some kick ass decorations.

My cousin, R, once referred to the wake as the ‘after party’. I thought that was fantastic. It will most definitely be the after party at my funeral, complete with cosmos, martinis, margaritas, wine, and shots. Oh, and a cake, of course. Double chocolate cheesecake, my go-to birthday cake that my Mom always makes for me.

Finally, I would like a comedian (Russell Peters would be great) to make inappropriate death jokes, as I would do. And I would like stories of my hilarious sense of humour and discussions of my beauty.

Shut up, this is my funeral. I can have what I want.

CrossFit: No Excuses

I went to the gym today.

I realize that’s a very simple, boring statement but, for me, it’s huge. I so did not want to go. I woke up exhausted, and being in an office all day doesn’t exactly scream ‘energy booster’.

I have a headache. My arms hurt. I’m tired. I’ll go tomorrow.

All excuses that don’t fly with my trainer, who also happens to be my brother. They also don’t fly with the owner of the gym, but not for lack of trying on my part, trust me.

“My head hurts; I just want to put that out there,” I announced to the whole gym. M smiled. He literally couldn’t care less. The owner asked if that was an excuse. “No, I’m just letting you know.”

“20 burpees for excuses,” guy in blue shirt says as he walks by. Excuse me? Who the hell are you and, while we’re at it, shut up.

“10 seconds,” the owner tells us.

Well, shit. That didn’t work.

30 clean and jerks (at 95 lbs, thankyouverymuch) – including one that almost took me down with it – and 6 minutes and 7 seconds later, and I was done. Quick and painful.

Did you expect me to say painless? Please. Anyone who has done CrossFit knows that this workout regime brings ‘no pain, no gain’ to a whole new level. I’ve come closer to crying during a workout than I would ever care to admit.

See, my warmup sucked - I couldn't get past 4 full, chest to the ground pushups. I only got 4 55 lb overhead squats. It was tough. But I DID IT. That's they key. Not every workout is going to be fantastic. Just push yourself as far as you can to make sure that you're not giving up on YOU. Because in the end, isn't that who you're doing this for?

Honestly, if you’re looking for a new workout, give it a try. Even if you’re not, I would still recommend it. If you can, try a CrossFit gym. I like CrossFit Oshawa, but then I’m biased because the people and camaraderie are fantastic. CrossFit workouts push you way beyond your limits, and the sense of accomplishment you’ll have after you hit a max rep that’s heavier than you ever thought you could get is second to none.

Besides, you'll never have to worry about your body getting used to the workouts. CrossFit will kick your ass every day, and I both love and hate it for that.

Seriously, do it. What have you got to lose?

Monday Night Ritual

(This photo has nothing to do with this post; I just thought it was really pretty).

It was another Bachelorette night in the house last Monday. I could barely contain my excitement all day, partly for what R and M were going to come out with this week, and partly because that show is just so damn addictive.

Seriously, I wasn’t even planning on watching it this season, and I’m hooked. I love Chris L and could totally see myself married to him. If he’s the next Bachelor, I am SO applying. He’s just so frigging cute. And manly. And did you see how his helmet was always cocked to the side? Melt my heart.

I also love Roberto, though I completely agree with Ali when she said she wouldn’t have gone up to him because he’s too hot for her. The difference being, however, that he actually IS too hot for me. Ali’s cute and tiny and blonde. I am the opposite. I could probably muscle him into taking me out, but who wants to have to beat the guy up just to buy you a drink?

Anyway, got way off topic there. I’m sad Kasey is gone, only because he reached a major level of crazy that is just priceless. He is, however, better than Justin. Seriously, that guy is the personification of ‘douchebag’. He’s so smarmy, all he cared about was upping Kasey, yet he gets all cutesy and nice when he’s with Ali. You don’t fool me, Justin!

And that move by Ali – y’all know what I’m talking about – when she took her snowsuit off and had her bathing suit on? Yeah, that one. I am secure enough to admit that yes, she looked good. I am not secure enough to suggest that she looked good on her own. Please, there was some serious fake tan going on. And her blue suit TOTALLY accentuated that. Along with the ever so flattering lighting and, well, it was just smoke and mirrors that made the men go crazy.

However, if I were to pull that same move, I’m fairly certain that the men would either a) tell me to put the snowsuit back on, or b) claim tiredness (as M so nicely suggested) and go back to the hotel. Either way, my hilarious sense of humour and sparkling personality couldn’t even help in that situation.

Whatever.

It’s also no secret that I’m not Ali’s biggest fan. Her voice makes me want to shot myself in the ear. But the way she acted when she drunk was frickin’ awesome. I honestly felt that, in that moment, she and I could be best friends.

She was having so much fun; it made me want to drink to experience that same level of fun.

Except instead of being surrounded by 6 gorgeous men (well, gorgeous except for Frank…and Craig, but he’s funny so it’s okay), I would be alone in my room on the computer, seriously considering rejoining Plenty of Fish.

Hmm, what picture would I put up?…

Help Desk "Canada"

I had to call Microsoft today because I had some questions about Outlook. I figured I would call, get my answer, and be done with it.

Such an idealist.

I made sure to choose Microsoft CANADA, called the number, and listened to the ring be interrupted by static noise every 2 seconds. It was then that I could only assume I was calling as a camel was walking over the wires in a tiny northern Indian town.

Sure enough, my call is answered by a 4 year old Philippino girl with a thick accent and a penchant for calling me 'ma'am'.

Yeah, she was in the Philippines. When I call to speak to someone about my problem in Canada, I would like to speak to a Canadian. Or, at the very least, a North American.

Tiny Philippino With Annoying Accent (TPWAA): Oh, are you calling from Canada, ma'am?

Me: Um, yes. Why? Where are you?

TPWAA: We are located in the Philippines, ma’am.

Me: Fantastic.

TPWAA: What is jdfafdsjk sdnakfl ahfjash?

Me: What?

TPWAA: Are you jfadfdhl ijhaduifh?

Me: Yes?

TPWAA: Great. Thank you, ma'am. I will transfer you to our professional department.

Me: What the hell just happened there?

The connection is lost (or they hung up on my racism loving ass). I call back, hoping that I get someone not halfway around the world.

Professional Department Dude: Hello, Microsoft Professional Department. Dfhaskldfj adhfaisgh?

Are you fucking kidding me?

The Poisonous Diet Coke Bottle...Or At Least the Bottle That Was Really Hard to Open

Exhausted from getting up so early this morning. Decide to purchase refreshing bottle of Diet Coke from convenience store in building.

Excited to take in the caffeinated goodness. (Had no idea how to spell caffeinated. Love MS Word).

Cannot open Diet Coke bottle. Try to use pen to loosen cap. Does not work. Check outside of bottle to see if I win a prize for getting the trick bottle. No such prize.

Momentarily concerned about this being a poison bottle that someone has resealed.

Like the idea of it being a prize bottle more. Even more determined to get it open.

Cut finger when pen slips and finger jams into bottle. Yell out in pain quite loudly. Forget I am at the office.

Have one final knobby thing (you know how the the bottom half of the lid cracks open from the knobby things?). Think that this would go much faster if I didn’t keep stopping to document the situation for my blog.

Try the cap again. Honestly do not understand what the issue is.

Take it to E to see if she can get it open.

E gets it open no problem. Feel bad about my lack of strength. Also really wanted to make a big scene at convenience store and demand a new bottle.

Face feels weird. Hope there is nothing to the whole poison bottle theory.

On the other hand, would get out of the gym tonight if I get poisoned.

Drink bottle of Diet Coke really fast.