Just when you thought the evil estheticians have gone far enough by making the full Brazilian a bodily “must have,” now comes vajazzling.
Yes people, it’s no longer enough to have your downstairs region hot waxed, defoliated, tattooed and pierced.
Now you need crystals “down there.”
In this part of the world, it’s not unusual to wait until May or even June for anything that closely resembles spring.
Sometimes we go from winter directly to summer with hardly a moment of spring.
And sometimes there’s no summer either.
But this year spring seems to be in the air early and it couldn’t some too soon. This past weekend was sunny and there was heat in that sunshine. Heat!
You can almost hear the plants waking up and thinking about getting going again. People were out in their yards picking up winter debris as if to will spring.
You can’t blame us.
Last winter was tough with its freeze-thaw-freeze storms that left us picking ice rather than shovelling. It made you feel like Neolithic Nan – out there chiselling away to free the car.
Mind you, I still haven’t removed the snow tires and probably won’t for another month. This is Canada after all, and one of its favourite little teases is to lull you into a sense of spring and then dump a big rip snorter of a snow storm on you in April. Then laugh.
But even if we get that rip snorter, June is only 3 months away, July 4 months.
Summer is coming in other words
Bring it on.
I’m sure the Olympic closing ceremonies were meant with a wink and a nod to Canadian humour, but the thing was tacky beyond belief and came off as a big dose of, well, self-referential Canadian humour.
When I saw the inflatable Mounties, the Fred-Flintstone canoe people (with their feet sticking out the bottom) and the beaver blow ups, thought I would die.
It had the look of a pizza joint in a suburban strip-mall at around 2 am on a Friday night.
What must Neil Young have thought?
Then I remembered. Most of Canada would be out on the streets celebrating the hockey win.
And the show would be on too late for the rest of the world, assuming they didn’t DVR it. Don’t DVR it people.
I’m glad for the hockey win and even gladder that Sidney Crosby scored the winning goal.
I’m also glad that Canada’s insecure national identity has been restored somewhat by this hockey win.
Because if we were pegging our national self-esteem on our ability to orchestrate a tasteful and eye-pleasing ceremony like the Chinese and the English are known for, we’d crying in our soup today.
Many years ago, this typist’s sister played hockey.
Back in those days, they didn’t have organized hockey for girls, so my sister faked it.
She pretended to be a guy by changing her name slightly. She was tomboy-ish anyway, and young enough go to and leave the game in her gear.
No one knew the difference and she played with the best of them. And loved it.
When the team reached the play-offs, she dropped out in case she was caught. The team would have been disqualified because she was a girl.
That was in the 70s.
My sister’s daughter now plays hockey on scholarship in an Ontario league. She doesn’t have to fake it.
Girl’s hockey has come a long way.
Tonight’s Canadian Women’s Olympic hockey gold was a win my sister will celebrate.
Hopefully it will inspire all girls who like the game and now have a chance to play it.
Things like work – when the luge is on! Pfft!
The little typists needing to be fed – when downhill skiing is on. Tsk.
Sleep – when recaps are playing. Huh!
The feline making food demands – when pairs are figure skating. Grrr.
Tonight it’s kid’s guitar lessons. Men’s hockey. Stik.
Tomorrow night- a lecture by Terry O’Reilly, a very cool CBC radio presenter who does a show on marketing called The Age of Persuasion. (Actually, that one’s going to be fun.)
A big thang on Saturday night with a good friend (actually, good too)
The Olympics will be ovah before I get a chance to consume them properly.
Twitter is for people you want to get to know.
That is why I prefer Twitter to Facebook.
That is also why I couldn’t give two hoots about Facebook’s new look.
…my 13 year old looked at them and said : they’re old men.
Ahhhh, yuf.
See my Friday Herald column here.
By now we all know that Mac is cool, and good.
And we know that PCs are uncool and virus-ridden.
But the Mac marketing “We’re better than you PC” onslaught is getting a little tiresome.
People who try too hard to be cool can end up looking like fools.
Tone it down Mac, and maybe us poor uncool sods still using the PC might think about switching over.
On Saturday I worked out for six hours. The event was called Bustamove or BAM.
There were about 750 of us on the floor of the Metro Centre doing yoga, zumba, pilates and everything else.
We set two world records that have been accepted by the Guinness people.
And we sweated with none other than Richard Simmons, the fitness guru.
It was all in the name of raising money for a digital mammography machine for the early detection of breast cancer.
The day was long but fun.
By the end, I felt more more tired mentally than physically.
The world records were for the biggest 10 second hug and the longest line of continuous massage. Think conga. Goofy but fun.
I was part of a team called the Halifaxchicks, an assembly of women who met through Twitter. We raised money together through pancake breakfasts, pub crawls and on the streets in brazen charm offensives.
We also raised money individually and on-line. We raised over $11,000 between the 11 of us.
Not bad for a day’s workout.
My friend and team mate Shelagh has some pictures of our team and the day.
See if you can spot the typist in the group pix.
They say women fight like cats, but what about those late night talk show hosts.
By the end up that dust-up they were clawing each other’s eyes out.
Sharp barbs, low blows, personal insults.
I’m still picking the fur balls out of my computer, TV and eyeballs.
Meee-owwww, boyz.
The youngest typist received his coveted cell phone for his 11th birthday.
There was debate over whether he is too young, but it was decided the texting function is good for family communication, especially during periods of separation due to business travel.
He received his gift on Saturday and on Sunday promptly lost it while tobogganing down the hill at the school. He placed it in a hat for safe keeping and someone took the hat by mistake.
It was an honest mistake, but one that caused a tirade of self-recrimination by the young typist who felt stupid for losing his phone so quickly.
This typist shared his burden. I should have put stricter boundaries his movements with the phone. I should have had “the talk” about responsibility etc.
First, he had to accept the loss. This was not easy, like swallowing a watermelon whole.
Then we came up with a cost-sharing plan to buy another phone. The second phone would not have incentives given to you the first time. It would be expensive.
It was a tough one to get over, the lessons bitter to the taste, but the little typist struggled through and was starting to come out the other end of his disappointment.
That is when the phone rang: “You don’t know me but I found this cell phone on the hill by the school.”
The little typist saw the relief on my face. It spread to his as he jumped out of his seat and mimicked a phone shape with his thumb and finger, his watery eyes hopeful and bright. He jump for joy and ran to tell his sister.
Phone Lost. Hard lesson learned. And found again.
How sweet.
He’s coming to this parts next week
Richard Simmons is a character you can’t ignore.
For years, he’s been in our faces fighting fat, which has been a personal demon for him since he was young.
In his battle, he’s lost over 100 pounds and gone on to start a fitness movement for people who are overweight.
He’s written books, produced 50 exercise videos and appeared in soap operas and talk shows.
This typist will be working out with him next Saturday during the Bustamove fundraiser for breast cancer.
He will be the last hour in the six-hour workout.
That is the question.
Sounds funny, but it isn’t. (Actually, it’s hilarious.)
Here’s the deal. This typist is prone to the occasional cold sore.
It is located on my top lip and now healing.
But when I smile the scab is pulled and opens up, causing a gush of my exquisitely rare AB-.
So when I greet people, it is with a stony face, the natural smile carefully suppressed so as not to subject them to a blood letting.
I have attempted to explain, but getting into those details with a casual acquaintance or in a meeting is, well, awkward.
So what do you do?
Smile with abandon and bleed?
Remain stoic and statuesque?
Climb under a rock till the sore heals?
This typist lost a dear friend on the weekend.
Mike was a travel journalist, a biologist, an environmental consultant, a rock climber and a photographer, among many other things.
He inspired this typist in many ways. And he always laughed at my jokes.
About 18 months ago he was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, a condition that took his body but not his mind.
On our recent trip to England for Christmas, I visited Mike. His body had deteriorated but his mind shone bright.
We laughed and joked and talked about his condition.
We all knew that time was short. And it was.
But at least I got to say goodbye to a good friend.
Rest well, Mike
You were a good one.
