Kevin O’Leary not really bad guy; terrible human persona just a ploy [Satire]

January 19, 2016

Found shuddering in an alley way in Toronto, potential Conservative Party of Canada leader nominee, Kevin O’Leary cried that “it’s gone on too far.”

“This persona of keeping assholes in check through my character of a completely emotionally vapid dingus is too much. Every day I hear replays of the things I’ve said and I can’t take it anymore”, O’Leary cried while he handed a homeless man a Tim Horton’s gift card loaded with $250 CAD (approximately $14 USD).

“When they hired me originally to basically be the “bad cop”, I thought ‘well hey, this ain’t so bad, think of all the good it will do when I’m so obviously and feverishly despised‘” he said while looking at the sky with a day-dream like expression. “But somehow, people didn’t just universally hate me. Some people liked me and agreed with me. And it became a money-maker, my bullshit financial advice and commentary. They wouldn’t let me stop, they wouldn’t let me stop…”

O’Leary’s expression gave way to pain and sadness.

“Did you hear what I said about the 1%’s wealth equaling the collective wealth of the poorest 3.5 BILLION? Did you even hear it?” he whimpered while cameras looked on. “I said it was”, pausing a  moment to vomit a little in his mouth, “inspiring”.

O’Leary edged towards a man wearing hardly enough clothing for such a cold winter day and removed his own  faux-down filled parka, covering the poor man with it. A single tear rolled down his big, round, red cheek as he could be heard muttering, “I can afford another, I can afford another”.

“I never asked for any of this,” O’Leary said to wide-eyed, dumb-struck, flabbergasted reporters. “I just wanted to be a regular guy with a regular functioning range of emotions, and now here I am – Canada’s Donald Trump.”

“Some people have to be employees,” he cried suddenly, before collapsing into a puddle of embarrassment and regret on the street.

At time of print, ambulances were seen hurrying to the scene.

oleary

Poor, broken heart Kev (source: National Post)

The dishonesty of makeup and how I learned this for myself.

When I imagine myself and the way I appear to people, I envision myself beautiful, with prominent cheekbones and slender cheeks, slightly concave but not sickly.  I visualize eyebrows several shades darker than my hair, eye lashes black, eyes big, wide.  I see lips that are glossy and red, enveloped by skin quite fair.  It’s a beautiful painted picture.

I love makeup.  Perhaps it was the effects of growing up on a stage, or having older sisters, or just living in this world of Madonna’s.  Whatever it is, I love makeup.  I love eyeliner and mascara and smoky eyes and outrageous lipsticks.  I love my work appropriate makeup and my out-with-the-girls makeup.  I love it all.

I never felt oppressed or mad that I loved makeup.  I have read the words and heard the opinions of those people who see makeup as a lie.  And perhaps it is – a lie fabricated and presented perfectly by the beauty industry without even the veiled attempt at hiding what they were doing, evidenced by the settling upon of “makeup” as the appropriate name for this accessory.  Though, to call it simply an “accessory” is, of course, insane, since we all know that makeup is imperative.  Imperative to invest money in, to invest time in.  So imperative that without our faces done, we are seen as less competent, less likeable and less trustworthy than our made-up colleagues.

But still I bought makeup, relished a trip to Sephora, asked for expensive pallets as Christmas gifts.  I did not feel mad that I loved makeup.

Until now.

On Saturday I spent the day at the office.  I first went to a yoga class at 830 and hurriedly got ready for a more-or-less private day at my desk.  But I hadn’t had enough sleep, and I had run out of eye cream, and when I got to the office I looked haggard.  I tried to shrug this feeling of unprettiness off, reminding myself this isn’t why I’m in the office today, reminding myself of the jobs I was there to do.  I went to the kitchen for coffee and saw an Avon magazine on the table.  I flipped through it and landed on a page advertising the “Ideal Flawless CC Colour Corrector Pencil“.  Makeup

I looked at this correction-enabling tool and wondered if it would, indeed, correct me.  Make me better, prettier, probably happier.  And then I became mad.  Mad at the idea of being “corrected”.  Not enhanced, not elongated, not brightened up, but corrected.  Fixed.  All of the errors that I was born with could be disguised until they look the way they should look.

I was mad because there I was on that particular day: working hard at my career, practicing yoga and meditation, by all accounts being productive.  I was going to meet my boyfriend later for pints.  The day was sunny – cold, but beautifully wintry and sunny.  Nothing was wrong.  Except for the errors in my face so desperately needing correction.  I felt mad because they were successful in getting my attention, that despite the dearth of wrongness in my life, I did, in fact, believe: why yes, I could do to have that pencil.

This drove home the other lies – the lies that my eyebrows must be two shades darker than my hair; and that without makeup, I am less competent, less trustworthy, less likeable.  I looked at the page and I felt so mad, and I also felt so sad because if it hadn’t been for the name of that cosmetic, I probably would never have had this reaction.

As I said, I never felt hurt or mad because of my affinity for makeup before now.  I have viewed makeup as art: extravagant, radical, self-expressing.  I overlooked the part of makeup that isn’t for spectacle, the part that is simply fixing and correcting.  But all these corrections are things that are just me, my lines, my spots, my face.  To hide them away is to hide pieces of myself away.  What a dark, ugly thought.

And so what is the measure of how beautiful we must be?  Or rather, of how flawless, how corrected?  How many filters and edits can fix a photo?  How many beauty products do I need to be beautiful, not because of how I look but because of how I have managed to correct myself?  What are the errors in my face that I can buy a pencil to modify and perfect, until I’m not the girl I wake up as, but rather the real-time advertisement for a cosmetics company?

em

None of this seems beautiful at all.

“I am faking this. I know I am faking this” and other shitty mantras

Welcome back to another blog about me and yoga.  It’s now February and like any good actual-and-not-just-a-new-years-resolutioner-yogi, I bought an all-you-can-yoga membership at Moksha.  January at Moksha was good.  I had promised myself not to go overboard this time, as happened the first time I joined Moksha in London, and had much better success.  I didn’t cry in any classes this time!  The worst thing that happened was that I drank a pint one lunch time before I went to a 4pm class.  That made me think I actually might die.  Don’t drink beer before yoga: now there’s a shitty mantra.

Which brings me to today’s topic: mantras.  My month-long intention for February classes is going to be to commit more to savasna and to meditation generally.  I need it more than ever now that my attitude has gone to the pits since I no longer have a window at work.  This has had the effect of making me cranky.  So I have taken to this mantra: “this too shall pass”, and I remind myself that eight months (the window-less framework (har har)) is not permanent – but then I get to thinking, WHAT IF I ACTUALLY DON’T MAKE IT THROUGH THESE EIGHT MONTHS…so…I figured I needed to work on my soul and entering a state of heightened cheerfulness, so: meditation.

My first class of February was perfect for my new goal of meditation.  It was hot, I was breathing really deep, strong belly breaths, I had a good place by the mirrors even though the room was packed, and I was ready for first, mid-way and final savasnas.  I was going to KILL ALL THREE of these savasnas.  This is a shitty mantra, too.  We should not be “killing” yoga poses.  I think this while I’m in first savasna.  I ponder, just how shitty of a yogi am I?  I think to myself, that’s just the windows talking, Emily, you are just hyper!  And lots of yogis are hyper and they aren’t shitty.

DEFEATED MY FIRST NEGATIVE THOUGHT.  Getting so much better at meditating.

Mid-way savasna comes: it’s more of a slight resting savasna.  There is less meditating to do here.  We’re really just getting ready for round two.  I don’t say anything negative to myself except that I wonder if my makeup is running, and it probably is because it’s excessively hot in class that day and THAT sucks because the one and only male teacher in the studio is guiding us through this class and now he will know the truth about my makeup wearing habits and this, too, makes me a faker of a yogi, and so on and so forth…so I try to think to myself, again, this is JUST the windows talking, and you’re probably being hyper.  STOP BEING SO HYPER.

…Okay.  Calming down and also energizing up for the floor series.

Things are good.  I am still having strong, energized belly breaths.  I have an amazing full locust pose!  I love my windowless office!  Enter final savasna.

The instructor, as if he knows that I am working on meditating, encourages everyone to spend some extra time meditating after the last Namaste.  He tells us “YOU KNOW, sometimes when I am meditating I like to tell myself something simple so that my mind does not wander, and what I like to say is this: “I am breathing in, I know I am breathing in.  I am breathing out, I know I am breathing out”.

WOW I LOVE this!  I start thinking these simple words and I’m having this real attempt at proper meditation when I suddenly catch my mind drifting.  I’m still commenting on my breath in my mind, but I start finding myself writing this blog.  I tell myself to shut up!  But it doesn’t work, and while I’m trying to focus on my in and my out, my in is basically just creating a flowchart and and my out is trying to figure out whether or now I’m actually funny or maybe just actually the worst yogi ever.  I tell myself to stop being mean to myself again, returning to the multi-tasking of writing this blog while being a really great meditator, returning to both my intention and my mantra.

A picture of me meditating.

A picture of me meditating.

The real mantra: “I am faking this, I know I am faking this”.  Maybe next time.

Better let the heat stretch ya: a re-introduction to hot yoga at the most cliche time of year.

Ahh!  January!  It’s snowy and crisp outdoors.  The clocks on all my devices have magically (I do mean magically – technology is magical in my opinion) all set themselves to a new year.  Calendars from 2013 and 2014 await replacement with 2015 calendars that were given to help disorganized people get their shit together in the new year along with other office supplies.

New calendar and office supplies.

New calendar and other office supplies.

(Sidebar: as you can see, my family associates me with the hit Disney film, Frozen.  This is because my sister and I associate ourselves with this film by virtue of being “just like them”.  It’s because we are unique that we feel that way.  Don’t hate.)

Now, for those who are still operating in a world where you write a few things out by hand including the date, you’ll probably still be writing 2014 for a while, or, maybe even 2013 if you’re anything like my yoga instructor.

AH YES yoga.  I have decided to start doing hot yoga again.  Back in 2012 I liked to get all hot and sweaty and at peace with myself in the studio but after using up all the introductory deals the studio in London had to offer, I waned myself away from downward facing dog and co.  Last year, I noticed my brain was less focussed than it used to be – I was too distracted to read novels or watch movies for example – so I set out on a brief quest to become more mindful.  I considered yoga then, but instead became a gym rat.  Instead of focusing on mindfulness, I focussed on running until I was too tired to think.  This was more akin to shoving my desire for mindfulness forcefully under the rug.

SO now I am actually back again, attending classes at Moksha Yoga St. John’s.  I walked though the door for my first class in almost three years on Friday and I felt so open and free and, dare I say it, mindful already!  I was like a new girl – not a girl who’s fighting her Return of Saturn, but a young, free, mindful girl!

I took my boots off and panic set in.

You know when you enter a space and you expect to see people you know?  WELL OBVIOUSLY EMILY none of the London yoga-goers are here in St John’s and so I was surrounded by a myriad of strangers who probably do yoga like nine times a week and are already achieving a state of mindfulness that is both fluid and non-strenuous.  I hate them all.

What’s more, the yogi at the front desk (although she might have been trading for yoga…I just assume she was a yogi) asked me if it was my first time.  And you know what that means.  It means, “are you one of these idiots who, for a new years resolution, decided to join yoga to tone your arms or gain mindfulness”.  Well no one likes to be one of these fitness new years resolution people.  “I’ll have you know, I have practiced TONS of yoga in my lifetime!  My child’s pose is second to none! And I am very active at the gym!”

In reality, I said “I’ve been here only once before for a Karma class”.  She proceeded to tell me her new-years-resolution-people spiel, I just know that’s what it was.

Also, you know when you’re not expecting to see someone and you see a complete and total lookalike of them?  Like the kind of doppelganger that would be really helpful if you were trying to disappear for a week but you didn’t want anyone to know, so you’d call up this doppelganger and they would come and play you in real life while you’re gone?  I saw one of those while I was there in the form of a girl who I had a falling out with while living away.  Um.  Strange doppelganger get OUT of my mindful space!  I am here to focus on myself and on my present state of being and most of all, on the rise and the fall of my breath and I can’t because YOU’RE HERE.  So, I begin to wrack my brains: do I recall you having any connection here?  Are you here for work?  I mean, height, weight, hair colour, facial features: from a reasonably close, but not too close as to be creepy, distance they are all the same.  But to my knowledge, you’d never be on the east coast, except you did tell me about that one time you…

Oh my god Emily.  THIS IS NOT AT ALL MINDFULNESS.  Get the hell into savasna and turn off your brain and do some deep breathing!  Let the stresses of today just go!  You are paying  A LOT of money to not be letting the stresses of today go.  That’s right, a guilt trip straight into being one of body and mind.  This seems wrong.

Anyway, after that emotional roller coaster of inner turmoil, I ended up having a very beautiful class with dedication to breath and old familiar favourite poses – dancer, pigeon – and a very painful but appreciated core series.  My muscles were pleased and I did actually focus only on the poses – well at least for a little while.  As soon as final savasna hit my brain was promptly signalling me “okay we’ve got things to do, tick tock Emily tick tock!”  Problem is, nobody wants to be the first person to leave after a class as it just screams to the world I AM JUST FAKING THIS THROUGH GOD GIVEN FLEXIBILITY AND GENERALLY GOOD BALANCE.  So I waited.

Despite that weird cacophony of emotions, my return to the mat was a success.  That evening was met with something resembling calmness.  Over the weekend I read my book and watched several movies in whole, from start to finish, and in one sitting.  Very mindful!  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

That Time I Tried To Impress Chief Justice McLachlin (Key Word: “Tried”)

I come today with a heart, mind, and soul that is heavy with embarrassment.  What I have to tell you today was…well frankly, it was never supposed to be this way.  Things were originally so much different in my mind when I approached this day in my life.  Here goes.

In June of 2014, right around the time I took to such regular self-mutilation it stopped appearing accidental and started resembling more and more a cry for help, I was asked to sing the national anthem at the opening plenary for the Canadian Bar Association’s Canadian Legal Conference.  I was filled with much trepidation.  Singing is a part of my life I take with no grains of salt.  I have such great respect for the discipline that I didn’t pursue it as a career as I believed I didn’t have what it took, a strange cross between fear of striking out and sacred holding of the value and importance of song.  It’s a little dramatic but hey, you knew what you were getting into when you started reading this blog today.

One of the main reasons I was worried about performing was because of the people I had this strong inclination might be in attendance – people from my firm, law friends who had never heard me perform before, members of the judiciary – aka the “celebrities” of the legal world.  There just might be judges from benches all across Canada, there might be Supreme Court of Canada judges, there might even be Chief Justice Beverly McLachlin.  The notion of singing in front of Bev was the most nervewracking notion since the last time I thought I was experiencing the most-nervewracking-thing-possible (probably having to appear befor my first Supreme Court Judge on an uncontested application and say nine whole words).

Bev, in a charming suit and very pleased to be surrounded by many leather bound books and in a fancy room probably smelling of rich mahogany.

Bev, in a charming suit and very pleased to be surrounded by many leather bound books and in a fancy room probably smelling of rich mahogany.

Anyway, hyperbole aside (sortof), it did indeed turn out Bev was going to be there.  My anxiety.  My LORD the anxiety.  I constructed a whole, tightly wound world of stress and preparation involving much cardio, much practicing to the chagrin of my downstairs neighbours, and I stopped eating sugar and drinking wine (sortof).  I had the perfect sweet-yet-adult dress.  I learned all four verses of the Ode to Newfoundland.  I planned out my humble yet confident response to when Bev would say to me, “Congratulations on a nice performance”: thank you, Chief Justice (while smiling). My moment was here where my two worlds would come together!

On the morning of the conference, I woke up bright and early with lots of time to eat my smoothie, wake up my neighbours with some vocalises, and practice my response to Bev a few more times.  (I, of course, also had a longer version of my gracious thanks for an alternative scenario in which she wasn’t too busy to ask me about my background in music and where I went to law school.)

Bright and early!  Sorry downstairs neighbours

Bright and early! Sorry downstairs neighbours

Perfect dress from the Gap, beige flats for max posture from Ann Taylor (again), awkward posing (all natural)

Perfect dress from the Gap, beige flats for max posture from Ann Taylor (again), awkward posing from yours truly.

So off I went.  In true soprano “it’s-vital-that-I-rehearse-in-this-space” behaviour, after my sound check I took it upon myself to wander about the Convention Centre and found a “secluded” spot to do an abundance more vocalises.  As I emerged from my secret soprano-proof hideaway, a myriad of conference organizers emerged from some room and applauded my efforts.  I practiced my humility.  Oh, that is so sweet!  Thank you so much!  Slash OH YEAH, I am totally ready for my moment in the sun.

After some introductory remarks (I have no idea what they were about…introductions and shit) and some further introductory remarks, they called my name.  Off I went, RIGHT IN FRONT OF C.J. BEV.

I stepped up to the microphone; took a nice, balanced, open breath to the depths of my stomach; reminded myself where my hard palate was and to make sure to add depth and core to my sound; and thought my favourite cue one last time – sing like you’re an opera singer (‘cuz you know how) – and we were off to the races.

For a bunch of really hungover lawyers, people were generally pleased.  Afterwards, people were quite keen to chat with me – what made me go to law school, am I actually crazy, generally a job well done.  One guy from Vancouver really gassed me up by telling me he “just really likes multidisciplinary people” and if I ever wanted to work out west, he would set me up (like what kind of big dog are you?  you just hand out careers at the CBA Conference?  #HarveySpectre).

I was milling about the main, open forum area looking at posters and chatting with people when my moment came: there she was, like a stoic celebrity!  She was with these two gentlemen and she was coming right towards me.  I didn’t even have time to fix my hair when the first one said, “a job really well done”, and the second said “yes, you do have quite a gift” (or they said something like that, I don’t really remember because I was a bit busy focussing on CJB to really hear them).  I muttered my well-practiced gracious thanks and then….

She walked right past me.

She didn’t even look at me.

I actually turned square on my heel, looked behind me, and there she was – gone.

I…I…I started to laugh so hard I had to clamp my hand over my mouth and try to hold my breath to stop myself laughing out loud (I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard me laugh, but it is a borderline manical witch laugh that is so loud it’s almost like my laugh organ thinks nothing will ever be funny again, so better get all my laughing done RIGHT NOW – so it was a bit of an issue).

After all that time and effort and lost sleep and worry and endless gushing about this event, the one member of my audience that I had been trying to impress either didn’t like what she heard or straight up DID NOT LISTEN.  It’s either hurtful or rude, goddammit!  All that time spent working on my graciousness: wasted.  All my effort preparing multiple and alternative gracious small-talk: in vain.  All my energy spent practicing/steadily dooming any future relationship with my downstairs roommates: …

Aw fuck it.  Maybe Bev just doesn’t know a good thing when she hears it – because music should just be celebrated.  Celebrated by singing along with the Ode and the Anthem, celebrated by giving a little nod and smile to the performer, celebrated by smiling in a general direction.

…And anyways, maybe Bev had a really bad experience as a kid and couldn’t sing and was asked to only mouth along to the words in choir and…

I mean.  An die musik.  That’s what it’s about.

In My Absence: A Series of Things That Have Happened

You know what I find about summer?  There are too many activities.  As per my last post, some of them are dangerous.  Some of them are way too much fun.  Some of them are mandatory.  No matter what, though, summer is just a time of b’ys-on-the-go.  So far, these are the things that have happened:

1.  I went to Twillingate, NL.  So, granted, I am from this little sea side haven, but just have a peek at these photos and I’m sure you must be able to admit that really and truly, this is a beautiful place!

Twillingate through the lens of the Iceberg Man

Twillingate through the lens of the Iceberg Man

In addition to the outstanding weather that has shocked the conscience of good Newfoundland people across the island, the Icebergs have just been something out of a Tourism NL ad (but without the puffery).  The Iceberg Man has been hooking people up with amazing tours all summer long.  I went on two tours while I was out around the Bay and, after seeing whales breach in the distance and tail lop right beside us, I heard one German couple say “this is better than the world cup”.  Query whether a better compliment is available in 2014.

In addition to the Iceberg Man and all of the gifts of Mother Nature, it was time for the friendship reunion tour!  We did some illegal things:

We took illegal photos in the bar in Twillingate

We took illegal photos in the bar in Twillingate

And some legal yet potentially more awesome things:

We laid in hammocks and drank beer in the middle of the day

We laid in hammocks and drank beer in the middle of the day

2. In anticipation of a wedding that approaches Hollywood prepped, cinema-style proportions, I had to find some outfits:

Oh lord, the stress. (Forever 21 + pink Old Navy flip flops on the left, Double Zero + black Franco Sarto pumps on the right)

Oh lord, the stress.
(Forever 21 + pink Old Navy flip flops on the left, Double Zero + black Franco Sarto pumps on the right)

It was exhausting work, but someone had to do it.

The stress was worth it when we did happy hour at the Quidi Vidi Brewery down in the Gut.  Not a terrible view!

ouch, so pretty it hurts my eyes!

ouch, so pretty it hurts my eyes!

3. I drank wine and BBQ’d with my favourite gal and her favourite guy…what can I say, sometimes, These Things Happen.  (Ah, who would I be without dropping my favourite rapper, G-Eazy.)

Discount digs: Casillero del Diable wine with Dynamite stripes and Pseudio navy mini flare skirt.

Vanity at value: Casillero del Diable wine with Dynamite stripes and Pseudio navy mini flare skirt.

Now, having too much wine and fun to write a blog of any import has not been the only thing I’ve been up to.  Here are some of the thoughts and beginnings I’ve been working on:

1. While I was in Twillingate, there were a few acts of serious vandalism.  Interestingly, RCMP officers stationed in Twillingate didn’t respond to the call of one small business owner for fourteen hours.  When they finally arrived, the consensus was “don’t even bother keeping the beer bottle [which had been thrown into and destroyed part of a front display window] because it was raining last night, so there won’t be any finger prints”.  In a confusing recount of reality, it hadn’t been raining that night so one wonders why the claim of ‘there’s simply nothing we can do’ was made.  One finds themselves thinking, did you just not want to deal with it?  Selective implementation of justice is an uncomfortable thought in my books (or blog, as the case may be).

2. On a somewhat related, albeit also quite different note, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that the evidence deduced from a “Mr. Big” sting operation was not reliable and Newfoundland’s own Nelson Hart’s conviction for the murder of his two twin daughters was overturned.  My Facebook exploded with comments made by outraged people and highly offended parents boiling by what it says about our society and our purported justice system.  Then, on the other side of the coin, those people who see the value in evidence being deduced and produced via reliable methods as important tenets of same purported justice system.  Further, as evidenced by the facts – that Hart was a chronically uneducated man who had little if any ‘career’ successes and absolutely no money – the Mr. Big operation does strike a chord of deep discomfort for some.  He was flown around the country where promises of grandiose friendship and extreme riches awaited him.  Like Lindsay Lohan getting to sit at the Mean Girls’ table for the first time, Hart would say just about anything to stay included.  If we can’t trust anything Lindsay said in that flick, how are we so willing to rely on Hart’s seemingly forced confession?

Lindsay Lo, still not cool, still saying whatever she needed to say to be included.

Lindsay Lo, still not cool, still saying whatever she needed to say to be included.

3. As I am a creature of “not-gettin’-over-it-sorry” styled behaviour, I still haven’t gotten past Margaret Wente’s radical discussion-cross-put-down of “The myth of crushing student debt”.  Inspired by the turn of phrase “you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone” (further inspired by the incessant Idiom Game played by one too many of my (edging on former) friends), I can’t get past the combination of our actual, not mythical, student debt and the fear of not achieving greatness, not paying off the debt and being yuppies who “just couldn’t do it”.  This combination has seemingly resulted in a strange inability to move and a worry of not hitting anything out of the park.

So, despite my obvious procrastination, as SOON AS I AM BACK FROM IRELAND I am gonna sit down and bang out these posts.  In the meantime, I better go and pack as, in the word’s of my mother “you will obviously forget something if you don’t do it three days in advance”.  She’s a smart bird.  Off I go.

Many list on cute duckling post-its with breakfast fruit.  Om nom!

Many list on cute duckling post-its with breakfast fruit. Om nom!

Third Time’s a Charm: A Blog About My Apparent New Dedication to Maiming Myself

I like to think I’m not a terribly grand braggart, but amongst my other prized attributes (including extreme propensity for dying my hair and a perfectly colour-organized closet), I can’t help but boast about how I’ve never spent a night in the hospital.

proof of the propensity

Proof of the propensity

Similarly, up until this week, I couldn’t remember the last time I was on antibiotics or was sick from non-self-induced reasons.  People used to say “you know, you really shouldn’t brag about that, karma will probably get you”.  Well, I didn’t believe in karma.  I believed in my kick-ass immune system.

WHAT A MORON.

Since I moved out of my sea shanty downtown apartment into my ballin’ new house in mid-town I have been somewhat badly injured not once but three times.  That’s once every other week.  How infuriating.

The first time I pulled (strained?) a muscle in the left side of my chest.  Sounds bad ass right?  Wrong.  I had been brushing my teeth in the bathroom when I realized I forgot something (what did I forget?  I have no idea – guess it wasn’t THAT important, now was it Stockley?) in my bedroom.  I was wearing socks and took the corner from the bathroom into my bedroom when I wiped out.  Feet flew out from under me, I landed hard on my knees while apparently doing some obviously really graceful side lunge or similar to break my fall and when I did that i managed to pull the muscle.  I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t lift my arm as high as my shoulders, all I could do was be this crying 27 year old on the floor.  I even had to miss the next day at work!

When people asked why I had been out, I first channeled my inner Jenna Marbles and tried to concoct a wild, unbelievable, sympathy-provoking or awe-inspiring reason for pulling (or whatever) a muscle in my chest.  Robbers?  Super heroes?  Rescuing a kitten from a tree for an elderly stranger?

I tried to learn from the best...i failed.

I tried to learn from the best…i failed.

In the end I went with “oh, I just had a little slip and fall”, a statement dripping in bravado, because everyone knows that “slip and fall” is just code for “I’m too embarrassed to explain what actually happened”.  In my case, “I took a hard corner with far too much vigour”.

After that incident I said to myself – well, Stockley, that really is what you get for bragging about how infallible you’ve been for all these years.  But one month later…

foot

Lookin’ good!

I was throwing around the softball on a beautiful summer day.  Ah, what a glorious moment!  Sun was shining, it was actually hot and I just friggin love playing catch.  I was playing with a guy who is big and strong and threw the ball over my reach.  In typical Stockley-fashion, I took off running after that ball and tripped over some unlevel ground and fell real hard on my ankle.  Oh, what a sin, you might be thinking.  Well, quit it!  I was wearing Birkenstocks like a moron who THINKS SHE’S INFALLIBLE.  Quite frankly, I deserved that sprained ankle.

Because it was awful and we were in the middle of the park, I experienced a personal nightmare come to real life when I had to be piggy-backed across the park.  In the words of one GJ, I am “annoyingly independent”, so being carried in front of a park full of people was enough to make me just wish i had been at the office that day instead of playing outside.  I later had to be carried – old school husband-carries-wife-across-the-threshold style – into my house.  Good sweet Jesus just end it all now, would you?

That was two weeks ago today and you know what?   The ankle is still a bit swollen.  Good grief I’m not the girl I once was.

Finally, we get to last Saturday.  In even more typical Stockley fashion, no series of events or performance of any kind would be complete without some grand closing act.

Owing to my great love of softball and being outdoors and despite my still-slightly-sprained ankle, last Saturday I just had to play in the Cox & Palmer annual charity softball tournament.  As per its name, this is a tournament hosted by and for the law firms here in Town.  It has historically been amazingly fun with McInnes Cooper having an outstanding track record of never having won a single game.  How could I miss out on this?

Me and the MC gang in between games!

Me and the MC gang in between games!

So, off I went.  It may have been that tensions were a bit high in the third match against a team to remain unnamed.  In a great effort to be really awesome and show ’em who was boss (namely, one Nick Leamon who hit a series of inside-the-park home runs and is now the object of no less than four different lawyers’ affections), I may have took a bit of a slide round or about first base.  I’m not willing to admit I slid into base because that’s not allowed in softball.  I am similarly not willing to admit I tripped.  So…let’s just accept at face value that I took a bit of a slide.

That was fine and dandy and I carried on playing.  Who knows exactly when and who knows exactly why, but in a later game I once again was running to round or about first base and I, again, took a bit of a slide.  Again, I admit neither intentional nor accidental sliding.  In any event, following that slide my leg was looking truly like that of a real hero.  I was going to sit out at this point when someone told me enough people had bailed on that final game that I had to play in order to have players.  So I did.  Selfless, I know.  Stupid, this I also know.

After the tournament (of which MC finally had a great victory over StuMac!) I went home and tended to that hurt leg of mine – Polysporin, bandages, elevation, rest, ice, compression – you name it, I did it.  But to no avail, that leg simply would not heal.  In fact, it did the opposite.  It got worse, and worse, and worse.  On Sunday it was bad, but I took the opportunity to rest, relax and take in the World Cup finals!

Go go fight fight!

Go go fight fight!

10343662_10153184892504657_1304971145522576643_n

Admitted to ER due to softball injury: because I rule obv,

Finally, it had gotten to the point where I was in pretty bad pain just sitting down.  Accompanying this discomfort was a nice red hue colouring most of my leg.  I started to think – this just can’t be right.  So, off I went to the ER.  I told the triage nurse – ya know, i think it’s probably nothing.  You wouldn’t know this about me, but I actually have a really impressive immune system so I’m afraid I just can’t actually be that badly injured.

In response to this, the triage nurse and the ER doctor told me right where to go: on an IV antibiotic for the rest of the week.  From Monday night to Thursday morning I went to the ER twice a day to have an IV to fight whatever horrible thing had happened to my leg.

On Thursday evening the McInnes Cooper associates and students were going zip lining in Petty Harbour at North Atlantic Zip, which is the longest zip lining course in Canada and which I was not about to miss.  I asked every single nurse and doctor at the ER “can I pleeeeease go zip lining”, to various answers.  I finally met this one nurse who seemed to be really impressed by my sliding at softball and who was also into sports – he was on my side right away.  I chose to hold fast to his word and thus to my dream (because you know what happens if dreams die…) and off I went to beautiful Petty Harbour to do a summer adventure I had been dying to do.

MC associates and students zip lining with quaint Petty Harbour in the background.

MC associates and students zip lining with quaint Petty Harbour in the background.

I feared I would likely injure something else – I had no great guesses of what it might be as zip lining seems pretty injury-proof, but with the luck I had going I figured it had to be something.

Surprisingly, I walked away unscathed but after having the most amazing time.  If you ever have the time, money and inclination to give it a shot, NAZ is an amazing experience!

It’s now been a week since the softball injury.  The IV is now done.  The ankle is just barely swollen.  I can’t even really recall the “slip and fall” accident anymore.  Jen, my concert pianist friend, reminded me that “these things happen in threes!”, so I’m very hopeful that from this point onwards I’ll be just fine.  I better be, because between going home to Twillingate for the annual Fish, Fun and Folk Festival and then to Ireland with my favourite gal pals from childhood a week later, there are simply too many things to do for my karma from my past health-bragging to make another appearance.

Anne Taylor accompanied by IV arm and injured leg.  Her reps haven't been beating down the door for this picture just yet

Anne Taylor accompanied by IV arm and injured leg. Her reps haven’t been beating down the door for this picture just yet

Brand New Morning (No, Really Though)

I have this friend who is sickeningly, overwhelmingly positive.  Honestly, you can’t even really complain to him because he’ll twist it into something positive and if you’re just not ready to be positive yet, this can border on being a thorn in your side.  Worse is that later you feel guilty for feeling annoyed.  It’s a vicious cycle, really.

One of the worst (…and also best) things this friend has said to me so far was in reply to my pseudo-brag about snoozing for an hour almost every morning.  He told me that starting your day off by procrastinating is a great start to an unproductive, procrastination-filled day.  Inspired by a combination of wanting to prove him wrong, being impressed with his logic, and being overly-competitive with myself  (as per my waspy upbringing), I decided to change it up.

Before you all start thinking I’m crazy, let me just say things are actually great since I began my new routine of getting up at 6:15.

Hello mr sun!!

Hello mr sun!!

At 6:15 I don’t want to get up, I want to sleep – and sleep and sleep and sleep.  But I mind-over-matter that sucker of a thought and get my lazy bones outta bed and march directly into the kitchen and boil water for a cup of tea.

TEA – that’s the next change.  I gave up coffee.  (SIDEBAR: This has nothing to do with my friend who thinks I’m a bit crazy for this one.)  Coffee is the delicious drink of the angels, I know, but throughout history I have felt better when on a tea kick.  My body feels so much better, I don’t have a weird crash forcing me to drink a million more cups, and my energy just lasts so much longer.  Who know – maybe it’s just the placebo effect, but I swear – one cup of tea.  That’s all it takes.

You say 6:30, I say blog o'clock

You say 6:30, I say blog o’clock

Tea is also way hotter than coffee and takes so long to steep and that is great news, because I am busy having a really long, leisurely breakfast while I read the news and catch up on what’s going on in the world and start plotting out some of my next blog topics.

Basically, I just get started on a whole bunch of things I enjoy before I even start getting ready for my job.

My friend made this great point that my new schedule essentially enables me to make my day include work, as opposed to being about work.  I’m not getting up to go to work, I’m getting up to read the news and drink fantastic tea.

The final addition I’ve made to my mornings is walking to work.  I used to live sort of far away and not along a pretty route to get to the office.  Now, however, I have about a 25 minute walk through gorgeous forested roads with unique people and houses and sights to be seen.  The walks have inspired me to start taking more photos (much like my sister Cecily, who is always taking amazing photos).  In the setting I’m in, I don’t even need to hunt out interesting subjects.

Fourth of July in style - this guy was reppin' the US, the UK, and the Republic of Newfoundland.

Fourth of July in style – this guy was reppin’ the US, the UK, and the Republic of Newfoundland.

Roses, heart fence, graffiti (intersection at Empire Ave and Kings Bridge Road)

Roses, heart fence, graffiti (intersection at Empire Ave and Kings Bridge Road)

Perhaps this fad will fade and I’ll be back to my old, procrastination-before-bacon ways in short form.  Hopefully not though, because living such a colourful and productive few hours before I hit the Power button on my laptop has transformed my mornings from revolving around work to revolving around living.

Now: to heal this mangled ankle before the end of the week so I can get back on my favourite, dusty trail.

J. Crew slacks, Ann Taylor flats, sprained ankle and bandaging courtesy of one Brent Warren

J. Crew slacks, Ann Taylor flats, sprained ankle and bandaging courtesy of one Brent Warren

 

 

A New (Re)Introduction

Hi!

If you’ve come all this way and you’re here I want to say thanks.  Thanks for clicking on the link that brought you here.

Additionally, if you’ve come all this way it’s probably because you previously have read my other blog, Little Raves.  And if you were doing that, I want to say thanks again.

Oh hello!

Oh hello!

I genuinely love writing.  Little Raves has given me a great little spot for writing in the last few years, and I talked about many things: amazing love stories; sarcastic analysis of society; policy critique and political commentary.  Little Raves somehow was limiting though – it was harder to be part of something.  Fewer people use Blogspot and I found it difficult to actually get involved in a conversation and a community.

You’ll also see on the side that I have categories.  I’ll be organizing all these thoughts that go through my brain so that you can pick and choose as it strikes your fancy.

I’m also going to be writing about my own Day-to-Day from time to time.  This is new and a wee bit scary.  I read other people’s interesting daily life blogs or vlogs as the case may be, and I always think wow what fascinating people!  Then I chicken out every time I consider it.  But onwards and upwards.  Perhaps there will be some substance, some merit, some humour, some something to it.

On that note, I wish you all could enjoy the morning walk I get each day…but that’s another blog for another time.

Forest avenue heaven street, they call it.

Forest avenue heaven street, they call it.

I hope you’ll keep coming back here and perhaps even start giving me some much-needed feedback/input/suggestions about my blogging.  I’ve got lots in mind for the coming months – from more on Peter MacKay, to more stories of sweet love, to more annoyance about stupid social norms – so don’t leave me now.  I’m not a different girl, this is just my (re)introduction.