#6 Unplug for 3 days

I have a little problem. I am always plugged in. Whether it's facebook, email, instagram or plain old having my laptop open, somewhere along the line this Luddite fell off the wagon.  I remember tantrums in college, trying to figure out this whole 'internet' thing. I skipped every Monday morning 8am computer class declaring that no good can come of these new fangled gadgets.  The girls at work would mock my 80s style cellphone, easily the size of a brick.

My transition from Luddite to LCD was gradual. I was motivated by stories of people making a silly amount of cash off the internet, or even just networking an office or taking apart a computer. How hard could it be? I had been working in a field that left me competing with former bosses for scraps of jobs, people with decades of experience vying for little bits of cash. I had a craving for plane tickets and a pay cheque, so I made the leap to a new frontier, the internet. (Yes, I am that old) There's been no turning back.

There are a number of excuses. Facebook keeps me in touch with far away friends who keep my Swahili fresh. Instagram entertains my inner photog. Texting - how else do you get through the dull budget meetings? But I'm hooked. I know full well the value of walking through a lush forest and enjoying a bit of sanctuary without things buzzing, beeping and vibrating. I've spent more meals than I care to count across from someone fully immersed in their blackberry. I've cringed at the oh so important loud-talker on the bus, whispering curses in their direction. But the idea of switching off makes me shudder. What if I miss something terribly exciting? What if disaster strikes?

An opportunity appeared. A road trip to the land of no cell service (or at least, without a robust data and roaming plan added). Travelling solo through six states, hanging out in a gator infested swamp, spending days with people quite keen to talk about their guns. What could possibly go wrong?

So, I don't get full marks for this little task. Apparently I have a life filled with people who care about me very much. It would seem that they are inclined to worry whenever I head off on one of my adventures. Perhaps they've caught on to my "fuck it" attitude when interesting (read: risky) opportunities present themselves. Demands were made before my departure that I must check in from time to time. A complete pain in the ass and a blessing all at once. My "I won't talk to anyone" quickly became "I won't talk to anyone but the six of you."

Turns out, this was such a treat. My head was in 17 different places before I left, I was a complete scatterball. To boot, I have a bad little habit of just hopping in the car and just going... then realizing along the way that I'm really not sure where I was headed.  This was very much the case - heading to South Carolina for a few days - I had my tent, my camera and a bag of gummi worms - I really didn't think I needed much else.  Except perhaps a route. At least an idea of where I'd cross the border. Very poorly planned indeed.

I would actually have to talk to people. I stopped in at welcome centres as I crossed into each  state. I chatted with random strangers about where to go, what to see next. I struck up conversations with people I may have never spoken to - learning somewhere along the way that my name had been changed to Ma'am.

Upon mentioning that I had never eaten alligator, one sweet girl promptly bought some for us to share. I hung out with a cluster of people fishing off the end of a giant pier, one who was a fascinating shark expert at the ripe old age of 12. I met the chemist behind Malox, who told me secrets of the FDA and how some drug companies cut corners. We had a fascinating chat comparing our medical services, affirming my ever grateful to be Canadian status. I learned the best place to spot gators, I had an almost an entire restaurant looking for Ontario license plates stuck to a wall, I was directed to a little cafe that served delicious fried green tomatoes. I learned that there are braver, wackier souls than I - venturing to a fire ant festival, or a grit festival - both involved cramming as many ants/grits into your clothes as possible. Sadly I missed those ones by a week. I quizzed people about fires, wars, and wild boars. I stopped to read plaques rather than googling the sites. I lived, and loved, every moment.

Had I access to all the plug-in options, I would have GPS'd my adventure and taken far fewer U-turns, missing some lovely sites. I would have looked up schedules for events rather than lingering and chatting. I would have been chit chatting with old friends rather than making new ones. I would have had an entirely different trip, one seen through a screen rather than through my heart.

Lesson learned... while I am guilty of text/email/facebook/blog/instagramming today, I've realized I must look up from those screens a little more often.  My 'unplug' was to end Saturday... I lasted till Tuesday to plug back in, embracing that inner Luddite a little longer.

#24 Be a Catholic for Holy Week

This task, choose 4 religions and practice them each for a week, is an effort to learn more about religions, and see how or if they match up with my hypothesis that there is an underlying similarity between each – be nice to each other, be nice to ourselves, be nice to the planet, and help out when you can.  So far, Buddhism and Catholicism seem to match up.

It turns out that I’m a better Catholic than a Buddhist, however I’m not sure I’m cut out for being a Catholic either. Some might say that this one wasn't a stretch in that much of our cultural heritage is based on Christianity. It’s a fair observation, yet I still wanted to learn more.  My guides for this one were a couple of friends who are well-behaved Catholics.  One of them is Filipino and suggested I go hard core and pop over to the Philippines and haul a cross around for the day.  I declined.  But I did obey her other suggestions:

Study and obey the 10 commandments – I spent an entire day with my family and didn't murder anyone.  I had the perfect opportunity to steal a garden gnome (#28) and I refrained. American Idol was on TV and I didn't watch it. (I never do, but I think it still counts) I watched my language, played nice with my mom, didn't tell any lies or sleep with married men, nor covet any of my neighbour's stuff, even if their new puppy is super cute.

For Maundy Thursday I was supposed to wash someone’s feet. I tried. Apparently people aren't keen to let me wash their feet. So I opted for part two of the tradition meant to humble you – there’s a place in my heart that I found incredibly humbling, a wee orphanage in Zambia, received a generous donation.

Friday I was to watch The Passion of the Christ. I had to stop the movie several times to google the characters and get the back story.  While I had the basic story down, there were some gaps I needed to fill in. Overall... very graphic, I had to watch many parts through my fingers. I don’t suppose it was meant to be all warm and fuzzy though.  

Friday also meant eating fish – though I have since learned that it was initially meant that Catholics aren't to eat meat on Friday… I still struggle with the “fish isn't meat” argument. Over an hour in a giant line up at my favourite fish shop was worth it. So tasty, oh so greasy.

I was also directed to not do anything enjoyable on Friday, a very solemn day. There was an Indiana Jones marathon on TV and I avoided it. A giant feat of self control on my part.   

The weekend is also a time of cleansing, doing things  you've been avoiding, and hard work. My kitchen got completely scrubbed down. My cat now wanders around in there looking completely lost.

I even went to church on Sunday.  And this is where I become the bad Catholic. I just didn't find it relevant. I suppose there was a theme to the service, the whole ‘he has risen’ thing, but I just didn't find a connection between what apparently happened a couple thousand years ago, and how I can apply it to my every day life.  For example, there was a tragic fire over the weekend in the town just north of me, claiming four members of a family. The priest was talking about the light and good of Christ, and mentioned this terrible fire.  He said the good part of the fire was that we all came to church today… So it’s a blessing that we too didn't parish in the fire? How does my attending church help that family? And the family – had they been saved it would have been a miracle from God, but as they weren't... God is no where to be found? Does he just get points for the good stuff? I think the priest missed an opportunity to direct his congregation on how exactly we can go about helping the Dunsmuir family. Clearly I have more to learn… 

What I will say about church is that I do like how it can bring people together. I sat with a very nice woman who grilled me on my marital status, where I live, and my transportation habits. But she walked me through the service – when to kneel, how to get blessed etc.  A kind act from a stranger. At one point we all shook hands and said very nice things to each other. “Peace be with you”.  I think that’s the takeaway, the thing to apply to every day – kindness, peace, and a willingness to take the hand of a stranger.

With the Catholic experiment over, I have one regret – I didn't go to confession. Just as well, I would have been there for hours.

#1 – Learn how to Ski

So many lessons all tucked into one little task. Something about procrastination – I slid into the second last class on the very last day of ski season. Something about independence – planning to do things with friends is often a chore akin to rounding up cats, I ended up doing this one solo. And perhaps something about what my mother often warned us of when we were little – “keep that up and your face will freeze that way”.

Oh so bravely, read: with sheer terror, I ventured up to Snow Valley Ski Resort in Barrie, and lemminged my way along with the masses of people who appeared to know exactly what they were doing.  I ended up in a room full of boots – generally something that would make me grin wildly, but instead left me scratching my head.  After a bit of trial and error I learned I take a size 639 ski boot, with fancy buckles and hidden torture devices designed to squeeze my calf muscled into submission.  I scored some skis and poles and wandered outside.

The baffled look on my face gave me away immediately. A nice man took pity on me and guided me through my list of silly questions. “How do you tell the difference between left and right?” “How do I put these things on?” “where do you keep the paramedics?”  He got me all buckled in, put a sticker on my jacket that declared in ski-code something that I think meant “STEER CLEAR FROM HER, SHE HAS NO IDEA”. 

Turns out, Robert was being paid to take pity on me, he was my ski instructor.  My class was of 15 other procrastinators, the vast majority of them were 4 years old, and whipping along on their skis with grace and style in no time. The adults in my group had the disadvantage of fear, and an awareness of gravity.   After a few demonstrations, followed by me flailing about, we were ready for the bunny hill. The teeniest of slopes – you had to squint and turn your head to actually see that it was a hill… but I totally conquered that bunny hill.

I was feeling all accomplished and proud of myself when I heard the terrible words “Ok, now we’re ready for a bigger hill. We’re going on the Dora Run!” (Aptly named for the wooden cut-outs of Dora, Shrek and friends placed along the hill ready to jump out in front of you at the most inconvenient of moments.)   Not only did they expect that I would willingly strap planks to my feet and fling myself down the hill, they also figured I would do so with control, and the ability to both steer and stop. They were oh so optimistic.

On my last descent, I was blazing down past Dora, I’m almost certain I heard her scream in terror as my pole bashed her head on my way by.  Take that, Dora!  I didn’t look back.

And it’s true, what my mother said. As I drove off in the bug all impressed with myself, I realized my face had in fact frozen… into a rather giddy smile.  

#30 Take a cooking class

There she goes again... rambling on and on about Africa

I can’t help it.  I thought that by now my heart would have settled down a bit and got into the routine of suburban life in Canada. However my heart remains firmly affixed in Africa. My closest friends know that when I finally keel over, it will be their duty to pack my heart in a little box, climb up a big hill in Tanzania and bury it there where it belongs.  

When I signed up for my cooking class, it was of course an African cooking class.  While hiking through the Usambara  Mountains, my chef friend Stuart would whip up these incredible meals that would make my tongue dance with joy. But it was merely tomatoes, onions, and rice, how could it possible be so tasty? I needed to solve this little mystery.

I tried to be discreet. I tried to just sit back and learn, and enjoy the experience. But within 20 minutes of class, it snuck out of me. “well, when I was in Africa…” (or more precisely, “when I was in a bar in Africa…’) But it’s the chef’s fault. She asked if anyone had ever tried African cooking. The room was silent. I didn't want her to feel awkward, I was only being polite.  It only happened a couple of times, despite my tremendous restraint.

She showed us a few tricks, cooked us a tasty meal.  Scotch bonnet chicken, jollop rice, and gingered plantains.  It was delicious, and even better, something I figure I’d be able to pull off without completely destroying my kitchen.  After class I lingered while we chatted Africa,  I told her my stories of nuns serving beer while I was taught a few dirty words in Swahili, about mystery meat that hung in the window at the bar for days collecting flies (which is frankly why such vast quantities of alcohol were consumed, to disinfect anything else that landed in your stomach),  and generally gushing about my experience there.

I swear, my intent was to learn about African cooking, not to rave about the places I have visited. But like the fine red dust on the roads in the Usambaras, getting into every last nook and cranny, Africa will forever be stuck to me.

#24a - choose 4 religions, practice their traditions for a week each - Buddhism

I was really looking forward to this one.  So much of our culture and history are based on religion, I figured it was worth looking at a bit closer.  My hypothesis is this: despite seemingly vast differences, religions often have similar core values – be nice to others, be nice to yourself, be nice to the planet, and help out whenever you can.  I suspect it’s just the assholes that manipulate various writings, the bible, the qur’an etc to their advantage that makes everything fall apart and gives religion a bad rap.

In choosing my religions, I set out a bit of criteria. Do my homework, and find a guide who is practicing, and can give me some ground rules to live by for the week.

So this past week, I explored Buddhism, and learned one thing.  I am a very, very bad Buddhist.  

Really, I did try. My guide is a charming friend who is all very peace, love and zen. He meditates regularly, gets tangled up when he’s not centred, loves his yoga mat and is quick to say gentle, kind, hippie infused words. I knew immediately we’d be friends – the fact that he’s a crazy, cute Aussie has nothing to do with it, I swear. He said I’d be a great Buddhist. I’m generally a nice person, I’m usually fairly calm about stuff (he doesn’t know me so well) and I have a pretty good perspective on life.

Buddhists have 5 little rules to live by. Don’t kill anything.  Don’t steal.  Don’t lie and say mean things. No drugs and alcohol, and no kinky sex.  It would be an enormous challenge, and terribly boring, but I figured for a week I could at least try.  

Not killing anything was easy, since I was being a vegetarian anyway.  I haven’t stolen anything for weeks. (the last thing was a Christmas ornament off a tree in a Catholic school because I was ticked off at them, and the ornament was my fave shade of green. And sparkly. Couldn’t help it.)

Not lying and saying mean things… well I generally avoid lying. Sometimes I just skip over all the details.  Saying mean things, I had to restart that challenge a number of times. In an attempt to not swear, I discovered there are moments that I swear like I’ve been trained by a sailor.   A few things ticked me off during the week left me ranting in a very non-zen way.

No drugs or alcohol. Well… I tried.  I’m not so good about avoiding indulgence.

No kinky sex.   (My mother reads this. I reserve the right to remain silent)

I did a few other things to gain some buddha points. I went with my zen guide to a meditation/dharma talk one night.  It was very interesting. I learned that I cannot possibly sit still for any length of time.  I also learned that it’s easy to tell strangers personal things – in the ‘group work’ portion of the evening, I learned some (and shared some) most scandalous details with a complete stranger.  I also learned that when everyone else in the room has their eyes closed, you can look around and realize that you, the senior level civil servant, are so not as granola as you once thought you were. 

I also wore my mala beads around. 108 beads on a string, meant for meditation aiding in the repetition of mantras to guide and centre you.  They looked great with my cozy purple sweater.  Complete failure to use them for any functional purpose.

So, I’ve come to realize that while I may attempt everything on my 37 list, I may not succeed with any great style and grace. I tried. I read a bunch of stuff on Buddhism and the Dalai Lama.  I actually held my tongue when I felt something non-zen trying to escape.  I didn’t kill anything.  I challenged myself to let go of things that held me back, and embrace those that lead me to being a better person.

However I did sleep through my Sunday field trip to a Buddhist Temple.  Though, getting out of bed early on a Sunday is so not Zen. I think next I will try to be a Pagan.

#21 – Be a vegetarian for 3 weeks straight

Where’s the beef?!  A question I found myself asking more than a few times over the past three weeks. However, despite my whining, mad cravings for chicken wings, and a ridiculous amount of salad, I’m quite pleased to say I’ve survived this task. Not only did I survive, I’ve gained an appreciation for chick peas, and will likely implement them into my regular feeding schedule.

I was often asked why I had chosen this particular task. There are oodles of reasons, starting with being nicer to chickens and ending with being gentler to the planet. Mostly, I just don’t think that the amount of resources depleted just so I could have a burger is responsible behaviour.   My inner hippie was unsettled.

That being said, I also believe I am a carnivore at heart. There is something primal about me that likes to sink my teeth into a bit of beast. I have sharp pointy teeth for a reason.  When the miles pile up during my half marathon training, the amount of meat my body demands is grotesque. 

So, I’ll opt for a healthy balance. Non-training days will have a much higher ratio of chickpeas to even out the livestock slaughtered on my behalf.

I did find it challenging. Mostly because I think a major diet change needs a bit of planning and organizing. Browsing new recipes, chatting with veggie friends about their tricks, and buying groceries. My life spins so quickly, I seldom know where I'll be five minutes from now, so these things don't always work. I landed at a friend's place for dinner, then broke the news to him gently as he pulled out two pieces of salmon. I browsed pages and pages of menus searching for something veggie that was not "sauteed vegetables over steamed rice".  I had toast and peanut butter for dinner more than once, simply because I can't plan ahead.  

A number of interesting questions presented themselves during this little experiment.  A foody friend tackled #21 with me, and pondered whether veggies cooked along side a roast beef were fair game, as they were swimming in mouth-watering cow juice.  There was also discussion about seafood, such as fish, oysters or clams… my rule was that if it had a face and parents, it was out of bounds. But do clams have a face?  I hope not… because I also had two  delectable Caesars during the weeks. Perhaps they just squeezed the clams gently to make the clamato juice, and lovingly put them back into the ocean?  

#3 Karaoke

By far the toughest one tackled on my list so far. Not just tough, absolutely terrifying. Like wake up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night trembling and whimpering, simply knowing this was coming sort of terrifying. I'm not sure who threw this one on the list, but I will find them...

Let me offer some context. Yes, I know I do some wacky and foolish things. There are stunts that I have pulled off that really could have ended badly, a number of them including large wild animals with sharp teeth. I've been told both - that I am brave, and that I am nuts. So karaoke, shouldn't be much of a stretch, right? Oh so wrong. Public humiliation isn't my thing. I am a terrible singer. I know that dogs within blocks of me last night were the ones waking up in sheer terror. I only sing in my car, and I'm quite sure the beloved Jetta committed suicide just to get away from my attempts to carry a tune.

But, I have this silly list, and apparently I'm stubborn about it. So, when I heard of an upcoming karaoke party, I had to dive in.  My trick for following through on stupid shit is to tell people I am going to do it. I've had great advice, ranging from 'get really drunk, and wait till everyone else is too' to 'pick a song that no one could ever possible do well, and just embrace the awful.' Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You was nominated.

The party was in an ideal setting. A small town, very very far away. The audience was compiled of two sets of people - my family that has to love me anyway, and a bunch of strangers who I will likely never see again, or if I do, they will likely be just as drunk. Binders and lists of songs were passed around. I had it whittled down to either a Neil Diamond or Dusty Springfield number.  (at this point, I should also mention that this was an 80s themed party, which I fully embraced. Apparently out of 100+ people, only myself and a few others actually got the memo. Still, my crimped side ponytail was very sexy.)

Then suddenly, horror of horrors, a tune started up, one that the Jetta happened to know quite well. My lovely aunt Leesa in full cheerleader mode somehow convinced me (or was it the rye?) that we needed to go up and sing together. It's all a bit of a blur from here... but I did manage to sing on stage for about a minute before the oh so clever karaoke lady caught on that my microphone had been switched off.  (oops?) They made me switch it on, and instantly the unfortunate crowd was privy to my cringe-worthy vocals. They will never again hear Margaritaville without shuddering. Thank goodness Leesa has a brilliant voice and nailed all the high bits for us.

But I survived. More than that... I was later spotted on stage singing a little ditty by Def Leopard. Something about sugar. Oh that bloody rye.



 

#2b - 6 New Fruits and Veggies - Prickly Pear

So, I must start this one with a disclaimer. I'm not actually certain that what I ate is in fact a prickly pear. But someone on facebook suggested it might be, and goodness knows that if it's on facebook, it must be true.

Prickly Pear: I am not impressed. While the colours are pretty, the outside was a limey greenish yellow that I adore, and the inside was that shade of pink that I seem to try to turn everything at work (they let me be the brand police, so I can somehow justify it), the fruit itself failed to dazzle me. 

It comes by its suspected name honestly. You know when you get those little invisible slivers that hurt like a mofo? This lovely fruit is covered in them. Then, when you delicately slice it open, it's filled with seeds, like a watermelon. To eat, or not eat the seeds? For all the effort involved, you would hope that it at least tastes delicious. No such luck, it's rather bland.

Sorry prickly pear, ours will be a short-lived affair.

#12 Master a line dancing routine

Ok, this one might be a bit of a cheat, but given that it took five weeks to accomplish, I think I will count it anyway. 

Piggy backing on my #20 Bollywood Dancing episode, my trusty sidekick Rhonda and I signed up for a full session of bollywood dance classes, against any good sense.  A very small handful of women, willing to convulse their body around in a room with giant mirrors to some very foreign music.  There were a few collisions, and much laughter as we tried to perfect the routine.  We would flail about, shaking parts of our bodies that would continue to jiggle long after the rest of us stopped moving. This is not an undertaking for the faint of heart, nor for those with any hope of building even a stitch of self esteem.

As our lessons wound to a close, after hearing the same song over and over again for hours while we attempted to make our bodies resemble even a bit of what our teacher was so gracefully, effortlessly doing, I braved a question. "Just what is this song about?"  It turns out, we had been training for weeks to emulate a prostitute who was performing at a party. So, while I shouldn't be, I am proud to say that I can now dance like an Indian hooker.  I just knew 37 was going to be an interesting year.