#23 Get a kiss from a musician/pilot/gorgeous man in a suit

Check. :)

#4 Bata Shoe Museum

Well this one wasn't a challenge at all. I'm a girl. I love shoes. Easy peasy.

I didn't always have this appreciation for shoes. I used to be quite comfortable kicking around in my men's steel toed work boots. But then something magical happened... My dear friend Tara Jane got married and deemed me Maid of Honour. She dragged me around a mall in search of pretty shoes. Somehow she convinced me to not only wear heels, but sparkly, strappy, sexy heels. It was love at first sight, and I've never looked back. So it only made sense to tackle this task with Tara Jane.

The Bata Shoe Museum is a mecca for shoe lovers. Shoes galore, from all over the world.  Teeny shoes for crunched feet, giant wooden flip flops from Africa (which garnered wildly inappropriate giggles) and a whole section dedicated to the roaring 20s.  I got goosebumps when the abrupt yet charming guide revealed that Mrs. Bata has a collection of over 13000 pieces, located in storage just below us.  That woman must take weeks to pick out an outfit with selection like that.

Then I saw it. I had no idea it was there, but as soon as I spotted it, I was enchanted. Terry Fox's running shoe. It was as though I morphed into a mad Justin Bieber fan, drawn to it, stalking it, and a second away from bursting into a fit of irrational tears.  Terry Fox is my definition of 'hero'. Completely inspiring, beyond human, selfless super-hero fighter of evil. Seeing this sweat-stained, worn shoe was humbling.  I keep a little plastic version of this shoe on my runners. When I hit the high kms and everything aches, I look down at my little deity and suck it up and keep going. To see the real thing was like being in the presence of a mythical god. Only my good sense kept me from bowing down. And the security cameras...

#2a - 6 New Fruits and Veggies - Wood Apple

The one thing I love most about the GTA is the diversity of people who live here. So many different colours, languages, flavours. Where I live is rather vanilla, so heading down to Toronto where I am immersed in a rainbow of cultures makes me very happy. My craving for travelling afar can be held off a little longer by simply hopping on the TTC.  So when Maria and I were out today and drove by a myriad of signs in a language I couldn't even begin to pronounce, we knew it was time to shop for supplies for task #2.  Enter Spiceland, a little grocery store with a heap of character. Bizarre fruits and veggies, an Indian game show blaring on the tv mounted on the ceiling, and a heart-shaped box of chocolates called Pokey for You.

I bought a Wood Apple. It stinks of something that has eaten too many raisins, died and rotted under a log.  It looks just like it sounds, a wooden apple. It even matches my countertop.  It has a hard outer shell, and inside looks disgusting, brown and mushy, stringy and seedy.  Oh so appealing.

Getting the sucker open was challenge enough. I followed the cashier's instructions- simply smash it down on the counter. No dice.  Then I YouTubed it (yes, that's a verb), and a guy hacked one open with a knife. Again I failed. Dug out a chisel and a hammer... nada. Afraid of pissing off my basement dweller any further from all the banging about late at night, I ventured outside, channeled my inner rage, and pummeled the wood apple on the driveway.  Tada! That's how you open a freaking Wood Apple. Might as well call it a cement apple.

Sadly, I am not a fan. I held my breath as the odour caused a college-hangover-style dry heave.  I sprinkled some sugar on it, said a hopeful prayer for tasty delights, and choked it down. It was a confusing taste... like an apple crisp gone terribly awry, as though someone misread the recipe and added in something that had long decomposed in the back of the fridge.

I did my best. I have higher hopes for the other Spiceland purchases - a banana flower, and something that looks quite like a dried cow pattie. Can't wait...

 

#20 Bollywood Dancing

Last night’s adventure was a Bollywood dancing class. For those unfamiliar with this style of dance, watch any cheeseball low-budget Indian movie, or the last scene of Slumdog Millionaire. Done well, it looks beautiful. Done by me, it’s a total calamity.

My trusty sidekick Rhonda is a courageous soul.  Every so often I lob an email her way titled “hey, wanna?” followed by some absurd adventure. To be fair, she does the same to me… I have a jingly belly dancing wrap as a result.  So when I tossed her the Bollywood dancing email, she was on board.  She’s a brave girl. Or a total lunatic.

I arrived late to class. The room has a glass wall overlooking the parking lot. As I rushed from the car, one minute late, I looked up to see a room filled with women in the midst of a full on Bollywood dance routine. I assumed it was a previous class of people who knew what they were up to. Until I spotted Rhonda, doing her best to shake her hips.  She glared at me and whispered foul words in my direction as I entered the room.

“I’m doomed” I thought to myself as I snuck into the back corner.  The lady at the front was strutting, kicking, twirling and twisting. The class attempted to keep up. There were a few collisions and much laughter.  It seems the rule from Zumba class also applies here – just stand there and wiggle, and eventually everyone will catch up to you.

The best part was the audience. People walking by the room would peer in the windows, laugh, point and mock. They would wiggle back at us in fits of laughter. The custodian was entranced; he smiled at us warmly as we escaped the room. He understood – we might look like fools, but we’re out there braving something new and having fun.

We survived. We might even go again.  Except next time, there will be alcohol involved.

#16 Try a Zumba Class

I figured I'd get this one out of the way, it seemed harmless enough.  I had no idea.

For those who are unfamiliar with Zumba, as I was mere hours ago, it is an attempt to disguise an aerobics class as a latin dance party. There are lessons to be learned in Zumba class:

1. Do not eat a huge bowl of pasta, with extra spicy sauce, before going to class. Instead, drink several cups of espresso, or tequila. I recommend vast quantities of both.

2. If you get lost, just wiggle everything you have, and eventually you will get back on track. I suspect this lesson applies to many areas of life.

3.  Be prepared to look like a complete fool, collide with your neighbours, and head in the exact opposite direction of the rest of the group. If this happens, simply remember lesson 2. Don't they say it's the people that go against the grain that make the changes in the world?

I am grateful to my classmates for their tolerence. I am grateful for my sense of humour. I will not be winning Zumba scholarships any time soon, but I might go back for more. If they let me back in the building...

The 37 Escapades

Yesterday I turned 37. Every year for my birthday I set a goal as a gift. 35 was "Stay Upright" as it was going to be a brutal year. 36 was "Recover from 35".  I figure 37 should be about having fun, stepping outside my boundaries and seeing what sort of calamaties I will encounter. 

With the help of a number of friends, we have compiled a list of 37 tasks for me to complete by the time I hit 38. The caveat was that if they added to the list, they had to be willing to facilitate the execution, or participate in the adventure. (Because taking a fish off a hook is far beyond anything I could do, and I will need an accomplice for some of these)  The criteria was to do things I hadn't done before, or at least in the last couple of decades.

If all goes according to plan, the year ahead will include:

1.                  Learn how to ski

2.                  Eat 6 never before tried fruits or veggies

3.                  karaoke

4.                  go to the shoe museum

5.                  spend an entire night under the stars

6.                  unplug for three days (personal email, text, fb, instagram etc)

7.                  ride a horse

8.                  catch a fish

9.                  bake cookies for the hospice around the corner x 3

10.             make jam

11.             hot yoga

12.             master a line dancing routine

13.             dance in a crow’s nest

14.             try a triathlon

15.             get another tattoo

16.             try a zumba class

17.             throw a dart at a map of Ontario and go there. Both sides

18.             go on a blind date

19.             take French lessons

20.             go bollywood dancing

21.             be a vegetarian for 3 weeks straight

22.             grow a giant pumpkin

23.             get a kiss from a musician/pilot/gorgeous man in a suit

24.             choose 4 religions, practice their traditions for a week each

25.             go skinny dipping

26.             go to three obscure festivals

27.             learn to knit mittens

28.             steal a garden gnome

29.             censored…

30.             take a cooking class

31.             demonstrate against horrible steve

32.             go to a pop-up restaurant

33.             eat a giant prawn

34.             CN Tower edgewalk or some other outrageous stunt. (skydive with Paul!)

35.             try 8 new recipes, prepare favourite for dinner with a friend.

36.             document this entire experiment

37.             it’s a secret.

 

As per #36, I plan on documenting my adventures here. Stay tuned!

Secret Handshakes

As though some cruel twist of fate, it is my job to tell people not to wander off. Working for a nature reserve, I am tasked with constant outreach to our visitors, explaining why it is so very important to remain on the trail, obey the rules, stay safe and behave yourself. I have created signage and newsletter articles preaching such obedience. If only they knew…

Once while lost in a spice market in Dubai I was lead through the alleyways by a young man and his promise of beautiful purses. I wasn’t even interested in a new purse, but sleep deprived and jetlagged, it only made sense to follow. When I climbed the stairs and entered his apartment in some unknown alley in the depths of Dubai, another man quickly locked the door behind me. I cursed my curiosity. No one would miss me for days. Luckily, the men’s shady dealings were limited to the sale of knock off purses. A room full of Coach, Gucci, Fendi all ready for me to take home. The men misinterpreted my desperation to leave with hard bargaining – prices quickly fell from $200 to $20 as I unlocked the doors, fled down the stairs and out into the labyrinth of city streets, lost again.

Wandering off is both my best and worst habit. Just ask anyone who has gone grocery shopping with me – while my shopping partner is mid-sentence, I am three aisles over, dazzled by the different types of vinegar. I am drawn to shiny objects like a raven stocking her hoard, forever blown off the path.

Exhausted, filthy and sore, I found myself in Africa, making my way to see the lions. The main road up to the Ngorongoro Crater, a major link between Tanzania and Kenya, traveled by tourist-filled 4x4s and precariously loaded transport trucks alike, was more rugged and jarring than the abandoned logging roads back home. As the Land Rover edged over to the side of the road, I was surprised that our guide Stephen could even tell we had a flat tire.

Stephen scoured his brain for the very few English words that he knew, chose two and said them with utmost authority. “stay here”. I immediately unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed my camera and ventured off. We had stopped in a quiet, dusty village, just waking up to the day. A mamma brightly dressed in her khanga, bustled along with her load teetering upon her head, starting the day’s unending tasks. Men lingered outside the shops, as though waiting for a bus that would never come. Children rolled the frame of a bike tire, running by laughing.

I garnered a few uneasy looks, not because I am unwelcome, but my imposing camera is. I slung it over my shoulder and continued to wander, glancing momentarily back at our Land Rover. A few fellow travelers had dismounted only to stare at Stephen while he struggled with the tire. The others remained inside, trying their best to look as bored as possible, yawning and pressing their foreheads to the grimy windows, trying to get back to sleep.

I spotted the village grocery store – a thatched booth so small that would fit neatly in my front hall closet, spilling over with fresh produce – tomatoes, onions, pineapple and bananas. Being my 4th day in Africa, my Swahili was very poor, but my charade skills were excellent. A timid young boy wearing only shorts, approached me as though I was a mother lion, a very hungry one at that. I smiled, pointed, and waved my arms around like a mad woman, and after a few minutes I was the proud owner of five tiny yellow bananas. We were both quite pleased with ourselves.

Shrieks of laughter stole our attention, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of a girl running into a nearby shop. Small pairs of eyes peered out around the corner, followed by screams of laughter, and an immediate retreat to the safety of the shop. An invitation if I’ve ever heard one. As I approached the doorway and heard the girls in fits of giggles, testing who would be the next brave one to sneak a look at the white mzungu. They are startled when I enter, but equally curious. “mambo, habari?” I asked, spawning even more uncontrolled laughter. It was contagious, I find myself both shy and grinning at once.

Using my most entertaining charade skills yet, I introduced myself and asked what their names were, offering my hand. The bravest took my hand in hers, shook it and immediately bolted back behind the counter to the safety of the others, spilling over with laughter. The next girl did the same, moving my hand with hers, adding in a little twist, and a fist bump. I went down the line, with each introduction the handshakes became more elaborate, joining our hands in new found friendship, adding in dance steps, and finishing off with a hug. I gave them a handful of pencils and bought some water for the ride, and waved goodbye to my new best friends.

Heading back to the 4x4, I could still hear the squeals of laughter, and can’t help but smile. The others were settling back in, trying not to be annoyed with the delay, in a rush to find the day’s adventure. I offered them my bananas, a small consolation. I have already had my adventure; those lions would have to roar extra fierce to outshine my new dance moves.

Breadcrumbs

The rain drizzled as we approached the cemetery, the morning cold, bleak and dreary, yet the excitement and mystery that lay ahead of us was enough to keep me warm. We passed through the gates and looked for our first clue. I spotted it first, a green arrow, sprayed on the green path. We were on our way. Passing faded and worn stones, aisle after aisle the arrows guiding us to our past, to a missing piece of our history.

While I had never met my great grandmother, known as Granny Hill, and the stories were few and sparse, I couldn’t help but feel we had plenty in common. I come from a line of very strong women, women who are familiar with tragedy yet strong enough to not only withstand it, but to rise above it. We have tempers are so fierce that I fear for anyone daft enough to cross us, yet our hearts are warm and full of compassion. We love foolishly, but with all of our heart. Most of all, we know how to fill up a kitchen, with sweet and savory aromas, laughter and stories. Myself, my mother, my aunts and cousins, and my nana alike - I believe this all comes from Granny Hill.

She remained a mystery from afar. Throughout my life I’ve discovered snippets of information, a puzzle with more pieces missing than found. A woman abandoned by her reckless husband, then her children one by one. One lost to scarlet fever, the others tempted away by the promise of a new land, and a new husband. I’ve heard stories of séances held in the kitchen, sharing laughter and ghost stories with girlfriends. I’ve also heard of a passport, a plan to join her family in Canada, before an illness struck her down. My nana, so poor and unable to return for the funeral, was left heartbroken. She spoke of returning to Scotland regularly, we often sat over tea imagining our voyage together. She’d show me the rowhouse where she grew up, the theatre where she was an usher. While she never returned, a seed was planted.

A few years ago, I made that voyage with my mother instead. Armed with a simple street address, and a map of Rutherglen, we were determined to breathe in the scent of our history, tread on the streets, observe the bustle the neighbourhoods. Even more importantly, we needed to find Granny Hill. Others before us had made the attempt to discover her final resting spot, to no avail. She was lost to us, as her family before had been lost to her.

Arriving at the cemetery, vast, somber and foggy I searched the dewy grass for our directions. My contact at the cemetery wasn’t available to assist us in person, but she made a promise, we would find our way. We followed along the green spray-painted arrows, little breadcrumbs guiding us to our past.

Passing faded and worn stones, aisle after aisle the arrows like breadcrumbs guiding to our past, to a missing piece of our history. We found her, in an unmarked grave, identified only be a gap in the row of stones, and a single green-painted X. For all Granny Hill had given us, our strength, compassion, tempers and our favourite banana bread recipe, the only thing remaining is a green x painted on green grass, doomed to vanish with the next pass of the mower. We placed a Canadian flag on the spot, stood in the damp fog, and thanked her.

She is no longer lost to us. Working with family records and the helpful cemetery staff, we have now made the arrangements. The ownership of your grave, once misplaced through administrative twists and turns has been returned to the family. I now own her plot and will ensure it remains in the family, and will soon be placing a gravestone, one to tell the world that she was a wife, a mother, a source of life. It’s the least I can do for the legacy that she has created, and one delicious banana bread recipe.

Stuck in the Attic

I am discovering there are many challenges to living alone… while I have mastered the trick for opening spaghetti sauce jars, there are other adventures where having someone around might prove helpful. For example – getting down out of the attic.

I woke the other night to hear shuffling about above my head. And then promptly fell back asleep, because that’s the only thing that makes sense at 3am. After hearing the noises again at 6am, and later again that morning, I figured I should investigate. While I have a vast appreciation for critters, I seem to have rules about them roaming around in my house. Especially if it’s a June bug plotting a kamikaze dive bomb attack in my dining room. He lives out in the yard again, scheming for another day.

So, I set to work, putting on my big girl pants and figuring out how to solve my little problem. I already know my ladder is too short, so I’m grateful that I still haven’t removed my roof racks (i.e. begged my friend to remove them for me…) as I ran off an borrow one. I also bought one of those flashy orange extension cords that mean I’m all grown up now. And to top it off, one of those super bright, fire hazard, covered with warnings work lights that people who know what they’re doing tend to own. Home depot helps me with such a charade.

Easy peasy, I am ready to go. After dismantling my closet shelves, I am ready to ascend. Except the ladder doesn’t fit into the closet exactly… It’s ok – I’m good at climbing things. After some acrobatic and fancy stunt work, I arrive covered in insulation and dust in my attic. My insulation looks like it was involved in an epic pillow fight – which would have been entirely fun if I were a smaller fur covered mammal.

Enter the tricky part – getting back down. I have climbed big trees, made my way onto roof tops, into tree houses and general places where I should not have been, and without fail ended up stuck, needing someone to guide me down. Down is way harder than up. At one point I was cursing myself for not being Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. He’d just jump down, and look good while at it. Really all I needed to do was a perfect 45 degree leap through a little hatch and land sideways on my wobbly ladder. No sweat. I sat up there for 20 minutes, plotting my escape, and shaking my head at my foolish ‘will I ever learn?’ ways.

I still don’t now how I pulled it off. Perhaps the heat pushed me into some Zen euphoria where I was able to channel Tom’s agility. All I know is that my next adventure will involve asking someone taller for help. Bruised ego and all…

Hot Dogs and Cake

I'm discovering I'm a girl with many food related traditions. Sunday morning pancakes. Friday night caesars. Hagan Daaz strawberry on the bad days, chocolate on the good days.

I have another one that I celebrate annually - hot dogs and cake. When we were kids, that was the traditionally summer birthday party at our house, my brother would gather up his friends, we'd hang out in the yard and gorge on hot dogs and cake, and celebrate his birthday. We never needed anything fancy, it was always perfect.

This year we would have celebrated his 40th. There is a lifetime of "would have, should haves" when it comes to Sean. It's easy to get caught up in the gloom of it all, however not this day. This day, I celebrate his life, not mourn our loss. While I munched on hot dogs in my backyard, devoured a slab of cake, and laughed with a friend I felt transported back in time, I could hear his laugh, and our family was whole. It's pretty impressive what a plain old hot dog can do!

Happy birthday Sean, we miss you.