#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.

#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...