Okay, so I realize that I missed yesterday’s post. My bad. Thing is, we were driving up to Mount Washington and you know, stuff happened. Like, for example, we only reached the cabin after 10:30 pm and then we had to dig our way in. Well, actually, Ben dug, Adam helped, and Ashley and I offered helpful commentary on the process. I think the guys really appreciated our helpful tips and encouragement. Seriously, my friends, there was no entry to the cabin. Here’s what it looked like after at least 30 minutes (might’ve been longer: my toes were freezing in my Hunters, and yes, I realize that they are not snow boots):

The Ice Cave.

Anyway, I totally went snowboarding today. The last time I strapped something to my feet and slid down a mountain, I was about 12. You may recall that I was a little apprehensive about this new foray into winter sports. I’m not known for being particularly bold when it comes to activities that contain a smidgen of danger to my personal health and physical safety. Adam and I were both eagerly anticipating my certain meltdowns on the slopes, wherein I would lie on my back, crossing my arms, pouting while announcing that “this is TOO hard. It’s stupid and I hate it.”

You’ll be pleased to know this little scenario didn’t manifest itself. I know Adam was, at least. I was unimpressed initially, when we had one foot strapped to the board and then we had to “skate” sideways. My left knee (not my favourite knee) felt like it was being twisted to face the direction from whence I’d come and, you guys, it DID. NOT. FEEL. GOOD. I was concerned about my impending injury when I was finally attached with both feet to the board.

Turns out, it really is better when they’re together. My feet, that is. No problem getting up, and zoo0-0-00-(Oomph—that’s me falling on my rear)-00m! I was off! Actually, it was more of a slow slide, but you guys, still. I was snowboarding! I made some turns (which is apparently not the easiest thing for a newbie to do!) and merrily boarded down the runs at a pretty good clip. I’m not even making that up. Ashley said so! I think I may be Canada’s next best hope for the gold in Sochi. I’ll keep you apprised. One thing I am at this point pretty sure I am not is an ambi-turner.

So I feel pretty good about it and now I need all kinds of expensive and cute snowboarding gear. I still need a surfboard, too, come to think of it, but that’s another post.

I’m not sure if I’ll be hitting the slopes again tomorrow. Not because it wasn’t super fun, but more because I’m waiting to see how my quads/hamstrings feel in the morning (I’m not as young as I once was, you know). Snowboarding is hard work! Luckily, we took a break at Fat Teddy’s for a mid-ski and obligatory green beer. After all, it’s my first year not Irish dancing in the pubs (I miss it!)… And I’m about to get all up in the après ski, so I shall bid you adieu!

Drinking and wearing green for March 17th, mountain style.

Why, you ask, should you call me Columbo? Well, my reasons are twofold:

1. First, Columbo is an amazing show and Peter Falk was an awesome detective.
2. I’ve figured out why I can’t get up on time.

As for #2, get yourself ready for a real groundbreaker: The reason I’ve been lazy in my mornings as of late is because I’ve been staying up too late. I know. Shocking. So, it’s 12:18 am and I’m facing the same issue.

This evening’s excuse is that I had to fold Laundry Mountain (since I seem to not have servants). In order to do it, and stretch the chore as long as humanly possible, I watched Thor whilst folding away.

Here’s the thing about Thor (actually, they are multiple things): I actually rewatched half, because I didn’t understand what was going on the first time I saw it. It didn’t really help. I was still confused. I read the plot on Wikipedia and IMDB, which helped somewhat, but, my friends, honestly?  Still pretty confusing. Kenneth Branagh directed it and it had Natalie Portman and Anthony Hopkins, so I figured it had to be worth it.

I decided I liked it, despite my confusion. Because the world of make believe is always so much better than the real world. Also, I think I have a crush on Thor. Not the actor who played him, Chris Hemsworth (although he’s very handsome), but on Thor. You guys. He can fly and he wears a cape. Those of you who know me will recall that these are both things I aspire to achieve when I grow up (which I anticipate being any day now), with the addition of a tiara. I look very good in a tiara.

This is on my fridge, courtesy of Ben & Ashley.

I may watch it again. But I don’t think I’ll understand it much better.

Anyway, that’s the mystery solved at least. I need to go to bed earlier. So many of my problems could be solved with an earlier bedtime.

Well, I don’t really know what’s so great about Paris, because I’ve never been. However, I’m fairly certain that what’s so great about Paris is ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING. I’ve always, always wanted to visit and be all French and windblown and extremely stylish and chic (because that is what happens when one is in GAIE PAREE). Some of these things may occur. Some may not.

Adam and I are working on a Very Exciting Plan, which involves some Very Awesome People Who Are Favourite. Suffice it to say, I’m going to be scratching another biggie off my Life List. I see berets, baguettes, brie and cobblestones (and apparently lots of dog poop that no one picks up, the barbarians!) in my relatively nearish future.

This is how you look French. It helps if your last name is LeBlanc and you are, in fact, French.

On that note, I call it a Life List and not a bucket list, because thinking about why it’s called a “bucket” list makes me sad and morbid and melancholic.

I still haven’t written about my hot yoga experience yet. It’s still too soon (and I’m still too dehydrated). Tomorrow. I promise.

I wish all weekends were 4 days. That would be awesome. If my weekends were all long ones, I’d look like this every day:

This is what happy looks like.

Unfortunately, this is not the case. Weekends, including the one we just had, are a mere two days, instead of the more awesome four. I talked to this weekend and it told me it wishes it were longer. Maybe the government should take a look at this.

I went to hot yoga today. It was very hot. I would write more about this, but I’m all shrivelled from sweating out 90% of my body weight and 110% of my electrolytes, so I’m going to write about it tomorrow, when I have more time and have returned to a normal internal body temperature. Because it’s 10:45 (not that you can tell, because of the no time stamp) and I’m going to bed.

Also, Maui is very whiny these days. More than usual. We’re not sure what’s going on, but we have some theories. I’ll fill you in on them later, after I’ve collected more empirical evidence. Probably she wants tuna juice. That cat loves a juicy can of tuna.

Catch you on the flip flop.

Well, it started out so well. I was up and at ’em bright and early, so I could get out to Feel Good Yoga to sub for my friend Laura’s 8:15 am powerflow class. It was a great class, lots of fun and smiles, which is always gratifying. Then, it was back into James Bay for ballet at 10 am. This was the first class I’ve managed to catch since New Years (have I mentioned I’m too busy?). Super fun! I love ballet. It always feels like home (despite the fact that my arabesques suck and weirdly, my turnout and crappy feet haven’t magically gotten better as I’ve aged).

People are always talking about "putting on their dancing shoes," whereas I actually do it.

The plan to blog earlier didn’t pan out, as you’ve probably realized by the time stamp (I don’t even know if there is a time stamp on my posts, and I’m too lazy to save this draft and check, so I’m just going to go with it). It’s 12:03 am. Actually, it’s 1:03 am, because tomorrow we spring forward for daylight savings. If I didn’t already dislike spring as far as seasons go, losing an hour would push me over the edge. Fall, on the other hand, which is already favourite, has the good sense to bestow upon me an extra hour (in which I can, by some unknown magical force, accomplish about 93 extra hours of chores/work/sleep/stuff).

So yeah. That’s what we get. Thanks, Spring, for nothing. This is all your fault.

By this time in the evening, I am super excited that I get to go to bed. This was not always the case, because when I was young, I (clearly unlike every other normal child in the world) felt I was missing out when I was packed off to bed at approximately 4:30 pm. This may be a mild exaggeration, but I do remember still hearing my friends playing outside, while I scrunched my eyes shut in an effort to keep the still-shining daylight from streaming into my wide-awake eyes.

What a good cat (Minnette the 2nd).

Now, it’s a different story. I LOVE going to bed. Sleep is awesome. I function best on somewhere between 7–8 hours per night. I made it through my entire MBA convinced that I was one of that rare breed that needs only 5–6 hours to get by at peak performance. It’s amazing what your mind can convince your body of, when it needs to get tricky. Shortly after defending my thesis, I began to wonder why I was so upset and angry/sad all the time.

I began The Great Sleep Experiment, in which I got no less than 7 hours sleep and discovered many things about myself. One of the key learnings was that I cry way less, about far fewer things, when I’m getting adequate sleep. Life, it turns out, was secretly being awesome, but I’d been too sleep-deprived to realize.

Now, I put sleep first. Sometimes, it means I miss my morning exercise, which sucks and makes me resentful, but at least I have a good reminder to hit the sack earlier the next night. I’ve said this before, but if Bridesmaids taught me anything (and I was just as shocked to learn it had as you are, reading this), it was that I am indeed my own problem, and my own solution.

Which leads me to my next point: I should really not save my blogging until I am about to go to bed. I’m gonna try something different tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes…

Today is Thursday. As you may recall, Thursdays = Everest. I work, then I teach, then I go to class for 3 hours, getting home at about 10 pm. It’s long, but I can generally hack it.

Not today. My brain was fuzzy from the get-go, for some unknown reason that has yet to make itself known. I drank some coffee, which didn’t work. It was decaf, so at least we know they mean it when they say they took the fun out of the beans. Eventually, I wandered down the hall to an unoccupied office, shut and locked the door, turned off the lights and closed the blinds, and had a cat nap. Actually, I kept half my brain awake, so it was more like a dolphin nap than a cat nap (although, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen Maui sleep, and I’m wondering if this might explain her general tweakiness. I’m no good on less than 7 hours…).

To be honest, I didn’t really sleep, because I was kind of paranoid someone would burst in (though how I thought they would accomplish this with the door locked had clearly escaped me) and then there would be mayhem. I guess this is what I thought might unfold:

Person: “Uh, Rachelle? Are you okay? Whatcha doin’ down there? Sleeping?”

Me: “Um, hi. Yeah, I was just resting. I’m really tired today and thought I’d relax on my lunch break.”

Person: “Huh. Okay.” <<backs away slowly, thinking to him/herself that Rachelle is an odd girl>>

Hermes does not share my concerns about sleeping on office floors.

Clearly, it’s a good thing this great atrocity didn’t occur. After all, I work on the Health Promotion team: No one would ever understand something like taking a rest break at work… Oh, wait. Yes, yes they would.

I’m about to go to bed, but I felt like I needed to tell you about this thing that happened last Friday, in the name of current news. I’m all about being relevant and timely. So, I’m walking home from yoga, up Johnson Street, the street on which I reside, when I hear a dude singing. He is a Japanese guy, not that it makes any difference, apart from a mixed-up “r” and “l” now and then, but he is NOT a good singer. He is singing, nay—belting, I Just Haven’t Met You Yet, by Michael Bublé. This is a really good song. Not so much, however, when it’s being sung by someone who is tone deaf. And I mean he is REALLY giving it. For 4 very long blocks.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining or making fun (okay, I’m making fun a little): this guy had me giggling the entire walk home, and I gotta say I admire his, um, tenacity.

I have to go to bed now because I can hear Adam snoring in the bedroom, which makes it hard for me to fall asleep. As long as I’m out first, it doesn’t bother me. But, since I’m still typing, I’m obviously not in bed.

Nighty night!