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Double Jeopardy

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Happy Monday!

I’m sitting on the ferry and I can’t help but remember a fateful ferry trip I took, gawd, like 13 or 14 years ago. The following story sounds made up. It is not.

firstlove

I was about 19 or 20 and way back then, my boyfriend was my first true love. And, just in case you think I’m getting all maudlin here, I’m a big fan of this approach to the idea of my first true love >>

Pardon the profanity, but I think it’s a pretty good reminder. I’m grateful for all my experiences, regardless of the outcome, because if I changed any of them, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I’m also very grateful for Adam, because he’s the guy who taught me what forever looks like.

Anyway, back to the story of the hour.

So, there we were, bored on the ferry, which was about 98 percent filled with passengers under the age of six (read: there was a lot of whining and high-pitched crying and no, it [mostly] wasn’t coming from me).

We grabbed some magazines and went to sit in the car on the vehicle deck. I quickly tired of my magazines (read: looking at the pictures) and started looking for other things to which I could turn my attention. This is when I found the handcuffs in the cup holder (what? Where do you keep your restraints?). I’m sure you’re wondering what the handcuffs were doing there, but remember, this is a good ten or eleven years before Fifty Shades of Grey were published (get your mind out of the gutter!). My ex-boyfriend was a mall cop security guard and the cuffs were from his work uniform.

He told me not to play with them, because he wasn’t sure he had the key. When he checked and found them, though, it was open season. I wanted to see if I could get out of them—I have really small wrists—I didn’t realize that they spin all the way around, so it’s literally impossible if they’re on tightly.

Just because we’d recently seen Double Jeopardy, he thought it’d be funny to handcuff me to the steering wheel (and having just rewatched the movie, I’d like to point out that Tommy Lee Jones cuffs Ashley Judd to the door handle, not the steering wheel, so clearly, this whole experience was unnecessary. Because a lack of accuracy in reenactment is obviously the main issue here.).

The novelty quickly wore off. Handcuffs are really uncomfortable (I suppose one isn’t really looking to the comfort of the wearer when trying to restrain them from illegal activities) and my arm was stretched across the stick shift. Yes, I’m hoping that you are realizing that there was, in fact, no hanky panky going on. Because, scouts’ honour, there really wasn’t.

Here’s where it all went wrong. Actually, I just reread that sentence and I suppose, if I’m being totally honest, this all started to go wrong long before this point. Possibly when the thought of playing with handcuffs crossed my mind, it all started to go downhill. Regardless, though, when it got worse is when, while trying to unlock the cuffs, my ex swore and looked at me awkwardly. This is because the key broke in the locking mechanism of the cuffs. For reals. If you don’t believe me, then you have a pretty good idea of how I felt in that moment, too.

houdini

We were, oh, maybe twenty minutes away from docking at Swartz Bay and I’m locked tightly to a steering wheel on the car deck. In case you haven’t sorted out the logistics, it is not possible to drive with you passenger’s arm cuffed to the steering wheel. We were definitely in a bind (har har). He didn’t know what to do about it and my options were somewhat limited. So, off he goes to find a ferry employee: I’m thinking for sure they must have handcuff keys, right? Because surely they might need to restrain an unruly passenger, right? I can’t be the first person to be in this situation, right?

Well, you guys: Wrong. Turns out they don’t carry handcuff keys. Know how I know? Because the employee who came and checked out what became known as our “predicament” asked his supervisor, who said it hadn’t occurred previously. I know this for sure, because there was a veritable parade of employees that came down to see the girl locked to the steering wheel situation. Even the captain dropped by. I was honoured. And still, I was really surprised that they didn’t carry cuffs, and—more importantly for me—the keys with which to unlock them. They were surprised that I was surprised. I guess we all learned something that day. I wonder if they carry cuffs/keys now…

They brought up some of the engineers, who tried to use bolt cutters, but while they could snip the cuffs in half (so I was free of the steering wheel), they couldn’t cut the cuff off my wrist. It was too tight to my skin and seriously, it was beginning to really hurt.

The cool part is that I got to visit the belly of the ship. Yup, I was escorted down to  engineering, where they put my wrist in a vise and were able to cut away the cuff.

By the time we drove off the ferry, every employee was waving at us with a massive knowing grin. Mortifying. At least that ridiculous car had tinted windows.

What made it better was that after I told my mom (who, thank heavens, has a pretty solid sense of humour), she got a call from a dear friend of the family, who worked for BC Ferries. He started to tell my mom that she’d never guess what happened on a sailing from the mainland to the island. Imagine his surprise when mom finished the sentence? It didn’t take long for him to realize just who had been the twit who’d had to be cut free from the steering wheel on the vehicle deck.

This really happened. I’m not making it up. Just for the record. In case you were starting to doubt me.

Anchorman_well_that_escalated_quickly_966

 

October.

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I freaking love October. LOVE it. It’s getting brisk in the mornings and evenings and when I’m out in the briskness, it smells like the ocean and chimney smoke and fall. I don’t totally know how to describe it, but the autumn edge in the air smells like, well, for lack of a better descriptor, like autumn.

The trees are turning and Grimby is starting to wear sweaters. He is a very well-dressed dog and he looks great in cable knit. I know what you’re thinking: “Come on, Bay: Who doesn’t look great in cable knit?” But seriously, people. Look:

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Now, before you accuse Adam and I of being “those” people—you know, those people who dress their dogs up—you should know that Grimby gets cold. Boston Terriers are notoriously poor at moderating their body heat (they don’t have an undercoat). Grimby has taken to shivering like no dog’s business. If I don’t have the heat on high in the car, with all the vents pointing at him, he pretty much looks like the most pathetic thing ever.

Also, watching him in the rain is hilarious. We’ve had some rain (read: insane quantities of water pouring from the heavens. I’m impressed, Mother Nature—I kept thinking you didn’t have it in you to keep going. Clearly, you did. Way to show the doubters.). Grimby hates getting wet and won’t put all his feet down at the same time, so he stands there, shivering like he’s got hypothermia and lifting his back feet up one at a time, like a kid who needs to pee (and he does need to pee, so it’s twice as funny). I wonder if the fact that I think my dog’s discomfort is amusing makes me a bad person…

I just lost twelve minutes gazing at photos of Grimby from puppyhood until now, while finding those two pictures above. He is SO cute. I don’t care what anyone says. He’s the cutest best dog in the entire world. Even despite the fact that he is physically not able to relieve himself without peeing all over his front legs (every day, every pee). Hey, we all need something to keep up humble, don’t we?

Also, I’m in Seattle for training weekend 10. I bought some pumpkin beer last night and pumpkin pie yogourt. After all, I like pumpkin-spiced ANYTHING. Except, it turns out, pumpkin pie yogourt. It is NOT good. I was shocked. Adam wasn’t, but didn’t tell me when I bought it that it was going to be gross. Not that I would’ve listened, really, if I’m being honest (and apparently I am).

So here I am, with three thingies of gross-flavoured yogourt. It’s a conundrum.

I just reread this post. It’s very random. I think I need more sleep than I got last night… Read yesterday’s post if you’re looking for something more coherent.

Toilet paper and other unnecessary drama.

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Okay, I’ve been away for a while. It’s been STUPID busy. Fall is crazy time for people who work in health promotion. Two words: Cold & Flu. Yeah, baby, I’m working on getting people to wash their hands.

Last weekend, Adam was away in San Diego and I went to refill the toilet paper in both bathrooms. I thought we had a package in the closet, but alas! We did not. We had nary a square to spare (actually, that’s not true: It turned out that we had 3 rolls, but the panic was probably a good motivator to actually buy some TP before we hit an emergency situation).

I remembered to stop and pick up some toilet paper on my way home from my big sister’s birthday party on Sunday night and this is when I discovered something about myself: I’m embarrassed to buy toilet paper. It doesn’t matter what you call it, if you try to pretty up the name with “hygienic” or whether it’s called “bathroom tissue”. Or, as Adam so eloquently just put it, bum paper. No matter the name, I’m mortified when I have to carry it.

Why you ask? Well, my friends, because then people will know I—wait for it—go to the bathroom. HORROR OF HORRORS! I don’t really know what exactly it is that makes me want to grab the paper and run.

The Wall of Shame.

The Wall of Shame.

Also, why is toilet paper sold in impossibly large and awkward packages, WITH NARY A CONVENIENT HANDLE, MIGHT I ADD, which you will drop when the hole you poked through so as to carry the effing behemoth of humiliation tears, and then when you bend to pick it up, you drop everything else you’re carrying, thus drawing the attention of EVERYONE IN THE WORLD STORE? Why is the only effective way of carrying an unwieldy parcel of plastic-wrapped sheepishness, roughly the size of André the Giant, to hug it to yourself like it’s your saviour, or at least the way you wished you could’ve hung onto your first slow-dance with your crush in high school?

Honestly. This is stupid. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and the thought of buying feminine products was enough to make me seriously contemplate the benefits of running away and living in the woods like a savage. Because that would be less embarrassing than buying stuff that every female human needs, obviously.

This seems like a great place to live. No judgment from

This seems like a great place to live. No judgment from

 

Come on, Bay. Everybody poops. There is literally a book on the matter. People are not looking at me, thinking, she needs toilet paper because she’s disgusting. What an animal. I mean, seriously, the guy in front of me was buying stool softener, which is at least a 12 on the 10-point scale of embarrassing gastrointestinal purchases, right?

I need to get over myself.

For now, though, I can rest assured that I bought two massive packages, so I can at least postpone the next embarrassing purchase until I can pawn the chore off on Adam. Of course, carrying both packages made it really look like I had a problem…

Scary things and a solution to spiders.

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I don’t like spiders.

Arachnids inspire a terror in me that is unparalleled by anything other than my fear of sharks (well, if this isn’t completely unsettling, I don’t know what is) and dark places I need to traverse after my brain decides that it’s been far too long since I last contemplated the possibility of ghosts and other potentially malevolent spirits and/or demons (not to mention psycho killers and maniacs). Clearly, I’m not alone—see below:

monsters

Whenever I mention that I dislike spiders (also known as eight-legged minions of Satan), or, upon seeing one in the vicinity of my person and innocently screaming at the top of my lungs: “KILL IT! KILL IT TWICE! AND THEN KILL IT AGAIN!”, however, I’m often subjected to reproachful looks and unnecessary lectures on the importance of all God’s creatures (bullshit—if we were so fond of all God’s creatures, then why are we letting some of them go extinct every. Single. Day? Huh? Huh?).

“But Bay,” someone mentions helpfully, with a spoonful of reproach and holier-than-thou-ness, “We need spiders. They eat other harmful bugs, like the mosquitoes you detest.”

Yeah, right.

Now, it is true: I do detest mosquitoes. That is because they always bite me and I’m allergic to them and erupt into massive reactions that radiate heat, discomfort and whiny-ness. And, since I’m clearly the choice option on their unknowing buffet, I am worried that I’m going to contract some hideous disease. I mean, when I am getting bit 114 percent more than the people around me, I feel like my odds are good for getting something bad from the buzzing bastards.

Mosquitoes, as far as I can tell, serve no purpose or benefit to the planet. Certainly, they pose no benefit to me, which is all I need to know. They’re a net expense. They don’t pollenate flowers, look pretty or eat other malicious creatures. They’re like the trigonometry of the insect world. We just don’t need them. So, if spiders are so philanthropic, then they need to pick up their A-game and eat more mosquitoes. Like all of them.

Hmm, this is not technically a solution to spiders. It’s more just an expression of my weenie-ness. But still, you guys. I hate them. I’m genuinely terrified of them. My heart races, my palms sweat and I’d probably knock children down to save myself from spidery situations.

True story: One night, when we were in Avignon, we were getting ready for bed (we shared hotel rooms wherever possible to save our scrilla) and Jen and I were chatting about who knows what, perched on the edges of our bed. Suddenly, I noticed Jen’s gaze slide downwards and to the right, widening at something she saw.

This is when we discovered that when it comes to arachnids, I actually have a spidey sense. I didn’t see that it was a spider, but I knew it was. I leapt off the bed (I may have flown. It’s hard to say.), emitting a sound that Jen later recounted as inhuman, the likes of which she’d never heard before.

The boys “took care” of the spider, but since I didn’t see its carcass, I couldn’t take any chances and proceeded to mummify myself tightly in my bed sheet, willing to risk suffocation while I slept, if it meant the creepy monster couldn’t touch me.

So that’s my post. Lately, all the spiders are either trying to get inside or stringing up law-of-physics-defying trip lines directly across all the paths I need to traverse (probably the same paths that are laden with ghosts, monsters and psychopaths). I have seen some shockingly large specimens of wolf spider, the hefty hairy brutes. Here’s an example of one I recently saw:

wolf spider

Just kidding. That’s a werewolf. But the similarity is [literally] frightening and my reaction to either would be pretty much the same level of freak out (the werewolf might scare me less). Is it a mere coincidence that they both have “wolf” in their name? I think not.

But seriously, they’re all putting webs up EVERYWHERE. I mean it—I don’t even understand the mechanics of how they get their webs from point A to point B. If I wasn’t repulsed, I’d be fascinated and I’d read up online to learn more. But I can’t do that, because even looking at pictures of spiders raises my blood pressure and makes me all twitchy. In the mornings, I’m all Raoul in the Phantom of the Opera, going for a jog while keeping my hand at the level of my eye. And then going all ninja-pants when I run through a web.

spiderninja

 

Just go.

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My niece Emily is currently in London, having an awesome adventure with a friend as they travel about the UK and Europe for the next couple of months. She’s such a courageous, fun, witty and intelligent girl. I’m immensely proud of her for stepping outside her comfort zone, where she has discovered, literally, the world is waiting for her, full of beauty and thrill, amazing wonderful sights and people.

adventurers

I’m so happy for her for taking this trip, all the more so because I never did pack up my backpack and travel about when I was younger. I still could, I know, but there’s something to be said for hitting the road before you need to think about details like rent, or a mortgage. Or before accruing a hefty amount of student loan debt.

My best friend Jen (from Nova Scotia) called me up one day, many years ago, to say she was packed up and taking off for a summer abroad. I was surprised; I didn’t know she was planning to live/work/travel about the UK and Europe between semesters. I got off the phone and told my mom about Jen’s plans, wondering if mom had known about the pending adventure. She hadn’t.

“Call her back right now.” Mom looked at me squarely. “Tell her you’ll meet her there. Take your savings and just go.”

Just go.

justgo

Oh god, but I wanted to. I’d been craving this adventure since middle school. I’d even deferred my university acceptance and scholarships for a full year to make it happen. My plans had been to work for a few months, then head out and see the world. Have some adventure. See things much bigger than myself.

Then, I met a boy (we all know how that goes) and I put aside my dreams while I was falling in love. I got accepted to attend a performing arts college (I’d auditioned on a whim), so I stayed put. I graduated from the performing arts college and slid effortlessly into my deferred scholarships and first-year university courses. I had part-time jobs to pay my tuition, because I wanted to avoid student loans.

A few years later, I met another boy and we fell in love. We graduated, bought our first home and got married. We both went back to school again, me for an MBA, he for a law degree (and, as you know, training to become an amazing and inspiring leadership coach, while still in law school, because law school is not enough to take on, right?).

I went on other trips and they were amazing: Hawaii, California, Bali and Hong Kong, Brazil and Florida. I beheld spectacular sights and experienced amazing people and cultures.

But my walkabout? I didn’t go. My backpack (which I’d bought) was used for school and then abandoned for a more practical school bag. It was made to hold adventure and dirty clothes, not my textbooks. I chickened out. I had tuition to save and I didn’t know the friend Jen was traveling with; I didn’t want to crash their plans and be a third wheel. Basically, I came up with a load of very reasonable reasons to explain why I simply couldn’t just drop everything and head out. That’s the thing about reasons: They’re very reasonable. That’s their thing. Here’s the dirty little secret your reasonable reasons are hiding: It’s just fear.

Some day I’ll go off and wander with a new backpack. It’ll be different, because that’s what happens. It won’t be worse or better. It’ll be as it is, and that is perfect.

Last year, our trip to France came about from a joking status conversation on Facebook—33 days later, we were in Paris, with our best friends. Seeing the Eiffel Tower had been a dream of mine for roughly ever. It was the most amazing trip of my life.

It was just the beginning. It just gets better, if you allow it. Each and every moment. Look backward with appreciation, not with longing. Regret only lives with you if you invite it in.

Pack it up. Don’t pack it in. Don’t let go of your dreams, but know that, over time, they will change. As will you. Be gentle with yourself and don’t compare what is to what might have been. What might have been is a myth.

jack_dreams

The following is from an article in the New Yorker called The Impossible Decision. This excerpt really struck a chord with me; how about you?

You can guess what these things will be like; you can ask people; you can draw up lists of pros and cons; but, at the end of the day, “without having the experience itself” you “cannot even have an approximate idea as to what it is like to have that experience.” That’s because you won’t just be having the experience; the experience will be changing you. On the other side, you will be a different kind of person. Making such a decision, you will always be uninformed.

Do you have regrets? What’s something you wish you could change? And what will you do to make it happen now?

Seattle Sundays!

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Hi guys!

I’m in Seattle again (if you’re very clever, you may have gathered as much from the title of this post). Back in the Team ‘Bucks, with only a few of the regular offenders this time. The Professor’s here, but he’s sleeping. Must be gearing up for a big lecture. And there’s another dude showing a significant amount of rear cleavage, but it’s a different guy this time. I feel like I would notice if my nether regions were exposed, not only to significantly more fresh air than normal, but also to the entirety of a very large and popular café. I’ve checked and retucked my shirt at least three times.

Anyway, that’s about it on this front. Not a wildly interesting morning in here, but Jay and I have are having a good time, so that’s all that matters. Some days, you gotta make your own fun.

Hmm, so let’s see. What should I write about, I wonder. I could write about how it’s been made painfully clear (and I mean, I made it painful by taking it really, really personally) that I’m too funny and know too many interesting facts. I suppose it’s more the expression of the aforementioned offences that is of issue.

So that’s been fun. Hasn’t made me feel at all awkward and self-conscious. My god, I’m like a character in a Judy Blume novel. It’s like I’m feeling all the teenaged angst I was fortunate enough to avoid when I was actually an adolescent. “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margar— Bay— Rachelle— Oh Shit! I Don’t Even Know Anymore.”

Anyway, I’ll sort it out. Kind of have to, but it’s not very fun. It makes me keep quiet and feel  yucky (official term) and I imagine I look like this:

puss-in-boots

 

It also makes me want to buy shoes. Granted, this is generally a fairly normal condition, but boy oh boy does it ever kick in when I’m sad/upset (angry/happy/whatever else). But I have not bought any shoes. Yet. It’s hard to say what’s going to happen during the course of today and there is a Nordstrom Rack here. We’ll see…

 

How I know I have great taste.

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Know how I know I have great taste? Because every time I go to pin some great outfit/look/style/hairstyle/item of clothing/cute animal on Pinterest, and it pops up with, “Psst! Looks like you already pinned this,” I’m all like, “Yeah I did. Of course I already pinned it. I have such great taste.” Look at me, finding affirmations all over the place!

What I was going to do this weekend was take a photo of my shoes. Well, one of the things, anyway, was to write a blog about shoes. A topic, as we all know, that is very near and dear to my heart. In order to do so authentically, though, I felt like I need to take a picture of the shoe collection, which means I’d need to take them out of the closet(s). Obviously, in order to do that, I’d need Adam to not be here.

A birthday card from my aunt, uncle and family. I wonder if I need an intervention. What shoes would I wear to it...

A birthday card from my aunt, uncle and family. I wonder if I need an intervention. What shoes does one wear to an intervention…

I mean, it’s not like I’m hiding shoes, you guys, but I do have a lot of shoes and it very closely borders on what one might describe as having “a problem.” Adam is very much aware of this, but there’s no need to put it all over the living room floor loudspeaker. So, my plan was to do it this weekend, but then I got all busy HAVING WAY TOO MUCH FUN. This resulted in nary a posting by me. You probably noticed. Or maybe you didn’t. I don’t sit and stare desperately at my blog stats from which I determine my worth as a writer know whether or not you wait with bated breath for my next post.

I will do it, though. I could also do it with makeup. In fact, I will. If I broadcast it, then it’s not a dirty little secret, right? Nothing to hide = No problem. I saw a friend’s photo of her lipgloss collection and it was way worse than mine. Granted, she used to work for MAC and is a makeup artist, so as far as excuses go, she’s way up on me, but still. STILL, IT’S FINE. I’M FINE. I JUST LIKE THE PRETTY PRETTY COLOURS OKAY?

Moving on.

i love autumn

It is decidedly fall-y outside. No prob for me, since I’m all “I LOVE FALL—FALL IS FAVOURITE.” I actually like “autumn” better than “fall”, because it is a pretty word, but hey, they both refer to a season of pumpkin-spiced EVERYTHING, so it’s all good. Speaking of pumpkin spice, I know I’m not the only one who counts the first day of fall not on the equinox, but this way, instead:

firstdayoffall

That being said, it didn’t seem too autumn-y yesterday morning when I did swim across Shawnigan Lake, with my friend Gillian and her friend Mary. Gillian’s dad simultaneously kept speedboats and water-skiers from running us over and kept reminding us that if we reduced our conversation, we might actually reach the other side before next week. It was a valid point.

It was lovely and gorgeous and a perfect thing to do on a Sunday morning towards the end of summer. So was the BBQ afterwards (Gillian’s parents are da bomb!). 😉 And so will these be, whenever they show up:

starbucks-pumpkin-spice-latte

The problem with sweaty forearms.

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I practice Ashtanga yoga. I have followed an Ashtanga practice for about nine or ten years. In case you aren’t well versed in your yogas (what? c’mon, guys, there’s only about 90 zillion kinds!), Ashtanga is really old, really traditional, really demanding and really awesome. If you’ve ever taken, or heard of, power flow or vinyasa flow, then you have actually experienced some of Ashtanga (it’s the basis for a lot of “power” or “vinyasa” classes).

Ashtanga has six series and I practice the first one. Have done for nine or ten years. It’s not easy, either (in case you think I’m just being a slacker). I think there is probably maybe one ninja yogi who can do all of them. I’m not really exaggerating, either. You need to be pretty in touch, physically and spiritually, to get there. But, hey; that’s why it’s called a “yoga practice” and not a “yoga perfect”.

Ashtanga is a six-day-a-week practice, with four days of self-led, or Mysore Style (named after the place called Mysore in India where the yoga originated), and then two led Primary (or first series) classes: One on Friday and one on Sunday.

So, now you know about the style of yoga I practice/study/teach.

You sweat a lot in Primary. It’s not hot yoga, per se, but it does get pretty hot. Today, in headstand, I had an issue with sweaty forearms. Actually, I had issues with sweaty limbs throughout the class, because it’s tricky to twist yourself into a pretzel if you’re slick like a body builder who’s oiled up for the “after” photos.

Headstand looks like this:

This isn't me. In case you think I'm a man. I am not.

This isn’t me. In case you think I’m a man. I am not.

Now, imagine your forearms are sweaty, as is your mat. You can probably guess what happens when these are the conditions for the basis of your headstanding. If you guessed that your elbows start to sneak out, slowly but surely, then you are correct. The problem with this is that I’m nowhere near ready to practice this pose:

I think this might break the law of gravity. And my neck.

I think this might break the law of gravity. And my neck.

I figured I had about 0.0002 seconds before I went over and took the whole row with me, à la Bambi:

So, I slipped down, literally but safely, and chilled out in Child’s Pose, which is pretty comfy. I actually used to sleep like that, when I was a kid.

Nothing like a swift kick of adrenaline before Savasana (or Corpse Pose).

Okay, I’m out. My sister is taking me to the RCMP Musical Ride, which I love and try to see whenever I can! If I’d stayed with the RCMP/joined after graduating, I’d totally have aimed to be in the Musical Ride. So cool.

Icing on the cake.

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I realize I’m writing about dessert a lot lately. Weird. (not really)

Anyway.

Have you heard about Mr. Cake? This guy is quite the inspiration.

The way he quit his job became world news and I love that he did it in style, in integrity and in cake:

o-CHRIS-HOLMES-MR-CAKE-RESIGNATION-LETTER-570

I love it. I mean, obviously, because it is cake, so of course I love it, but also that he’s following his passions and creating a life where he is doing what he loves to do. More of us should do that, I think. Which is why I’m working on it, too. It’s hard work, though (I know, “If I say so, right?”). If I lived over there, I’d buy his cakes and talk to him a lot, because I think it would inspire me.

No one ever said doing what you love is easy. I suppose if it were, a lot more people would be doing it. And I don’t know about you, but I find that if you are determined to find a way, people really love to remind you of all the things you should be worrying about, if you aren’t already, and as if you don’t have enough of your own stuff to get a handle on, too. I guess that’s their way of caring about you, but I suspect it also serves them by reinforcing the reasons to support the choices they’ve made.

Alan Watts talked about this in his clip “What if Money Was No Object”. This video is not new and I’ve posted it on Facebook often, usually when I’ve needed the reminder that I’m not crazy for wondering about the way we spend our lives (you know, the only lives we get).

Here’s what he said:

“But it’s absolutely stupid to spend your time doing things you don’t like, in order to go on spending [money on] things you don’t like, doing things you don’t like and to teach our children to follow in the same track.”

I mean, you guys? You get to live once. You don’t know how long you get, either. Unless you have some kind of inside track on living more than once and/or living forever, in which case, can you tell me how? Is how you’re spending your days what you dream of? I know there’s a disconnect for me in what I want to do and what I’m doing. Sometimes it makes me sad, other times frustrated, but lately in addition to those sentiments, it makes me dedicated, driven and committed to creating something different.

Just in case you needed some inspiration (and because I needed some today):

Raspberry filling. You’re welcome.

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Do you even need to know what I’m referring to in that post title? I submit that you do not. But, just in case you really, really like raspberry (as do I my friend, as do I), I would like to tell you about a magical treat with which I have recently decided to eat in great quantity fallen in love.

Okay, you guys, get ready for it. You know Tim Horton’s raspberry-filled jelly donuts? YES YOU DO. DON’T EVEN TRY TO TELL ME YOU DON’T KNOW THEM, BECAUSE THEY ARE DELICIOUS.

raspberry donut

Imagine that the delicious filling (c’mon, I know the filling’s really the only reason we eat the donut) has been tapped by the horn of a unicorn, sprinkled with pixie dust and fairy wishes (and also swirled with chocolate dreams, of course) and turned, as though by magic, into ice cream. That’s right. I said ice cream.

Yeah. RASPPLE-BERRY DELICIOUSNESS IN MAGICALRISHICAL ICE CREAM WONDERMENT (with a chocolate swirl, but who cares about that when there’s raspberry filling in your ice cream?).

Thank you, Island Farms (I think their dairy products taste better, because their cows are island cows and therefore happier cows. It’s like you can taste the happiness.).

Without further ado, I present to you Rocky Raspberry (though just in the picture, because I’m totally not sharing any of my ice cream. Sorry, but it’s too good and I already have to compete with Adam.):

IF-Rocky-Raspberry

You should get some of this. And then invite me over to “help” you with it.

Try it. You won’t be disappointed. Though I sort of hope you are, because then maybe you’ll give it to me… I would take it off your hands, because I’m a good friend and that is what friends do: They take it (“it” being ice cream) for the team.

Also, on Sunday night, something happened that’s never happened to me before: A pair of my Havaianas broke. Unwearably. Luckily, I wasn’t out walking in town or anything, because how gross would it be to walk barefoot downtown? (Clearly not so gross, according to a surprisingly high number of readers on my work blog who think it’s just fine to prance about with naked feet, whereas I think it’s decidedly Hepatitis C and lockjaw-inducingly not-fine)

Luckily, I have an unusually vast quantity of these kind of sandals (what? WHAT? HOW ARE YOU EVEN SURPRISED? THEY ARE SHOES, ARE THEY NOT?). But still. Still! That’s a first!

broken sandals