The Pit Stops

I'm moving

2011-02-25T12:53:00.001-07:00

Yes, it's true.

No, not the move some of you are thinking about. At least not yet.

I've merged all my posts from The Pit Stops onto my main website, That Angela. Things will be different over there, with less emphasis on hockey and the Calgary Flames. And maybe I'll get around to explaining why some time this weekend.

Or next week. Or never.

In any case, please update your RSS feeds — all two of you —and follow along at That Angela. Just give me a few days to get things all updated for formatting pictures and stuff.

Rehab

2011-02-22T21:01:00.001-07:00

Most of you already know.

I'm in rehab.

No, not the Hollywood kind.

The physiotherapy kind.

The MRI of which I last wrote came back clear of any labrum tears, despite the suspicions of me, my general physician and my chiropractor.

That's good news.

It's infraspinatus tendinosis,which means that muscle gets inflamed, sore and weak. Rotational movement hurts and my shoulder girdle fatigues early.

It means I don't have to go under the knife. It means I won't be in a sling and unable to use my right and dominant hand for two months. It means I won't be completely incapable of athletic activity for six months.

It means I have to strictly obey the orders of my physiotherapist.

Because maybe if I'd done that six years ago when I first tore my infraspinatus, I might not be here today.

Yes, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. Let's not lie, physiotherapy is expensive and in 2004, my benefits sucked. Fast forward to today and living the corporate life, my benefits take care of my rehab 100 per cent.

So, I'm going to adhere to the two sheets of paper which dictate my theraband exercises for the next little while.

I'm going to avoid the dumbbells at the gym and stick to working on legs and core.

I'm going to make those trips to the physio centre when they tell me to.

And if it all means I never have to another MRI in my lifetime, I'll be thrilled.

Because I never want to do that again.

Closed spaces

2011-02-04T21:45:00.003-07:00

I'm scared.

Terrified.

If you're a regular reader, you know how smashed up my shoulder is.

If you're a friend in real life, you know how painful some of my day-to-day activities are.

There's only one way out of this situation, my chiropractor says.

Surgery.

Dr. H suspects I'll be going under the knife fairly quickly. Of course, he can't tell how bad it is on the inside but he knows how bad my range of motion has been and he's heard the very audible clicks, the sound of the torn cartilage catching between the ball and socket of the joint.

The only way we'll know how bad it is? Take a look inside.

So after a long four-month wait, it's time for my MRI on Tuesday.

And that's what has me petrified.

Not surgery.

Been there, done that ... a couple of times.

See, I made a huge mistake earlier this week. I did some reading on MRIs and the material left me shaking, horrified at what I was getting myself into.

It isn't even my first MRI. I had one on my knee a few years ago. But for knees, you get pushed into the chamber feet first and I went only hips deep.

This one will be a little different.

First, there's this needle thing. The doctor has to inject ink into my arm to create contrast in the image. Some people posted their own thoughts on the needle and said it was quite painful.

For up to 24 hours later!

I'm a wuss when it comes to needles.

But I'm a bigger wuss when it comes to closed spaces.

I have been since I was 17 and he put a pillow over my face to keep the partiers in the other room from hearing me say no.

I lose my breath. I get dizzy.

I panic.

The material I read told me I would be going into the chamber head first. OK, that makes sense.

But it said I'm in there for possibly up to 45 minutes.

I felt that familiar catch in my throat, the tears start to well up and the feeling of terror.

Fear of not being able to escape if I need to.

With luck, the Xanax my doctor prescribed for me this morning will allay my fears.

With my history with prescription drugs, it will likely knock me on my ass for eight hours and my friend Dana will have to carry me out of the hospital.

You can imagine what I think my best-case scenario is.

I just hope Dana is feeling strong on Tuesday.

Ephiphany No. 3: Hair today

2011-01-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

There are several truths in the universe.

The sun rises in the east.

The sun sets in the west.

And I am a blond.

I'm a blond, dammit.

I was born a blond, I've lived a blond and, in my heart, I will always be a blond.

A few months ago, I went darker ... for a change. I needed something new, something different, a refreshing outlook on life.

Hair is an easy way to make that change.

My hairdresser and I agreed on brunette with blond highlights. It would make my hair healthier, she said, instead of stripping away all the colour that has attacked my golden locks as I've aged.

Yeah, there's red, a family affliction ... although I'm not sure my three red-headed brothers consider it so.

There's brown.

There's blond.

And there's gre ... er ... silv ... ah, never mind. There's just a bunch of different colours in there, OK?

The change received great reviews. People loved it.

I grew used to it.

Time came for a touchup but I didn't have the patience for foils and whatnot.

I went all one colour. Brown. Brunette. Lost in the crowd. Blah.

(Caveat: I am soooooooooo not calling all my brunette friends blah. That's just how I felt.)

I went on vacation. Pictures were taken. My friends would show me the pictures on the LCD screen of their cameras.

I had no idea who that brunette staring back at me.

I look in the mirror and I see a stranger.

"I can't wait to dye my hair back to blond. It's about time people saw the real Abi and stopped messing me about," said Abi Titmuss.

I have no clue who Abi Titmuss is. According to Wikipedia, she's some kind of model personality whatever out of the U.K.

But she nails it.

Anything other than blond and I don't know who I am.

So, it's time to get back to the real Angela.

The blond.

And the balance of the universe.

Epiphany No. 2: Don't be stupid

2011-01-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

Being the centre of attention wigs me out.

You find this hard to believe, I know.

But it's true.

In a lot of cases, I'm happier being a wallflower.

It's not like I'm a stranger to it. I was a pretty reserved teenager ... at least I think so. If the brothers read this, they might have a different story.

I can remember standing at the edge of the crowd at high school dances, wondering what it would be like to be in the middle of the dance floor, whooping it up with everyone.

Sometimes I had the guts to go out there, even to ask that tall guy with the fantastic mullet to dance with me.

Even years later, fresh into my first job as a reporter, my stomach would do flip-flops before every phone interview I had to do.

Like a goalie before the big game, I'd head to the washroom, throw up, take a deep breath and then get the job done.

And every time I'd move to a new stop on the newspaper trail, I'd get back to that little place of nervous anxiety ... not to the extreme I initially had, but still my hands would shake as I reached for the phone receiver.

I suppose it comes from a fear of failure.

Failure, in fact, was not an option in our house.

Bring home an 85 and Dad would inquire 'where did the other 15 points go?'

Grounded for marks that some kids would have been happy to bring home.

It made us tough, driven to succeed, never satisfied.

But it's kept in me a need to stay reserved at times when I know I'm not very good at something.

Stand in a batter's box and swing for the fence? No problem.

Take the mic and thank 1,200 people for coming to our fundraiser? Easy peasy.

Head to the front of the bar and pound out a rendition of Ice Ice Baby? Pshaw.

Try to imitate dance moves in front of a room full of people who barely know me?

No. Thank. You.

I'll cower in the corner of the couch, make up lame excuses and duck my way out of it.

Wrap my mind around the intricacies of playing a hand of poker?

Oh hell to the no.

I'll be over there playing Solitaire.

It's not like this has stopped me from trying anything new but anything 'new' is always closely within the realm of things I've already done ... and done well.

Maybe it's time to loosen up some.

And not be afraid to look a little bit stupid on occasion.

But don't be surprised if I throw up on your shoes first.

Epiphany No. 1: Shit happens

2011-01-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

It's OK to ask for help.

Remember a few weeks ago, when I came to that conclusion? That I'm not very good at it and I need to try doing it more often?

I got hit in the face with another good one a few days ago.

It's OK to let people help, even when you don't need it.

Let me backtrack for a moment.

I spent New Year's weekend in Middleofnowhere, Idaho, surrounded by giant, thin pines draped with freshly fallen snow and by an amazing group of friends.

We made merry, ringing in 2011 in fine style.

It was like a fancy camping trip. We grabbed all our booze and food and fixings from Spokane, Wash., and ensconced ourselves in the loveliest of cabins, a remote, wooded resort area.

And Shep went, too. Yay!

He was the beau of the ball at times. How hard is it to not love him after all?

Especially since he happily served as cabin garburetor when we cooked too much food.

Onto his bowl went the leftover bacon and eggs.

Nom nom nom, said Shep.

We left him to his afternoon nap and went across the path to Party Cabin. We ran out of beer and had to make a trip.

'Hey, the place still smells like bacon. Maybe we should open a window.'

'Um, hey, Ang, you might want to look at the floor.'

There I stood, mushing around a couple of piles of runny dog poo, not even noticing as I focused on my singular task of More Beer.

My heart sunk. I made my dog sick. I didn't even notice his distress when I burst into the cabin.

My singular task became Operation: Bacon Shit. I grabbed what materials I could find -- paper towels, water, Comet and a plastic bag into which I shoved each wad of poo-covered paper towels -- and cleaned up the mess, all the while my stomach lurching at the wonderful aroma of doggy diarrhea and bacon, two smells I loathe at the best of times.

'Let me get that for you.'

I looked up. My friend stood there with the cabin mop in his hands, offering to help.

No, I said. And I was adamant.

Shep is my dog. He is my responsibility.

Thus, his messes are my responsibility.

And as I've learned over these last 20 years of living alone and independence, if I don't take care of my responsibilities, no one else will.

My friend became pissed off. All he wanted to do was help out of the kindess of his heart.

I said no.

It took me a few minutes to recognize what I'd done and I felt horrible.

So, it isn't simply enough to realize I have to learn how to ask for help. I also have to learn how to accept it when it's offered.

Because people are kind. And they care. And they want to help ... without ulterior motives.

Just help.

Especially when shit happens.

Especially bacon shit.

After dark

2011-01-03T22:19:00.000-07:00

Two things I absolutely had to do today: go to the gym and write.

Going dark was not easy but not difficult either.

I gave myself permission to Tweet a few times. Oh come on, Darryl Sutter stepped down as general manager of the Calgary Flames.

You know I had to say something.

Then there was the guy next to our table on New Year's Day, talking about Viagra being a damn ripoff at 95 bucks a month.

"Just get two tongue depressors and a roll of duct tape," he said.

That's gold, Jerry. GOLD.

So, no. I couldn't completely remove myself from the internet for a week, but I gave it the old college try.

That's gotta be worth something, right?

Family traditions

2010-12-15T20:42:00.002-07:00

The tree, the Nativity scene, the gifts piled up to the ceiling ...

Aren't these the first Christmas traditions that come to mind?

Then there's the MacIsaac household. It wasn't all that different from any Canadian home at Yuletide.

Obnoxious Santas, elves, angels, the Three Wise Men ... all the wonderful confusion of childhood fantasy and Catholic conscience.

And hockey on the TV.

Yep, that's right. Back when Eric Lindros was Jesus, not Sidney Crosby. Remember?

We would huddle around the floor-model tube TV, the same set which still sits in our living room and casts a greenish hue, and watch the World Junior Hockey Championship.

There wouldn't be much said, there never was. Dad didn't like chatter while he watched the game.

Nonetheless, it was a tradition.

All four of us faithfully carry it on each Christmas, I believe. We're all big hockey fans.

It's indelibly stamped on my life since I became immersed in the major junior world during my seven years on the WHL beat in Kamloops.

This year, however, I'm going to miss most of it.

The tourney kicks off Boxing Day with the match that's always one of the best of the round-robin, Canada vs. Russia.

That one, I'll catch.

But the next day, I leave the country for seven days.

Oh sure, for a few days, I'll still be in WHL country, hanging out in the land of the Spokane Chiefs.

I don't yet know, though, if it's broadcast on TV the same way TSN smothers us with WJHC coverage.

And hockey isn't exactly the first thing you see on the TVs when you walk in the bar.

Plus, I've already promised myself I won't be connected during my vacation ... no laptop, no Twitter, no Facebook, no RSS feeds ...

I'll be north of the 49th again on January 3, probably too late for either of the semifinal games but you can be damn sure I'll be planted somewhere serving cold Molson beer for the Wednesday medal games.

Just like tradition dictates.

Go Canada.

Into the darkness

2010-12-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

I participate in the odd survey.

There's always one question that makes me chortle just a wee little bit.

How often do you use the internet?

I always scroll right to whichever answer indicates 'heavy user.'

Look, folks, I've been addicted to the internet since 1994. My colleagues in Newfoundland and I were huddled around a little Mac Classic, watching as we downloaded a picture from the Oklahoma City bombing.

On the same freaking day as the tragic event.

Line by line, we watched in awe as this picture come across the tubes. It took almost two hours to download.

Sixteen years later, I use the internet to make a living. Writing the content for the new Shaw web collateral puts Kraft Dinner in my cupboards (and Naughty Monkeys on my feet).

On the side, my amazing friend, Chelsea, subcontracts me to write for her web design business (more shoes!) and I use Twitter to its fullest extent.

Trouble is, some Twitter folks take a lot of liberties. They think they know me better than they do, they cross boundaries with their words that I would not accept from my friends.

It's my fault. I know that.

I put a lot of information out there. I also put a lot of misinformation out there ... just to throw you all off the scent every once in a while.

Tonight, one older fella took it upon himself to send me a DM ... er, direct message for my Luddite friends ... cussing me out for a rather benign Tweet in which I said the Blackhawks-Avalanche game would probably be better hockey to watch than the Flames-Blue Jackets.

Seriously.

(And for what it's worth, I was right. This Flames game is terrible hockey.)

So, I'm issuing myself a new challenge.

I'm going dark.

I'll be out of the country from Dec. 27 to Jan. 3, spending some of the holidays with my Spokane friends. I want to be technology-free, leaving my laptop at home ... and along with it, all of you.

I won't be able to do this on my own. I'll need my friends' assistance ... I'm hoping they keep a close eye on me and take my phone away from me if they see me slipping.

It'll be good for all of us, I swear.

And I'll let you know how it goes when I get back.

Or, maybe not.

Good spot

2010-12-13T18:09:00.003-07:00

Why your dog deserves every second of love you can give him:

Lost that lovin' feeling

2010-12-08T14:05:00.006-07:00

One hundred days ago, I signed on for a personal challenge.

A Shaw colleague had been Tweeting his progress on 750words, a site which challenges individuals to write 750 words every day. I signed up for the first monthly challenge.

By a couple of weeks, I was a bit addicted, using the site to formulate blog posts. I was blogging like a mad woman, churning out copy for three or four different sites.

It wasn't long before I declared myself willing to participate in the 100-day challenge.

Seemed easy enough, right? I can pound out 750 words in 12 minutes, if I put my mind to it.

I would get messages on Twitter from people bowing at my greatness.

"750? I struggle to find 300 words to write some days."

Look, I love writing.

I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. I wrote some of the worst pre-teen poetry you could possibly read.

I wrote a senior thesis in one weekend.

I turned it into a career. I get paid to write.

It's a hoot. I love it.

I write. I'm a writer.

I fucking hate this project.

When I get past this 750 words today, when I meet my 100-day challenge that ultimately means nothing in the grand scheme of things ... zero, zilch, nada ... I will be taking a break.

A good couple of days at least ... barring blog posts that come into my head, that is.

I forced myself to write for four days while I was on a mini-vacation in the States, a break very desperately needed from my web writing job here.

I learned I couldn't use the site to formulate blog posts after a while. I need to think through some ideas or do research when I'm writing on the Flames or shoes or whatever. But the site has an algorithm that counts points ... and some points you receive for being speedy and not taking any breaks or distractions for longer than three minutes.

Knowing there are points? My competitive spirit kicked in. The need to get the words out quickly translated into WIN.

I never got to the top of the points column, though. And yeah, that pisses me off. Even for points that ultimately mean nothing.

But I also gave up using the site to write blog posts.

Instead, I turned random streams of consciousness, just barfing words onto the screen in front of me in a hopeless addiction to reach the 750 words.

Oh, and I tried using the shortest words possible. I tried straying away from contractions. I took to spelling out numbers ... seven hundred fifty, instead of 750 ... going against every grain of my Canadian Press-taught soul.

In fact, I'm trying desperately to come up with 750 words right now just to get to my daily minimum ... I'm forcing it, not allowing this blog post to have a natural flow or denouement.

So I am tired of writing.

No, that's not true. I am tired of this site. I see its blessings, encouraging other individuals who want to write but maybe need a little nudge here and there to get going.

Thank you, 750words, for taking me to this challenge. I have a new one for which I'll be aiming over the Christmas holidays, but I'll let you all know what that is closer to the time. (And it's gonna blow your minds.)

So, dear 750words, it's been an interesting project for me, but if it's all right with you, I won't be back.

Because I love to write and I don't want you to suck that passion out of me.

I write. I'm a writer.

Rebel body

2010-12-06T20:00:00.001-07:00

I hate my body right now.

It's not for any reason you're accustomed to hearing from most women, like 'my ass is too big' or 'I have a muffin top.'

This has absolutely nothing to do with body image because, frankly, I have a great butt.

I hate my body right now because it forces me to say one of the two phrases I loathe the most in the world.

"I can't."

(The other is 'I don't know' and that's a whole other story of a different kind.)

My body is rebelling against me, in ways I can't control.

I've gone on — ad nauseum, I'm sure — about my injured shoulder. I've told you how I'm relegated to lower-body training at least until I get my MRI on Feb. 4 and the smarter people figure out what's going on in there.

So, I see myself losing definition in my shoulders. And that's hard to accept.

But now my hips are getting in on the action.

Last week, I told you about my new massage therapist, the odd noise he admitted and his statement 'yeah, you are really twisted up down there.'

Meaning my lower back.

Corey referred me to the owner of his clinic, Dr. Ryan Hoover, chiropractor, skilled in Active Release Technique and friend of a friend who recommended him highly.

Yep, Ryan says, your legs are kind of screwed up ... not in so many words. He was a tad more technical than that.

My left leg is stuck in extension and my right leg is stuck in flexion. Or, vice versa, I can't really remember which.

It causes pain in my lower back. And my left hip flexor, which Ryan says is a result of 'adhesions' caused by the imbalance.

Some things make sense. Like why I have more explosion through my left leg when I'm doing stationary lunges. Or why I feel more load through my right side when I'm doing heavy squats. Or, why I get shin splints on the treadmill.

So, Ryan moved me around with A.R.T., gave me a little crack or two in the lower back and sent me home with instructions to:

A. Sleep with a body pillow so I don't roll onto my stomach and cock up my legs
B. Do a series of stretching exercises
C. Lay on the floor with blocks under my hip and opposing thigh to restore balance

But I haven't been to the gym in a week, due to the ache in my hip flexor.

You know how I love my time at the gym. It's my stress release, my 'me' time, my chance to set hard, realistic goals and achieve them in short time ... things I need more than anything else at this time of year.

Yet, I feel like I can't.

I don't want to exacerbate the problem by falling into bad form to compensate for the imbalances or pain.

I don't want to cause more pain.

I don't want to feel the disappointment of falling short of my numbers, even though I know the longer I stay away, the worse it will get.

Most of all, I don't want to say 'I can't.'

And yet my body is forcing me to say it, reminding me of all the love, blood and sweat I've given to sports in the last 35 years and how little love they've given me back.

I ain't no reindeer

2010-12-06T13:52:00.002-07:00

Shep isn't a big fan of Christmas either.

Why not?

Because I do this to him:

Sending out an SOS

2010-12-03T19:01:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I need help.

Whoooo ... I can't believe I just said that.

It is always one of the hardest things for me to admit.

I need help.

Yep, I certainly do.

My mother raised me from a young age to be independent and self-reliant. She told me to be a career girl, to not get married.

She got her wish.

But here I sit trying to figure out how to get some things done when life just won't stop getting in the way.

So, I have a big project on the go at work. I put in 30-plus hours of overtime in one two-week pay period.

Certain things didn't get done.

Not really my laundry basket

And being a single girl, there isn't anyone else to do them.

If I could just train Shep to carry a load of clothes to the washing machine, drop a glob of detergent in and go back to his regularly scheduled napping, some things would be tickety-boo.

Instead, I have to figure out when to squeeze in the six loads of laundry that accumulate very quickly ... sometimes, I swear that damn basket is bottomless.

Funny thing is, many of those things with which I need help? They're the most menial of tasks ... and because they're mindless and monotonous, I actually enjoy doing them.

They're so monotonous that they require no thinking whatsoever ... just the kind of thing I need after putting in 11- and 12-hour days of writing.

Now that doesn't include walking my dog, reading and going to the gym.

Those are two of the activities I enjoy the most of all and I have to make time to do them.

But where's the time to get the clothes washed, the dog hair swept off the floor, the dishes cleaned, the garbage taken out, the groceries bought, the dinners made ...

Oh Mother Hubbard, my cupboards are bare and I've been eating takeout since Tuesday.

Things should start settling down in about a month, once we get our project completed and move on to the next task.

But in the meantime, I need help.

I can put a spare key in the mailbox in case any of you are interested.

Gettin' girlie

2010-11-30T21:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for chick flicks.

I don't strike you as the type? Then you don't know me so well.

Behind this crusty, cynical, misanthropic exterior lies a mushy, soft-hearted romantic.

I just got back from Best Buy. I picked up a handful of movies, scoring only one of the three I had gone to get.

I missed out on Elf and Slap Shot but ordered them off eBay as soon as I got home.

Clutched in my chubby little fingers was a copy of The Holiday, starring Kate Winslet, Jack Black, Cameron Diaz and Jude (Rawr) Law.

It didn't reach critical acclaim. It wasn't a box-office smash hit. It will never replace Love Actually as my all-time favourite movie. And I've watched it on TV three times in the last three weeks.

But it is a cute, little holiday flick that warms the heart ... and makes me bawl my friggin' eyes out.

Essentially, it's about two women on opposite sides of the world — Los Angeles and London, England — who are career-driven and broken-hearted. They step outside their respective boxes, travel to each others homes in a holiday swap and spent Christmas on their own.

At least as long as it takes to fall madly in love with the men of their dreams, of course.

As independent, carefree and uncommitted as I am, there's still a tiny part of me that keeps the romantic fires burning.

So there The Holiday will sit, nestled next to 13 Going on 30, Clueless, The Break-Up and Rumor Has It.

Yeah, big Jennifer Aniston fan, too.

Argh ... just don't tell anyone. Let's keep it our little secret, OK?

Ghost of Christmas past

2010-11-29T16:53:00.004-07:00

It's Nov. 29.

That means tomorrow is Nov. 30.

And there's only 25 more days after that until Christmas.

The corporate holiday party was last week. I didn't go. I never do. The girl with no date always sticks out like a sore thumb.

Plus, partying is often the last thing I want to do in the runup to Christmas Day.

For many, the holidays are festive and bright. For others, it isn't quite so easy.


Me and Dad

It's been 15 years since my entire family celebrated Christmas together and that last Christmas wasn't exactly brimming over with holiday cheer.

My father, you see, was on his last legs. The doctors had sent him home to die. The cancerous tumour on his neck had grown so large it was cutting off circulation to his arm and he was unable to eat, sustaining his life with Ensure energy drinks.

We all knew in our hearts that he didn't have much longer. It was the elephant in the room and yet no one would talk about it. I spent the long nights on vacation from my job in Newfoundland crying as hard as I am right now.

We all pretended it didn't exist ... for the sake of making Christmas worse than it already was.

I left the next day or the day after Boxing Day. I can't quite recall. I know it was some time after the entire house erupted because Kevin leaned across Mom's oak dining room table to kiss his fiancee-now-wife, Diane, and broke it.

As I stood in the doorway with my bags packed, I told my father not to get up. That I would come say goodbye while he sat in his chair.

In all his stubbornness, he pushed his frail body up and shuffled his way over to me, enveloping me in his arms. I was afraid to hug too hard. I thought I might break him.

He died some two weeks later.

It's my ghost of Christmas past. Did I leave too soon? Should I have spent more time with him that Christmas? Should I have talked to him more, let him know it was OK to go? That I knew it was coming ...

And so for many years, I avoided Christmas. I still went home to Nova Scotia as often as I could, playing the role of dutiful daughter for my mother.

I wonder sometimes whether my brothers have it any better. They're all married and two of them have two beautiful daughters each.

I wonder if it's any easier to wake up on Christmas morning, knowing they get to sit around their trees and pass around gifts to smiles and laughter.

Me? I fight through it many days, punching against the dark shroud that can cover me like a black wool blanket.

I decorated the apartment last year, the first time I'd done that since my roommate Rosetta and I adorned our duplex in Gander back in 1995.

And I'm trying to start my own tradition of making Christmas my own, the single girl in a world of families and festivities. Last year, I left Calgary and drove to Seattle to spend it with friends. Altogether, it was a great time but there was something missing.

I still don't know what that is.

This year, I have 10 days off, skilfully arranged around the statutory holidays that fall on the weekend, the days off in lieu and only two days of holiday time burned.

I know I'll wake up Christmas Day to my most loyal friend, Shep. But there won't be any gifts under our tree. Everything will already have been opened by then.

I'm invited to a friend's house for Christmas dinner and Shep and I are scheduled to spend New Year's Eve in Idaho with our American friends.

Still, that's all three weeks and more from now.

In the meantime, I'll be doing my best to put on my holiday face, make merry, drink lots of eggnog and join in the Yuletide fun ... never forgetting the spirit that Dad and Mom brought to Christmas when we were kids.

But know that sometimes I'm forcing it and it isn't exactly easy.

Shopping socially

2010-11-27T10:59:00.000-07:00

An interesting phenomenon is sweeping across Calgary.

I suppose some might call it social shopping. The trouble is, some people aren't being very social about it.

A number of cost-savings opportunities are cropping up, from Living Social to Groupon and the Canadian-operated Steal the Deal. Others exist, I just can't remember their names.

I've partaken in several of these deals since they started, mostly massages and facials. A day at the spa isn't something I'm normally inclined to spend $200 on, but if it's knocked down to 49 bucks ... sure, what the hell?

You can pick up on hot deals on ski passes, candle shops, hair cuts, food and more. Some of the offers are pretty basic ... get 20 bucks worth of whatever for $5. Some are more high-end, like the aforementioned spa trip which I have yet to book.

I call these 'social' shopping because they employ the internet as their main vehicle of advertising. They use Twitter, Facebook and email -- all the hot tools for social networking.

Along my journey on the social shopping trail, I ask how the whole dealio is working out for the business in question.

I have learned that a lot of you are cheap sunsabitches.

You don't tip. You're rude. You're there to get the biggest bang for your buck and you really don't care much for the trail of distaste you leave in your wake.

Folks, we have to remember that even though we're getting a discount on a service, we still have to act like civilized, social beings ... no matter how much we're saving.

Sure, these deals might expose some of us to experiences we might not otherwise be able to afford.

And we aren't the only ones investing in these deals. Sometimes, these deals can attract hundreds of shoppers.

So don't be surprised when you call to book your appointment and you can't get in for a few weeks.

And for heaven's sakes, tip.

Trust me, your facialist will understand if you say 'I'm sorry, I would give you more but this is all I have right now' and promise to spread the word about the good service you received.

But when you need to pay the GST on the service, it amounts to $1.75, you flip a twoonie onto the counter and demand your quarter back ... well ...

I've only been disappointed once using one of these services. I sat through a three-and-a-half-hour cut-and-colour at a salon. Three and a half hours. For a cut and colour. The guy kept bouncing around and doing other stuff at the salon.

They had my email address and a couple months later, I received a notice saying the salon was shutting down.

Colour me surprised. And that colour didn't take twice as long as it should.

At the same time, let's remember that these businesses are putting these deals out to get new traffic through the door.

They want your business. They want to serve you and they want to serve you well.

And they want you to come back.

Thus far, I have found myself a new massage therapist and a new esthetician.

I encourage you to take advantage of the deals you can get from Groupon or Living Social or whatever.

But don't take advantage of the people serving you.

Got me a rubdown

2010-11-26T22:50:00.000-07:00

Never doubt the importance of a good massage therapist.

I've been to a handful of massage clinics around the city and, sure, it all felt good. There was the chiropractor in the south end, too, but the way he was pushing me all around, trying to get stuff to crack ... well ... just ...

Ew.

It's one thing for me to stretch and make things pop but getting all twisted up that way and forcing it?

No. That's just not my bag.

Today, I capitalized on a Living Social deal, getting an hour-long massage at Back and Body Health for half the regular price.

I wasn't expecting much really, nothing much different than the usual treatment ... rub this, move that, dig your elbow in there ...

In fact, I tried to talk to my last massage therapist about the issues with my shoulder but all I got from her was a couple of uh-huhs and the same old routine.

Corey Batt, however, listened intently. He asked me about the injury, when I thought it happened, how it happened, what kind of therapy I've been doing and so on. I told him about the pain localized in my anterior deltoid, the compensatory stiffness on the left side of my neck and even the lower back stickiness I usually experience after some heavy deadlifts.

He started on my right shoulder blade, worked around on it for a little while and then announced, 'yeah, you're really muscle guarding on this side.'

Muscle guarding?

It's a protective response in a muscle group that results from pain or fear of movement.

So my right shoulder girdle is all bunched up.

Then he runs his hands down my back, moving the muscles around my lower spine.

I'm not sure whether he emitted a sound of shock, fear or surprise but it sounded kind of like a 'phphphooph.'

And he said 'yeah, you are really twisted up down here.'

Fact is, I don't do anything unless I go all out. Play hard or stay home, right?

Trust me, this is one time I'd rather give up that talent.

In any case, Corey did things to my back, shoulder, arms and pecs that I've never had done before.

That was 10 hours ago.

My shoulder hasn't clicked when I move it since I left the clinic on Burbank Cres.

The cinch in my neck is gone.

Granted, this is a temporary measure. The ultimate solution won't be known until after my MRI in February and a permanent course of action is determined by my doctor.

But if Corey can provide some relief in the meantime, who am I to argue?

Oh, and he also recommended I see the Back and Body Health owner, Dr. Ryan J. Hoover. He has extensive experience with sports injuries and Corey says he isn't the type to go popping and cracking bones.

So I'm willing to give that a try, too ... even consider some Active Release Techniques as recommended by another friend.

Stay tuned.

But if you'd like to try Corey out for yourself, give him a call at 403-209-2225.

Musical memories

2010-11-22T22:10:00.002-07:00

It may have been each one of us was out to shock our mother just a little bit more than the older child.

Our musical choices were indeed edgy, particularly for the type of town in which we lived.

Small.

Pious.

Sheltered.

Our hometown's nickname is, in fact, The Little Vatican. The university, the community newspaper, the radio station ... everything in that town while we were growing up was run by the local diocese of the Catholic Church.

The Bishop lived in a regal, stately Victorian-style home on Main Street. One man ... huge house that's now a bed and breakfast.

The Scottish-Catholic mafia ... or something like that ... ruled the town.

We grew up on whatever sounds were emitted by CJFX, a radio station with an AM signal so powerful it drowned out all other stations within reach, and the few musical shows Dad let us watch on our two channels. Yep, The Grand Ole Opry and The Tommy Hunter Show.

Our musical exposure on CJFX amounted to fiddles — OK, not so bad now that some of us have discovered a bit of our cultural identity — and a skosh of adult contemporary, played after 8 p.m.

And Elvis Presley. Lots of Elvis Presley. Mom loved him.

I vaguely remember the four kids huddled into the 1970 Cutlass Supreme. Oddly, I Was Made for Loving You by KISS came on the radio. My mother slammed the off button and made some crack about men in makeup and noise.

Boy, did she ever not know what was coming.

Then music videos came on stream. We'd get three every Sunday on Switchback, hosted by Stan the Man. Then CTV started showing Video Hits.

We were amazed. I was enraptured by the Eurythmics, Rick Springfield, the Thompson Twins and more.

God bless the '80s.

It's Shane's fault, I suppose, for the spiral into darker music. He started collecting Led Zeppelin and Rush.

Men with long hair. Dark sunglasses. Mystical messages.

What was next?

Kevin and KISS. Twisted Sister even.

Me and Motley Crue. And Bon Jovi, Poison and Cinderella.

Jason and Iron Maiden.

The walls of our respective bedrooms were papered with men in makeup. They sang of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

The wave wars began. Shane, the eldest, would storm out of the house, looking for a peaceful respite of Whole Lotta Lovin' and Black Dog.

Mom would yell from the kitchen.

We'd twist the volume buttons on our ghettoblasters even louder.

Then Dad would come home.

Turn that shit off.

Yes, Dad.

On went the headphones. How any of us survived our teen years with our hearing intact baffles me some days (so, kids, crank up your iPods ... don't listen to your parents, you'll be fine, trust me).

Ultimately, Jason won the shock contest.

The youngest. The baby. The favourite!

Long gone were the days that Jason would croon along with Charlie Pride or go solo with Crystal Chandelier for anyone who would visit.

No, those days were in the past for the Burner Runner, so nicknamed for his speed on the track and the fire-red hair that blazed around with him.

No, Iron Maiden wasn't quite bad enough to bring into the little bungalow on Church Street, where the crucifix still hangs in its spot on the living-room wall.

The little house where an 11x14 of Jason in a polyester leisure suit, giving the Fonzie thumb-up, still hangs.

Into the little red house, Jason brought a musical group named 2 Live Crew.

He slipped this cassette into the tape deck and they started yelling 'Fuck Martinez, fuck-fuck Martinez.'

And I thought, 'ooooooooooooh, shit, we're all in trouble now.'

I don't remember too many more wave wars after that.

I don't remember any of us playing anything too loudly after that.

No more sex, no Jack Daniels, no more audible headbanging.

Walkmans and headphones were the answer to any weird looks or 'turn that shit off.'

It may have been it was time for us all to move on and get jobs, keeping us away from home for longer hours than just school would allow.

But it's a pretty funny memory.

Just as long as no one ever tells you I actually owned a Vanilla Ice or Technotronic CD.

It never really happened.

I swear.

Ridin' solo

2010-11-21T14:29:00.000-07:00

Aside from my stupid shoulder issues, I just can't do group fitness.

I tried. Lord knows, I tried.

And my shoulder ended up being a pretty good escape clause.

My new and beautiful friend, Cara Fullerton, is learning how to teach a Get Ripped class, designed by Fitness Plus guru Jari Love. It appears to be an immensely popular class with the floor covered with bodies this morning.

I would love to take one of the classes to show my support and say, 'hey, Cara, you rock!'

But I ... uh ... ooh, ow ... my shoulder.

Yeah, that's it.

Seriously, I hate group fitness.

I have this intense competitive streak, you see. It means that when I'm in a group fitness situation I have to be looking and seeing what she's doing, lifting more than he is and bending further than she is.

It isn't something I can control, dammit! I have a burning, innate desire to be at the top of the class and no amount of inner voice saying 'Angela, just slow down and do this for you' isn't going to stop me.

Yes, yes, I can hear my mother now: 'wouldn't it have been lovely if she had applied herself so well in school.'

Shush, Mom. I know kids who would have killed for my 84.6 average.

In one part of my brain, I know I should be doing whatever class for the benefit of functional strength and variety in my workout program.

But in order to suppress that competitive spirit, I have to engage it in another way ... competing with myself.

That's the big reason I'm constantly adding more weight, setting higher goals and pushing bigger numbers when I'm in the squat rack.

That's why when I racked 255 yesterday and pushed out one rep, I did a little dance in the Olympic room to reward myself.

And I didn't care if anyone was watching.

Because unlike one friend who told me she needs to be told what to do, nobody is better at pushing me, at driving me, at telling me what to do ... absolutely nobody ...

Than me.

Spinach-stuffed Chicken Breasts

Pulled from the Kraft Canada website, these are delicious. I would have paired a breast with a spinach salad or something but I ploughed through half a big bag of Twizzlers before they were out of the oven.

Don't judge.

Ingredients
1/3 cup water
2 tbsp Kraft Roasted Red Pepper with Parmesan Dressing, divided
2 cups fresh spinach leaves, chopped
2/3 cup dry Stove Top Stuffing Mix for Chicken
1 tbsp coarsely chopped roasted red peppers
2 small boneless skinless chicken breasts (1/2 lb./225 g), pounded to 1/4-inch thickness
1/4 cup shredded mozzarella

Instructions
1. Heat oven to 350 F.
2. Bring water and 1 tbsp dressing to boil in large skillet on medium-high heat. Stir in spinach, stuffing mix and peppers. Remove from heat. Let stand five minutes.
3. Place chicken, top sides down, on cutting board; spread with stuffing mixture. Starting at one short end, tightly roll up each breast. Place, seam sides down, in 8-inch square baking dish. Brush with remaining dressing.
4. Bake 35 min. or until chicken is done. Sprinkle with cheese; bake five minutes or until melted.

Nutritional information per chicken breast
Calories, 280, total fat, 7 g; saturated fat, 3.5 g; cholesterol, 75 mg; sodium, 680 mg; carbohydrates, 19 g; dietary fibre, 2 g; sugars, 4 g; protein, 32 g

Me and my iron

2010-11-16T20:34:00.002-07:00

I work out.

And when I work out, I go all out.

I suppose it comes from my 'play hard or go home' philosophy in sports.

I wonder if anyone has ever done a study correlating that thought process to incidents of injury ... huh.

But I digress.

The reasons why I love to work out are few.

Primarily, my trips to the gym are a method of stress relief. If it wasn't for tiring my muscles out on iron, I'd be in jail for randomly punching people just for being stupid.

I'm obsessed with my strength and putting up numbers, especially on the squat bar. Why? We all need goals. And as I reach a weight number on the bar, I get to set a new one and work hard to reach that goal.

It's a real sense of accomplishment to get there.

So you know how much of a bummer it is to not be able to work my upper body.

But with the strength, I also get wicked-looking legs, a nice, round butt that used to be flat and stronger bones, a must when my grandmother's body deteriorated with osteoporosis in final years.

And it means I get to eat.

No, I don't get to eat whatever I want. I'd be 200-and-some pounds if I just flagrantly started shovelling anything into my mouth.

But I'm not obsessed with food. I tried LA Weight Loss last spring, remember? But the regimen of writing every little morsel down in a diary drove me friggin' nuts.

I can't spend my time counting points or calories or pounds.

I can't do it. I can't pick and peck at plain old chicken breasts and munch on carrots.

I gotta live. I gotta have my beer, my occasional Coca-Cola, pizza, ice cream and donairs.

For the most part, I try to eat as cleanly and healthfully as possible but I don't beat myself up if I pick up a bag of Twizzlers and polish it off before dinner.

It's about the freedom to enjoy my life and still be healthy, strong and wise.

Even if I am a little 'fluffy' in some spots.

It just means there's something to hold onto.

That said, here's a recipe out of Clean Eating. Because it's been a while.

Chicken Piccata

Ingredients
Chickpea puree
1 tbsp olive oil
1 small onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, smashed
1 15-oz. can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1/3 cup low-sodium chicken broth
Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste

Chicken Piccata
1/4 cup whole-wheat flour, divided (I used spelt for the gluten-free extra goodness)
Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste
4 4-oz skinless, boneless chicken breasts, pounded to 1/4-in thick
3 tsp olive oil, divided
2 cloves garlic, minced (I ... uh ... love garlic, so I used four)
1 cup low-sodium chicken stock
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
2 tbsp capers or olives, rinsed and coarsely chopped
1 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Instructions
1. Prepare chickpea puree. Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic and chickpeas and cook, stirring frequently, for six to eight minutes or until onions are light-golden brown and tender. Remove from heat and pour into a food processor. Add stock and puree until smooth, adding a bit of water or additional stock if needed. Season with salt and pepper. Cover, set aside and keep warm until ready to serve.
2. While chickpea mixture is cooking in skillet, prepare chicken. Reserve 1 tbsp flour for later use. In a shallow dish or plate, combine remaining flour with salt and pepper. Dredge chicken in flour mixture to coat completely and shake off excess.
3. Heat 1 tsp oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken to pan and cook for two to three minutes per side, or until golden brown. Remove chicken from pan and transfer to a plate.
4. Using the same pan over medium-high heat (do not wash, the brown bits will add flavour), add remaining 2 tsp oil, garlic and reserved 1 tbsp flour. Heat mixture, stirring constantly for about one minute, scraping up any brown bits from the pan. Add stock, lemon juice and capers. Bring to a boil over high heat, reduce heat to medium-high and simmer for about three minutes, until sauce thickens. Add chicken back to pan and continue to simmer for an additional two minutes. Remove from heat, stir parsley into sauce and season with salt and pepper.
5. To serve, scoop 1/2 cup of puree onto plate, top with chicken piccata and spoon 2-3 tbsp sauce over top.

Nutrients per serving (4 oz. chicken piccata, 1/2 cup puree, 2-3 tbsp sauce)
Calories, 390; total fat, 13 g; saturated fat, 2.5 g; carbs, 24 g; fibre, 5 g; sugars, 5 g; protein, 44 g; sodium, 670 mg; cholesterol, 100 mg

Keep trying

2010-11-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

This is not a failure, folks.

It isn't even a setback.

It's merely a pit stop on the road to hell and I just caught air on the speed bump.

Yes, I got some downer news this morning. I checked my email and there was a quick note from my recruiter at Amazon.

Yes, that Amazon.

The department manager has decided to pursue other candidates for the position for which I had applied.

I was sad.

Oh hell, I got up from my desk at Shaw, went to the washroom and wept quietly for about five minutes.

Then I dried my tears, updated my Facebook status, sent out a handful of other crucial emails for those who aren't on the old FB and went about my day with a little bit of weight on my heart.

I received a lot 'aw' and 'sorry' responses.

Even a handful of #sadface.

But as the day went on, the weight lifted, my heart lightened and there was no #sadface.

Let's look at the bright side: I have a great job, writing web copy for Shaw Communications.

I was just aiming higher and looking for a little change of location.

Calgary, you see, has grown a little weary on me. I celebrated seven years of life in the YYC back in May. In fact, my mother emailed me on the 13th to let me know she still had a PostIt note on the fridge, saying 'Angela driving to Calgary today.'

I've been laid off, dumped three times, broken a hand, torn my rotator cuff, torn my labrum and been concussed a handful of times.

OK, they've all been my own damn fault ... with the exception of getting laid off. I hold that miserable PKP prick in Montreal mostly responsible for that.

Don't get me wrong. These seven years have been filled with a lot of wonderful memories and people.

But my vagabondish nature is starting to kick in again. It gets this way every once in a while and in the last few years, I've been able to subdue it with a trip to the mountains or little road trips to the smaller towns outside Calgary.

My thirst for adventure, however, has taken me to magical places. In the last year, I've traveled through Montana, Idaho and Washington State.

And every time I'm in Washington State, I want to stay a little bit longer.

Manito Park, Spokane

If I didn't have to come home on my last trip there, I wouldn't have.

'The States?!?!? Well, now we know she's gone off her rocker. We'll find a good temporary home for Shep and sent her off to Ponoka for a nice padded vacation.'

Oh, trust me. I never would have thought the States would be a destination of my liking ... Ottawa, Toronto ... maybe ... but the home of G-Dub and Sarah Palin?

Aye criminy! How the hell would me and my Maple Leaf tattoo fit in?

But I do.

The more time I spend in the PNW, the more I laugh at Canadian misconceptions of Americans ... and, by comparison, the remarkable self-loathing of Americans.

'You didn't want to have to deal with us asshole Americans anyway,' wrote one friend, although I know he was joking.

Well, half joking probably.

And we Canadians think we have patent or copyright or some weird ownership over politeness and being nice.

We don't.

Take for example a morning I spent at Manito Park in Spokane last month. Shep and I couldn't walk more than five or 10 minutes without being stopped by someone who wanted to talk.

Sometimes, it was to chat about the weather; sometimes, it was to talk about how beautiful my dog is; sometimes, it was to talk about my camera; and sometimes, it was to just say hello.

Yes, it happens in Calgary but more on the odd occasion than a regular occurrence.

My weekend in Spokane reminded me of home and Halifax or Newfoundland more than I can recall any night at the Trap & Gill.

And on the I-5 going into Seattle?

Well, when you put on your dinker-dinker (my dad's name for the signal light), the other drivers actually make room for you to merge lanes.

No, really, it's true.

I know you could never believe it unless you actually saw it. I damn near went into shock.

Just don't expect it to suddenly happen on the Deerfoot when you get back.

Calgary, I suppose, has grown too big and metropolisy for this smalltown girl who always wanted to live in a big city.

It's busy.

It's jammed.

And we're acting towards each other with far less consideration, respect and politeness than I ever thought possible.

Maybe a change of pace is necessary and with it, another career move.

This one 'no' won't deter me. Neither will the next one.

After all, I've already found another opening that suits my resume just fine.

Strong and determined

2010-11-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

I've been hanging onto this picture for almost 10 years.

I found it one night while I was surfing the internet, looking for a replacement claddagh ring, since I thought I'd lost mine.

Scouring online Irish jewelry stores — yes, I've been shopping on the net almost since you were able to — I came across this blue heron, all tied up in a mystic knot.

No documentation exists on why the Celts were so bent on tying everything up but we know these knots rarely have a beginning and an end, possibly signifying infinity and the timeless nature of our spirit.

Yes, I'm part Irish, part Scottish ... even part redhead, doncha know? Yes, if my hair catches the right light, you can see the red glowing as brightly as it does on any one of the brother's heads on a 24/7 basis.

And my temper? Well, that's all Irish ... believe it.

I hold my Scottish/Irish heritage close to my heart.

The Gaelic language in my family died on my maternal grandmother's tongue in the early 2000s.

Aye but she was a proud Irish lass, adorning her wee Greenwold Village apartment with shamrocks every March, teaching us about forach (a dessert of oats, whipping cream and sugar), baking us biscuits so hard you know they could break a window, and reveling in the jigs and reels of the local fiddlers.

She was a symbol of strength, independence and determination to me.

I've long wanted to have those qualities and to ink myself as a testament to that discovery.

(Yes, tattoo. I already have two. Both are hockey related. One has to be covered up by something else ... I'm not sure what.)

Maybe that's why I saved this picture that so-long-ago day. Maybe that's why I felt compelled to find out what the blue heron symbolized.

The blue heron is a beautiful, graceful bird, known for its longevity. It is credited as a messenger of the gods and, coincidentally, my first name is Greek for angel, messenger from God.

The blue heron is noted for its intelligence and solitude. In Celtic symbolism, it represents patience, independence and solitude.

North American native tradition holds up the blue heron as a messenger that teaches about self-determination and self-reliance. It represents an ability to progress and evolve.

You might start to see where I'm going with this.

I've been on my own for a long time, learning to be self-reliant, independent and determined. I've faced change and endured obstacles and challenges, been forced to reinvent myself after a career change, and made bad decisions with life and love but always came out the stronger for it.

I love my time alone — well, spent mostly with my faithful boo, Shep, at my side. I've learned to appreciate the quiet, regenerative space around me when no one is there.

Patience ... well, that's a work in progress and I think it always will be. It probably goes along with the aforementioned Irish temper and redheadedness.

Grace ... eh. If you could have seen me on figure skates 25 years ago, you'd be wondering what the hell happened ...

I kept losing this picture — with each fried hard drive or broken laptop — and I suppose that represents the setbacks I've encountered in my overall character development.

Nobody's perfect. We all make mistakes. Like that one tattoo I wish no one would ever see.

This knotted blue heron, though, will sit on my wrist and be visible, where the other two are not.

Once I get it done, maybe this month or next, you'll be able to see the testament to the strong, independent woman I've become, the great blue heron wrapped in his mystic knot.

And I hope Gram is looking down and nodding in agreement, all the while knitting awesome slippers and mittens for Grampy and Dad.

We just won't tell her I'm not much of a biscuit baker, OK?

Stroke of luck

2010-11-07T21:51:00.000-07:00

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket

Save it for a rainy day

Stars have been falling all over the place for me lately and I'm not entirely sure why.

Maybe I've built up some good karma points.

Or maybe everything is just starting to fall into its rightful place and good things are happening.

Now please, please ... don't give me that bullshit about having put it out to the universe and asked for it.

I did not.

And I don't buy into that Secret bunk anyway.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm in a more positive place with who I am, what I do and why I do it. I'm in love with my life and my freedom and I live every day for what it brings me, ensuring I express my gratitude for the good things and try to figure out how to make the bad things never happen again.

Every day is a learning experience, right?

Some of it, of course, is just dumb luck.

Like winning $700 boots from Stuart Weitzman.

Or, a $100 gift card from the CORE Shopping Centre.

Or, great tickets to a Flames game.

But how much of it is caused by my willingness to put myself out there and go for the things I want?

There are a handful of other things I want right now. And as time passes and life continues to develop, I may be able to share those things with you. But right now, I have to hold my cards close and keep a few secrets.

I've seen these things in the past and let them slip, knowing I didn't have the full confidence in myself to go after them.

Instead, I settled for second best and ended up more miserable than I ever was before.

And that's how life works, folks. It isn't about wishing to the universe, it isn't about putting a picture of what you want on the wall and hoping and praying it somehow lands in your lap.

It's about going out and doing the hard work it takes to make sure those things happen.

So, that's what I'm doing.

I'm making things happen.

But since a little dumb luck can help the cause along sometimes, you're more than welcome to keep your fingers (and toes) crossed for me.

I'll thank you when it happens.

Not if.

When.

Bummed out

2010-11-06T21:35:00.000-06:00

Welcome to the pity party.

I'm bummed out with a bum shoulder.

I had a doctor's appointment last Monday, finally finding a general practitioner who was taking patients.

We talked about the usual things ... my general health, my level of activity, etc and so on.

Then I dropped the bomb. Look, there's something wrong with my shoulder. It probably happened some time in August when I was splitting time between shortstop and second base, depending on whether I was playing women's or co-ed ball.

What kind of wrong with your shoulder, she asked.

The pain is localized in the anterior delt, not like the last time I tore my rotator cuff when the pain was more lateral and posterior delt. That was my supraspinatus ... a little time, a little physio, a little rest and it went away.

Not this time. No rest, no working the shoulder with functional movements on the band, nothing is making the pain go away.

What do you think it is, she asked.

I think it's a SLAP tear of the labrum, I said.

She put me through the usual run of movements, asked me lift my arm this way, hold it that way and place my hand on the centre of my back, palm facing out.

Oh Jesus no, I said. That ain't happening. Just taking my bra off at night hurts like a mofo, I said ... OK, maybe not in so many words. I'm way more polite in certain social situations. Believe it.

I think you're right, she said. I think it's a SLAP tear.

But we have to send you for an MRI to be sure.

In the meantime, no movements over your head, no rotational movements.

Well, what the hell else is left, I wondered. That takes out shoulder press, lat raises, bentover flyes, lat pulldowns, rows ... pretty much all my upper-body lifts.

By Thursday, I had a phone call from her receptionist. I'm scheduled for my MRI, she told me happily ... in February.

In fucking February. Goddamn February.

Four fucking months from now.

I get that I live with universal health care and that means I have to wait my turn. I get that I'm still functional even though I'm not pain-free.

But four months?

Fine. So I call in a favour and enlist the assistance of my friend and favourite local trainer, Terri Champagne. You'll remember I tried doing her boot camp a few months ago but had to bail because of my stupid shoulder.

She doesn't want me doing any upper-body lifts at all, given the amount of pain I am experiencing. Hell's bells, washing my hair in the shower is a bitch some days.

Instead, I'm to work on my legs and core. I can do yoga but take care with inverted poses, like downward dog. And no shataranga for me.

Flippin' fantastic.

She suggested pilates, so I went to Best Buy and picked up a DVD to go along with my yoga ones.

I'm setting a goal to make this a positive thing, to hit a three-plate squat — even if it's just for one rep — by the time I go for my MRI. And to have as strong a core as I did a few years ago when the Soldiers of Fitness guys called me Cadet Abs.

That doesn't mean it will be smooth sailing after the MRI, of course. It's only then we'll know whether I'll be scheduled for surgery or be put into physio or whatever.

But, hey, there's nothing wrong with having the most powerful legs I've ever had, is there?

IN THE KITCHEN

I haven't done a recipe in a good long while. I suppose I haven't done a whole lot of cooking either. Life has been under the gun, on the run.

But here's a good one out of a long-ago Clean Eating. It probably would have been better for me if I hadn't been eating salt-and-vinegar chips with herb and spice dip all through the food prep.

And hey, did you know oats are a soluble fibre which helps lower total and low density lipoprotein (LDL), or 'bad' cholesterol?

Spicy Thai Chicken

Ingredients

1 cup natural quick-cooking oatmeal

5 tsp lime zest, divided

2 tsp ginger, finely chopped, divided (oh, I just used the powdered stuff, chopping ginger is a pain in the you-know-where)

1 tbsp unsweetened coconut, shredded

1 tbsp roasted unsalted peanuts, chopped

1/2 tsp cayenne pepper

1 tbsp olive oil

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1 egg white

16 oz boneless, skinless chicken, sliced into four 4-oz pieces and pounded thinw ith a mallet

Olive oil cooking spray

1 mango

2 navel oranges, peeled and sectioned

1/4 cup red bell pepper, diced

1/4 cup Thai or regular basil, shredded

1/8 tsp sea salt

1/8 tsp black pepper

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 425 F. Put oatmeal, 2 tsp zest, 1 tsp ginger, coconut, peanuts, cayenne, oil and garlic in a food processor. Pulse five or six times until finely mixed.

2. In a large wide bowl, beat egg white with 1 tbsp water. Pat chicken dry with paper towel, dip in egg white then dredge in oatmeal mixture. Place chicken on cookie sheet misted with cooking spray. Then lightly spray chicken breasts with cooking spray and bake for seven minutes. Turn down oven to 375 F and continue cooking for 10 to 12 minutes.

3. While chicken is cooking, peel and slice mango into 1/2-inch pieces. In large bowl, place mango, oranges, remaining lime zest, remaining ginger, lime juice, red pepper, basil, salt and black pepper. Toss well.

4. Serve one chicken breast with 3/4 cup of mango salsa.

Nutrients per serving

Calories, 360; total fat, 10 g; saturated fat, 2.5 g; carbs, 27 g; fibre, 5 g; sugars, 15 g; protein, 39 g; sodium, 105 mg; cholesterol, 95 mg.

The weight of the world

2010-10-23T19:37:00.000-06:00

I have a love-hate relationship with my shoulders.

They've carried the weight of the world, they've been cried on and they rarely droop in resignation.

When I'm at the gym and I'm all pumped up, I love the way they look.

My traps jump up and my lateral deltoids form this unbelievable cap.

They make me look strong, muscular, fit ... like I can handle anything.

(Sidebar: Of course, that's barring any injury I may have suffered in the last while. Yes, I'm a little concerned I may have a SLAP tear on my labrum, which is a lot more serious than just a torn supraspinatus like last time. So yes, I'll be trying to get in to see a doctor at some point but since I don't really have one, it might be difficult.)

I keep my reps high and my weight low, always, for shoulders. They're smaller muscles and they don't require a lot of weight like quads and hams to get a decent workout.

At least that's what I was told by a long-ago trainer.

In any case, I always think they look good in my racer back tank top.

Then I go shopping.

I pick up a cute halter top or something with spaghetti straps and I stand in the change room thinking, 'ugh, I have huge, ugly man shoulders and I can't wear this.'

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if my boobs weren't quite this big ... and believe me, if I could find a doctor who would send me for a second breast reduction, I'd be all over it like a dog on a pork chop.

Or maybe I should just suck it up and go with a cap-sleeved top, covering up those beautiful-when-I'm-feeling-strong, ugly-when-I'm-feeling-dressy shoulders.

Argh ... what a predicament.

In any case, I've been back at the gym hard this week, since returning from my fantastic weekend away in Spokane.

It was a 4x6 week so I got to up the weights some. I get to register a little disappointment because my 4x6 squat -- albeit a solid 4x6 with good form -- was only at 185 pounds.

That's 30 pounds down from where it was in June.

I try to remember that it's all a process and I will get back up to the numbers I had before ball season kicked into high gear.

So long as I stick with it and don't give up.

Tomorrow is deadlift day and since my squat numbers are low, I'm going to try to get my deadlifts even with squats so my hamstrings are as strong as my quads.

Here's been the last week ... with nothing interesting to report out of the kitchen, by the way. I've been doing a lot of heat-and-eats and salads. I didn't exactly keep a good budget for food while I was shopping. Don't judge!

Oh yeah and there's been no reading. I've been too busy daydreaming.

AT THE GYM

Wednesday
Legs
Squats, 4x6, 185 lb
Straight-leg deadlifts, 4x6, 95 lb
Single-leg press, 3x10, 135 lb SS side lunges on BOSU, 3x10

Thursday
Chest
DB chest press, 4x6, 30 lb
Cable crossover, 4x6, 40 lb
Incline DB press, 4x6, 27.5 lb
Overhead tricep rope press, 2x12, 45 lb
MB ab series, 3x15

Friday
Rest day

Saturday
Shoulders
Single-arm full clean, 3x10, 25 lb
Lat raises, 3x10, 12.5 lb SS bentover flyes, 3x10, 12.5 lb
Incline single-arm raises, 3x10, 7.5 lb
MB thrusters and fitball crunches, 3x15

Tomorrow
Back, projected weights
Deadlifts, 4x6, 185 lb
Lat pulldowns, 4x6, 90 lb
Low-pulley rope row, 4x6, 90 lb
Rope hammer curl, 2x12, 35 lb
Rope woodchoppers, 3x15, 35 lb SS cable curl, 3x15, 85 lb

Wanderlust

2010-10-22T22:29:00.005-06:00

You know what really bugs me?

When I read a horoscope and it tells me exactly how I'm feeling.

Yes, I read horoscopes. Yes, I'm a smart girl and I know -- mostly -- that they're bunk.

But look at what I found when I loaded my iGoogle this morning:

Leo

By Rick Levine

You may be feeling wanderlust, even if you are rooted to your current situation. The fiery Aries Full Moon lights up your 9th House of Adventure, reminding you that there are still many journeys ahead. Whether or not you are able to pack your bags and jump on a plane, nothing can prevent you from going somewhere far away in your mind. Remember, there is plenty of time to turn your fantasies into reality.

Wanderlust.

Yup. You got it.

There are many journeys ahead. Is there going to be a big journey on a permanent basis or lots of little journeys?

I'm always going somewhere far away in my mind and that means I'm not content where I am. Happy? Yes. Content? Not really.

But how do I turn those fantasies into reality?

Then there's the big question: Where?

And if one person says 'ask the universe,' I'll have to go kick a kitten.

You like what where?

2010-10-07T17:45:00.000-06:00

It's really the most ridiculous thing.

One year ago, women were falling all over themselves on Facebook to post what colour their bras were. And it was a big secret what the colour statuses were about ... let's not tell the boys ... tee hee hee.

Today, we're faced with the same stupid meme, although this time we're supposed to tell the boys where we like to put our purses, but only referring to the items as 'it,' inferring that we like 'it' in the bathroom or we like 'it' in the kitchen.

'It' being my purse but intending where I like 'it.'

Believe me, I was tempted to post Angela likes 'it' in the ass, just to see what everyone would say. I still may.

The clincher? This is supposed to raise awareness about breast cancer.

Let's be clear about one thing first. I'm not all that big on donating to any cancer foundation except the Canadian Cancer Society, which is working to eliminate ALL cancer. I don't see any one type of cancer as being more important or more tragic or more deserving of attention than any other kind of cancer.

My father died of throat cancer in 1996. His father died of stomach cancer in 1988. His mother died of lung cancer — I think — in 1969.

At least one of us, I suspect, in my family will carry on this brutal tradition.

So I prefer to ensure that all cancers are treated with the same weight. But I 'get' how breast cancer is an attention draw.

It's about boobs. And, as I wrote for Fashionwest earlier this week, breasts are quite often at the root of our identification as women, as feminine beings, as sexual beings.

What I don't get are the Facebook memes.

Where you put your purse ... what colour your bra is ... where you like to have sex.

Oh but, you protest, it gets women talking about breast cancer.

No, it doesn't. It gets women giggling and being deceitful. It gets men rolling their eyes at us and thinking 'here they go again.'

See? This guy, a link I got through my friend, Michelle Butterfield, doesn't get it either. He doesn't find it clever and he doesn't find amusing.

"Women, if you want our partnership with something all you have to do is request it," he writes. "What you need to understand is that men (most of them anyway) really love women and want to do whatever we can to make you happy, help you, take care of you, shelter you from harm, etc., etc., etc.

"If you want us to give our money to a particular organization in order to advance cancer research, or fund breast exams, we will, just tell us which organization and how much to give. Men are that simple. All it takes is (drum roll) COMMUNICATION!"

Robyn Urback of the National Post got on board the meme today, too.

It's unfortunate, she writes, because what these women think is raising awareness for breast cancer is really just trivializing the whole issue.

"The movement sexualizes a disease that is, as many can attest, not in the least bit sexy," Urback writes. "Campaigns such as 'Save the Ta-Tas,' which emerged in 2004 with svelte, good-looking models sporting skin-tights tees, have been similarly criticized for cheapening a very serious issue, but its mission, at least, centred around awareness and fundraising. The innuendo-laced 'I like it' Facebook trend simply sexualizes an unsexy issue, to no favourable end."

We've fought so hard as women for acceptance as equals in every level of our lives. We've fought so hard for sexual harassment rules, so hard for proper treatment in the workplace, so hard to keep our male superiors hands off our asses ...

Yet it's so easy for us to tear it all down and say 'hee hee, look at me, I'm really talking about my purse but you think I'm being all sexy, hee hee.'

And at the very core, we completely distract from the real point: women need to self-examine on a monthly basis starting yesterday and get annual mammograms after the age of 50.

How do we properly promote breast health awareness among ourselves? We encourage our mothers, sisters and friends to self-examine or get mammograms, we post links to the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation or Canadian Cancer Society, we attend events that really help raise funds and awareness (like For the Love of Shoes at the Okotoks Art Gallery) and we pull out our pocketbooks — you know, the ones where you like it — and we donate real, hard cash to research.

That way, we're not alienating half the population from joining us in our quest to cure cancer.

That way, we're not taking hundreds of steps backwards with our status as equals.

That way, we're doing real work in raising awareness and funds to cure cancer.

But it's fun, you'll whine.

Hey, I had a great time going out to the Okotoks Art Gallery last weekend and learning about the artists and the women who donated the shoes.

Whether I enjoyed myself or not, I intended to make a donation to the exhibit but because it was wonderful, I put twice as much in the box as I initially intended.

So I challenge you to find ways to make raising awareness and money fun, interesting and clever.

But not in ways that distract from the real issue.

Do something real. Donate here.

Change is good, so is Shep

2010-09-28T23:04:00.000-06:00

In case you were wondering, Shep is back to normal but for the wound healing on his hind leg.

It's a pretty nasty gash, all the way through the layers of the skin to the thin layers of muscle on his leg.

He's been getting treatments of antibiotic Ozonol. He's still pretty fussy when I touch it ... you would, too, if someone was rubbing ointment into a deep open cut.

Dana checked him out, said he probably could have stood a stitch or two but he'll get away without needing any.

He's been such a good boy through the whole ordeal that I'm hoping to treat him in some way this weekend.

Maybe we'll head out to the woods ... nowhere near any cattleguards, that is.

Or, it's been time to head out to the Red Deer River valley and hang out at Dorothy.

I somehow find that little spot a very centring area and that's really what I need right now, to find my centre.

Everything has been off-kilter lately.

Some things I can't really change about my life, so I'm changing the things I can ... like my hair colour, like the way my evenings go, like what I do on the weekends.

Yeah, news flash. I completely changed the colour of my hair today. OK, I didn't ... my hairdresser Tisha did. And from all accounts — from face first to Facebook — people like it.

I'm a brunette now, not a blond. I don't know if it will last forever because I do rather enjoy being a toehead.

But it's a signal to me that it's time to start taking care of myself again instead of just being.

I almost feel like I've just been going through the motions for the last little while.

Changing things up ... that all goes part and parcel with the challenge.

And the two new pairs of shoes that should be arriving in the next two weeks. They really are quite darling, I swear.

You know new shoes always make me feel better.

So here's how the day went down:

IN THE KITCHEN
Breakie: Scottish oats with Hamish Knox blueberry jam and a scoop of vanilla protein powder
Early lunch: Ground turkey sauteed in taco seasoning on 1 1/2 cups of lettuce and 1/2 cup of chunked green pepper
Snack: Protein bar
Snack: 1/4 cup soy energy blend (it's a Costco jar of soy nuts, dried cranberries, almonds and seeds)
Dinner: Pho ... yeah, Vietnamese noodles, lettuce, bean sprouts, cukes, spring rolls and satay chicken ... on paper, it sounds healthy but I think there's a load of sugar in the fish sauce and I probably gulled too many of the noodles

Not probably. Did. I still feel them sitting right there at the top of my stomach.

ON THE MOVE
It's an off day from the gym, so I started by waking up and hitting the yoga mat. I did 20 minutes of Yoga Zone with Al. When I got home from work, I jumped into my sneakers and took Shep for a 30-minute stroll. It wasn't super intensive walking, since I'm still treating him a little gingerly. And then I just finished another 30 minutes of yoga with element and Elena Brower.

ON THE BRAIN
It was a tense day at the office ... the whole four hours that I was there. Interpersonal bullshit, so I'm trying to ease my mind about that stuff. I'm still plugging through In Her Shoes. The movie didn't steer remarkably away from the novel, although we're meeting the grandmother a lot sooner than the silver-screen version.

It may be unfortunate that I've already seen the movie, because I'm not really investing my brain in it yet. I'm just reading the words, not absorbing them.

That's the one thing I really enjoyed about the first Jennifer Weiner novel I read ... and then there's the Emily Giffin books. Her chick lit books drew me in and made me identify with the lead characters.

And oh hell, I had to do a search to remember her name and now I see they're making a movie out of Something Borrowed, starring Kate Hudson. I like Hudson ... I loved the book.

We'll see.

The fright of my life

2010-09-26T23:33:00.001-06:00

I had a hell of a fright yesterday.

Shep and I bundled up in the truck to head west in search of beautiful fall colours, especially a sunrise which is typically so striking in Calgary at this time of year.

We were a little late getting going, though, and missed the sunrise but for a few bursts of colour at Edworthy Park at the northwest end of the city.

I had wanted to get all the way out to the Cochrane turnoff and capture the sun rising over some prairie fields. Ah, maybe next weekend we'll try again.

As long as Shep is in decent enough shape, that is.

Yes ... I have myself an injured pup.

We went onto Big Hill Springs Provincial Park, just north of Cochrane. It's really quite a stunning little place. The lower end of the hill is littered with miniature water falls, brooks and creeks, bridges and falling leaves.

You can hear the rush of the water the second you step out of your vehicle in the parking lot.

We had some time to kill before our company arrived. We were meeting Dana and Tundra, who'd never been out to the area before ... even though Dana grew up in Calgary.

You might recognize Dana's name. She works for our veterinarian, Dr. Bill, at Westmount Animal Clinic in Kensington.

She's also been a teammate, a landlady, a shoulder, a drinking buddy and a very close friend.

Shep and I went for a quick jaunt back up the road. I wanted to see if I could get some lively cow pictures, better than the ones I captured from my truck while they blocked the road upon our entry.

And that's where our day turned scary.

Shep typically will leap over a cattle guard, as he did south of Vulcan this past spring. Whether it's his age catching up to him or the fact he still had his leash on, he tried walking across the cattle guard.

He was hesitant at first and I should have told him to just stay there while I went a little ahead to talk to the cows.

He insisted on trying to walk across the cattle guard.

I heard a whimper behind me and saw my beloved dog with his hind legs fallen and stuck. I could see the panic in his eyes.

I dropped my camera to the ground, lifted his bum up and helped him out.

But then he wouldn't put any weight on right hind leg. I screamed. He yelped.

OK, calm down, I thought. You freaking out isn't going to help matters any at all.

I felt his leg, searching for any hint of a break ... waiting for him to snap at me if it hurt too much.

Nothing.

OK, he still wasn't putting any weight down. He was in the middle of the road and my truck was about 100 metres back that way.

Adrenalin is a funny thing, though. I scooped up my 110-pound dog and carried him to the side of the road.

I laid him down and with a speed unknown to any of my ball teammates in the past, I sprinted to my truck.

I jumped in and drove back to the spot where he lay, then leaped out of my truck, hoping that I would be able to lift him into it and speed back to the city.

My feet hit the ground and you know what? The fucker came running toward me.

My head went from 'oh my God, I could kill you right now' to 'thank Christ, you're OK' in about two seconds.'

He had no problem jumping into the truck, while my head went back and forth between anger and relief.

Mostly relief ... I swear.

The anger started to turn inwards, knowing I repeatedly promise to keep that dog safe from danger for every day I humanly can.

And I didn't.

He recovered quickly and his spirits soared when he saw Dana's truck pull into the parking lot and out jumped his best buddy Tundra.

We walked and took pictures for a good long while, but we didn't do any hills or anything overly strenuous ... hell, Dana and I both getting up there, too!

It's been more than a day since the fright and Shep is still pretty stiff from his trauma. He's taking aspirin, ground up and mixed into an egg (spoiled, I know!).

Plus, I noticed a tremendous gash on the inside of his right hind that will require some nursing over the next few days.

A cone? That won't stay on.

A Tensor bandage is doing for now.

But Shep is a fairly determined dog and when he wants to lick at something, he'll get to it.

And thus, my task for the next few days is just keeping him away from that area.

I owe him as much.

Stuck in a rut

2010-09-24T21:07:00.001-06:00

Let's talk about this rut I'm in.

It's deep.

And it's muddy down here.

I suggest to you I've been in this mess for about a month ... since I got back from the World Hockey Summit in Toronto.

You see, I've always known I missed sports writing and I waffle in between closure and non-closure, as I've proven on these very pages so many times.

For you to revel in my pain, you sadistic bastards.

All four of you.

The Summit was a brief glimpse into the life that would have ... could have ... should have ... I dunno ... but it was a been of some sort.

And then there's the weather. My God, could it be any more miserable?

Yes, I totally invoked my inner Chandler on that question.

Whatever the reason ...

I'm tired and yet I get enough sleep.

I'm crusty and yet there's little in my life worth being upset over.

I'm lazy but for getting my dog out for a walk and the occasional hour of yoga in my living room.

I'm not eating well, despite a personal challenge to give up alcohol, ice cream and Starbucks for the month. Hey, guess what ... there are still Twizzlers and Hot Pockets.

It takes effort to gfigure out what to eat, write all the ingredients down and make sure they're in the kitchen.

It takes effort to to the gym, from changing into gym clothes to getting there and hopping on the elliptical.

And I'm just not willing to put in the effort lately.

So what do I do to fix it?

How do I give myself the proverbial kick in the ass and get back to being active, healthy, alert me?

Step 1. Challenge myself to get to the gym and do some kind of movement every day ... in addition to walking the dog.
Step 2. Challenge myself to eat better. Convince myself that Twizzlers suck (they really really don't) and beer is the devil (it really really isn't).
Step 3. Write about and make sure I'm being accountable to myself.
Step 4. Go see that naturopath my brother Shane said I should go see. Maybe it's a food thing. Maybe I just need more Vitamin D.
Step 5. Step away from my laptop and read more ... books and magazines, not RSS feeds and blogs.

One of the first things I learned when I was doing a personal-trainer certification program some 10 years ago was that a person's brain and system need six to eight weeks to get addicted a health regimen.

So that's what I'll do ... starting Sunday (hey look, I'm going to the Flames game tomorrow night, cut me a break).

Challenge myself to move every day for eight weeks.

Get addicted again.

Because once those endorphins start kicking and I remember how it feels to feel great, I'll stop being so damn owly.

Oh don't fret. I'll still be caustic.

I'll just deliver my rapier wit with a smile.

Now to prove that I'm still making somewhat of an effort at eating well, here's what I made last night.

Sweet and Sour Chicken

Ingredients
1/3 c. low-sodium soy sauce
2 tbsp raw honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp fresh ginger, grated
1/4 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
1 1/4 lb boneless, skinless chicken breasts, chopped into one-inch pieces
1 medium green bell pepper, cut into one-inch chunks
1 medium red bell pepper, cut into one-inch chunks
1 small yellow onion, chopped (I used a leek)
1/2 fresh pineapple, cut into one-inch cubes (about 1 3/4 cups)
12 sprigs fresh cilantro (about 1/4 cup)
1 1/2 cups cooked brown rice, optional (I used quinoa)

Instructions

In a small bowl, whisk together soy sauce, honey, garlic, ginger and pepper flakes. Place chicken in a large shallow dish. Pour soy sauce mixture over chicken, tossing gently. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or up to eight hours.

Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium high heat. Add chicken and marinade and sauté for five minutes, or until chicken is cooked through. Add bell peppers and onions and cook for five minutes or until vegetables are slightly tender. Add pineapple and cook for two more minutes. Sprinkle with cilantro and serve immediately over rice for a complete meal, if desired.

Nutrients per serving
(1 1/4 cups mixture, not including rice)
Calories, 161; total fat, 1.5 g; saturated fat, 0.25 g; monounsaturated fat, 0.25 g; polyunsaturated fat, 0.5 g; carbs, 17 g; fibre, 2 g; sugars, 13 g; protein, 21 g; sodium, 404 g; cholesterol, 48 mg

A farewell to bats

2010-09-22T22:56:00.001-06:00

Are you sad at all?

That's the first question my friend asked me when we met at the bar after our games on Monday night.

No. Not even a little bit.

And that must mean I've made the right decision.

If you've been following along, I've decided to hang up my cleats. Actually, I will probably be throwing them out, given each one has a big hole on the instep.

My dad first put a bat in my hands when I was five or six. He carefully wrapped his arms around me and helped me hold the bat while Shane pitched the ball to me.

Our parents — mostly my mom — painstakingly built a little baseball diamond for me and my three brothers in our backyard. They took two big tree branches from the pasture behind our house and a couple of old fishing nets from our neighbours ... lo and behold, we had a backstop.

The grass was dug out of four spots and those were our home plate and bases.

It was magnificent.

We had our very own baseball diamond ... oh and the field in my grandfather's backyard next door was our soccer pitch.

We didn't have much when we were kids but our parents made sure we had what we needed.

And what kid doesn't need a baseball diamond in her own backyard?

We were all pretty active kids. We played soccer and competed in track and field in the summer time. The boys played hockey and I figure skated in the winter.

I was even the first girl to play Little League baseball in Antigonish, much to Kevin's chagrin because I always ended up on his team.

I remember trying out for our junior high softball team and staking my claim on first base. I had brief dreams of playing for the Kell's Angels, the rep junior girls fastpitch team in town.

By the time I reached age, I'd long given up on that dream and stopped caring about sports a little bit ... at least as much as I wasn't playing but thinking about boys playing sports.

When I moved to Newfoundland, I immediately connected with a new hairdresser -- because what girl doesn't need a good hairdresser?

As I sat in her chair and she clipped away at my tresses, she interrogated me ... you're new in town? who are you? what do you do? oh, you're the new sports reporter? do you play sports? can you play softball? will you play for my team?

Uh, sure ... what better way would there be to start to get to know people in my new town?

Um ... FYI ... when you're a young female sports reporter in a fairly old-fashioned and pretty small town in the middle of nowhere, you don't have any problem getting to know people. Especially the guys.

In any case, for the next four years, I played with the same team and represented my new home town on the all-star team at provincials.

Softball has always been a way for me to get to know people in my new home towns. It was the same gig in Kamloops and again in Calgary.

I've met some of the very best people. And I've met some of the very worst people.

I've seen the very best of myself. And I've seen the very worst of myself.

The game has provided lesson after lesson about me, about other people and about life.

Most importantly, I've had to learn how to figure out the differences between those best people and those worst people.

I've had to learn how to figure out how to be the better me and stop being the worse me.

Coincidentally, my last games on the ball diamond were against my old team, a roster of friends and of people who resent me for drama which caused my departure from the team.

I hugged each one of those people I call friends and walked away.

But not from those friends. Those are people I want to keep in my life, just not on the ball diamond.

I'll want to see them in real life and, if I don't, it means it's time we grew away from each other anyway.

Because life's funny like that. It's OK to grow away from things and people.

Just as it's time — after three decades and more — for me to grow away from softball and move onto other things.

No more buying the newest, best bat on the market, no more slide rashes, no more broken hands or torn rotator cuffs, no more sinuses clogged with ballpark dust ...

When I Tweeted my retirement, one friend replied 'As one door closes, another opens.'

And it's true. I'm throwing open the door to other opportunities, whatever they may be.

Another friend wrote on my Facebook page, 'So what do I say to you when I see you at the ball fields next year?'

I didn't answer her.

I will now.

You can ask me 'where's your gear?'

And I'll pull a different kind of bag off my back this time and show you all my lenses.

I wish all my softball-playing friends the best of luck and health and sunshine in the seasons to come.

But for me, it's just time to go.

What's your instinct?

2010-09-19T22:25:00.002-06:00

First time for everything, I guess.

I've been to crime scenes before. It's just something that goes with the business I used to be in.

But I've never been privy to the up-close-and-personal action before.

That's changed.

Like most people to whom these events happen, it was an otherwise mundane Sunday afternoon.

It was rainy. I spend the day watching football, cleaning the house and keeping an eye on the chili in the slow cooker.

Oh, I keep forgetting to get that prescription filled. I have time before kickoff when my friend is set to arrive, so I'll just head over to Shopper's Drug Mart and take care of that.

I head back to the pharmaceutical counter and chat with Gregg ... a three-G Gregg ... they're my favourite Greggs.

He says my prescription will be ready in about 10 minutes, so I head back to the front of the store, checking out the cosmetics aisle.

But there seems to be a bit of a commotion -- some loud talking and some slamming.

The gal at the cosmetics counter looks at me and says 'did he go back there? did he go to the pharmacy counter?'

I say 'who?' and she says some guy just burst in here.

I head back to the pharmacy counter ... look, it's not like I stormed back there for a fight. I inched my slowly, craning my neck.

I see Gregg on the phone. We make eye contact and I mouth 'are you OK?'

He says 'don't let that guy leave!'

So, I run back up front, figuring Gregg wouldn't tell me to challenge this guy if he had a weapon of any kind, but just as I got to the counter, the guy was running out the door and clutching some green bag close to his body.

I burst out the door in pursuit but he was gone in a flash. Another fellow is running with me but he stops pretty quickly when a woman, whom I suspect is his wife, starts yelling at him fairly angrily in Mandarin.

She was one of four customers in the store and she was sounding fairly panicky.

The bunch of them jump in their car and tear away.

I look at the gals working and say 'shouldn't you be keeping them here as witnesses?'

They tell me 'it's OK, we caught it all on camera.'

Yeah, but ...

They tell me I have to leave. They tell me it's all OK, the police are on their way.

Yeah, but ...

I ...

Wait ... I'm a witness to a crime ...

No, it's OK. You can't stay in here.

Like I say ... I've been to a few crime scenes in my time.

So I climb into the truck and pick up my phone to Tweet the experience -- just as you knew I would.

That's when three Calgary Police Service units pull up. She knocks on my window and says 'are you a witness?'

Yes, ma'am, I am.

We chat for a few minutes and then she asks me to fill out a Witness Statement form.

Within minutes, she's called away to another incident and asks me to ensure I give my form to one of the other officers.

So I'm puttering around, waiting for one of them to come out of the store, when the K-9 unit pulls up. He sees the Witness form in my hand and starts asking me questions, all the while making sure I don't come too close to his dog ... because he's already picking up a scent.

Uber cool. I've never seen the K-9 unit at work before.

And I'm done. I start driving around the Crescent Heights neighbourhood, though, just to see if the guy is still running around, being a jackass.

The 'hood is practically in lockdown, though. CPS pretty much has the area in lockdown with streets closed off by squad cars.

I figure there's not much I can do to help at this stage, so I head home.

But I can't get it out of my head that those other witnesses who left so quickly might have had a better description than me or any of the drug-store employees, might not have had some kind of information that could help the investigation.

Fear is a powerfully motivator, though. In the face of fight-or-flight, they chose to fly.

Maybe it's the reporter in me that made me choose to chase and stay.

Maybe it's that I know the police need every bit of information possible to help.

Without question, I'd rather go to sleep tonight knowing I did everything possible to get one loser off the street.

In the twilight

2010-09-13T22:25:00.000-06:00

I'm scared.

Yup, there, I said it.

I'm scared there is going to be a day soon when I come home and a big ole ball of white fluff doesn't come bounding up the stairs to see me.

I'm scared there is going to be a day soon when I have to make a decision I don't want to have to make.

I'm scared there is going to be a day soon when I have to say goodbye to the one creature who has been my very best friend every damn day for the last six years and change.

He has endured dances in the kitchen, long days at the ballpark, long days left at home, happy hugs and countless tears shed into his shaggy coat.

He's getting old. He already has health problems. They aren't life limiting health problems. They are quality of life problems.

He has a hyper thyroid and so he is on medication for the rest of his life. I have to push these tiny little Thyro Tabs into his treats - the same kind of treat every day for the last four years.

And with that medication can come complications. Like he may be developing allergies to a certain kind of food or treat. I don't know what kind of food or treat that is. I suspect it's the Think! Dog turkey jerky we bought but I can't be sure.

I just know that two Fridays ago, I came home from work. I reached to put his collar on - he doesn't have to wear his 'shirt' when he's at home - so he could jump in the truck with me while we renewed his prescription. He shied away from me and whimpered, so I grabbed a hole of him and checked his ear.

Sure enough, he has an infection. It had been a while since we went through one of those. But the questions arose ... is it because we reduced his meds in February, after he tested high? It was a good thing that he would require less medication, of course. And so my heart sunk when I thought his thyroid levels were dropping again and he would need more medication, not less.

So into the truck he goes and we have to stick around for an hour longer than planned, waiting for Dr. Bill to see us. Dr. Bill, for your information, is fantastic. Shep adores him and he adores Shep. He's super with the animals and just as gentle in delivering any news to the moms and dads.

We scheduled a second visit the next weekend to test his thyroid. I went in with a shade of trepidation. No one likes to hear her child needs help, no one likes to hear her child is nearing the end of days.

And yes, Shep is as close to a child as I will ever have ... or need.

His thyroid tested fine ... happy news. But my friend Dana, who also works at the vet, reminded me gently that Shep is, after all, a senior citizen.

By a chart, she measured his human age -- he'll be nine in January -- against his weight class -- 100 pounds -- and told me he is 71 in dog years.

That means, she said, we may not be able to go busting through the mountains every day of a weekend.

That means, she said, we have to put him on a diet for senior dogs.

That means, she said, he may have to start taking glucosamine for his joints.

That means, she said, I may notice him start to slow down.

Sometimes, I see it already. We went for a bit of a walk in Elbow Falls last weekend. I had to go out for a bit that evening and when I came home, I wasn't met with the scramble up the stairs.

Instead, he just kind of poked his nose around the corner as if to say 'hey, what's up?'

Shep's breed -- Maremma sheepdog -- has a life expectancy of 11 to 13 years ... human years, that is.

I remember once reading about one in the Italian Alps that lived to 22 years.

I can't imagine I'll be that fortunate.

And I know it can happen any day now. Anything could happen ... his stomach could turn, his body could stop working as well as it does, he could develop cancer ...

Lord Jesus, it's unfair to give dogs cancer, especially when all they give us is love.

So because we never know how long someone or somedog is in our lives, I pledge to make every day of Shep's life worth living.

Whether it's a trip to the mountains, a simple walk around the block or even just a cuddle on the couch.

But no more turkey jerky!

OK, maybe if it's Longview Turkey Jerky. He sure does like it.

Breaking the fast ... in a good-for-you way

2010-09-08T20:43:00.001-06:00

I don't know about the rest of y'all but I struggle with figuring out breakfasat and keeping it healthy.

I hate bacon but I thought 'turkey bacon might be all right.' Until I got the package home and saw it contained more fat than protein.

Note to self: read nutritional information before buying.

Every day - almost every day - I go with two egg whites, scrambled, and a whole wheat English muffin. Shep gets the yolks.

It gets a bit boring.

And now with Tooth Debacle 2010 still keeping me on soft food, I have to be careful about what I'm eating. Yogurt and berries, cottage cheese, croissants and soup have been my staples since Saturday.

Sounds delicious, no?

This morning, I thought 'man, those blueberries only have about a day left.' But I'd already packed a bunch for my lunch.

Then I remembered a recipe for blueberry pancakes.

They're actually called Bodybuilder Blintzes, probably because they come from an old Muscle and Fitness book I picked up about a decade ago.

I topped them with the last of my wild huckleberry syrup from Idaho (sad face). Of course, that means I have to make a run for the border to pick up some more (happy face).

Without further adieu, here's the recipe, as designed by IFBB pro Eddie Robinson.

(Pssst ... look for a bonus recipe at the bottom.)

Bodybuilder Blintzes

Ingredients
1 cup low-fat cottage cheese
1/2 cup non-fat milk (I used soy)
3/4 cup whole-wheat flour (I used spelt)
2 egg whites
1/2 tsp lemon juice
1 cup whole fresh blueberries
Nonstick cooking spray

Instructions
Combine cottage cheese, milk and flour. In a separate bowl, beat egg whites until frothy, then add to cottage-cheese mixture. Stir in lemon juice, then fold in blueberries. Pour batter as pancakes onto a heated frying pan coated with nonstick cooking spray. Cook until top begins to bubble and bottom is lightly browned, then turn. Cook through, then serve.

Serves two.

Nutritional information (per serving)
Calories, 307; protein, 22 g; carbohydrates, 48; fat, 3 g.

Oh P.S. I added a scoop of Body Fortress vanilla whey, adding 70 calories, 1 g carb and 12.5 grams of protein.

My lovely syrup was 37 calories, no fat and 8.6 g of carbs.

And now your bonus recipe from the same book.

They're yummy. I've made them before, just not recently. Funny how you forget about some things.

Oatmeal Puffs

Ingredients
1 cup quick-cooking oats
1/2 cup crushed pineapple
4 egg whites
1/4 cup skim milk
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 small box raisins (eh ... optional ... not a big of raisins)
3 tbsp sugar

Instructions
Combine all ingredients in a large bowl; let sit 10 minutes. Coat a nonstick skillet with cooking spray and place over medium-high heat. For each puff, spoon two heaping tablespoons of batter into skillet. Brown on one side, flip and brown the opposite side, making sure puff is cooked through.
Makes six servings. Double up on servings for a larger breakfast.

Nutritional information (per serving)
Calories, 101; protein, 5 g; carbohydrates, 18 g; fat, 1 g.

I'd probably add another scoop of whey to up the protein content.

Original Joe's and customer service

2010-09-05T13:40:00.001-06:00

It isn't like this stupid tooth wasn't supposed to come out.

But it wasn't supposed to come out until October.

So here I sit, a day after having the tooth extracted, with a scowl on my bruised, swollen face ... during the last long weekend of summer. Maybe it's made a little bit better by the cold rain outside.

Or not.

A temporary crown had been in place since mid-July and was supposed to tide me over until October.

"Who wants to spend a summer Saturday afternoon in the dentist's chair getting a tooth pulled," my dentist asked.

Not this chickie. Not when there are hills to be climbed, ghost towns to be found and a dog to keep happy.

It's funny how other folks have different plans in mind for you, though.

The day before I left for World Hockey Summit, I went out for brunch with my friend and her mom. Sherrill had just moved back to Calgary from Saskatchewan and we were hanging out for a bit.

Original Joe's in Kensington, I suggested. Food's pretty good, albeit a tad overpriced. It's been one of my favourite brunch haunts for several years ... no lineups, good menu, great area.

Against my traditional Big Joe's Breakfast, however, I went with a turkey wrap.

Big mistake.

Not even two bites into the second half of the sandwich, I bit into something hard. I spit it out into my hand ... bone shards.

I placed them on my plate and called the waitress over to show her.

"There are bone shards in my turkey wrap."

"Well, there shouldn't be," she replied.

Thanks, genius. I would expect that there 'shouldn't be' bone shards in my sandwich.

She offered to replace my sandwich. I thought 'gee, take the chance on more bone' as I moved my tongue gingerly around my mouth, checking for damage.

I politely decline but expect that more should be done. As I'm checking around in there, I feel the crown wobble and a piece breaks off.

Terrific.

The bill arrives. And my meal is on it. As pieces of my crown sit next to the bone shards on my plate.

I huff on over to the bartender and explain the situation.

His face falls and he says, 'let me take care of that for you.'

Uh huh ... I didn't think I should have been faced with the prospect of paying for it after bone is found in my sandwich, broken tooth or not.

By the time I walk out the door, my entire crown is in my hand. And I'm on fire.

I pound out a series of disgruntled Tweets, to which several of my followers/friends respond with messages of sympathy and empathetic ire. And yes, I include @original_joes in most of my posts.

It takes a day or so but someone on the @original_joes account finally gets back to me with an 'oh my God, let's talk about this' reply.

But I'm on my way to Toronto. So I tell them to get someone to email me. On Tuesday, Adam Powell, area manager for Calgary Inner City and Interior B.C., writes to me.

He expressed his concern about my experience, offered apologies and explained Original Joe's is trying a new supplier, even going for a tour of the plant in short order.

My trip to Toronto is much busier than I imagined. I'm there for the World Hockey Summit and I'm Tweeting, blogging and exploring for most of the time I'm there.

I finally get back to Adam on Sunday, letting him know a description of my server and an account of the events.

Then nothing and nothing and nothing.

So I fire off these Tweets on September 1:

The next day, I get a reply from Adam. He's not so much upset about my experience anymore but about the tone of my Tweets.

My apologies for not replying sooner. I had a hectic weekend in the U.S. and was out of town from Aug. 27th until yesterday. I had a long day catching up at work and then managed to break my hand last night playing softball. I understand your concerns and it’s important to communicate in a timely manner especially these days with twitter, facebook, etc. Please understand there were some extenuating circumstances in this case. I found it important to reply late this evening due to the tone of your last couple tweets. I don’t want to feel anymore frustrated by the situation. I’m really slow on email right now because I’m trying to reply to dozens of emails tonight with my left hand only.

He was frustrated by the situation.

He was.

Frustrated.

Well, good.

First, I hate excuses. I broke my hand once, too. It required surgery on a Saturday, tying up all my torn tendons with a couple of pins, and yet I managed to show up to a new job first thing that Monday morning.

Second, I really don't care what your excuses are for not getting back to me sooner. You didn't. I don't need the details of your personal life.

Maybe that makes me an unsympathetic bitch ... yeah, because that's news.

But this is where he really loses me:

I’m not entirely sure of what your expectations are in this scenario?

First, Adam, my expectation was to enjoy a meal with my friend and her mom without incurring injury at the fault of your restaurant.

Second, Adam, my expectation was for the restaurant to know how to handle the situation without asking me what my expectations are.

So, yes, Adam, I will accept your offer of a $100 gift certificate.

Not because I think that's sufficient but because I think I want to move on from this mess.

And when that gift certificate arrives in a timely fashion, as I'm sure it will, I will figure out what to do with it.

I'll probably use it in a way to benefit someone else. Of course, I'll ensure they know I'm not responsible for any injuries incurred while using the gift certificate.

But I'm pretty sure Original Joe's is off my list of suggested dining places.

The journey of a tooth

2010-09-04T14:58:00.000-06:00

Farewell, tooth. And R.I.P. - rest in pieces.

It was five years ago I took a one-hopper off the chin at softball and you split in two, causing me to need a root canal.

Two, in fact. My first dentist in Calgary attempted it but decided my roots were too tiny and he couldn't dig 'em out.

Off to the specialist I went. I think it was even on my birthday in 2006 ... but I had to get it done quickly. I had been laid off and the Sun was 'kind' enough to leave me with three months of its measly health benefits.

Time went on. I grew accustomed to the shiny fake tooth that was my new crown. And I continued to see my dentist, believing he was super. He was ... kind, funny, conversational and, yeah, a little bit good looking. And I could give him post-dated cheques to cover the fees not covered by my new, more improved benefits in the non-newspaper world.

But, Lord, how his receptionists pissed me off. I asked them to not call me to confirm my appointments but rather to email me. You see, I loathe answering the phone. And I loathe appointment confirmations, especially when:

I haven't missed an appointment in five years
You're going to charge me with a $50 fee if I don't show up ... confirmed or not

This last appointment I had set up for a cleaning, they found it necessary to call me three times in two days. And you know what? By the time I can get back to you, your office is closed and you don't have an answering machine.

So I found a new dentist. Referred by a friend, Dr. Orr is a kind fellow ... and tall. Mother of God, is he tall! And his staff will email me to confirm my appointments.

He takes X-rays and says to me, 'hmmmm, that doesn't seem right.'

There it was. A curvy dark line running across the tooth, which is supposed to be dead ... just kind of a placeholder, a space filler-upper.

It shouldn't be decaying any further but that's what those curvy dark lines always indicate.

'It's rare but it does happen,' Dr. Orr said.

So off comes the crown - it was gold, I didn't even know. Dr. Orr says your dentist should always tell you what's going in your mouth. It has to be broken, there's no other way. And it can't be fixed, so a new crown will be in order after my third root canal on this tooth.

My head starts doing the calcamutations. Root canal, $1,300. New crown, $650. Trying to figure out how much of this my benefits will cover ... head starts hurting. I get a letter from my benefits provider and it confirms my fears. I'll be on the hook for about $700.

Joy kill, eh?

Except for one tiny little issue. Dr. Orr goes on into that tooth. He says, 'aha, there's what happened.'

As it appears, my previous dentist attached the crown to the filling of the root canal and not the tooth. It is done that way sometimes but it doesn't provide as stable an environment as attaching the crown to the tooth.

Thus, my decay.

He gets the filling out and pokes his nose in.

'Oooh, that's not supposed to smell like that.'

A dead giveaway, it seems. The tooth is beyond saving and must come out.

Hey, look on the bright side, I tell myself. You just saved $700 for a root canal and a new crown. Of course, it also means the tooth must come out.

Dr. Orr stuck a temporary crown on and sent me on my merry way, scheduling me for a tooth extraction in October.

Who wants to ruin a summer afternoon with getting a tooth pulled, he asked.

Who, indeed.

I went through the month of August with my temporary crown, at times forgetting the procedure that I was due in a couple of months.

Until I go for lunch at the Original Joe's in Kensington. There are bone shards in my turkey wrap. Yes, bone shards. And my temporary crown cracks off.

Come back tomorrow for more on the Original Joe's story. For today, we're dealing with the tooth.

There I am, left with the stump of a tooth and its filling. Food is getting caught in the gap, It's a pain in the ass.

I had to leave for Toronto and the World Hockey Summit the day after my trip to Original Joe's. But I fire off an email to my dentist's office and they agree ... the procedure must be done sooner than October.

So here I sit, my long weekend destroyed.

The extraction was the most stressful procedure for which I have ever been awake ... the drilling, the pulling, the grinding, the breaking, the suction, the digging ...

How was it when we're young these stupid things just fall right out?

I have drugs. Pain killers and an anti-infection drug.

No alcohol, it thins out the blood and doesn't promote healing. No eating anything that isn't soft. There go the steaks I had planned for tomorrow.

For the next two days or so, it's yogurt, cottage cheese and protein shakes.

Ah well, maybe it'll kickstart into dropping the weight I've regained, thanks to ball and beer.

But for now, I'm going to sit here and grumble, fuss, bitch and moan.

Because the freezing is starting to wear off and, goddammit, my face hurts.

Late-summer cabin fever

2010-08-31T21:06:00.001-06:00

I'm feeling remarkably uninspired tonight.

Maybe it's the weather. Who wouldn't be a little blue waking up on August 31 to 3 C? That's 37.4 F for my American friends.

Maybe I'm getting a little burned out. I have been writing an awful lot the last little while ... and Tweeting. But that's not really out of the ordinary.

Maybe I wish I was still writing for the World Hockey Summit. That was the most fun I've had with my clothes on in years ... scratch that, even with clothes off. None of the guys I've dated in the last while have been ... shall we say ... earth moving.

In any case, we'll get straight to the recipe.

It's still in the oven but it smells delicious. I swear!

(Ed. note: It was de-lish-us!)

However, make sure you have some time for this recipe out of Clean Eating Magazine. It is a tad time-consuming.

Also, I added a side of a cup of spinach leaves with a chopped mushroom, drizzled with the roasted red pepper sauce.

Stuffed Chicken
with Spicy Roasted Red Pepper Sauce

Ingredients

3 red bell peppers
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 cup low sodium chicken broth
2 to 3 cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 to 1/2 jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced (I didn't have one, so just went without, making it Not Spicy Roasted Red Pepper Sauce)
1/2 tsp dried Italian seasoning
Sea salt and ground black pepper, to taste
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 tbsp goat cheese (I went with feta)
6 to 8 asparagus spears, trimmed

Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 400 F. Roast bell peppers on a baking sheet for 20 minutes. Then turn and roast for another 30 minutes. Remove bell peppers and place under an inverted glass bowl to steam for about 10 minutes. With a paring knife, scrape off browned skin, then halve, remove stems and seed. Slice on bell pepper into strips, reserve strips and set aside.

2. Place remaining roasted red peppers, minus any juices, into a blender with oil, vinegar, broth, garlic and jalapeño. Blend until smooth. Pour roasted pepper sauce into saucepan over medium-low to medium heat. Add Italian seasoning, salt and black pepper and cook for 10 minutes.

3. Lay chicken on a cutting board. Using a chef's knife and with the palm of one hand holding the chicken, cut each breast almost in half horizontally, so it opens like a book - bah! I just pounded the damn thing thin. Lay chicken breasts open and spread 1 tbsp of goat cheese onto half of each breast. Add three to four asparagus spears to each, then half of reserved bell pepper strips. Close chicken by folding top half back over, sandwiching filling.

4. Carefully transfer stuffed chicken breasts to casserole dish. Pour about 1/2-cup roasted red pepper sauce over chicken breasts and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until chicken is cooked through but cheese is still soft and sauce is still moist. Pour additional warmed roasted red pepper sauce over stuffed chicken breasts before serving, if desired. Store additional sauce for other use in a resealable container in the fridge for two days. Puree and reheat prior to use.

Nutrients per serving (one stuffed chicken breast and 1/4-cup sauce)
Calories, 323; total fat, 13 g; saturated fat, 4 g; carbs, 16 g; fiber, 5 g; sugars, 10 g; protein, 34 g; sodium, 512 mg; cholesterol, 77 mg

Hanging 'em up?

2010-08-29T18:55:00.000-06:00

Deadlifts and bentover rows ... you know what I noticed today?

My right shoulder sagging.

And no matter how hard I tried I could not get that sucker up into proper position.

It desperately wanted to drop lower and give up on almost every rep.

It's one of the reasons I'm 90 per cent sure I won't be doing anything other than sparing for a team next summer.

And as I thought today about that sagging shoulder ... and the way it wakes me up at night when I sleep on my right side ... I thought about the things I've been sacrificing to play ball in the summer.

Here's a short list:

* My dog: Shep gets neglected for walks on the days I have league play, whether it's co-ed or women's. Let's not even get into the weekends.

* My photography: More than a year ago, my former shrink said do the things that spark my creativity if I'm not getting enough at my job. I get so happy when I get that perfect shot.

* My writing: See above reason. I live to write. And write to live.

* My health: One shoulder ... fucked up for life. A hand, broken in 2007, will never regain its full strength. Knees, skin ...

* My fitness: Yesterday was my first day back at the gym in a month. And that sucks.

* My nutrition: Do you know the filth they sell at the ballpark? And we're not allowed to bring our own food in. People are convinced a taco salad bag is nutritional ... greasy regular ground topped with Doritos, salsa and gobs of sour cream. But hey, it has lettuce in it. And then there's the beer ... I love beer but not as much as I drink it to get through a night at the park.

* My money: Don't be fooled. This is an adult educational sport and it is damned expensive. Each of my cleats have two huge holes in them ... I don't think I'll be replacing them.

* My learning: I read on the plane to Toronto and back to Calgary. I started that book in April. My brain turns to goo for five months of every year.

* My sanity: The drama, the gossip, the nitpicking, the nattering, the backstabbing ... for Christ's sake people, junior high was 25 years ago for me. Grow. The. Fuck. Up.

I'm going on 30 years playing ball, picking up my first bat when I was five or six. I played with my brothers in the backyard.

My parents built a backstop on our acre of property. It was made from a fishing net and branches cut down from trees in the pasture behind our house.

We swung wood then.

Now we swing composite aluminum and bats retail for $400. Yeah, $400.

It's stupid.

And I think I'm done.

Because I don't think slopitch should outweigh any of those sacrifices listed above.

---

And now, my latest fare from the most recent Clean Eating Magazine:

Cajun Scallops and Mango Salsa

Ingredients

2 medium tomatoes, seeded and chopped
1 mango, peeled and chopped
1/2 small onion, chopped (I used a leek.)
1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and chopped
1/2 cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped (I used freeze dried and had to cut way back, maybe 1/4 cup.)
Juice of one lime
Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste
1 1/2 lb. sea scallops (Family Foods didn't have sea scallops, I went with the tiny ones.)
Olive oil cooking spray

Cajun Rub
1/2 tsp sea salt
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp garlic powder (I used fresh garlic and it got all clumpy because of the moisture. Boo.)
1 tsp dry mustard
2 tsp chile powder
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper

Instructions

1. In a medium bowl, combine tomatoes, mango, onion, jalapeño pepper and cilantro. Squeeze lime juice over tomato mixture and season with salt and black pepper. Set aside in refrigerator.

2. Combine all Cajun Rub ingredients in a small bowl. Heat a large nonstick skilled over medium-high heat. Pat scallops dry with paper towel and season both sides with the rub. Lightly mist skillet with cooking spray. Add scallops and cook for two minutes per side. Serve with mango salsa, garnishing with additional cilantro, if desired.

Nutrients per serving (3 or 4 scallops and 3/4 cup salsa)
Calories, 213; total fat, 2 g; saturated fat, 0.25 g; carbs, 19 g; fibre, 2.5 g; sugars, 10 g; sugars, 10 g; proteins, 30 g; sodium, 569 g; cholesterol, 56 mg

Yoga for one

2010-08-17T22:53:00.001-06:00

The MacIsaac household could be a turbulent one.

Especially at Christmas.

We would compare piles of presents next to the Christmas tree - yes, next to ... some years were more affluent than others and the piles would not fit under the branches.

Who got more?

Who could love the dog more?

Who could read a book the fastest?

Who could get better grades?

I always let the boys win that one. Yes, let. Hi, Kevin.

The competitive spirit was strong in our household. We were all enrolled in sports -- track and field, softball, soccer, hockey for the boys, figure skating for me ...

We learned achievement was important. We learned to work hard. We learned to compete and we learned to always want to be better ... and better than you.

Yoga and downward dog fly in the face of my alpha dogness.

Instead of striving to be a leader and always wanting to win, I learn in yoga there's nothing to win.

Yoga is about balance ... balance between body, mind and spirit. It is a philosophy of instruction and learning, of insight into the spiritual, mental and physical ... a true integration of those three planes of existence.

Is there balance in winning? Only if there's a loser, right? But who can lose in yoga? The practice is meant to relax, to refresh, to energize.

And after reading up on it, I knew I had to use yoga to balance myself ... but not against others.

I did my first class in Kamloops about a decade ago. We were 15 women in cramped quarters ... bending, flexing and flowing. My mind was focused on making sure I bent further than the next gal, even if my muscles were unwilling.

Yoga is the practice of quieting the mind.
-- Patanjali

A few years later, I moved to Calgary and had a satellite dish in my house. We had the channel One: Mind, Body, Spirit. Every morning, Yoga Zone had a half-hour show of practice, dedicated to the beginner or intermediate inductee.

I taped it. Yes, taped it. We didn't have PVRs then, at least not to my knowledge. I taped it and taped it and taped it, until I had two full VHS tapes.

I wore those tapes thin, using the yoga as my fitness base because I couldn't afford a gym membership. I was miserable in my heart, though, freshly dumped by a boyfriend who replaced me quickly and easily and mired in a job that wasn't as magical as I imagined it to be.

I never found my balance.

I got frustrated and gave it up, going back to throwing the iron around gym the second I could manage it in my budget.

Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.
-- Unknown

Times have changed.

I have less stressors in my life -- from salary to job expectations and more.

I have advanced to the high-tech world of DVDs (no, still no PVR) - bought and made - and I have learned to quiet my mind in preparation for my yoga sessions.

I have learned to peacefully move into the yoga poses instead of forcing my way into them. I have learned to use my breathing to extend into the pose further.

I don't consider myself anywhere beyond beginner yet. While I can get my heels flat to the floor in downward dog, I don't know what progresses a person past the levels to intermediate or advanced.

And I'm strangely OK with that.

I've come a long way, I think, from the girl who wanted to get her figure skating levels in record time so she could turn competitive.

(She didn't but that didn't stop her from wanting it.)

It turns out there's application in real life. When it starts to feel like life is spinning a bit out of control, I roll out my yoga mat, throw in a DVD and restore some calmness, not only in my body but also in my mind.

Beyond the yoga mat, I can remember to practise my breathing when life is feeling a bit heavy. I can remember to close my eyes and turn myself inward for a little thought to calm my mind and approach some situations a little more carefully than I did before.

Yoga is the fountain of youth. You're only as young as your spine is flexible.
-- Bob Harper

I just finished 40 minutes of yoga for a strong and healthy back.

I feel better.

Refreshed.

Relaxed.

And I will sleep.

What I Tweet about

2010-08-08T22:14:00.006-06:00

That's so totally tubular

2010-08-08T19:19:00.001-06:00

This is my new best friend:

It's a (temporary) gift from Terri of Champagne Fitness.

I've seen them before ... used them even. Now I have one to start making my shoulder stronger.

But I'll admit I've been lazy. I bailed out of bootcamp because of recurring pain from an old shoulder injury. I tore my rotator cuff in 2004, playing shortstop for a team called the Bipolar Betties (seriously, yes, I know).

It's a supraspinatus issue.

How can such a stupid small muscle cause so much issue?

It can.

What's the cure?

Says one website: Rest until there is no pain.

Well, that's just too funny for words. What else? Heat the area and do pain-free mobility exercises to strength the connective tissues.

That's what the tube thing is for.

So, that starts tomorrow morning. And it would be awfully helpful if every once in a while someone said 'hey, dumbass, are you doing your shoulder exercises?'

And without further adieu, tonight's dinner, brought to you by Clean Eating Magazine and a bottle of Errazuriz Max Reserva cabernet sauvignon.

Chicken with Carmelized Onions, Cranberries and Balsamic-Glazed Asparagus

Ingredients
1 bunch asparagus (about 16 oz), bottoms cut off about one inch from the end
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste
Olive oil cooking spray
1 medium yellow onion (red for extra colour!), thinly sliced
2 tbsp unsweetened dried cranberries
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 4 oz each), pounded thin

Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Place asparagus spears on a nonstick cookie sheet or baking pan lined with aluminum foil. Drizzle asparagus with vinegar and season with salt and pepper. Bake for 15 minutes, then remove from heat but keep warm.

2. Heat a large nonstick or cast-iron skillet over high heat for one minute. Reduce heat to low and mist with cooking spray. Add onion and cook until carmelized, about 20 minutes. Add cranberries and sauté for another two minutes. Remove from heat but keep warm.

3. Heat same pan over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook for about three to four minutes per side or until browned on each side and cooked through so no longer pink. Season with salt and pepper. Add onion-cranberry mixture to chicken and cook for two more minutes. Remove from heat.

4. To serve, evenly divide asparagus among four plates. Place one chicken breast, along with onion-cranberry mixture, alongside or over top each pile of asparagus.

Nutrients per serving (one chicken breast, 1/4 cup onion-cranberry mixture and six to eight asparagus spears)
Calories, 174; total fat, 2 g; sat fat, 0.5 g; carbs, 10 g; fibre, 3 g; sugars, 6 g; protein, 29 g; sodium, 108 mg; cholesterol, 66 mg

Bailing and biryani

2010-08-06T11:50:00.000-06:00

Something had to give.

Unfortunately, it was my energy.

It's August.

It's the middle of softball season.

What was going through my mind when I signed up for bootcamp? I do know the answer to the question ... I wanted to spend some time focusing on me, my fitness and spend some time with my friend Terri, who leads the twice-weekly fitness session out of Champagne Fitness.

Trouble is, I often forget how much rest is a necessary component of anyone's fitness regimen.

The body needs to recuperate and yet I insist on putting it through an inhuman amount of activity in the summer time.

Typically, I have two league nights a week and oftentimes, I play tournaments on the weekends. For tourneys, we average two or three games a day ... some Sundays (Mondays on the long weekends), we can end up playing as many as five with many in back-to-back situations if we have to go through the back door to get to the final.

(Er ... going through the back door ... for the non-sports-minded, that means we've lost our first game in a double knockout ... er, you get two chances to lose ... and then you have to battle your way through the losing side of the draw. I don't know if that explanation helps but I thought I'd try.)

And because it's me and I never know when to quit, I go to the gym ... three to four times a week.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm running on fumes. Sometimes, I fall asleep at my desk. Oh shit, are the bosses going to read this?

Sometimes, I just collapse and have to sleep for a day.

This does not make the dog happy.

So rest and recuperation time have to be worked into the thread of life. For August, that means a few things have to give.

With women's league on Wednesday, bootcamp bookending it on Tuesday and Thursday made Friday an absolute writeoff. And Lord help me if I was in a tournament.

Bye bye, bootcamp.

Terri is great. She completely understands, taking a holistic approach to fitness. There is, she knows, a secret to living life and it's about balance.

Sleep is part of the balance.

Doing nothing is part of the balance.

A simple walk in the park with my dog and my camera is part of the balance.

I'll be back. Terri promises another bootcamp in the fall, maybe September or October. League will be done by then, barring anymore rainouts, of course.

And I'll figure out some way to push too hard, probably go to the gym four times a week, in addition to bootcamp, and hike on the weekends or whatever.

But without softball in the picture, I'll have more time for the down time.

I hope.

Curried Beef Biryani
Serves four

See? The other thing I was missing out on was cooking.

I've been eating nothing but takeout and sandwiches for the last two weeks. Let me tell you, healthy options are pretty thin when it comes to fast food.

And it's so easy to fall face fast into a Teen Burger. Shep loves it when I do that, too, because he gets the bacon.

On Tuesday, I managed to get to the Safeway and fill up the Mother Hubbard cupboards.

And last night, I finally got to wield my culinary sword, slicing and dicing my way through yet another Clean Eating Magazine recipe.

Without further adieu, I give you Curried Beef Biryani ...

Ingredients
1/2 tsp sea salt
1/2 cup dry quick-cooking barley
1 medium onion, sliced into rounds
5 cloves garlic, sliced into thin rounds
1 cup fresh mango, cubed, or 1 cup frozen cubed mango
1/2 cup frozen peas
16 oz bison sirloin tip, trimmed of visible fat and cut into 1/4-inch stripes (I used beef because Safeway doesn't exactly stock bison)
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved (I had grape tomatoes in the fridge)

Biryani Spice Blend
1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp coriander
1 tsp turmeric
2 tsp ginger

Instructions

1. In a medium pot, bring one cup water to a boil over high heat. Meanwhile, mix Biryani Spice Blend ingredients in a small bowl and set aside. When water comes to a boil, add barley, stir and cover, then reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer for 10 to 12 minutes, then remove from heat and set aside.

2. While barley is cooking, heat oil in a large nonstick saucepan over medium heat. Saute onion in oil for three minutes or until fragrant. Add garlic and cook another two minutes, stirring frequently to prevent garlic from burning.

3. Stir in spice-salt mixture, mango, peas and meat. Reduce heat to medium-low and stir again to ensure all ingredients are nestled in cooking liquid. Continue to cook for another five minutes.

4. Combine barley with bison mixture before plating. Top each portion with tomatoes and serve.

Nutrients per serving
(4 oz. meat and 1.5 cups vegetable-barley mixture)
Calories, 354; total fat, 11 g; saturated fat, 2 g; carbs, 37 g; fibre, 7 g; sugars, 10 g; protein, 29 g; sodium 305 mg; cholesterol, 80 mg

Heading to the Hockey Summit

2010-08-05T09:24:00.002-06:00

This could be one of the most exciting things to happen to me.

The story starts a couple of months ago, when Tonia Hammer - Community Relations for Molson Coors Canada - was here from Toronto for a Tweetup.

We've connected over Twitter. We both love beer and hockey ... the two very intrinsic traits that make us Canadian, I suppose.

She pulled me aside and said, 'Look, would you ever come to Toronto for a visit?'

I mentioned I was thinking about heading that way for my niece's lacrosse tournament (which is happening right now!) but wasn't sure if it was in the summer budget.

What if you came to Toronto to blog the World Hockey Summit for us?

Um ... what?

Yes, that was the offer to stand on the table.

My head started spinning.

The World Hockey Summit is a gathering of the who's who in hockey to discuss the game's global growth. The big guns of the NHL will be there, famous faces from women's hockey, coaches, general managers, players ...

I got into work the next day and booked off Aug. 23-27 from my writing job at Shaw.

But time went on. I wasn't hearing anything from Tonia. I gave up hope. I tend to do that easily.

I mean, why in hell should I get invited to blog and Tweet for Molson. Sure, I used to be a sportswriter. Sure, I Tweet about hockey ... sure, I Tweet a lot. A lot.

What does that make me in the grand scheme of things? A big ole nobody still. It isn't even like I have a hockey-related blog (should I? I've wondered that before).

Then today, I open up my Hootsuite and discover a direct message from Tonia ... Need your email. Hope you still kept Aug. 23-27 open.

My jaw dropped. My stomach jumped. There went that damn spinning in my head again. Body parts were being pulled in every direction ... figuratively, not literally.

So here I am.

Invited to the Molson World Hockey Summit as a Tweeter/blogger. All expenses paid.

Steve Yzerman will be there. Gary Bettman, Hayley Wickenheiser, Brian Burke, Dan Alfredsson ...

Steve Yzerman.

In case you didn't know, big fan.

Steve Yzerman.

First thing, I texted my brothers. They're all together in Toronto for the lacrosse tournament. I wish I was there, but they understand I had to wait to see if this opportunity would come to fruition.

This might be the biggest event of my career - even though it isn't really work-related - since I attended the 1998 NHL all-star game in Vancouver.

Steve Yzerman was supposed to be there. But he was injured.

I did something this morning I haven't done in a very long time.

I danced in my kitchen.

And yes, I'm now loyal to Molson.

Even if it means no more Keith's.

Living on the edge

2010-07-25T17:41:00.001-06:00

Sometimes, you just gotta live dangerously.

Like not washing your hands after you pee.

Just kidding!

This morning, however, I was tempted by the yellowy, gooey goodness of egg yolks. I was in the mood for steak and eggs and, by golly, I was having yolks to dip my steak and toast.

Except for one problem: along with one tiny little tablespoon of mayo on my tuna wrap and 11 friggin' grams of fat in the the tuna (seriously! won't be buying Italian pesto flavour again), my fat intake for the day is out of whack.

And by whack, I mean that 46 per cent of my dietary intake for today has been fat. Thank you, tuna.

So for dinner, I've picked Tilapia and Banana Black Bean Salad from a recent Clean Eating.

In one delicious serving, there's four whole grams of fat -- bite that, egg yolks -- and 44 grams of protein.

Tilapia and Black Bean Salad
Serves four

Ingredients
1 cup plus 2 tbsp dried black beans (I cheated and used canned)
2 semi-firm bananas, peeled and chopped
1 small red onion, chopped (about one cup)
3 small jalapeño peppers, seeded and chopped
Juice of one lime
2/3 packed cup fresh cilantro, chopped
2 tsp chile powder, divided
Olive oil spray
Six six-ounce tilapia fillets
1 tsp sea salt
Fresh ground black pepper, to taste

Instructions
1. Place beans in a large bowl and add enough cool water to cover. Soak at room temperature overnight. Drain beans and rinse in a colander. Place beans in a large saucepan and add enough fresh water to cover beans by about three inches. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until beans are tender, about 50 to 60 minutes. Drain in a colander and rinse.

2. In a large bowl, combine beans, bananas, onion, jalapeños, lime juice, cilantro and 1 tsp chile powder. Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.

3. Preheat grill to medium-high and lightly oil rack. Alternatively, coat a large skillet with cooking spray and preheat over medium-high heat. Season tilapia with 1 tsp chile powder, salt and black pepper. Cook tilapia until lightly browned and opaque in the centre, about three to four minutes on each side.

4. Serve one tilapia fillet with two-thirds cup of salad.

Nutrients per serving
Calories, 135; total fat, 4 g; saturated fat, 2 g; monounsaturated fat, 1 g; polyunsaturated fat, 1 g; omega-3s, 493 mg; omega-6s, 578 mg; carbs, 37 g; fibre, 11 g; sugars, 6 g; protein, 44 g; sodium, 483 mg; cholesterol, 84 mg.

You've lost that lovin' feeling

2010-07-22T20:52:00.006-06:00

Oh burpees.

I hate you.

I really, really do.

See?

Maybe it's the way my stomach and diaphragm get all cinched up and make me want to vomit all over myself.

Maybe it's the way you work every single muscle in my body, from the pinky toe to the grimacing fibers in my face.

I hate you.

But Kristen has made them a Pit Stop on my fitness journey with #CFBootcamp, brought to us by Champagne Fitness.

We kicked it into high gear tonight with circuit work, doing some strength exercises capped by a run around the trees with as many circuits as possible in seven minutes. I think we maxxed out at three sets.

Circuit 1

10 pushups

10 situps

10 burpees

Circuit 2

10 squat jumps

10 Supermans ... or locusts for you yoga people

10 switching side planks

10 mountain climbers

I blasted through the first set of each circuit, busting my ass. And then that little friend of mine, whom we'll call 'lack of endurance,' caught up with me and slowed me down.

Blah.

But here's what will be fun: We'll be doing a similar workout near the end of the six-week bootcamp, giving us a gauge on the improvement of our fitness levels.

Now here's where I need help.

I typically eat before going to the gym but, most days, I have a two-hour window between dinner and hitting the weights.

With bootcamp starting at 6:30 p.m., I only have about an hour in between eating and moving.

I thought I was keeping it light with a salad and protein (steak strips) but I still got that pukey feeling.

Is there something different I should be eating?

Or should I be switching to a light snack and then dinner afterward?

That might be the best idea. Because then I may not feel tempted to stop here:

... for one of these:

Eh ... I'll make up for it at the gym tomorrow night.

DEADLIFTS!

Rumble in the sky

2010-07-21T09:01:00.005-06:00

There isn't an athlete worth her salt who doesn't know what a suicide drill is.

Just show me one who doesn't groan - and die a little inside - every time she hears its name.

So it was on the first night of Champagne Fitness Bootcamp, brought to us by my dear friend, Terri Champagne.

Three sets of suicide runs - as the thunder rolled in the distance, us all never having a clue there was a torrential downpour in the southwest corner of the city.

I hate cardio. I loathe it. Despise it. What's another good word for hate?

I used to run. I'd do almost 10K three times a week. Then I couldn't figure out where I was going or why I was going there. It bored me to tears and I stopped.

I like to spike my heart rate in my weight training. Tell me you're not out of breath after doing six squats at 125% of your body weight.

When I do cardio, I try my best to make it interesting, doing intervals on the elliptical or going as fast as I can for a full mile. Plyometrics make a workout fun, too - whether it's box jumps, step-up jumps, BOSU lunges, balance board pushups and squats, or medicine ball work.

But I get pretty one-track minded and all I really want to do is get into the weight room and work on my strength.

Thus, I had trepidation about joining the boot camp, wondering if Terri was going to make us run 5K holding weights above our heads, like I did with Soldiers of Fitness.

Terri, however, is great at recognizing our limitations - no, that's not the right word. Let's go with 'struggles.'

When she sees someone struggling with an exercise, whether it's a fitness level thing or a physical impediment, she'll adjust the movement to better suit the client.

For instance, I tore my rotator cuff in 2004. Actually, in the words of my doctor, my darn little supraspinatus was 'shredded.'

And, of course, as an avid slopitch player, it is under constant fire in the summer time. No matter how much muscle strength I build up around this poor little bit of fibres and nerves, it has its moments of pain.

Plank walks, then, are not in the cards. Plank kickbacks, though, are.

The great thing is, there's no escape. Sure, you can bail out of an exercise, but Terri is ever mindful and wants us all to reap the full benefits of this bootcamp.

As much as that's up to her to guide us through the exercises, it's also up to us as clients to give our full participation.

Because she isn't going to crunch our abs for us.

Here's a few handy things to remember:

Bring water, lots of it
Might be a good idea - especially for a sweater like me - to have a towel handy
Give yourself a 90-minute window between eating and bootcamp
Don't eat anything heavy, like buying into the game-day pasta myth
Puking is an option

See you Thursday!

Kick it, kick it, yeah, that's the ticket

2010-07-19T18:22:00.005-06:00

It's been four years since I've done group fitness, outside of team sports.

It was a boot camp with Soldiers of Fitness. They were opening up shop in Calgary and needed some promo time.

So, the Sun sent me over. Truth be told, I volunteered. I needed to get something going after letting my gym membership lapse due to financial restrictions at time.

They yelled and hammered me into shape - the best shape I'd been in for years. I picked up the nickname Cadet Abs, too, because I was strong through the core and kicked everyone's ass when we were doing crunches.

The opportunity to return to 'boot camp' recently arose and since my wonderful, amazing and inspiring friend Terri Champagne is running the show, I couldn't say no.

It's a bootcamp rife with Twitter people. Some of them will get to meet the real me and find out I'm not as interesting as I pretend to be on the internet.

That's not scary.

What is intimidating about the group fitness experience is my ability to focus on the task at hand when I'm surrounded by other people.

At the gym, I have the mirror and I have my MP3 player. I turn up the volume, load up Slipknot or Tool and feel there's one person and one person only in the room.

The accomplishment of pushing (or pulling) the iron is mine and mine alone.

So, here's me opening myself back up to an old experience.

I don't expect Terri to yell at me like the boys of SOF did, call me a 'weakling' and bark orders for '10 more!'

I do expect a burpee or two.

And I expect to get my ass kicked into high gear.

But stay tuned here to find out, along with me, the things I didn't expect.

Don't Thai me down

2010-07-19T12:21:00.003-06:00

Here's what I figured out before going grocery shopping last night:

Read the macros on a recipe first. Don't wait until after eating, even if it comes out of Clean Eating.

I've noticed a good proportion of the recipes are carb-based, some with as many as 50 grams per serving. This won't help me accomplish my goals, even if they are 'good' carbs.

So now, I'm looking for recipes that are better balanced between carbs and proteins ... and finding them. I'm even lucky enough to find some in which the proteins outweigh the carbs.

Hooray!

Without further adieu, I give you ...

Thai Beef Salad

Ingredients

1/2 cup fresh lime juice

1/4 cut fresh cilantro, chopped

3 tbsp sweet chile sauce

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 lean flank stank (1.5 lb), trimmed

Olive oil cooking spray

1 medium red onion, chopped

3 medium tomatoes, each cut into six wedges

6 c. romaine lettuce, torn

1 English cucumber, thinly sliced

2 tbsp fresh mint

2 tbsp unsalted raw peanuts, chopped

Instructions

1. Preheat grill to medium-high heat or preheat broiler.

2. Combine first four ingredients in a small bowl, stirring well. Set half of lime mixture aside. Combine other half of lime mixture with steak in a large zip-top plastic bag and seal. Marinate in refrigerator for 20 minutes, turning once. Remove steak from bag and discard marinade.

3. Place steak on grill rack or broiler pan coated with cooking spray and cook six minutes per side for medium or until it reaches desired doneness. Let stand five minutes or until it reaches desired doneness. Cut steak diagonally, across grain, into thin slices.

4. Heat a large nonstick skillet coated with cooking spray over medium-high heat. Add onion and sauté for three minutes. Add tomatoes and sauté for two more minutes. Place onion-tomato mixture, lettuce, cucumber and mint in a large bowl; toss gently to combine. Divide steak evenly and top each serving with three ounces of steak. Drizzle each salad with 1 tbsp reserved lime mixture and sprinkle with peanuts, if desired.

Nutrients per serving (3 oz of steak and 3/4 cup of salad)

Calories, 167; total fat, 6 g; saturated fat, 2.5; monounsaturated fat, 2.5 g; polyunsaturated fat, 0.5 g; carbs, 8 g; fiber, 2 g; sugars, 3 g; protein, 20 g; sodium, 87 mg; cholesterol, 30 mg.

Spanish pork and other stories

2010-07-18T18:17:00.007-06:00

With apologies to Chris de Burgh for that headline ...

Funny thing about pig meat. I can't stand bacon ... the smell of it, the look of it, the texture of it, the greasiness.

But that doesn't mean you throw the whole pig out with the dish water. Ground pork? Check. Pork tenderloin? Check.

It is, after all, the other white meat, right? Or is that turkey? Wait ... that's the other other ... I don't know.

In any case, here's a recipe from a recent Clean Eating that wowed my taste buds into a sense of deliciousness.

Spanish Pork with Redskins

Ingredients
2 redskin potatoes, cut into one-inch pieces
1 zucchini, sliced into half-inch rounds
1 medium onion, sliced into half-inch rounds
3 tsp extra-virgin olive oil, divided
4 cloves garlic, sliced
3/4 lb. extra-lean ground pork
1 c. frozen peas
1 c. frozen corn
1 red bell pepper, minced
1 tbsp sweet paprika*
1 medium tomato, chopped*
Juice of half a lemon
1/2 tsp. sage*
1/2 tsp. thyme
Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste
1 oz. goat cheese

Instructions
1. Fill a medium pot with water and bring to a boil. Add potatoes, cover, reduce heat to medium-low and cook for 10 minutes. Pierce potatoes with a knife to ensure they're tender, then remove from heat and drain.
2. While potatoes are cooking, sauté zucchini and onion in 1.5 tsp oil over medium heat for three minutes. Add garlic and cook for another minute, stirring constantly to prevent garlic from burning. Stir in pork, peas, corn and paprika. Cook for five more minutes, making sure all ingredients are evently distributed across surface of pan.
3. Remove pork mixture from heat and stir in bell pepper, tomato and lemon juice. Cover with lid to keep warm while finishing potatoes.
4. Gently toss potatoes with remaining oil. Add sage and thyme and season with salt and black pepper. Place about 1/2 cup potatoes alongside quarter of pork mixture (about 1.5 cups) on each plate, then crumble quarter of cheese over top before serving.

Nutrients per serving
Calories, 350; total fat, 9 g; saturated fat, 3 g; carbs, 35 g; fiber, 6 g; sugar, 6 g; protein, 33 g; sodium, 156 mg; cholesterol, 26 mg

* Notes:
Forgot the paprika ... dummy!
Was out of sage, so I substituted rosemary
Used grape tomotoes, cut in half, instead of a whole tomato ... a sweeter result, I think.

Back from the gym

2010-07-12T21:11:00.005-06:00

Here's a mistake I've been making, while I go back to the Sweat program Jared designed for me three years ago.

I haven't been squatting or deadlifting heavy enough and I think I'm losing some strength gains. My 4x3 squat last week was a weak 225 and tonight I incorporated deads where they weren't before. They're down to 185.

So back on the horse ... because I might want to lose weight but I don't want to watch my strength go with it, too.

I'm also looking for recipes, so if you're out there reading, fill me in on what you have. I'm an avid reader of Clean Eating by Tosca Rena and I've recently started following her blog and Twitter stream.

Sometimes, though, the recipes are a bit out of whack and I make the mistake of preparing them before checking the macros. For instance, a steak and vegetables over pasta recipe has 46 grams of carbs and 28 grams of protein. I think - now I could be wrong, but I think - that's too many carbs for a single-serving meal.

This one, however, is an all-around win. It's delicious, easy to make and a great balance with more protein than carbs. Check it out:

Chicken Almondine

with lemon green beans

Ingredients

1/4 c. slivered, unsalted almonds, toasted, divided

1 tsbp. whole wheat flower

1/4 tsp. paprika

Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, pounded to 1/2-inch thickness

Olive oil cooking spray

1 lb. fresh green beans

Zest of one lemon (about 2 to 3 tsp)

Juice of half a lemon (about 1 tbsp)

Instructions

1. Grind 1/8 c. almonds to a powder using a food processor fitted with a standard blade or a spice grinder (I mashed them up in my mortar and pestle). In a medium bowl, combine ground almonds, flour and paprika. Season with salt and pepper. Dredge chicken breasts in almond-flour mixture and set aside.

2. Set a large nonstick or cast-iron skillet over high heat for one minute. Mist with cooking spray and heat for one more minute. Reduce heat to medium-high and sauté chicken for three minutes per side or until golden brown and no pink remaining. Remove from heat.

3. Bring a medium pot of water to boil. Add beans and blanche for one minute. Remove beans from water. In a large bowl, toss beans with lemon zest and juice then season with salt and pepper.

4. To serve, sprinkle remaining 1/8 cup of almonds over top of chicken, dividing evenly. Serve each chicken breast with 3/4 cup of beans.

Nutrients per serving

Calories: 220; Total fat: 6 g; Saturated fat: 0.75 g; Carbs: 12 g; Fibre: 5 g; Sugars: 2 g; Protein: 30 g; Sodium: 111 mg; Cholesterol: 66 mg.

Five down, 10 to go

2010-07-12T18:31:00.004-06:00

Admission: I still don't have all this eating stuff figured out.

I'm going to call on my friends Terri and Shelby to help me out where they can, if either of them would ever stop leaving town for weeks at a time.

Ha.

It's a bit of a battle, fighting between carbs, proteins and fats and struggling to figure out the right balance, when it isn't all set out in front of me. That was a huge benefit to the LA Weight Loss program. Trouble was, I knew I wasn't getting enough carbs or enough proteins to match my workout regimen and that's why I was feeling listless and lethargic and falling asleep at work.

However, I stepped on my shiny new scale last night and registered a 169.

One freakin' 60! I haven't been in the 160s since 2006 before I got laid off from the Sun.

And I'm pretty darn pleased with myself.

So much that I looked back at the other blog I was trying to maintain and found measurements I posted on Feb. 3.

Shoulders: 43 ... down one inch. Yippee! I generally do lose quickly in this area.
Bustline: 41 ... down one inch. Wow ... no wonder they aren't falling out of my bras as much anymore
Waist: 36.5 ... down half an inch. OK, this area goes slowly, I know.
Hips: 43 ... another half inch

Here's today:

Shoulders: 41.5 inches
Bustline: 39 ... that's two inches of back fat, folks
Waist: 33 in ... mother of freaking GOD!
Hips: 40

OK, so I'm awesome. And getting hotter every day.

My schedule didn't really allow for regular trips to the gym. But I did what I could when I could.

Here's the last round of workout days:

Day 1
3 x one minute
Medicine ball thrusters superset (SS) with weighted fitball crunches
3x15
Balance board squats SS balance board pushups

Day 2
4 x fail
Modified pullups SS pushups
4x3
Olympic squats (two plates ... I went easy)
3x10
Single dumbbell crunches

Day 3 ... Saturday morning!
4 x 10
Dumbbell swings SS jumping stepups
Dumbbell flyes SS bentover row

Am I looking forward to tonight?

Sure thing ...

Six rounds, each to fail, of balance board squats supersetted with balance board pushups, then 4x3 deadlifts, then medicine ball ab work.

Woohoo!

Hammering on the gavel

2010-06-29T20:03:00.005-06:00

It's been a long time since I was corralled into a classroom to learn the Roman Catholic teachings of Jesus.

There was the usual ... be nice to others, don't steal, don't kill, yadda yadda yadda ... all the things that make for a good all-around person, not necessarily a good Christian.

And there's always that judgment thing ... you know, the one where Jesus says we shouldn't judge others because we open ourselves up to their scrutiny?

I came across that tonight, learning myself another big lesson on The Pit Stops of life.

I was happily blasting my cardio on the elliptical, sprinting at the bottom of the 'hill' and eagerly anticipating my round of plyos before going home to collapse on the couch.

I Tweeted one of my typically vapid observations about eye candy at the gym, to which someone responded: "Have you SEEN some of those guys at the gym? Not much going on upstairs."

To which I replied snarkily: "Yes, I SEE them all the time. But nowhere did I say I was going to ask them to split atoms for me."

It stuck with me, though, as I moved from medicine ball to fitball to balance board.

Wait a second, I've dated my fair share of muscle-bound freaks. ... from bodybuilders in my early 20s to powerlifters and your everyday gym rats in my 30s.

Rarely did I ever complain that they didn't have 'much going on upstairs.'

Inattentive? Yes. Often preoccupied? Certainly. Cheaters? Oh hell, let's not go there ...

But stupid? No.

Because as my close friends well know, I don't tolerate stupidity well.

And wait another damn second, I've been a self-proclaimed gym rat for more than 10 years. I take pride in the way my traps pop when I'm doing shoulders, I boast about my 240-pound squat as everyone on Twitter knows and I love the way my torso is starting to form a V after a few years of not paying attention to my nutrition.

Does that make me stupid?

Pardon me for a moment but I claimed my high school diploma at the age of 16 and my baccalaureate degree from a nationally ranked university at 19.

'Not much going on' does not apply here.

But yet we see a man who takes pride in his appearance and who lifts the big iron and we assume he's a big ole dummy.

Bodybuilder = stupid.

On the contrary, they know more about the human body than the average ... well ... human. They know a ton about musculature and food. And they're passionate about what they're doing.

What's funny is when I clicked through to the respondent's profile, the bio read 'Christ follower.'

I wonder would this individual look at a fat person and think 'lazy'? Or at a black person and think 'thief'? Maybe a Middle Eastern and think 'terrorist'?

Maybe not.

But it all draws a parallel to judging people on their appearances.

And maybe it's time to stop doing that.

Not for the sake of being a good 'Christ follower' but for the sake of being a good all-around human being.

The last week

2010-06-26T16:23:00.004-06:00

I know it's only been a few minutes since I wrote Why Keep It a Secret?, but I'm kind of in a writing mood.

I really should be working on my freelance project ... but I still have a month or so before the deadline hits. And of course, I've learned over time that I work my best when staring that deadline down with a snarl.

To further Project #Skinnybitch, I'm starting off with a high intensity program that was designed for me a few years ago by an old trainer.

It's based in compound, functional movements and it was designed to get me back up and running after surgery to repair a Bennett's joint break. I had slid into second, somehow landed all my weight on my hand and snapped my thumb off. I was out of commission for more than two months.

I figured it's a good way to get me rolling through this ... keep my heart rate up and bag the shit right out of me.

So here's how Week 1 went:

Day 1 - 3x Circuit

Medicine ball thrusters, 11 lbs, 15 reps

(Note: kind of a volleyball-esque set into the wall, followed by catching the ball in squat position)

Pushups on medicine ball, 10 reps

Fitball crunches, 15 reps

Speed squats on balance board, 15 reps

Day 2 - 3x Circuit

Push press, 65 lbs, 10 reps

Asst pullup, 10 reps

Reverse row, 5 reps

Single-arm dumbbell crunches, 25 lbs, 20 reps

One-minute hang

Day 3 - 3x Circuit

One-arm full cleans, 25 lbs, 10 reps

Dumbbell flye, 15 lbs, 10 reps

Bentover row, 15 lbs, 10 reps

Then

Rope woodchops, 30 lbs, 12 reps

Turkish getup, 22.5 lbs, 2 reps

And now that I watch the video, I realize I was doing the Turkish getup incorrectly. Ah ... close enough. I'll get it right next week.

Why keep it a secret?

2010-06-26T15:43:00.005-06:00

190 lbs.

That's where I tipped the scale in January.

And that's when I thought 'mother of God, what have I done to myself?'

So I set up a secret blog, inviting a few people who are in the fitness business and a couple of friends to view, comment and assist where they can. I wanted them to make me accountable.

I had some wicked steam going at first, blogging every day about my weight lifting, my daily food intake and some recipes.

It didn't work. I got busy. Life and other commitments took me away from concentrating on me. And I realized when it came to eating, I didn't know what the hell I was doing.

I sucked it up and went to an LA Weight Loss. For the last three months, they have been trying to Hoover every last dime out of my bank account. Enrolment? $600. LA Lite bars? $500. Takeoff juice? $30 every two weeks. Plateau Breaker? $250 for a month.

I bought their fat burner. It made me sick to my stomach.

I tried to follow along. I really did. But I'm not good at calorie counting. I suck at keeping daily diaries of what I'm eating.

Hell's bells, I'm a busy person. I eat lunch at my desk on the fly - a talent learned in the J-biz - and I'm running from work to home to dinner to change and off to the ballpark on many nights.

Who the hell has time to write it down? And if I pull the diary out to catch up, I don't remember what I had this morning, let alone yesterday. Blame those concussions.

I meet with a different counsellor almost every time I'm there. With one, I had to review my physical activity. She asked me to take her through my average week.

I said I'm at the gym at least three or four times a week. I play at least two doubleheaders of ball a week. On weekends, if I'm in a tournament, I play a minimum of eight games over three days, sometimes as many 10 or 12. If I'm not in a tournament, I'm hiking in the mountains.

Do you know what her next question was - as she went by the book that was set down in front of her?

'Where can you fit in more physical activity?'

You can imagine my response. You'd be happy to know I refrained from swearing at her.

I am down to 173. My time with LA Weight Loss comes to a close late next week. They will try to get me to renew my weeks ... at a cost of another 800 bucks or so. I will steel myself and say 'no, no thank you.'

But here's what I've learned about myself thus far in this journey:

I hate orange juice. The Takeoff juice is an orange-based fruit concentrate and one must drink a full litre of it for two days every two weeks. It was OK at first but the last time, it tasted so syrupy and so sickly that I wanted to send it down the drain.
I need a schedule of eating laid out for me. The best I did on this program was the Plateau Breaker, which supplied me a list of what to eat when for five days. I lost almost 10 pounds in one week.
I need to be accountable to myself but it helps to have a support network of people to kick me in the ass. Kait and Terri are awesome for this.
I wanted to keep it secret because I knew there are people out there who might use my existing weight to embarrass me if they found the blog. From Camilla and Alex - two new wonderful friends in my life - I have re-learned my 'fuck the haters' attitude. They hate themselves more than they hate me.
I'm one of the strongest chicks I know ... squatting 240 lbs and deadlifting 205 ... for fun. My bench press lags because of a shitty shoulder.

I love the emerging new me. I look in the mirror and I see my V returning, that lovely little pinch-in below my lats. I see my stomach getting a little bit flatter and I feel it jiggling less when I'm running on the treadmill. I see the definition coming back to my shoulders and it makes me feel sexy and strong.

And I see the ball going a little bit farther into the outfield again.

I'll be on the lake next weekend and I'll be in a two-piece bathing suit. I don't know if I'm ready for a camera to be around but it sure is going to feel good.

Why my dog rocks

2010-06-18T10:59:00.006-06:00

Last night, my friend Danelle Tweeted a reason why she loves her dog so much.

And so we challenged each other to write about our dogs. Danelle's Miki, a miniature American Eskimo, and Shep are friends as you'll see in a picture down the page.

Miki is pretty darn cute.

What makes Shep so awesome? What is it about him that makes me disinterested in activities that don't include him? Why do I feel awful when I leave him home for long periods of time unattended?

Shep and I celebrated our sixth anniversary together on May long weekend. I remember well our first weekend. We were both a little nervous, trying to establish our roles with each other.

In fact, he barfed on the floor next to the bed. Thank goodness I was spending the night at a friend's place in Carstairs, where our time together began.

We struggled with each other over the next year, trying to earn a place in each other's hearts and still not truly trusting each other. Was I only going to give him up like his last two families? Why the fuck won't he eat what's put in front of him?

We turned a corner in 2006, a story not meant for these spaces and one better kept between Shep, me and a few close friends in the know.

For you, here is why Shep rocks:

When I come home from being anywhere, he doesn't leave my side for at least 10 minutes.
He knows how to be Srs Dog.

He belches like a human ... even comes over and sits beside me so he can share it with me.
When I've been spending too much time on my laptop, he lets me know by putting his head right on the keyboard. Or by using his snout to lift my hands off the keyboard.
He loves going to the vet. It's true. His Auntie Dana works there. He knows he'll see her and his best friend Tundra there.

We have hugs. He's tall enough to stand on his hinds and put his forepaws on my shoulders.
I snap him off for putting his nose on the kitchen counter. He wags his tail anyway and it goes in this big circle that always makes me smile.
He is always surprised by his own farts. And he comes over to sit beside me so he can share them with me.
When he talks to me, it's usually because there's another dog in the near vicinity, like the toy dog upstairs or the chihuahua next door. And it's half bark, half howl, kinda whiny, not at all fierce. For a big dog, he's a wuss.

And he becomes a total baby during thunderstorms. I saw him try to hide under the bed once but there isn't enough room. So, he cowers in the bathroom and whimpers. Big dog, my ass.
Chase is the most fun game. Ever. He doesn't play fetch. It's almost undignified for him. You threw the ball, you go get it. For chase, he assumes position and then runs speed laps around me. Then he gets bored and moves on.
His attention span makes me laugh. He seems to get bored easily. So do I. We're perfect for each other.
He knows how to be Goofy Dog.

He wants to be the That Guy at the dog park, running up to every dog and trying to make friends.
Patience is his biggest virtue. When the weather is crappy or I just don't feel like going for a walk, he's happy enough to just hang out.
He knows exactly what my ball bag means. He puts his face on his paws and gives me a look that says, 'you're going to be away all day and I'm going to miss you.' At least, that's what I think it means.
He knows exactly what filling my day pack means. And he gets so excited because he knows he'll be spending the day in the mountains.
He's the best inside spoon for cuddling. Ever.
He is simply the most beautiful dog I've ever seen. People have stopped traffic to tell me as much. I kid you not.

He has made me a better judge of character. If you don't love my dog and show him affection, I'm going to have trouble loving you.
He is happiest when we are together. And so am I.

Writing long form

2010-06-17T21:38:00.003-06:00

Is writing prose becoming a lost art?

Many of us live in a 140-character word.

Often in conversation, if you haven't gotten to the point in less than two minutes, I start to lose interest in what you're saying.

I just don't have the patience to listen to anyone drone on, struggling to find what they're meaning to say.

In journalism, it's called 'finding the nut' and writing a great lede.

I started my writing career at a broadsheet. I was allowed to write and write and write and write and write ... well, you get the point.

Then I moved to a tabloid. My stories had to become a little more succinct. 'Jumps,' also known as 'continueds,' weren't cool at this shop. We didn't want the our readers forced to search around the paper for the end of the story, then find their way back where they started.

It's kind of like early UX design, I suppose.

Next stop was another broadsheet. But I found I couldn't go back to writing 40- and 50-inch stories.

There's an art in telling a story in 500 words or less. I'm sure of it. Damn sure.

And my editor, Gregg Drinnan, loved it. My short stories left lots of room for him to write more about the Kamloops Blazers!

And then back to a tabloid, a major metro, where whatever I had to write competed with an NHL club, a CFL team and more.

My 500-word stories on Junior A and Midget AAA hockey became 300-word stories ... 200 ... sometimes 150.

It forced me to an even more analytical stance on an event.

Find the 'nut.'

Get to the point quickly.

Save the 10-dollar words.

I can still drone on ... evidently ... right here on this platform.

But I find myself better able to recognize when my thoughts start to wander and I ramble on, talking about nothing or even less than that and then ...

Er, maybe I'll just stop while I'm ahead.

Finding my Zen

2010-06-09T08:40:00.003-06:00

I sleep ... truly, deeply sleep when I'm near water waves.

I grew up near the Atlantic Ocean. Beaches were no more than a 20-minute drive in three different directions. I have such fond memories of family trips to the beach, playing in the sand, feeling the hot sun and the cool, salt breeze on my face.

Many years later, after moving out west, I was having a particularly dreadful summer of stress and terrible bouts of insomnia and, when I did sleep, it was restless. I was a living zombie.

My then boyfriend planned a weekend to the Shuswap with friends for my birthday. We arrived in the late afternoon and within an hour of being on the lake, I was feeling sleepy and told everyone I was heading to our room for a nap.

Our bedroom in the cottage overlooked the water.

I threw open the window to let in the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore.

Within seconds, I was out.

When I awoke, it was daylight. The spot beside me in bed was empty and there was commotion downstairs.

The group was assembling for brunch.

I slept through a raucous party, several attempts by my boyfriend to stir me and the morning sun blasting into our room.

I slept for 16 hours that night.

There's a peacefulness in the sound of water, hearkening back to a more innocent time.

And thus, I am drawn to it. I love being near water, I love the sound of it and I love taking pictures of it.

It is my Zen.

Put the camera down

2010-05-24T21:41:00.004-06:00

I didn't take a single picture in the last week.

I didn't even touch my camera.

Didn't put it in the truck.

Why?

I just didn't feel like it.

It seems I've been saturating my life with projects and plans and obligations.

And the second something starts to feel like an obligation, I start to hate it.

I've been playing around with cameras since I was 14. I have fond memories of being the nerdy kid in high school who spent her free hours in the dark room, sniffing developer and fixer.

Aaaaah ... I miss those light-headed days.

Then shooting became a job. It was a bonus for my newspapers that I was adept at not only writing sports but shooting it, too.

Eventually, an editor sucked all the joy out of it. And when I left for a job where only my wordsmithing was required, I sold all my pro gear.

Every last lens and filter.

I went back to it a few years ago and I've been loving it all over again. But lately, it's been feeling like a job.

Maybe I'm shooting too much. Maybe I'm sharing it too much. Maybe ... I don't know.

But it felt right to leave the camera in the bag this weekend.

And maybe it will just sit there for a few days until I start to miss it again.

T-shirt hell

2010-05-22T23:28:00.002-06:00

Fuck you.

Go fuck yourself.

If you can read the back of this shirt, the bitch fell off.

Don't bother. I'm not drunk yet.

We exist in a society where people no longer say 'thank you' to doors held open for them.

Where we bark orders at Walmart cashiers or McDonald's drive-thru workers because we think they're worth less on the food chain.

We're taking our bad days out on each other.

And blasting the messages on our T-shirts.

When we allow a T-shirt to say waht's really on our minds, we're hiding behind a piece of cloth.

But if it's something we really want to say to each other, we really don't belong in public.

There's nothing wrong with living in a polite society, one where we're not whoring ourselves out for attention with a rude message on our shirts.

If we remember to show respect for each other, we might remember how to have respect for ourselves again.

Spring has sprung

2010-05-13T18:33:00.003-06:00

A dirty little secret

2010-05-11T20:46:00.001-06:00

I'm a closet fan of American Idol.

Shush la! Don't tell anyone.

I rooted for that David guy with the raspy voice, the curly hair and the edge of a rocker.

But I haven't downloaded any of his music.

Hell, I don't even remember the guy's last name.

Instead, I like this song. From the runner-up Adam Lambert. He doesn't have that overly polished sense about him.

He's kept his edge.

And his rasp.

Maybe he should have won that season. Of course, then he might not have been allowed to release this song.

Far from a masterpiece but it at least has my attention.

Gettin' my groove on

2010-05-08T18:26:00.002-06:00

I'm diggin' my '80s.

But you knew that already.

The girls and I are going out to WEST Calgary tonight for dinner and dancing.

The WEST DJ plays the sweet, sultry sounds of my second favourite decade (My favourite? Why the current one, of course!).

So I'm getting ready by firing up my '80s playlist on Grooveshark.

Now playing ...

Who doesn't know the words?

2010-05-07T23:18:00.001-06:00

It's overdone.

And yet somehow it never gets old.

I found myself at the Saddledome tonight, watching the Calgary Hitmen win their second WHL championship.

Inevitably, that one song is cued up and ready to go.

The final seconds tick off the clock and ...

Queen.

We still miss you, Freddie Mercury.

Cue up the Queen song

2010-05-07T22:43:00.003-06:00

There's a certain energy that flows around a good team.

The players ... they have swagger, charisma.

Eleven years ago, I got to know a team like that. Very well, in fact. And 11 years ago tonight, I watched as they cried, their young hearts broken because they failed in their only quest.

It was a strange moment indeed when I stood at the Saddledome tonight, watching the Calgary Hitmen skate to a 4-1 victory over the Tri-City Americans. It was Game 5 of the WHL Championship.

And it dawned on me: I've watched, in person, the Hitmen win two WHL championships.

Once 11 years ago.

I followed the Kamloops Blazers on every step during that magical season in 1998-99. They went on a 26-game undefeated streak. They had a kid named Gainey, a captain of Indian descent, a goalie nobody had heard of before and, by the end of the season, seven first-round NHL draft picks on one roster.

They laughed together, they won together, they lost together ... after the trade-deadline deals, there were rumours of a couple supposed newcomers creating chinks in the armour.

The gossip was never confirmed.

And they ran into a wall ... a big brick one called the Calgary Hitmen. They had a kid named Moran, some stud named Pavel Brendl, a goalie from Russia named Fomitchev and swagger.

The Blazers stole one in Calgary and headed home with a split. It was May. I remember driving through blinding snow over the Pass to get home.

The Hitmen took the first one in Kamloops. Game 4 went to triple overtime and the Hitmen took a commanding lead in the best-of-seven series. Shoulders were sagging but no one had given up just yet.

Then another drive back to Calgary, riding shotgun for my buddy from the other newspaper in town.

These teams were as evenly matched as one could imagine ... lots of firepower, mighty defence, solid enough goaltending.

But the power play was weak. It scored once in 27 attempts ... and that one goal may have been on the last man advantage but memory escapes me.

And the Hitmen had just a tiny bit more confidence in this Game 5, wanting to win their first WHL championship on home ice.

So they did. And as they were collecting their hardware, I was in the bowels of the Saddledome with my Blazers. The 20-year-olds wept openly, their dreams of playing in a Memorial Cup came to a crashing halt.

Especially Ajay Baines, a five-year Blazer, a Kamloops boy and a leader among leaders.

He shook. His eyes were as bright as the orange on his away jersey. He sagged into my arms when I couldn't help but hug him.

It had been a long four years of getting to know this kid-turned-man, sharing his victories and his losses, laughing with him and now tears streaming down my face alongside him.

In that time, he's become a man. So have others on the team ... Robyn Regehr, lauded around the NHL as one of the league's steadiest blueliners ... they've gone on to minor pros, Euro leagues, graduated from university, become fathers, husbands and more.

And so I looked skyward tonight towards the press box where I sat those 11 years ago, watching the Hitmen win again, crushing the dreams of young men on the Tri-City Americans roster.

Wondering what dreams will come from Calgary's next trip to the Memorial Cup, wondering if some young journalist upstairs has plans to cover the NHL, wondering ... just wondering.

It's different now. I'm surrounded by the fans ... I am a fan.

So I shook myself out of my reverie and clapped for the Hitmen, cheering them to the Memorial Cup as the seconds ticked off the Jumbotron and the strains of We Are the Champions wafted through the blasts of fireworks.

Sorry, Kamloops. I still love you, though.

It's gonna be a good ... night?

2010-05-06T21:54:00.001-06:00

I don't check my Hotmail account very often.

I diverted people away from it as my main email source almost a year ago. Now I use it for a newsletter dump and that place to send corporations who absolutely need to have a place to find me.

Like my photography newsletters, recipe sites and That Online Dating Site.

Yes, I still have my account active ... despite months of checking my Inbox and thinking 'oh come on, you're kidding, right?'

There's one fella, nice enough, from the homeland, athletic, good looking ... we've been conversing for the last couple of weeks. But we're both super busy people and it may be hard to really connect.

Tonight, I checked to see if he'd replied the message I sent him four days ago. My Hotmail inbox was showing six new messages, one from him.

So I logged in and plowed through the messages ... no, nope, no way, seriously?

And the one from Nice Guy.

Then there was the Whoa! Tall (six-foot-four), dark and handsome ... and he gets it. From his message to his profile, I got the whole (pointing two fingers at my eyes, pointing two fingers at your eyes and reversing back and forth quickly) ... you know.

It just so happens I still had my MP3 player on after coming home from the gym. At the same time, this song was playing.

A study in paradoxes

2010-05-05T21:32:00.001-06:00

My friend Wendy once called me a paradox.

And I grinned.

One of my paradoxes (paradoxi? paradosses?) is the range of Corey Taylor's talent.

Whether it's for Slipknot or Stone Sour, the frontman's guttural rages entrance and inspire me. Considering a couple of my favourites, Liberate and Psychosocial, Taylor writes with intelligence, demanding change of himself, of people around him, of the world.

And yet his voice turns gentle, dulcet and smooth for Stone Sour's Through Glass or Slipknot's Snuff.

In fact, he often manages to rip my heart out as his words drown me in his own agony and heartbreak.

Aaaah, the simple beauty of identifying with the song ... such is music.

Grumble, grumble, grumble ... wake up to a song

2010-05-05T06:39:00.001-06:00

In Calgary, we woke up to snow on the ground this morning.

Snow.

On May 5.

It's enough to turn even the happiest of us somewhat homicidal.

Same goes for my classmate in journalism school. She'd call me at 7 a.m. after a ... ahem ... night on the town and, ever so cheerily, she would sing into the phone:

Good morning to the flowers

Good morning to the sun

Good morning to the children

Good morning everyone!

You know the thought that comes to mind. That's right. Eff.

So I thought 'what's a song we all know and it's just too damn cheery to wake up to'? It's easy to turn to the '80s and we all remember our blog opener from Wham!

So here's one for this morning ... the kind of song that, one a day like to today, makes me want to kick a kitten.

No matter how cheery I'm going to try to be.

Walking in the sun

2010-05-04T22:06:00.001-06:00

It's been a long time ... a lifetime, in fact.

I grew up with three brothers. There were two other girls close in age to me in my neighbourhood. They were outnumbered by boys.

I had dolls but I never really wanted to spend too much time playing with them. I wanted to be outside, playing cowboys or war or hide-and-go-seek with my brothers and their neighbourhood pals.

Boys were my playmates in the summer time and after school. It felt so natural to transition into a career dominated by men. I chose sports writing ... you can't get much more testosterone-centric, really.

My best friends have been typically male. The women I let close to me were similar to me ... they shunned many female friendships, finding it easier to trust men.

Times have changed. I'm no longer a sports writer. I've developed my feminine side ... mostly in the realm of shoes and clothes and makeups.

Along with that has come an ability to better identify with my 'sisters.' We talk, we vent, we philosophize, we dream, we rage, we shop, we create ... we want to improve ourselves and we want to improve the world.

So to my complement of girlfriends, I dedicate to you and apologize for committing an atrocious cliche.

But I do love you all.

Take it away, Cyndi.

Happy news?

2010-05-02T13:47:00.003-06:00

Peaches isn't on the City of Calgary's shelter site anymore.

Does that mean he went home to his family?

I sure hope so. As his finder, I was supposed to have first rights to adopt him. I had planned to say 'no,' of course. I knew full well I didn't have the ability to care for his medical conditions.

No one called.

That must mean he was found by his family. Right? Right.

Now ... about those other dogs sitting there and waiting.

Have you gone home yet?

2010-04-26T22:37:00.006-06:00

Dear Peaches,

I hope you're doing OK.

It tore my heart out to leave you at Calgary North Animal Hospital.

I don't know your real name. But I'm calling you Peaches because of your sweet demeanour.

You trusted me and I knew you were scared when the vet put that leash on you. I knew you were terrified as she led you into that room away from me.

I knew you would spend the night alone in a cage.

And I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, lost and alone.

I know you are loved even though I found you wandering in the park with no collar, tags or tattoo.

You easily loved back, huddling into my arms when I scooped you off the ground. You found your spot in the back of my truck and nestled into the blanket, close to Shep but not so close to get trampled by the big galoot.

I didn't want to take you to the city facilities, knowing the fate which may befall you if your owners don't come looking for you.

But you're blind from glaucoma and Dana says you may have Cushing's disease.

Your medical conditions are more than I can handle right now. You need attention and care, more than I can give.

I checked the 'yes' box next to 'willing to adopt' but if the city calls, I'm afraid I have to say no.

And I'm so sorry for that.

Because no puppy deserves to be alone.

Especially one as full of love as you.

Hittin' the trails

2010-04-17T22:43:00.009-06:00

When life is out of whack, there's a world where peace exists.

It's out of the city, lost in the middle of nowhere.

Five or six balls, all getting juggled at the same time, got too much to handle, so Shep and I jumped in the truck and headed for the woods.

Cooler air strikes the lungs, the brain and the heart ... the mind quiets and hears only the rustling of the wind in the trees.

And balance returns.

By then, I start to notice the absolute glee Shep gets from running unleashed, sniffing here, jumping there ...

Then the smile doesn't only return to my face. It returns to my heart.

I get by ...

2010-04-09T22:40:00.002-06:00

Somebody just asked me on Formspring 'what would you do if I sang out tune?'

Everybody knows the words to this one, right?

Ladies and gentlemen, four of the nicest young men we've ever had on this stage ...

Oh and my answer? I would NOT stand up and walk out on you.

Thirty and flirty and thriving

2010-04-09T22:13:00.001-06:00

Watching 13 Going on 30 on The Women's Network.

Yeah, total chick flick.

With an AWESOME soundtrack, including two ... not one ... TWO Belinda Carlisle singles.

OK, so Head Over Heels is a Go-Gos song but totally same thing.

And since we've already featured Ice Ice Baby on this blog, we'll call the best song on the soundtrack Burning Down the House by The Talking Heads.

Cool babies, strange but not a stranger ...

Know anyone like that?

The great thing about MP3 players

2010-04-09T21:54:00.001-06:00

You can go all the way back to the beginning of a song with one touch.

Remember when we had tape players? We had to keep pushing rewind, fast forward, rewind, fast forward ... just to find that sweet beginning.

After, of course, we had screwed up lyrics while singing along and wanted to start all over again.

I do it all the time. One touch, back to the beginning ... I do it over and over and over again until I get that one line perfect.

Perfect for my legions of fans listening while I'm cruising down the highway in my truck. Legions of fans being ... well ... my dog.

Here's one of the several songs I've never been able to get perfect until the fourth or fifth try. I always stumble of 'Napoleon and Josephine.'

Life in a paradox

2010-03-20T21:53:00.006-06:00

The element of surprise.

It's big in sports. Hit your guy off the puck, blindside the receiver so he can't make the catch, hit off-field instead of pull.

The other guy never sees it coming, right?

That's me.

You'll never nail me down and therein lies the secret to figuring me out. Sounds complicated?

A few weeks ago, we were at Flames Central to watch Olympics hockey.

It was intense. We were yelling at the big screen, fist-pumping the air and high-fiving each other when the opportunities arose.

Within seconds of the final horn, the TV screens switched over to the original dance final for figure skating.

I oohed and aahed as Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir glided across the ice, their Twizzles spectacular, their lifts breath-taking and their edges so deep and graceful with a dazzle of power and a hint of serenity.

A friend looks over at me and says, 'you're such a paradox.'

Main Entry: par·a·dox

Pronunciation: \ˈper-ə-ˌdäks, ˈpa-rə-\

Function: noun

Etymology: Latin paradoxum, from Greek paradoxon, from neuter of paradoxos contrary to expectation, from para- + dokein to think, seem — more at decent

Date: 1540

1 : a tenet contrary to received opinion 2 a : a statement that is seemingly contradictory or opposed to common sense and yet is perhaps true b : a self-contradictory statement that at first seems true c : an argument that apparently derives self-contradictory conclusions by valid deduction from acceptable premises 3 : one (as a person, situation, or action) having seemingly contradictory qualities or phases

That's me.

In my early years, my mother was determined to instil in me the qualities of a 'young lady.'

All I wanted to do was play 'War' and 'Cowboys' with my brothers and the neighbourhood boys, even though Jennifer and Stacy were just up the hill waiting for me to come play Barbie.

Today, I can recite the rules of baseball, hockey and football and, in the next breath, quote Shakespeare and tell you about my senior thesis on dream analogies in his works.

I can pull on cleats and a ball glove ...

Then, after a day at the ballpark, I can run home, jump in the shower and be ready to play dressup. Inside of 90 minutes, I had my makeup done, my hair curled and I was wearing a dress -- all set for a night out with friends at my favourite Calgary restaurant, Santorini.

Pssst ... that's not me.

And wouldn't Mom be happy to hear that I'm OK with wearing a dress now?

Now you might be thinking 'this chick is heading straight for an identity crisis.'

Too late. I've already been there.

The world came crashing to a halt when I could no longer identify myself as a sportswriter.

That's who I was.

But it wasn't. It was only a part of who I was. And it's a part of who I am ... forever.

As I battled to overcome the challenge to figure out who I am, I've realized I don't need to be this or that, either or, neither nor.

I just need to be ... doing the things I love to do. That could be sliding into second, cruising Zappos or Buckle (my new addiction) for a new pair of Naughty Monkeys, telling goofy pun jokes with Lisa or reading about the sociological effect of technological advances.

The secret is to never be surprised when you're surprised by me.

Moving on ... my Olympic dream, part II

2010-03-08T20:59:00.004-07:00

Every once in a while, I'll Google my own name.

Until I blasted my name all over social media networks, my results were populated by bylines from the Calgary Sun.

But as my former newspaper started to archive stories off the web, my results list started to dwindle, my bylines were disappearing.

I started to feel forgotten, a lingering effect of the pain I felt ... nay, feel ... over that day almost four years ago when I was told my services were no longer required.

I was a number. A negative effect to the bottom line for Quebecor Media. My $38,000 per year was hurting the company and I became one of 120 cross-country victims to the streamlining.

So many people have asked me if I miss it.

"Some days, with every breath I take," I respond.

Slightly more than two weeks ago, I wrote My Olympic Dream, bemoaning my absence from the 2010 Vancouver Olympics as a sports writer.

I should have been there. I'll always believe I could have been there, had it not been for a suffering journalism industry.

Tonight, I was looking for files to support work I'd done on a recent fundraiser.

I searched my name, remembered the Archives section of Google News results and clicked.

Kaboom ... Google has been busy indexing past stories from the Sun. Not just any stories ... my stories.

There they were, byline after byline after byline ... words composed by me.

Instead of heaving the same sigh as I breathed while writing through streams of tears two weeks ago, I smiled, excited to remember the interviews with athletes who now are Olympic gold-, silver- and bronze medallists ... John Morris, Kevin Martin, Cheryl Bernard, Joannie Rochette, Shannon Szabados, Clara Hughes ...

And the others who are no less accomplished or fascinating ... Randy Ferbey, Devan Dubnyk, the WHLers, curlers, baseball and softball players, the Newfoundlanders, the British Columbians ...

After downloading those stories and memories tonight, I consider it a career well served, telling the stories of those who committed their lives to feats of athletic prowess, vicariously sharing in their victories and mourning their defeats.

A career on which I now can close the books and focus on activities that make me happy ... nights and weekends to pursue my own athletic interests (yay, slopitch!), explore my adopted home of Alberta, breathe fresh mountain air, walk with my dog and enjoy time with great friends.

But if it's all right with you, I'll continue to love sports and follow the careers of those athletes ... as a fan now.

Sharing them with you here, on Twitter or by clinking glasses at the bar, jumping up to high-five you when the thrill of victory descends upon us.

See you there.

Life is a highway

2010-03-07T20:51:00.001-07:00

Don't expect that lame Tom Cochrane song all the bars played to death in the early 1990s.

Nope, I was cruising down the 22 yesterday and my MP3 player landed on another old classic.

And there I was, hands on the wheel, bopping my head around and singing at the top of my lungs.

Yeah, there were probably even a few fistpumps involved.

I was a big Bon Jovi fan back in the '80s. Truly a shocker, I'm sure. The band became too mainstream, though, and I drifted away.

This is a 2003 song ... one of the few Bon Jovi songs from the last 15 years that have caught my attention.

The words are huge ...

You better stand tall

When they're calling you out

Don't bend, don't break

Baby, don't back down

If I die tomorrow -- not anything I plan on, mind you -- I hope I remembered as someone who said what was on her mind and stood by her principles .. even if it got her in trouble.

Because it's my life.

Like Frankie said, I did it my way.

Spring is in the air

2010-03-07T20:17:00.012-07:00

You know it's spring time when random boys are tossing around the football in the park.

Consider me starry-eyed.

Oh and then there's the hacky-sack kids.

Yes, sirree ... the weather is fantastic and you get treated to two Project 52s in one weekend.

That will make up for the missed one, right?

I help coordinate a group of folks ... OK, full disclosure, I'm one of the head nerds of a group founded on Twitter, #yycphotowalk.

We are, I believe, all comfortable with our nerd status.

We irregularly schedule get-togethers for photographers of all levels to get out into the city, take pictures, socialize and maybe learn from each other. We share the links to our online albums and then encourage, prop up and inspire each other.

It's great fun and we're meeting folks from end of the city to the other ... and folks who've come to our awesome city from all corners of the world!

A terrific friend, from whom I must learn as much about life as about photography, has perused my photo albums. Julie declares my work 'whimsical' and I like that.

I have, I suppose, a childlike fascination with a lot of things ... from people to buildings to sports and photography. Just because we grow up and mature doesn't mean we have to lose sight of the things that make life fun and interesting.

In that vein, we came across an elementary school playground and spent some time shooting there.

These handles reminded me of the time in elementary school when I fell off the monkey bars and had the wind knocked right out of me.

Of course, then there was the time at Columbus Field when my elder brother Kevin tossed the swing bar toward me. I wasn't looking and it hit me square in the nose. There was blood everywhere.

I never found out whether it was intentional or not.

(Of course, I now hear my brothers all thinking 'how in hell do you remember these things?')

And yes, I did take a turn on the slide, probably the first time in 20 years.

By the way, snow in the forecast for Tuesday, dangit.

Silence is golden

2010-03-06T20:14:00.006-07:00

From my notebook in the field

All I can hear is the gurgling of water, falling over rocks and tree roots, the chirp of woodland birds and the flutter of their feathers.

Fallen trees lie dead in the water, their rough bark long since washed away, their skin bleached by the blazing sun.

The birds dive closer, testing their invaders' will, but we go nowhere.

No drivers honk at each other in futile fits of rage.

No phones beep to indicate a message received.

No news of strife or destruction blasts from a box in the corner.

The silence is broken only by nature, my camera whirring and clicking, Shep's collar clinking as he moves to watch the birds.

And there exists only peace.

Hurrrrrreee haaaarrrrrrd

2010-03-02T20:52:00.003-07:00

Tis the roarin' game, b'ys.

The first time I had to head to the curling rink to cover a spiel, I hated it. There were still ashtrays at either end of the ice back then.

These were not the ideal athletes.

Things were a bit different when I moved out west. People were nuts about this game.

And as a sports reporter, it was my duty to learn the game inside and out ... from angle-raise takeouts to draw weight vs. hack weight and why Barry McPhee curled in dress shoes covered in duct tape.

When I moved to Calgary to work at the Sun, I was relegated to desk work. I was off the street, taking the odd kernel thrown my way and writing my story from the limitations of a phone.

The opportunity existed ... and I managed to carve out a tiny little niche for myself by covering - of all things - curling.

I worked my beat to the ends of the earth, compiling a contact list that included Randy Ferbey, Dave Nedohin, Kevin Martin, John Morris, Colleen Jones, Cheryl Bernard ... yeah, I'm name-dropping. What?

I've done stories on every level of the competition -- from drunken spiels to world championships, the Scotties and the Brier, and the Olympics.

And so it was that I stepped into the mire of teaching over the last two weeks.

I've never claimed to have much patience and I've always gotten bothered by endless whys and whatfors.

Until now.

Friends were texting me ... Twitter pals were @ing me ... the emails were coming fast and furious.

How are the points scored? Why are those rocks left outside of the circles? What is the sweeping for?

I loved it.

I loved knowing that the game, getting the ultimate spotlight on the Olympics stage, was being opened up to a whole new influx of fans.

One Facebook friend, in Texas of all places, wants to learn how to curl.

And that will put her one step ahead of me ... because I've never played the game either.

Maybe it's time to learn.

Bright lights

2010-02-28T21:32:00.007-07:00

Don't ever shoot directly into sunlight.

That's one of the first rules I learned from a long-ago photography master.

But one of my favourite rules is to break the rules.

And see? These are some of my favourite shots this year ... and not a single annoying picture of a gorgeous dog.

A betrayal of my sisterhood

2010-02-17T20:51:00.002-07:00

Editor's note: This is not a picture of my actual closet. I do NOT own a bathrobe with little chicks all over it. I was just too lazy to pull out my camera, take a picture, upload it ... yada yada yada ... you get the ... er ... picture.

OK, closet ... the second I hit 'Publish Post,' it's you and me for about a half an hour.

Here's the deal.

You are going to have to say goodbye to a couple of your friends.

I know, I know ... saying goodbye is never easy, but this is something that has to be done. Frankly, I'm a clothes whore. We both know it.

And you can handle only so much weight. See? I'm thinking of you in all of this, too ... plus the new clothes I bought at Dynamite on Monday.

They need a new home. See? Doesn't that get you excited?

We also can consider the people who will benefit from our doffing of extra clothes, because I'll be making a trip to a donation location this weekend.

So, it's really up to us how many garbage bags we fill with the clothes I don't wear anymore, clothes that don't fit anymore or clothes that just aren't quite 'with it' anymore.

We may cry. We may have to hug it out later. But we'll get through it together.

After all, there's no reason on this planet why one woman should own 10 pairs of denim jeans or seven pairs of pyjama pants, three red T-shirts, five black boobie blouses.

(No, girls ... there really isn't any reason for one person to own seven pairs of pyjama pants. Trust me.)

Of course, if we leak that information out to the guys, I may be in a world of hurt. We'd better keep that a secret, OK?

And look on the bright side ... there's a new pair of Naughty Monkeys on the way ... our eighth pair!

Shoes! New shoes!

See? It won't be that bad. Now, let's get to it.

The very definition of Canadian

2010-02-16T18:04:00.003-07:00

Brace yourself ... I'm about to reveal some earth-shattering news.

Not everyone likes sports.

No, no ... it's true. Trust me. I know it's hard to believe. Take a deep breath and we'll continue ...

As these Olympics progress, I see Tweets popping up from people bemoaning the sports-centric world in which they're living right now -- from their Twitter stream to the office water cooler.

The solution is easy, you say. Stop following certain people. Walk away from the conversation. Turn the channel.

Not quite so ... not when your peers accuse you of being un-Canadian.

Yes, the Winter Olympiad are being held in Canada.

Yes, we have a terrific contingent of athletes representing our wonderful nation ... two gold medals so far, even!

And yes, they've worked their asses off to get to this stage, this pinnacle of all things athletic. They rightfully deserved our support.

But would we be any less Canadian if we didn't give a rat's derriere about the Olympics?

Am I less Canadian because I don't much care to watch luge, skeleton, bobsled or downhill skiing, even though I'll cheer for their finish and weep at their medal ceremony when I hear my favourite song, our national anthem?

Maybe it begs of us to define what is Canadian.

We remember Joe of I Am Canadian fame. The beer commerical sent waves of pride ad mare ad mare ... over beer of all things.

More recently, slam poet Shane Koyczan of Penticton, B.C., featured his Canadian rant at the opening ceremonies.

Comissioned by the Canadian Tourism Commission, the poem taps into many of the emotions we feel when we see our flag raised ... and it reminds us we're more than the nationalistic fervor brought on by the Olympics.

We are cultures strung together then woven into a tapestry

And the design is what makes us more than the sum totals of our history

Within that framework, we have to realize we are more than a Maple Leaf on a hockey jersey, more than the best damned hockey nation on the planet.

We are a country that cares, rushing to the aid of others who are in need.

We are polite. We are humble. We are even a tad shy on the international stage.

It's easy, I suppose, to identify with our athletic accomplishments. It's obvious. It feels good ... this vicarious success we achieve when our athletes receive a medal.

But it's no less Canadian to not want to participate in the fooforall, especially as we roar to the rooftops this fortnight with our pride at our athletes' achievements.

As we change our approach to beating our collective chest with a louder fist, we have to realize that it is very Canadian to have an opinion different from the mainstream and to voice that opinion.

In light of that, in fact, it strikes me as very un-Canadian to not be accepting of someone who exercises those abilities and dares to stand out among the crowd.

So now I ask of you, what does being Canadian mean to you?

Olympic fever

2010-02-14T21:29:00.007-07:00

I fell in love with Calgary more than 20 years ago.

It was shortly after my brother, Shane, returned home from an exchange program in Strathmore. His class had been White Hatted, an honour bestowed upon special guests to the city, and joined the ranks of KISS and the Dalai Lama.

I'm not sure if he ever realized the effect that visit had on me.

The pictures of mountains and the copy of the Calgary Sun depicted a magical place, so beyond anything I'd ever known in Antigonish, N.S.

And this was 1986, two years before Cowtown captured the hearts of the world by hosting the Olympic Winter Games.

Fast forward 24 years, skipping over one Stanley Cup championship, an incredible explosion to the economy and my arrival.

The Olympics are back in Canada, based in Vancouver.

Each time a Canadian wins a medal, the flame at the top of the Calgary Tower will be lit, sending our support across the Rockies and over to Vancouver.

Today, it honours Jennifer Heil of Spruce Grove, Alta., who captured silver last night in women's moguls.

Tomorrow, it will be burning bright for Kristina Groves, who claimed bronze in women's 3,000-metre speed skating, and moguls' Alexandre Bilodeau, the first Canadian to win gold on home soil.

Meanwhile, many of us who won't make it to Vancouver -- unlike lucky ducks Alex Ruiz, Jill Belland, Greg Hounslow, Danelle Wettstein and Wendy Peters -- will watch, sometimes breathlessly, and pound away on our keyboards.

Never before have the armchair quarterbacks had such a place to voice their opinion and express their pride in our nation and its athletes. Twitter is bringing a whole new level to the Olympics ... and boy, is it fun.

Of course, I'm now reminded how badly I need to clean off my screen.

My Olympic dream

2010-02-12T21:10:00.005-07:00

We trained alongside Robyn Meagher at the track field.

We knew her dedication and commitment to long-distance running.

It was many years later she realized her dream of running for Canada at the Olympics ... was it 1992 in Barcelona?

I never had such fantastic dreams for my athletics. Maybe I'd set the bar as high as playing softball for Kell's Angels but it never came to fruition.

Instead, I reached for my writing ... turned it into a career of writing about sports.

At which point, I took a new perspective on the Olympics, wondering what it would be like to be there.

Wondering what it would be like to file my stories on the fly, be surrounded by the best of my profession and bask in the glory of the Olympic Games.

Never mind Winter or Summer, I just wanted to be there.

I thought I was close.

When I covered the World Figure Skating Championships for the Calgary Sun in 2006, I thought I was never closer.

A colleague with whom I spent a great deal of time that week said he could see me representing the chain at the Olympics.

'Ya got good stuff, kid,' he said.

My eyes were as wide and as bright as that day so many years ago when a figure skating coach said to my mother 'she could be a great ice dancer with those edges.'

A couple of months later, my dream - my entire world - crashed and burned. I got handed my layoff slip, my walking papers, my 'don't let the door hit your ass' pass.

Beijing came and went without a second thought.

Now here I sit, the Vancouver Winter Games are opening ... my first Olympics not watching every other second at the office, writing columns for my weekly or tri-weekly or cleaning up someone else's copy at a daily.

The tears stream down my face through these ceremonies, bursting with pride as a Canadian, because it was a damn emotional opener.

And as I see my friend Tracy post on Twitter that her last life goal is to work an Olympics, I remember it was mine, too.

I've never been one to wonder 'what if,' because it indicates regret and an inability to learn from one's mistakes and strengthen one's resolve.

But there it is ...

What if.

And it hurts.

God, how it hurts.

The trouble with Twitter

2010-02-11T17:35:00.004-07:00

Don't get me wrong.

Twitter is a great communication tool. My social circle has expanded in ways I couldn't have imagined five years ago.

I have a new appreciation for its ability to disseminate information, following my participation in a fundraiser.

But with that fundraiser came an onslaught of more than 200 new followers, many of whom I felt obliged to follow. They are Flames fans, Calgary folks, photographers, philanthropists and interested in what I'm saying ... apparently.

Yeah, my profile bug says 'interesting as hell' but come on ... it's not like I really believe that. OK, maybe I do ... a little bit.

There's a problem with all these new folks I'm following, though. The people I really really really want to read are getting lost in the shuffle.

That tells me it's high time I sat my arse down, stopped Tweeting for a good couple of hours and sorted some people into lists.

I hope to do that some time this weekend. And please don't be offended if you don't make it onto one of my lists. If you @ me, I promise I'll respond.

And maybe then, you might make it onto a list.

In the meantime, here a couple of other teeny, tiny little faults about Twitter ... or would that be Tweeny, Twiny little?

Folks don't really get rhetorical questions. I've asked questions to which I didn't really want an answer and yet some people think it's an opening to a discussion. Not everything needs to be broken down but it seems I'll have to start saying #rhetoricalquestion to see if they get it.
In the same vein, sarcasm can be mistaken for serious tone. One has to take care when being flippant so as not to offend.
We're missing a temporary 'hide' button. Now I know y'all love my incessant Tweeting to the #Flames hashtag but I'm sure there may ... may ... be a small percentage of my followers who are disinterested. They could turn me off for a little while without un-following. (Credit for this shared with Alex Ruiz and @gotkube.
Creeps are sometimes unavoidable. Flirty Tweets among friends get misinterpreted by some watching. We had a guy requesting pictures and asking if we girls were really going to get together and what it is we really liked about each other. My skin crawled. And I blocked him.

If I could pass along some advice, it would be to read your post twice or thrice before hitting submit and ensure your intent will be understood.

And, please please please, don't be creepy.

That's just wrong.

My chubby buddy

2010-02-08T21:12:00.008-07:00

Three years ago, my dog had a problem.

He was 130 lb., almost 20 lb. more than his breed's healthy weight. He was lethargic and losing his hair in patches.

I was worried.

At the same time, I was not in a financial position to rush him off to the vet whenever I could.

As fate would happen, I slid into second base on opening night and busted my hand ... really good. I broke the thumb off at the Bennett's joint, tore the tendons in my hand and required surgery to put everything back together.

My friend, Dana, is a veterinarian technician. She was also my teammate. She not only handled me and my pain, getting me to emergency and back to the hospital for surgery, but she also kidnapped Shep for the weekend.

Knowing I was overnighting at Peter Lougheed, she took Shep into her home and made sure he was well taken care of.

She also seized the opportunity to get him in to see Dr. Bill and get his blood tested. Sure enough, his thyroid was out of whack.

He went on medication and, within days, he had his energy back. Inside of two months, he was back to a healthy weight.

Fast forward three years to Saturday afternoon and his annual blood test.

Shep is a strange dog. He loves going to the vet. He knows his buddy Tundra will be there with Auntie Dana and he loves the attention he gets ... from the girls at reception to Dr. Bill.

He's just that kind of dog you can't help but love.

So we stick around to watch Auntie Dana run the blood test.

It's good news. His thyroid levels are high.

That means his dose of medication is too high, too.

So now we get to scale back on the amount of pills he has to take to keep everything regulated.

It's funny, because that isn't the kind of thing we can have control over. But, at the same time, I'm immensely proud of my boo for getting better.

He's happy - at least I think so - and he's healthy.

And because of the incredible love I've learned from him, I'll always ensure he gets to do the things he loves ... like heading for the hills for a good, long run.

I met a Girl Guide, she made me nervous

2010-02-04T20:06:00.001-07:00

It's one thing to steal cookies from the Girl Guides but a flute riff?

Well, that's just ... just ... just weird news to be surfacing almost 30 years later.

According to this Canwest story, Men At Work stole a flute riff from Girl Guides' tune, Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree, for their 1980s hit, Down Under.

Refresh your memory. It's pure '80s cheese, particularly the dance scene around 1:45.

The flute riff, said federal court Justice Peter Jacobsen, "replicates in material form a substantial part" of the 1935 camping ditty.

So, somebody's going to get some cash from EMI and Men At Workers Colin Hay and Ron Strykert ... as in more than 60 per cent of the song's royalties.

Whoa.

That's a lot of coin.

In the Herald Sun of Australia, Hay waxed poetic about the song, calling it "my friend, ever since it was born."

A tad creepy. But hey, when you have three, maybe four, songs that fans want to hear over and over and over again, one probably starts to feel like family?

Hay goes on to disagree with Jacobsen's findings, asserting that two bars (O Henry? Snickers?) of Kookaburra inspired the flute series of Down Under, but the riff was nowhere close to the original.

"I believe what has won today is opportunistic greed and what has suffered is creative musical endeavor," Hay writes. "This outcome will have no real impact upon the relationship that I have with our song ... for we are connected forever."

Dude, it's not a baby.

And next time, watch out for those Girl Guides. They're vicious little bitches.

Fathers and sons

2010-02-03T22:29:00.003-07:00

Oh ESPN, how you love to beat a dead horse?

Encircle the corpse and lay waste to even the flies with your bats. If the horse ever opened his eyes, we might read PCLoadLetter in its pupils.

Ad nauseum, the American sports broadcasting giant mentioned the Brandon Sutter-Brent Sutter relationship tonight during the Carolina Hurricanes-Calgary Flames game.

We, as Flames fans, had no choice but to watch the ESPN feed online.

First intermission, Brandon and Brent interviews about this being the first time in NHL history a son has played a team coached by his father.

Second intermission, same thing.

Now you might think this is a rant.

It is not a rant. (Use your Arnold Schwarzenegger voice to say that, please)

In fact, it reminded me of a story from days of yore.

You see, even media folk have opportunities for hazing the newbies.

There I was, a rookie on the Kamloops Blazers WHL beat. It was maybe my sixth game in the press box at what was then known as Riverside Coliseum.

I have no recollection of the opposition that night.

But Bob Gainey was in the building. Yes, that Bob Gainey ... legendary left winger for the Montreal Canadiens, winner of four Frank Selke trophies, a five-time Stanley Cup champion, inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame in 1992 and currently executive vice-president and general manager of the Habs.

Back then, he was managing the Dallas Stars.

And his son, Steve, was playing for the Blazers.

Scott Cruickshank, now of Calgary Herald fame, was writing for the Kamloops Daily News. He and I quickly became beat buddies, chatting in the press box and keeping each other up on the play.

This night, he said, 'hey, did you know Bob Gainey's here?'

Still a bit capable of getting a little starstruck, my eyes widened and I said, 'no way!'

'Yup, and he looooooves to talk about his kid. I've done the story before but you might want to catch up with him.'

'Cool. Great idea. Thanks.'

I bet you can see what's coming now.

Yeeeeeah ...

Bob doesn't like to talk about his kid.

In fact, he can be pretty gruff when it comes dealing with such matters.

Scary even.

I excitedly asked Bob if I could ask him about watching the game.

'Stephen is his own man,' he grunted in my general direction. 'Talk to him about the game.'

I slunked off. My tail between my legs.

I got back to press box position, completely forgetting I also gave a brief thought to asking Bob for an autograph, given that my eldest brother has been a lifelong Habs fan.

There was Cruickshank, biting his lip.

'How did it go,' he asked.

'Not well.'

He burst out laughing, slamming his hand against the counter.

I don't remember whether Cruickshank told me he'd gotten caught in the jig, too, or whether he just happened to fall into the Gainey trap.

But I'll never forget that night.

Another one bites the dust

2010-02-02T21:57:00.001-07:00

How bizarre.

You know when some news pops into your RSS feed and you think, 'huh? who?' So you read a little bit further and you think, 'oh yeeeeaaaah, that guy ... huh.'

Pauly Fuemana died yesterday.

Huh? Who?

He's a New Zealander who sung under the banner of OMC.

Who?

One-hit wonder from the 1990s ... How Bizarre.

Oh, that guy!

The little ditty reached No. 1 in Canada and peaked at No. 4 in the United States.

I'm pretty sure I had it on a CD (remember those?) in my car.

Here, have a listen:

Hello ... again

2010-01-31T22:33:00.001-07:00

It's been a while.

So sorry.

I didn't mean it. I ended up devoting every spare minute of my life to a fundraiser for Haiti. All of my blogs were neglected.

Shep was neglected.

Work was neglected.

I was neglected.

But it was worth it, knowing a group of people came together to create an awesome event that will benefit people who need our money more than we do.

To you, however, I say 'Hello ... again.'

And so do The Cars.

The Pit Stops

I'm moving

Rehab

Closed spaces

Ephiphany No. 3: Hair today

Epiphany No. 2: Don't be stupid

Epiphany No. 1: Shit happens

After dark

Family traditions

Into the darkness

Good spot

Lost that lovin' feeling

Rebel body

I ain't no reindeer

Sending out an SOS

Gettin' girlie

Ghost of Christmas past

Shopping socially

Got me a rubdown

Musical memories

Ridin' solo

Me and my iron

Keep trying

Strong and determined

Stroke of luck

Bummed out

The weight of the world

Wanderlust

You like what where?

Change is good, so is Shep

The fright of my life

Stuck in a rut

A farewell to bats

What's your instinct?

In the twilight

Breaking the fast ... in a good-for-you way

Original Joe's and customer service

The journey of a tooth

Late-summer cabin fever

Hanging 'em up?

Yoga for one

What I Tweet about

That's so totally tubular

Bailing and biryani

Heading to the Hockey Summit

Living on the edge

You've lost that lovin' feeling

Rumble in the sky

Kick it, kick it, yeah, that's the ticket

Don't Thai me down

Spanish pork and other stories

Back from the gym

Five down, 10 to go

Hammering on the gavel

The last week

Why keep it a secret?

Why my dog rocks

Writing long form

Finding my Zen

Put the camera down

T-shirt hell

Read more, learn more

Spring has sprung

A dirty little secret

Gettin' my groove on

Who doesn't know the words?

Cue up the Queen song

It's gonna be a good ... night?

A study in paradoxes

Grumble, grumble, grumble ... wake up to a song

Walking in the sun

Happy news?

Have you gone home yet?

Hittin' the trails

I get by ...

Thirty and flirty and thriving

The great thing about MP3 players

Life in a paradox

Moving on ... my Olympic dream, part II

Life is a highway