The Time Grinch Who Stole Christmas

Hey hey hey, ho ho ho, it's Christmas time, and I almost missed it. Actually, if my office party hadn't been last week, I probably would have. I've been busy enough that the first cup of straight-up eggnog has yet to be consumed. 

Okay, there was an eggnog latte somewhere in November, back when I thought I would still have the time to buy a tree and decorate it. Please don't judge me. Occasionally I'll indulge in a ridiculous, expensive whipped cream and flavouring concoction from the 'bucks, like I own an Audi and send my kids to Mandarin class. 

I don't have an Audi. And my kids are really just one cat with boundary issues. 

Anyway, I need some Christmas spirit pronto. Obviously Christmas cards are no longer a possibility, but I think if I can cut some snowflakes while watching Die Hard, I'll be okay. 

The Indignity of Winter Biking

Putting aside the idiotic columnists and angry drivers, getting the Silver Bullet* on the road was one of the better decisions I made this year. As I coasted down hill after hill, free from TTC-induced psychosis, I thought the good times would never end.

And then summer turned to fall, which turned to the fetal winter we're having right now. Snow, slush, ice; all good reasons to stop biking for a bit. I also got a nasty cold in November. With phlegm clogging the bike's engine (ie my lungs) the Silver Bullet was locked up for a week, which stretched into two, and eventually became December. 

And what better month, I thought, to retire my bike for the season and buy a metropass? The city would once again be my oyster, or during rush hour, my sardine can. That lasted for about six days before the card was mysteriously misplaced around Bathurst station. It was kind of like taking $130 and gleefully tossing it out of the back window of the Bathurst bus. 

So it was time to put the saddle back on the steed. The first day wasn't so bad. Sure, my nose ran with rivers of snot, and my legs were as frozen as two fishsticks. My coworker, watching my approach, insisted that a Mercedes almost ran me over, but let's not dwell on that particular indignity. Instead, let's focus on the parade of shame that was this morning's commute. 

I knew it was going to be slushy out there, but I didn't realize how my fender-free tires would liberally spray me with the road's effluvia. Halfway through I regretted my decision to bike, as I opened my mouth to breathe (nose already plugged with cold-induced mucus) and tasted the salty bouquet of fresh road slush. Neither the road conditions, nor tidings of comfort and joy, deterred the drivers from crowding me as I lurched down Spadina. And yet, somehow, I managed to arrive at work (please see "artist"'s rendering, above), only to leave and almost instantaneously go airborne as high winds whipped my bike at the curb, and cardboard boxes and recycling bins at me. 

Which is why I don't understand people who hate cyclists. Save your anger for something else, because eventually the inanimate objects and meteorological events will take us out.

*So named because it is rusty and slow

A 6.0 for Effort

When I was young I decided that I wasn't a very athletic person, and so I decided to resign myself from any and all physical pursuits - volleyball, basketball, tug of war - and pursue a life of the mind.

Unfortunately, the life of the mind has proven as untrustworthy as my own coordination skills, but that's not the point.

No, the point is that yesterday, I strapped on a pair of skates like a good Canadian, and stepped on to the ice at Nathan Phillips square like a good Torontonian.

And then... I stopped.

Skate forward? NO FOR I WOULD SURELY DIE. My mental dialogue was something like "How do you move on skates? How do you MOVE? How how how?" The physics didn't seem to make any sense. Better to stay completely still and not rip a hole in the space/time continuum.

I tried to keep my balance while yelling at my friends that it didn't make any sense. I tried to reconcile the seeming impossibility of my current task (forward movement) with the fact that I used to be able to skate. I could never skate well, mind you, but I used to get around the rinks of Guelph in some way.

Before my brain melted out of my ears and I resolved this paradox by kicking off my skates and wandering to the hot dog cart for a hot dog, Dan held out his hand. I moved forward, like a child learning to walk. And thanks to my trusty personal human post, I ice-walked around the rink. But, damnit, at least I didn't fall.

Weekend Report

I don't know about you guys, but last week felt like a long limp towards an increasingly distant finish line. And so this weekend has been all about recovery, by which of course I mean "doing nothing but watching Scandal, only occasionally venturing forth to drink beer with friends."

Thus, not much to report. I did watch the Saturday night Habs/Leafs game at a Habs bar. I had to get the old Dryden t-shirt out of storage. Last year's strike really burned me on hockey, and I had maybe watched half of a game this season. But I'm glad I went. It might have been the wings, or maybe it was our 4-2 win, or maybe it was even the beer talking (it was totally the beer), but it was a lot of fun.

Now, I'm hoping for a more productive week. Because beer and addictive TV is great and all, but sometimes a girl's got goals.