Archive for April 2002

Happy Birthday Dad!

Ten reasons why my dad is amazing

1. he builds beautiful furniture as a hobby.
2. he thinks like me – okay maybe I’m the only one who thinks that’s a good thing.
3. he has the strangest sense of humour.
4. he’s dependable in a crises.
5. he came to my swim meets all through university to cheer me on and when I swam poorly, put my head together for the next race.
6. he’s super supportive of all the choices I make in my life.
7. he bikes and lifts weights regularly so he’s in awesome shape.
8. he believes in honesty, truth, and the importance of family.
9. when mom was out when I was little, he used to put the stereo on really loud and I’d dance through the house.
10. he and my mom are still wonderfully in love.
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check out julie’s redesign. Wow.


i love flat rate long distance plans

I called one of my oldest and best friends last night to chat, sat on the couch, opened a bottle of red wine, and remembered why I love her so much. People that we’ve known for a long time are really special parts of our lives, she is aware of all the hidden secrets of my past and my present, and when we talk our conversation moves fluidly between our high school loves (1993) and the current states of our hearts. I’ve known Jen for 9 years now, and through those nine years we’ve probably written each other a hundred letters. I’ve confided more in her than in anyone, and relied on her words of support and love and her unwavering faith in my abilities through every tough time in my adult life. Not only that, our backgrounds diverged in university, with her theatre degree the opposite end of the spectrum from my physics degree. She has never let me forget the value of the arts, even when the rest of my life was full of math and science, she’s kept a spark of poetry and imagination alive. I owe her lots for that. I’m a very lucky person to have such a wonderful friend. I don’t know how often she checks this site, but if you do read this Jen, thanks for the lovely talk last night, I’ll phone again soon!


Harrison Lake

We found the perfect campsite in the provincial park, a waterfront spot that had a small path leading in twenty steps to a broad, flat rock that overlooked the lake. It was almost big enough for the tent, and we easily could have slept on it under the open sky, but we opted instead to save the rock for morning tea and pitched our tent on the actual site higher up.

Cory went for a walk further along the shore, I was wearing sandals and couldn’t follow him through the muck so I went back up to write in my journal at the picnic table. It was cold too, and I was so chilled that I sat on the book of poetry I’m reading. It made me smile that a book of poetry by a noble prize winning poet is best used as a seat cushion when camping in April. The world was beautiful enough that evening, I didn’t need to read of it when it was all around me.

We snuggled into the tent early, around 9 ish, and played crib under the led lights of Cory’s head-lamp. He won, which indicates my horrible luck for games of chance, but I still enjoyed it, the confined space and warmth of my sleeping bag beginning to lull me to sleep. There is something magical about tents, something that overrides the sore joints in the morning, the lack of space to toss and turn in a sleeping bag, and the awkward pillows made of yesterday’s clothing. I think it’s the fresh air which flows under the fly all night and makes each breath slightly chilled and sweet, and the sense of belonging with the outdoors, the noises of the waterfall in the background, and the lapping of the water on the rocks. Stiff shoulders and all, I woke up happy in the morning, and lay in my bag relaxed for the first time in weeks as Cory made tea in our stove which sounds like a jet engine and yet somehow doesn’t run the wilderness for us.

With our tea and a thermarest to sit on, we went to the rock outlook and sat overlooking the lake. Neither of us talked too much, a quiet moment enjoying the solitude of the spot. It was almost raining, and the sky spilled dense fog down the sides of the hills enclosing the lake and we watched as the fog got closer and closer to us. Through the fog, the hills behind took on different colours, an almost purple-green, the trees became a hidden secret as we sat there until we had to leave before the fog and rain reached us too.

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serenity finally accomplished didn’t stay with me for too long this weekend. On the way back from Harrison we stopped at a parking lot in Chilliwack so I could practice my driving skills (I’m learning to drive standard, this is the first time I’ve ever had a chance to drive anything that wasn’t an automatic). Serenity and the clutch on the car do not go together… and I’m still unable to start the damn car on a hill without rolling back twenty feet and freaking. Then two heartbreaking hockey games later (Montreal vs Boston, Vancouver vs Detroit) and I need a weekend all over again…


Golfing in the rain, not

Golfing in the rain, not a downpour, but enough to leave my hair stuck to the sides of my cheeks and my toes damp and squishy. There’s no one behind us on the course, the weather and distance from the city has determined that we’re pretty much on our own, so I don’t feel rushed. That’s useful as my ball is going everywhere but in the air where it’s supposed to. The only beginner and only girl again within my group I watch them swear when they miss shots that I couldn’t even dream of attempting and their casual banter has the power to reduce me to tears. Keep your head down and let me watch the ball for you – as if it’s under my control at this point, enough to make me cry, except that I am already crying with frustration at so many poor shots so any extra tears go unnoticed. I wish they all were women so they’d understand why I’m crying, not with sadness, but frustration and the need to release all the feelings that prevent me from focusing on the next shot. I wish they knew that I cry for relief, that as a woman, crying is as natural and needed as smiling, and that by the time I’ve shed a few tears and walked to my ball, my head is okay and I’m happy again. I wish they knew that crying really would make it all better.