girl power inc.

girl power inc. things written down

Arse to 5 K: Prelude to a Miss.

By 4 Comments

Three Bums Up for Arse to 5 K!

 

A small flotilla of ducks regard me serenely from the lake as I begin a vigorous set of calisthenics to warm up.

 

There are three of them, and all are still watching ten seconds later as I sit on a bench to pant and rest.

 

One of them, whom I have dubbed Little Waddler, swims ashore to plop next to me, in expectations of Bickies.

 

No, I say. No Bickies today.

 

Today we are turning over a new leaf.

 

Nay, not merely a leaf, today we are turning over the entire book.

 

The complete bookcase!

 

But the bookcase is heavy.

 

Let’s stick with turning over a single leaf for now.

 

Little Waddler moves closer, as if I had not said no, but had said, as I have said many times before: Yes. Get ready for Bickies.

 

It is a good omen that an odd number of ducks have appeared to support me; the ultimate odd duck.

 

I’m wearing a new workout top so fancy it comes with directions. It took me three tries to get into it. There are strings and webbings and overlapping straps.  I nearly strangled myself putting it on. Now that I’m in it, I have to wear it forever. I’m fearful of what might happen if I try to take it off unassisted. If worse comes to worse the paramedics can cut me out of it.

 

The lake is in perfect fall glory. The leaves are swooning.

 

The clouds are migrating south and the geese are honking their joy. A single plop of goose poop paints a rock.

 

Fall always reminds me of new beginnings, which is why I have chosen this exact time to break in my new app: Couch to 5 K.  It’s a clever program of exercise that talks you through incrementally increasing walk/run intervals. Like boiling a frog.

 

I push Start and a bossy female voice says: Run Now.

 

Right, I think. OK, does she mean run now this very exact minute? Or does she mean take a second and then start to run? Or does she mean get ready to run now?

 

As I fumble with my phone trying to find my favourite motivational running song the bossy female voice says: Walk Now.

 

Oh, dear. OK, she caught me off guard that time.

 

No problem. I will walk now, just like she said.

 

Then from out of nowhere she barks: Run Now!

 

Hmm. That was fast. I must have jostled the phone.

 

OK!  I will run now! Here I go! I am running!

 

Little Waddler sets out with me, still salivating about Bickies. I feel guilty. Poor Little Waddler.

Little Waddler flirting for Bickies.

 

I will leave you far behind in my wake, Little Waddler.

 

I run and I run and I run.

 

Wow, I think. I’ve been running for a really long time. I’m getting winded. It’s only supposed to be a one-minute run interval before I walk again. This App is definitely broken. I feel like I have been running for five minutes now.

 

I check the time.

 

Oh.

 

I’ve been running for 35 seconds.

 

Hmm.

 

OK! I’ll just walk for the rest of the 60 seconds until I get warmed up.

 

Why is Little Waddler still looking at me with those big duck eyes?

 

People walking their dogs give me the side eye as I ramble along with Little Waddler. That duck is fast.

 

The bossy lady continues to bark in my ear: Walk Now! Run Now! Walk Run Walk Run!

 

I shout: Make up your frigging mind!

 

This App is out of control. She is a megalomaniac with control issues. Shut up, lady in the APP!

 

Why is this stupid APP called Couch to 5 K? They should call it “Drag your couch around the lake for 5 K” cause that’s what it feels like.

 

Couch, my arse.

 

The boardwalk creaks beneath my feet. A branch filled with dogberries smacks me in the face.

 

I’ve been sitting around on my arse for far too long. On the couch. On the bed. On my yoga mat where I replaced my statue of Buddha with a bowl of big puffy Cheezies. Sitting with my dark companions: Anxiety and Depression.

 

Sometimes in life, a bad thing can happen. Sometimes two bad things happen. Sometimes even three bad things happen all in a row and you think: Holy shit. Life has no filter.

 

Anxiety and Depression are eager to come out of retirement.

Don’t mind me, I’ll just lurk around.

 

They are the cohorts who instigate evils and then disappear when it comes time to pay the piper. These cats like to gallop up and down the stairs at 3 in the morning.

 

Depression has control of the clicker, seducing me to curl up in the Archie Bunker chair to watch the Real Housewives of New York City, followed by the Real Housewives of New Jersey, and then the Real Housewives of Orange County, and then the Real Housewives of Dallas, and then the real Housewives of Nothing, because according to Depression, I am Nothing.

 

Anxiety is the worry wart who frets nonstop: You can’t go out, you will fall down, you will trip up, you will meet someone you know who will say hi, and you will be stupid, and not know what to say back, and you will babble like the babbler you are, stay home.

 

Anxiety says: Ignore those bills. If you don’t open them they don’t count. Throw them behind the fridge.

 

Anxiety says no when I want to say yes, says yes when I want to say no. Anxiety makes plans that never happen.

 

I get myself off my arse, get my arse outdoors, moving around, arse in the world. I will give the term ‘arse-foremost’ a positive connotation.

 

I wheeze and sweat.

 

Damn you, Couch to 5 k. I would dash you to pieces on the ground except you are now cunningly hidden inside of my phone.

 

I finish crawling around the lake, Little Waddler ahead by a nose. I prop myself against a rock and we share the Bickie I carry around in my fanny pack for emergency purposes.

 

It’s not about my weight, I tell Little Waddler.

 

It’s about all the stuff that’s weighing me down.

 

A leaf splattered with goose poop softly floats down to land poop-side down on one of my new pink sneakers.

 

I reach down and turn it over. Grateful.

 

To be continued…

 

Boarding House Reach!

By 1 Comment

Click the poster to purchase tickets!

 

“No two strangers ever sat down at my table that didn’t stand up as friends. The rules of the house are posted on the inside of your room door. I do not permit any food or drink in the rooms, and that includes alcohol. There is absolutely no sleepwalking permitted on my premises and excessive snoring will not be tolerated. The streetcar runs from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. and I lock my front door at 10.15. Not 10.14. Not 10.16. Precisely at 10.15. Never argue with a Brazil Square landlady. My mind is just like my bed. I make it up when I’m good and ready, I make it up my own self and no one changes it but me.”

Mrs. Kent, in Brazil Square.

I was born in 1959. When my family moved from North West River, Labrador to Marystown, Newfoundland in the 60’s I was introduced to my beloved Uncle Bern, my mother’s brother. He was a road cowboy. A long road taxi driver, driving people from the outer reaches of Newfoundland over the dirt roads into the metropolis of St. John’s. It took 12 hours sometimes to make the trek and we rattled in to Brazil Square, the touchstone of our destination, dust covered pioneers. Brazil Square was a busy bustling welcoming home away from home. Brazil Square is my homage to the many wonderful people who lived there, to those who came and went, and to those of us who still remember.

“I starts my new job at the Presentation Convent tomorrow. Housekeeping for the Nuns. My Aunt did it all her life until she fell down and broke her hip last month. So Nan arranged for me to take over cause she says I got no head for education. I told her, I used to have a head for education but the Nuns beat it out of me for being stunned.”

Daisy, in Brazil Square.

It is the plague of even the most successful playwright that it is difficult to get multiple productions of even the most successful script. ‘Brazil Square’ was blessed with two previous incarnations, one with RCAT, and another with TNL. I was wishing out loud not long ago that someone else would produce the play when a friend said, “Yes someone should. You.”

So here we are, on this showboat of a show, with a wonderful group of people who believe in the play as much as I do. We are making music, singing, acting up a storm and taking our chances. It’s very much a passion project, meaning a tiny budget starting out.

“I want to speak to real Newfoundlanders, not just politicians, but real down to earth types. When I was “on the Burin”, for example, they allowed me to share in the custom of immersing ones self in the frigid waters while clad in…ones’ birthday suit.”

Mr. Winton, in Brazil Square.

I hope people will have as much fun watching it as we are rehearsing it. Tickets are on sale now here – purchase soon to avoid disappointment as we have sold out our previous runs!

Shows play Wednesdays thru Saturdays at 8pm and Saturdays at 3pm from July 5-22 at the Majestic Theatre on Duckworth Street. Come visit us on the Square!

 

Killing Time in Airports: Life in the Fog Lane.

By 1 Comment

Contemplating the fogs of St. John’s.

 

Living in St. John’s means that in order to fly one first has to transcend the climate. Newfoundland-Labrador is extremely challenging for even the most determined traveler. A minor breeze of mist will ground the largest airlines while the smallest cigar sized plane will merrily bounce into altitude through the blizzard.

 

The wait for delayed flights to either arrive or depart creates an excellent window for attending to the brutal details of life. Now is the time to minister to the chores of administration one habitually avoids. It’s the time to make the tough phone calls. The airport is the best place to have any awful conversation, because one can bail with the simple and truthful statement: Oh, I’ve got to dash, the flight is being called. It may not be your specific flight, but seeing as someone’s flight is always being called, this is a ready stand by for a hasty exit. Now is the time to send the rejection slips. Or in my case, read the rejection slips.

 

Do the breaking up. Get broken up with. Walk out of the debris of your life confident that someone will sweep it up after you leave and it will be like it never happened. In fact, it will be like you never happened, so damn the torpedoes. Airports are like self-cleaning ovens. Except, unlike self-cleaning ovens, airports are great places for scavenging. Forgotten sunglasses. Half empty, but still warm coffee cups. Hair buckles, phones, sometimes travel pillows, or stuffed animals. It’s fun to go the lost & found and say: Excuse me, did anyone turn in….um….by chance…any…you know. It has happened that the attendant helpfully replies: A wallet containing five thousand dollars?

 

Take the opportunity to weep in public. If done correctly with just the right amount of sorrow, but not straying into hysteria, it often results in you being given a free upgrade.

 

When people around you are speaking rapidly in a foreign language, stare at them with veiled meaning, as if you understand completely what they are saying and disapprove.

 

Especially while in the airport: Don’t forget to get on the plane.

 

Peace and Love, my travelers.