I'm done with chain restaurants. The last straw was the fifty bucks I laid out for a seafood something-or-other at a franchise in Orangeville that was so clearly, obviously microwaved, I'm pretty sure I could taste the 'beep'. It made me think that if I wanted food from a pouch or a box, I might have saved 45 of those dollars and gone to the frozen aisle at the grocery store down the street. So, when possible, it's mom-and-pop dining for me now.
So far, so good, and I do mean good: Cuomo's in Niagara Falls, NY, Mountain Shores in Collingwood, and now Greckos in North Bay. Tasty real food that an actual person in the very location where I'm eating, actually cooked. I'm not saying there's no place for the Huts, Houses and Tims, I'm just saying whenever there's a choice, I'm going with the little guy.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Inevitable, unbelievable, unspeakable
I've been in a news-free zone for several days, rolling in to a hotel with wifi last night to discover what many of you have been thinking about for a while. Oh, Norway! Poor, poor Jack Layton! And is anyone surprised in the least at Amy Winehouse, she of "Rehab- no no no" fame?
How fast the world can change, even on a dock with no electricity...
How fast the world can change, even on a dock with no electricity...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
PhysiOK
Well, I feel a little silly about that whole physiotherapy thing.
I have been trying to end the screaming in my poor old knees on this quest for a measly 5K run. I was on my third visit when the revelation hit. I had been watched running, I had been given exercises, I had my shoes examined and my hips looked at, even did some running out of my shoes (by the way, I can still only last about 90 seconds at time...), and with some consternation, one of the therapists innocently posited, "You're doing some stretching after your runs, right?"
Um, well, ummm, does stretching out on the couch trying to catch my breath count?
She showed me a simple leg-lift, the one where you catch your ankle and pull it up to your butt, and at that second, when my thigh muscle was stretched a bit, my knee stopped screaming to make way for the singing of all the little angels in heaven.
And now, since I stretch after (and sometimes during) a run, I barely ever have even a twinge of pain in my knees. How embarrassing to have wasted so much time! Boy, I wish I had been paying attention in gym class. I thought the stretching was just what you did at the end of figure skating practice so you could show off while chatting up the hockey players. Not that I had much success in that direction, either.
When I told my 11 year old niece and soon-to-be road race companion what had happened and what had fixed it, she gave me a look that only a kid in the 21st century can give an adult. You know the one: incredulity tinged with disgust and a smidgen of pity. It's the same one I give my mother when she can't work her digital camera.
I have been trying to end the screaming in my poor old knees on this quest for a measly 5K run. I was on my third visit when the revelation hit. I had been watched running, I had been given exercises, I had my shoes examined and my hips looked at, even did some running out of my shoes (by the way, I can still only last about 90 seconds at time...), and with some consternation, one of the therapists innocently posited, "You're doing some stretching after your runs, right?"
Um, well, ummm, does stretching out on the couch trying to catch my breath count?
She showed me a simple leg-lift, the one where you catch your ankle and pull it up to your butt, and at that second, when my thigh muscle was stretched a bit, my knee stopped screaming to make way for the singing of all the little angels in heaven.
And now, since I stretch after (and sometimes during) a run, I barely ever have even a twinge of pain in my knees. How embarrassing to have wasted so much time! Boy, I wish I had been paying attention in gym class. I thought the stretching was just what you did at the end of figure skating practice so you could show off while chatting up the hockey players. Not that I had much success in that direction, either.
When I told my 11 year old niece and soon-to-be road race companion what had happened and what had fixed it, she gave me a look that only a kid in the 21st century can give an adult. You know the one: incredulity tinged with disgust and a smidgen of pity. It's the same one I give my mother when she can't work her digital camera.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Ducking out of Dukan
It wasn't the diet itself that I couldn't take for more than three days: it was the complaining.
After three solid days of kvetching, whining, complaining and deep, sad sighs about all the things that aren't allowed on very restrictive Dukan Diet, I cracked a beer for my sweetheart, handed it over and said, "I would rather have you die young than listen to this!"
The point of going on a weight-loss program is to lengthen your life and make the extra years more pleasant, right? Well, I am not convinced I want my honey to live even one extra second if it means I have to hear him complain about his deprivation non-stop. The final straw come when I suggested we hang out in the hot tub, and heard the plaintive howl, " Is that allowed in Dukan?"
So, we're trying something else.
I'm calling it 'Fit for Dukan', my own made-up thing which is a combination of Fit for Life (food combinations and timing), which has worked for me in the past, and Dukan (low-carb, low fat, high-protein). It looks like this: nothing but fruit until lunch, and lunch and dinner are meat and veggies; no potatoes, no rice, no bread. We will exercise, too, but booze is still allowed, in moderation, and we get 'cheat days' once in a while when anything goes.
So far, there's been no whinging, so that's a plus.
I'll let you know whether we feel and look better in a month or so.
After three solid days of kvetching, whining, complaining and deep, sad sighs about all the things that aren't allowed on very restrictive Dukan Diet, I cracked a beer for my sweetheart, handed it over and said, "I would rather have you die young than listen to this!"
The point of going on a weight-loss program is to lengthen your life and make the extra years more pleasant, right? Well, I am not convinced I want my honey to live even one extra second if it means I have to hear him complain about his deprivation non-stop. The final straw come when I suggested we hang out in the hot tub, and heard the plaintive howl, " Is that allowed in Dukan?"
So, we're trying something else.
I'm calling it 'Fit for Dukan', my own made-up thing which is a combination of Fit for Life (food combinations and timing), which has worked for me in the past, and Dukan (low-carb, low fat, high-protein). It looks like this: nothing but fruit until lunch, and lunch and dinner are meat and veggies; no potatoes, no rice, no bread. We will exercise, too, but booze is still allowed, in moderation, and we get 'cheat days' once in a while when anything goes.
So far, there's been no whinging, so that's a plus.
I'll let you know whether we feel and look better in a month or so.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Concert Review: Hugh Jackman
I have come to believe Hugh Jackman is practically perfect in every way. At his sold-out show at the Princess of Wales theatre last night, he was alternately funny, sweet, sincere, quick, generous and absolutely on key with his big beautiful tenor/baritone. He knocked the socks off the entire audience. While I truly doubt anyone in that theatre arrived expecting to be less than thrilled, judging from the several standing ovations, i think no one was disappointed, either.
What I saw, from my 12th row vantage point, was an entertainer at the height of his considerable powers, but with a humility about him that is even more attractive than his very handsome face. I got the sense that he's acutely aware of his good fortune and eager to make the most of every minute of it. It's a rare thing to see someone so self assured who doesn't leave me wondering if they're not a bit of a jerk off stage. No question of that with Jackman; I want to be his buddy as well as his audience. Further, it was patently obvious that in addition to being massively talented, he was having a marvelous time up there.
It was tremendous and I feel lucky to have seen him for myself.
Many, many thanks to my lovely friends who made it happen!
What I saw, from my 12th row vantage point, was an entertainer at the height of his considerable powers, but with a humility about him that is even more attractive than his very handsome face. I got the sense that he's acutely aware of his good fortune and eager to make the most of every minute of it. It's a rare thing to see someone so self assured who doesn't leave me wondering if they're not a bit of a jerk off stage. No question of that with Jackman; I want to be his buddy as well as his audience. Further, it was patently obvious that in addition to being massively talented, he was having a marvelous time up there.
It was tremendous and I feel lucky to have seen him for myself.
Many, many thanks to my lovely friends who made it happen!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Maybe her name is Kate Dukan...
I am not ashamed to admit that I'm a little bit in love with Catherine Windsor. Or Wales. Or Middleton. Whatever her last name is, she's awesome; poised, calm, cool and collected and clearly not afraid to let her sister get some limelight, so, generous, too, not to mention gorgeous, why, she's practically picture-perfect nearly all the time.
Now, Catherine is the same height as me, and she has my middle name, but that's about where the similarities end. From the research I've done, (OK, the websites that trade in this sort of gossip), I figure the duchess is fully 50 pounds lighter than I am. Fifty. Zoikes!
So, I'm going on her diet, or at least, the diet she, her sister and mother are rumoured by most of the tabloids to be have been on before the big wedding. Today is day three of Dukan, and I can honestly say, it's not much fun.
First of all, I cannot stress enough how much I hate, loathe and am disgusted by yogurt. Seriously, people, it's just half-rotten milk! Blech!
In a fit of health consciousness a few years ago, I read the 'French Women' book, but because of the preponderance of yogurt recommended, yogurt which I was supposed to make myself (rotting milk on my kitchen counter day after day? No, thanks!), I never started it.
Cottage cheese is only marginally less loathsome than yogurt, and these two products are very important in Dukan, so I'm not sure how I'm going to manage.
The meat might make up for it. There's meat on Dukan. Oh, there's lots and lots of meat, but, and here's the kicker: no booze until the fourth phase of the diet, which for me, will come in November.
Yeah....I'm thinking this fad's not going to last even until tomorrow.
Now, Catherine is the same height as me, and she has my middle name, but that's about where the similarities end. From the research I've done, (OK, the websites that trade in this sort of gossip), I figure the duchess is fully 50 pounds lighter than I am. Fifty. Zoikes!
So, I'm going on her diet, or at least, the diet she, her sister and mother are rumoured by most of the tabloids to be have been on before the big wedding. Today is day three of Dukan, and I can honestly say, it's not much fun.
First of all, I cannot stress enough how much I hate, loathe and am disgusted by yogurt. Seriously, people, it's just half-rotten milk! Blech!
In a fit of health consciousness a few years ago, I read the 'French Women' book, but because of the preponderance of yogurt recommended, yogurt which I was supposed to make myself (rotting milk on my kitchen counter day after day? No, thanks!), I never started it.
Cottage cheese is only marginally less loathsome than yogurt, and these two products are very important in Dukan, so I'm not sure how I'm going to manage.
The meat might make up for it. There's meat on Dukan. Oh, there's lots and lots of meat, but, and here's the kicker: no booze until the fourth phase of the diet, which for me, will come in November.
Yeah....I'm thinking this fad's not going to last even until tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Universe Telling Me Something?
I'm in in the market for a new vehicle. Two of them, actually, since the rust buckets in my driveway are 15 and 13 years old respectively. My sweetheart and I believe in taking care of our vehicles and driving them 'til they drop, and we figure the day they die is getting close.
13 years out of the car-buying market is a long time. A lot has happened. In addition to the bankruptcies and bailouts, there are the redesigns. "What's a crossover?" my sweetie asked a few weeks ago as we headed to the first of several dealerships we've visited so far. At the end of that day, he wanted the 4-door Jeep. After the next test-drives, he wanted some sort of crossover thingy that was far, far out of our price range. At each of the dealerships we've been to, he finds something else he just loves. It's going to be a long summer.
As for me, the situation is not nearly so confusing. I adore my 13 year old car, have loved it since before I bought it and I will simply buy another of the same model when mine gives up the ghost. The only question for me is what colour.
Although, I did see the car of my dreams last night, the one I sincerely doubt will ever reside in the same tax bracket as me. The Audi TT. It's just...breathtaking. I fell in love with it the first time I saw one daintily picking its way down Wellington Street in Toronto about 10 years ago. It's a convertible with classic lines and a playful insouciance that speaks to me. It's also completely impractical, which also speaks to me. I hardly ever see them, which tells me even more about its price, and frankly, I don't even want to think about that; I want to keep it as a happy dream. A dream where I wear a scarf and there's a picnic basket in the back seat...
Right behind my dream car in the grocery store parking lot last night, were the two vehicles I'd like to see my sweetheart driving sometime between now and Christmas. They met each other in the traffic lane behind the Audi, a white, 4-door Jeep and a beige-brown Lexus crossover, the vastly expensive crossover I think would be just perfect for him. Right there in front of me as I toted home my bread and fruit, a confluence of dream cars.
I'm sure it was a sign. I'm just not sure a sign of what.
13 years out of the car-buying market is a long time. A lot has happened. In addition to the bankruptcies and bailouts, there are the redesigns. "What's a crossover?" my sweetie asked a few weeks ago as we headed to the first of several dealerships we've visited so far. At the end of that day, he wanted the 4-door Jeep. After the next test-drives, he wanted some sort of crossover thingy that was far, far out of our price range. At each of the dealerships we've been to, he finds something else he just loves. It's going to be a long summer.
As for me, the situation is not nearly so confusing. I adore my 13 year old car, have loved it since before I bought it and I will simply buy another of the same model when mine gives up the ghost. The only question for me is what colour.
Although, I did see the car of my dreams last night, the one I sincerely doubt will ever reside in the same tax bracket as me. The Audi TT. It's just...breathtaking. I fell in love with it the first time I saw one daintily picking its way down Wellington Street in Toronto about 10 years ago. It's a convertible with classic lines and a playful insouciance that speaks to me. It's also completely impractical, which also speaks to me. I hardly ever see them, which tells me even more about its price, and frankly, I don't even want to think about that; I want to keep it as a happy dream. A dream where I wear a scarf and there's a picnic basket in the back seat...
Right behind my dream car in the grocery store parking lot last night, were the two vehicles I'd like to see my sweetheart driving sometime between now and Christmas. They met each other in the traffic lane behind the Audi, a white, 4-door Jeep and a beige-brown Lexus crossover, the vastly expensive crossover I think would be just perfect for him. Right there in front of me as I toted home my bread and fruit, a confluence of dream cars.
I'm sure it was a sign. I'm just not sure a sign of what.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Two Steps Back
Number One: I had taken some hope from the legal travails of one of the most powerful bankers in the world. If the word of a chambermaid would be taken in such a case, maybe, just maybe we were really getting somewhere.
But no, it turns out the chambermaid who made the allegations may have lied on her taxes, and may have at one point, been, shall we say, less than virtuous, so, the case has fallen apart. SO WHAT if the maid wasn't a perfect lady; that doesn't mean she can't have been raped. The two things have nothing to do with one another. Although it's an awkward analogy, if it's stealing when you steal money from a philanthropist, what's the deal here?
Number Two: Mayors of Toronto have been attending the Gay Pride Parade for 16 years now. This year, the conservative and corpulent Rob Ford announced it was more important to spend his weekend at the family cottage than to be in the midst of the flagrant nudity and silliness that comes with the event. It's an important symbol of the city's famous tolerance that the person elected to the city's highest office shows up for at least one Pride event. But Ford apparently doesn't see it that way. His approval ratings? Sky high.
Sigh.
But no, it turns out the chambermaid who made the allegations may have lied on her taxes, and may have at one point, been, shall we say, less than virtuous, so, the case has fallen apart. SO WHAT if the maid wasn't a perfect lady; that doesn't mean she can't have been raped. The two things have nothing to do with one another. Although it's an awkward analogy, if it's stealing when you steal money from a philanthropist, what's the deal here?
Number Two: Mayors of Toronto have been attending the Gay Pride Parade for 16 years now. This year, the conservative and corpulent Rob Ford announced it was more important to spend his weekend at the family cottage than to be in the midst of the flagrant nudity and silliness that comes with the event. It's an important symbol of the city's famous tolerance that the person elected to the city's highest office shows up for at least one Pride event. But Ford apparently doesn't see it that way. His approval ratings? Sky high.
Sigh.
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