I know giving up something for Lent is traditionally a Catholic thing, and I’m not Catholic, but my mom was, so I think that kind of counts. I started giving something up for Lent when I was in college, working for the Protestant Chapel Community (PCC) of the University of Rochester. I believe my official title was “secretary,” but I was really the Proprietor of Awesome. Sure, I made the weekly bulletins and newsletters, but I also painted awesome giant signs to hang in Wilson Commons as well as cook soup (or, on occasion, spaghetti) for the Wednesday Evening Dinner Dialogues. I loved my job. It was the best. Anyway, I spent a good amount of time at the Interfaith Chapel and regularly interacted with the other communities that inhabited the space.

As it so happened, I shared my office with the secretary for the Newman (Catholic) community and the secretary for the Hillel (Jewish) community – who also happened to be Catholic. (Weird, I know, but they were both “real” employees [read: not college students] of their respective communities, so I guess the people working there had to actually have real experience and stuff and so each community opted for someone who could handle the amount of work, regardless of religion. The Catholics lucked out, Hillel did not.)

It was through them that I really saw the effects of giving up something during Lent. Out of the three years I worked there, I can really only remember one thing that was given up. The ladies (and gentlemen who volunteered for Newman) decided to give up cursing for Lent. Now, inevitably, they cursed. Hello, they had around 4,000 donation requests they had to send out. But this was okay! They had a caveat – you curse, you pay up. A dollar per swear, with the proceeds going to the Newman community at the end of Lent. I’m pretty sure they ended up raising over $100. With only 40 days of Lent, that’s not too shabby!

When I saw what giving up something for Lent really looked like, it intrigued me. My second year working with the PCC, I decided to join the lovely Catholic ladies and give up something myself. I started with the basics – caffeine. Honestly, though, that’s a college kid’s nightmare at the time. Giving up the life force that gets you to your 9:00 AM class and keeps you up through the theatre group rehearsals that lasted at times until midnight. At least, that’s how it felt.

I remember the first few days of caffeine withdrawal were hard. I got headaches. I was used to getting my morning coffee and my body was NOT PLEASED with my lack of stimulant. But  – by the grace of baby Jesus – I powered through.

Caffeine withdrawal. True suffering. My personal crucifixion.

I ended up giving up caffeine every year for the next four or five years for Lent. I don’t even know why. I know you’re supposed to reflect on what you’re giving up and why you’re giving it up, but I think after a few years it just became a habit. I prepared myself in advance. Switched to half-caf and tea a few weeks prior. Didn’t do much praying on the thing, just… did it because I felt obligated.

Last year I didn’t give up anything. Really, I had a crummy year in general and faith-wise was pretty weak. Things perked up for me in 2011 however, because I ended up going to a new church which I couldn’t be more pleased with. I started to feel more Christian-y again. Needless to say, when Lent rolled around this year, I once again mulled over what I should give up.

After pondering about it, it was clear that the choice wasn’t hard. One should give up a vice. Something that one “can’t live without”… but really can. Something that will allow oneself to improve their character. It was with great sadness that I gave up my biggest vice.

Facebook.

Last Wednesday, I pulled the plug on my Facebook usage. Removed the link from my favorites. Deleted the app from my phone. And just to make it a little more enticing, I got rid of the other sites with which I was having some, ah… shall we say… time management issues. Twitter. Reddit. Checking these sites multiple times a day, whenever I had a free moment, was clearly inhibiting my ability to function as a normal human being. I would regularly check Facebook/Twitter/Reddit upwards of 30 times a day. And I’m pretty sure that’s a conservative estimate. Oh, and that’s per site. Not total.

Yeah, it was that bad.

The story of my Facebook obsession is not at all unfamiliar. It’s not like there was ever anything that interesting, and, if I’m being honest, I’m not really friends with half of the people whose status updates appear on my wall – lots of acquaintances, not a lot of friends. And I didn’t really care that their favorite TV show had an awesome episode or about their political affiliations or their car had a flat, FML. No, I cared none about these things. I just read them because… I can.

Thus, no Facebook for me. I find myself not missing what other people are saying at all. In fact, the part I miss the most is updating my own status. I keep thinking of witty snippets that I could use as status update. I may not be a comedian, but I think that my foray into observational humor that I express via Facebook status is indeed successful. My emoticon expression whenever I feel these high-larious thoughts pass through my head is always .

I’m sure I’ll get over it, I’m sure. I’m already heading in the right direction by starting to blog again. What’s better than a witty snippet? How about a… bodacious blog? (Sorry, I really liked the assonance in “witty snippet” and wanted to find something adequate to follow it up with. That was my first thought. I apologize for having to expose you to it. It wasn’t nearly as good.)

Anyway, blogging/writing more was one of my replacements for obsessively checking Facebook. Others include playing the piano, doing yoga, paying attention to my puppy, and running. Oh, I signed up for the Broad Street Run again. I may be a sucker for punishment, as I am not in any way, shape, or form a runner. Swimmer, yes. Runner, no.

But that’s a story for another day.

In regards to how people will read my blog if I can’t post it on Facebook… here’s my cheat. I have this automatically set to post to Facebook. And I know it’s something I can turn off and I know it’s something that isn’t necessary, but I figured I’m actually writing my blog, and the fact that it’s posting itself to Facebook isn’t really “going on Facebook.” It’s not spending hours looking at peoples’ statuses and clicking on links and trying to think of something fun to say. It’s actually spending time writing. Which is something that I wanted to do in the first place. So, if you’re reading this on Facebook, please find your way over to my blog: Alas… I Digress. if you want to say anything. As I will obviously not be reading comments if they’re posted on Facebook.

At least, not until April 25th. Maybe. We’ll see!

Okay, background time.

Half a lifetime ago (quite literally, I believe I was 14 when we started chatting), Jeff Sampson and I “met” on America Online. We, along with a band of other miscreants, frequented the Animorphs Message Boards on the AOL Book Forums. Through this, Jeff and I got to know each other. We two, along with another dude, David, ended up running the most popular Animorphs fansite, Morphz.com, for about three years or so.

My claim to internet fame.

Anyway, we had this Animorphs thing going on for a while, but then we grew up, Jeff and I. I went to college, got my degree, went to college again, got another degree, married and had a puppy. (You totally thought I was going to say baby there, weren’t you?) Jeff concentrated on his writing, and wrote a number of books under the Dragonlance label. (Aside: Jeff definitely is one of the most stand up gentlemen I’ve ever met. I think he promised me at age 16 or so that he’d dedicate his first book to me – and when it was published at age 23 he did. He’s awesome.) Finally, he got some highfalutin writing gig, for his talents were appreciated. Thus, Vesper.

(By the way, David ended up being a TV Producer and Kelly Osbourne’s BFF. I feel totally lame compared to these two. I guess I just wasn’t meant for fame. Ugh, that hurts even thinking it. *insert very audible sigh here*)

The reason that it is appropriate that my first review be of Vesper is because, well, I started reading it on my birthday. That was the day it came out.

Best unintentional bday present ever.

So, now that you know our history, you will realize that this is probably going to be an extremely biased review. I will sing Jeff’s praises until the very end. I will have a hard time being critical.

That being said, Vesper is actually a really good book.

I’m not one to candy coat sugar sweet marshmallow fluff things over. I give it to people like it is. I am Real, capital-R. *makes some sort of fabulous hand gesture indicating realness* I would definitely tell Jeff if his book sucked. And it does not suck.

Vesper is about Emily Webb, your average pop-culture geek who hides behind her thick glasses, and doesn’t do anything outrageous to draw attention. We all know the girl. She was ultra quiet, only spoke up every once in a while, almost always had the correct answer, and faded into the background, a perfect wallflower.

The main plot of the book opens with Emily trying to climb out the window. Dressed in a short skirt and high heels.

This is not something the wallflower tends to do.

A phone call from her best friend interrupts her sudden self-defenestration. A girl from their class – also named Emily – was murdered, on New School Year’s Eve. Shot in the head. Seemingly random.

That’s when Emily realizes that what she was doing was way outside the norm for her usual self, freaks out slightly, and thus begins the mystery of Vesper. What causes shy, geeky Emily Webb to transform into a wild child when the sun sets? Does it have something to do with Emily Cooke’s murder? And can we please get a “hells yeah!” to all the Buffy references in the book?

(I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer… Come to think of it, that’s actually Jeff’s fault. He bothered me every day for a year into watching it. I don’t remember when exactly I started watching, but I was hooked right away.)

The book started out a little oddly for me, but maybe that’s because when Emily is speaking… I don’t know how to say this other than maybe because Jeff and I grew up IMing each other, he and I have similar writing characteristics and it seems almost as if Emily is narrating almost exactly like I would write? Here’s the passage that got to me:

Okay, so whoa. Let’s stop for a second, flip it, and reverse it, because listen: As you’ve likely guessed by now, I was not the type of girl who gets dressed up in tight clothes and sneaks out of windows. I’d never snuck out of anything in my life. I didn’t have any place to sneak out to. My idea of a fun night was diving into the massive To Be Read pile of books stacked near my dresser, or draping myself in a Slanket and marathoning old sci-fi shows on DVD. No latest fashions, no parties, no football games — I was the girl with the big sweatshirts who loved everything geeky.

Yeah. So that… was my high school life. Except replace “Slanket” with “couch sack.” (Look it up, it’s way better than a Slanket. [Sorry, Jeff, it IS. Evidence here.])

I also say, “Strike that. Reverse it,” on a regular basis. Willy Wonka. Classic, man. And a classic man. Hm.

There I go off in my own head again. Dangit. I guess, this blog isn’t called, “Alas, I digress…” for nothing.

Right, the review.

Well, anyway, we find out that Emily starts having these crazy fits every night which get weirder and wilder. She suddenly has two personalities: Daytime Emily, the geek; and Nightttime Emily, who goes on adventures and loves dressing in her stepsister’s fashionable clothing and adventures.

Then we find that Emily Cooke’s murder might not have been so random after all… and the murderer wants Emily Webb next.

Jeez, that took a long time to recap the main plot of the book. I’m terrible at staying on topic.

Because I spent so much time on the background between myself and Jeff and the main plot of the book, I won’t bore you with an elaborate description of why I think this book was good. Also, I’ve been working on this post for about 3 days now and I just want to publish it already!

1. It is a quick read. There’s almost nothing better than instant gratification in reading.
2. While there is definitely a solid “ending” to the plot line, the book leaves you wanting more, in a big way. I love books that make me want to keep reading.
3. The contrast in voice between Daytime Emily and Nighttime Emily is very clear and very essential to the book. It’s almost as if you’re reading from the perspective of two characters. However, there are also some major similarities that tie the two voices together, so you’re never confused.
4. There were some really gripping moments and some really laugh-out-loud moments. There were moments I envied Emily and moments I felt ashamed for her. In general, Emily’s character is extremely relatable. Maybe I speak this because I am a self-professed dork, but I definitely understood where she’s coming from, and why Nighttime Emily is the way she is.

In the end, Vesper was a great way to begin my challenge. I recommend reading it if you like action-adventure, fantasy, sci-fi, humor, or just general fun in Young Adult fiction.

Ebay rating for Vesper:

A+++!! Would read again. And *will* read again!

Dan (to me): Can you type up our play for us?
Me: Absolutely not.
Dan: …What if you were friends with George?
Deborah: Who’s George?
Dan: (slyly) …On the dollar bill…

~*~

Kindergarden

Abby: I want to go to Tennessee!
Me: What’s in Tennessee?
Abby: (Matter-of-Factly) Bears.

Later…

Me: (Holds up a picture of what is obviously a desert.) Who can tell me what this is a picture of? Yes, Aneesh?
Aneesh:  The African Savannah!

Yeah.

Anyway, so I’m not Catholic, and giving up something for Lent isn’t part of what I must do. (Being Protestant, really, I don’t have any “musts” when it comes to religion – just, you know, Jesus is cool and all that, come to church if you feel like it!) I started the whole “giving up” thing when I was working for the Protestant Chapel Community at the University of Rochester. During my tenure there as desk monkey and gopher, I worked closely with the women of the Hillel (Jewish) and Newman (Catholic) communities in the Interfaith Chapel. Since the Jews and Catholics had much more money than the spread-out-non-denominational Protestant group, they actually hired real adults to run their office and oddly, both women were Catholic. During Lent they always discussed what they were giving up, and I always found the thought fascinating. My favorite was the time that Karen (Newman community) gave up cursing, and every time she let a little bugger slip, she donated $1.00 to the community. (If you’ve ever had to print out 1,000 alumni newsletters yourself, you understand that this is difficult.) Anyway, at the end of Lent, she and the assorted Catholic volunteers, who she had conned into donations-for-cussin’ as well, had donated something ridiculous like $150.00 to the community. So even though she really didn’t give it up at all, she did end up doing a good thing for her group.

My point is that I’ve given up caffeine for Lent for every year since my Senior year of college, and it’s just getting to be an excuse now. I say, “I’ll give up caffeine!” with the intention of giving it up for good, minus the occasional coffee meet up with friends. That goal goes absolutely nowhere and Easter morning, I run to the coffee pot and exclaim my love for coffee and never turn back. Until the next Lent.

I wanted to do something meaningful this time. Something that actually had positive consequences. I always thought of Lent as a time to reflect and meditate, and… boring stuff like that. Well, what if it’s also a time to celebrate? Celebrate the life that was given to you. Celebrate that you’re here on this green earth. I liked that thought better, which lead me to my thought of what I need to give up for Lent.

I need to give up Being Lazy™.

I trademarked that, because I have a trademark on being lazy. My lazy isn’t just sitting around doing nothing, though there’s honestly some of that in there. My version of Being Lazy™ is sneaky. Most people don’t know it, but those I’ve lived with have caught on. It’s stuff that people who spend a “regular” amount of time with me would probably not notice. Stuff like not shutting drawers or doors all the way all the time, or throwing clothes I’ve worn on the floor and not in the bin. My mother’s personal favorite is how I hold out my coat like I’m waiting for a servant to take it before let it go (she thinks I was a czarina in a previous life).

Being Lazy™ has been a trademark of mine for years, and it’s a part of my personality of which I am not a fan. I’m using this time, this Lenten season, to give up that part of my personality and to (Warning: if you are allergic to clichés, please stop here!) get started on being a better person. Get in shape. Be more mindful. All those things.

I dunno, it seems like a good idea. I signed up for the Broad Street Run with Team In Training. I am doing a Lenten Bible study online with PCC people. I’m going to try to get to bed earlier, and wake up earlier, and eat better. So far so good.

Oh, and blogging. Let’s see if I can do that.

…Maybe if I get good enough, I can give it up next year.

I’ve had experience putting in a window air conditioner. Two summers ago, our central air decided to not work anymore, so we stuck a few window units in the house and it made life better. That was the one summer of my life where my room was actually the temperature I wanted it to be at night. I have the worst room in the house for temperature control. It’s small, but has two windows that don’t shut properly, so the heat escapes in the winter and the heat gets in in the summer. It was fine this summer though, because it was gorgeous.

…I digress. My point is that I have experience with putting in a window unit. But I have no experience with a window that’s above waist-height. This window was about chest-height, and I have no upper body strength. Poor Andrew was very patient with me as we struggled to heave this thing up and install it. It took us about an hour. But it was worth it, because that was a powerful air conditioner and the apartment – not just the bedroom, but the whole apartment – became instantly cooler.

That night I didn’t sleep.

I told Andrew I just wanted to sleep under a sheet because I was so hot, and we installed the AC right before we went to bed. We also cranked the AC down because it was so hot and closed the door and I insisted because I do like sleeping in cold rooms when I go to bed.

I forgot that I like to sleep in cold rooms under thick blankets.

I ended up nearly pushing Andrew off the bed in the middle of the night. I kept snuggling closer and closer to him because I was so cold and he was warm. He crankily told me at about 2:00AM that I was cramping his style. And pushing him off the bed.

At around 5:00AM I gave up on the bedroom and went back to the living room to crash on the couch. It was much warmer in the living room because we had shut the door to the bedroom and I slept the rest of the night in there.

Needless to say, Andrew was very confused when he woke up.

That pretty much was our adventure in Fredericton. We also went to a really, really cool art museum, the Beaverbrook Art Gallery. They had a few Dalis and a few Bottecellis. The coolest thing, however, was the docent who practically followed us around. The docents I usually come across in art galleries answer questions, but this guy was amazing. He made us lay on the floor to view the giant Dali masterwork they had, to see the 3-D effect Dali had painted into it. It was supposed to be an alter piece of St. James and the ascension, intended to be hung farther above the ground than it was in the museum. He also quizzed us in the Medieval room after studying the Dali for a while, to have us find St. James in the tapestry we were contemplating. We found him – he was riding a wooden horse and carrying a shell. Apparently, all the saints had symbols associated with them so that the common people could pick them out of the tapestries & statues and paintings, and Dali incorporated these traditional symbols into his work. (I spent an hour later that day looking up saints & symbols and it’s very creepy. Apparently, most male Saints are pictured with symbols that are used for what they did in their life, and women are pictured how they died. One of the St. Catherines the docent showed us had a sword piercing her neck in the Medieval painting, and St. Anne had pliers in her hand that pulled out her eye. Creepy!)

There was also a painting by Lucian Freud, a grandson of our buddy Sigmund. He’s a very popular British painter, and recently, one of his works went for £16M which is about CAD$35M. This Freud that they have is a self portrait and depicts his ex-wife in bed. The docent thought that the painting they have might be the most expensive painting in the gallery because of those particular aspects.

So that was Fredericton.

We headed to Halifax, where we met up with Jay and his girlfriend Lisa in his second apartment. Psh, rich law students. (Speaking of, Andrew might take the LSATs.) Anyway, we got there and happened to be driving through Truro, NS where Jay works around the same time he left work, so the two of us met up with him at a Tim Horton’s outside of Truro and we followed him back to his place. Lisa had the MCATs the next day, so Jay, Andrew & I went to a “patio” – basically outdoor eating. Very popular in Halifax. Every place to eat had some place to eat outside, and they were all jam packed. We went to the rooftop patio of a place called Your Father’s Mustache, which I thought was ridiculously amusing, because my father definitely has a mustache. The three of us had some good food there, then went to a microbrewery in the basement of the same place, where Jay and I spent 20 minutes playing no-think speed chess, where you make moves without thinking. He won, but I took his queen. Thus, my chess record stands at 0-13-1. (I am awful at that game, but I did stalemate with a Russian freshman on a bus trip to a marching band competition in 11th grade once.)

Friday, while Lisa was out celebrating her MCAT triumph, Andrew & I went to see the Citadel of Halifax. We got the official tour this time, and I have some cool pictures of and from the Citadel. It’s at the highest point in Halifax. There’s no way that anyone would have been able to penetrate it when it was built, so it was never attacked. Smart Canadians.

Friday night, we went out to help Lisa celebrate. We got together with Jay & Lisa’s friends Liz & Dave and they made a delicious curry for us. I love Indian food, even when made by non-Indians. After a few sheets of Naan, we decided to go out to a membership-only bar. It used to be a place for old men to hang out, when a few college students found a way to become members it filled up with college kids & grad students and became a popular place to be. That being said, the college students didn’t scare off the old men, who were abundant and whom I’m sure were trying to scare off ME. Scary, scary old men.

It was Open Mic night, which in Halifax means a bunch of really talented people play together for an hour and then hand over the mic to another bunch of really talented people. Really, this was no Open Mic night like I’ve ever seen. For one, everyone could actually play their instruments and sing, and for two, there was a fiddler. An actual fiddle player who was awesome and improvised and yeah. I love the Atlantic provinces (this happens in Newfoundland too).

Saturday night, we boarded the ferry for Newfoundland, followed closely by “Hurricane” Bill. Apparently, Hurricane Bill was really just small, gusty, rainstorm Bill. That being said, the captain of the ferry said they were going to book it and arrive in Newfoundland ASAP to make sure we were ahead of the “hurricane.” So a boat that was supposed to arrive at 7:00AM arrived two hours ahead of schedule. What the heck! If they can get the boat across that fast, why not just advertise that? Andrew & I slept in a cabin for the night, and by slept I mean Andrew slept and I tried to not notice the constant motion of the boat up and down and up and down… I could never be a pirate.

We arrived in Newfoundland at around 5:00 and were deboarded by 5:30. Pretty impressive and efficient. I was on moose watch because it was dark, but as soon as the sun crested and Garmina Burana went back into daytime mode, I napped. I needed it because I was really, really tired.

We’re finally in Newfoundland. We hung out with Andrew’s sister Paula, her husband Shawn and our nephew Ryan and niece Rachel yesterday. Not until after we napped in Ryan’s room though. When I woke up at noon, I headed to the bathroom. As soon as I exited, a cute little 8-year-old girl was curled up in a ball on the floor staring with anticipation and excitement at the bathroom was waiting for me, sheepishly grinning. What a way to wake up, huh?

I spent the day hanging out with Little Rachel and learning all about her friends and watching her play guitar and playing video games with her and Ryan. Andrew & I bought them Mario Kart and set up their Wii for internet access. Yeah, we’re probably the best American-based Auntie and Uncle out there!

After the kids finally went to bed (I say “the kids” but really, Ryan was diligent and listened, Rachel put up a fight until about 11:30 and was very overtired at that point), Andrew & I hung out with Paula & Shawn and watched the Miss Universe pageant and made fun of it. Those girls are so dumb.

After Paula & Shawn went to bed, we watched the Discovery Channel in HD and I forgot the word “sideburns” and called them ear mustaches. We also watched this program about the earth’s oceans and it was really awesome, especially the part where they talked about how a ship with containers of bath toys lost some of its cargo in the middle of the Pacific and they found rubber ducks from Hawaii to Alaska and how some of the ducks crossed the arctic and ended up in Scotland. That’s when I learned oceans are amazing, and bath toy ducks are ridiculously indestructible.

We’re now on the road back to Bay Roberts. This means I will be having some sort of Newfoundland blueberry-based dessert made by my mother-in-law and I am ridiculously excited. This also means that we’ll be in Newfoundland for about a week before we head back, while Andrew settles some matters.

Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy Joan’s cooking. Tomorrow is our two-year anniversary. Hopefully we’ll do something cool. Like eat blueberry cake.

Edit: Can I call it or what?! There was blueberry cake!

Leg one of our trip is over. On Thursday morning, the 13th, I woke up bright and early with a dreadful cough. I was meaning to get out of Horsham at around 6:00 am, but ended up leaving around 10:00. I drove the 8-hour drive to Montéal by myself, relying on my iPod and just general boredness to get up there sanely. Did you know it takes 13 minutes to complete “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”? Also, the Adirondacks are very beautiful, and full of very cool clouds that bounce around the tops of the hills. And thunderstorms.

I knew I had arrived in Québec because I turned on the radio and there was this French eletronique music on the radio. It was really funny. I enjoyed it.

Montréal was really cool. Everyone was laid back and, more importantly, knew English. Whenever someone attempted to speak French to me at first, I would freak out and say “English!” They didn’t seem to care so much, and they were cool with me being a little freak-outy. It’s kind of sad, though, that I completely forgot a lot of my French.

Andrew’s immigration interview (or whatever the official name of it was, I completely forget) was Friday morning, 8:00. I’d go through the nitty gritty, but really, I don’t care that much and it was nerve-wracking, so I’d rather not relive it. That being said, Andrew’s all sorts of approved, and that’s the important part. We have to go pick up his passport in Newfoundland when we get there, but he was approved and we can stop worrying about this stupid process. Except Andrew’s social security card and getting him a job. But no more immigration worries. Yay!

Montréal was a pretty sweet city. I’m calling it a laid-back Philly, because it was full of tall buildings and shops and history and stuff, but it was much more chill. Everyone walked slower which, as a typical east coast city strider, was difficile to get around at first. Andrew tended to be a little fast-paced too, so the two of us got frustrated at first with how slow everyone was going, but we eventually slowed our pace.

The other cool thing about Montréal was that there were bikes EVERYWHERE. Everyone took bikes from one place to another, which was kind of intense because there were a lot of steep hills. My mucus-filled lungs groaned in pain whenever I saw people biking up the hills. Going down looked like a lot of fun, but there were stop signs and lights and it was a little. Being that I did the triathlon in June, it didn’t intimidate me that much to be biking with traffic, but I couldn’t convince Andrew to do so. Understandable, he’s not used to the traffic of a big city. (Philly’s much worse than Montréal so I had no problem with it.) Montréal even has this bike/taxi service called “Bixie”… because it’s a combination of bicycle & taxi. They were on almost every corner and a lot of people were using them to get from one place to another. For five bucks, it would totally be worth it to use instead of a taxi or even walking some places.

Andrew & I spent most of Friday wandering around downtown Montréal, stopping in random churches (which I love to do). I was sad because I forgot my camera. Saturday, Andrew & I hopped on the Metro and went down to the Biodôme and the Olympic Stadium. The Biodôme is NOT just like the Pauly Shore movie – it’s actually like an indoor zoo with different climates for each habitat. I love animals, and I loved that Andrew knew to take me there!

We then took a tour of the Olympic stadium, where the summer olympics were held in 1976. We went up into the tower – which was not completed for the 1976 games. Our tour guide was saying how Montréal was procrastinating on building stuff for the games & didn’t end up finishing the tower in time. I assume that’s where the olympic flame was supposed to have been shining for all to see – but no one told me. Anyway, the inside of the stadium is a public pool now – there were people inside diving off of the lowest high dive and whatnot.

The stadium where the track was is completely torn apart. It’s all concrete and stands and looks kind of sad. Apparently, the Expos played there before they became the Nationals. And there was a football team that played there before moved because they couldn’t fill half the stadium. Now, it just hosts concerts like U2 and Van Halen. It looks impressive though, and the architecture is really cool.

Saturday, we packed up our stuff and headed over to Québec City aka Québec. Apparently, only Americans call it Québec City. It’s like saying “I’m going to New York” when it’s really New York City. But we all know what you mean.

Québec is crazy. It’s ridiculously old. The streets are very close together. It’s very European. I think the best way to describe Québec is to just view my pics on Facebook. Old buildings, lots of history. Too much to say here. I loved it, and would definitely want to go back and just spend a bunch of time there. Also, it was in Québec that I did finally speak French to someone to taste ice cream.

Now, Andrew & I are on the way through Nouveau Brunswick to Fredericton. The trip, which takes about 6 hours, has been pretty interesting. My GPS has been obnoxious. Right now, and for the past 50 km or so it’s been convinced that we’re driving through the middle of nowhere even though we’ve been driving on the highway. It also told us to take a ferry at one point. Um… no thanks Garmina Burana (my GPS’s name). Clearly I need to update my maps.

Other gems from the road:

*Sign says: Potato World Museum, next exit*
Me: “Potato World! Let’s go to Potato World!“
Andrew: “I’m not going to Potato World.”
Me: “But I want to go to Potato World!”
Andrew: “We didn’t go to Captain Lobster, and we’re not going to Potato World!”

Me: “Why does it say we only have 250 miles to Fredricton, but that it’ll take three and a half hours? We’re going 100 km/h.”
Andrew: “Um… that’s weird.”
Me: “*lightbulb* OH. We’re in Atlantic time zone. Alright, let me adjust my watch….”

We should arrive in Fredricton in about an hour. Atlantic time. More from me later!

But finishing the Tri was just the first step in the beginning of my summer of awesome. See, around the same time I completed my Tri, I found out the best news ever:

Andrew has his interview for his permanent residency (aka green card) on August 14th.

See that photo on the right? That photo was taken the day after our wedding when we went with my family on a puffin/whale watching tour. That was taken August 26th, 2007.

Today is July 15th, 2009.

We have been married for almost two years. And yet, we are still living apart, long distance, as we have since we started dating in 2002.

That is soon to change! Soon, we will be able to start a life together. And what better way to do it than by taking a massive road trip to Newfoundland and beyond! (Not really, on the “beyond” part, but I am starting by going to Montréal, so that should be pretty sweet.)

But not only is this road trip going to be awesome, this summer has been awesome in general. And will continue to be awesome. And thus, I must blog about it.

So watch out summer! Here comes Rachel, and she’s ready!

(Not-Uncle is my affectionate term for my Aunt Mary’s boyfriend. They’ve been together as long as I can remember. Yong is a very youthful character, bikes century rides on a regular basis, and is tortured by an adult calling him “Uncle,” especially my cousin Heather, who is only seven years his junior. As he is not officially an Uncle, and hates being called Uncle by adults, I jokingly refer to him as my Not-Uncle.)

The first time I got up on the bike, it was bad. The Queen has clipless pedals, which means that the shoes are attached to the pedals and you have to flick your foot in a very specific way to detach the shoe. I’ve heard of clipless pedals before and I thought they were kind of cool and was really excited to try them out.

What I didn’t realize is that when your shoe is attached to your bike, your shoe is attached to your bike. Suddenly, the convenience of being able to just put your foot down whenever you darn well please – say at a stop sign – is gone. You have to flick your shoe in that very specific way and THEN put your foot down. I quickly found out that if you don’t do it quickly enough, you go down instead.

My first time out on The Queen I had three accidents, and shed blood each time. I hadn’t fallen off my bike since I was in fifth grade when I took a dramatic nosedive over my handlebars, simultaneously scraping both knees and both elbows, which is odd, because if you think about it, your elbows are definitely on different sides of the body, facing away from each other. I still have the scars from this particular fall. (When I extend my arm, the one of the left elbow looks like a brain.) Going down at age 26, in front of a bunch of family and family friends (this was at my mom’s surprise 50th birthday party) was a little embarrassing, but it hurt less to bleed this time than 16 years ago.

However, even when I fell my second and third times down on the path behind my house and scraped up even more, I was kind of proud. It was kind of like I had battle wounds. (Even though, at this point, the battle’s score was Bike: 3, Rachel: 0.) I made my mom take pictures. I made sure I had evidence that I was in the battle, even if I hadn’t won. Those pictures were motivation, as if to say, “You may have won the battle, but I will win the war!”

So with the images of blood dripping from my knee emblazoned in my mind, and the weather a delicious 75°F (that’s 24°C for my Canadian friends), I embarked on battle number two.

I started out today’s ride rather cautious. I knew from my past battles to clip in one pedal at a time. I practiced unclipping and stopping. I practiced walking my bike with one pedal clipped in, using the bike and my body weight to keep me steady. And then I rode.

And I rode FAST.

My dad and I went out for a leisurely ride, and then I realized that this bike is much MUCH MUCH faster than my industrial-strength mountain bike. I guess it helps that the bike weighs oh-point-four pounds and that everything’s set up for a streamlined ride with the weight being placed JUST SO so that you have good balance and torque. The clipless pedals make for a more efficient ride. “Wait, you can pedal UP as well as down?!” was a thought that ran through my mind as I skimmed the pavement, suddenly taking advantage of this newfound discovery.

I whizzed down hills and easily pedaled up them. I could have had a conversation if I wanted to. It was hardly like doing any work. I used to bike up and down this trail every day to go to my old job, and I realize now that if I had a bike like this instead of my mountain bike, I could have woken up ten minutes later every day because my commute would have been shaved in half.

I came to the end of the path and waited for my dad to show up, as I had passed him a long, long time ago. He came in, smoothly and surely on his mountain bike. On our way back, I lost him completely – I had gone very far ahead and he had decided to go another way home. I went back to search for him by biking up and down the path a second time.

As I was speeding down the path back home a second time, I realized that I had not fallen once. I was so proud of myself! I had beaten the bike, and no doubt I could make it home in one piece. I had already crossed the busy road with ease, and the rest of the trip, for the most part, was downhill. Smooth sailing.

I had it made! I had power, I had speed, I had–

…TO GET MY FEET OUT OF THESE PEDALS BEFORE THAT GIANT DOG TOPPLES ME OVER.

Dixie, a five month old Great Dane (yet, no less Great than her adult counterparts), came springing from a local backyard to play. I had met her on my way in, and the reaction was similar, but as I had seen her from afar the first time, I was able to easily slow down and stop to pet Dixie before I continued my ride.

This time, I saw her bounding in. I tried to unclip, and upon trying, lost balance and toppled over. As if to rub it in, my foot came out of the pedal as soon as I hit dirt.

Dixie gave me a big wet kiss as I lay in the grass. Her owner came running out of the backyard, bright red, apologizing profusely for Dixie’s behavior – “Did she jump on you? She’s only five months old, she loves things with wheels, especially things that go fast…” et cetera, et cetera. I laughed, saying it wasn’t Dixie, it was me, I was trying to get used to these dang peddles.

So I sped off, Dixie behind me, once again humbled by the bike. Riding home, I became somewhat introspective about this whole triathlon thing. See, recently, I’ve been going through what is probably a slight case of depression. There’s really no way to hide it. Okay, that’s a boldface lie. Or not… I did not put the font for the lie in a bold face. (Typesetting joke, for my mother.) I can totally hide it. I am actually extraordinarily good at hiding it.  But I can’t hide it from myself, and sometimes, I can’t hide it from other people.

I had one of those moments at practice today. After swimming, we all went for a run, which, for poor little asthmatic me, meant a walk and then a run, and then a walk, and then a run… you get the drift. As my teammates jogged off into the distance, I walked at a “brisk pace” (according to dude who tells me when to walk/run). By the time I turned the first corner, I was on my first run, but the rest of the team was no where in sight. They had completely gone.

I ran my 90 seconds, becoming exceedingly frustrated with myself. Why can’t I run like they do? By the time I got to my first 3-minute run, almost entirely uphill, I had such a defeatist attitude about the running. I’ll never do it, I told myself. Everyone else can run, why can’t I? I started to feel my chest constrict and my tear ducts well. My heart started pounding in my chest as I grimaced and tried not to panic, tried not to let my emotions get the better of me and get me all asthma-y. (This was extremely important as I had left my inhaler in my car.) I realized as I was running down City Line Avenue, one of the busiest streets I know, that any car passing me would see my face and just know I was frustrated, in pain, and about to cry. I’m surprised no one stopped. I couldn’t hide my sadness at that moment.

My iPod told me to walk again, so I walked. I walked and tried not to cry, tried to catch my breath. I did another two rounds of walking and running, and when my time to run was over, I just wanted to collapse. At that moment, I just wanted to give up.

Thankfully, a song come on that changed my mind. I purposefully put this particular song after a workout to get my spirits up. It’s a song called, “Just a Ride” by the artist Jem. (No, not of the Holograms.) The lyrics are particularly poignant and basically say, don’t sweat the small stuff, life’s just a ride. It really struck a chord with me when I first heard it, and its message has reverberated ever since.

Today, in this instance, and in the instance with Dixie the Dane, I was humbled. Jem reminded me again and again (as I have this tendency to listen to a song on endless repeat if it’s resonating with me) that life is just a ride. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down. But don’t forget, enjoy the ride.

There have been others with harder rides. I remembered my mother. I remembered the struggle she went through and what she needed to do to be here today. Visions of her visage surrounded by a beautifully bald head (with a strategically placed frog tattoo) swirled through my mind. And as the opening chords for “Just a Ride” strummed for the third or fourth time, I decided that I was going to push it. Though I thought I could run no further, just down the hill was my destination. So I ran.

Life is just a ride. I just need to sit back and watch. I don’t need to compare myself to others, they’re on their own rides. My ride is different than everyone else’s. Sometimes, your ride is attacked by a big, goofy puppy wanting to play. Sometimes, it’s attacked by cancer. Sometimes your ride can be filled with grief, and sadness. Sometimes, joy. My ride, right now, was getting back to that locker room with my head held high.

As I turned the final corner to come back to where we started, I saw about a dozen fellow team members standing at the entrance to the gym. And as I jogged in, slowly, gasping for air, they clapped  and cheered and smiled shouting, “Go team!” My coach held up his hand for a requisite high-five.

I teared up. This wasn’t about who was fastest… or, who was lastest. It was about the team, it was about the mission. It was about my mother. My Aunt Betsy. It was about making sure that what has happened to them does not happen to others. These people knew that, and finally, I am realizing it myself.

If my life’s just a ride, this section of my journey is headed in a great direction. It’s up to me to choose how to spend my time while I wait to get to my destination.

So, don’t forget, enjoy the ride.

…What a bunch of malarky.

That is to say, if I was in Africa in 10,000 BC as a primitive human being, I would have to say that I would absolutely be a victim of Darwin’s theory and the lion would eat me.

I was just NOT built to run. Almost every time I complete a “run” workout, I sort of feel like I’ve been hit by a steamroller. I have asthma, which is the first problem, so running any more than 30 seconds (especially toward the end of my run workout) usually makes me want to collapse in a sudden heap. It’s HARD. Let’s say that I’m absolutely not looking forward to my first three-minute run tomorrow. It should be interesting. (

However, I am made to swim. Swimming, I have no problem with. Swimming I could do for ages. Hours. So in that respect, Darwin has it right. I may not out-swim a shark, but I may get less of my leg bitten off than some of the other people on my team.

…I’m being a little morbid with the death-by-animal analogies today, aren’t I?

Anyway, my point is that running is HARD. I am currently trying to complete week three of a Couch-2-5K, a nine week course set to get you off your bum and started running. I’m on week three, as Robert Ullrey (my podcast “coach”), though I did repeat week 2 because I wasn’t feeling up to running three minutes in a row yet. Ninety seconds was hard enough.

But thinking about it, running? That’s nothing. That’s nothing compared to losing all your hair and throwing up on an hourly basis. I mean, I once took medicine that took me to the hospital for throwing up for seven hours straight. It was the most horrible pain I’d ever been in.

I can’t imagine doing that for eight weeks straight.

My mother did.

So running for three minutes? 10K? Does jogging & walking the whole time make me weak? No, it makes me strong.  Literally and figuratively!

If I can run three minutes, why can’t I run five? And if not five, why not ten? I may think it’s hard at the moment, but there’s harder.

Malarky? From here on out, my workouts are no malarky allowed.

I’ve tried describing my experience with my mother’s cancer, and it always comes out sounding like I’m some sort of brat.

The following is a paper that was written by my mother for a creative writing class at Arcadia in May 2007. I think it tells her story much better than anything I could have written.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A Bad Hair Day

By Patricia Wall

It wasn’t the color of flaxen wheat. It didn’t shine like new copper pennies nor did it tumble in a cascade of glistening curls down my back. But, dammit, my hair was long.

My mother-in-law thought it a good deal too long for a 40-something-year-old woman to sport—as if I was defying some deep-rooted propriety from World War II by daring to not do something—anything to my hair. It was so long that strangers stopped me on the street to tell me how much they admired my mane. I knew they were not impressed with the nondescript color streaked with gray or the texture that devolved into a fuzzy, dog-eared fringe at the very bottom. They were admiring the patience, the fortitude, and the simple willpower involved in the non-act of never getting one’s hair cut. It wasn’t a fashion statement. It was a conversation piece, a science experiment; it was part of my identity. And now, I was losing it to chemo.

“You’re taking this quite well.” Observed Dr. Kessler.

I already knew I had cancer. I also knew that it was Stage 4. I knew that I was due a surgery, a course of radiation, some newfangled antibody treatments made from the ovaries of Chinese hamsters, and a sequence of powerful chemotherapy treatments. The doctor was simply telling me that the treatments would also make me bald—completely—probably within 2 weeks of starting the therapy.

“Well, I kind of figured that baldness is the LEAST of my worries right now.” I shrugged.

I watched movies. I knew what would happen. I would go through chemotherapy. The makeup artist would draw dark rings under my eyes and put a bald cap on my head. After that though, the main character usually died. I saw Brian’s Song and Love Story and The Drum Bangs Slowly—and a dozen others. Cancer is a literary device exploited to easily evoke cheap emotion. Why, I’m using it right now.

Whether I survived or not, I determined that with every step of this strange trip, I needed to do everything I could to make this a positive experience. If I lived, it could be a constructive, life-enhancing event. If I did not, and pretended I was brave the whole time, then maybe someone might make a maudlin, made-for-TV movie about me and at least my inner attention-whore would get a last hurrah. Where to start?

Before the initial chemotherapy treatment, I went to the salon down the street to get my first real haircut in 15 years. If I was going to be bald, the first positive step I would take is salvage my resplendently-long hair for Locks of Love, an organization that makes wigs for bald kids. Going bald is often disastrous for a full-grown man; imagine how it is for a 12-year-old girl. So I purchased a haircut and wrapped up the furry proceeds in a fat envelope for Locks of Love.

It wasn’t solely for helping children with cancer—although that does sound sickeningly altruistic. If my hair was going to come out in large handfuls, I would rather they be six-inch long handfuls as opposed to 36-inch long ones. Plus I was able to see what I would look like in a cute little bob—a bob that would probably not last a fortnight.

It’s one thing if you’re a man. From Telly Savalis to Vin Diesel, there have always been oodles of cool guys that are bald. Bald girls are not cool. They’re crazy. They’re tearing up pictures of the pope on national television or moments away from checking into rehab. You stare at bald girls. You feel sorry for them. The only fashionable place for bald girls is in science fiction. Even Persis Khambatta cried when they shaved her head for her role as Lieutenant Ilia on the first Star Trek movie. Hair grows back. She should have been thrilled to have that opportunity-of-a-lifetime. But Persis wept. She wept for the loss of her hair.

My personal baldness arrived right on schedule. Every morning after the first treatment I would tug on my hair—and have a handful of nothing. On the 14^th day, I tugged and was rewarded with a sizable chunk of my feminine identity. My sister came over later that day and asked, “So, are you losing your hair yet?”

I opened my eyes maniacally, grabbed the back of my head and said, “You mean—like THIS!?” as I waggled a huge sheaf of freshly plucked hair at her.

We decided to shave the rest of it off that evening. My husband purchased a Floyd-the-Barber-style hair clipper. It was a bizarre rite of passage. I shaved off the front. My husband and two kids took turns shaving the rest. We laughed and joked and commented on how surreal it all was. When we were finished, we stood silent as I looked into the mirror and saw a bald me. It was shocking. It was shocking because it wasn’t too bad.

I didn’t know it, but my head is a lovely shape. I was certain that my head would be pockmarked with pointy lumps and big, smudgy birthmarks, or perhaps a little “666” under all that hair. It did not. I looked a little like Lieutenant Ilia, sans the tears. Without hair, I merely looked a little odd. Perhaps I could wear a wig. A wig turned out to be impractical.

In addition to my hair, chemo was also stripping me of another element of my womanly character. I was thrust into full-throttle early menopause, complete with a series of relentless hot flashes. My newly-bald head was constantly dripping with sweat. Any wig would have been destroyed within a week. I had taken to wearing washable scarves and hats during the winter—or as I affectionately dubbed them, “chemo-shanters.”

I quickly discovered that the term “chemo-shanter” is only funny if one actually knows what a ‘tam-o-shanter” is. I can’t count the times I used the term “chemo-shanter” and expected a chuckle, only to get a blank stare. I developed a scripted monologue which explained that the hat which Mary Tyler Moore threw up in the air was actually a “tam-o-shanter” which is a Scottish cap made famous by an 18^th century poem by Robert Burns. That usually ruined the joke and made me look like a freak member of the literati. Chemo-shanters were perfectly adequate headgear throughout the colder months (though I started calling them “hats” and “scarves” again to avoid confusion).

The problem arose in the spring. Still in super-schvitz mode, I cringed at the thought of wearing anything on my head as the temperatures climbed. I was scarcely comfortable in the winter, how would I survive the summer?

I was meeting some friends for dinner at a restaurant. I determined that I would not wear anything on my scalp. I picked out some extra-dangly earrings, drew on my eyebrows (another casualty to the chemo), and went out to eat. I drove into the restaurant parking lot and sat frozen in my car. I couldn’t move.

The fear surprised me. “Why am I afraid to walk out in public bald? What is the problem?”

I felt exposed—almost naked. I knew that the hats and scarves didn’t hide the cancer from anyone. But they covered my head. Yes, my nude head was beautiful, but so are some other parts of the body that have no business being whipped out in public. What was I ashamed of? The cancer? The baldness? The pity I might evoke? What was the alternative? Should I not go out? Go buy that stupid baseball cap with a built-in ponytail I saw in a chemo-shanter catalog?

I got out of my car and walked into the restaurant. My face reddened. I’m still not sure if I was blushing or just having another hot flash. I sat down with my friends and laughed about my baldness. They admired the temporary tattoo of a frog I had on the back of my skull. I ate chicken parmagiana. Life was normal. There were a few stares, but nothing disturbing. I started my life as a bald lady.

Which turned out to be very much like my life as a haired lady—only punctuated with both funny and poignant moments. There was a 4-year-old in the Dairy Queen who started yelling “MOMMY! That man gots no HAIR! HEY! How come you gots no hair?”

“Because I didn’t eat my vegetables as a child.” I coolly reported. Her mother apologized. She should have thanked me. That was a funny moment. Some were not funny.

There was Laura. I met Laura while waiting for an appointment at the radiologist. She was a freckled, petite woman about 10 years younger than I. Despite the cancer, she had a healthy, rosy look—like one of the Campbell soup kids. We started talking. My cancer was now in full remission. Hers had returned—and was now in her brain.

I learned a lot about cancer in the last few months. Cancer is bad; recurrent cancer is worse. Recurrent cancer in the brain is catastrophic. I realized that I was playing—and lost—the “my cancer is worse than your cancer” game in my head.

People can’t help but compare themselves to others and use their own situation as the norm. If you are an artist, anyone not as talented as you is mediocre, or a hack—or worse. Anyone MORE talented than you is a damn genius. With cancer, you meet a lot of other cancer patients—in the hospital, on-line, in the supermarket. You start to share your experiences. You begin to mentally calculate how bad everyone’s cancer is. (“Well she still has some nose hairs and eyelashes, so her chemo wasn’t THAT strong.”) I had a friend who had to quit her cancer support group because all the people kept telling her that their cancer was MUCH worse than hers and she should be happy to have her cancer and to stop whining. Laura’s cancer was worse than mine.

Laura was wearing a hat. I was bald. She told me that I looked nice bald and that she wished she could take off her hat because it was hot out—but she was afraid. We started sharing the advantages of being bald—no bad hair days, cool in the summer, no hat-hair in the winter, low maintenance, no shampoos or conditioners or mousses or gels or dandruff or split ends or frizz. I also shared with her my first outing as a bald lady. “It’s only scary for a couple of minutes. You get used to it quickly. I never went back.”

Laura took off her hat and crumpled it up in her tote bag. With a smile, she said, “I’ll just pretend I’m brave.”

“You know,” I mused, “I think it’s the same thing.”

I’m not growing my hair long again. Maybe Luella is right, I AM too old for hippie-length hair. Perhaps I don’t need the attention or the random admiration from strangers any longer. I don’t miss my long hair; I do, however, miss being bald. If it were socially accepted, I think I would shave my head in a minute—plenty of guys do. They’re lucky.

I don’t think I can even pretend to be that brave.