Yukon Chatter Bug

The Yukon attracts many athletic types, in addition to artsy-fartsy, hippy, and, well, you name it-types. So Yukon cyclists (the REAL ones that travel the shoulders of the Alaska Highway with 120 km/hr vehicles throwing rocks when passing and that do the KCIBR) will probably snicker, giggle, or simply fall off their bikes rolling over laughing just from reading the title of this post.

So you cyclists, keep in mind that I haven’t put my tush on a bike seat in, uh, about nine years. Holy smokes! I thought it had been six years, but I just figured out that I’ve been here for 6, lived in Mississauga, ON for 2, and was in Toronto before that, which is where I last rode one of those things. Why so long?

The last bike I had wasn’t the right fit. I think the frame was too small, and every time I rode it, I felt scrunched up and uncomfortable. So instead of buying a bike rack for my car, I was so turned off that I ended up just giving it to a friend when I moved from Toronto. Good riddance!

Anyway, to make a long story short, I was warned that my first time cycling up “The Hill,” I’d probably have to stop about three times: just below Range Rd.; next to the Games Centre; and somewhere near the traffic circle on Hamilton Blvd. Imagine how pleased I was to be able to make it up the first time with only one stop near the pool. Mind you, I was panting like a dog locked up in a car on a hot day, but I made it! The second time up The Hill I made it without stopping even once and never looked back. It just keeps getting easier.

I still get cyclists who pass me so fast that my head spins, and I have to get my bearings straight in order to double-check that I’m still going uphill and not down, but I’m pretty proud of myself when my butt bike finally gets passed that pool. But it gets better.

Yesterday, there was a woman on a little electric scooter who ended up in front of me in the bike lane on Fourth Ave. She was all dressed up in a business suit with fancy pink high-heeled shoes. She looked damned good, even if she was a little scrunched up on her scooter. I couldn’t help but to yell out, “Sure, rub it in and stay there right in front of me while I pedal my butt off!” We both laughed before she turned onto a side street.

Those REAL cyclists would’ve made her head spin too.

PS: I replaced “arse” with “butt” to avoid the risk of being impolite. “Besides,” my hubby said, “it’s a British word.”

ME: It’s very popular on the East Coast; everybody uses it there.

HUBBY: Uh, where do you think they came from?

TOUCHÉ

When I asked my husband to name three things he knows about me in response to Don’t Bug Me’s tag, his answer was: “You’re so small.” The problem? I’m not small, I don’t try to pretend like I am, but I guess when you’re 6′6″, just about everyone else is “small.” It’s not a problem, really.

It’s become a joke between us where he’ll say it when it’s totally irrelevant:

Me: I’m feeling so blah today. I don’t know why.

Him [in a whisper]: It’s because you’re so small.

Or when his arms are wrapped around me in a great big hug:

Him: MMmm, you’re so small and cuddly.

So, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Now I’ve taken to telling him, “You’re so tall.”

DBM: Here are the three things my husband knows about me:

1. I’m small (NOT)
2. I’m an itchy person (you don’t want to know what look I gave him on that one)
3. I read many English words incorrectly

Number one has already been dealt with, so let’s move on to #2: “You’re an itchy person.” Huh? Okay, it is mosquito season in the Yukon, and some people attract them more than others. At least that’s my theory. We’ll both be sitting or working out in the yard, and an hour later I look like I have the chicken pox, while Dave has a couple of little red specks that disappear within an hour. Life’s just not fair. Maybe I should correct #2 to read: “I attract mosquitoes”

As for the English, let me explain. French is my first language. I grew up speaking French at home and going to French school, but the community (and province) is predominantly English-speaking. So I don’t have an accent either way, but when I read out loud, sometimes I mispronounce words.

Several years back, I was talking with a friend and somehow the word “horizon” came up (pronounced HOR-rah-zon – emphasized syllable in large caps). She started to giggle, which turned into one of those belly laughs. You know the ones. To this day, every time I use that word, I have to mentally work it out.

A more recent one that came up:

melancholy – mel-ANN-kulee – my hubby didn’t even know what the heck I was saying.

Now, keep in mind that I know exactly what the words mean and how to use them, but because I don’t have an accent, I sound like a moron when I mispronounce words. At least if I had a French accent, people would attribute it to that.

And I’ve been hired to teach kids starting this fall. Ssshhhh…. I have to admit it doesn’t happen very often, but it’s embarrassing when it does.

So, DBM, I rarely respond to tags, but because you’re new in my blogosphere, and I like you because you like bugs, my work here is done. Now, don’t bug me (just teasing)! I can pass it on to:

Laurie the Librarian currently studying in Newfoundland, but will hopefully find the time

Kara in Faro, even further north

and Michael & Fawn (you two count as one, and I can’t wait to read your posts)

According to DBM’s tag, here’s what you do:

You have to ask your significant other to tell you three things that they know about you and then publish this information on your blog. You also have to pick more victims and then go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged. The comment must end with the word ‘pthththth’. I don’t know why, I am just repeating what I was told.

In a previous Sea Cadet camp story, I mentioned that at 13 or 14 I was well ahead of my peers in the boob department. One camp activity that really brought that them to the forefront, shall we say, was the obstacle course. The obstacle course builds teamwork, muscles, and problem solving skills, and some problems are unanticipated, to say the least.

The course consisted of all kinds of fun, scary, and seemingly dangerous concoctions. Swinging from ropes like Tarzan, crawling on your stomach in tunnels and under barbed wire, and walking across a rope bridge. All fun, fun, fun, until I reached “the pit.”

The pit was a huge hole, about the height of 1 1/2 people. Across, there were several horizontal logs set up where you had to climb over one, under the next, and keep going over and under, then climb out of the pit with the help of your peers.

Climbing over wasn’t such a big deal, but when I had to get under the log, well, I got kinda stuck. Yup, the twins were in the way. The way I remember it, I was lying on my back, trying to push myself through with my legs, and suddenly, I couldn’t go any further. I tried going for a diagonal manoeuvre in the hopes of getting through thinking if I can get one in, then the other would have to follow.

Knees bent, pushing with my feet, and squirming under the log, I looked up and noticed my squad leader towering over the edge of the pit, watching me, with the sun’s rays glowing around him. Mortified, I felt like digging an even deeper hole to hide in for the rest of the summer.

Eventually, I did make it through to a hoopla of cheers from the girls in my squad. I’d like to say that the satisfaction of completing the course far outweighed my loss of dignity that day, but I’d have to hold my fingers crossed.

According to Wikipedia, personal embarrassment “can be caused by unwanted attention to private matters.”

Ya think?

The headline could’ve been written about me when I was at summer camp with Sea Cadets. A recent post on Boing Boing about a teen discovering a baby bat in her bra reminded me of the incident.

I was thirteen, but by the looks of my …uh…well…you know, you’d never know it. I was an early bird, so to speak. Anyway, part of our Two-Weeks-In-Training, a term that gave reason for everyone to call us TWITs, involved marine survival exercises. One involved jumping off a dock (pretend it’s a ship) to learn how to conserve body heat and energy while in the water. Little did I know, I was getting extra help from a friend.

After everything was over, off to the showers we went to get ready for lunch. As I peeled my bathing suit off to jump under the hot water, lo and behold, a jellyfish was stuck between my boobs. Lucky for me, it didn’t sting. Unfortunately for it, life ended somewhere on HMCS Quadra’s grey cement floor of the girls’ showers.

RCSCC - Tiger 101

School is finally over. I don’t mean this year, but everything, all, the whole kit ‘n kaboodle. Yup, I’ve finally completed my four years of studies.

Every time a term would end, it was a weird feeling of going from 100 miles per hour to a complete halt. The end of term is always marked by assignments and papers due and exams to be studied for and written. Then, when all is done, nothing. Mind you, in my case, I always had some distance learning on the go.

Things were really busy, still, as I prepared for my graduation ceremony by doing some fundraising, shopping, and getting the house ready for the folks. Now, everything is done. No more studying, no more papers, no more writing exams. Not even a distance learning course on the go.

I sit here pushing keys, reading the news, biking and hiking. It’s the deep breath I’m taking to get ready for this huge transition in my life.

Next fall, I’ll be starting a new teaching career. It’s exciting and scary at the same time. Instead of studying for exams, I’ll be studying learning outcomes and school goals to figure out how to reach them and make it fun for the kids all at the same time. It all seems a little overwhelming, but I’m sure once I get going, everything will start falling into place. Yeah, once I get going! I guess school is never really over.

I’m one of those people who’s always looking for stuff: my keys, my purse, my everything. I even forget to put on my contact lenses in the morning and figure it out once I’m half a block down the road. Then I forget to take them out until I’m lying in bed, ready to turn off the lamp.

Dave, on the other hand, is completely the opposite. He NEVER forgets a thing. He even remembers MY stuff and reminds me. Maybe he’s an enabler in my world of forgetfulness.

Anyway, this morning Dave forgot HIS bike keys and left for work. So, according to his last e-mail, his bike is keeping him company down in the dungeons of the college.

Hee hee hee.

“Okay boys and girls, correct the following sentence,” she commands as she points her stick on the tiny blackboard stuck to the wall. The stick is longer than she is, and two pupils are sitting quietly at a makeshift desk with their hands raised. The letters printed on the board are crooked, and the sentence has more errors than the teacher is aware of.

We were playing school in Chantel’s basement and took turns being the teacher. Little did I know the amount of work involved in being a teacher. At the time, I thought teaching was about worksheets, blackboards, and telling the students what to do. I’ve come a long way.

I start my new career next fall, and after spending the last four years studying and student-teaching, I quickly came the the realization that teaching is far from what I imagined. For one, most of the work is done outside the classroom. In order to get all the little kids engaged in meaningful work, and for the day to go smoothly, there is a lot of planning and preparation to do. I’m sure that after I’ve been at it for many years, the planning part will be less time-consuming.

The nice part about knowing what I’ll be doing in the fall is that I have all summer to plan for next year. I can order books, surf the net, and gather ideas. I can actually try some of the stuff I’ve come up with as a student-teacher and get to find out what works and what doesn’t.

To start things off, I picked up Shakespeare’s Othello along with the graphic novel version, just to get me in the mood.

Plus, I’m willing to bet that this post has more errors than the teacher is aware of.