These Boots/Hips Were Made For Walking and That’s Just What I’ll Do

I have only one more sleep in this wonderful neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant before I head back to Richmond for a month. I will miss the walkability score of 10/10. I walk to get my groceries, I walk to all the incredible restaurants in this area, and I walk to the theatre. Bard on the Beach is a stretch but I want to do it for Hamlet…and to stretch my saggy ass after watching Hamlet–such a drama queen–get ready to die for three solid hours of angst (oh, sorry did I blow the plot?). Revenge! However, sometimes the rain interferes with my plans and the car wins.

Perhaps my favourite part of this area are the prolific community gardens. They are everywhere. I am pals with the rose garden guy from England who caught me smelling his bountiful buds and insisted on educating me about the very species I was sniffing. Thirty minutes later, i wafted away with the heavenly scents of blossoms and blooms and a new friend. I was invited to be part of the community vegetable gardens at City Hall when I checked out some random arugula. Really I was just bending down to tie my runners, but the pose was mistaken for interest in lettuce and I decided not to disappoint.

My feet have blisters and bunions and my hip is screaming, “You’re an old bitch.” And every time I cross Alberta street, I sing the lyrics from Avenue Q. “I wish you could meet my girlfriend. My girlfriend who lives in Canada. Her name is Alberta. She lives in Vancouver…her name is Vancouver. She lives in Alberta…” Les thinks I’ve lost it, but I think ┬áit’s glorious to sing out loud on the streets of Vancouver and fit right in with all the hipsters and punks and earth people. I don’t think I’ll fare so well in South Granville but time will tell. I’ll probably get kicked out of Richmond.

See ya. I’m off to buy my electric car…and have Chai with the mayor.


Patty Melt–Not Likely

You know you haven’t been blogging lately when your Word Press password doesn’t exist anymore…well, in my mind, anyway. Damn dendrites! Time to wipe off the cobwebs and fire up the axons, or what’s left of them.

Stuck in my one room tenement/B and B (the novelty has definitely worn thin, or as my new Californian friend who stayed at the B and B pegged it…The Bates Motel) while waiting for the condo to be gutted, renovated and ready, I am definitely taking advantage of my new boyfriend–Steve. My ex, you’re thinking? Well don’t, that’s just wrong. In fact, my new beau is none other than Mr. Nash in the flesh. Okay, not the flesh, but a girl/cougar/old lady can dream, can’t she?

Steve Nash and his stash of treadmills, ellipticals, and killer machines are only a hop/skip/jump (and any other action verbs that you care to come up with because I’m over it) away from my new awful digs.

Clutching my Groupon nervously in my pudgy palms, I take the plunge (ah…more verbs…and some kick-ass alliteration) and get weighed, lectured, and hooked up with a personal trainer.

Poor sweet, young personal trainer. I think she sees a heart attack waiting to happen in her capable hands. No more easy elliptical for me. Hills and treadmills and intervals. The only intervals I have ever come into contact with are musical pitches. These intervals are exercise bitches. Heavy breathing, heart-racing bitches. I had no idea that my heart even existed before this regime.

Next step–floor weights. Miserable pink and yellow and blue rainbow-coloured balls and rods. Don’t be fooled by the oh so pretty colours. Obviously muscles were not part of my DNA when I was being created. Thanks, Mom and Dad. My new BFF catches on rather quickly that my shoulders and knees do not work. Without a beat, she changes her tactic and realizes that I’m actually one hundred years old. Even her tone becomes gentler. So gentle that I think maybe I’m dead.

Post Script: (that’s the name of my magazine for Retired Educators. Isn’t that just awful? Why not just name is Past Post and get it over with). I have been working out every day for two weeks, drinking less wine, and being more mindful of what goes into my massive mouth. Time to weigh in. Expecting to lose at the very least one pound, I am happy to report that not only do I weigh the same, but my body fat index has also not changed. I am so inspired that I am now off to eat a loaf of bread. See ya. I’ll be hanging out at Terra Breads…Steve Nash…piss off.

I’m Back Blogging

Okay, so it’s been a few weeks, but it’s time to remember that I write a blog. My choice, really, is to pack yet another box or to write. Easy decision. Three weeks and it’s adieu to Richmond. I will miss the dyke and the many many many closets in my house. Les is a packing nazi, and he keeps opening the boxes that I pack ever so discreetly with my many many many treasures. He then throws everything out, and I cry, and the process repeats itself. Over and over.

My exercise choice these days is a lot of walking, mainly to put miles between myself and my boxes (and Les, obviously). My night table is now a box, my kitchen table is now a box, and my clothes are in boxes so no good underwear choices for me! And mismatched socks are the new fashionista runway look. One Puma and one Nike and I’m off to walk on the dyke.

Anyone wanna buy a treadmill? Cheap?

Bring It On…not the Broadway musical

I’m going to be an author. I have the perfect idea for a book and it will obviously be on the Best Seller list for a good ten weeks. New York watch out. In one fell swoop, (do swoops fall?), I have uncovered the key to weight loss, and it’s ridiculously simple. It’s a no brainer, because it’s weight loss and fitness in one package. I kid you not. I plan on making kajillions of dollars. Shark Tank look out.

Okay…here it is….sell your house, sell all the shit in your house, look for a new house, buy an old piece of crap that needs to be gutted, look for a three month apartment while you’re waiting for the demos to be magically performed, find a designer, find a contractor, get a phone call from your mother’s care facility and move your mother (dressers, clothes, crap) into the new facility, find a new renter for your daughter’s apartment while she lives the good life in NYC (could be me) and most important fact of all–have a garage sale and sell your kitchen table and chairs and all your cooking implements so that you literally have nothing to eat off of or with. That’s key.


Time Off For……ever?

I am a failure, at so many things, really. But today’s special is a doozy, if only that I concern myself with my growing need for the consumption of more and more food and less and less exercise.

I have taken my first break from exercise. I lasted 55 days in a row, but then again my math was never stellar. So I could be out a day or two. The point is, all I do now is eat pistachios and think about exercise.

Packing has taken over my leisure? time. I now have two rooms done and fourteen to go. Again, the math…….I am down to 60 days to be out of my home and find somewhere to place my curly-headed face that isn’t planted face-down in a bag of food.

So that’s why my blog has stopped. It reminds me that I should be lifting weights, not bags of chips.

Anyone want to buy a treadmill?


Packing Off The Pounds

I have a new exercise regime. It’s called packing. It’s really a version of self-loathing and undeniable self-hatred for buying so much crap over the years and thinking I should live like a pack rat. My collections are like none other. I have shoe posters, shoe figurines, shoe signs, and even the real thing–shoes. Lots of them. Last count totaled over fifty pairs. With purses to match. Obviously. My shoe art adorns every wall. Have I mentioned that I hate myself?

How do you go about getting rid of fifty-seven years of raging sentimentality? I still have the gas receipts that I found in my father’s car. Believe me, the receipts dated from 2000 don’t bring me luck, just dust mites. Throw them out, idiot! They won’t bring back your father.

I am a hoarder, plain and simple. I can’t throw things away. I might need them. Why keep one box of paper clips when you can keep ten? For every box I pack, I do twenty sit-ups. It’s a form of self-flagellation in a good way, I guess.

17 boxes down, 200 to go. Oh well, at least my abs will be tight.

Dog-Gawn Trails

One of the more fearful parts of walking outside for exercise is coming across canines who kill. They bare their teeth, cross their eyes, and bark until I want to poo my pants in fear. My heart races and I am probably going to have a dog coronary right on my nature walk. Fitness clearly leads to imminent death.

Recently I was walking on death row with none other than two of these woofing creatures. My friend JudyAnn obviously forgot to mention that walking with her came with all sorts of baggage — namely a half dead dog which I got to carry in a back pack because doggy was too old and feeble to walk. Can you say doggy heaven? And a hyperactive black thing that strained the leash and was so crazy I could barely keep up.

People kept giving me strange, brooding looks on our walk and now I know why. They thought I was actually caring and kind and a dog lover. Please. Know your audience. My dog days were over the day I was a ten year old riding a bike, got attacked by a big black barking brute, got pulled off the bike, bitten and bruised and beaten down. Dogs make me cry and make my heart beat way too fast. Don’t hate me. I like babies. Not dogs. So sue me. Woof.



Val Gal

Today, the romantically pink and purplest day of the year, I am not going to inundate myself with candies, but rather with a long, romantic walk on the Richmond dyke with my walking friend, Marilyn.

We will hopefully catch a glimpse of some mating birds to put us in the holiday spirit.

But my true love is Rick Steves, the traveling guru. He is unfortunately a bit of a corporation now, but his books have helped me, over the years, to become a skilled and effective world traveler…except for the packing part.


So, I can’t let Les know about my real love. I will hide this fact, effective, I’m sure, by making Les dinner with a bona fide dessert. Now that is true unbridled love. Unless you’ve been a recipient of my desserts…then you might have a second opinion.


Oh crap! After the many inner smug pats on moi back, because I didn’t get the virulent flu bug and all of you sissy sickies out there did, I, too, have succumbed. Sore muscles. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Ever one to ignore my body aches and pains, I am keeping on track with my 365 days of fitness or else. Popping two Tylenols every few hours (minutes) seems to do the trick. Joel Harper’s Slim and Fit video has become my new bestee. Along with beaucoup cups of peppermint tea. Joel thinks that fifteen minutes of exercise is enough, and right now, I am in total agreement. Go Joel!