DC Cookie

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

It's In My Blood

My favourite beer.

Despite the maple leaf tattoo on my lower back, there are a lot of Americans who are surprised to learn that, despite my 12 years of domicile in the US, I'm still a Canadian citizen functioning comfortably with a greencard. The answer when I'm asked if I'll ever become an American is always a posthaste and steadfast "No."


For those who think of the US as the land of opportunity and possibly the best country in which to live, I'm inclined to agree. The rugged terrain is aesthetically breathtaking, inflation is regulated, verbal freedom is a legal right not a flitting daydream, intellectual expansion and amicable competition are encouraged, and the weather is temperate. I doubt that anyone who did not grow up with icicles hanging from her childhood bedroom windows in October, or parents who coaxed her away from her after-dinner recreation with a jolly "It's abooot time for bed, eh?," will ever comprehend my lack of desire to engage in the US beyond habitation, higher learning, employment, dating and tax-paying.

Family ties.

Ask my handsome model/actor cousin who, although studying theatrical arts seriously, has no desire to emigrate to Los Angeles, the traditional hub of the movie industry. For a Canadian, the bond to her homeland is inseverable. I may have physically left the country, but my heart remains encapsulated in the concrete of the GTA.

On my way to visit my friends and family before running the half-marathon along Toronto's scenic waterfront, I puttered across the Rainbow Bridge in my rental car, stared for a emotional moment at the water barreling over Niagara Falls and smiled outwardly [as I always do] at first glance of the sign saying "Welcome to Ontario."

American citizenship is not my destiny, because the words "Welcome to Virginia" do not elicit a fraction of the same response from my heart strings.

Just as I will never marry a man I don't love, I will never become a citizen of a country I don't love. The US and I are quite content with our status quo, common-law friendship.

Post-race pose.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

How to Finish a Half Marathon

Some tips from the successful half marathon I ran this past weekend in Toronto.

1. Remember, 10,000 of your closest friends are there to pull you along.

Race start.

2. Give the guys with the low bib numbers a head-start. It's easier to enjoy the striking view of the water without a Kenyan elbowing you out of the way.

Head Start 2
The elite pack.

3. Find the really old guys in the crowd. the 75 year old breaking a new course record for his age group, or the 94 year old running the 13.1 miles in 2.5 hours. At 29, you absolutely have to push through the heat you feel in your quads when a 94 year old is right at your heels.

Ed Whitlock breaks barely misses a sub 3-hour full marathon finish.

94 year old
Ajit Singh, 94 years old and in better shape than the average 25 year old.

4. Have fun!

This was my first half-marathon, but certainly not my last. I've caught the bug. Anyone want to run the Ottawa full marathon with me next May?

Friday, September 22, 2006


As my hero in our IT department worked diligently to salvage my computer from a coughing, wheezing, drooling mucus-fest of a near-fatal virus, the first question he asked me was "Do you ever visit myspace.com?" I couldn't lie. The answer was yes. Frequently. He just looked at me, smiled and said "Don't."

Not sure what it is about myspace, but apparently it's a breeding ground of technological bacteria and a hacker's paradise. I'm totally done with it.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Payback Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

When an ex-boyfriend who treated you [euphemistically] with minimal respect enters a relationship with another woman, there are a lot of sentiments that run rampant among your neurotransmitters.
  • “God, what is he thinking, I’m SO much cuter...”
  • “I feel sorry for her, she is currently doomed to co-dependency and servitude...”
  • “Karma is a bitch and I hope she dumps his sorry ass...”

When you finally forgive the man in your heart for being the young, stupid puppy that ultimately YOU had allowed him to be when you were together, these kind of thoughts ebb back into your subconscious where they belong. Regardless, karma doesn’t forget. After time has coaxed you far beyond that dark period of your life, and you find yourself sitting affably at a café with your ex as he somberly spits out his poignant tale of devotion to a woman only to be cheated on and dumped for a less attractive man, you don’t smirk. In fact, you wish you had never intuitively felt anything more than apathy. The guilt associated with retribution is really quite bitter.

Thursday, September 14, 2006


I can't make the happy hour. I have had a few too many margaritas with a dirty ol' senor and need a break.




In actuality, I don't get home from Chicago until midnight. Have fun kiddies!

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Not For the Faint of Heart

I have a 13.1 mile race to run in 12 days. Now, most people at this stage in the training game would be treading carefully in preparation. However, I was not so fortunate to be blessed with graceful genes.

Jess' Knee

This is the aftermath of my run-in today with two loving and conspiring inanimate objects. At the training facility in which I am currently attempting to broaden the minds of some of our new hires, I felt some hunger pangs at lunch time and thought it might be a good idea to quench them. My pointy-toed heels, however, had other plans for me.

The pathway from the cafeteria back to my room includes a grandiose, carpeted, wide and open (i.e. visible to a large percentage of the students and staff), Scarlet O'Hara-style spiral staircase that one must ascend following the take-out packaging and drink pouring. Apparently my shoe fell head over heels (pardon the pun) with the third stair on said staircase and clung to it like a wartime lover begging not to be separated. As diet coke flew through the air in slow motion to splenda-soak carpeting and walls, my knee, being the gentleman that he is, jumped forward to brace my fall. Thankfully for those of us with such grace, the facility has decorated the right angle of each stair with a copper foot grip. Knee? Meet metal stair corner. Metal stair corner? Meet knee.

And there you have it. My courageously swollen saviour, proudly adorning a deep, one-inch gash requiring 4 stitches (the first of my family ever to require them, I might add). I believe it was my ego, however, that took the biggest beating of the day.

Jess' Knee with Stitch

Let's just hope this suturing heals me in time for my 1/2 marathon...

Monday, September 11, 2006

United Flight

On this September 11th I'm flying a Chicago-bound United flight. Sadly, it didn't even dawn on me to be concerned. Perhaps it's the false sense of security I have now that passengers are required to check their shave gel, but more likely it's because I was already de-sensitized two weeks after the event. I wonder when this innate feeling of invincibility will start to fade?

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Controversy Thursday: Cookie Dough

You may have noticed that as of late, I have not been particularly inspired to write; leaving you all to be entertained by each other's comments rather than my own wit. What is the controversy in this, you might ask? Well, I'm debating taking a leave of absence from blogging. I've considered it before, but my attention-whoring tendencies always prevented the actualization of my departure from the scene (trolling excluded).

My ultimate reason? Through my addiction to blogging, I have found my creative voice. As with any drug-like dependence, I no longer experience the same height of euphoria from posting a particularly well-written vignette that I used to when I was first flirting with extremely pubescent writing skills. The more I hone, the more I want. A narrative that's more substantial in content and length. A wider audience. Both of which I fear a blog [and its bromidic, high maintenance demands] will never fulfill.

It is this that I will leave you all to debate for me as I wallow momentarily in this unfamiliar state of verbal sobriety. I'm hoping this intermission is just that; a fleeting recess, rather than an end.

**P.S. Based on your input, I'm moving to once a week instead of quitting. I'm just not ready to say goodbye.
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