How to be basic: a guide to yoga

Yoga. It’s one of those things that us white folk just adopted as one of our own and pretend like it was our culture all along. I can’t really think of another example from history of this, but it will come to me. Yoga brings forth images of tight pants, wrist infinity tattoos and water bottles that are actually just mason jars, because bringing along glassware with an awkward lid just seems downright practical, rather than inner peace.

But, I won’t lie. I too tried to welcome yoga into my life. And I mean more than just the occasional downward dog on the Hill. (You see, I got the lingo down.)
My voyage into the land of Namaste started with a class that was basically a feel-good afternoon, where you lay still as someone tells you that you are awesome and really should just keep being awesome. I agreed. So I came back every week. Then, however, the class was extended to an hour and half. And let’s face it: I got things to do. I can’t be zenning out for 90 minutes at a time. Just give me my emotional high-five and let’s move on.

So then came Tantric Yoga. “Ooh, you vixen, you!” you might be thinking. “What sexy time that must have been,” you might ponder with a mason jar of kombucha in your hand. You are mistaken. Images of said three-hour exercise in awkwardness still haunt my dreams. They promised us we would find our soulmates there. They promised! Yet, my soul never felt darker or lonelier afterwards. The man who looked like a 1920s strongman left little doubt in my mind why he was still looking for love. And so, after three hours of giving strangers back rubs and feeding each other bananas, I went home.

Yet, even that didn’t deter me from yoga; though it did deter me from bananas for a while. And so came time for Acroyoga. This here is a magical thing that turns you into a circus performer in an instant, if you are ok with diving headfirst into a stranger’s crotch. And for a while, I was. I sat atop strangers’ feet, I dove into crotches and I balanced others. But every good thing must come to an end.

For me, it was time for Hot Yoga. Ahh, sweating profusely in the company of others – nothing gets my motor revving more than that. You develop sweat spots in places you didn’t know could sweat and soon abandon all hope of ever feeling desirable again. I longed for the 1920s strongman. I wanted to feel pretty.

But last week, I found the right yoga for me. This was Aerial Yoga. At last, I felt, I found my calling. No more holding downward dog poses that others make look like sleek triangles, while I resembled an old woman with a hump. Tree poses that make me question whether I would ever pass the drunk balance test sober shall be no more. No more! The hammock does it all for you. Nestled in the sweet, sweet cocoon of a hammock, you are free to pretend you did something good for your health. Next time, I’m bringing a Corona.  

The Polite Baby and the Rebel youth

Public transit is like a party, for which no one was in charge of curbing the guest list.

“Gary, why is your accountant here? Did you invite her?”
“No man, did you invite the homeless man?”
“Why is there a clown riding a llama?”

Literally, anyone can and will show up. Sometimes, these are just belligerent old men who loudly proclaim the demise of society as damn women started to get education.

Sometimes, it’s a rebellious youth who didn’t consider nasal needs when getting his awkwardly placed piercing and thus sits there sniffling, just trying to free that trapped booger that’s hanging onto his piercing.

He’s probably thinking: “Damnit, I won’t let my parents get the better of me. Sure, it’s uncomfortable and sure the sniffles have cost me many a romantic possibility, but goddamnit, I’m keeping these!” And he sniffles.

But sometimes, babies load up.

There were two of these passengers today. Now, not being a mother myself, I can’t really give an age estimate on these two babes. All I can pretty well guarantee is that they were out of the womb but not yet in college. If pressed, I would guess less than a year.

One was a thug life show-off baby. The other was a polite baby.

At first, the interaction between these two was limited as neither had noticed the other across the aisle. And so we sat there and watched.

The polite baby, free of her pesky gloves, stretched out her fingers and with gratitude, she smiled at her mom who had liberated her from the entrapment of her pink gloves.

The show-off baby started reaching into the cup holders for stale Cheerios and humblebragging to the whole bus. His speech was limited to undecipherable baby noises, so allow me to translate.

“Yo, look at all these Cheerios I could have if I wanted to. But I won’t. I can just toss this one into the aisle, because I will get more.”

Polite baby smiles.

Show-off baby starts belligerently babbling on and bragging, presumably, about his cool shoes that had dogs on them. I would brag too, truthfully, had I had shoes like that.

At this point, the two babies locked eyes. It was on.

Show-off baby leaned back all casual-like in his stroller. He ain’t got to impress nobody.

Polite baby shot out enormous snot out of her delicate nose.

The bus audience froze with faces of horror.

We watched in silence as the snot hang on her porcelain face, threatening to continue its journey elsewhere.

The mom reacted quickly and cleaned her off. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

Polite baby turned around and audibly thanked her mom. She knew what could’ve happened.

As the bus pulled into the stop, both babies had to get off. You know, baby stuff to do.

Polite baby waved at everyone, gently cooing “bye” as she was wheeled off the bus.

The show-off baby continued to babble loudly, probably still bragging about Cheerios he can soon consume.

Squirrels: Thug Life

Squirrels. In most parts of the world, these are adorable petite creatures, whose bushy tails complete idyllic folkloric paintings. Not so in Ontario. Here, we have thugged out black squirrels who could probably take you out quite easily.

Recently, I had two unpleasant encounters with these bushy-tailed gangsters and both had left me feeling like a black bear encounter would've been preferable.
So first, there's this black squirrel who has claimed my balcony as his lair. In my mind, his name is Slasher.

Artistic rendition of what I think Slasher looks like when I'm absent.

Slasher dominates my balcony and goes on destruction sprees from time to time.
As if to start a turf war with me, Slasher pushes planters around, knocks over plants and digs out my flowers. After he's done with my balcony, he probably goes on to kick a puppy. That's the kind of asshole this squirrel is.

The other day, I was feeling extra brave and decided to sit on my balcony. Without any fear that fables tell us these cute fuzz balls should have, my scraggly thug of a squirrel hopped right beside me and was staring me down. This was it. Slasher was moving around my balcony with the confidence of a school bully. Any minute, I thought, he's going to break another planter and shank me with the shard and end this.

But no. He came merely to intimidate me. But I stood my ground.

But this didn't seem to satiate Slasher's appetite for fear and intimidation. Looks like the ruffian had connections downtown.

A few days after my stand-off, I was minding my own business on an otherwise picturesque café patio. I could tell there was a sniper squirrel tracking my moves from above. Suddenly, it leapt. Without so much as a warning, it crawled under my seat and grabbed my leg.

I shook it off to shocked looks of bystanders who took me for an animal abuser.

Damn you, Slasher.
Now it's on.

#TreatYoSelf birthday

Birthday is the one day of the year when people celebrate you for something you had absolutely nothing to do with. It's great. There you are and all you had to do was be born. Just imagine if you were walking down the street and someone congratulated you on sunshine. It'd be great.

And what's an extra little bonus to all the love you get from family and friends?( if you have friends, that is. If you don't, then this blog will do you double duty because you have many opportunities to eat your emotions - keep reading, champ!) Free stuff.

As you may know, a number of companies offer fun birthday deals. But I don't know about you, but I never really paid much attention to it. I always just looked on in jealousy and self-pity when others were sang to by someone dressed as a moose and presented with a free cupcake on THEIR birthday. But not this year. I took the day to wander and really get my deals on. The Queen I suppose gets two freebie days. Oh, Liz, you clever minx. Is one free Frappuccino not enough for you?? I digress.

Keep in mind, these deals are specific to Ottawa, so don't go shaking your head in sadness if you live in Zealandia, SK. I can't help you. In any way. Treat yourself to a postcard of the Rockies, I guess. Anyway, here are the deals I did:

1. Get yer hair did. During the month of your birthday, you get $20 off at Salon Rouge. Bam, now you got yourself a sweet new 'do. Not to mention, you get fancy-pants coffee drinks there like a king.

So, ok, you now have Fabio hair. Let's just say you got your hair did the day before your birthday. So in your mind just watch the night turn into day in a poetic fashion.

2. Now start the day right. Go to Denny's for your well-deserved Original Grand Slam.

3. In true birthday fashion, I considered doing the rest of the day in my birthday suit. But the closest I could get to this legally was going to a free hot yoga class at Yogatown. Work off that bacon.

4. Your steps then must naturally take you to Sephora. After all, you just did somethin' somethin' for your health, surely a little beauty treat is in order. Do it. You get a sweet birthday gift. Boys, you can probably get some manly cosmetics too, or else you can finally get that perfect shade of red for your moonlighting career as a boyesque performer. It's a thing. Go Bing that shit.

5. Ok. Now it's time to cash in on your Starbucks love. You've been buying tall brewed coffees for months so you can finally roll into the store and with the boisterousness of a drunken uncle at a wedding, yell out: "Make me the creamiest, sweetest, biggest beverage you can, barista! Don't be cheap on the whipped cream and if it comes in anything other than a trough, try again." Huzzah!

6. If you'd like to shake off the fat before heading over to your next free feast, you animal, you can partake in another free yoga class, offered by Elevate Yoga.

7. Now, you're ready to take on the feast of all feasts. Put on your stretchy pants, put on your game face and head over to the buffet at Tucker's Marketplace. Just do it. If you start feeling full, don't give up. Go for a jog around the food stations and get back to it, tiger. This is your time to shine.

If you really want to squeeze in one more tasty beverage, Booster Juice has you covered with one regular bevvie.

And there you have your free day. Now it's time to  finally look yourself in the mirror and ponder the depths of getting older. Until next year, giant tubs of Starbucks and never-ending plates of food. Until next year. #Treatyoself

A post-dated Czech.

This here post is more of a "let's sit back, grab a tissue and ponder" type of a blog. It's really a blog post for posterity rather than hilarity. So this is  just a warning. This one's a thoughtful one.

It's about how it feels to be an immigrant. I know I know...tired cliche of a topic, isn't it? But I can't help it. It's really the kind of topic that only a fellow immigrant kid can grasp. And I don't mean one of those "Oh, I'm an immigrant because my grandma moved here from Scotland when she was four" kind of immigrants. I mean, good on you for being able to phase haggis out of your systems through the generations and having some kilt pride, but this one's for the immigrant kids who moved to Canada at an impressionable age....but with plenty of motherland memories to shape and confuse their current existence.

Why am I thinking of this topic now and not at any other time? Well, because, earlier this year a new law was passed. This law amended an existing Czech law that prevented some of us from holding a dual citizenship. So, for the past 15 years, I pretended to be only Canadian. Well, on paper, anyway. Inside, I, of course, was Czech but it somehow troubled me that I had to give up who I am because of a law. It seemed unfair that some Canadian hussy who's never set a foot on the cobbled streets of Prague, but happened to marry a Czech dude could have a Czech citizenship by marriage, but not me. Heck, I lived in Prague before Prague was deemed cool by the rest of the world. I was a pioneer! Back when it was still shrouded in the foreboding cloud of communism. Yep, that's when I lived there. So, what the heck, I ask you?

And so, last week I went to the Czech Embassy here in Ottawa to properly apply for my citizenship. It's like a secret code, this Czech language.

I mean, who but a Czech person could speak it and understand it? If you hear Spanish, really, that person could be from anywhere! They could be Spanish, Mexican, Nicaraguan....or just someone who took Spanish in University. But when I hear Czech, there's a secret bond immediately. They know; I know. We both know the secret tongue. And even now, fifteen years into my life in Canada, I still find myself to have a far more intimate relationship with Czech as a language than English. I'll give you an example. The word "Summer" to me just means warm weather, possibility of camping and maybe a harkening back to the days of summer jobs.

But its Czech equivalent, "Léto" holds a far deeper meaning. When I hear or say that word, I immediately think of the lazy bright sun drowning our one-bedroom apartment in Prague. I immediately imagine the smell of it all. I imagine us returning home from camp or our grandparents' cottage. The smell of pool toys somehow lingers in the air and the apartment welcomes us with its familiar smell and light.

The Czech language just has a sense of familiarity to me when every word not only holds a literal meaning and its English equivalent, but also a collection of senses that complete its full and complete meaning.  While the word "Christmas" to me means vacation and shopping and gift exchanges, its Czech equivalent "Vánoce" brings with it a whole atmosphere. When I hear that word, my mind fills with memories of town squares speckled with artisans, the smell of mulled wine and just an overall feeling of unexplained magic. The word smells like frankincense and sounds of bells. That's that word for me.

And so, this one goes out to all the immigrant kids who had to reshape their understandings of words and meanings and culture to fit in. But in a way, this one also goes out to born-and-raised Canadians. Imagine your brain having a second layer of a completely different life and memories and knowledge. Imagine your brain having a clear-cut separation between "Christmas" and "Vánoce" - the day you moved from a place that understood the latter and moved to a place that understood the former. It's not easy and so on behalf of all of us immigrant kids : have patience! Have patience when you hear an immigrant struggle with pronunciation of certain words or when he says something silly. It's not because he or she is silly; it's because he or she is working from a new script. A script they are not yet familiar with. So, have patience. 

Scrabbling "Tsunami"

It's been a while since I put a pen to this blog...or rather keystrokes. The whole Sharpie on my screen thing was just too awkward.
Regardless. A couple of months ago I found myself in Nicaragua, because why not? The trip was sprinkled with many an adventure.
Today, I shall share a tale of abandonment, sickness, a serious gangsta grill and tsunami. Sure, you might think " this sure sounds like a hell of a life you've led." But no, this was all in a day.
The day started fairly usually: hassling a random unmarked "taxi driver" for a good deal on a trip. The three amigas (that being me, a friend we shall call Sol, and K) all shuffled into the back seat of the car, no longer even pretending to  look for a seat belt and off we went. It was a hot Nica morning, with the side of the roads only sporadically sprinkled with morning folk.
"Why so early?" you ask.
 "Why you so foolish?"you inquire.
Because we had a 3-hour trip ahead of us to our final destination, Ometepe, where we intended to kayak for 3 hours. This was ill-planned, to be sure, but under the influence of Nicaraguan rum, anything seems like a good idea.
I digress.

As we were in the cab, I realized I forgot some rather key feminine products at home. So, the kind taxi driver pulled over to the side of the road by some inconspicuous pharmacy that could've been a front and I slipped out.
This is where the story gained Hollywood-like plot twist. This would be when Liam Neeson would start narrating it.
Before I continue, let me ask you this: "Have you ever felt abandoned?" You have? Well, take a look around ....if there is in fact no one there, then it's not a feeling. You have in fact been abandoned. This was the realization  I came to when I stepped outside of the pharmacy to find zero cabs waiting for me. My friends were gone. My mind skipped to the awkward conversation when I would have to explain to Sol's parents she's been kidnapped. But before I could get too carried away with the demise that surely befell my friends, I realized that I too could be sold for parts.
I asked the one person in the street if he'd seen the cab.
"Hmm yeah, but no problem! They probably just went ahead to the beach." Hmmm that would be a problem. That was not our destination. In panic, I paced back and forth for a good 10-15 minutes, pondering my abandonment and the fate that had befallen my friends.
Suddenly around a corner comes a cab zipping through. It's them. I will concede that my first words upon opening the cab door were not ones of welcome, but rather of shocked profanity.
The excuses were eyebrow raising. Sol was on the phone, trying to get us a good deal on a taxi on the return trip. In the heat of the Spanish exchange, she hadn't noticed the cabbie was driving off.
The other excuse from K made me feel like a puppy with a water balloon: confused and unable to grasp it.

She hadn't alerted the driver to my absence because she thought he was just turning around....for 15 km! The cab driver's excuse was devilishly simple: he hadn't noticed there were 2 of us rather than 3.
Uncertain, shaken and confused, I sat back in my seat and we continued our journey. The harbour greeted us with a sketchy hustler who suggested we pay him $30 (big chunk of change in Nicaragua) and then, you know, trust him that he will call his friend, the cabbie, on the island to pick us up. We had no choice. So we handed our sweaty cash to the stranger and ascended the rickety ladder that threatened to drop us into the unruly waves below with every calculated step we took and made ourselves comfortable.
An hour later ,we shook ourselves off the ferry onto the sandy harbour of Ometepe. We didn't have much faith in the hustling taxi pimp but lo and behold, there he was, proudly holding up a sign with our names. We inched closer only to notice he was bedazzled with the kind of a grill that any rapper would be proud of. But who are we to judge the teeth by their cover? We became more alarmed when he led us to an SUV, in which was a second guy. So, to recap: three girls, two men (one with an intimidating grill), an unmarked SUV and an hour-long trip to our destination.
Bitterness over being abandoned was long forgotten. We had to stick together on this one.
"Psst," I whispered casually to Sol, our translator-in-arms, "listen carefully to their conversation. If they start discussing where they bury us, just tap me on the shoulder and we'll roll out of the moving car." She nodded.
But once again, this was an empty threat. We arrived at our destination unscathed! Sure, the internet would lead you to believe that we would end up at an established kayaking place rather than a hut with by-standing cattle and people beating their laundry on the rocks in nearby lake Nicaragua, but whatevs. We've already come so far!
We boarded our kayaks, put our valuables into the grocery bags we were given in lieu of wet bags and paddled off ! The island was magical and filled with all sorts of quaint flora and fauna; random horses frolicking about; a caiman giving us a friendly wink and a unicorn leaping over our kayak. Just magic.
Sure we had to pull our kayak on foot through a part of it, but as Sol inquired " Isn't mud supposed to be good for our skin anyway?"
It was hard to break it to that childlike face, "Hmm well, I don't think it's any old mud filled with fish shit and horse manure, though...."
"Oh," she conceded deflated and continue to drag her feet through crap collective below.
Perhaps the only blemish was my severe sunburn. I was debilitated. My legs, it turns out, took on a bright hue of red that burnt when you just looked at it warmly. Sol, who is Latina and doesn't burn ever, was intrigued by what she saw and gleefully poked at my searing red skin. My eyes filled with tears and my soul with sadness.
Let this day end, I thought. I need aloe vera, water and food. Maybe alcohol.
After another ferry trip and a cab ride, we finally arrived home.
Only to find out there is a tsunami warning.
In my state of poor well-being, I simply suggested to my comrades that we stay put and wait for the wave to come and get us.
"I'm tired and frankly, the cool water would feel nice on my sunburn," I reasoned.
They were on board.
"Yeah, we should just stay here and...like...swim if it comes down to it."
Still, we thought, we should find out the emergency plan should we be asked to evacuate. It was charmingly simple: errr run to the hills. Like that fancy pants hotel up on the hill. Run there. Yeah.
Done and done.
We made ourselves a pitcher of pina colada, pulled out Scrabble and waited for a)death to come b)warning to be lifted.
The latter came true.

Gangsta's paradise: Ottawa style

The first grown-up apartment is an exciting step in anyone’s life. It’s not an apartment you share with 3 others, it’s not your parents’ basement and it’s not a furnished sublet. No. This is an apartment you are responsible for filling with furniture and memories.

Granted, I went through phases of most of these stages.

The roommate situation was great in one sense. It provided you with instant friends. Sure, it’s a bit of a forced friendship because they live there and really have no escape from you, but let’s coax ourselves into believing they like you. The only downfall of this arrangement for me was that there were five of us sweaty humans living on a tropical island with one bathroom.

It was also tricky because our doors didn’t fully lock and we were constantly interrupted by feral cats and wild chickens roaming around. But let’s chalk that up to a true Robinson Crusoe experience.

As far as a furnished sublet, there too can be a range. I am willing to concede that not every sublet apartment comes with resident racoon with anger issues. Mine did.

It greeted me one day as I opened my squeaky door into the smoky hallway. Hallway is a rich term that would imply windows and lighting though, so take that term conservatively. This was more like an outdoor prison hall. As I peered out, a giant angry racoon growled back at me. This was when I first learned that racoons growl. Silently, I closed the door and went to my war tent. Strategy was needed. And like any modern gal, I turned to my Facebook friends.

One said: “spray it with something.”

Misunderstanding this advice, I grabbed a bottle of Febreeze. I sprayed the racoon, expecting a white flag of defeat, but instead it growled even more prominently, clearly unimpressed with its newly begotten Spring Meadow scent.

I also banged pots and pans, but again to no avail. It took two friends with hockey sticks to come to my rescue. Their initial bravado when discussing the mission on the phone was quickly squashed upon arrival.

“That thing is the size of a bear,” said one.

They retreated and planned an attack. Finally, with gentle encouragement of the hockey stick , the raccoon ran down the stairs never to be seen again.

And so finally, it came to me getting my very own apartment. And so, the collection of furniture began.   My budget mindset led me from garage sale to garage sale, in search of bits and pieces of furniture.

I am also not above wandering the streets of a nearby wealthy neighbourhood the day before garbage collection.

“A lifesaver? Sweet. How did I live without this hanging in my bathroom?” I thought as I procured one of the more eclectic pieces of home décor.

Perhaps one of the more macabre finds was my entertainment unit, which houses my tv with the screen the size of a cellphone.

Someone was offering a free entertainment unit. Who am I to say no to free furniture?

So I contacted the man. Wearing denim cut-offs and a grey rat tail, the man gave an impression of an alternative artist or a hobo from the wrong side of tracks.

I wandered into the darkened apartment.

“So, there’s the unit. The previous owner died last week.”

“Ok…” I said wearily.

I tried to proceed quickly to load the piece into my compact car, but no luck.

“Well, “ he said wetting his lips, “I could always come to your place and drop it off. Give me your address.”

He meant well, I’m sure, but I’ve seen too many Criminal Minds episodes where this kind of proposal ended with Shemar Moore picking up your remains and shaking his good looking head in despair.

“She should’ve known better,” he’d whisper, shaking his chiseled bicep toward the heavens.

Eventually, on the third visit, with the help of a friend, we were able to affix the armoire on the roof of my car.

So, piece by piece; there it was. My own furnished apartment. I’ve grown to love its quirks and charm. Some, like the constantly dripping faucet that dripped scalding hot water and turned my entire apartment into a sauna, were not quite as charming as they could’ve been. And then there was the obese mouse that made its home in one of my drawers, where over the period of two months it consumed a 1-pound bag of chocolate chips.

I have not seen it in a while and blame its disappearance on sudden onset of diabetes and/or morbid obesity that prevented it to fit into the tiny hole from whence it came.

And so I stood on my balcony, reminiscing on my quaint existence in what I maintain is the cutest apartment. I shrugged off these minor problems like a mouse.  With a knowing smile I glanced over to one side of my balcony as if to absorb why I love this place.

This is when I noticed the rotted hole in the floor, with few weak boards separating me from life and death.