lusting

On a day like today--a day where I'm nursing a sprained muscle in my knee and reek of Tiger Balm and have next to nothing to do at work but can't even walk away from my desk because of the pain--these were so needed. Self portraits of Alex (of Oli & Alex) recreating romance novel covers. Me love.

21 Kilometres and Type 1 Diabetes: An Introduction

Two of the most important parts of my life (running and diabetes) don't mesh together well.

I started running when I was 12--holy shit, have I actually been running for more than half my life?--and the diabetes came later, at 18, barely a week out of high school. As a teenager I ran recklessly: on a totally empty stomach, at nighttime alone, through woods, carrying nothing but keys. After my Type 1 diagnosis, I was forced to smarten up. No longer could I expect to train with a team or go all out at races; the risk of developing a low blood sugar was just too high. I conceded to bringing along a pack loaded with glucose tablets and testing equipment whenever I ventured out.

At 23 I switched over to an insulin pump. My endocrinologist and diabetes nurse assured me that it would be easier to exercise with a pump; I'd be "almost normal", they said. They forgot to mention that it would take my body almost 6 months to adjust to the device, or that I'd be fine-tuning my insulin levels through trial and error. The errors, it turned out, were plenty: since starting the pump, my blood sugar has bottomed out at least 10 times while running. Each time I thought I was close to dying. Running is not supposed to feel like death. One part of my life is not supposed to kill another part.

I've kept it up, though. I've increased my mileage and run on my own schedule and cut down on the excuses. I've attempted to train for at least three half marathons, and yet I haven't run a single one to date. This is where things change. Here, at 25, I'm finally going to force my diabetes and my running to get along.

Today I registered for the Half at the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon. October 16th it is. I'll be documenting my training here, with a focus on diabetes and health.

It's true that a half-marathon isn't much. It's barely longer than my standard long runs, and this particular race is still seven months away. Sure, one day I'll be able to say "I have Type 1 diabetes and I just ran a full marathon", but for now this goal is big enough. I'm not training to finish; I'm not a contestant on The Biggest Loser, this isn't merely about fitness for me. I'm training to get a solid time (under 2:00:00), to validate all the years I've been pounding pavement, and to reconcile these two disparate parts of myself. 

I mean, how many serious diabetic runners are there? It's time to break some ground. 

tard love

From Bachelor creator Mike Fleiss' interview with Entertainment Weekly:

Will we ever see a bachelor or a bachelorette who is not white? "I think Ashley is 1/16^thCherokee Indian, but I cannot confirm. But that is my suspicion! We really tried, but sometimes we feel guilty of tokenism. Oh, we have to wedge African-American chicks in there! We always want to cast for ethnic diversity, it’s just that for whatever reason, they don’t come forward. I wish they would."

You just finished your 15th edition of The Bachelor. What’s it feel like to survive for so long? "There have been so many Bachelor rip-offs. We tell better stories, we cast more relatable people, and we’ve survived when others fell by the wayside. I’m so proud of that. I’m glad we have this big territory. The romance space is ours. We did 20 million viewers on Monday and have another cover of People magazine, despite the fact there is some really important stuff going on [in the world]. There’s a degree of absurdity to that. But I think our ratings are way higher. People watch this show in groups. We know virtually every college campus has a Bachelor screening party. We average good, solid ratings but the number of magazine covers we get sort of tells us a different story. You’d be hard pressed to find people in the country who didn’t know what happened on Monday. For a show to be on 10 years, it’s a miracle!"

Shit man. This guy is the Nicholas Sparks of reality TV: he fancies himself a legend, a pioneer, when in reality (haha) he's just pumping out two hours of manipulative fluff every week. The Bachelor franchise is a miracle? These are real miracles, Mike: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/15/japan-earthquake-2011-sur_n_836196.html#s253897. Get your head on straight. 

royal wedding fever/ royal wedding diarrhea

Don't get me wrong: I am more excited about the upcoming royal wedding than I care to admit in public (I am already planning my April 29th 5am solo breakfast viewing party, complete with eggs benny and Union Jack decorations) but this Lifetime movie is really taking it too far. On British TV you always get to see real people, and it's so refreshing: real bad clothes, real bad teeth, real accents. In the States, there's just the standard brunette and blonde.

I mean, really? That could be any upper-middle-class Caucasian couple walking around the UWO campus. And this is even worse: 

Oooh, I wonder which is which? Congrats on making another Lifetime movie, Lifetime. I will not be getting up  at 5am to watch you any time soon. 

(via 1,2)

here's hoping

Now, more than ever, I need daylight savings time. This winter was the first that saw me work a 9 to 5 job, and it definitely won't be the last. Every day I emerged from the subway to darkness, ran on sidewalks so black I couldn't even see the ice covering them, and mostly holed up with the heat on. I have been counting down the days, desperate for the time change since January. Now we're here--the bitch has sprung forward--and my world is finally filled with hopeful things. Like sunlight during Jeopardy! Like brown grass that'll soon be green but hell at least it isn't white. Like produce that doesn't come out of a bag in the freezer. And like these, too:

This sandwich. We're still in the process of picking dates/flights/hotels, but a weekend trip to Halifax is definitely happening this year. I haven't been back to the city once since I left it, back in April of '05, so this visit is a long time coming. Will it look the way I remember it looking? Will it feel the same? Will we buy the poor man's lobster roll pictured above? At least one of those answers is a for sure thing. (image via)

These shoes. Real Swedish Hasbeens might be out of my (skinny) budget at the moment, but I'm hoping the upcoming H&M collaboration will fill that gap in my closet. It doesn't hurt that I work just two minutes away from a store and am more than prepared to take a extra-long coffee break just to elbow for a pair. See you on April 20th, shoes. (image via popbee)

This fact: it really warms my heart to know that at one time there was both a Maude Ave. and a Harold Ave. in my current neighbourhood. Love is real, and I have the map to prove it. (via junctiontriangle.ca)

This movie. I once watched it on channel 12 with no subtitles just because it's so hard to look away. It's the saddest, sweetest, most colorful French musical you could ever imagine--I love it, and I hate musicals. 

Trench coats and Catherine Deneuve and candy colors and, yes, a lot of umbrellas. There's more than enough  lovely things to cut through all the sadness. (via 1,2,3)

This song. A classic. 3 minutes and 21 seconds of spring-- it's enough, I'll take it.

young canadian love

File this under "Things Only Other Canadians Will Care About". Actually, just stuff it in "Things Only I Will Care About".

I was under the impression that Jay Baruchel was a total weirdo: a Montreal-based, Canucks-loving pothead who once bought an extra apartment for the sole purpose of housing his cats. It turns out that he's as normal as the rest of us: he's engaged to itty bitty Alison Pill! This is almost too cute for me to take. It's a bright spot in an otherwise miserable day. So thanks for that, Baruchel.

Steven Karp, you done good!

Hunting For: British Toffee Tins

I like to have a list of items on my radar whenever I go antiquing or thrifting, partly for the thrill of the find, mostly so I don't lose my shit in a room stuffed floor to ceiling with dusty, sticky knickknacks. For the past few months I've been searching for antique swim locker baskets with no luck--until Devan ordered me some online as a birthday present (that boy listens well).

Right now I'm on the lookout for old, bizarre toffee tins from Britain. Like these:

What is that, a llama? Why?

These remind me of "It's A Small World", in the most terrifying way. Stop dancing! You're freaking me out.

The Scottish Unicorn hates the English Lion. Fact. Put them in the same room together and there'll be a murder or two.

Sexy bathing suit martini time. 

Oh my god that one on the left oh my god oh my god! Devan, get on it.

source: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

way cool?

I have a soft spot for Clarissa Explains It All, as I have for all the mid-90s Nickelodeon shows I used to watch at my grandparent's place in Florida on March Breaks. Clarissa Darling was infinitely more likable than Sabrina Spellman-- she was bratty, sneaky, smart, opinionated, and brash. The show ended in 1994, but apparently a pilot for a spin-off was shot (!!!)...

...and it sucks. Clarissa Now lacks everything good, funny, and neon about the original show, so it's no surprise that every station passed and it's been languishing in a black plastic VHS case ever since. What irks me even more is that Clarissa, like every "independent" teenaged female character to follow in her wake, dreams of being a journalist. I, too, grew up wanting to be a journalist, and now I know who to blame for planting that seed of ambition in my head: the teen girls of TV. Caitlin Ryan. Harriet the Spy. Rory Gilmore. Sabrina Spellman, again. I had to go all the way to first year journalism at King's College in Halifax, all the way to age 19, before I realized that I was better at making up stories than telling truths.

It 's just too damn easy to make your young heroine a journalist--and, in this day and age, when newspapers are shuttering down and MJ degrees are suddenly as worthless as my MFA, it also seems inappropriate. Clarissa Darling might've had a shot at success back in 1995, but she'd be languishing in the publishing world today. She'd probably be writing a blog instead.

Fake Gardens

I made a few resolutions at the start of this year: the same massive ones I make every year and inevitably fail at (control my diabetes better, run more road races, start budgeting), but also a new dumb goal (have more flowers in my apartment). The first three are off to an okay start; it's that last one that's sucking miserably.

My flower resolution hasn't gone well so far, mostly due to winter, but most-mostly due to me. The thought of carrying a plant home in mittened hands just seems cruel, and I already killed my Ikea succulents with too much love/water. I have a whole fleet of thrifted milk glass vases waiting to be filled with posies from Coriander Girl but they have to wait a little longer. In the meantime I'll be making these wool flowers (as seen in Sweet Paul) and tossing them all over my apartment. These were featured in the kid's issue, but I have the crafting tendencies of an 8-year-old so that's alright. I'm so sorry, Devan, in advance--our place is about to look even more like Martha Stewart's shitter.

Sea Spray

I had to go all the way to an Ulta in Winter Park, Florida to get my hands on Anchors Away, the new China Glaze spring collection, but it was worth it. I picked up a few bottles, but I've already fallen hardest for Sea Spray. It's blue but not baby, creamy but not flat, unassuming but not boring. It also sparkles just slightly in the sun, which made for lovely nails down in the orange state but doesn't translate so well under Ontario's drawn-out winter skies. No matter: I'm probably going to be wearing this shade every day until spring finally hits. Consider this my nail polish protest.

image via @ChinaGlaze