The Chicken Ninja and His Assistant

Hola! As I suspected, my ¨hola¨is getting quite a workout! You will be happy to know that it has been joined by several other badly pronounced common phrases.

We are having quite a good time and have decided to become shareholders in the Mexican Bandaid corporation.

The only problem so far is the roosters that begin crowing at 4:30 a.m. and keep it up until, well, night. I don´t mind so much because I grew up with chickens. (Not in the same house or anything, but there were chickens in the vicinity.) James, being one of those sophisticated urbanites from Edmonton, Alberta, has no chicken tolerance at all. He has proposed dressing up in camouflage fatigues and going on search and destroy missions. I´ve gone along with the plan because I am convinced that he won´t find any roosters and if he does, he won´t get the best of them.

He has promised that I will get to be his chicken ninja assistant! What more could any woman ask for¿ (Now I am going to start allowing some of the unusual symbols on the Spanish keyboard into this message lest you think I´m lying about being in MexicoÑ稨... okay, that´s enough).

Also, if anyone is interested in a a time share in Mexico, don´t hesitate to let me know. I´m quite confident I can hook you up!

Hasta la vista.

S.

Hola!

I am finally going to get a chance to use my university Spanish! Unfortunately I have exhausted my vocabulary with the profligate use of the word "hola". I'm definitely over my longstanding resentment at the Spanish language for completely destroying my GPA. Ah, yes, the joys of being remedial.

We are off to Puerto Vallarta on Monday. It is my first trip to Mexico and I'm very excited. I will try and update the blog while we're away. If you are stuck somewhere with terrible weather, please think of me lounging poolside. Hmmm, that sounds a bit like gloating, doesn't it? Heh, sorry. And don't worry. I will get mine when I have to admit to someone that I took two years of Spanish and only have one word.

Hola! Hola! Hola!

I still can't believe those professors never saw fit to give me any grade higher than a C-. Unreasonable bastards... I'll show them. I will converse fluently with cheese vendors and fish mongers all over Puerto Vallarta. I will start things off with a beautifully pronounced "hola" and it will go from there. I'm sure the entire language is just waiting up here in my head. Given the right trigger, such as the strong desire to buy a fish taco, I will suddenly begin speaking in beautifully formed sentences that are so accurate and even poetic that I will impress native speakers. Stay tuned!

Apology Blog

Sorry I'm not writing more. The book is at a critical juncture. Here, to make up for it, is a blog I wrote when this blog was only read by my mom (who, as luck would have it, is just coming back online after her retirement!) Yay Mom!

Anyway, happy working out. (That is part of your New Year's resolutions, isn't it? Or has it already hit the skids, along with the resolve not to watch reality TV anymore?

First Published Quite Some Time Ago

The men who teach my fitness classes are gods.

Radically fit, they are like Superman, Spiderman and Vin Diesel all rolled into one. Someone at my gym had the bright idea of using mixed martial artists as aerobics instructors. Professional fighters teach my step classes!

If you think about it, a large, potentially deadly man is an ideal choice to run an exercise class. He'll bring in all those people (guys, mostly) who would otherwise think there was something lame about jumping up and down in time to a speeded up version of I Will Survive. You won't find the usual fitness class squeaky wheels whining at someone who could subdue them permanently with one casually applied commando move. Plus, there's something inspiring about people who are so completely, even dangerously, fit.

The names of the classes reflect the extreme nature of the instructors: Boot Camp, Martial Arts Mayhem. You can almost believe you are in boot camp when the bald-headed instructor with corded forearms and steer-like neck comes in. One look at him and you know you aren't going to spend an hour tangled up in grapevines.

No matter what the classes are called, the moves are pretty much the same: push ups, sit ups, punches and kicks and squats. I love to watch John, Steve, Rock or whoever, call out instructions, keep a stern eye on the class, and perform the moves, all the while growing more and more mountainously large. Soon, people begin collapsing around the room; they are unable to rise for the fiftieth push-up or they roll into fetal position after the seventy-fifth crunch. But not me. I'm so caught up in my fantasy world that I'm unstoppable. It's not about sex. (Although my husband's expertise in martial arts didn't escape my notice when we first started dating.) It's about conferred physical power, the same thing that made me keen to join the boys' teams in elementary school.

I keep thinking John, Steve, John, or Rock is going to notice now incredibly tough I am. They are going to see how I snap back that front punch, how I give that side kick just a little extra power, and they're going to come over and ask: "Say, did you used to study martial arts?"

I'll be forced to admit that, why, yes, in fact, I did take karate for a while there, about ten years ago.

"Wow," Steve, John, or Rock, will say. "It really shows." Then, according to my fantasy, they will ask me to train with them at their dojo for the next Ultimate Fighting Championship, (banned in forty-nine states!) After that I'll be the first woman to go four rounds in the Octagon with the Heavyweight (no, better make that feather-weight) Champion of the World, and emerge victorious.

There are factors that may count against me. Such as my fear of pain. Then there's my age: a rather surprising 35. Us Ultimate Fighter types usually start training earlier, particularly when we're women with very little actual physical strength.

But in class, while others give up, letting the barbells fall to their sides, I valiantly loft mine overhead one more time. Notice me! I'm uncannily tough!

Do the slender yoga-toned women in the class also imagine that they are going to be invited to join Steve, John and Rock in the next jiu jitsu or mui thai tournament? It's obvious that the girl who comes decked out in fatigues and the terry-cloth headband does. Maybe we'll become our own mixed martial arts dojo: the Quite Scary Girlz! Steve, John and Rock will become our trainers, recognizing, with sadness, the day we become too much for even them. "There is no more we can teach you," they'll say to us in Yoda-like tones, "The students have surpassed the masters." One of us may be asked to reprise Linda Hamilton's role in the latest installment of the Terminator franchise. Another may get a part the latest Seagal picture (at least until she whups his ass and herself becomes the star of the latest action adventure series and starts hanging out with Drew Barrymore.)

"Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight! Come on you wimps!" calls Steve, John, or Rock from the front of the class while pushing himself up on one toe and one fingertip. I'll die trying, because if I don't, how's he ever going to be able to figure out the amazing strength lurking beneath my rather unthreatening appearance.

Dear People of the United Kingdom

I realize that you probably don’t think of yourselves as a unit, much as we here in Canada don’t really think of ourselves as the same entity as Mexico and the United States. But listing England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales felt a little, well, unwieldy. Anyway, as you may or may not know, my first novel, Alice, I Think, published on your fair shores as I’m Alice I Think, was released in the U.K. yesterday.

It is my sincere hope that you will give it a warm welcome. Perhaps you may even want to make it a bestseller!

Why should you make my book a bestseller? Well, other than the fact that it’s basically an homage to the U.K. -- that’s the subtext, if you will. Discovering that requires very careful reading. And probably multiple copies of my book -- I personally am quite a fan of England, Scotland Ireland and Wales. My husband and I even got married in Scotland! Which is not to say that we prefer Scotland over the rest of the United Kingdom. We love all the countries of the United Kingdom equally.

Perhaps you saw us in Fort Augustus in the spring of 2001? We were the ones with the sunburned noses who went for “chips” (known as “fries” in North American parlance) in a pub with our small party after our wedding. In case you, like the barmaid who served us, felt that was a little tacky, well, yeah. It was. We are. But that’s no reason not to buy copies of my book for yourself and all your friends!

Should my book become a bestseller in the U.K., I promise in future to be a bit more well-bred and have better manners and not go to pubs in my wedding gown.

Are there any seamstresses among you? Because if there are, you might be interested to know that I actually made my own wedding skirt! Yes, I did. That’s why it was a bit crooked around the hem and why the button on the waistband popped off during dinner, which I would like to point out, was held at a nice hotel and not a pub!

It may seem that I am giving you a bit of a hard sell with regards to my book. It’s true, I’ve written no similar letters to the people of Canada, the United States, Australia or Finland, which are the other places my book has been published. But the U.K., as you well know, is special. I didn’t get married in those places so I don’t feel the connection to them that I do to the United Kingdom. (But please note that if it might help to make my books bestsellers, I’d be quite willing to write pleading letters to all of those places in addition to India, Japan, Sweden, Germany, Haiti and Tibet and all points in-between.)

What are some other reasons you may want to support my writing career? Well, my cousin Jess spent almost two years in Ireland. She was the one with the Canadian accent. She worked at an aquarium and, from what I’ve heard, spent quite a bit of time in pubs. So you can see that the love of things U.K. runs in the family. Who knows? Perhaps when it’s time for her to get married she’ll do so in Wales or England!

Finally, I’ve heard that the people of the United Kingdom like dogs. So do I.

I also hear that the United Kingdom produces the best soccer (football) teams. Team [insert the name of your football team here] is my absolute favourite.

In light of this, please feel free to buy my book. Also, I would very much like to visit the United Kingdom again and having a bestseller would assure that my trip would be paid for.

Come on U.K.: Let’s start a mutual appreciation club!

Cheers! Oops. That’s for my Australian letter. What I mean is: aye, or pip. Or just plain goodbye.

Happy New Year

For 2005 I wish for...

- Help for those affected by the tsunamis;

- Peace for the Congo, Iraq, Colombia and every other place affected by war and violence;

- Adequate food and clean water for everyone on the planet;

- Every person driving a gas guzzler to switch to a bike or a Smart Car (I personally would like a Jamis Earth Cruiser AND a Smart Car);

-The whole growth-at-all-cost, pro-development mindset to be transformed into a pro-restoration/conservation movement. And that the people currently clearcutting Vancouver Island and forests elsewhere to suddenly realize that it's kind of a short-sighted thing to do.

- That all people, including me, stop being such greedy bastards and share a bit more. That includes The Donald and all those grasping yuppies on The Apprentice.

Isn't it sad that my wishes sound so very naive? Oh well, I wish 'em anyway.

Peace all. Or, if that's a bit too Ryan Seacrest for you, just plain peace.