These days, the time is the only information I can give straight out because I’m always racing against the clock.
Browsing: About Me
I can’t pinpoint how having white hairs make me feel, but it bugs me more than I care to admit.
The transition, these ten hours spent on a cramped plane, a day of travel in total, was almost too fast. And on top of that, today, I’m apparently turning 36. Crazy world, I’m telling you.
Starting a new life in a land where none of your ancestors even set foot on kind of messes you up permanently.
I’m tired. Not the oops-passed-out-on-the-carpet-again kind of tired I experienced when Mark was a baby, but I feel drained.
I remember buying a red diabolo and training for hours in my building’s inner courtyard, throwing the spool in the air and failing to catch it a thousand of times.
“Do I look any different?” I asked Feng the other day.
“No,” he replied. “Why?”
Two feel-good stories featuring British author Cath Staincliffe and chocolate. Read on. It will make sense!
France has a new president, democracy is safe and I was interviewed live on CBC. Enjoy my deer in the headlights look!
I’m 34 and I have unfinished business to tackle. This year, I want to give this project a chance.
I’m not doing anything illegal or shady. I’m not gambling, cheating or drinking. I’m not even watching a pirated movie.
Online personal attacks hurt. This one took me by surprise because they came from someone I knew.
In North America, we are all little special snowflakes quick to (over)share what makes us unique, exotic, different.
Trapped. The downside of not blogging anonymously, putting my real name online with pictures. People can and will recognize you. Damn. No running away now.
This is the way I was wired. I don’t have the relentless optimism North Americans find in their breakfast cereals.
Today, I woke up thinking I had turned 33. A split second later, I pulled the duvet back over my head and closed my eyes to grab a few more minutes of sleep. Turning 33 did not magically make me a morning person.
With forced cheer and social gatherings, the entire month of December is a prime time of the year for the fine art of social niceties—“The turkey isn’t dry at all!”, “What a thoughtful gift!”, “I’m looking forward to seeing you at Christmas!” and “This reindeer sweater is very slimming!”.
Our words sounded needlessly adversarial. We don’t do gift giving very well at home. Or rather, we do it well without pressure, but it’s hard to buy something just because you have to buy something.
Each country’s set of road rules has a few idiosyncrasies. In Canada, the rule I hate the most is the “right turn on red”.
Serious question: how do you have fun? How do you treat yourself?
If I was supposed to meet up with you sometime this year and if I cancelled because I was sick… well, I wasn’t just making an excuse.