A Little Peak...

Air Conditioners to Dubai are as important as conditioner to those curly haired girls in the Pantene ads.

Indispensable.

There is always a little hum in the air of the city. You never notice it, till the power goes off (rare occurrence.)
When it does, the city is suddenly eerily quiet. And you lie on the cold marble floor trying to capture the last of the rapidly evaporating coolness.

That's what I remember about Dubai; the eerie silence and perfect coolness, as the future stopped for just a moment.

CP’s Updates

I for one am pretty shocked at how many bloggers find it odd to hang out with a friend in a non public setting, one on one, if the said friend is married/in a relationship. Where is the trust people??

Made me remember how much I hate the assumption that just because I’m single I’m gonna make a play for your man…. Hell no! Most single people I know would never touch a taken ‘person.’ Your man ain’t that hot!

Speaking of hot: I have a crush. I can’t help it. I’ve been trying to deny it. Trying to push it out of my head, but he’s there, day in and day out, running around with no shoes, in suits that cling to his perfect frame, staring ahead with his steely eyes. If you haven’t checked it out yet, ‘Hitman’ is this weeks must see movie…..and if anyone of ya’ll know Olyphant, ask him if he’s got a brother, a look alike…..(I don’t date married men!)

ObamaMesama’s speech yesterday addressing the comments made by his big mouth pastor was so refreshing, there was no ‘but I didn’t inhale’ phrases here….America could you please wake up and take this unprecedented opportunity…..

Mariah’s new song, “Touch My body” is vibrating through my head, only there is no way in hell anyone is touching my body anytime soon. It is in pain. Your darling CP thought she would try her hand at Cardio Turbo Dance. It sounded upbeat, fun, exciting. And it was, only the teacher was a stallion of a woman, who had more energy and girth than I have ever seen. I did my best, but I fully admit that by the end of the class I was a ball full of jello and could only look on hopelessly as Turbo woman power pumped her way across the floor.

What you guys up to today???

Protracted Attraction

I had a male friend over who I met last summer for dinner and a movie, it was fun. He’s a cool kat, whom I am not attracted to in the slightest, but who is interesting as a person. As a single girl I am allowed to do this, hang around and meet people, for the sake of hanging around and meeting people.

Not so much with you tied up folks. Take fella, he had to obtain permission. His girl was concerned (rightly so) since I had met him after they had been ‘dating.’ How dare he want to hang out with some hot single girl? (I had to throw in the hot.) He was allowed to meet me, so long as it was in a neutral place, like a coffee shop. My house, not so much.

Now boys the best remedy to such a situation would be to introduce your girl to your female friends. They would see that these gorgeous girls were otherwise pre-occupied with My man Tuesday’s, potential Would be’s and Alien Hands etc. The threat would cease and desist.

Instead you’ll choose to ‘pretend’ to submit to their demands.

Yet it got me thinking. Why is it that when your in a relationship, your supposed to completely shut off your attraction to other people. Now I am not talking about sexual attraction or cheating. I am talking about the excitement of meeting new people, who you could be attracted to for their points of view, or their life style.

A lot of married bloggers interact with us single gorgeous people through the blogsphere.

Do your respective others ever wonder what the heck you guys are doing? Do you get grief for it?

It seems like most of my married male friends routinely get involved in secret crushes with women they meet. With some prodding, I’ve come to realize that it’s because meeting new people, especially women is like their guilty pleasure. It’s forbidden, so they obsess about it.

Does attraction have to attend once you are happily wed?

Cranky's Getting Fit....

I also joined a gym yesterday. Or rather I’m trying it out for a month. It’s a women’s only gym, which I picked because it is walking distance from my home. When I told people about the women’s only part, the most common response has been, ‘Are you crazy, you should go to a gym with guys. How are you going to meet anyone this way??’

My mother wants me to go to a gym so that “You’ll find a nice, handsome, strong boy” Her words. My male friend at work claims that the sexual energy makes you work out harder. Another friend describes co-ed gyms like lava life on steroids, a hook up place for physically fit, like minded people with unbelievable flexibility prone to trying various karmatic positions.

I don’t want to meet a dude in a gym. I just wanna get ‘fit.’

Besides I am turned off by the fellas who pump too much iron. They walk like the incredible hulk, shoulders slouched forward, heavily, side to side. Also gyms are intimidating enough, all those people energetically running on tread mills with their taut bodies. I know for a fact that having a hot fella to look at would only cause me to do something silly, like pump the treadmill faster, which would somehow result in me falling off. (One of my irrational fears is falling off treadmills, I thus hold on to the two bars for dear life.)

Who needs to meet a fella in a gym? I meet fellas all over the place, and when I’ve worked off the little extra belly dance flab I’ve accumulated, well its going to be like a cheesy 80’s song…raining men!

Agree??

I’m off to Cardio Salsa!!

I don't wanna see no doc
I need attendence from my nurse around the clock'
Cause there's no prescription for me
She's the one, the only remedy

Mr. Issac's is in Toronto tnight...and lil Cranky is going to be there, swaying her lil booty to some classic luvers rock.

Only problem is this hour difference has messed me up...how am I gonna manage to sneak out of here for a nap??

Suggestions??

Snow Go Away...Don't come Back another day

Growing up in Dubai rainy days were the ultimate treat.

We would splash around in the water, marvelling at the pretty drops, singing little ryhmes, floating our candle powered boats.

Weather in Canada has lost all its charm. It becomes an obsession. It's the main focus of discussion at meetings, in the kitchen, on the subway.....what's the weather like today??

It has snowed practically every other week since I got back from India.

The gods are trying to tell me something.

Tomorrow we are expecting somewhere between 5 and 20 cms. A huge variance, you would think they would be able to narrow it down a wee bit.

So my inner voice/child is singing, "Snow, Snow Go Away, Don't come back another day!"

Ps. In an attempt to lure spring in, I've changed the colors in the blog....

Barcelona....

Now that I am back blogging with a vengeance, I’ve noticed you guys aren’t!

So get to it.

This next post comes courtesy of Enrique Potter …who asked the questions, “CP have you been to Barcelona?”

I have. Is the short answer.

The Longer answer is as follows:

I traveled to Barcelona on what was supposed to be the middle of my Europe back pack adventure.

I can see the train ride now, CP with extra long black hair, red streaks that were slowly turning purple, a back pack so big, I would tip over with the slightest touch, a body firm and supple from hours of endless walking, and only being able to afford a good nightly meal.

I also distinctly remember holding my bible, the lonely planet and browsing through the section on Barcelona, and it is, “Watch out for Ralambla. Many a tourist have fallen victim to theft.”

There are two gypsy women with five children all bellow the ages of five, on the train. The children are wild. Hair and skin so bleached in the sun they had a golden tint. Clothes seemed to be a scarce commodity, or maybe they realized how unnecessary they are, and having the freedom to not wear them, have made the executive decision not to wear any.

One lil fellow, probably around 2, is a real terror. Naked and in all his glory, he first climbs up on the chair, next ‘Musketeer style,’ he hangs onto one of the curtains and begins to swing to and fro. The clincher is when he manags to get one of the food trays down, stand on it and begin to pee on the people in the next seat.

We arrive in Barcelona at midnight. We are tired. My girlfriend and I haven’t been getting along. She is French Canadian and it’s like I’ve accidentally brought along a separatist with me. She insists on calling me an Anglophone and repeating everything I said with a French accent. I say ‘sandwich,’ she says ‘Sandyweeech.’ I say stapler, she says ‘Staaapeleeer.’ It’s all getting to be very tiresome.

We meet an American on the train. He’s tall, and exactly what is meant by a strapping lad. I don’t remember his name. And somehow he links in with us and we begin the arduous task of finding a bed in a hostel, in the middle of the night.

Barcelona, like the rest of Europe is filled with winding lanes. Houses are multi storey and most of the hostels are on the 3rd floor. It’s a tiresome trek with a heavy back pack and small legs. Eventually I get tired, and tell them to wait downstairs whilst I run upstairs.

I see it now, throwing down my backpack, (and for a reason I haven’t figured out to this day,) my little money/important stuff pack on top. The American places his heavy strapping leg on it, and my Frenchie, stands over it. I run up, no space, and on my way down I see two fellows yelling their guts out and absolute confusion on my friends face. My little pack is gone; so much for the American and his strapping legs.

My passport, my contacts, my emergency money (supposed to be in my money belt), my mini journal, my camera, my film, all gone! Gone baby Gone.

I’m not a panicker, so I sit down, and stare. The Frenchie cries, and the American leaves. Frankly I don’t remember why the American left, and in all other encounters with American’s I have found them to be some of the more helpful citizens on the planet, so I withhold judgment on that one.

What now. We walk over to the neighboring square and hunt down a police man. Describe what happened, and energetically wave our hands, pointing in the direction of the robbers. The policeman looks at us indulgently, smiles and points us in the direction of the police station. It is now 2 am. The chief is kind. He allows me to make the dreaded calls, first to the embassy and then to my worried parents. Frenchie is bawling by now and I’m plain ole tired.

The Chief says not to worry, we aren’t the first, and we most decidedly will not be the last victims in his little town. He proudly shows us his ledger, since midnight he’s had five reported thefts, and the night is young!

We manage to get a place to stay and Frenchie holds my hand all night, telling me not to worry. By morning, the story has spread to fellow back packers. There are whispers and words like "How stupid do you have to be..."

Eventually we find a Canadian embassy where no one is Canadian. It’s a beautiful house in the middle of paradise. We also find a place called Hostel Goya, run by a brother and sister, which is more like a beautiful bed and breakfast rather than a hostel. It takes a week for my passport to be issued, and a few illegal rides on an out of city train. The week let us wander around the city, free, with little to lose. We see squares and houses that are almost fairytale/dreamline designed by Gaudi, crazy parties, and meet a ton of amazing and helpful people. I also soon realise that Spanish people in Spain and Spanish people in the Carribean are completely different. Please note there is o Salsa in Spain. Only techno, lots and lots of one line techno.

It’s in times of crises that you fully appreciate how evil and good people can be. For every door that's closed, a window or two flies open.

As it turns out getting robbed on Ralambla is a rite of passage. Everyone does it their first time. On the way to France the entire coach was packed with robbed tourists. Everyone had a story.

It actually is one of the greatest learning experiences I ever had. For one thing I realize how unimportant things like money and your passport are. Sure they are expensive to replace, but they can be replaced. Things like your favourite underwear, contact lenses, and memories be it on film or in a note pad are invaluable. Also nothing pulls two cranky people together like adversity. So for all those 'in love' or 'in doubt' with someone, take a trip. And if you can survive the week, get married, and get on with life.

My man Tuesday

GC Suggested that I be more responsive to my commentators, so Mad Bull this one’s for you.

The one whom we do not speak off, hence forth referred to as ‘Voldermort’…never really left.

Instead he now visits on Tuesdays.

I’m starting to think of it like an evolved form of visitation rights for adults. A sort of Big Love inspired system of keeping in touch with someone who should be a former lover.

On Tuesday afternoons Voldermort will call. Shoot the shit, ask how I’ve been, casually enquire into the health and well being of every person in my life, ‘How’s Your Mum, How’s S, How’s Work…etc.’ At the end of the conversation he subtly asks if I have any plans for the night, and I’ll say well its Tuesday, so I’m keeping my options open. I’ll ask what his plans are, to which he will give me a running commentary about vague ‘errands’ he has to run, and Tae Kwan Do classes he has to teach. The conversation usually ends with a maybe Ill give you a call later and see if you’re around.

Fast forward to 9.15 pm, the phone rings. It’s Voldermort calling to see what I’m doing, and if Ill be around later so he can come over. For normal people, 9.15 is late; disastrously going to have a sore head in the morning, if I go out now-late. At by about 10.30 he’ll be at my door, knocking hard, and as I open my door, there he’ll be in all his glory, usually doing the running man, or whining on my door post.

The rest of the night will be a haze of beautiful red drinks in glasses so large you wonder if your in a Great Gatsby scene, heated debates on everything from whether Winnie Mandela deserved to be abandoned by Nelson, where the world is heading, what passion is all about, the merits of religion, and so on.

Then usually the bed breaks.

Wednesday I’ll get a call, there is a re-cap and summation of the night’s events.

Thursday I usually get a touch base call/email.

Saturday, if alls well in the world of Voldermort, I get a quick check in at about 2 pm.

And then glory of all glories: Tuesday rolls around again.

Personally I’ve tried to lobby for Sunday’s, after all what else is there to do on Sunday's? Tuesdays are getting a little busy right now, and others are vying for the spot.