When she went for her first mammogram, she told me about it in detail.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she said. “Just in case you ever wondered.”

She wanted to save me from the fear of the unknown. The nagging, pestering questions that keep us from doing what is good for our bodies, for our well-being and sometimes for the bodies and well-being of others.

Like giving blood.

This week, I gave blood for the first time.

I’ve been eligible to donate since 2002, but never did. In fact, I’ve never gave it much thought. I’ve been lucky enough to never need blood. My family has been lucky enough to never need blood. So while I’d heard the radio ads about shortages and knew the “It’s in you to give” slogan by heart, I’d somehow never made the connection.

Until Christmas morning when I woke up and read this CBC article: Canadian Blood Services needs holiday donations.

Maybe it was the warm fuzziness of the holiday season (or of the Bailey’s in my coffee), but I was compelled to look into it. At the very least, to see how much of a pain in the ass it would be to book a donation appointment.

As it turned out, it was none at all. You can make your appointment online at https://donatenow.blood.ca. Enter some profile info, pick a date, time and donation clinic and you’re in.

And so, unable to use inconvenience as an excuse, I booked my appointment on Christmas morning and on Jan. 2 made my way to the Fredericton Inn to offer up some blood.

The clinic was set up in a large conference room. The donation chairs were in the center, propping up a handful of people with tubes protruding from their arms.

This, I’ll admit, was enough to give me pause.

On Christmas morning, from the coziness of my living room, giving blood seemed like a heart-warming prospect. Love thy neighbour and all that jazz. The sparse clinical reality of it, the nurses and paramedics standing around, the bags of blood rocking back and forth beside the donor’s chairs, felt more chill-inducing.

Nonetheless, I (wo)manned up and made my way through the six steps of the hour-long donation process, including:

1. Check-in – Two women thanked me for coming in, took my ID and gave me some information to read over. They also asked me if I’d like to schedule my next donation. “Sure,” external me said while internal me screamed in profanity-laden panic something about just getting through Donation #1.
2. Iron-testing- Another woman thanked me for coming in and pricked my finger to test my iron.  Passed with flying colours, she gave me a questionnaire to fill out.  I also received a “1st Time Donor” sticker to wear on my lapel (presumably to explain what was going on if I lost consciousness at the sight of the needle) and one of these:
   

   First-time blood donor pin

3. Questionnaire – At Table #3, I sat down to complete the first half of a questionnaire to assess risk factors. In addition to questions about drug use, health conditions, sexual history and travel, there was also a question about handling monkeys. Consider yourselves forewarned, monkey-handlers.
4. Health screening – Once I finished the questionnaire, I was waved down to a private cubicle where a nurse thanked me for coming in, took my temperature, blood pressure and went through the second half of the survey with me. More questions about sex and drugs. Nothing about rock and roll, sadly.
5. Donation – Then it was time for the big show. I was again thanked for coming in and seated in one of the big, black donor chairs. A nurse tied a cuff around my arm, sterilized the needle site and then popped the needle into my vein. At least, I think that’s what happened. I was furiously preoccupied with looking in the other direction and belting out “Old Time Rock and Roll” in my head. It hurt a bit and, at first, the strange sensation of the needle in my vein and the sight of my blood flowing out through the tube seemed unbearable.  Then I was given a stress ball to squeeze to keep the circulation going while my blood bag filled up — a process which took about 15 minutes and gave me lots of time to look around at the other donors (equal parts male and female, young and old) and volunteers (all smiling, all joking, all intent on making sure the donors were comfortable and feeling fine). When it was over, a nurse removed the needle from my arm (didn’t feel a thing) and monitored me in my chair for five minutes. And then it was time for…
6. SNACKS! Apple juice, orange juice, Fudgee-O’s, chocolate chips cookies, Bits & Bites. It was all there for the taking. I sat down with a juice box and a Nutrigrain bar and read the paper until my dear husband came to pick me up — a smoothie in hand for his first-time blood donor wife.

That night, I was tired. The next day, I was a little tired. The day after that, I was fine.

And today, almost a week later, I’m still riding a bit of a high for doing something good, for giving some of what I have to spare to someone who needs it more than I do.

All in all, it wasn’t that bad. Just in case you ever wondered.

Luckily for you, me and our cardio health, once every year, at the exact time when we start itching to get that holiday food off our thighs, a man called DJ Earworm delivers with a mash-up of the year’s biggest pop hits. This year, it’s called “World Go Boom” and features Adele, LMFAO, Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Rihanna and co.

(You know, all the stuff you secretly dance around to at home after listening to CBC Radio One on your drive home from work. That’s right. I have your number.)

Check it out below:

Because I am no longer a high school student and, thus, no longer glued to MuchMusic every minute of every day, it gives me special pleasure to see the snippets of music videos featured here in all their glorious ridiculousness.

I greatly enjoyed Katy Perry as a flying space queen (0:13), Pink’s sumo wrestling match with an obese Colonel Sanders in a top hat and diaper (1:32), and Bruno Mars’ Planet of the Apes homage  (1:58).

I think it’s amazing that Jennifer Lopez, Britney Spears and Enrique Iglesias are still making the exact same music videos as when I was 15. It’s also amazing that Maroon 5 is still making music videos. Period. Who saw that coming?

Anyhow, you can download an mp3 of DJ Earworm’s latest masterpiece at http://djearworm.com/. Happy running (or dancing around your house)!

May 2008 - Graduation from STU, Fredericton, NB

Followed one year later with this:

May 2009 - He put a ring on it, Victoria, BC.

In 2010, we almost lost our damn minds making this happen:

August 14, 2010 - Got hitched, Miramichi, NB.

And in 2011, thirsting for more insanity, we got one of these:

October 2011 - Mr. and Mrs. First-time Homeowner, Fredericton, NB

Which begs the question, what now?

It’s New Year’s Day and, as per usual, the promise of this fresh new year and all the potential it drags along with it has me plotting and planning a path to the new and improved me.

It’s a compulsion. Every year, after a week sustaining myself on gingerbread men, sugar cookies and coffee laced with Bailey’s, it suddenly seems like a good idea to start anew.

Despite the rapid succession of major life events (see the above), I feel I’ve become stuck, sedentary, stagnant.

Need some “for-instances”? Here comes the boom:

Over the past year, I’ve become hooked on TV. I’ve spent more hours that I can count, curled up in my sweatpants, watching Grey’s Anatomy, The Big Bang Theory, How I Met Your Mother, Community, Parks and Recreation, Desperate Housewives, House, Glee. Hell, I’ve even stooped to the level of Jersey Shore and Teen Mom – both 1 and 2, I must sadly admit.

And no, I still haven’t unpacked my workout gear since we moved into the new place. It’s been a cool 3+ months since my last run. Yikes. And it’s not like I’ve been compensating with at-home workouts. The inch of dust on my Turbo Jam DVD speaks for itself.

And indeed, it is also true that I’ve cooked almost nothing in my new home that required more effort than opening a frozen pizza box.We got a Costco membership in 2011. Ready access to bulk pre-made food coupled with the chaos of renovating our new house makes a great excuse not to cook.

(And yes, now that you mention it, I’ve also spent over a year shirking my New Year’s 2010 pseudo-resolution to keep up with this blog. Because, you know, who the hell has time for it when you’re trying to keep up with Snooki and the crew?)

Luckily for my rapidly diminishing muscle mass and IQ, it’s now 2012 and 2012  will be different.

Which again begs the question, what now?

Well, now I guess I start working on making it different. And I guess I start today.

I guess you could call this, the public outing of my unsavory habits, a first step.

And I guess, if you’re willing to bear with me, you can stay tuned for step 2.

I’m in a hurry to get things done. Oh, I rush and rush until life’s no fun. All I really gotta do is live and die, but I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.

Yeah. That’s my anthem of late.

I’ve been neglectful (again) of this little pet project of mine. I’d make apologies but I don’t even have time to do that. Suffice to say, I’ve been putting my focus on work that pays.

It sucks.

Believe me, I get much more enjoyment of being a health and well-being guinea pig and writing about it on here than I do from working. However, I also get a great deal of enjoyment out of having a roof over my head and food on my table. You know, the small pleasures in life.

Things are going to be crazy for a while so I can’t promise I’ll be writing more frequently. I can’t even promise that I’m going to meet my mini-resolution goal. (That countdown up there in the right corner does look kinda daunting, doesn’t it?)

What I can promise is that I’m not going to give  up. I’ll keep writing here. It may be pretty sporadic, but I’ll always be back. You can count on that.

Now, because I’m here and because I can, why not make another Mini-Resolution?

Mini-Resolution #27: Yoga

If you’ll recall, back in the day  when the romance was fresh between me and this blog, I committed to attending a hot yoga class. Things kinda fell apart. The class was full, the mostly-naked people a little overwhelming and I didn’t end up following through.

Now I still intend to go, but this Mini-Resolution is intended to help ease me in. Because before I go full-tilt into hot yoga, doesn’t it make sense to take in a regular, less extreme, more clothes worn,  yoga class?

This morning I will be heading to Chinatown to take a class at the MokSana Yoga Center. It’s a Hatha Yoga class — whatever that means.

It’s my friend’s regular yoga class and she assures me it’s suitable for beginners. She may change her stance once I get in there and start murdering some poses.

On the bright side, my dear fiance bought me a yoga mat for the occasion so at least I’ll look like I know what I’m doing until the class starts.

Anyhow, if  my foray into yoga manages to slow me down, provide a little bit of zen (and boy, do I need it — I almost threw my router out the window during the writing of this blog when my Internet crapped out) and allows me to transcend the rushing and rushing that Alabama songs talks about, I’ll be a happy little yogi.

Wish me luck.

Much to my own surprise that has been the case with Mini-Resolution #19: Say Goodbye to the Dirty Dozen.

In Week 3 of his 8 Weeks to Optimal Health plan, Dr. Andrew Weil begins to tout the benefits of organics. This was where my eye-rolling began.

Sure, I’m as eco-friendly as the next British Columbian. I have some tree-hugger tendencies. And I like the idea of not ingesting mass quantities of chemicals whose harms have yet to be determined. Yet, I’ve always kinda viewed those people hanging out in the supermarket’s organic section as suckers.

Not very enlightened, I know, and I apologize for that.

It’s just hard to buy into the idea of paying as much as three times more for the organic version of a product which, on the surface, looks pretty much identical to the conventional variety.

Sure, studies suggest the benefits of going organic are plentiful, including:

Which is all well and good, but also somewhat inconsequential if buying organic is simply out of your budget.

The selling point for me taking on this challenge was Dr. Weil’s recognition of cost as a potential barrier to buying more organic produce. With that in mind, he doesn’t ask us to go 100% organic right away. Rather, he eases us in by suggesting, at the very least, we avoid the dreaded Dirty Dozen — a list of the 12 most contaminated foods compiled by the Environmental Working Group. The list changes as the monitored levels of contamination in the produce change, but the Dirty Dozen currently includes:

I buy four of these on a regular basis (apples, bell peppers, celery and carrots) so while the process wasn’t completely life-altering it did require some thought at the grocery store. To shell out the extra coin to buy organic versions or avoid these types of produce altogether? That is the question.

Organic carrots. Like regular carrots but they cost more.

For apples and carrots, we simply made the switch to organic. A two-pound bag of organic carrots set me back $3.49. The same quantity of my regular old non-organic bulk carrots cost $1.98. That’s a whopping 76 per cent increase in cost to make the switch to organic.

In my mind, I justify that price by considering how long the carrots last us. We’re still working on a bag we bought 20 days ago.

For apples, a three-pound bag of organic Granny Smiths cost $4.47. Compare that to about $3.42 for three pounds of the non-organic variety and you’re looking at about a 30 per cent increase in cost to go organic.

We consume a lot of apples. If the price increase was as steep as the carrots we’d probably have to look at some kind of apple substitute. A thirty per cent increase, however, is manageable. It works out to about an extra dollar a week.

Since taking on this Mini-Resolution, we haven’t had to buy celery and opted out of buying bell peppers when we saw how much the organic varieties cost. In fact, we changed our whole plan for what we would cook for supper based on that fact.

Which is, I think, part of the point.

The key word is flexibility. If you’re going to adopt a new behaviour, you need to make sure that it fits into your life. If it doesn’t, you won’t follow through. That’s just natural.

So while we are committed to no longer buying conventional varieties of the Dirty Dozen, we aren’t necessarily committed to buying their organic counterparts. If need be, we can be flexible and change our meal ideas to fit with both our health concerns and our budget.

I’d be remiss if I closed this entry without mentioning differences in taste between organic produce and their non-organic counterparts. In some cases, there aren’t any. The carrots still tasted like any other store-bought carrot. Being organic doesn’t make them any more flavourful but they work just as well in recipes.

(If you want an awesome-tasting carrot, by the way, you’ve got to go to your local farmer’s market; the fresher they are the better they taste).

Going organic with the apples, however, seemed to make a difference. The organic varieties were smaller and seemed more flavourful. I don’t usually enjoy Granny Smith apples. I find them more tart than tasty. But the organic ones? Yum! Sweet, juicy, with just a touch of tartness.

What can I say?

Dr. Weil, you’ve made me a believer.

Days to go: 314

Mini-Resolutions to go: 239

Well, let me make an educated guess. It may well be that the spa industry is single-handedly keeping her afloat.

At least that’s the conclusion I drew from Mini-Resolution #26: Massage for Me.

On Wednesday night, my dear fiance treated me to having my naked body oiled up and rubbed down by a perfect stranger. Some might call that lewd. The day spa I went to called it a full-body massage.

If you’ll recall from my post on Wednesday, I was a little anxious going into this. Yes, that’s right. The mere thought of one of the greatest stress-busters known to man produced nothing but crippling anxiety in me.

And I’m not going to apologize for it. Because you know what, people? If the thought of getting naked and letting a perfect stranger rub you all over doesn’t freak you out a bit, maybe there’s something wrong with you.

My massage treatment was administered by a young woman named Stephanie.

I was immediately struck by two things about Stephanie when she sprinted through the door of the day spa seemingly late returning from her lunch break. First, she wasn’t wearing a white smock as I assumed all massage therapists did but rather flip-flops and a t-shirt. Second, she was moving incredibly fast for someone who was supposed to help slow and relax my mind.

I tried not to let that faze me and followed her to the massage room in the back of the spa. She opened the door, loosing strains of Enya out into the world. Inside the room was the classic massage table, covered in what appeared to be a down duvet and topped with some kind of towel dress and matching hair band ensemble.

She explained what was going to happen: we’d start the massage with me laying on my stomach, then I’d switch over to my back for the frontal rubdown and then we would start on the manicure — part of my day spa package deal.

She explained I could get as naked as I was comfortable with and put on the towel dress thing if I wanted.

And she explained all of this at break-neck speed.

I smiled and nodded like this was old news for me. Quicker than you can say “oil me up” she was gone and I was left trying to figure out how to wear that hair band thing and whether I should be on top or underneath that fluffy duvet.

I took a guess, ignoring the hair band thing altogether and cozying under the duvet in my underwear and towel dress.

If I got it wrong, Stephanie had the good nature not to say anything.

She began the massage by pulling back the blanket and towel dress (which I’m pretty sure served no purpose whatsoever) and laying a steaming hot towel over my back. Then she got to work on my massage.

The whole head-to-toe process lasted about 45 minutes. It was… good. It wasn’t great.

I spent the majority of the massage’s first half talking to Stephanie — a fellow displaced East Coaster — about life on Vancouver Island and then (once she caught sight of my engagement ring during my hand massage) about my wedding plans. It was a great conversation. I honestly enjoyed it, but I think it kind of distracted me from enjoying the massage.

When the conversation lulled, however, I was struck with a different problem. What if I became too relaxed and drooled right through that little massage table face hole and onto Stephanie’s flip-flops?

(I didn’t, thankfully)

Turning onto my back didn’t make things any more comfortable. By then conversation had waned. My eyes didn’t want to close, but keeping them open and staring up into Stephanie’s face was more than a little awkward so they were kind of doing that half-open fluttery thing. Which I’m sure freaked Stephanie out.

Again if that was the case, she didn’t give any indication. She was a pro like that.

There was some weirdness. She massaged my ears which felt… odd. There’s something very unsettling about a perfect stranger rubbing their greased-up fingers in and around your ear.

Actually, there’s something very unsettling about a perfect stranger rubbing their greased-up fingers anywhere on your body. It just seems a bit too intimate an experience to share with someone you’ve known for less than an hour.

Maybe it’s something you get used to?

The sensation of being covered in that much oil also overstepped by comfort boundaries. While Stephanie did a pretty good job wiping the excess oil off my body post-massage, my hair was Robert Pattison-greasy by the time I left.

Maybe you get used to that too?

I’m thinking I probably won’t. I didn’t leave the spa much more relaxed than I went in. I didn’t feel any mind-altering sense of well-being.

Call me cheap, call me a prude, but I’d much rather con my dear fiance into giving me back rubs than spend a fortune for a stranger’s touch.

(By the way, he was thrilled to hear this upon my return after all the cash he dropped on that spa package.)

At least I got a good manicure out of the deal, right?

The manicure. I opted for the clear coat... maybe I am a prude.

In fact, looking at my manicure over the past couple days has brought me far more joy than the massage itself.

Not to mention the fact that it’s cheaper than a massage and is typically administered Enya-free.

Now, to find a way to work manicures into my health and well-being regime…

Days to go: 315

Mini-Resolutions to go: 240

*thumbs up*

I love to read. Unfortunately, the bulk of my reading in the past year seems to include only cookbooks, magazines (usually Men’s Health or Esquire… somehow I only end up reading what my dear fiance leaves lying about the house) and wedding planning books.

My IQ has dropped 10 points as a result.

Before that, I was in university struggling through a bunch of academic sludge. I’d tell you more but I don’t remember any of it. I can, however, tell you what the hot trending topics of the day on Twitter are.

(See, I wasn’t kidding about the IQ thing)

Suffice to say, I truly needed something like Mini-Resolution #24: Get Provoked by Prose in my life.

I’d like to present my “To-Read List”. That’s like a to-do list, but better because I actually want to check things off it. I compiled it through the highly-scientific method of Googling the term ”inspirational books,” culling through the results and also tacking on a few of my own:

Alison’s To-Read List

1. Night- Elie Wiesel
2. A New Earth – Eckhart Tolle
3. The Chase for Beauty – Robert Mendelson
4. The Secret – Rhonda Byrne
5. Fat, Broke and Lonely No More – Victoria Moran
6. In Defense of Food – Michael Pollan
7. Into the Wild – Jon Krakauer
8. Man’s Search for Meaning – Viktor Frankl
9. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance – Robert Pirsig
10. No Greater Love – Mother Theresa
11. Power of Positive Thinking – Dr. Norman Vincent Peale
12. The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
13. Once a Runner – John L. Parker
14. Diary of Anne Frank – Anne Frank
15. A Long Walk to Freedom – Nelson Mandela
16. The Story of My Experimens with Truth – Gandhi
17. The Art of Happiness – the Dalai Lama
18. Awaken the Giant Within – Anthony Robbins
19. Gift from the Sea – Anne Morrow Lindbergh
20. The Tipping Point – Malcolm Gladwell
21. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus – John Gray
22. The Seven Priniciples for Making Marriage Work – John Gottman and Nan Silver
23. The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho
24. The Purpose of Your Life – Carol Adrienne
25. The Seat of the Soul – Gary Zukav

Night by Elie Wiesel. The version of the book that made Oprah's Book Club list, as translated by Elie's wife Marion.

I selected Night by Elie Wiesel to begin this week. First, because Oprah said I should read it and I do everything Oprah tells me to. Second, because it was available at the library right away. Third and most importantly, because Night is one of those books that you simply must read if you intend to call yourself a human being.

Night is Elie Wiesel’s firsthand account of his 11-month struggle to keep himself and his father alive in Aushwitz. It’s a doomed struggle, the preface tell us. Elie was only half-successful in his quest.

But the book is about more than the awful facts of the concentration camps — and they are beyond awful. It’s also about faith in God, in humanity and in yourself. It’s about the heartbreaking loss and mind-boggling maintenance of that faith in a world too horrible to understand.

Now, I don’t know if this is what Dr. Weil had in mind when he assigned the task of picking up an inspirational book. Often, the word inspirational is connoted with “uplifting.” Night is not uplifting. There is no joy in this book. As one reviewer wrote, “Night is almost unbearably painful.”

This is true. But I would argue that in addition to painful, Night is also inspiring. It is inspiring simply that a man could survive this. It is inspiring that a man could lose everything — his home, his family, his faith — and still have the strength to write about it. Because to publish on an experience is a commitment to live through that experience over and over again: as you write it, as you re-read it and as you discuss it.

It’s a tough read. For me, it was also a quick one. It’s a short book to begin with but I devoured it voraciously because I was desperate to get to a happy ending, to the liberation of Elie and the other prisoners and the joy that day would bring.

There is no happy ending, however.  It’s disturbing. It’s also necessary to tell this story faithfully. For Elie Wiesel, there is no ending at all. He lives always with the memories of Auschwitz. But the key word is lives. He still gets up everyday, he’s remembered how to love, he’s become an activist speaking out against modern genocide. And that is inspirational.

“Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.”

-Night by Elie Wiesel

Days to go: 317

Mini-Resolutions to go: 241

That gift certificate sat in the cupboard for about five months. I’m one of those people who tends to save things for a special occasion that never comes. For reference purposes, I’m just one step behind your Aunt Betty. You know, the one whose 1968 couch is still pristine because it’s been covered with plastic for the past 42 years? And whose house has a path of plastic runners no matter where you go, just to ensure no foot ever directly touches the carpet?

Anyhow, about two months ago I came across that gift certificate and put it on the fridge as a reminder to use it some point in the near future.

Today, my dear fiance got sick of looking at it and finally made the appointment for me this evening. Not one to waste an opportunity — and also not one to forget the severe lack of accomplishments I’ve had on here of late — I’m making a Mini-Resolution out of it.

Mini-Resolution #26: Massage for Me

Tonight, I will get my first-ever professional massage. I’m pretty excited about this. Also, a little nervous. Do I wear underwear? Will it hurt? What if it’s a man masseur? Would that be awkward? Will it be awkward regardless?

I guess you could say those questions indicate I’m a somewhat high-strung person. Ok, maybe a really high-strung person. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t actually have any muscle on my body — just clumps of tension knots. Hopefully this will help. I’ll find out soon enough!

That’s just how I do things. It’s how I handle my wedding planning (back and forth between micromanaging every single detail and pretending the whole thing isn’t happening so I don’t have to deal with it), my house-keeping (back and forth between scrubbing the bathroom floor crevices with a toothbrush and letting dishes pile up for days), my cooking (back and forth between trying out new recipes for healthy well-rounded meals and eating a supper of cereal straight out of the box since I don’t have any milk because I haven’t gone grocery shopping in days).

I’m not proud. I wouldn’t pretend to believe it was a healthy way of doing things. Let me just say that I’m working on it. I’m still trying to achieve that perfect balance in my life. And the fact that I keep coming back to let you know I’m still hanging in there is proof.

Anyhow, since I’ve on the upswing of my productivity cycle, let me give you a quick update on my life and my progress with my last slew of Mini-Resolutions:

I spent last weekend mostly in hibernation. Just me, my dear fiancé and a lot of rented movies.

It’s Friday night that did me in. We decided to go out to a nightclub for drinks, dancing and — mainly — helping my dear fiance’s newly-single buddy meet some lady friends.

This was a stretch for us. We don’t generally go out. Sure, we do beer at a pub, wine and appies at a restaurant, but we don’t really do the bass-booming, lights-flashing nightclub scene. On Friday night, I realized why.

Nightclubs are scary places.

I don’t know when they became that way. It wasn’t that long ago I went through my partying phase.  Indeed, I remember vividly a time when I’d spend my Friday and Saturday nights getting glammed up, dancing like a maniac until closing time, then finding an after party or after hours club where the dancing continued.

Then something changed. Part of it was me, no doubt. I’m 24 now, for crying out loud. Nearly ancient in terms of the club scene. I can’t keep up with the 19-year-olds. I’ve got a job, a car payment, a fiancé. I’m not a university student anymore but a university employee.

But I won’t take all the blame: something else has gone horribly wrong to make the club scene a damn nightmare.

Like, maybe the fact that nobody wears clothes anymore?

Ok, that’s probably not quite fair. Clothing is worn. Pants just seem to have become passé.

The standard club attire has become skin-tight, spandex dresses cut just below the underwear line. Sometimes they’re not even that modest. Basically, underwear has become outerwear (That’s for girls, by the way. The guy’s uniform of a dress shirt and jeans still stands). I’m not sure when this happened exactly. It seems I didn’t get the memo.

But the horror starts way before that. First there’s the cattle corral you have to wait in outside. Which I’m pretty sure is there for no other reason than to give the bouncers some sense of importance and superiority.

That’s probably also why it takes three of them to check your ID. Literally. Three guys. I’m standing at the front of the cattle corral, 50 drunk people trying to push past me. Bouncer #1 looks at ID. Says it’s ok. Still doesn’t open gate. Drunk girl falls to the ground behind me, bangs head against the back of my knee and nearly takes me out. Bouncer #2 checks ID. Asks for a second piece. Finally lets me through.

Money grabber girl charges me $4 for the privilege of getting this far.

Dear fiancé and his newly-single friend get to Bouncer #3 first. This is where things get seriously twisted.

Our city has implemented a program called Bar Watch. Bar Watch is designed to:

“help identify problem patrons for night clubs and bars. The program includes swiping patrons’ IDs, taking pictures and placing an alert on the file of anyone who shows themselves to be a problematic patron. The alert will show when they attempt to enter other bars also participating in the program, and their entrance is barred.”

I suppose this sounds like a good idea, in theory. If you can get past the whole freaky Big Brother, 1984 aspect of having your whereabouts on a given Friday night recorded, stored and this personal information used for who-knows-what.

Which I can’t. It bothered me, right off the bat. And with good reason: BC’s Privacy Commissioner has recently ruled that swiping patrons’ ID and storing their personal information is a violation of BC’s privacy laws. Nonetheless, Victoria has decided to continue with the program.

Sound ridiculous to anyone else?

What really bothered me, however, is that when I stepped up to Bouncer #3 to hand him my ID and have my photo taken, he said “No that’s ok, sweetie. You’re fine.”

Say what?

When I told my Dad this story, he laughed and said “They have no idea what kind of trouble you could cause.”

And he’s right. I could. I’m not saying that I am a troublemaker. I’m not. But I could be. And it’s not fair to assume that because I’m a little woman I’ll be well-behaved.

Shame, shame, Bouncer #3.

The night out at the club kind of shell-shocked me. Dear fiancé and I spent the rest of the weekend hiding from civilization.

Which was good. Because I definitely needed that period of recuperation to get ready for the week that followed. Super-busy week at work. Events to plan. A conference to attend. The tentative acceptance of a new part-time job that’s only go to up the insanity. And in my personal life, the realization the wedding is now just six months away and all the terror that strikes within me when I realize how many tasks are still on the to-do list.

So, I didn’t get much done. I’m still working on the last slew of Mini-Resolutions I posted eons ago. You remember those ones, don’t you? Way back on Jan. 30.

(Yikes! I didn’t even realize it had been that long!)

I have a few more that I have completed and just haven’t written about. Those will be coming soon. Promise! I’m on the upswing of productivity now, remember?

I’ve also decided to hold off on officially beginning Week #4 of Dr. Andrew Weil’s 8 Weeks to Optimal Health.

Why? Well, first because I make the rules and I can.

Secondly, this will give me some time to make and complete some new non-Dr. Weil-related Mini-Resolutions. This was never supposed to be the “Dr. Weil Show” and I think it’s worth giving some face time to some other healthy ventures I could try out.

As for now, however, my dear, wonderful fiancé is cooking up a breakfast of Valentine’s Day pancakes for me. And right at this moment, that’s the biggest priority for me!

I’ll be back soon.

Seriously.

Happy Valentine’s Day, all!

Last night, I completed Mini-Resolution #21: Don’t Stock Believing. That’s a joke, by the way. A reference to Journey’s hit-to-end-all-hits “Don’t Stop Believing.” Yeah… I’m also probably the only person in the world that finds that funny.

Anyhow, this mini-resolution was about my commitment to make my own vegetable stock from scratch. Like everything else I’ve been doing with my spare time lately, it came straight from Dr. Andrew Weil’s 8 Weeks to Optimal Health plan.

The finished product. The floaty bits are spices. Maybe my sieve wasn't fine enough. Oh well.

In Week 3, Dr. Weil suggests we try making our own veggie stock because, apparently, veggie stock is a great thing to have on hand for cooking veggies.

This is news to me. I roast a lot of veggies. I stir-fry them. Boil them occasionally. But I don’t think I’ve ever cooked veggies with veggie stock.

And having never needed veggie stock for cooking, I’ve never found myself with the desire to throw together a big ol’ pot of veggie stock in my spare time.

Well, welcome to my brave new world where I not only make veggie stock from scratch, I beam with pride at my ability to do so.

I used (surprise, surprise) Dr. Weil’s recipe which you can check out here. Like most of his other recipes I’ve tried so far, it was simple. Foolproof even. Although I did have to Google how to cut up a leek since I’ve never cooked with those before either.

(The directions are here, by the way, if you’re in the same boat as me. I can’t be the only leek virgin out there.)

Homemade veggie stock in my too-tiny pot.

The only real stumbling block turned out to be the size of my pot. As it turns out one-and-a-half gallons of water is a lot when you’re adding it to a pot that already contains four onions, six carrots, three stalks of celery and two leeks. I ended up throwing in only about one gallon of water. Which I figure is okay. I mean hell, I haven’t made veggie stock before. How am I going to know the difference?

The finished product smelled and looked amazing. I directed my dear fiancé to the kitchen the moment he got home so he could see the fruits of my labour. He wasn’t that jazzed up about it. I guess I can’t blame him. I mean it is just stock after all.

Still, there’s something really fulfilling about making from scratch that which you usually buy prepackaged. Plus, I felt like a total kitchen pro having to whip out the fine-mesh strainer. Yes, I realize it doesn’t take much.

It went a little against my instincts to follow Dr. Weil’s direction to just “discard” all those veggies after pressing the liquid from them. Obviously, they would have lost most of their nutrients, a lot of their flavour and definitely their texture — but still, isn’t there some way to save these veggies? Thoughts? Anyone?

Tomorrow, I will attempt to put the stock to use in my first ever veggie stock-based cooking attempt. The plan is braised red cabbage. Excitement abounds!

And now… tally time:

Days to go: 329

Mini-Resolutions to go: 242