You should have seen all the paparazzi following me after this appearance on "The Morning Show." Or maybe getting whacked with a racket by the host just made me see things.
It's a bird ... It's a plane ... No! Wait! It's Dahlia flying a plane! (And I may or may not have flown illegally close to the CN Tower.)
Look closely at this picture to the left. What do you see? No, not the half-naked girl. Look again. Bottom right corner. You see a glimpse of me revealing my dirty little secret to Canada and the world - in the table of contents previewing a double-page spread.
After the jump, check out my story in Sportsnet Magazine, Canada's leading all-sports glossy, as I pioneer two things:
1. A new sport for sports magazines.
2. A photo shoot for a 5-foot-nothin' non-celebrity.
I am afraid of everything. But, I am not afraid to do anything.
It’s funny, when Samba Days gave me the opportunity to select from its seemingly endless list of gift experiences, rather than choose from categories such as Wine, Gourmet, Getaway, Body and Soul, or Life and Culture, I found myself choosing from Explore and Adventure.
Yes, I passed up the opportunity for delightful spa treatments and tasty pampering experiences to harness myself to a cable 35 feet above the hard, rocky ground, and wear (an impressively disinfected) helmet that may not have been conducive to maintaining my hairstyle, but was beneficial in making me feel like a stunt-double in a Michael Bay movie.
Happy birthday to me! Today, I finally turn one. Well, my dot com alter ego that is.
And, in honour of this milestone (or kilometrestone to my fellow Canadians), I would like to give a special gift - which may involve you. But, before I get to that...
One year ago, after some serious inspiration from the late Matt Cook, and after a serious car accident, in which I flirted with my expiration date, I accidentally started this Web site (which you can read about in my first post) and re-started my writing career.
As modest a goal as it may sound, I want to change the world. So, rather than compete in a beauty pageant, I write. (That, and when it comes to the swimsuit portion, my articles look great in bikinis.)
It’s hard to write a story about being cool when you’re not cool.
But I’ll try.
I used to be cool. I think.
Dyed my hair black. Wore green contacts. Tried to make my skin look lighter. Hey, Snow White was cool.
So, what is cool now?
Well, as someone who has been on the receiving end of the rolling-of-the-eye looks from an 11-year-old, I can tell you, I am not.
I can also tell you that eleven is the new 16.
And 16 is the new cool.
It was fifth grade. I had always loved piano. Not so much the sound, but the keys.
The keys. I enjoyed pressing them. It made me happy.
At the time, I had not yet received lessons. Of course, on a couple of occasions I briefly tampered with the instrument, and that was all I needed.
On this particular day, I was at school. Forest Park Elementary. Mrs. Warrick, the music teacher, led us down the hall to where the piano awaited its audience as Parent-Teacher Night neared.
And I wanted to perform.
I am a vegetarian. So, no, I do not eat fish, I do not eat chicken, I do not even occasionally eat red meat.
(I may however make an exception and bite someone’s head off if I am asked the red meat question one more time.)
For the record, the dictionary defines a vegetarian as a person who refrains from eating any meat, fish, or fowl.
Common sense defines it as such as well.
People often ask me, “If you’re a vegetarian, why don’t you eat fish?”
To which I feel like responding, “If you’re able to speak English, why don’t you understand it?”
As it stands, right now, I refuse to vote for Toronto’s next mayor. This does not mean that I am not participating in the vote. Nonetheless, in this article I present to you a campaign. You see, I am campaigning against everyone who claims it's your democratic duty to vote.
I am fighting for my right not to vote.
And quite frankly, Nellie McClung would be proud.
Dear Canada Post,
I would like to apologize for being so insistent that you send my mail to me, at the address indicated on all the correspondence people send for me to receive. But, as you clearly told me, your “decision is final.” So, my mail - that is addressed to me - will continue to be delivered to my parents.
Alas, I also admit I was wrong for calling you (since March) to get my mail that is properly addressed to me, re-directed – to me. Understandably, you would not to concede to my wishes.
I get it. Message delivered (or undelivered, as it were).