London Calling.

This is a story of everything going more or less exactly to plan. There is no dramatic betrayal, no ancient love sweeping me off my feet, no unexpected Hollywood twist at the ending. It starts with a very simple drive in a very simple jeep with a very simple goodbye. I am only leaving for a week after all. It continues with a very simple check-in process and a relatively easy shuffle through a security line. The thing about airports that you have to remember is that they are nowhere near as terrible as they are stereotyped to be if you give yourself time. The other thing to remember about airports is that their food is ridiculously expensive.

Boarding takes longer to get underway than I would have liked, but again, being in very little hurry made this mean little more than an experience in prolonged boredom. On the plane, I am seated next to two Scandinavian men who are possibly Finnish. I don't get the chance to ask, as at this point I am in a bit of a hurry. To sleep. And sleep I do. For the entire flight, with an eye to being able to stay awake until a reasonable hour on Thursday.

Entering England is just as simple as leaving Canada, with no hurrying, no theatrics, no drama. The same goes for leaving the supposedly demonic Heathrow airport. Paddington makes for a friendly architectural face as the Express brings me into London. Ticket kiosks and tube lines are just like greeting old, friendly acquaintances. They grow, they change, but they're still that familiar old thing you left behind all those years ago. This makes for a simple journey from Paddington to King's Cross.

While this isn't a story with any drama, hopeless love, or unexpected twists, it does still have struggles. Struggles such as walking from the tube station to the hostel. This isn't a struggle of epic proportions, just one of inconvenience. With a heavy duffel in tow, I walk an area of London I have never walked before, to a destination that I'm not entirely certain of. Once I find it marks the end of the struggle, the end of rereading my directions just for an excuse to set down the duffel, the end of constantly shuffling the thing between hands in order to avoid blistering.

Leaving my bags at the hostel relieves me of a very heavy burden and frees me to return to the Underground and ride the tube until I find the right station to bring me to a long overdue reunion. Being me, however, I arrive a few hours early. It is important to realise that this is not a bad thing. Far from it, in fact. It allows me to take frivolous pictures of things I have seen countless times before. It also gives me the time to sit under the Hungerford Bridge and just watch and listen to the living city. Behind me there are a group of buskers playing jazz-influenced music, to my left is the mighty river Thames, and to my right is a bar on wheels. Tourists, school children, and business men alike walk past as I am reminded why I fell in love with this city in the first place.

The music stops and I can hear the soft, faint 'whish whish whish' of the Thames singing her gentle song in the background. In the foreground, happy children scream a melody of delight while hurried business men walk down the Queen's Way, their dress shoes providing the percussive beat to this amazing experience swirling around me. The wind picks up and the Thames sings louder, joining the children in their melody. This is London's song.

Having lost myself in the music of London, time rushed by me, running a marathon of spite and glee. For now it is time for that long awaited reunion. Smiles shine and sparkle through eyes of fatigue and excitement. Jubilance, friendship, and trust spread across grinning conversations. Long-standing friendship, compassion, and a loving history spread with an eager embrace. It's lunch time and the clang-clang-clink and scraping of plates provide a fitting high-tempo soundtrack to this giddy reunion. Words fill the air, providing a streaming narrative to a picture-perfect lunch. Like in a fairytale, I am welcomed back to London officially by a friendly face and a caring friend.

After being sent on my way, I embark on a hunt for forgotten souvenirs and missed opportunities from when I last lived here. The train jostles and creaks, forcing me to dance to its percussive chug-a-chug beat. Like many others around me, it tries to lull me into a gentle sleep, an unlikely lullaby making my eyelids droop downwards like melting clocks painted on a canvas. But the day is not yet over and I mustn't give in to the DLR's jostling embrace.

I arrive in Greenwich too late for any of my touristy ambitions to come to fruition. Market vendors tiredly pack up their businesses as I meander through the empty market floor. With all of the shops closed I am left to wander this amazing little town. Modernity punctures the historical landscape with deep honking car horns and the wailing scream of an ambulance's siren.

Creeping along the water's edge, the naval college stands proud, stern, and weathered, just like the sailors it has produced. Walking through the grounds, a light rain traces my skin, giving me a small chill as it tries to wake me up. For a moment I am lost in the history of the place, with a woman singing in an operatic voice somewhere above me it becomes easy to imagine this area before cars, before phones, before computers. While I missed out on the museums and the shops, I am still able to leave contented and happy to have made the journey.

On the weekend London is an entirely different beast. It sounds different, it looks different, it breaths differently. As the night blends seamlessly into day I am left to wonder exactly how much sleep I managed to scrape together on the Night Riviera. Since Reading I have been shaking like a leaf in a summer storm. I want a bed, I want a blanket, and I want to be welcomed by some sense of normality. But it is now Saturday, and as I said, on the weekend London is anything but normal.

I manage to make my way back to the old courthouse that I have called home for the short duration of my stay. Crawling into a neglected bed, under the cold covers, I look forward to a quick rest before I begin this, my last day in London. A snooze that was not in fact a snooze has left me hurried for the second time in as many days, forcing me to race in order to put myself together and return to the Underground. Weekends in London means nothing runs as it is supposed to and I will be lucky to find my way into an area of town woefully unfamiliar to my eyes.

With surprising success, I have found the Olympia and the Doctor Who Experience with no fuss and no complications. Walking through the Experience makes me feel giddy as a child. After all, I get to save the Doctor. The Daleks sneak up behind me, making me feel nervous, and for the first time I am properly afraid the these villains. Still, they do not terrify me as much as the Weeping Angels as I am forced to walk  down a dark pathway surrounded by these serene statues, which are the stuff of my nightmares.

The exhibit leaves me confused with a giddy sense of curiosity and excitement, combined with a sense of disappointment. Costumes, props, and monsters surround me, give me a sense of history. Sadly, the artwork behind some of these monsters, which I know to be beautiful, is made to look forgetful and bland by poor lighting. The overall impression of the place is redeemed by smiles and friendly conversation from everyone I encounter throughout the building.

Leaving the Olympia, I make my way back to the familiar area of London. The Tube brings me to the DLR and I am flushed with an overwhelming sense of deja vu as I make my way back to Greenwich. The empty market of Thursday has been replaced by a bristling, busy social environment, one that is nearly impossible to walk in. Mentally, the hunt has begun as I make my way through the market.

In the streets I find success, spotting a little nautical shop on the corner, from which I manage to find a suitable British tankard for the military officer I call a brother. From there I am disappointed to find the park under construction as they try to prepare for the summer olympics. Thankfully the meridian line and the planetarium are left untouched, allowing me to walk through their exhibits, learning the history and the science of the area. The planetarium offers a show, providing a look at asteroids and comets as part of their Impact Season. The plush reclining chairs, dark room, and soothing narration have me struggling to stay awake, and despite my best efforts, I find myself dosing off in the middle of the presentation.

With my last day in London being very nearly over, I have decided to be unapologetically touristy and meander to the London Eye. At first, the long, tangling lines frighten me away, but with a little mental coaxing, I decide to go all out and treat myself to a champagne experience. With this slightly more expensive ticket, I am able to avoid the long, winding line as well as the overcrowded capsules. Instead, I find myself in a capsule with 8 or 9 other people, each treated to a flute of champagne as we go around in a big circle, getting a view of the city that is otherwise impossible to find. Cheers.

Drink, Canada!

Today's the day that we in Canada can go freely and safely do what so many have killed and died for the right to. It is time to vote, people. Don't let this wonderful, mind-boggling freedom go to waste.

Here is a fun and patriotic way to watch the election results tonight, shared with me by the wondrous Kyle Miller, so that I could generously pass it along to you. Whoever you may be.

Take a drink whenever
• anyone uses the phrase "too close to call"
• anyone says "this is the most exciting election since ‘date’"
• anyone mentions the "contempt" scandal
• anyone describes televised leadership debates as a "game changer"
• anyone says "I agree with Jack"
• anyone uses the phrase "vote X, get Y", for some colours X and Y.

Take two drinks in celebration if any of the following happen
• a Minister loses their seat
• a Green MP gets elected
• Linda Duncan retains his her seat
• Brad “defund abortion” Trost gets beaten
• John Baird loses his seat.

Take three drinks every time
• a party leader gets beaten
[This means that you will drink at least twice when Gulf-Saanich Islands is
called...]
• a Western Block MP gets elected.

Finish the bottle if
• the Tories can form a majority
• Liberals can form a majority
• a Communist, Pirate, or Rhino MP gets elected.

You say you want a Revolution.

Can you smell that? That faint wafting scent that is tickling our nostrils with hope and possibility? It’s the smell of ash, rage and change. Burning effigies and vocal outrage mingle in the streets, combining with a mixture of fear and uncertainty from within. Yes it smells rather like revolution. Revolution excites me, both as a politics junkie and a historian. It is ripe with possibilities and the historical implications are virtually endless. Some people are excited by these current revolutions because of the anarchy they appear to be causing. I rather dislike anarchy. It’s too loud, too mindless, and causes an awful mess. However, revolution is not anarchy. Perhaps because there is a point behind it. An actual motive with goals that is far from mindless violence. And yes, violence is a major and commonly occurring component of revolution. Violence in the case of revolution isn’t villainous, though. When revolution rises from the streets, from the plebs and the proletariats, violence is often the only way change can be effected.

That is how it has always been. Look at the revolutionary milestones: America, France, Russia, China, Cuba, and the Soviet satellites. All of them forced change through physical and vocal aggression. But it isn’t fair to compare what has been happening in Egypt and the Middle East to what has happened in historical revolutions of centuries past. There are so many new players in technology and social networking that make these revolutions a completely different beast. Things like Twitter and Facebook have helped to put global pressure on the Egyptian government, giving the revolting masses a powerful and vast ally. America, France, and Russia did not have such a powerful outlet. Pamphlets would take weeks, sometimes months, to reach the other side of the Atlantic, not seconds.

I will happily admit, however, that it is just as easy to argue the opposite, that it is easy to compare these revolutions as they use the same tools, just in different mediums.

Thankfully, this isn’t about Egypt’s historical place in the romantic hall of revolutions. It was going to be, but then I remembered George W. Bush, Gordon Brown, and Stephen Harper and I decided I ought to climb up on my soapbox and point out the obvious. We in the West should really take a good, thoughtful look at what the people of Egypt have done and take note of it. Am I saying that Westerners are oppressed in a manner akin to those in the Middle East? No, not at all—far from it, really. I’m saying that we’ve grown complacent and lazy. We complain about our governments, our diplomatic bodies, our representatives, from the comfort of our plush sodas. How many of us actually vote, though? How many of us petition our leaders, protest our laws, or rally against our governing bodies? How many of us have just given up? Think that one vote, one voice can’t change jack squat, so do nothing?

Don’t get me wrong; I can understand feeling insignificant and helpless. I’ve long-since been used, abused, and thrown aside by politics, leaving me feeling disillusioned and jaded. But so long as there is something to complain about, there is something to vote against. And that is what must be remembered: there might not always be something to vote for in an election, but there is always something to vote against.

Egypt is still neck deep in revolutionary angst, but one thing has been accomplished: they have managed to collect the diplomatic voice and use it to create change. At least in the democratic outlook, Egypt has managed to put an end to its oppression. The people have toppled the government. They rallied, they ranted, they raved, but most importantly, they revolted. They saw something they wanted to change and they changed it. We have democratic rights, freedoms, and standards. Instead of complaining and doing nothing, why don’t we take a cue from the Egyptians and use our voice and our force? Before those democratic rights are lost and we need to revolt ourselves.

Vive le Revolution.

The Myth of Martyrs

So this is my thesis proposal, in its very rough stages. So rough, in fact, that is more segments, than it is one flowing document. I feel uninspired and stuck with it, though, so I thought I would throw it up here and see what sort of feedback or help I can get. I haven't included my sources, since it is rough. However, I do feel the need to assert that this is my work, my words. Plagiarism will not be tolerated.

The 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin is often regarded as the cataclysmic event that sparked the twentieth century struggle for an Irish free state. The public eye looks back on this show of rebellion warmly, linking it closely to the Irish Republic's freedom. It is remembered romantically as a heroic and gallant stand for Ireland's deserved freedom. After al, this is how the Rising's leaders wanted the revolt to be remembered. Patrick Pearse released many statements and updates from the General Post Office relating how successful and welcomed the rebels were for their show of force during the Rising. However, this was merely propaganda and strayed far from the truth.

In fact, the majority of opinion in Dublin, reacting to the Rising, ranged from outright hostility to civil ambivalence. Many were outraged at the idea that these ragtag rebels could even think of rebellion when the Empire was waist-deep in the trenches of the Great War – especially when so many of Ireland's boys were in those trenches, dying for the British Empire. With the rising mired in this glum environment, there was scant support for the rebels actions. Few were rushing to pick up the arms laid down by the rebels as the British army marched them to gaol.

The public opinion began to shift, however, in the days following the Rising when the British clumsily tried to clean up the mess. By 5 May, shawled women who would spit and curse at the rebels were replaced with girls who would cheer and rejoice as these men walked down the streets. This change in attitude was created in reaction to the over-zealous actions of the British army. Sympathy for the rebels was generated when the entirety of Ireland was placed under martial law, despite the fact that the Rising only occurred in Dublin. Across the country 3,500 people were arrested in a mass sweep, two-thirds of whom were deported to England. More than this zealous police action, it was the subsequent swift executions of the 12 perceived leaders of the Rising at Kilmainham Gaol that threw Irish support behind the Easter Rising.

----

While Ireland was mired in conflict and guerilla wars, the Irish people were often reminded why it was that the IRA and Sinn Fein were fighting for the country's independence through speeches from military and political leaders.  Michael Collins would frequently refer to the Easter Rising. However, he never pointed to this revolt as a seismic event in Ireland's path to freedom. To Collins, the Easter Rising was the culmination of a long string of events, leading down from Young Ireland, through the IRB, and beyond. It was a gauntlet that was thrown down by Pearse, Connolly, and the others, at the feet of the British. A gauntlet that was forged out of Fenian ideals. In fact, Collins asserted that the ideals of the Rising were largely forgotten in the years following the event, as evidenced by the 1918 elections. In his speeches, Michael Collins often played down the role of the Rising as an individual event, and did not focus on the individuals behind the Rising. This is perhaps due to his conflict with Eamon DeValera, especially during the civil war.

DeValera, on the other hand used the Easter Rising, and his role in it, as well as in its aftermath, to his advantage. As one of the few leaders to escape the firing squad, DeValera cultivated his entire political image on his role in the Rising. This was shown with great success in the 1918 elections when he managed to win his riding against incredible odds. DeValera continued to use his sharp mind and equally sharp tongue to keep him ahead of the political game. When it came to Ireland's independence, he would often harken back to the Rising and its influence on Ireland's path to freedom.

----

Propaganda is an important factor in war strategy, and as such, has a tendency to skew the facts in historical record. Through primary sources such as speeches made by Eamon DeValera and Michael Collins, as well as newspaper articles and stories from both London and Dublin dealing with the Irish War of Independence, and the subsequent Irish Civil War, combined with news stories, speeches, and accounts of the Easter Rising, I hope to get a strong grasp on the importance of the Rising's martyrs and their influence on Ireland's independence. With dedicated research, I wish to discover whether the martyrs were crucial in influencing Ireland's path toward freedom, or if they merely contributed a complimentary role alongside the likes of Young Ireland, the IRB, and the Fenians.

And I rewrote the actual proposal bit. It still ends abruptly and poorly, but is slightly better written.


//Propaganda is an important factor in war strategy, and as such, has a tendency to skew the facts in historical record. The Easter Rising is an important part of Ireland's history, and as such has been studied from many different angles and perspectives. Even with such popularity, however, most works dealing with the event's importance take it as part as a growing movement. I wish to look at the Rising as a single entity, an individual event, and it's effect on the subsequent conflicts for independence. Through primary sources of the Rising, such as the letters and proclamations of the 12 martyrs, as well as secondary sources such as The Rising, I hope to get a firm grasp of the contemporary impact of the Rising and its Martyrs. I would then combine this information with primary sources from the Irish War of Independence and Irish Civil War, such as speeches from Eamon DeValera and Michael Collins, as well as parliamentary documents from both Dublin and Westminster. These political documents would then be combined with newspaper articles from both Dublin and London which would reflect that popular opinion. Secondary sources would again be used to give context and historiography to help get a full picture of where the propaganda ends and the real influence begins. With dedicated research, I wish to discover whether the martyrs were crucial in influencing Ireland's path toward freedom, or if they merely contributed a complimentary role alongside the likes of Young Ireland, the IRB, and the Fenians.//

I Really Like Christmas...

...It’s sentimental, I know, but I still really like it.

There are so many song lyrics one could use to describe the wonderful feeling you get at this time of year. This is my favourite, though. It feels as though this atheist’s song about Christmas in Australia, written as a tribute to his daughter has become an anthem to all those who feel like me - people who love the season, love the sentiment, but do not share a belief in a sentient teapot or any of the rest. It is a really lovely song that describes how wonderful it is to spend the holidays with family as well as all of the great things about the season.

With such a lovely message emphasising the importance of family, you would think that it would be accepted in the mainstream, that in a society that has such a dynamic mosaic of religions, it would be at least tolerated, if not appreciated for still promoting a positive message. Maybe, even some really hyper tolerant, understand, and accepting Christians would applaud Tim Minchin for seeing past his distaste for religion and donating such a popular song to the Salvation Army’s Christmas album. Apparently this view is just far too optimistic. Instead of understanding and caring in the name and spirit of Christmas, Christians in Australia are attacking the charity’s album, berating Minchin, and condemning the mighty powers that be for putting such a vile, and disrespectful song that is so out of line with the true spirit of Christmas.

To these few, it would seem that the message of the song does not actually matter. No, the fact that it has lyrics such as “I’m not expecting a visit from Jesus” or “I don’t go in for ancient wisdom, I don’t believe that just cos ideas are tenacious it means that they’re worthy.” Et cetera, means that it is un Christmas. Only because it is un Christian. I’m sorry, but exactly how Christian has the holiday been in the past decade? It is a season for family, gift-giving, and drinking in today’s politically correct and sensitive society.

To me, this is mortifyingly closed minded, bigoted, and irresponsible. Christmas is supposed to be a time of charity, love, warmth, and tolerance. Instead, apparently, it has become more important to promote Jesus and Christianity at the cost of the traits that make this holiday worth celebrating. How you can listen to this song and say that is in any capacity anti-Christmas is beyond me.

If you agree that this is a beautiful song for the Christmas spirit, and that the partisan attack on it is disgustingly vile, Tim Minchin has responded to this attack very appropriately. His original version of White Wine in the Sun, as shown above, is available for purchase on iTunes. From now until January 1, 2011 100% of the profits from purchasing the song will go toward a secular charity. It might not be much, but even this small display can show the true meaning of the Christmas spirit.

http://tinyurl.com/whitewine

(If you want to read the article that sparked this rant, you can find it here: http://bit.ly/bcS9pb )

Edit:

If you were hesitant to buy the song to help an unnamed charity, fear no more! The proceeds will go to the National Autistic Society

Like a Hell Broth Boil and Bubble.

It’s October! This means that leaves are turning brilliant, vibrant colours and then falling off the trees and into my car. It means that one day it will be warm like a summer breeze, and the next day we will watch the skies for snow. And the days in between? They’re the best. Cool, but not cold; just the right amount of wind; sunny but not bright; cloudy but not dismal. October is the best month of the year. This isn’t a sentimental “why I love this time of year” post. Though I did want to start off with a bit of sentiment. Just to balance it out.

What is this post about? Blood, rotting flesh, the shadows in the dark — all things supernatural, creepy, and (hopefully still) scary. That, ultimately is what makes October so amazing. Those leaves falling off the trees and blowing down the street? They sound like an army of zombies dragging their carcasses to your door. The mixture of sun and cloud creates shadows of devils and daemons stalking you on your walk. The fluctuating temperatures create a chill down your spine, putting you on edge and fearing for the worst. October is great for its beauty, but also its ability to create fear. Halloween is the celebration of all things spooky. So what if witches and ghosts and zombies don’t exist? Halloween is the opportunity for even the most rational person to let their imaginations run wild. So what is this post, then? It’s me, talking about my favourite creepy crawlies in their most stellar and spectacular of forms. And hopefully this time I’ll do what I’ve been trying to do since I made this site — create some discussion!

"Every dead body that is not exterminated becomes one of them. It gets up and kills. The people it kills get up and kill."

-Dawn of the Dead

Zombies are an age-old classic when it comes to horror monsters. The Doctor has explained part of it in Dawn of the Dead as quoted above. It plays on the fear of contagions, life-threatening plagues with no cures. This is arguably the worst of such viral infections, as it is passed on through someone gnawing on your tender, warm, and juicy flesh. Combine this with the fact that Zombies smell nauseously awful, look worse, and are very determined to sink their teeth into warm flesh, and you have the “plot” of many horror movies for years to come.

Why not, though? The sight of a once dead loved one, their flesh grey and rotting, just starting to fall of the bones, is gruesome. Add to this the fact that they are slow, lumbering, mindless killing machines, and they can quite easily lull you into a false sense of security. What, with next to no sentient capacity, surely it would be easy to out-smart those undead buggers? But you’d be surprised how determined they are. They gang up and stalk you en masse. It really does become hard to outfight them when there are hundreds of them and one of you.

I think that is what is most terrifying about them. To think about zombies rationally (or as rationally as you can) it becomes apparent that it is highly, highly unlikely that you can survive indefinitely against their massive force.

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."

- Friedrich Nietzsche.

The abyss? The eternal darkness that gnaws at your insides tears you apart and turns you into a nihilistic existentialist. That gnawing pain the warps your core. It lives in the vampires. Not the modern day teen angst vampires, but those old school monsters that were painted with a romantic brush dipped in the blood of babies. The ones that would turn brutal, savage, bloody murder into a sensual and seductive act. They are purely evil, purely primal creatures with a surging sexuality and no redeeming qualities. I could go through the history and mythical evolution of the vampire, but these days that seems to be common(ish) knowledge, so let’s just leave it at that.

“Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”

-Voltaire

What is the scariest monster of them all? The one that is very real, with very real power and influence in this world. He also wears a rather peculiar hat that both frightens and amuses me. He is a man with the power to abolish an entire realm of religious existence, recreate it, and abolish it again*, without any of his millions of followers questioning a word of it. That’s millions of people willing to follow this man with his pointy hat (missile silo?) at his word — any of his words — without questioning it. Without even blinking at its absurdity. The last time something like this happened, more than six million people were slain. This very real power, and his very strict, conservative, outdated religious beliefs make Pope Benny the scariest Halloween monster out there. Bar none.

Of course the scales of scary are always shifting, and are relative between individuals and cultures. But that’s what is scary to me — determined, persistent, stinky, evil, undead, supernatural beings. What about you?

*He didn’t do that exactly. But he did abolish Limbo. What exactly happens now that Limbo is gone? Do unbaptised children go directly to hell, no passing go, no collecting two hundred dollars? Am I going to hell for being an unbaptised child AND an atheist?!

Dietary Drivel

So I am about to embark on that age-old and very popular struggle for weight loss. Better yet, I’m going to be paying people to tell me what to eat, when to eat, and how much to eat. It sounds dreary and pointless, I know. I’m taking solace, however, in the fact that this programme is meant to be a lifestyle change, I’m meant to learn how to eat healthy. Better yet, this isn’t a cookie cutter diet. It is 100% personalised, based on my glycemic index and whatever else they take into account from my blood. Like excess protein created by the IGA Nephropathy, which is threatening me with a kidney transplant in the next twenty years. I don’t want a kidney transplant. I’d rather keep all my own internal organs, thank you very much.

While most people pay other people to help them lose weight for vanity, my vanity only covers about 40% of my motivation. The rest is health. I go to the gym; I eat relatively healthy as it is right now. Except I still eat pre-packaged food and junk food. And while my lifestyle is great for maintaining my weight (I haven’t gained or lost even a fraction of a kilo in the past year) it is not conducent to me losing weight. And if I want to avoid the family curse of diabetes, it’s the losing weight part that is most important.

I tend to gain muscle mass as quickly as, or faster than, I lose fatty weight. So my goals in weight loss are an either/or sort of scenario. Either I want to lose 30 kilos, or I want to be a nice size 10. And not just at Old Navy, either. A universal size 10. Relatively speaking. I do, however, want to make a considerable dent in my weight numerically speaking by the next time I see my specialist. That is to say that I want to lose somewhere between 15 and 30 pounds by March. So what does this “paid to be personal” weight loss plan give me to accomplish this sort of goal? Well, let’s air it all out so you can judge me and bully me into staying on track!

So this plan started with blood work. The blood work was to get an idea of my overall health, my glycemic index, cholesterol level, and all of that fun stuff. In my case, my cholesterol is a smidgen high, so for the next twelve weeks I’m limited in my intake of red meats. Then I get another blood test. Yay! From the blood analysis I am given a list of foods I can have, and a chart of the different food combinations I can have. My distaste for beans means that I will be having a lot of chicken. Good thing I like chicken!

I do have to weigh myself and my food, which might be a pain, but it will also be interesting. This diet is going to force me to cook, and to come up with new recipes, and fun stuff like that. Speaking of recipes, anyone know any good ways to cook beans? Fucking beans.

I get to eat 3 times a day, with no less than 5 hours between meals, and I have to have dinner at least 2 hours before bed. I also have to drink 2 litres of water daily. I can also have tea (without milk) and, though not recommended, diet colas (in moderation). So yay for not being limited to water and only water! It also allows me to cheat with one meal bi-weekly (which is great with Thanksgiving coming up soon!)

I will have a consultant who I can phone or e-mail who will help me with anything and everything I need help with, as well as keep on top of me with weekly check-ins where I have to update her on my weight and measurements. The blogosphere will only be burdened with monthly check-ins, however. If I remember. This whole diet thing starts tomorrow (only because I didn’t get to do shopping until today. And I just remembered I forgot to buy sugar substitute. Whey.) I also get a personal grand tour of a new gym in Fergus that I will probably be joining.

So, interweb, it is time to put that cyber-bullying to good use! Keep me in line!