Wednesday, March 07, 2007

G is for Tea Latte

I have half an hour before I have to be at a meeting, and I am sitting
her at the library totally procrastinating. Why? What reason do you
want? I'm thinking I can either blame it on:

  • Stressing about the fact that I have managed to lock myself out of two houses all at the same time today
  • My sore hip. One should really not carry so many things in a backpack. Does Robax help hips too?
  • Being tired. I have had way too much school work to hand in this week.
  • The dog ate my homework. Seriously.

So, seeing as I am sitting here in this place of study, just staring up
into the sky (yes, there is a skylight) and pondering about the fact
that my tank top is green, my sweater is green, my earrings and
necklace and that ring on my finger is green.... I thought I'd tell a
little story.

The other night at Starbucks, upon realizing that neither Amanda nor I
had ever ventured to try a Green Tea Latte (sorry, a Tall, Non-fat, No
whip, No phlegm, Stirred not Shaken, Tazo Green Tea Latte), I would try
one. In went the Melon syrup. In went the Matcha. In went the
water. In went the milk. It was an aesthetic masterpiece.


I took a sip. You always remember your first, or so I was told.
Truthfully, it was a thing of magic. I can't really describe what a
Green Tea Latte tastes like, because it doesn't taste like anything
else. Except Chicken. Everything tastes like chicken. In any case, I
liked it.


Amanda had a very different experience though. First, the smell was a little too much for her. She felt that in order to prevent the inevitable up-chuck reaction, she must first plug her nose before diving in. The truth is though, she has a phobia about getting liquid in her nose. She feels the need to protect her nasal passages every time she drinks. Just don't tell anyone. It is a touchy subject for her.


Unfortunately, Amanda doesn't seem to enjoy the taste of chicken (aka: Green Tea Latte). Seriously, how weird can you get? Once tested and tasted, Amanda followed her drink with a lovely rendition of "Oh My Gosh, It Tastes Like Grass. Seriously, it Tastes Like Grass". No sung would be complete without a dance: a hand-motion dance that is.


So next time you're feeling particularly green (maybe on Saint Patrick's Day perhaps?), head out to your local Starbucks and pick up a Green Tea Latte (it's better than Second Cup's version I've been told). Although it seems somewhat strange and out of the ordinary to drink something with such a hue, I haven't started glowing green yet. Nope, seriously. That's just the green socks.


Thursday, March 01, 2007

Get Drunk

As I normally do on weekday mornings while drying off from the shower, getting dressed, blowing my hair, putting on makeup, and packing my bag; I was listening to CBC Radio One this morning. I believe I was listening to the radio show The Current with host Anna Maria Tremonti when I head Charles Baudelaire's poem "Get Drunk" being read.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's
horrible burden on which breaks your shoulders and bows
you down, you must get drunk without cease.

But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:

"It is time to get drunk!

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!"

And I thought, what a beautiful poem. What a wonderful way to start the day. What an incredible thought; to be drunk with poetry. There is something mystical about the way a poem seeps into your life and changes the way you look at the world; or rather, the way you wish the world to be. Dan told me I was a romantic. 'Tis true, and I wonder if that has helped determine who I will be in life. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

This is an escapist poem, and yet I feel guilty for even saying that. I feel guilty for writing about getting drunk, even if it be off of poetry, even if it be off of virtue, (and even if it be off of wine). I feel guilty for buying into the romantic escapism. Yet, I don't want to be guilty.

This is what I want. I want to be carried away by the wonders of the world. I want to be at the wedding where Jesus turned water into wine. I want to be in The Eagle and Child, drinking beer with the Inklings. I want to be engulfed by a world of virtue and beauty and aesthetics. Why can this not be so?

I always look forward to tomorrow: to the days that will be long and that will allow me to find the time to really submerse myself into these mysteries. But where will this passion take me? Will I instead find myself lost in the continuous, monotonous, ticking, of, time, that, push, us, ever, onward, until, we, go, no, further? No. NoNo. I will resist that. I will fall in love with the world around me. I will drink with those who have drank before. I will not hold back. I will not be a martyr to Time.