But when you combine disco — a musical genre so far out there that some might argue it’s on its way back — and bingo (stereotypically the preferred activity of blue-haired seniors) — something funny happens.

It draws crowds. Hordes of young people weary of the traditional bar scene, yet who want to take their Friday evenings a notch above game night in the family room, start to attend.

No doubt about it — Disco Bingo has taken Ottawa’s social scene by storm. It started when the same duo that brought us Spins and Needles — a popular crafts-and-music event — decided to try another idea.

Deejay Jason Pelletier wanted to do a disco music event, and was looking for something to pair it with. He found inspiration in his Maritimes hometown.

“(Bingo) is a popular pastime there,” said Pelletier, 30. “I thought, ‘why not?’”
The first event more than two years ago attracted 50 people, but has since enjoyed capacity crowds at locations like SAW Gallery, Shanghai Restaurant and, this Friday, at Humphrey’s on Bank Street.

“Bingo’s normally for seniors, but you have young people coming out to this,” Pelletier said.
“It’s a pretty wide mix of people,” agreed cofounder Melanie Yugo, 28. “You have your students and your young professionals.”

That said, “we do get a few older people, too,” Pelletier said. “And they love it. They buy tickets and they get right into it.”

It’s an improbable success story. But somehow, retro music and an even older game (complete with off-the-wall prizes such as canned spam, beef jerky, Kraft dinner and lots of mini disco balls) packs them in. The kitch element just works.

“Disco is Saturday Night Fever and dancing and bingo is sitting and smoking and seniors and churches,” Yugo said. “It’s two worlds coming together.”

And it’s accessible, she added. “Everyone knows how to play bingo.”

“I think people are looking for something different to do, something with a tactile element,” Pelletier said. “In the past, people would go out and talk, smoke, drink and eat. I think that’s gotten kind of old. Now, people want something to do when they go out.”

During a less creepy time of year, and at any other place, the sounds of creaking, running water and the scraping of chairs  wouldn’t be unusual in an apartment building. But the fact that it’s Halloween and that I live on the top floor of my building makes me wonder if I’m not alone.

According to Haunted Walks director and founder Glen Shackleton, ghosts can be anywhere. And Ottawans don’t have to go far for a scare.

“You hear stories of things that happened in the Ottawa Jail Hostel and the Museum of Nature,” said the author of the recently penned Ghosts of Ottawa, a collection of supernatural tales featuring local buildings.

Many don’t think of Ottawa — a buttoned-up government town — as having a haunted past, said Shackleton. “But really, it has just as many ghost stories and haunted places as anywhere else.

“A place like the Bytown Museum, built in the 1920s, had a lot of people living and dying in the building. There were a lot of tragedies here.”

But buildings don’t necessarily have to be old to be haunted, said Shackleton. “There was a house in Barrhaven where the radios would turn on even if they were unplugged, glasses in the cupboard were split in half and the burglar alarms would still be set,” he said. “You can have a convincing experience even in a modern townhouse.”

He’s had his share of those. One Halloween, Shackleton was working as a doorman at the Ottawa Jail during the tours when he heard three heavy knocks on the door.

“I opened the door a crack and the group on the other side of the door said they didn’t do it,” he said. “They looked at me with eyes as big as dinner plates.”

Jail staffer Michelle Dennis has reported hearing “strange scratching and shuffling noises” coming from the cells. She’s also seen cell doors swing open for no reason.

Although some of the obvious stories are at the jail, the Bytown Museum is one of the most underrated places to go if you’re looking for a brush with the afterlife. Many people have separately reported hearing the sound of footsteps behind them as they walk up the stairs inside the museum.

“They turn around and there’s no one there, but the footsteps will continue for a few more seconds,” said Shackleton.

“Even if they haven’t made their minds up about whether they believe, everyone has a side that’s curious about this kind of thing. And people enjoy getting a little bit scared this time of year.”

After all these years, Shackleton admitted he’s not immune.

“The ghosts aren’t necessarily unfriendly ghosts, but it doesn’t make a difference,” he said.
“If something happens that you can’t explain, it’s always scary.”

But as I wandered the aisles, I noticed that the majority of shoppers were, in fact, adults — many of whom did not have children in tow.

Don’t grown-ups have enough to do between jobs and households without having to worry about costumes?

“It’s not just for kids anymore,” said Rick Fauteux, operator of Spirit, the Halloween Superstore, which opened on Carling Avenue for the season.

“It’s a chance for adults to be kids for a while, to let loose and not be so uptight,” he said. “It’s great. How often do you get a chance to become someone else for a night?”
Karen Sagle loves Halloween so much, she’s planning three costumes this year.

“I’m thinking a sailor for the bar, something for a party and a scary costume to scare trick-or-treaters,” said the Carleton University graduate. “I’m kind of crazy for Halloween.”

Fortunately for Sagle, choices abound, where even 15 years ago, adult-sized costumes used to be relegated to half an aisle at the drugstore — remember those ill-fitting French Maid and jailbird costumes that came in plastic packaging?

While sexy (nurses, cowgirls, schoolgirls and superheroes) and scary (vampires, Friday and the 13th’s Jason and various nameless undead) never go out of fashion, there are new trends every year, said store operator Nick Hemm.

Some of the latest costumes capitalize on the success of recent movies, including Indiana Jones, V for Vendetta and the Saw franchise. Theme costumes, which allow each member of a group to dress as a different character, are also popular this year, said Fauteux.

The ultra-organized can go as the gang from Scooby Doo or Star Wars, or as Spartans from the movie 300.

For those in a more exclusive club, couples’ costumes include bacon and egg and plug and socket.

Halloween seems to have exploded. Case in point — the witch hat section boasts at least a dozen variations on the plain vinyl black hat I wore when I dressed up as a witch more than 20 years ago. Horror makeup, too, is so real that it guarantees to send mom running for the first aid kit.

Some costumes, like the parasitic twin, are pretty creative and years ago, would only be possible if you found a way to make it yourself at home.

While some might consider adults dressing for Halloween frivolous, I think it’s good for us.
It’s great to have the opportunity to chuckle at yourself. It’s one day where normally buttoned-up types can unleash their creative/sexy/scary sides and besides, there’s nothing like a good scare  — or a good laugh — to spice up a chilly and dreary time of year.

This could be a story found on every city block, except that Dave is twice Brandon’s age.

Dave, 28, and Brandon, 14, met two years ago through Big Brothers Big Sisters of Ottawa. Sullivan, who’s always wanted to have a real little brother — “I have two sisters,” he said — was looking to give back to the community when he signed on with the organization.

While he expected to make a difference in a young person’s life, he never expected to find such a good friend. “We really have more of a friend-relationship than a big brother, little brother relationship,” said Dave, a Gatineau resident who works as a web communications advisor for Health Canada.

Now a Grade 9 student, Brandon got into Big Brothers when his mother learned of the program through a friend. The Ottawa organization serves 1,100 children a year and currently has 180 one-on-one matches, said Big Brothers-Big Sisters of Ottawa programs director, Julie Crabtree.

On the flipside, there are 160 Littles — 100 of which are boys — on the waiting list.
“Our biggest need is for Big Brothers,” Crabtree said.

When I met up with the guys at a local bowling alley recently, I quickly found their friendship wasn’t what I’d expected.

Aside from the age difference, there’s virtually no difference between these friends and any others spending some time at the popular hangout. Like other friends, they catch up on each other’s lives. They toss good-natured insults and slap high-fives.

There’s no condescension, no dispensing advice or mentoring in the traditional sense. Theirs is an easy, natural friendship, enviable by anyone who’s ever wanted a cool older sibling.

“Of course, there’s still an opportunity to mentor,” said Dave. “But we just like to talk about stuff as it comes. I don’t want to take on a role.

“It’s neat to be friends with someone from a different generation,” he said. “I learn stuff from Brandon all the time. He teaches me about cars and computers and has more strongly formed ideas and opinions than many of my friends do.”

“We talk about different stuff than my friends and I do,” said Brandon.

Although Crabtree said the match commitment is only for a year and is automatically terminated when Brandon turns 18, many relationships continue to grow beyond that time, she said.

Both Dave and Brandon say they’ll keep in touch.   
“This could definitely be a lifetime thing,” said Dave.
How many friends have you said that about?

With more than 1,000 tropical butterflies of more than 30 different species flying free in two greenhouse spaces, there’s no better place to start conquering a lifelong fear of insects than the live butterfly show at Carleton University.

In overcoming a crippling fear, experts always say to start small. I figured that butterflies, with their bright colours and fragile wings, would be a good place to begin.

According to Ed Bruggink, I’m not alone. “A tour started yesterday and I went in to see if everyone was OK,” said the greenhouse manager.

“I heard squealing and saw people ducking their heads,” he chuckled.

More than 12,000 people are expected to attend the show, held in the Nesbitt Biology Building’s greenhouses through Thanksgiving Monday.

Minutes after entering the greenhouse, I have a run-in with an enormous 10-inch Atlas moth.
Seriously.

Bruggink tries to snag it for a photo I want to take, but it dodges him, flying into my face. I stifle a shriek.

“It’s large and intimidating,” Bruggink admitted. “It’s the largest moth in existence.”
So much for starting small.

“But they can’t hurt you,” he said. “Most of the time, they’ll try to avoid humans.”

I surprise myself when I feel peaceful and at ease just minutes later. In addition to being beautiful, there’s something appealing and even romantic about butterflies’ fragility.

In their adult stage, these tropical butterflies will only live for three weeks, Bruggink said.
“Every time a butterfly flaps its wings, little bits of scales fall off its body. The clock is ticking on its life.”

In spite of myself, I feel sad. After all, aren’t these insects we’re talking about?
“That’s part of life,” said Bruggink. “That’s why we like to see them flying around and having a good time.”

No predators. The utmost respect from visitors. A warm welcome. In preparation for their arrival, Bruggink has brought in some new plants and flowers — “a banquet for the butterflies.”
“For them, this is paradise,” he said.

In return, the butterflies have a calming effect on people.

“I’m sure that when you’re in here, your blood pressure goes down,” he said.

Driving back to the office, I’m humming along with the radio. I’m driving slower.
Bruggink’s right. The butterflies have actually made me happier.

And no rolled up newspaper was required.

From New Kids on the Block and the Transformers, to Care Bears and legwarmers, it seems like fashion, music, and even sports are coming full cycle.

Growing up in the ’80s, I remember watching in awe as my neighbours rode their bikes into a ravine that separated our houses. More than 20 years later, bicycle motocross, or BMX – with dedicated skate and bike parks around Ottawa  – is back locally in a big way and, unlike the New Kids, is better than ever.

Recently, I met Roland Labrecque, president of the Capital Riders Organization, at Legacy Skate Park at Centrepointe to witness firsthand the return of the sport.

The BMX bikes looked exactly as I remembered them. But according to Labrecque, they’re completely different.

“Bikes now are stronger, he said. “The materials and the engineering have changed a lot.”
Now on the verge of becoming an Olympic sport, BMX has also changed with the advent of video and Internet, which makes it easier for people to break down the moves and learn new tricks.

Labrecque, who started riding as a young teen in the 80s, rediscovered the sport after moving to Ottawa years ago.

“Some people view the people doing this as a bunch of daredevils,” said the 37-year-old, who admits to “trying stuff knowing that my chance of success was fairly small.”

He demonstrates a rollback, a bunny hop and a flat land tail whip, one of the first tricks he teaches to beginners.

Then it’s my turn on the bike – a moment, I might add, I’ve been waiting for since I was a kid.

Hovering over the seat, I keep my feet level on the pedals and knees bent slightly to absorb the shock as I prepare to try my first trick.

Balancing on the bike, I cross my left leg over the top tube and put my foot on the back of the front tire. The whole bike swings around the front and back towards me. I hop back on the pedals.

We take the lesson over to the ramp park, where riders of all ages are swirling weightlessly in and out of concrete bowls.

I try out the smallest ramp – barely an incline, but enough to give a non-rider a thrill as I roll into it and out the other side.

Another attempt down a slightly steeper slope proves less successful when I smash head-on into one of the grind boxes, flipping over the handlebars.

I don’t know what happened. I think I saw the block, but was powerless to steer away from it.

I got about half a dozen enormous bruises from falling off that bike, but fortunately, my ego suffered the most damage in the crash.

All I could think about was Labrecque saying that there was always someone walking around ramp parks shooting video and hoped that my spill wouldn’t end up on YouTube.

Although many of the best riders in Ottawa are in their teens, the sport also attracts people in their 20s and 30s.
But I should probably just stick to Care Bears.

We’re both 29, and admittedly, not morning people. We’ve both moved all over to pursue a dream. We both dreamt of running away to join the circus as children. The difference is, she did it.

Walking the line runs in Bykovskaya’s family – both of her parents were famous highwire artists in their native Russia. With 43 years in circus life, her father, Veleriy Bykovskiy, now tours with Cirque du Soleil as a show character and his daughter’s coach.

Bykovskaya insists that despite her roots, performing was her choice.

“It’s exciting to me. There’s a lot of adrenaline,” said Bykovskaya.

Bykovskaya is one of 63 artists from 16 countries performing in Corteo, Cirque du Soleil’s big top show, opening at the St. Laurent Centre tonight.

“It’s a little United Nations of performers,” joked Corteo spokesman Maxime Charbonneau.
More than 80,000 people are expected to attend the show, which runs through Oct. 26.

“Corteo’s really unique because it’s a really human show,” said Charbonneau. “There’s no heavy makeup and the costumes are very natural, so you see the faces and you see the bodies.”

After wrapping her ankles and stretching her legs in the splits, Bykovskaya stands up, gathers three hula-hoops and starts twirling them around her waist. Soon she’s separated them into three separate rotations – one each around her chest, waist and her hips.

In the main tent, Bykovskaya scales a 30-foot ladder. On bare feet and in pointe shoes, she glides across the wire.

At first, I can’t look. She’s 30 feet off the ground and will rise to 60 before the show’s over. It only gets scarier when she pedals a unicycle across the wire, twirling hula-hoops as she goes.

One of the most appealing things about Bykovskaya is how surprisingly normal she is. She’s an awe-inspiring performer and a seasoned traveller to boot – she’s been to 25 different countries – and considers home wherever the show is. But at the same time, one senses there’s a bit of a homebody in her.

In her spare time she studies Italian, and she is considering a career in interior design after giving up the highwire.

“One day, of course, I have to figure out what I’m going to be in my personal life,” she said. “I don’t know where I’m going to stay yet.”

Most of us never think about it, but as Ottawa residents, we’re regular users of sidewalks, the path systems, schools, parks and trails. And like other things we use on a daily basis, such as our homes and our cars, the city could benefit from a little maintenance or TLC from us now and again.

Armed with garbage bags and latex gloves, I scoured — OK, maybe it was more like skimmed — the streets and parks around my home in the city’s south end yesterday.
What I found wasn’t pretty.

I picked up pop cans, chocolate bar wrappers, receipts and plastic bags. I was only out for an hour, but filled a huge black trash bag.

“That’s nice of you,” a neighbour said after I explained to her that I was not, in fact, doing community service as part of a jail release. “More people should do that. But I guess people don’t have time.”

As it turns out, Ottawans are making time.

More than 15,000 volunteers are expected to pitch in during the third annual Fall Cleaning the Capital, which started Monday and wraps up a month from now. The official launch for the campaign is tomorrow at city hall.

If all goes according to plan, volunteers will collect approximately 26,000 kilograms of garbage in the next month.

The number of participants goes up every year, said Leslie Vanclief, program manager for the city’s surface operations branch.

In 2007, more than 60,000 people came out for the city’s two cleanup campaigns, held in the spring and the fall.

The individual projects, which target trash in neighbourhoods, public parks, stormwater ponds, woodlots and schools, allow people to give back to an area of the community where they spend their time, Vanclief said.

“Litter has a tendency to get into those little nooks and crannies. This is a great way to get at it,” she said.

“Sometimes, we get whole schools participating,” she said. The event also attracts service clubs, businesses and groups of neighbours who want to clean up their streets, she said.

“They take a lot of pride in the community that they live and work in,” said Vanclief. “They want to make a difference.”

While people tend to find “food wrappers, coffee cups and chip bags, occasionally, we do find other interesting items, like sofas,” said Vanclief.

In addition to the food-related miscellany I picked up, I also found two mismatched socks, a pink hair scrunchie, a waterlogged Harlequin Romance novel, three pens, a broken pencil, a ripped dog leash, and a condom wrapper, which I confess grossed me out and I left lying there.

I didn’t find any needles, which, Vanclief said, is unfortunately “a reality at many sites.”

While volunteers take the garbage home with them or call 3-1-1 to arrange a pickup from city property, people are also encouraged to separate the trash from the recyclables.

Vanclief said she’s pleased with the number of volunteers that come out and show community pride, adding that cleanup now before the snow falls will make the spring cleanup that much easier.

Hmm. I wonder if that same theory would work for my apartment - but that’s a whole other story. 

Hello, fresh, enzyme-rich, uncooked fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds and legumes.

You know, until recently, I didn’t even know what a legume was. But the raw food lifestyle has been credited for giving people more energy, reversing illnesses and helping people drop weight, so when the buzz started about last weekend’s SimplyRaw Festival, I decided to do my body a favour and give it a shot.

So how did I feel? Miserable. But only at the beginning.

The first few days of my raw food diet were pretty scary as I cut out my morning coffee and replaced afternoon candy with mixed nuts. Tired and jittery from caffeine withdrawal and bread cravings, I started snapping at people and having trouble sleeping.

When people first transition into the lifestyle, finding a groove is the challenge, said Natasha Kyssa, who pioneered the raw movement in Ottawa and has lived as a raw vegan for 16 years.

“Depending on how processed your diet is, you’ll be experiencing flu-like symptoms – fatigue, irritability and muscle soreness. You might feel discomfort. Gas is a common one. You might feel bloated.”

Thanks to the growth of the raw food movement here — Kyssa estimates that 2,000 people in the city (and counting) incorporate at least some of the raw lifestyle — it’s easier to do than ever.

“You can get a salad anywhere,” said Kyssa. “And I always make sure that I have an apple or a piece of fruit or a smoothie with me.”

The next few days were hard, too. I put fruit in the blender (no milk, no yoghurt) for a breakfast “smoothie”, ate apples and pears for snacks, a huge salad at lunch and (room temperature) spinach soup for dinner. But my stomach rumbled all day.

A lot of people starting the raw food lifestyle aren’t doing it properly, said Kyssa.
“Most people overdo nuts and aren’t getting enough greens,” she said. “It’s hard to get the balance right.”

Over time, Kyssa proved correct — I did feel better.
“You’re getting all the enzymes, which aids digestion,” she said. “The weight just comes off naturally. Your blood pressure goes down, your skin softens.

“Everyone can benefit from increasing raw foods into the diet. I’ve seen amazing transformations.”

Kyssa is living proof. She’s 47-years-old, but looks 10 years younger.

But is it worth it? As much as I would love to tap the fountain of youth, I also happen to believe that life’s not worth living without an enormous burger and sushi every so often. But like any lifestyle change, it takes time.

“We’ve been toxifying our bodies for a lifetime and we can’t expect instant results,” Kyssa said.

Today is my birthday.

As I attempt to muster enough breath to extinguish 29 candles on this year’s cake, the countdown to 30 officially begins.

Deep down, I know I’m not considered “old.” But when I was a kid, the big three-oh seemed so … responsible. All the 30-year-olds I knew were long-married parents with mortgages on three-bedroom houses behind picket fences, with minivans in the driveway.

While I’ve got the mortgage (on a family-unfriendly bachelor condo, in the wrong city) and a career, I feel far from settled. Most of my furniture is from Ikea. I can’t keep a plant alive. I eat pizza and ice cream for dinner way more often than I should.

As a chronic worrier, yet another birthday sets off alarm bells: Is that cashier calling me ma’am because she thinks I’m old? Is the fact that I own so many austere cardigans a sign that I’m turning into my mother? Am I putting enough into RRSPs? Was that a grey hair I saw, or was it just the lighting in the bathroom? Should I start drinking more milk to increase my bone density?

But according to an analyst at Statistics Canada, times have changed.

In a recent report entitled ‘Delayed transitions of young adults’, author Warren Clark said in 2001, young adults ages 18 to 34 took longer to go through transitions — including leaving school, leaving the parental home, getting full-time work, entering a conjugal union and having children — than their peers did 30 years ago in 1971.

“There are pretty dramatic changes through that 30-year time span,” said Clark, a senior analyst for Canadian Social Trends with Statistics Canada who works out of Ottawa.

“People are delaying the transitions that they make. The average 30-year-old, made the same number of transitions as a 25-year-old did in 1971, so there’s a five-year delay.”

While another Stats Can report found that young adults aged 20 to 29 are staying in the parental home longer (mainly due to continuing education and financial difficulties), Clark said people today, especially women, are more likely to delay marriage and children than their 1970s counterparts.

“In 1971, by age 30, 90 per cent of women were married or in a common-law relationship, but in 2001, only 75 per cent had been married or in a common-law relationship,” Clark said.

Clark said that while 80 per cent of 30-year-old women had at least one child back in 1971, that number had dropped to 56 per cent in 2001.

“The pursuit of higher education, career aspirations and the elusiveness of work-life balance may inhibit many women today from having children at the same age that their mothers did,” the report said.

It’s amazing how great a few numbers can make you feel. They were the best birthday present a girl could hope for.

In the nation’s capital, runners and cyclists dominate the city’s pathways.

But this weekend, I’ll be joining members of a small but mighty group of inline skaters as they reclaim the roads in the annual Ottawa Inline Skating Festival.

More than 200 people are expected to strap on their skates to glide 5, 10, 21 or 42 kilometres — or a combination of them in the Triple Crown event — on Sunday.

Ottawa Inline Skating Club president Michael Garvin is the first to admit that inline skating’s not as popular as some of the other sports.

With an estimated 5,000 skaters in the city, the sport is “much, much smaller than running and cycling,” said Garvin, 37.

But if ‘blading’s your thing, Ottawa’s the place to do it.

“Ottawa is a really green, scenic city with so many bike paths,” said Garvin. “There’s paths downtown, on the Ottawa River Parkway, by Carleton University, by Hog’s Back, on the Aylmer side of the river, towards Woodroffe and Baseline and there’s a path through the Experimental Farm,” said Garvin. “You can skate a 60K loop around Ottawa.”

Even with the staggering distances many competitive skaters cover, the sport doesn’t get as much respect as it should.

“A lot of people think that by inline skating, you’re not getting as good of a workout, but it’s much more kind to your body,” said race organizer Daniel Dutrisac, who got into competitive inline skating seven years ago after getting burnt from the rigors of the other sports.

Recently, I joined some of the city’s best skaters who meet several times a week to practice in the National Research Council’s parking lot.

Strapped into recreational skates that weigh more than my microwave oven, I feel ill-prepared for the half marathon I’d brazenly committed to doing. It suddenly occurs to me that, I too, may have underestimated the skill involved in the sport.

When preparing for a race, the rule of thumb is to work yourself up to skating 75 to 80 per cent of the distance, said Garvin. “The rest of it, you can do with no problem.”

He teaches me a few things that will make my moves more efficient — skating with knees slightly bent and arms behind the back.

“Over 20K, all these efficiencies start adding up,” he said. “You can skate with so much more comfort and ease.”

While the learning curve is steep — it takes years of hard work to move from beginner to elite skater status — this weekend’s event caters to all levels.

Fast or slow, streamlined or spazzy, five kilometers or 63 in the Triple Crown, the organizers just want to share the sport they love with others. And as club member Nathan Johnston said, “do your best and forget the rest.”

Twenty-some years later I’m older and harder to impress, but no less enthralled as I sat, delighted and surrounded by fuzzy beings, in Peggy Artelle’s living room.

These weren’t my mother’s felt puppets — the ones she whipped up on the sewing machine in an hour to keep us kids out of her hair. Each taking weeks to design and craft, the Ottawa puppeteer’s creations are more moving works of art than toys. Although I’ve grown up, it seems that puppets have too.

“Over the last few years, there’s been a trend where puppets have been more for adults,” agreed Artelle’s son, Mike, who is also a designer and puppeteer. “Puppets aren’t just for kids anymore.”

Artelle is president of the Ottawa Puppetry Club, which has convened regularly over 10 years to share puppet building and performing ideas.

Members include professional artists and performers who make intricate puppets and marionettes from a variety of materials, including latex, sponge and fabric. Some are even created for the water, and require a puppeteer to stand waist deep in a pool during the performance.

Dozens of the area’s performers recently regaled spectators at Almonte’s international puppet festival, Puppets Up!. But I got up close and personal with some of Artelle’s most popular characters in her home.

She introduces me to Waverley the mermaid, Brown Bear, Little A the turtle and Louie, the big bad wolf. When she performs a character, there’s a transformation in not only her voice, but her gestures.

I try a puppet on for size.

“Hello!” I/the puppet said, and the effect I get is a bad dub, like watching a German movie in English. I might as well have been using one of those felt puppets from my youth. But it takes practice, Artelle assured me. “Timing is everything.”

The characters might be based on mythology, fables and classic children’s stories, but the shows, which run about an hour long, are intended for grown-ups for the simple reason that more interesting storylines hold the puppeteer’s interest. In an impromptu shadow puppet performance, Artelle and her husband, Bob, execute a chase across a field by a rabbit and a wolf. In another underwater montage, a school of fish swirls under the sea.

In the end, they’re a bunch of cloth dolls and paper cutouts on sticks. As a child-free person — herself years removed from the frivolity of childhood — I admit that I’d personally have no patience for it. But am I still impressed? You bet.

Like many things that appear to be child’s play, it’s a heck of a lot harder than it looks.

“People are always quite impressed,” said Artelle. “You can tell because when you bring the puppets out, people stop talking and there’s no noise.”

From fashion trends to websites that constantly change to computers and cars, nothing lasts forever. And earlier this week, I learned that same attitude has also spread to Renaissance and Baroque art.

Francois Pelletier works fervently on a detail of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. It’s been days of painstaking work, but the 27-year-old Embrun resident is unfazed that something as inevitable as a rainfall could take it all away.

If you’re ever in the ByWard Market, you’ve probably seen him sometime over the past 11 years, hunched over a drawing outside Sugar Mountain on William Street.

“Some people call me the Mona Lisa Guy,” grinned Pelletier. “But I haven’t done a Mona Lisa in seven years.”

Perhaps that speaks about the impact of his work.

Using soft pastels and chalk, Pelletier recreates famous pieces, from Michelangelo to the Dutch painter Vermeer, which the public instantly recognizes. While reproducing the work of the masters might be a daunting task for many, the self-taught artist embraces it. He loves the joy people get out of seeing a well-known piece.

Besides, he said, “there’s always a little bit of your own fingerprint in it.”

I caught up with Pelletier, who recently switched up his venue for Buskerfest at the Sparks Street Mall.
Before beginning, he marks a grid into the ground to keep the proportions right. “I sit so close that it’s hard for my eyes to grasp it.”

He assigns me a square and shows me how to layer on the colours —pink, yellow and white — to create a warm flesh tone. The key is not to blend it all together.

“You’re rubbing too much,” he said. “Instead of making one colour that’s a mix of all the colours, you want to be able to see all the colours, one on top of the other. It fools the eye into thinking that it’s paint.”
Cracks and lines in the ground become a part of the piece, giving it character and originality.

While spectators — especially regulars, who return to check on his progress — give him energy to keep working, there are downsides to the medium. Because it takes days to complete one piece, he works in 12- to 16-hour stretches, often in extreme heat. Kneeling on the ground for hours takes a toll on his back.

It pains me to think the drawings won’t be there for long and I tell him so. But it doesn’t bother Pelletier.
“A lot of people ask me if I feel sad when it washes away,” he said. “But when I draw, it’s just as much about the process as the result.

“As long as the crowd has enjoyed it, the rain can take it away and I don’t care.”

I don’t know if it was the huge, shiny eyes or the velvety brown ears that got me, but the second I saw Picasso, a miniature dachshund surrendered at the animal shelter recently, I wanted to shove him in my purse and run away.

The owners had surrendered the two-year-old dog because they didn’t have time for him any more, said Ottawa Humane Society spokeswoman Tara Jackson.

“People give up animals for all kinds of reasons,” she said. Moving, a new baby and time crunch are all common causes.

“He’s pretty tolerant,” said the shelter’s temperament assessor Amanda Daoud, picking up Picasso’s paws and holding his muzzle. She predicted that the dog would be approved for adoption shortly and scooped up by some eager family soon after.

Picasso’s not alone.
“A lot of good animals come through here,” Daoud said. “I’ve been here for about a year and I see lots of dogs that have great temperament.”

Animals are coming in faster than they can be adopted out at the OHS these days. Jackson notes that the shelter has more than 600 cats — 324 in the building, with another 327 in foster homes.

“It’s hard to wrap your head around it,” she said. “We typically do see the number of cats go up when the weather turns warm. We have a lot of pregnant cats that give birth here and litters of kittens that come in.”

While kitten season is typical, the recent influx of dogs is out of the ordinary.

“We have staff that have been here for eight or nine years and they say they can’t ever remember having that number of dogs,” she said.

There are 70 dogs in the building. While 69 per cent of dogs that are brought in are claimed, only five per cent of cats are, Jackson said.

Small animals numbers are up, too. With nowhere else to go, cages spill out of the hallway (“the designated small animal area”) into the lobby. As a result of the crowding problem, two birdcages are sitting on six cages of cats in the front hallway. A former storage closet has also been turned into a small animal room.

Animals often find themselves with roommates as shelter staff attempt to double — and sometimes triple — up the furry lodgers whenever possible.

“It’s been a bit of a struggle for staff,” Jackson said. “As soon as we have one animal adopted into a new home, we have two or three to fill the spot,” she said.

It’s one thing to admire the cute doggie in the window. It’s apparently another to commit to one for life. Jackson acknowledges adoption isn’t possible for all people.

“People may not have enough room for a dog or a cat, but maybe they can think about a small animal,” said Jackson.

Going into last weekend’s Citychase, I knew it would be a challenge. What I didn’t know was that my relationship would also be put to the test.

Forget major holidays and meeting the parents. How you work together, deal with stress and strategize in the world’s largest urban adventure race can be the best barometer of your relationship and an indicator of where it’s going.

My significant other, Mike, and I were one of 400 teams in the Citychase event here. Our first stop was an Inukshuk building challenge near the paper mill by the river. Problem was, we picked oddly shaped rocks. Team after team came and went. By the time we stacked our rocks, we found the pile didn’t meet the two-foot minimum.

Irked, I wanted to kick them over and move on. But Mike, who is a hundred times more patient than I am, methodically found the flattest and tallest rocks we had and stacked them into a sturdy structure.

We made our way to Brewer’s Park, where we were given five paintballs to shoot down four cans.

When I only hit two cans, we had a chance to earn five more shots — if one of us shot the other.

Mike offered to sacrifice his backside right away. As hard as it is to pull the trigger when your love is the bullseye, I nailed him somewhere between the lower back and his right butt cheek.

“Funny that your aim improves when you had to shoot at me,” he said. “It must be a bigger target.”
Imagine how badly I felt when I missed my next five shots at the cans. He put his arm around me. “It’s OK,” he said, a purple welt already blooming.

Payback came at the Whalesbone restaurant, where I gagged down four raw oysters. Mike watched in horror as each one slithered down my throat. “I would have thrown up,” he confessed.

We rafted the rapids in the Ottawa River, played goalball with visually impaired athletes and made a replica of a coin at the Royal Canadian Mint with our hands tied together.

It wasn’t always easy. We left four locations without our stamps. We couldn’t find anyone to sing along with us to satellite radio on Sparks Street, and we screwed up the trivia challenge at the Bank Street Running Room.

In the course of your real-life relationship, the challenges you encounter may not be as simplistic as hunting for gnomes or fencing against a pro. But if you can do these things without wanting to kill each other, you’ve got a fighting chance at making it.

I already knew he was a keeper, but I was reminded several times throughout the day.

The guy took a bullet for me (OK, a paintball, but still …), continued running after his feet hurt because he didn’t want to let me down, reminded me to drink water and held my hand through it all.

We didn’t get the points needed to finish the race, but that didn’t matter, he said. He had a great time.
Finding a guy like that? Now that’s the real challenge.

Heat seekers are to me, a different breed. When I’m hot, I get, well, bothered. I’m impatient, angry and unable to concentrate. So it made me curious when I learned about the hot yoga phenomenon and the people who do it.

At the hot room classes at Ottawa’s Rama Lotus Yoga Centre, the scantily clad participants are already starting to glisten just two minutes into the Bikram class. I sweat enough doing regular yoga without trying it in a “hot room” set at 40 degrees Celsius.

The instructor, Martina Elliott, leads us through a series of 26 poses that make up Bikram yoga. In one of the poses, you’re supposed to bend your legs and grab your ankles. But my slippery hand keeps sliding off.

On our backs, we lace our fingers together and pull our knees toward our chests. I’m so slimy from sweat, it’s like trying to grab a baby seal.

I’m not alone. The woman in front of me has beads of sweat oozing out from each one of the pores on her legs.

We bend forwards to the ground. “One day, the goal is to touch your forehead to your toes,” said Elliott.
Of course, I can’t do it. But thanks to the heat, I’m a lot closer than I would be if it were cold.

“We use the heat for a few reasons,” said Elliott, noting that the body stretches more easily when heated, making people less injury prone.

Some find the heat helps them burn fat and there’s also a cardiovascular effect, she said.

It’s so hot, my heart is pounding like a jackhammer, probably to keep me from losing consciousness.
Yoga of all types is growing in the city, said Laurie Howe, another instructor. In the past five years, it’s become almost trendy, she said.

But Elliott likes to think it’s because people are more aware of what yoga can do for practitioners. You sleep better, have more energy, fewer aches and pains, more patience, better mental clarity and fewer health problems overall, she says.

With five minutes left in the class, I can’t wait for it to end. I’ve swallowed an enormous Nalgene bottle full of tepid water (the room’s so hot, it’d melt an iceberg), but I’m still parched.

I’m drenched, and ditto for the towel I’m sitting on. My clothes are plastered to my body. I look like I fell into the Ottawa River and probably smell like it too. I long for an icy shower.

As if reading my mind, Elliott encourages us. “At this point in the class, your mind is starting to wander,” she said. “It’s the heat. It’s hard to stay in the heat for 90 minutes. Keep focused and stay strong.”
Elliott offers one last benefit that seriously makes me consider coming back.

Over time, your tolerance for heat rises, she said. “It just doesn’t seem as bad outside in the summer.”

My mind has blocked much of the painful memory, so I can’t remember why I agreed to go camping on an island accessible only by a 10-minute motorboat ride.

For three days, I didn’t shower. I brushed my teeth with bottled water, ate only granola bars, slopped new layers of insect repellent and sunscreen over the old and learned to pee in the bushes. When I finally showered upon my return, the water that flowed down the drain — I kid you not — ran black.

I still shudder at how dirty I got, but lately I’ve been thinking about giving camping a second chance. And who better to ask for advice than a professional outdoorsman?

Ottawa’s Bob Abrames spends most of his summers living as people did 300 years ago. That means up to 100 days of surviving on salt pork (ick), no tents, no showers, no bug spray and no toothbrushes.
A rabid fan of dental hygiene, I recoiled in horror.

“I use baking soda on my finger to clean my teeth,” said Abrames. “It’s a long way from a toothbrush but it changes the taste a little bit.”

That’s not the worst of it. He also goes without toilet paper. This time, I gasp audibly. I love toilet paper. To me, it’s such a necessity that I don’t even bother taking it for granted.

But for Abrames, roughing it means celebrating nature.

“Life today has become extremely complicated, extremely fast and extremely technical. Getting back into the bush brings you back to what life’s about.”

With camping, you can be as extreme or conservative as you want. There are ways of spending time outdoors, while also enjoying a few comforts of home. The most important thing is just to get out there, he said.

A flashlight, a cell phone for emergencies, a first-aid kit, “the best poncho you can buy,” and modern freeze-dried foods are camping musts.

But you have to count on some hardships. When it comes to answering the call of nature in nature, for example, it’s just not going to be pretty.

Abrames suggests carrying a trowel “to dig a hole for your business. It decomposes very quickly.”
The most admirable thing about Abrames is what he gives up to rough it. When not in the bush, he lives a comfortable, cell-phone using existence in a downtown condo. I’m sure it’s not easy leaving that behind. Still, he misses very little.

“I miss pizza,” he said. “And the first thing I do when I get back is brush my teeth — it’s very high on the list.

“It’s the simple pleasures in life that make you appreciate what you have.”

Ottawa is a city of walkers.

It’s something most of us do at one time or another, and while walking itself offers an easy-to-do, low-impact exercise, some Ottawans have chosen to take it to the next level. We’ve all seen them — people who appear to be cross-country skiing, minus the skis and the snow.

“The first time I saw it, I was like, ‘that’s really weird,’” Cindy Teevens recalls.

But Teevens, a runner, took up urban poling — a technique the Finnish Olympic ski team uses to train in the off-season — earlier this year after undergoing a foot surgery. While it may look silly the first time you see it, there is — as Teevens explained to me — a science behind it.

Used properly, the poles offer a full-body workout, improve posture, firm up dreaded arm flaps and help burn up to 46 per cent more calories and increase heart rate 10 to 15 beats per minute over regular walking.

“Walking is one of the most popular fitness activities and this is just the natural extension of that,” said urban poling master trainer, Heather Pardon.

It uses more muscles and burns more energy than walking, but reduces impact on the joints at the same time.

Pardon and Teevens sold me on the fitness benefits, but first, I had to get over the mental hump of having to use the poles.

Teevens and I are about to take the poles for a test drive downtown when it starts to rain. To my horror, the lesson is moved inside the Rideau Centre.

I’m self-conscious and terrified that mall security’s going to kick us out, and am relieved when nobody says anything.

In fact, aside from a few curious glances from early morning shoppers, nobody pays attention at all. Could it be that urban poling is more common than I thought?

At Teevens’ suggestion, I started simply by walking, poles trailing behind me. With that down pat, I started swinging my arms, being conscious to keep them straight.

I literally became one of those people who can’t walk and talk at the same time.

I can’t window-shop without breaking stride. Still, the lure of burning more calories in a relatively easy way wins out.

“It’s easy to learn because it’s natural and it’s the way you naturally move,” Teevens said.
Some people are more coordinated than others, she said.

“Usually, the people who have trouble initially are the ones who think too much about it. They’re moving their arms in the wrong direction.”

I was wrong.

When I was a teen, I saw someone riding down the street on a unicycle. I was in awe of his balance, his coordination, and the fact that he had both hands free to eat an ice cream cone and talk on a cell phone at the same time.

But because I’m a klutz at the best of times, my parents never let me try. I can still hear my dad telling me that I’d end up knocking out all my teeth if — or rather, when — I fell. Years later, I’m still drooling over unicycles in the windows of bike shops so, after some hemming and hawing, I finally sent an e-mail to a longtime unicyclist and asked him to teach me.

Ottawa’s Carl Roth has not only been riding unicycles for years, he’s the founder and organizer of the recent Ottawa Unicycle Invasion, an event that’s growing every year.
For Roth, the love of unis started in 1994, when he went out intending to buy a bike for his son, but came home with a unicycle for himself.

It was a steep learning curve. He tried teaching himself in his basement, using walls and ski poles before heading outside to use the clothesline to hold himself up.

He fell down repeatedly, but was determined to learn.

“Finally, I just went outside the garage and launched myself down the driveway,” said the computer consultant.

Within weeks, he was pedaling like a pro. Since then, he’s taught dozens of people, including his sons, to ride. “There’s nobody I haven’t been able to teach within four hours,” he said as we walk to Nanaimo Park.

I stick the seat between my legs and put one foot on a pedal. I hop on, putting my other foot on the other pedal. Roth holds the back of the seat for balance and sticks his arm in front, so I can hang on for dear life.

It’s harder than it looks, and it already looks hard.

Five seconds later, the whole unicycle shoots out from under me.

“The hardest part is the first 20 minutes,” Roth assured me. “At first, you have no frame of reference. With a bike, you can only fall left or right. But with a unicycle, you can fall in every direction.”

Great. I try, and try again. Each attempt ends with me falling. I quickly learn that the trick to keeping your balance is to keep pedaling — once you stop, you’re toast.

Pretty soon, I’m relying less on his arm to steady me and staying on the unicycle longer.
“When I ride by, people smile,” Roth said. “People think it’s neat.

“It’s kind of a frivolous thing. There’s no real purpose to it. And it’s something that other people can’t do.”

But last weekend, I added the latter to my list as I stripped down and pedalled — in my underpants and a tiny tee — around the busiest part of the city with other cyclists in the fourth annual Ottawa World Naked Bike Ride.

First, let me make clear that public nudity’s not usually my thing. Maybe it’s something that my old-fashioned Asian parents instilled in me, but normally, I’m the kind of girl who balks at baring even the thinnest slice of midriff.

The name of the ride is a bit misleading, said Paul Thompson, one of the event organizers. “If you don’t want to go naked, you don’t have to,” he assured me as I fretted before doing the ride. “You can wear what you’re comfortable with. We just want people to come out.

“The purpose of the ride is to protest oil dependency and to get people out of their cars and on bikes, on rollerblades.”

It’s also about accepting our bodies, he added. Dressed in a helmet covered in tinfoil and cycling shoes — and nothing else — Thompson’s wearing a lot less than I am, but somehow manages to look more at ease. I make it a point to keep my eyes glued to his face as I’m speaking to him.

The local ride has been growing since it first began in 2005, when seven people came out. Or maybe it just seems that way — about 50 people actually participated in this year’s ride, but hundreds more, including media and gawkers, were there to greet us at Confederation Park. I couldn’t believe how many perverts with point-and-shoot cameras were in the crowd.

Dan Parkinson, who dared to bare all, said being naked is “a demonstration of having the least possible impact and consumption.”

For a topless Carolyn Lecorre, riding naked shows the vulnerability of cyclists on the road. “You can’t be more vulnerable than when you’re naked,” she said.

I wasn’t nude, but I might as well have been as I pedalled my near-naked bottom up Elgin Street. I was so embarrassed, my cheeks (both sets) burned with shame.

We took the ride at a leisurely pace, which was actually worse since it afforded bystanders more time to look. And, I can tell you, A LOT of people dine outside in the ByWard Market on a sunny June Saturday.

“I don’t care if anyone sees,” said Devin Murphy, a first-time participant who took it all off. “I think it’s liberating.”

The longer I rode, the more I found myself seeing his point.

I’m still doubtful as to how much a naked ride illustrates the problem of oil dependency, but the event didn’t hurt anyone. Most people along the route were amused, looking up from their patio lunches to laugh, stare and take pictures with their cellphone cameras.

It’s silly, something the world could definitely use more of. In spite of myself, I had fun.
Besides, I was able to tan some pretty hard to reach places.

I’m sure I made a sorry sight yesterday as I schlepped, Sherpa-like, to the bus stop near my house.

Perpetually scatterbrained in the morning and without the benefit of a car trunk catchall, I juggled my backpack, wallet, iPod and keys, all while trying to keep my umbrella from blowing inside out. I was trying to eat my breakfast, which was difficult since I held bus tickets in my teeth.
Still, it was all for a good cause.

In a bid to do my part to save the planet, yesterday I joined tens of thousands of people across Canada in the annual Commuter Challenge, which runs during Environment Week (June 1-7) and encourages participants to use Earth-friendly modes of transport.

“I thought it was a really good way to encourage people to use alternative transportation,” said Mike Buckthought, who founded the challenge in Gatineau in 1991. “I think people can make a difference that way.”

I chose the bus, but carpooling, cycling, walking, in-line skating — anything that keeps your car at home — are all challenge friendly.

Although it felt great to try, meeting the Commuter Challenge didn’t come easily.

Having recently relocated to a new neighbourhood, I was paranoid about missing my bus — and, consequently, my 9 a.m. work assignment — so I left the house more than an hour early. (Of course, the bus arrived on time and I got to my meeting way too early — with nothing to do).

On the plus side, I quickly discovered that riding the bus makes for a “chill” morning commute. It’s easier to relax if you’re not the one behind the wheel.

So I sat back and enjoyed the ride while the No. 87 took a scenic (read: Roundabout) way to work. In recent years, people have really embraced “green” transportation, said Buckthought, who bikes and buses to work.

“I think it’s really important to encourage sustainable transportation. It’s a really good way to reduce emissions of carbon dioxide and nitrogen oxide,” he said.

And in addition to the obvious fitness benefits, using sustainable transportation such as bicycles reduces smog for everyone else, Buckthought said.

Buckthought guesses the challenge will have a reach that far outlasts the week.

“I think when people see others bicycling to work or using public transit, they’re encouraged to follow their example,” he said.

What’s the fun, they ask, of being packed in with thousands of sweaty people, blocking traffic and then running ‘til you feel like your heart’s about to burst from your rib cage?

I learned the answer at Ottawa Race Weekend, when I joined 32,872 other participants — 8,417 of whom, like me, were doing the 10K — in the biggest-ever event.

I’ve been running (OK, on and off) for about 13 years and training (not enough) for months, but packed into the corral with other participants, nothing could have prepared me for the excitement and the adrenaline of the moment.

The starting horn sounded. Runners inched forward, and as space freed up, took off like a shot. The first three kilometres were easy — the thousands of spectators, sometimes dozens deep, cheering from the sidelines on Elgin Street kept me going, if only by making me too embarrassed to stop.

We all veer left for a water station at kilometre four, a herd of thirsty buffalo tromping to the watering hole.

Runners blow by, grabbing cups from volunteers’ outstretched hands. I drink sloppily, and dump the rest down my back in an attempt to cool down. Against my better judgment, I take a second cup and greedily slurp it down.

We toss our cups to the ground. As someone who never drops so much as a popsicle stick, I felt a bit bad about littering and wondered what volunteer’s been assigned the enormous job of picking them up.

By the seventh kilometre, I’d lost track of my 60-minute pace bunny. I look around, and realize in a panic that the 70-minute pace bunny is just steps behind. By now, I’ve got a stitch in my side and I can feel water sloshing in my stomach.

I’ve developed a new respect for Metro colleague and friend, Tim Wieclawski, who is running the marathon the next day. I contemplate walking the next kilometre when a passing runner urges me on, giving me my second wind.

I trotted over the finish line with a time of one hour, 14 minutes, placing me 501st out of 629 in the women’s 25-29 category and in 5,775th place. Yikes!

My time wasn’t amazing, but I had an amazing time. Call it herd mentality, but it’s more fun to run in a pack than alone at the crack of dawn. It might be your own two legs carrying you, but really, you’re all in it together. From the breathtaking scenery, to the kids offering high-fives to participants, to the runners’ cheers that echo beneath the bridge, there’s an energy surrounding this event that makes you feel proud to be a part of the city.

So why do we do it? Why do we sweat, ache and push ourselves when we really, really want to stop?
For moments like those. See you next year.

First of all, it’s in a basement that can only be accessed through the garage. Last summer, I had an infestation of some kind of flying ant and every so often, a large and leggy centipede turns up, scaring the bejeezus out of me. And I can’t control the thermostat.

Still, I was ready to stay because I so hate to move. It stems back to my childhood, when, thanks to my Pop’s job (he’s a retired bank guy) we lived in a different city every few years. I grew up always being the new kid.

But one night last month, the landlord made an unexpected visit. As of June, my parking space would no longer be available and while I was offered a discount off my rent to compensate, which was nice, it didn’t eliminate the rather large problem of what to do about my car.

I asked a neighbour if I could rent her driveway (she declined). I asked the place where I park for work if I could leave my vehicle overnight (they agreed, but then I realized I’d have to walk home). I was left with relocation as the only feasible solution.

My first viewing was at an apartment in Hintonburg. I thought rent was a little high for a one-bedroom plus parking, water and heat — but the apartment was cute, and had big closets.

Then a tenant entered the rental office, insisting someone had entered his apartment and stolen a knife. OK. Next.

I loved the next place – an amazing one-bedroom, just blocks from the Metro office. There were video cameras in the lobby and polished hardwood floors that shone. But at nearly a grand per month, plus parking and utilities, I decided location wasn’t that important.

Thirteen buildings later, I was thoroughly confused. Good, affordable apartments in Ottawa are hard to find.

I checked out an apartment a friend had recommended. It was close to work. The lobby was clean and the hallways devoid of cooking odours. Then I saw the Ottawa River view from the huge balcony. It was perfect, and relatively affordable.

But then the boyfriend mentioned that a two-bedroom was opening up just down the hall from his place.

Extra space for the dogs. A balcony for lazy Saturday-morning breakfasts. Not one, but two hall closets. It offered the perks of living together, without our parents killing us. And all for a mid-range price, plus parking.

I didn’t give it a lot of thought, but before I knew it, I’d sealed the deal. Mike was really excited and I knew I’d made the right choice.

Home may not be where the heart is, but it can be awfully close.

Well, maybe they don’t. But the girls that do sure have a lot of fun.

The last time I went rollerskating, I’d paired my quads with a head-to-toe fluorescent outfit made from some kind of parachute material. Yes, dear readers, it was a really long time ago.

When I heard that roller derby was in Ottawa, I was excited to try it out. I love in-line skating, so quads can’t be that different, right?
Wrong.

I strapped on my skates at the recent Ottawa Roller Derby Fresh Meat night (you know it’s going to be fun when organizers refer to new recruits as such) and had barely risen to a standing position when I fell, hard, on my butt.

I’d leaned on my heel to apply the brakes before realizing that, on quads, the stoppers are on the front.

Tears sprang to my eyes, but I held back. Roller girls are tough. Roller girls don’t cry. Though, later on, a big purple bruise the size of a baseball would bloom on my behind.

“She fell right on her skate,” Ottawa Roller Derby member Leila Younis announced after witnessing my spill. “Ouch!”

She doesn’t make a big deal of it, so neither do I. After all, roller derby’s not a sport for the weak hearted.

A full-contact, competitive sport, games involve two teams of five skaters who try to pass opposing members on an oval track to score points. Sometimes, players fall so hard that the spectators flinch.

With 14 teams in Ontario, roller derby is rapidly growing, but it started out for men only in 1932, said Ottawa Roller Derby founder Kelly McAlear, who “grew up at roller rinks.”

McAlear is quick to play down the sport’s sometimes-violent reputation.

“TV has made it out to be more violent than it is,” she said. “Fighting is definitely not encouraged.”
It’s not the only myth members want to dispel.

“We have girls coming out thinking of it as a kind of fashion statement,” said Younis. “Some girls see it as a way to expand their wardrobe. But it’s physically demanding and competitive. We’re not just standing around looking pretty.”

But it doesn’t hurt either, said Katie Bonnar, 26, who admits to liking the roller derby’s showmanship aspect.

“When else do you get to wear fishnets and six-inch skirts in public?” she asked.

When it comes time to skate, Younis tells me to “just go for it. Don’t worry about falling.”

That said, one of the first things McAlear teaches newbies is how to fall properly in a series of what she calls “suicide drills” – throwing yourself down on the ground with both knees.

An unstable pack, we skate around the track, jumping over obstacles. Girls try this one with surprising courage. Some wipe out. Hard. Twice, I jump over roller-road kill. Graduating to more advanced moves, we practise whipping teammates forward by their arms and bumping opponents off the track.

By the end of the practice, I’m a regular whiz on skates.

Just don’t make me balance fries or milkshakes.

For the most part, the freedom of being able to get where I want, when I want outweighs any negatives to owning a car in the city.

But there are days that I have to admit vehicle ownership is a pain in the keester. Like last fall, when my SUV was out of commission for a week because I couldn’t get the parts for repairs.

So when I heard that the car-sharing phenomenon was alive and thriving in Ottawa, I decided to check it out.

An alternative for people who don’t own their own cars but want the option of being able to use one, car sharing saves money, reduces the number of vehicles on the road and, therefore, emissions.

“The carbon footprint is less when you walk, bike or share a car,” said Vrtucar’s chief sharing officer, Wilson Wood.

That’s nice. But as a product of our instant gratification society, what appeals to me more is that Vrtucar has environmentally friendly cars parked in lots every 500 metres downtown.

So I purchased my driver’s abstract online, went in for the most thorough orientation in history and Wood handed me a key fob and the universal car key that would allow me access to any shared car in the system.

I was ready and raring to go. But my own life stood in the way.

My editor gave me an assignment that was taking place mere minutes from then. I went online to book a car. But with such little notice, I couldn’t find one close enough.

The next day, I thought about booking a car again. But with no idea how long to reserve the car for and Vrtucar’s policy on late charges — there’s always a possibility that someone is waiting for the car at the end of your time slot — I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

Three weeks later, I never did get around to sharing a car. Still, I can see how it makes sense.

If the only time you need a car is for weekly grocery trips or if you rarely leave the reaches of the OC Transpo bus system, car sharing saves money and the environment.

But it comes at a price — you need to plan ahead, a luxury that a reporter covering spot news doesn’t have.

If there’s a fire raging across town, I need to be able to jump into my car and get there, not go online and book a vehicle and find the nearest lot while the world comes crashing down.

Perhaps in another career. Or another lifetime.

But as much as I love all the perks of being female (nice-smelling body lotion, permanent excuse to go shopping) I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a guy for a day.

I asked Drew Deyell, co-founder of the recent Guy Show at Lansdowne Park (with years of guy experience to boot) to show me the ropes.

Apparently, being a guy means riding fast-moving vehicles that require you to wear a helmet.
The Spyder roadster is supposed to give you that open-road feeling of a motorcycle with the stability of a car, said Scott MacWilliam, who’s offered to take me for a ride.

He revs the engine and instantly I feel a rush of manly power.
But the thrill is short- lived.

First of all, a skirt is definitely not the wisest wardrobe choice when you’re going from 0 to 100 km/h in four seconds. MacWilliam corners a little too fast and I scream involuntarily, gripping the handles.

Next, I test drive an ATV.

I can handle this one. After all, the only thing you need is a driver’s licence. How bad can it be?
But unaccustomed to the way ATVs handle, I put a little too much gas into it and drive over some orange cones, narrowly missing a parked vehicle.

“Sorry!” I shriek to no one in particular.

The ATV roars over a steep bank, tipping dangerously to one side. Scared to step on the gas or to reverse, I sit there, waiting for God — or gravity — to decide my fate.

After I’ve recovered from my scare, Deyell steers me over to the hot sauce booth, where we taste-test of some of the hottest sauces on the market.

I want it made clear that I’m no wimp when it comes to epicure. I’ve got a cast-iron stomach and can eat anything.

But even a tiny dab of “Hurricane Mash” is too much. My eyes fill with tears and my nose runs.
Next, we play a game of paintball.

“The only way you can get hurt is if you’re shot between the eyes,” Paint Storm owner John Deveau assures me.

Once the shooting starts, I freeze. I don’t care that Deveau says it won’t hurt; I don’t believe him. I huddle behind the pillar, unable to will myself to move.

OK, so I make a lousy guy. I loathe dirt, fear bugs and am generally too big of a weenie.

As convenient as it would be to pee standing up and have short hair, and as nice as it is would be not to have to endure childbirth, I’ve decided it’s just not worth it.