The journey through MBTI, and later cognitive functions, had stemmed from a budding desire to understand the vast spectrum of variables that form a person's psyche. Learning from the concept of objectivity enabled a more comprehensive assessment of one's own strengths and weaknesses, rather than groundless gloating promoted by the 16Personalities profiles.

​While the questionnaire does provide some insight on areas for improvement, the descriptions merely begin to scratch the surface of grander issues.
Foreshadowing the tidal wave was one of my favourite lessons, for anticipating these crashes would allow one to make the appropriate preparations, to check in when symptoms are present, and to remediate before the situation grows dire. We have family doctors for physical illness, yet may not be as capable of depicting invisible warning signs to the same degree of detail.
Beyond deducing the preferred methods of information presentation and work tactics, making meticulous observations has assisted me greatly in the workplace, identifying areas of concern and predicting next steps of action needed. In a personal setting, toning down the saviour function has meant gradual steps to relieving satanic chaos. It hasn't been easy, but it's proving easier with each effort made. The first step was identification, followed by acceptance and rehabilitation - no "rectification", as the aim is cumulative benefit rather than instant rebate.

Creations of the week included:

1) Chestnut Tart

With a penchant for purposing the holiday ingredient into a seasonal dessert of sorts, I took to the late-night construction of a Chestnut Tart. A faux Mont Blanc, so to speak, was formed from a no-oven, graham cracker crust instead of sponge base, then coconut rum-infused chestnut cream in place of airy whipped cream and threads of sweet chestnut paste piled sky-high.
Authentic it was not, but delectable it was, in light of its relatively straightforward procedure.

2) Spaghettini w/ Shrimp in Tomato Sauce
​
Sautéed with softened vine tomatoes and freezer-bagged cherry tomatoes was a plentiful portion of finely chopped onion and several cloves of minced garlic. This, along with white wine, ketchup, and rice wine vinegar, assumed the foundation for a tangy, sweet pasta sauce. Lightly scorched shrimp were tossed in for a dose of protein. A dusting of dried parsely finished off a midweek lunch.

The week prior had encouraged a concentrated brew of Thai tea for sudden cravings, while reminders of a friend's business trip to the UK spurred thoughts of shortbread.

WinterFest - never have I uttered an event name with such wariness.
Freezing rain had postponed our planned 2019 visit not once but twice, making its reappearance two years later that much more cherishable.

​Ticketing was a confusing task in itself, where the posing of burning concerns were restricted to website-only Contact Forms and general inquiry line operated by limited staff. Over three weeks of planning and several more days to finalize the pre-visit preparations, the date was confirmed at long last.

Our original date preference had resided with Saturday, though the Bring-a-Friend incentive quickly shifted focus to the day after. Schedules were arranged to maximize the discount. The swap would entail comparatively damper driving conditions, along with a glorious dusting of fluffy snow - an unexpected fringe for festivity.

I proposed a detour for M Cha Bar to take advantage of a BOGO offer. My faith in the Roasted Oolong Milk Tea was reinstated, exposing the inaptitude if the bubble tea shop's Scarborough location.

​Prior to entering the gates, we made the last-minute decision for skate rentals. Tickets were purchased exclusively through the Wonderland website and redeemed in the form of wristbands beyond the security gates. Waivers were also required for each reservation.
We then proceeded through the gates, which comprised of bag inspection, ticket-scanning, and the additional step of vaccination verification.

​Once within, the snowcapped perspective of the park came into view. It was a wholly wonderful sight to behold: The embellished trees, gleeful tunes, colourful decorations, and soft shower of snowflakes all alluded to one thing - the oncoming arrival of the winter holidays. The park embodied the essence of The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

​We roamed the grounds with fervent excitement - me more so than the local, long-time ally. Weaving underneath the Medieval Faire, a mini stage was spotted. "Bah Humbug" the sign read, followed by its hourly performance times.

View the full album HERE !

​​Opting not to stay, our footsteps progressed onto the path towards the Christas Market. Occupying two enclosed establishments were vendors retailing gifts and seasonal food items. Layered fudge blocks, chocolate, and even overpriced seasonal churros were amongst the assortment.

Delayed from mall errands by creature of unsalvageable incompetence, I adopted an early mat pilates session as I wasn't about to enter the premises amidst Black Friday pandemonium. Instead of grocery shopping, I proposed eating out - a rarity in this household - to alleviate the time crunch and avoid the hassle of post-consumption cleanup.

Close to home was Axia, a restaurant we had frequented in my childhood days and driven by on countless occasions. Their menu had been expansive, offering popular Asian dishes in the Western world, hence its name. Fond memories surfaced of pad thai occupying the same table as stir fry and sushi. Unfortunately, we learned that this was no longer the case.

​Our reservation was slated for 7:15 PM. It was prime supper- and takeout-time, entailing an approximate five-minute wait before being seated.
The interior had retained the same design backbone as I recalled, though was now furnished with physical panels separating the tables along the south perimeter of the eatery. These new installations alluded to a sense of privacy - a semi-enclosed partition that still enabled easy access to serving staff.

​Menus were folded at the edges, sticky, and beckoned not a thorough flip through. Unlike most restaurants, the availability of a QR code was not made aware to us. We discovered it on the inner flap of the flimsy brochure, which led us to their online ordering platform.
My dining partner was quick to select Cantonese Chow Mien given the elimination of the coveted pad thai. I had hoped for a well-rounded medley of sushi, or at least some hearty rice-based entrée. At failing to find it on the menu, I inquired of the availability of one of my favourites.
"Do you have Unagi Donburi?"
"No." came the piercingly blunt response.
"Is there something similar? Or something with unagi?"
She made an "ehhh" sound before muttering "Dragon Roll", which did not speak to the appetite.
"Can I swap in unagi?" I pointed to one of the bento sets.
"No."
"Can I add it??"
"You can get a side unagi." she offered briskly, but did not provide any further details.
"Is it on the menu?" My eyes darted to the paper for more information.
"It's not there." came an exasperated sigh.
Seeing my confusion and hesitation, she huffed, "I'll give you a minute. What about drinks?"
We relayed our request for warm water, but not before she spun on her heel without a glance at our irked expressions.

The irritable woman disappeared for a brief moment, and a younger girl was sent to our table. I stated my case once more, and she resorted to listening and seeking confirmation in an earnest manner. Several trips between our table and the kitchen would confirm the older lady's words of no permitted substitutions, but the availability of unagi "sashimi" as a side order. A total of three pieces would ring in at $5.95 - the worst $5.95 I would have struggled for.
A Nigiri Sushi Bento Box was requested as the main, salad dressing on the side to save a flourishing canker sore from exposure to acidity.

​The Cantonese Chow Mien was spectacular: the noodles were eggy, satisfying, and crispy. The surface bore a shiny coating of slightly savoury, cornstarch-thickened glaze, as it should. Bite-sized pieces of sweet peas, chicken, cha siu, baby corn, and bok choy were woven through the nest-like creation in abundance. Offering nothing but contentment, the only aspect warranting point deductions was the inclusion of raw baby carrots. Its snappy centre yielded stark surprise and affirmed the need for parboiling.

Time and time again, I am reminded of the importance of saying "no".
I thought I had safely escaped the burnout danger zone, yet am reminded of my misdoings via a crippling sense of malaise - the demise of health and contravention of productivity.

By standing firm in the workplace, I've scantily avoided detrimental positioning in the corporation. In a personal setting, I've found myself once again committing to undertaking more than is sanely possible within the physical limitations of time and space.

​It ought be unsurprising that my weekdays are spent indoors, within close proximity of a brick of a laptop and absence of ergonomic office equipment. Meals of the week are rarely homecooked these days, as I've sought assistance from pre-packaged products and ready-to-eat varieties.

​On a comparatively calmer days, I take to maximizing oven efficiency by baking pizza, Miso & Yuzu Butter Cod, and Pesto Salmon. Pillsbury Gingerbread Cutouts replaced the painstaking process of crafting - and shifting! - overwhelmingly malleable ginger-people, proving crisp at its edges with a delicate, spiced chew at its core.

​Early in the week are a large Raisin Loaf, prosciutto, and a baguette acquired. I departed not for these components, but merely requested them from my (potentially) permanent second-floor post of misery.

​We skeptically rebooted membership for the sport I had played for nearly half my existence prior to the pandemic shutdown. Coordination levels were not as poor as anticipated, though stamina had undoubtedly dwindled for the high-impact activity. Nonetheless, engaging in badminton again was the right decision, in spite of the torso pains that would ensue.

​The following morning involved a dreadfully early drive to the northeast end of the GTA. Appointments had been scheduled well in advance, leaving my remaining itinerary items to fall outside of the allocated slots accordingly.

The Toronto Christmas Market, fondly referred to as TCM, was rebranded as the Distillery Winter Village after a year of repose at the midpoint of unvaccinated pandemic.

Ticket prices had been subject to inflation, which was not unanticipated given the urgency to recover profit. Formerly charging no more than five dollars for peak time access during weekends and Friday evenings, the remaining four days of the work week had been liberated from entry fees. The takeover, and abandoning of the old website, saw a surcharge of three dollars, plus associated administrative and processing charges per ticket. Furthermore, the inaugural tree lighting ceremony was added to the roster of admission-requiring days, despite being scheduled on a Thursday.

Countless attempts to round up interested companions ended in vain: they either wanted nothing to do with crowds or wanted nothing to do with TTC congestion during rush hour. The latter was more understandable than the former, especially with consideration of the desire to travel (and board a plane!). Efforts were combatted with an endless supply of excuses and lukewarm responses, to the extent where it would have simply been easier to politely <s> bluntly decline in the first place. With Tree Lighting night inching closer, and my pitches overturned again and again, I began to give up hope for the market.

Alas, there was but one reliable specimen that came to my rescue. My birthday twin, who is a self-proclaimed "low-maintenance" creature with wholly unrivalled openness to my endless assortment of impromptu proposals and unprecedented randomness, expressed acceptance of the request - wholeheartedly and, most importantly, willingly.
​​Her proximity to my own coordinates ensured a pragmatic approach to logistics planning. Time and cost savings were unrivalled with the elimination of GO train tickets, which, may I note, have notably grown pricier since the transit service's plunge into single digit ridership numbers at the peak of the pandemic. (Can you blame Metrolinx though?)

I left my overworked, underpaid post slightly earlier than normal to ensure a congestion-free course downtown. It worked out well for me, given that the sudden influx of emails had concluded by Wednesday evening for the most part. We found our place to reside inside one of Corktown's handful of carparks. Parking rates varied by district, as made aware by the Green P website. By the George Brown residences and sparkly new YMCA building was our garage of choice, and adjacent to it a lofty outpost of Dark Horse Espresso.

This location was significantly larger than that of the John Street location. It boasted ample illumination from its glass panel encasing, seating along the perimeter of the café, and even a decently-sized marketplace for wine and gifts. Also featured was alcohol for sale, which corresponded to its comparatively tardy closing time of 7pm.

I reviewed the menu options at the cashier, then, at earning a tepid response from the cashier, I took to browsing on Ritual. There was a faint memory of seeing app-only promotions, and I wasn't about to lose out on my rare redemption opportunity in the city.
An Iced Latte was requested via the platform - tip added for dine-in courtesy. Neither proof of vaccination nor IDs were requested for verification, though we did overhear the barista's high level inquiry to patrons that placed orders at the bar. Signs mandating the provincial order were not upheld within the space; there were no posted notifications beyond recommendations for symptom screening. We took to a window seat: I cracked open the weighty monster of a machine, while the birthday bud took to an analog activity - journalling.

​Washrooms were situated towards the back of the café-market hybrid. Signs pointed towards the end of a hallway featuring minimal illumination and a noticeable amount of cardboard boxes within its path. A member of staff with dainty Korean-style tattoos gestured towards the accessible stall, "The bathroom is there." Two sinks were affixed outside the bathroom, with one more inside the stall, promoting handwashing through the act of convenience.

​My Latte had been brought to the mobile order pick-area within steps of the entrance. A red heart accompanied my name on the cup's lid; ample ice and a milkiness were found in its contents.
Work continued into the early evening hours. Dark Horse had imposed a one-hour limit for dine-in customers, which we had stretched by 150% (yet did not get booted).

Our trek to the market then commenced. Opting to enter from Trinity Street, we were guided by four members of uniform-donning staff. One conducted visual checks for vaccination records and IDs, while the three others scanned ticket QR codes. Unaware of the precise start time for the Tree Lighting Ceremony, we ensured an arrival of roughly 5 PM. Passerbys would then notify us - indirectly, of course - of the slated 6 PM schedule.

The inside of the market was gently glowing. A hushed vesper violet saturated the sky. Familiar strings of bulb lights emanated a warm cast on the visitors beneath.  It was official: the annual event was back.

We found the vendor count fewer than past years, with retail stalls exceeding street food options. Roots made an unexpected appearance at the south limit, and was joined by Sapsucker, an initiative involving sparkling water derived from our nation's very own maple trees, and Kombi, a winter sportsgear boutique boasting a fur-lined snowmobile in front. Removed was the Naughty or Nice display as well as some heated lamps by Pure Spirits Mews. At the intersection of Trinity Street and Gristmill Lane was a stage - complete with red carpet - for performances executed in the name of Salvation Army. The signature jingle could be well overhead the vocals and cheery commentary.

View the full album HERE !

Although it may seem odd to welcome mild mercury levels with our Christmas tree fully intact, I deem November a month of transitions. The now lofty sapling outside my window has seen a head of flourish green, then wispy, weaning fronds of mustard yellow, and finally shriveled coils of plum-puce. The changes seek correspondence with happenings in the workplace, where steady separation from the project from hell shall hopefully level the skill roster and compensate the void of technical aptitudes.

As the days grow colder and daylight shorter, any illumination ought be well received. They guide our gaze, and consequently our hearts and spirit.

When my phone began to buzz with FACE blaring over the sound of our aimless kitchen banter, I knew it was now or never.
Bike repairs were complete, weather was splendid, and workload levels were in - dare I say (while holding my breath) - low.
​There seemed no better opportunity to take advantage of the scraps of seasonal temperatures.

​I've come to learn that the city has no shortage of bike-friendly routes in the Erindale area. Yet, rather than taking on a new path prior to winter closures, I decided to revisit an old path - the first that I had ever travelled on two wheels, and the one I had resisted departure from for at least two summers.

​The woodchips and treacherous upward slope that I had feared remained. Though, to combat settlement and endlessly damp climate, boardwalks had been reinforced with additional half-planks. Now sunken beneath sodden soils were the woodchips, barely visible without former familiarization of the trail.

Would you believe me if I told you I've never seen the Santa Claus Parade firsthand?

​As an adult, the intent to travel into Toronto in the early hours of morning for leisure diminished even more, despite acquisition of a PRESTO card and a full license to boot. But venturing to Downtown Niagara was a different endeavour altogether. It served as a short getaway from the suburban ritual that was my daily work-from-home life. And quite frankly, I wouldn't have learned of it had ads not infiltrated my Story-viewing habits.

​Departing around the 2 PM mark, we arrived in the downtown district some ninety minutes later. A detour stemming from the Parade's road closure contributed a short delay at the highway exit.

View the full album HERE !

Some good news rolled my way come the latter part of the week: I was informed that graduation from the project wrecking all havoc and hell was within reach. At last I'd be liberated from the ceaseless crises over resource constraints, which are often play out more comical than one would expect of full-grown adults.

​I was done with being interrogated about my time charges,
Done with being interrupted amidst morning caffeination,
And, most importantly, done with leaders of a team acting out against the crux of teamwork.

We spent the days following our Scarborough trip indulging in the various items acquired during the trip. Components of the course dinners would appease our appetites for days onward, while the buns and bakery items from Aromaz would serve as breakfast. The Ginger Milk Egg Tart was a rare item to chance across, and proved scrumptious: flakey and silky with faint yet discernible notes of ginger.

​On a rather tranquil Friday afternoon, I began to construct a layered cake, adopting the techniques used in Cookie Tree's tiered masterpieces. It was the start of a Lime Mousse Cake with Yuzu Jelly.

​In my mind, I had recalled a decent quantity of cream cheese leftover from constructing the Japanese Cheesecake prototype. I wasn't wrong, though it wasn't quite adequate in filling my 7.75 in cake pan in its entirety. To its rescue came the spunky Key Lime Popsicles. Much like how the Mint Chocolate Ice Cream had been repurposed into a pound cake topping, the too-rich popsicles were emptied out from their molds and summoned for use within the mousse layer. Having preserved the lime zest in their freshest state, its sweet-tangy essence could be salvaged for enjoyment months later.

​In light of my strained neck, a last-minute appeal to reschedule my slated Sunday slot for pilates was made. The request was revoked, as same-day cancellations or swaps were not permitted. The studio policy - one that I had never heard of nor signed in acknowledgement of until that day - enabled "make-up classes" for cancellations on short term notice, however these classes were to be held outside of one's regular slot, pending availability, and within two weeks of the original cancellation.
With their weekend sessions assuming prime slots, my options were limited to weekdays, either mornings commencing at 10 AM or evenings at 7 PM. Neither option was viable in consideration of my work schedule, especially with the surging 401 congestion levels associated with economic recovery. I grudgingly accepted my fate, offering to take a day off based on class availability.

An eventual confirmation of a Tuesday morning opening at 10 AM led to my application for a half-day vacation. We commenced the day even earlier than the standard work day, setting  ̶f̶o̶o̶t̶ tire on the highway even before 9 AM. Weather was wondrous and, thankfully, so were traffic conditions. I arrived twenty-five minutes early to the only (official) group class for the day; private lessons would take place in parallel in other sections of the space, yet were unlisted from the posted schedule.
A total of four instructors reside at Studio Bon. Besides the owner, I have had the opportunity of learning from two of these instructors during my time at Sum Pilates. Younger, fiercer-looking, and sharing the same name as a rising artist in the Latin music scene, the final member of the instructor quad was unveiled. As with previous sessions, I had stated my case prior to the start of class, noting aspects and angles of movement that I was refrain from. She gazed upon me with a blank stare, expressionless and potentially questioning the reasoning behind my profession. Perhaps she found it odd that I was informing her of injuries, and proceeded to place the responsibility on me to moderate my own movements, noting that I should inform her in the case of pain. It was a different response than the previous two instructors, who had urged caution of the injury and gladly agreed to provide modifications.

​Soon, I was joined by a trio of Chinese-speaking ladies on the floor. The class was now full.
Instead of a cardio warmup sequence, we were instructed to stand behind the Reformer Carriage, just behind the shoulder rest, and face the footbar. Several rolldowns were executed, followed by rolldowns with rotation: Placing one hand in front of the forehead, the rolling up portion entailed rotation of the upper body in the direction of the bent arm. This was then repeated with the other hand. Standing hamstring curls were also performed: With one foot positioned along the centre axis of the Carriage and the other before the shoulder rest, one was to extend and retract the leg. Reminders to utilize core strength were made, though there was nothing to be heard regarding maintaining stability of the standing leg (in regards to hyperextension, rotation, etc.)

Lying on the Carriage facing upwards, a series of blogilates' level core exercises followed. Single leg extensions in tabletop position were conducted on one leg before moving to the other. Next came double leg extensions, then flutters at a "low diagonal", a qualitative description for inclines of 45 degrees or more (with the hips as reference point). The final move of this section were reverse crunches with ankles attached and knees slightly open. Rather than positioning the palms by one's side or having them looped through the hand straps, we were instructed to grip the bars affixed to the shoulder rest. The configuration made tired wrist and tensing of muscles from the shoulders up. While we were to press the shoulder blades onto the Carriage while executing the routine, I found the position offered more discomfort and tightness than needed for proper engagement of the core. As the other girls hugged their knees to combat the tremendous flexion, I rolled my wrists in relief.