Courtesy of Google Images

One would think it’s simply a scam. Just some depressing telemarketer who’s been hired to call Canada on a daily basis to sell a bunch of crap nobody wants. You know what I’m talking about – iPhones, Blackberries, none are immune to the prevalent calls recurring from Texas each month. But since our lives are far too busy and important to put up with these rodeo-clowns, it’s time to take some action.

Let’s start with what we know. We’ve each had various encounters with this tricky Texan which might help narrow it down. One friend actually accepted the call, only to find static noise on the other end. And another, got into a heated fight with her boyfriend; who was wondering what steamy phone calls were taking his girl down south. I myself simply find it a nuisance. Interrupting episodes of Dexter, getting my hopes up that a friend might actually be trying to contact me. Which is never the case.

Thus, the following is a proposed plan of attack:

1. Start answering all calls from Texas, yelling and swearing into the receiver until the bastard starts to talk.
2. Once they talk, threaten to take away their famous chicken fried steak unless they stop. Nobody should be allowed to eat anything that amazing.
3. Apologize for the harsh threats. Everyone should be allowed chicken fried steak.
4. Offer up an alternative. You will repeatedly call all of your friends and sit silently on the other end until they pull their hair out in rage. Giving the Texan a break from their job.
5. Ask what Tony Romo is like in real life. And whether the Cowboys are in for a good season.
6. Get the Texan to teach you how to use your phone chord as a lasso. Then lasso a beer from the fridge. Cheers.
7. Discuss a business plan together on how to make wads of cash through mass telemarketing. Within the year you’ll be millionaires.
8. Thank the Texan for all they’ve done for you. And let them know they can call you anytime.
9. Start receiving multiple calls from Texas each month.
10. Repeat step one.

* If you or anyone you know is currently receiving unwanted calls from Texas, have them call 1-800-Mushy-Pony and we totally promise not to enter your number into a mass mailing system to be used for soliciting purposes.*

– Emma Farquharson

Courtesy of Toveren.ca

Ever since she was a little girl, playing dress-up with her grandmother’s jewelry, Carleton Eckhardt has had an eye for design and beauty. After graduating from fashion management at George Brown College, she set out as an entrepreneur launching her very own Toronto based jewelry line: Toveren. Chatting with this budding designer, we found out more about these all natural, high-end statement pieces, and how we can get our hands on them!

Pony: What made you get into making jewelry? And how has your style evolved since you started?

Carleton: I remember making friendship bracelets using embroidery thread, beads and hemp when I was younger – I’ve always loved creating things. When I really fell in love with jewelry was when I discovered my great grandmothers vintage costume pieces. It was that chunky, glam look that I couldn’t and still can’t get enough of! I started to have visions of something that I’d want to wear and became obsessed with creating it so I started making costume jewelry pieces for myself. I’d search flea markets for vintage findings so that my jewelry had that one-of-a-kind feel. My first pieces were long single feather and chain earrings that I’d pair with a stud.  Family and friends started asking me to make them earrings and it really just went from there.

Pony: You’ve got a nice mix of day-to-day and statement pieces in your collection. Which do you find to be the most popular?

Courtesy of Toveren.ca

Courtesy of Toveren.ca

Carleton: My aim is to create pieces that stand out but are still wearable for day-to-day.  The MOLLY bracelet is very popular because it has a chic simplicity when worn alone and can also be layered with multiples of the same bracelet or others. All my rings are adjustable from a size 6.5 – 11 so they work for just about anyone on any finger. I also do custom work upon request so there is something for everyone!

Pony: What made you choose Toveren as your name?

Carleton: I come from a Dutch background and the word “toveren,” means to ‘practice witchcraft,’. When I heard the word, I really thought that it was a great fit for my pieces. I love to work with natural materials and have done a lot of research pertaining to their various properties for which I have acquired an appreciation and understanding.

Pony: You’ve worked and studied fashion over the years, would you consider collaborating with any young designers?

Carleton: Yes, one hundred percent!

Pony: What sort of pieces can we expect to see in the near future?

Courtesy of Toveren.ca

Courtesy of Toveren.ca

Carleton: I’m working with various fabrics, wood, crystal and bone to create bold, eclectic pieces; great statement necklaces and chunky cuff bracelets are just a couple of examples. I will also be doing some mens pieces in the near future.

Pony: How long does it take you to make each piece? What’s the process like from start to finish?

Carleton: The length of time to create a piece varies. I hand select all my materials and before I work with certain crystals and stones, I’ll cleanse them as they are meant to embody the individual energy of the wearer. I make all items by hand and spend the time to make sure that my pieces will go the distance – quality is everything.

Pony: Where do you get inspiration for your materials?

Carleton: I was born and raised here in Toronto, but always loved the beauty of nature and the outdoors. I love to combine elements from the two by using natural materials and adding a little edge. When I was young my sister, cousins and I used to collect rocks and natural quartz at our cottage – I was always really interested in different types of fossils, rocks and crystals.  My current pieces really embody a little piece of my childhood.

Pony: Where can we buy your pieces?

Carleton: I am currently selling my pieces on Etsy, my website Toveren.ca, and specially made-to-order through email (info@toveren.ca).

– Emma Farquharson

Courtesy of weheartit

There is a bus ride with a boy and a girl. The perfect situation for an occurrence to happen – an interaction, a confession, a conversation, anything. It’s to the stars. Neither one of them can leave, or move, or walk away. They are simply stuck on this bus with nothing but history between them. Something must happen.

A couple of years ago, when she was a less intense version of herself, they’d spent a few nights together over the course of a summer. Clothing on. He had brushed the hair away from her face while on the dance floor at a karaoke bar somewhere far away, North in the mountains. And in return, she had rested her head on his chest as they laid under a duvet on a bench together. It was nothing, but of nothing there was something.

His name is Dylan.

She un-censors herself for their bus ride to see how he’ll take it. She goes underboard but it’s still overboard and he seems uncomfortable. Restless in his seat, she tries to make a connection. Talking openly about her interest in sex and inquiring about his love life. By the end of the hour and a half, he has grown fidgety in his seat – eyes scanning the land passing by the window, and hands reaching into his bag to grab for anything. They come out with nothing.

She stops digging and leaves it at that.

That night, in the same university town, at the same bar, he makes eyes at her. Not the eyes boys usually make at girls. But eyes made to imply some sort of intrigue, interest, curiosity that he’d like to get closer.

Finding a spot on the dance floor, another male’s hands fly toward her hips. Moments later, there is Dylan. Standing in front of her. Territory spoken for. She laughs a little, as he has immensely loosened up since their bus ride earlier. And for whatever reason, he is now looking at her like he wants to gobble her. Devour her, eat her up, molest her body in any way he can and end up smiling when it’s all said and done.

He is spinning her, grabbing her, worshipping her in some strange, adolescent musical ritual. But he is barely kissing her. She wants to slap him for being so unreliable in his signs, but can’t help but be intrigued by his instability. A lack of balance. A mirror to her own, semi-functioning self.

Why? She wants to know. And why not?

“You should fuck him tonight,” their mutual friends tell her. She isn’t sure if what she does is fucking. She’s sure it is, but she sees it more as exploiting her men in ways they would never dream possible. Nevertheless, they go to his apartment.

She should’ve explained the purpose of the video camera currently in her hand. His nudity heats up as her camera slides down his leg. He doesn’t know she is currently taking a video class. He should just go along with it. But he doesn’t.

He passes out, cold and flaccid. Completely flaccid. Something that could’ve been spectacular has just disintegrated. Looking beyond the uni-brow and crooked teeth, she finds a nook in his arm that her soul can settle into. They fall asleep spooning each other.

“I was into it until she started filming it,” one of their mutual friends reiterates to her.
She is bothered by his assumption that this was what the video camera was for. Although what else does a half-naked, half-crazy, all-sexed girl do with a video camera? She laughs a little.

She is merely curious, not kinky. Sexual, not compensating. Artistic, not creepy. Well, maybe a little creepy. But at least is blunt about it.

She visits him at a party the following night, feeling her business was left unfinished. He looks shocked, surprised, relieved yet afraid when he sees her sitting on the dorm couch, reappearing when she had said she was going. He remains distant until the end of the night, but is interested in walking her home. She has one hour to try and make a connection, one last chance to win him over.

“Your signals aren’t clear,” she tells him, now sitting together on the cold pavement, bodies pressed together for warmth. He puts the palm of his hand on the crown of her head. No boy has ever done this to her before. But she does it right back to him and explains: “This could imply friendship. It’s not intimate enough to suggest a sexual interest.”

“Oh.”

“Straight out. Dylan, do you have an interest in sleeping with me?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe could be nugatory in the manner that you are worried about hurting my feelings. Maybe avoids the truth. Yes or no.” Not everyone will find her attractive. Not everyone will find her acceptable. She is okay with this.
“Yes,” he looks at her nervously. Whether of his own answer or her bluntness is unclear.
“Okay.”

She thinks he must feel naked, all out in the open with thoughts he’s never vocalized before. Speaking isn’t his strong point. But now she’s opened the floodgates, and his raw emotion is pouring out.

At the end, when he’s said everything he needs to, he looks in her eyes to make one final statement:

“You terrify me.”

Terrify.

– Bareback Cowgirl.

Courtesy of Mushy Pony Inc.

Last June, I signed-up on a whim for the Scotiabank Half-Marathon on Oct. 16th. At the time, I figured I would spend many months training and getting my body into proper shape before the big day – seeing as I hadn’t run a day in my life. That’s a lie, I once ran to the pub at the end of my street to grab a table for the Leafs game.

Frankly, I hate running. I love sports and staying fit through an engaging activity, but the idea of stepping outside and running for no apparent reason has never appealed to me. I signed up for the marathon because I believe in the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society of Canada. My mother suffered a tumultuous battle against Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma a few years back and I wanted to support the foundation in her name. So I raised $1,300 for Team in Training, sat back, and carried on with my life.

Fast forward to 8:00 am race day and I’m standing with my mum inside the Metropolitan Hotel on the verge of an anxiety attack. I’ve done nothing to prepare for this. I haven’t gone for a single run, I don’t know how long a kilometer is (let alone 22 kms), I was at the Leafs game the night before drinking beers, and all I’ve eaten this morning is part of a Mars bar.

Courtesy of Mushy Pony Inc.

After some words of encouragement and a big good luck hug, I found myself sardined amongst 22,000 eager runners in the start line waiting for the countdown. I didn’t know what a pace bunny was or why people were wearing army blankets, but it was too late to ask questions. Ready. Set. Go.

The first 3 kms were tough. I felt this rush of overwhelming emotion with so many Torontonians cheering for me and holding up signs; crying over lost loved ones and “thank yous” being yelled out in surround sound. While trying to keep up with the athletes surrounding me, I suddenly felt a stitch in my right side. What am I doing? I’m tired already, I’m not keeping up. People are relying on me to run on their behalf and here I am disappointing them at 2 kms. But then I saw a sign.

On the back of the runner in front of me was a photo of her mother who had recently passed away from cancer. I immediately remembered my own mother who would not want me to injure myself running in her name – and remembered that this is for her and her alone. If I can’t finish, I can’t finish. So I slowed my speed, walked for a bit, let the stitch fade, and lightly jogged at a comfortable pace. Let’s do this.

Courtesy of Mushy Pony Inc.

7 kms in and we were on Lakeshore ave. I’d gotten into a groove of power-walking at the same speed as the slower runners, then running at a fast pace whenever I felt the energy to do so. Running kept the weight off my legs, but hurt my chest. Walking kept my cardio down but slowly was hurting my legs. It’s probably not recommended to attempt marathons in this fashion, but it was keeping me going.

Amazingly, the supporters lined the entire marathon route. At every step there was another beaming individual, cheering and thanking us. How could I just walk off and quit? Look at all the pride and enthusiasm this city is showing! We’re all coming together, through various cancer foundations, all fighting for a cause. Plugging along, I finally found myself approaching Windermere – the 13 km mark. Where the heck am I? With no idea of how to get back to my parents, I figured I’d follow the other runners. We were looping back around anyway and the soundtrack of the crowd was far greater than any iPod mix. It wasn’t until I hit the 18 km mark that my body started to seriously protest against me.

My ankles were starting to twist, my knees were sore, my muscles were shaking, I couldn’t run far before feeling chest pains. Injury was not out of the question at this point. As I turned the final corner with 500 meters left in the race I saw the finish line. Hundreds of people all waiting with signs and balloons, cheering like crazy, a timer on the top reading “2:45:00”. I stopped dead. Is this a mirage? I can’t run to catch the subway, and here I am standing 500 meters from finishing a half-marathon. But it’s not over yet.

Courtesy of Mushy Pony Inc.

I took off my blue windbreaker jacket to proudly display my Leukemia and Lymphoma Society jersey with my name across the front. We all may be running for a cure for cancer, we all may be fighting for a similar cause – but I am running for my mother. And thus I wear purple.

Looking back on everything the next day – legs throbbing, arms aching, and hobbling around my house like E.T., I realized that with proper training and stretching, this might have been a little easier on me. The half-marathon isn’t for everybody, it takes a certain mind-frame and physique to be able to do. But it is do-able, and even if the world laughs at you and says you can’t do it – the only person whose opinion really matters is you.

Courtesy of Mushy Pony Inc.

– Emma Farquharson