Rockin' Out

The last time Bon Jovi came to town I was in Grade 12, trying desperately to win tickets to a sold-out show. Back in the era where smart phones and Ticketmaster didn't exist it was a tad harder to get tickets. Our plan, however, was foolproof... I sat in class with an ear bud in one ear, waiting for the radio announcer to mention the contest. From there I would fain a nose bleed (although I'm not sure my Kleenex covered with red pen was very convincing), run out of class, down the hall, to a different floor, through the library... to my friend's class. Upon which she would state she had to drive me to the doctor (so dramatic). By the time we got to either a payphone or her house we never stood a chance of winning.

This time around I bought my tickets the way any normal person would... first by joining the fan club to get subpar presale tickets only to then buy better tickets the moment tickets went on sale, only to then have to find a buyer for the aforementioned subpar presale tickets.

Alas... last night was the night I had been waiting 14 years for (don't do the math... nobody wins when you do the math). It was fantastic. Highlights of the evening include:

1. Kid Rock's surprisingly not-crappy opener. Although I do wish he'd stick to a genre instead of bouncing around from country to rock to rap to dj'ing to pop. Also? I don't think it was really necessary, nor appropriate, for him to brush his hair halfway through his set, although I do appreciate good personal hygiene.

2. Also? Kid Rock... kind of sexy. In a probably-has-an-std-might-hit-you and not-sure-if-those-are-his-real-teeth kind of way.

3. Me singing. Did I mention I'm STILL sick. We're on day 7 of sickville, people. I don't sleep at night for more than an hour at a time, due to coughing, and I can. not. talk. Well I can... but what starts off as a sexy Stevie Nicks voice turns into a fit of deep throat (no comment) hacking up a lung, all the while me trying desperately not to puke, fart or pee my pants due to the sheer force of said coughing. And, yes, I go to the doctor tomorrow and, no, I'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact I'm supposed to leave for New York next Wednesday and am completely unprepared. It's been a week of not being able to do anything. I'm behind in my Chic Galleria writing, I'm behind in my trip recuperation and planning, I'm behind in my housework and I'm WAY behind in sleep. With my luck I won't be able to fly. Please cross your fingers that doesn't happen. Cross them hard!

4. Going to the concert with one of my closest friends. I haven't laughed that hard in a loooong time. Particularly when she was making fun of me and I coughed, except the force of my cough caused me to accidentally spit out my Hubba Bubba bubble gum... which hit her in the face. She recoiled (in slow motion, it seemed) as though hit by a bomb. Granted, this is yet another perfect example of why I should keep my mouth shut but, really? That'll learn her.

5. Seeing Jon Bon. Yes, that's what I call him. And I can. Because, clearly, after last night he's my boyfriend. I mean, really, he has to be after telling me this:




All in all, a wonderful night. Minus the coughing.

Tomorrow's adventure? Trying to get an iPhone 4, the first day of release in Canada. Wish me luck. Last I heard people had already started lining up. As in sleeping outside. Ya... I'm not doing that.

All The Colours of the Rainbow

This may fall under the category of 'too much information' but I recently bought these tampons. And, no, it's not because of their super-fantastic television commercial, although I must admit it's the best marketing campaign I've ever seen for feminine products which, sadly, doesn't actually say much. I didn't buy them because I gave in to some sort of campaign or propaganda. No, I bought them because... they're pretty.

Yes, that's right... I said they're pretty. And, really, aren't they? Somehow the monthly curse seems less to go by quicker when thought of in terms of 'what colour to use next'. And while I try not to favor one colour over another (note the Canadian,aka correct, spelling) I must admit... I tend to save the pink, green and yellow ones for last.

Sorry, navy blue, it's not that you're ugly... it's just that you're not as pretty as all the other colours.

A Little Support

Bra shopping on a good day isn't really the most enjoyable of tasks. Bra shopping while sick? Ya... not so fun. Alas, it had to be done. I need a new bra for my trip to New York, lest I be known as 'the girl who's boobs touch her belt'. And so I went shopping. To an actual lingerie shop. To get fitted.

It wasn't nearly as embarrassing as I thought it would be and I didn't even pass out from sucking in my gut for so long. The woman was very helpful (did you know that your nipples should be halfway between your shoulders and your elbows? Who knew?!?). And I ended up with a great black bra.

The thing about lingerie shops, though, is they don't put prices on anything. Which is an excellent strategy, really, since I was already feeling vulnerable, what with being nearly naked and having some random woman pointing out the larger of my breasts and how my back fat 'doesn't overflow on this one like it does on the other one'. I couldn't bring myself to ask the price. I just wanted to get home so I could have some Nyquil and a nap. Well there must be a sign saying 'sucker' on my forehead because said bra was $140.

Let me reiterate. One hundred. AND. Forty. DOLLARS!

I'm fairly certain I could build a school in Africa for $140. I mean, Oprah did it so why couldn't I?

Alas, I was too embarrassed to be all "what?!? You have to be kidding me... no thank you". Plus, I figure it makes up for all the *high quality* bras I've purchased from Walmart the past 15 (or so) years. Besides... it's been a long time since my boobs pointed that way.

You know... up.

So if you see me at BlogHer and I'm in a black shirt, chances are I'm wearing my new black bra. Please feel free to yell (preferably from across the room) "hey Last Girl Standing... nice boobies". Because that? Is worth at least $140.

Sicky-poo

I'm not sure what's worse: being sick... or being sick in the middle of summer, on the eve of a long weekend (I work longer work days to get every second Friday off. It's pretty much awesome).

And then I thought "it sucks to be sick and single". And, ya, it sucks when there's no one there to get you some tea (because I am not getting out of bed) or give you a massage (I'm so achy) and give you a hug (hugs are what I miss the most). But you know what else would suck? Being sick and a single mom.

On days like this I can't even manage to take care of myself, let another person. I suppose a person would get it done because they have to... but that's the same reasoning I used to drag my ass to work this morning and that only lasted 4 hours until I was back at home, stowed away in bed.

So, yes, I whined a little bit to my cat (she's good like that) about how I couldn't be bothered to get some cold medication (she offered, but the lack of posable thumbs was an issue) and wanted someone to rub my back, but in the end sometimes it's kind of nice to not be accountable to anyone but myself.

And society, of course.

Still... where's that neocitran dog when you need him?

Biker Chic

I have a scooter. And, yes, I'm in a gang. Our colour? Orange paisley.

In my defense, I also have a motorcycle (that makes me cool, right?). Mind you, I haven't ridden it in a while, what with the fear of my brain leaking into my helmet upon impact and all. Oh wait... did I type that out loud?

Anywho... scooters are fun! And not just for the obvious reasons like the fact you can fill it for less than $5 (using premium unleaded, no less) and get 100 miles per gallon. For instance, you can fit a 6pack of beer under the seat... and another between your feet (and no, I didn't mean to rhyme). Just don't open said beer, that's illegal.

If you put enough cargo under the seat (see previous point) you can, successfully, transport a cup of coffee. If you don't have enough cargo to surround the cup to cushion it from spilling, however, your cargo will be covered in hot, caffeinated beverage. Consider yourself warned.

Clearly scooters can also have their downfalls, as they should clearly come with a cup holder. Also? The signal light clicker is kind of loud. While the gentle click-click is cute and endearing, it can also be a tad embarrassing if you're stopped at a light and the person beside you has their windows down... and is looking around to see where the sound is coming from.

Lastly, should you look to purchase a scooter, for the benefit of parking downtown without having to for parking or finally have a reason to buy those leather chaps you've been eying up I feel it's my duty to warn you of one key fact: people will throw stuff at you if you drive late at night. I can only assume they've been drinking. And they're assholes. The most interesting thing I've come across? An air freshener. A relatively new one, as far as I could tell.

It smelt nice.

But the best thing about having a scooter? The fact you can look pretty darn cute scooting to work wearing a skirt. Word to the wise, ladies (or gentlemen, who am I to judge?)... keep your knees together.

And, yes, my scooter looks exactly like the picture. Except not nearly as clean. And its name is George.

I'm cool like that.

The Rules of Engagement

I'm over at Chic Galleria today, writing about the (many) issues I have with public washrooms. Like, for instance, the selection of a stall. I mean, do you use the first stall? Or do you walk to the last one, thinking it's the less used and, thus, cleanest? Because, really, if everyone thinks that than, really, wouldn't the one you think is the least used actually be the MOST used?!?

Reverse psychology... it's a bitch.

Regardless, stop by the magazine and say hello. And see all the reasons why I am single absolutely loathe public washrooms.

Mowed Down

My lawn mower died.

It was working and then the extension cord got snagged and pulled out. Plugged it back in and nothing. Checked the cord, it works. Checked the lawn mower connections, they look good. Tried again, nothing. Tried kicking it. Nothing.

The lawn mower is old. It doesn't owe me anything. And I, literally, have 10 square feet of lawn. I could get a manual mower like one of these but the grass is so long (my bad) that it won't be able to cut it, the first time around. So do I weed whack it? Do I just throw the old one out? I got that long mower from His mom. My dad fixed it the last time it broke. Sharpened the blades, oiled everything up, made it shiny and clean. Who will do that now?

That lawn mower has seen two houses, a breakup and more weeds than any lawn mower should ever have to see. For the first little while, I always wondered if there would be a day when He would ask for it back. I knew He wouldn't. He has nicer, newer stuff now. I thought maybe His mom would. I don't think she ever liked me and I was pretty sure she'd enjoy adding to the fact I had nothing left. I guess I was wrong.

It's things like this that get me down. The things I just don't know what to do with. There's the motorcycle that won't turn over, when I thought it was just a battery issue. The computer that needs a new tower that I would've been able to salvage the data off of if I still had my old job. The deck that needs boards replaced and a new set of stairs, a job too small to find someone to hire and requires too much machinery and know-how for me to do myself. The faucet that's leaked for two years and is ruining the tile and, I'm sure, the wall behind, despite my (and my dad's, back in the day) best efforts to fix it. There are the floors that need redoing, where whoever I hire won't move the furniture and piano out of the way so I'd be stuck hiring movers twice (once to move them out of the way, once to move them back... the last time I hired movers they dented the floor with the piano anyway, so what's the point of getting the floors redone just to have them wrecked after?) and that I refuse to do myself because of my botched tile job in the kitchen. There's the yard that is over run with plants I can't identify and ferns that spread like wildfire, where the more I trim the back the more everything spreads. And then there's the lawnmower. Do I throw it out? What if it's something easy to fix? Who would I take it to? Is it even worth it? How would I get it there? I don't want to get rid of it if it can be fixed... but I don't want to spend money fixing it when I know it's probably not worth it.

I know I should be grateful. That I'm lucky to have a house and a yard and even things that are broken. If I were 20 years old I would be proud of the mess that I have. But I'm not. I'm 32 years old and while all my friends live in nice, new houses with garages that actually store cars (mine is an over-sized shed/barn, at best) and manicured yards all I feel is embarrassment, regret and shame.

It's times like these when I feel the most alone. Like I can't take care of myself or my house or my things. That it's not even worth trying. That I can never get ahead.

It's overwhelming. And the thought that I may face of lifetime of this makes me dread the future. Do I just let it get worse and worse and worse... to the point where all I can do is walk away from a home that has lost all its value simply because of its owner?

Someone once suggested I pack it in and get an apartment. And as silly as it may sound, I just physically can't. At least not in this town. The thought of going back to a place in life I was at 13 years ago would just prove that the past decade has been a waste. A failure. I may not have much but I definitely don't want to have even less than what I have. I would be so ashamed. I would never leave my apartment, I would never have people over. I would sink back into the hole I was in 5 years ago. Sure, I wouldn't have home maintenance to worry about but would that be worth it?

I know people don't get it. They don't understand what the big deal is. Of course they don't. They're married. They have husbands to look after them. They have children to look after. Their houses are new and pretty and clean. Solutions to my problems look easy from their doorstep. And maybe if I were someone else they would be easy. But I'm not. This isn't easy for me. At all.

With depression, sometimes it takes so much effort to do the little things. The things a person should have no problems doing. Like mowing the lawn. There are enough obstacles to face when attempting even the simplest of tasks, to face an actual dilemma is sometimes just too much. It can ruin a day. It can ruin even an entire week.

I was having such a good week. But it never lasts forever. There's always something.

I don't look forward to a lifetime of this.

It sucks.

I'm Like Lady Ga-Ga, Except Different (aka: Telephone)

For the most part, I consider myself tech-savvy. I've played with capaciters (although not flux capacitors) and geiger counters, I've taught myself SQL, Html, Java, python and C#. I've swapped out power supplies and mother boards and I even gimmy rigged a hard drive once... and electrocuted myself twice (those are unrelated stories, by the way). But sometimes when it comes to techonology... I am Dumb with a capital D.

Take iTunes, for instance. It drives me crazy. I don't know how to begin to convert and import all my dvds and I am forever fighting with album covers and playlists. My 'recently played' is anything but and I have aps downloaded that I can't use because my iTouch OS is out of date. And jailbreaking? Unless it can be done with the push of a (clearly labelled) button I can't be bothered.

And my cell phone? Well let's just say the last time I phoned my service provider they were shocked to learn it still works. I would like to say they were impressed but, really, I think they were appalled. Me? It seems like I just upgraded yesterday from my analog monochrome screen where the only game was the worm game to my (still) analog phone with tri-color display and a battery life of, I kid you not, 30 seconds. That's right, I get one (very quick) phone call out of each charge. Needless to say, I don't give out my number very often (mind you, not that anyone asks for it).

I tried cancelling my phone twice. Once when I lost it and decided, months later, that perhaps I should cancel it (that's when I got my 'new' phone). And once when I relized I never use it. When I called to cancel the fellow asked why and when I told him it was because I wasn't popular he felt so bad for laughing (and the fact the only call from the previous month was from and to myself) he gave me a year free service. That's right... when you're this *cool* you get free cell phone service. In fact, he gave me a $10 credit every month to handle the system fee and since that's only $6.75 I made $39 last year. Score.

Needless to say, I think it's time for an upgrade. Not just any upgrade but the mother of all updates. That's right, people, Steve Jobs announced the iPhone release for Canada this morning and it's just in time for BlogHer! (Although things like this rarely work out for me so I'm trying desperately to not get too:

a) excited
b) anxious
and
c) annoying

about the whole thing. The way I see it, I won't need to take my laptop (do I need to take my laptop?) and, minus the bajillions of dollars in roaming fees, it'll pay off in freed up luggage space. And more room for shopping pays for itself really, right?!? RIGHT?!?!

Needless to say the most difficult decision is not whether to go with black or white (seriously, people... which colour should I get?) but, rather, what case to go with. Not that I spent the majority of my afternoon looking for cases or anything...

I'm leaning towards numbers 4 and 6 (click to enlarge) but these are my favorites out of all the ones (cough-734-cough) I looked at. Leave a comment and let me know which one is your favorite. And, much like purses, I'm not against having more than one.

Be Jeweled

I consider the purchase of jewelery and purses to be an investment. After all, purses don't get old, they become vintage, and necklaces never go out of style, with the exception, perhaps, of the velvet-chained choker I had circa 1992. Jewelery is classic and timeless. At least that's what I tell myself, every time I find myself making yet another purchase.

BlogHer only compounds the issue. I mean, it's New York. At any moment I could run into Sarah Jessica Parker or my girl-crush, Tina Fey. And, yes, I realize the chances are slim in a city that size during the TV off season but a girl can dream. And since I may run into my future best friends I seem to have it in my head that I need to look more 'New York Chic' and less 'Country Bumpkin'. I don't even know if the clothes I have are in style in other parts of the world (denim jean skirts are still in, right? Ya... that's probably why I don't see anyone else wearing them) and I'm fairly certain I don't have any 'high class' outfits. Heck, I'd settle for middle class.

And, so, in an attempt to update (and upgrade) my wardrobe I've been keeping an eye out for fashion finds. They may be finds... but it's questionable as to whether or not they're fashion.

Tonight I bought a necklace (which is perfect, considering I just bought a necklace):


And I recently got a couple new rings. From Pier 1 of all places. Apparently nothing says 'home decor' like some ring bling:


I may have also purchased a feather headband. Be honest... is it too much? (kinda like me)


And no, that photo is not of me, but it could be. Minus a few pounds and years, plus a few bottles of ProActiv.

Needless to say, I think I might be trying too hard. I'm going for 'Carrie Bradshaw' but I think I might end up more 'Cyndi Lauper'. At least I said no to the fishnet stockings. For now.

Out With The Old, In With The New

Well would you look at that... my blog has changed! Gone is the dark, dreary layout of the past and to stay is something I think better represents my personality and will be more inviting (ya, because it's the blog layout's fault I get 20 page views a day).

It's not completely done yet.. some of the links don't work and there are some font and code issues but I think you get the general idea.

A HUGE thanks goes out to graphic artist, Jen, who designed the blog. She took every vague idea and colour scheme I threw at her and far exceeded anything I could have ever hoped for. Thanks, Jen!

So now... what do you think?!?

Tables, There Were Three

I don't believe in fate. If luck exists I tend to believe I have very little of it. But every once in a while there are things that happen that make me reconsider everything I believe (or rather, don't believe) in.

I had been saving yesterday's post for a long, long time. I had originally written it at Christmas, when I found out I wasn't invited to a party most of my friends had been invited to. But I very quickly got over it because the best, nicest, most kindhearted friend I have also wasn't invited either. So I considered myself to be in good company and bit my (virtual) tongue and didn't post it (because, believe it or not, it was a lot more dramatic before the first- or fifteenth- rewrite).

But then there would be other occasions. Good... and bad. I felt torn. For every friend who seemed to move on I found a new (and, in my opinion, better) one. For every event I was excluded from I had another one I could attend instead. And for every trip I didn't get to go on I made sure to arrange a bigger and better one for myself (hello... New York in August!). It was a roller coaster ride of emotions. And for every bad thing there was a good one to balance it out. It may be balanced but, hot damn, it's tiring.

After yesterday's post I felt guilty... for perhaps making things seem worse than they are because I really do have great friends. The good far outweigh the bad. I felt like I let them down, not letting them know how wonderful I think they are and how much they mean to me. I felt scared... that I crossed the line. Would loose people. Piss people off. I felt ungrateful... for all that I have and for focusing on the bad, instead of the good.

But the post was my mood last night. It was time for the post that had sat for months and months to finally be published. Because there are so many posts that sit unpublished. Written with so much emotion and depth... but no longer relevant, never to be shared. I didn't want that to happen with this one. I didn't want that moment in time to go undocumented. It had built up for years and I didn't want people to think that was okay. I didn't want them to think it was unnoticed and didn't make a difference. That it didn't make me hurt. And while I may have gotten over it, I wanted them to know I haven't forgotten about it.

So last night I had a pity party, reflected on hurts on of the past, grateful for the friends of the present. And today? Today I was reminded at how lucky I actually am. By emails that appeared in my inbox in the midst of a workday from hell. By a kitten who slept in my lap during a lunch hour where I decided to come home because I just couldn't handle being at work even one. more. minute. For a fluffy ball of fur that warmed my lap and my heart, purrs reverberating and eyes opening every now and then just to ensure that I was, indeed, still there.

And then I came home. I had already checked my mail at lunch but I'm a creature of habit so when I came in through the back door I still walked straight to the front door, opened it and went to look in my mailbox... only to have my eyes drawn downward to a lovely surprise... a set of tables, wrapped in a pretty gold bow! As soon as I saw them I immediately knew they were from my friend Mel; a strong, confident woman who isn't afraid to tell it like it is but has a heart of gold and just so happens to be one of the best designers I know, she can take anything old (or new) and make it look new (or old) again. Her house is amazing and every project she does easily becomes my new favorite and this is no exception. From the colour to the monogram to the fact I had been eying up her own nested tables less than a week ago, they're perfect. Check out her post about my tables to see just how special and amazing they are!

And to top it off? One of the emails I got today was from a graphic designer... sending me new blog designs. And while I can't say much I can say this... changes are coming and I couldn't be more excited! I think it's time to move on from the drab and dreary of a sad single woman, standing alone. It's who I was, but it's not always who I am now.

Today? Was a good day!

Frenimies

A few years ago I thought I had everything: a significant other; lots of friends; and endless invitations to dinners, movies, parties and events. I was sure I would soon be engaged and my boyfriend and I had even started buying baby clothes and discussing names. I reveled in the lives of my friends as they became married and pregnant, sure that I was soon to follow and all the joy (and, yes, gifts) I shared with them would soon be returned to me. I walked through show homes with the man I thought I would marry and imagined living alongside my friends in their new homes, sure that it would soon be 'my time'.

But 'my time' never arrived.

Some of the things I had imagined for myself I knew would be no longer- like the house, the wedding and the gaggle of kids I had so desperately longed for. And that sucked. Hard. I had a difficult time as I watched friend after friend get everything I had wanted for myself. It was hard not to be jealous of the people I loved so much. But no matter how big the pity party I threw for myself was and no matter how much I wanted to disappear from it all... I didn't. I went to bridal showers and rehearsal dinners. I attended ceremonies and receptions. I did all this, and more, even when invitations didn’t say 'and guest', all the while wishing that someone had thought to spare my feelings and offer me even the slightest glimmer of hope that someday my life might match my invitation... even if we all knew I had no one to bring.

Still, I showed up with presents and well wishes, doing my best to hold my head up high and smile while I sat in a pew with no one to hold my hand, hearing vows I may never have an opportunity to say. I made small talk with near strangers while sitting at the singles table and while I may have refused the bouquet toss (because it clearly didn't work for me the last time) I rocked the chicken dance and the YWCA the way only I can (the words 'Elaine Benes' come to mind). And, months later, I happily rocked and cuddled babies while, inside, my heart broke as I longed for a life I might never know.

I did all of this because that's what friends do. I may not have a family but I have a family in my friends. And while I may not have done well after my breakup I did the best I could because of people I love more then myself.

And even when I didn't want to, I pushed on. I stepped out of my comfort zone and started trying new things. I did everything to try and find happiness where no happiness could be found. I busted my butt to find purpose when life seemed so pointless. And I did all of this because of the people who saw something in me I couldn't see in myself. I did this, and so much more, in an effort to make them proud. To finally deserve the faith they had in me. And to somehow feel as though I had earned the love they gave so freely.

So while I may have lost so many things I held on fast to what I had left. But aside from the life I thought I had lost I gradually noticed myself losing something else.

My friends.

Every now and then there would be whispers of functions and regaling of memories I wasn't a part of. There were nights when no one could be found and there were tales of girl weekends where I was left behind. I always thought it was because I was depressed. I thought it was because I was unlikable. Turns out it was all because I am different from them in the most appalling of ways.

I'm single.

I don't particularly understand it. Is it because I no longer have a significant other for their husbands to play with? Is it because I make them nervous, reminding them of how it can all come crashing to an end? Is it because if no man can love me than, surely, no friend can either? Why?

Four years later, I still don't know.

But it continued. And it hurt more then anything else. I was torn. I was, after all, invited out every now and then. But there were no more bbqs. No more poker nights. No more watching the game. And no more annual Christmas parties. It didn't take long to realize that they invited me when they felt like it... and excluded me when they didn't. And me? I was just along for the ride. Never to question. Never to judge. And never ever to make a fuss.

And, for the most part, I bit my tongue when, really, I wanted so desperately to tell them how I felt. How I hurt. That if they didn't deserve me all the time, they didn't deserve me at all. But I couldn't. Because our city is too small and our friends are too intertwined. So if I loose the bad friends, I risk loosing the good. It puts the good ones in a tough position, torn between being friends with me and ignoring me with them and that's not a risk I'm willing to take. After all, if I'm already feeling so alone what would having no one at all feel like?

So the truth is I need them and I'll take what I can get, as little as that may be. The reality is I stopped caring about most of them. It's the others that pain me. Especially those who sat for many a year on my side of the fence. The single side of the fence. Those who were excluded alongside me. The ones I, when a couple, stood up for. And even the ones whom I played matchmaker for. The ones whose weddings I went to. Wore a smile for. The ones who officially made me the last of all my friends to be single.

The Last Girl Standing.

The ones who knew, firsthand, how much it hurts to be where I am. I know they feel bad, making special efforts to make up for it by scheduling one-on-one time; apologizing; promising shopping trips and gatherings of our own. The thing is, I get it. It's exciting for to be one of the 'cool kids'. It's easy to forget what it was like. But just once instead of an apology I'd like for someone, anyone, to stand up for me. Acknowledge me. Include me.

Because I'm getting awfully tired of standing up for myself.

I love my friends. I do. And they're not all like this. In fact, the best ones aren't. But the ones that are... damn it hurts. They pretend I don't exist. They hope I'll go away. They make me wish I could.

I try so hard. And I would never do to them what they have done to me. Because I love my friends.

And I hate them for it.

Using the Good Dishes

I'm over at Chic Galleria today, writing about taking the good dishes out of the china cabinet, uncorking the vintage bottle of wine and using the silverware for more than amuse-bouche and filet mignon. Stop in and say hello!

It's The Thought That Counts

I come up with my best ideas and most amazing blog topics when I am:
a) In my car, driving
or...
b) In a tanning bed, business meeting, or mid-conversation with friends

The above pose quite a dilemma since, the last time I checked, it's illegal to write while driving; a safety hazard to use a laptop in high voltage situations; career suicide to blog at work and rude to not pay attention to people you're talking to.

Alas, this can only mean one thing: my best, most brilliant ideas and my most witty, thought-provoking entries are nothing more than forgotten after a long drive, fake'n bake, team meeting or phone call.

They say it's the thought that counts... I tend to disagree.

So you may be asking... not what all those would-be posts were about but, rather, why am I fake'n baking? Well, you see... I went to the beach. And, well, I got a bit too much sun. And by 'too much sun' I mean 'I'm purple'. Despite putting SPF 60 on halfway through the day, I have the world's worst tan lines. It, literally, looks like I'm wearing my bathing suit... when I'm naked. And given the fact I'm more than a wee bit nervous about making a good first impression at BlogHer I'd prefer for people to not think I'm wearing a tie-back top when I'm not. And, so, I hope to even out my 'tan' in a controlled environment, with plenty of sunscreen on areas that need it and none on the ones that don't and a poster that, I swear, looks like Sandra Bullock:


Because nothing says 'country bumpkin' like a farmer tan, am I right?


Ya... that's what I thought. Oops.

So is that Sandra Bullock or what?!?

Rhyme Time

I have a lot of friends with kids. In fact, pretty much all my friends have children. My fridge is covered with photos, my office has endless drawings and while I may not have a significant other I still get Valentine's cards, they just tend to be signed with crayon instead of pen (see... I'm like Carrie Bradshaw, except different). And while we may not be related there are many children who call me 'Auntie'. It's nice. I like to think I'm equally good at coloring as I am at cuddling and I don't mean to brag but, hot damn, I play a mean game of hide and seek. Of course I'm often too big (and old) to hide in the really good spots, mostly because it becomes nearly impossible to get out of them.

And while I like to think I'm a positive, yet fun, influence I sometimes worry I may overstep my bounds and teach things that perhaps should not be taught. It happens innocently enough, like the time one youngster was sucking on their arm and I asked "what are you trying to do, give yourself a hickie?". Apparently adults should not answer the question of "what's a hickie"... who knew hickies are a faux pas for 8 year olds? It's not so bad when said child keeps to himself... it apparently becomes more of an issue when softball-sized hickies show up on other people... such as mothers and little sisters.

Oops.

And then there's the time I taught the 6 year old how to rhyme. Which, I feel, is actually a fairly advanced skill for a kindergartner to master. It started out okay, with 'ready Freddie' leading to 'ready Eddie'. But when calling the youngster 'Smarty Pants' was reciprocated with me being labeled a 'Party Pants' (which is both a rhyme and a fairly accurate description, if you ask me) it probably should have stopped there. But when a little girl with curls the colour of sunshine and eyes as blue as the ocean asks for nicknames for her brother, father and mother well... what's a girl to do? We went through the alphabet, which resulted in the brother being called 'Arty Pants'... and we all had a laugh when the father was dubbed 'Farty Pants'. And, in my defense, I didn't explain what the word meant but the mom? Well, let's just say she's now known as...

Sharty Pants

Clearly, I'm imparting knowledge and teaching life skills to an entire generation. You're welcome, world. You're welcome.

Also? Believe me when I say this... do NOT do a Google image search for 'shart'. Just don't.

Things That Make You Go... ewwwww

I find this commercial very disturbing. It's not the images, it's not the concept... it's the following phrases:

"My diaper is full". I'm sorry, but that's disgusting. I don't care if you wrap that up in fake denim, rainbows or 100 dollar bills... that's gross. Dear marketing genius: I don't need the mental image of what's actually inside said diaper. Also? The pause between this phrase and "full of chic" is WAY too long. And the behind shot of a saggy diaper? It kind of makes me puke in my mouth a little bit.

"When it's a number 2... I look like number 1". So when it's poop you look like pee? Or do you mean you look like the top dog? Because, really, I think you look like a baby who forgot to put pants on and could, at any minute, have crap running down his legs. Sick. Sick, sick, sick.

"I poo in blue". Ya... I poo in a toilet. Not in public and definitely not in a convertible. I'm sorry but the thought of watching a baby walk down the street in nothing more than a diaper, while taking a dump, is not endearing or fashionable... it's disgusting. Never, ever have I said "wow... look at that hip baby... no, not that one... the one who's partaking in a bowel movement.. isn't he cute?!?! I just love his shit-sack!"

I think Huggies went VERY wrong with this campaign. They had potential, when worn under with pants or under a cute little skirt. But, thanks to this commercial, the only emotions these diapers bestow is one of disgust. I've seen these diapers actually on a baby and they are pretty darn cute... when used as diapers, not as pants. You might say it's because I don't have kids or due to the fact I have a soft constitution (sorry, I couldn't resist) but it really wouldn't matter if I was running an orphanage as Nanny McPhee or Mother Teresa this commercial would still appall and disgust me. Had I seen the diapers without seeing the commercial my thoughts may have been 'cute'. But now? My only thought is 'ewwwwwww!!'.

My Home and Native Land

Today is Canada Day. A day I never truly appreciated when I was young, since my young-self's dream was to leave** this fine land to head south, where gravy is a main, not side, dish; where super sized is a lifestyle, not a fast food option; and where the majority of hockey players are, um, Canadian. But in my age-old wisdom I've learned to appreciate the fine subtleties of this fair, vast and freakishly cold-in-the-winter/hot-in-the-summer land: where people are so polite they apologize for being sorry; where words such as 'colour' and 'cheque' are properly spelled and the words 'inquiry' and 'enquiry', 'then' and 'than', `center`and `centre still have separate uses and meanings... where 'Canadian bacon' is basically a fancy word for 'fried ham' and where beer is actually beer... not water with a beer aftertaste.

A place where people know the likes of Peter Puck, The Friendly Giant ("Look up... way up... and I'll call Rusty"), Mr. Dressup, Raffi and that beotch from Romper Room who never said my name. A nation proud to call David Suzuki, Wayne Gretsky, Michael J. Fox and, oooo oooo, Matthew Perry our own (did I say 'our'?!? I meant mine. All mine. Back off people, he's mine!). Where a couch is a sofa. Where a sofa is a chesterfield. Where a toque is a hat and where ketchup chips reign supreme. Where people are free to giggle when buying homo milk and where anyone who's ever been drunk has gone on a late-night poutine run at Burger King. Where Canadian patches are proudly sewn onto 'knapsacks and bunny hugs' so people will treat us with the respect and hospitality our nation has earned. And a land where people from other countries sew our flag onto their 'backpacks and hoodies' so people will treat them a tad bit nicer then if they had sewn on their own country's patch.

And, finally, a land where towns are named Moose Jaw, Elbow, Climax or Regina: 'the place that rhymes with fun', and where everyone who's anyone knows how to do The Log Driver's waltz, that little black flies are in north Ontar-i-o, i-o and the story behind the sweater.

So thank you, dear forefathers, for choosing this majestic land- with it's mosquitoes, frostbite and exorbitant airfare prices. Where there is no such thing as The OC, West Bev' or The Hills. Where Degrassi, the original class, made history long before 90210 and where being born into privilege means owning the doughnut shop on the corner, the ice cream store at the lake or wearing such brand names as Roots, Club Monaco and Beaver Canoe. And, quite frankly, where our Royal Mounted Police have kick-ass pants and hats.

Two years ago I rang in this day in a land far, far away (Selcuk, Turkey) and I have never been more proud than to share my country`s holiday with a hookah bar full of Turks and Americans, singling O Canada as best, and loudly, as we could. This year also proved patriotic, with the hosting of the Winter Olympics. And I have never been more content to be Canadian. I may not (or may) always live here, but it will always be my home.



* The image is one I got from local artist, Toby Cougar. He does awesome work, plus he's a stand-up dude... I complimented him on his work and he replied 'it's safe to say I have some issues'. Don't we all, my friend... don't we all. (Rumor has it that's why *some* people blog...)

** I'm not entirely against sharing my national pride while living in either California or New York. You know... in case anyone's looking for someone with my skill set. What... you don't know what my skill set is?!? Well if you don't know then I'm not telling. After all, I shouldn't have to explain it... should I?!?