The Ultimate Karaoke Song

WE SURVIVED THE ROSE 2006
Craig gets cozy with the karaoke machine

Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance. It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance. It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give, and the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely and the road has been to long, and you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong, just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose.

Carly turns it up a notch.
And now, I'm gonna slow it down for everyone...
Karaoke can totally have back-up dancers.
Just call me angel, in the morning...angel...just touch my cheek before you leave...

(We would like to issue a formal apology to any of Tyler's neighbours who may have overheard, and thus suffered through, SEVEN heartbreaking renditions of Bette Midler's The Rose.)

Winter Holiday Festival for Everyone

All nations can benefit from the joy of the pagan winter solstice festival with ritual turkey sacrifice.

Eulogy for My Sexy Boots

Oh, my sexy boots.
I remember when I first saw you. On sale, in a busy mall. I impulsively grabbed a salesgirl to bring you to me. I’d barely slipped you on when I’d already decided you were going to be mine.
How I loved the sharpness of your lines. The wicked point of your toes. The height of your heels just perfectly dangerous. I loved the way you clung to my calves, coating every curve in shiny black.
You went with everything. I could even trendily slouch your fabric, satisfying multiple fashion needs in one pair of boots. Peeking out from under the hem of pants, you suggested the mystery of more to come. Accenting skirts, you brought every ensemble up one notch of fabulousness.
The first time you let me down – or was it I who let you down? – was at a concert. I rocked back on a heel and then the whole world shifted. There was a sickening snap. When I reached down to try to right the wrongly bent heel, it came off in my hand. I spent the rest of the evening unhappily sitting and mourning at the back of the venue.
But I did not lose hope. I made a special trip and took you, my beloved sexy boots, to the very best shoe repair I knew. They’d worked miracles one summer day on my sister’s Camper sandals, and I figured if anyone could save you, they could. The prognosis was skeptical, but they agreed to try, and a few days later I had you back, almost good as new.
Then came my bachelorette party. Damn, you looked good with my little-boy britches and fishnet stockings. You lasted with me all night – club after club, dancefloor after dancefloor. Then, late, late in the night… The dancefloor of the Matador was empty. I was drunk. A raucous song came on. And you couldn’t take it any more. One boisterous stomp was all that separated me from continued happiness with my sexy boots.
Luckily, I had a pair of sneakers in my overnight bag, and didn’t have to spend another night with wounded, broken boots bringing me down.
This time I knew there was no fixing you. You sat, useless and sad, at the back of my closet for months. I couldn’t bear to throw you away.
Now I send you down the garbage chute. Thank you for being a great pair of boots. It is with regret that I let you go.

The sexy boots are dead!
Long live the sexy boots!

Steps for buying a Xmas tree

1. Figure out who has the hangover.


2. Find a tree that is tall enough for this ride.



















3. Make sure the tree is cuddly. Give it a hug.




4. Make sure the tree is yummy. Have a Tim Horton's. Wedge into car and take it home.

Things that are bugging me these days.

1. Women in the gym changeroom who do everything, from slathering on their body lotion to putting on their coat, in front of the mirror. Do you really need to know what you look like as you put on your socks? I sure don't. While this makes me feel a bit better about my comparative level of vanity, I can't help but get impatient as I wait to put on my mascara. I really actually do need a mirror for that.

2. A Perfect Circle's cover of John Lennon's Imagine. Possibly the worst song I've ever heard. They managed to take a hopeful hippie anthem and turn it into a suicide dirge. I'm not big on Beatles (and by extension, John Lennon's solo) covers by anyone, except street buskers or in live performance, anyway. I mean, the nerve! Do they think they can re-record perfection? And Michael Buble, did you think it was a good idea to completely castrate the Fab Four? You better hope you can buy love, 'cause no one is throwing their panties at you after your rendition.

3. People who cut in front of me while walking, but walk slower than I do. So...You want to get there before me, but not sooner? Yes, I get pedestrian rage. Sign me up to be the new Crazy Lady.

4. The fact that the homeless dude on the corner is a racist. He's our "regular" homeless guy - we see him enough that we say "hi" often. We've given him cash, free-sandwich coupons, and smiles. We even thought that my father-in-law had given him his old winter coat, but that turned out to be the other homeless dude that shares the corner (I think they take shifts). But today I heard him ranting about Chinese people. He used a racial epithet that I'd never heard before and now I'm upset that I know a new derogatory word. Also upset at him. Sure, he's not mentally stable, but that's no excuse for bigotry. (That's right, Granny, that applies to you, too.)

5. That my office building is located in a suburban wasteland. It's a ten-minute walk to the nearest strip-mall. I am trapped in my cubicle and I still haven't brought in any "personality items", other than BDSM Lambie.

6. No one at work has seen BDSM Lambie, and the thrill of it being funny is wearing off. When a co-worker does finally notice the little stuffed lamb wearing a leather face mask and chaps, I'll be so bored of the whole idea of having such a silly thing on my desk that I won't even react. Although, nonchalance is pretty funny, where deviant sex in the work environment is concerned.

7. Just when you thought you were out... I finally sent my union a letter asking to withdraw my membership. Seeing as how I now have a regular, 9-to-5, biweekly paycheck, desk job. In response, I got a voicemail from the admin lady -- who always sounds like she's maybe about to cry, as opposed to the member services lady, who always sounds as though something terrible has happened and if you don't return her call right away the world might end -- apparently in order to "honourably withdraw" I have to pay up my union dues in full. So, I haven't worked a union gig in a full year, and now I cannot afford to quit. My options: Pay exorbitant dues in exchange for no work and no benefits, in order to stay in good standing with a union I will likely never be involved with again, or be "dishonourably discharged" from the International Cinematographers Guild. Why won't they just let me go? Why does it have to be hard? I'm considering treating them like a playground bully -- ignore them and maybe they'll just go away.

8. I'm too picky about baking. I was looking forward to this week's office bake sale, one of many this holiday season. I take my change, head down to the assigned boardroom, and load up a paper plate with ostensibly delicious homebaked goodies. And I am inevitably disappointed. No one's blondies are as good as mine, and I can't believe I even bothered with someone else's ginger crinkle cookies. Now I've got all this sugary temptation that I can't even be bothered to eat. I suppose that's progress, in a way, in light of my newly-admitted-to sugar addiction. Nevertheless, it just takes the joy right out of holiday bingeing.

Eight things is probably enough negative energy for one post. To restore positive energy, take a deep breath, chant an "Ohm" and take a nice full-body stretch. Or binge. Whatever blows your skirt up.

Crazy Lady Has Left the Building

http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/10/my-new-favourite-crazy-person.html

My favourite crazy person no longer works in my building. I overheard her the other day telling a colleague that it was her second-last day and that she was going to "blow this pop stand." I thought about being worried for a moment, but I'm certain that she saves her aggression for fellow TTC riders, and that our "pop stand" is safe from explosives.
Before she left, though, she provided me and a girl I work with (dare I say, work friend?) with the best episode yet. This so-called work friend knew exactly who I was talking about when I said, "You know that crazy lady that's always on the bus?" ("The one with the bleached-blond hair and the red lipstick and the cigarettes?" she replied. Of course!) We've shared a few amused glances and raised eyebrows on the subject since, whenever we see Crazy Lady forcing her way to the front of a line, pushing past people on the escalator, or aggressively taking her seat on the bus. Once, she spoke to my work friend, causing her to be very frightened, but then pleased to have a story to relate. And once we saw her coaching a colleague of hers on the best way to get a seat on the bus (push past everyone in line on the platform and board before the bus is even empty).
But the other day...
We were all crammed into the elevator. Crazy Lady works on floor 2, which makes her not only crazy but irritating. Second floor? Walk! But on this particular day, the elevator goes "ding!" for the first time and when I look at the display it reads "4". Doors open. Crazy lady forcefully walks out and -- realizes it's not her floor. She pauses. "What the fuck?" Oh my god, I'm thinking. She forgot to push her button! She's going to freak out! {And more, do not look up at work friend. Eyecontact will cause giggling.} Crazy Lady strides back into the elevator. Looks at floor display. "Fuck." Pauses. {Do not giggle.} Is she going to ride the elevator all the way up to 9, and then back down again? {Do not look up. Do not giggle}. "Fucking..." Mutters string of expletives as she strides out of the elevator. Doors close. Giggles errupt. Other people in elevator clearly see the humour, but don't quite understand why we are hysterical.

Crazy Lady, you will be missed. Sort of.

In other news, I've discovered that the Crazy Lady lives in my neighbourhood! I almost dropped my grocery bags when I saw her sitting and smoking (still seeming aggressive, somehow) outside a coffee shop. I'll keep an eye out.

Creator of grunge, my ass

I recently had the misfortune of reading an article by Leah McLaren while I was browsing the newspaper online. My hatred for her is simple. Part of it is jealousy that she has managed to con a national paper into paying her for what is essentially her blog about her priviledged and boring life. The rest is that she isn't really a writer, and she sure isn't a journalist. My father thinks she's great and initially suggested I read her column because maybe I could, I dunno, relate. I guess as long as the old white dudes keep eating her shit up, she'll be okay. (In other news, I just googled her to find the correct spelling of her name and have found an entire community of people who also hate her "self-indulgent drivel". Woo hoo! And, before it is pointed out to me, I happen to know that my blog is exactly that. I just don't pretend that it's anything else.)
In this fluff piece of hers, cleverly disguised as a style article (no WAY would I have ever laid eyeballs on it otherwise), she referred to Marc Jacobs as "the creator of grunge." Then, not two days later, I heard the same claim on Fashion Television.
Um.
Okay. Now this is weird, and I know I'm not alone here, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Marc Jacobs. Don't get me wrong, I dig the guy and happily buy my Jacobs-inspired knockoffs at Club Monaco, but I think they're mistaken.
Sure, I was only a teenybopper, but I remember scouring Kensington Market for my perfect plaid flannel shirt (varying shades of blue check, and oh so soft), scrubbing the knees of my Gap jeans with sandpaper to help along the holes, and dragging my mother to every single shoe store in the Eaton Centre (not an exaggeration) in order to find a pair of boots that were like Docs or combat boots, but not quite (when you're a teen, it's the little things that distinguish you from your peers. My lace-up, nine-hole boots had green stitching and a 1.5 inch heel. They were just that bit sexier than Docs and I wore them to pieces. Heel replaced three times, ankles re-stitched, and the inside had molded to the shape of my foot.). I did all this long before the issue of Vogue that had some heroin-chic model draped in a knit, striped, floor-length gown with a matching scarf and toque, draping herself over the enormous tree trunk of some west-coast backdrop. I remember because I felt outrage. How dare the fashion industry appropriate angry street fashion!? How dare they take the one style I'd actually managed to nail down and make my own on my measly allowance and turn it into something exclusive and unaffordable. A few years later I would stop buying Vogue and Bazaar, publications I had been reading since the time I could only understand to look at the pictures, in a fit of poor-student fury at the fact that the dress the stylists had given to cover-model Gwyneth Paltrow cost as much as my four years of tuition.
What I'm saying is that it isn't fair to call Marc Jacobs the creator of grunge. Maybe as a reimagininig for high-fashion consumption, but it's hardly the same as Dior's New Look. After all, did Marc cry when his best friend called him to tell him that Kurt Cobain was dead? Did he paint his nails black in mourning? Maybe... But just because he's now again showing messy layers and plaid doesn't mean he gets to exploit the whole scene forever.
I will recant if Mr. Jacobs sends me clothing.

There's No Such Thing as Too Much Hallowe'en

When I was a kid, I had friends who would ration out their Hallowe’en haul of candy and peck away at it until Christmas. I was not one of those kids. My sister and I would plan a walking route to maximize our gains, including a swing by our house to drop off too-heavy bags. When we got home, we would obssessive-compulsively re-organize our loot into separate paper bags with labels like “Chocolate,” “Chips,” and even “Rockets.” We had to tip out to Mom, no question, but she let us have free rein over our goodies. One Hallowe’en night I ate so much I puked. In fact, I pretty much ate it all. Did I learn my lesson? Yup. Did I ever do it again? Nope. Did I enjoy it while I was gorging? You bet your pillowcase full of miniature treats I did.
This is an example of how I like my Hallowe’en – extreme. I think that the residual thrill of being out late in the crisp chill of a fall night, plus the fact that my mom is a costume designer, so I never wanted for something totally awesome to wear, has permanently imprinted All Hallow’s Eve as my favourite.
I believe you can’t have too much fun -- though you may spend Sunday paying for it -- so when I happily RSVP’d to two Hallowe’en parties, I was obviously thrilled. Two parties meant two sets of costumes! Two alter-egos! Two crazy adventures!
And here’s how it all broke down, as far as I can remember:

Friday Night: Patrick and Toni’s Superclub Partyroom:
J and I are Neo and Trinity from the Matrix. Our costumes rock, if I do say so myself, even if carrying around two guns apiece is a bit of a pain. Good times included a surreal stumble through an underground parking lot (“I carried the chips and dips!”) on the way to part two of the party; everyone staring at my little sister’s tits; and my ‘famous’ rice krispie squares.

Saturday Night: Jessica’s 30th Birthday/Hallowe’en Extravaganza:
J and I are hero and heroine from the cover of a romance novel. Unabashedly sexy, we get to stare off into the future regularly, and I get to swoon a lot. This comes in handy later in the night, when too much punch means I’m sort of wobbly and unfocused anyway. Good times include a photo shoot including a fan – thanks, Jenn, for making that happen! (hey, if anyone has any of those pictures, could you send them to me?); Jessica eating the still-beating heart out of the ripped-open-torso cake I made for her; and getting shut down by the police – twice! Apparently I tried to charm Toronto’s finest and even invited them to come to the party. Yeah, I’m blushing. I’m sorry, officers. I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself.

As a special birthday present to Jessica, I graciously took her hangover on Sunday, thus having two. Wicked.


My stunning sister as Tomb Raider.


Jessica the Burlesque Dancer (what else?) eats a still-beating heart. It contains wheat.

(MORE PICS TO COME – EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES)

Finally, more Hallowe'en pictures

J as Fabio, chilling with Zorro.


We are the cover of a romance novel.


Our so sexy hosts.


Shhh... if the cops have to come back a third time, we will be fined for the noise complaint!

My husband is a big manly man

Our toilet needed a new flush valve for a long time. I bought a replacement, and it sat in the bathroom for months and months while my husband ignored it and continued to complain regularly about the fact that the toilet was continually leaking. Sick of ineffectively nagging, even when I brought in outside support (thanks for the back-up, Beth and Jon!), and buoyed by the fact that I knew what a flush valve was, and by my earlier success with the U-bend, I thought maybe I could do the work myself. I pulled out the diagramed instructions, read a few words like “gasket”, and promptly did what any modern woman would –- reached for the phone to call my Daddy. Faced with the invasion of his handyman territory, J finally sprung into action. I was awakened one weekend morning by alarming clanging noises, and groggily discovered J up to his elbows in parts and wrenches, clad in very tight --very manly-- yellow rubber gloves. Four tries later, complete with trial flushes (“No! It’s leaking all over the floor! Turn the water off again! Turn it off!”), we had a non-leaky toilet, with a nice firm seal on the flush valve.

We have a theory that long-established couples only undertake home improvement projects so that they will have something to talk about. Our little weekend project sort of proved this theory, and spawned this delightful little bit of marital dialogue:

J: So I get crap when I don’t do the job, and I get crap when I do the job?
M: No, you get crap when you don’t do the job, and crap when you don’t do the job properly.

This in response to my pointing out the fact that he hadn’t properly prepped the work area, and so it seemed clear that he would soon be getting toilet water all over my eau de toilettes.

Anyway, my husband is clearly a very manly man who can fix a toilet.
Nevermind that I’m the one who figures out which button to press to bring back the video on a “broken” television.

Dress-Up Wednesdays: Opus

Wednesday is the new Saturday. Here's the premise: Get all dolled up mid-week, and head out to a trendy venue that would be tiresome to try to get into on a Friday or Saturday. Why wait for the weekend?
Eric doesn't read this, so he may never know what a genius idea I think this is.
So I find myself at Opus for the second time in a month. Someone please tell the universe that my life isn't really this fabulous. And for the second time, I find myself having to spread a little more love about Opus. Specifically this time, the fabulous bartender. There must be men all over the city who are in love with her. This is a woman who once told Brad Pitt he'd just have to wait for his drink like everybody else, while mixing drinks so fast "her hands were a blur," according to one fairly reliable bystander. I just really appreciate her perfect Cosmopolitan. I had almost given up on the Cosmo. Popularity has turned the Cosmopolitan into a watery, sweet concoction sloshed out at every bar and club, and sloshed back by every stiletto-heeled 905er who's ever had an intense discussion with her friends about which one of them is Carrie. However, Mary mixes up a cocktail that is tart, boozey and actually makes you feel glamourous sipping it. So worth it.

My new favourite crazy person

My new favorite crazy person is a blonde lady who works in the same building as I do, and takes the same bus to work. She’s what I think of as the Walking Insane. She’d never be institutionalized, but is nevertheless craaaazy. She’s got pale-blue eyes, like a husky, but they are strangely vacant, like a bird’s.
I first noticed the craziness yesterday. At the top of the escalator in the subway station, she blasted past me, knocking into my bag quite hard. Hmph, I thought, that felt a little unnecessary. I’m a fast walker, so I must have passed her in the long corridor that leads from the subway platform to the bus platform, because I was already in the line for the bus when I saw her come barging through the doors, roughly bumping another person in the process. Issues, I thought. She ended up standing right behind me, jockeying for position in line as soon as the bus arrived, and audibly muttering swear words.
Easy there, crazy lady.
I didn’t realize that we worked in the same building until I was running through the lobby to catch the elevator (they are really really slow, and so worth the run to get one) and there she was, inside the elevator, shooting me daggers with those creepy crazy baby blues as she pressed what was clearly not the “door open” button. I stuck out my arm, forced the door to let me in, and also admitted two other co-workers. Crazy was clearly in an unstopable rush to get to…the second floor! Take the stairs, freak!
The diagnosis of crazy didn’t come until today, though. Yesterday she could have merely been in a hurry and letting it get to her. I was actually thinking about that as I power-walked down the subway corridor and –bam!- she blasted past me again! This time to get on the short escalator up to the bus platform. I almost laughed out loud. I am not a dawdler when moving from place to place. There is virtually no chance that I would be the commuter to hold anyone up in transit. She must have been nearly running to get past me. As we neared the office building, she seemed to be behaving normally, but as soon as she got to the door, and someone else was entering, she pushed past them. In order to stand in the empty lobby and wait for the slow elevator.
Oh crazy lady who needs to get places first, you brighten my day and make me feel normal.

In other news, the office environment has killed my cactus plant, something I had not managed to do in three years. My only little hint of personality has thus been removed from my cubicle. I assume it was a temperature thing, and look forward to cultivating a tundra garden on my desk.

Health tip for a rainy day

It is much better for you to stay in bed for an extra hour, cuddling with your sweetie, than to go out in the dark, cold, rainy morning to the gym.

Restaurant review: Barrio

Barrio, on Queen St. E at Logan

Cushioned benches line the walls of this cozy local tapas restaurant. Very friendly service that puts up with screeches and giggles, and plays along with martini-related spanking innuendos. The menu has a wide variety of interesting choices, all small-portioned and meant for sharing nibbles. Good frites, but boring chili mayo accompaniment. A tasting plate of spring rolls provided some flavour adventures - the 'fish and chips' spring roll was a deep-fried delight, pork and peas was delicately flavourful, and the taco spring roll was interesting, if not necessarily something I'd eat again. The roasted plum-tomato salad was a delicious combination of fresh tastes, with a nice hot-cold contrast. Chicken dumplings dunked in goat-cheese fondant were a real treat. Herb-crusted sole on asparagus and citrus slaw was forgettable, the fish not particularly nice. A standard cheese platter was slightly elevated by warm cinnamon-raisin toasts. The winner of the evening was a braised pork belly in a smoky maple sauce. Not one fatty scrap of it was left, although the garnishing fried quail egg left everyone cold. Deserts disappoint. Bland creme brulee had a texture more akin to Jello pudding. Flourless chocolate cake was good, but predictable. Points for arriving warm, points taken away for the boring white ice cream that 'a la mode'-ed it. The huge chocolate mousse was the best bet, being yummy although the accompanying biscuits were not.
Not great value for money. Nice atmosphere. The restaurant started to fill up with Leslieville locals around eight o'clock, and it got quite lively. Enjoyable, but I would try somewhere new rather than go back.

rating: * * (I ate it, but wouldn't recommend it to friends)

Sweet, sweet addiction and my twelve step plan.

Hi.
I'm an addict.
I need to admit that I am powerless in the face of sugar. I cannot pass a bakery without being lured in by the promise of sweet baked goods; when co-workers bring in snacks and leave them on the filing cabinet just outside my cubicle, I make up excuses to get up and walk around so that I can grab another on my way by; and buffet tables are my undoing. I do not control my consumption of sugar - it controls me.
My first incling that I had a problem came in High School, when I actually mustered up the nerve to tell one of my friends that she should "maybe quit smoking." She rounded on my with a defensive: "It's not that easy! That's like me asking you to stop eating sweets!" I never thought I'd been that obvious. I felt shame when I realized that clearly everyone had seen me go back for thirds of birthday cake. Speaking of cake, things started getting really bad in University. A roommate I had will testify that I polished off an entire birthday cake (at least it was mine) in one day. Lucky for me and my waistline, in an unplanned exercise in booze-induced bulimia, I threw it all up later that night.
I knew I'd hit bottom when I awoke one morning on the floor of a strange motel room, dress spattered with red globs of jelly, face and hands smeared with white powdered sugar, and empty doughnut boxes all around. I had no memory of the clearly indulgent binge that had happened the night before, but I could no longer respect myself, and neither could the freckled youth in the Tim Horton's uniform who was tied to the bed.
I need a greater power to restore me to sanity, and I turn my will and life over to... um... Splenda?
After a searching and fearless inventory of myself, I need to admit that I was wrong to order desert all those times. I apologize to anyone who has ever wanted to leave a restaurant and I made them stay for the sweet course. I apologize to the roommate mentioned above, who often had to go on walks with me to the local corner store late at night in order to buy chocolate to satisfy a late-night craving. I'm really sorry to all those kids I elbowed out of the way in line for the sweet table at that bar mitzvah. Another brownie was not worth a black eye on a nine-year-old.
I know that I am not alone. Sugar addiction is so common in industrialized Western nations as to be unrecognizable. If you're out there thinking "what harm can one more cookie do?" know this: Refined sugar actually causes physiological addiction. Consumption of sugar causes your body to produce more insulin, which in turn causes a rise in serotonin, a natural mood upper. That's why you get that fabulous sugar high. And you crave it again. Like MDMA, only with more calories. Once you're hooked on that buzz, continuous large doses of sugar (curse you, Ben & Jerry) can cause a build up of mood-depressing insulin, and the brain's serotonin-production sites to slow -- so you have to eat more to get the same lift. We are all familiar with that one, when suddenly half a container of Haagen Daz doesn't do it anymore, and you're using your fingers to get the last few creamy bits of goodness out.
As the holiday season approaches, Hallowe'en-sized candy bars are scattered around the office, holiday-themed treats and bake sales abound, and every woman in here seems to be lined up for an engagement/bridal/baby shower complete with cake, cake cake. I'm reaching out. I need your help and support. I'm not a bad person. The sugar makes me bad.

Romance Plagiarism Project #2

http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/09/romance-plagiarism-project.html

"I don't usually take chances like this," said Celia, frowning as she glanced over the cliff edge to the black water some twenty feet below. The water was reflecting the clear blue sky, complete with a scattering of fluffy clouds, making it look even further away. Why had Evan brought her here?
Evan gave a breathy chuckle. "I thought you wanted some adventure," he challenged. Her cheekbones crested with scarlet.
"I do," she protested. Celia again looked tentatively over the edge. She couldn't believe she'd agreed to come cliff-jumping with a man she barely knew. She raked a hand through her hair, remembering it was in a ponytail only after her fingers snagged against the beaded scrunchy. She didn't think she'd be able to go through with it after all, despite the fact that she was desperate to impress the hunky cowboy who'd arrived in town last week. Celia looked at the big drop to the lake below and her heart thundered like the thud of a thousand horses' hooves on hard dirt. She took a deep breath. But there was no way a measly little breath of air was going to stop the pounding of her heart or the sweat that started dripping from her armpits.
"But I don't know if this is safe," she added. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She couldn't do something so foolish as jump off this cliff just to please a near-stranger. So what if she was intensely attracted to him, and acutely aware that they were alone together in the woods. She looked at him again, admiring the mat of black curling hair on his imposing chest, which swelled magnificently, narrowing to his flat, muscled belly.
"Oh, it's safe," he said with a grin, "I just think that you're chicken. But I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry up and decide to take a chance. I've got to get home to feed the cows."
She started to laugh at Evan's provocation and seemingly lame excuse, but he wasn't smiling, so her smile melted like a deflating balloon into a pathetic shriveled pucker. "What's with you and your livestock?" she asked seriously. "I would think that you'd welcome the chance to sneak away for a day to spend it with...a cow from another species," she added playfully.
He arched an eyebrow at her. "One thing about a man and his cows is that it does a cowboy's heart good to see the hairy beast every day."
"Who are you calling a hairy beast!?" she cried.
His expression warmed with something primal, yet gentle. He stepped right up beside her and took her hand. The contact sent a pleasurable shiver up her spine. She suddenly felt even more exposed out on the cliff edge, as if the light summer breeze might be enough to blow her right off.
"Listen, you don't have to do this," said Evan, "but I really think you'd get a thrill from it." Celia wasn't so sure he was only talking about cliff-jumping. Maybe he wanted to get a look at her hairy beast. She felt like she was a slowly melting confection of syrupy warmth. Renewed determination surged up in her.
"Don't you think I'm good for a thrill?" she asked. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement, ,or challenge, his eyes boring into hers. She pulled the scrunchy from her ponytail, shook her hair free and gave him a challenge: "I'm right beside you, big boy."
With that, she took the final step and leapt out over the edge.
The sun caught on her honey-brown hair as she plunged toward the dark lake below. Evan burst with pride as she let out a whoop that echoed before it was cut off by her splash into the water. He'd thought all along that Celia had an adventuresome spirit just waiting to be set free ever since the first time he'd seen her at the diner in town. She'd looked as fresh as the dew in April as she'd poured him a hot cup of coffee and warmed his heart.
Suddenly the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with hot coffee. It had been a few long seconds and Celia hadn't surfaced. He scanned the surface of the water anxiously and then spotted her slim figure, floating still and face-down. His chiseled jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle began to throb in his cheek. Alive with instinct, Evan jumped. He barely felt the wind rushing past his tanned skin, or the shock of the cold waster as he hit it a few long seconds later. He had only one thought: make sure Celia was all right.
A few powerful strokes brought him to her prone floating body. He slid his broad arm under hers and across her chest, flipping her face up. He upbraided himself that even unconscious, he found her beautiful. A shiver of desire went through him at the touch of his skin on hers. The desire was easily quashed, though, now that he was afraid. He realized he really was afraid. Afraid of messing up so badly that he'd lose the one female who'd come into his life unexpectedly and found a sure path to his heart.
He swam and dragged her to the grassy shore next to the swimming hole. He strode out of the water, the lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexing beneath the tight-fitting breeches. He gently lay her on her back. Nervously, he tried to remember the first-aid training he'd done as a teenager. He tilted her head up with two fingers underneath her chin. Leaning over her, he hovered his mouth a few centimeters above her full lips, preparing to do mouth-to-mouth.
She opened her eyes. "gotcha," she said saucily.
His heart kicked him in the ribs, but it didn't hurt because he'd gone numb. On the one hand, relief washed over him; on the other...
"How--how could you do that to me?" he demanded.
"I was just fooling around," Celia said, propping herself up on one elbow. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I thought you liked to play."
"I guess I should have told you that my parents both drowned when I was a kid," he said, gazing out at the lake. Surprise widened her eyes and her mouth formed a little circle as she sucked in her breath sharply. She threw her arms around his neck and cried, "I'm so sorry!"
She smelled as good as a fresh spring day when she wrapped her arms around him and gently tried to ease his pain. It was just plain distracting. How was he supposed to be sad and mad at her when her touch caused a pleasant reaction in his whole body. He shrugged free, his taut muscles rippled as he reached for a towel.
"Evan," she whispered, and he found his gaze was drawn to her like metal filings to a magnet. "I really enjoyed jumping off the cliff. You were right, it gave me a thrill. But it was nothing like the thrill I felt when I thought you were going to give me mouth-to-mouth."
And despite everything, he smiled, letting those dimples play havoc with her mind. He watched the corners of her lips tilt upward into a slow, warm smile. Her smile was like dawn breaking through the morning fog. He was drawn to it. He leaned in again, this time certain that their lips should touch. Sparks flew through their bodies as the kiss began, generating warmth that had nothing to do with the weather of the gorgeous summer day. Celia never wanted to stop kissing him. The kiss became needy and even a bit dangerous, powerful for a girl who didn't take chances. But when she pulled back and smiled into the face she'd come to love, she realized that this time, she wasn't taking a chance at all.

Nip/Tuck bites/sucks

J is addicted to TV on DVD, and Nip/Tuck is where he's getting his latest fix. This show is like a train wreck - so awful but you can't look away. I don't know what I hate more: the overacting worthy of a Mexican soap opera; the actor that plays the son, Matt, with his Dr. Phil speeches and his painted-clown eyebrows; or the fact that the convoluted, incestuous plots suck me in and cause me to say things like, "What's HE doing with Kimber?!?" when I wander through the living room and catch some of it.
The only redeeming factor for this show is that if you watch it, chances are you are going to get to see the delicious Christian Troy (Julian McMahon) in flagrante delicto. To save everyone the trouble and time of actually watching the cursed show, I have thoughtfully posted some pictures here so you can get the basic effect.
By the way, this is the first celebrity to cause me to actively search for naked pictures. And it was waaaay harder than I expected. What gives? It is never this hard to find naked pictures on the Internet.

Check out that adorable bum!

Restaurant review: Senior's

Senior's Steak House (Yonge Street just south of St. Clair)

There's a door right on Yonge St. but I have to admit to never having been into that part of the restaurant. If you want the experience I'm about to describe, you need to go around the side and take the door that leads up to the charming "Dining Nook". Senior's is a time warp. The upstairs Dining Nook has simple white tablecloths and wood-panelled walls. Orange lanterns on every table provide a cozy glow. Service is from a woman of "un certain age" who may or may not be one of the owners. She enthusiastically refills water glasses and makes sure everything is good.
The moment you sit down, you are presented with a plate of dill pickles, and a platter with a bowl of kalamata olives, one of taramasalata and one of cottage cheese, oddly enough. Also an enormous basket of hot, crusty, buttery garlic bread. Ignore the small crunchy bread-bits on the bottom of the basket. I'm not sure what they are, but they are poor cousins to the yummy garlic bread. Order steak. I can't imagine having anything else here. It feels like it's the 1950s up here, so you may as well eat like it. The starter salad testifies to this: iceberg lettuce, a few chunks of tomato and cucumber, all in a nice, classic dressing that is certainly not low fat.
The steaks arrive on wooden trays, done exactly right per our specifications, topped with sauteed mushrooms, although they call them "butter fried". Either way spells delicious. For a side, you get a baked potato. You can have butter, or sour cream and chives, or both. In this one instance, we leave out the butter.
House wine is very mediocre, but it's also very cheap.
It isn't a source of culinary masterpiece, but for your money, it's a fine sirloin. Nothing to complain about.

rating: * * * (thoroughly enjoyable)

Shucks to your martini list

Friday night and every bar on College Street was packed with hipsters. We found a table on a "heated" patio. The waitress handed us a menu and I was about to say that no one will be eating when I realized that it was, in fact, a lengthy list of fancy martinis.
In an act of outright rebellion, Chris V. and Craig R. decided to only order old-school drinks - ones that would never be found on any martini list. They started with some random choices: a Jager-bomb for Craig and a flaming sambuca for Chris. Note to anyone who has never had a flaming sambuca -- yes, you blow it out before you drink it, yes it tastes disgusting, and no, you should not try to relight it once it's in your mouth.
Next it was on to White Russians (vodka, kahlua, milk). The server said that kids and novice drinkers order white russians, because it's one of the few cocktails they know to order and they believe it will go down easy. I would like to refute this claim. I think it's an aquired taste, and would cite The Big Lebowski as clearly being no novice.
Now, by this time everyone was a little loosened up, and I think I can be forgiven for my peals of hysterical giggles when Craig, totally deadpan, ordered two Mint Juleps (muddle fresh mint with superfine sugar, add ice, pour in bourbon and stir). Shock followed when the waitress said "No." Indignation at being cut off from classic American cocktails was replaced by grateful surprise when she showed up with two of the minty southern drinks. Apparently, trendy bars all stock fresh mint so they can make mojitos.
I apologize to Craig and Chris for suggesting the following drink. I swear, I only mentioned it because it is so old fashioned and funny. I never thought you would order the Pink Lady (gin, milk and grenadine, garnished with a cherry). I suppose they were drunk enough not to be too repulsed by the frothy pink concoction when it arrived.
The evening was rounded out by some Classic Old-Fashioneds (muddle bitters with sugar, add ice, pour in bourbon and stir, garnish with orange and cherry).
Gentlemen, I applaud your staunch commitment to ignoring the martini list and challenging the bartender to get back to basics. I can only imagine what the insides of your brain felt like on Saturday morning.

Restaurant review: CocoLezzone

CocoLezzone on College Street

Any place that will happily entertain four boisterous ladies for four hours and still love us when we leave is okay by me.
The mood at this restaurant is very boudoir - all gilt mirrors and swags of crimson fabric. We made quick friends with the attractive waitstaff, and were treated accordingly for the duration of our visit.
The martini list looks like the same old offerings, but the drinks themselves were something special. A pomegranate martini was not too sweet and just boozy enough, while the "Sex and the City" was appropriately bubbly and pink: a cosmo-plus.
Pretty good winelist - a nice spread of by-the-glass selections. I question the wisdom of having a $600 bottle on the same page as a $45 bottle and the $8 glass, though. I mean, either this is a place you shell out for exquisite, expensive wine -- or it isn't. Frankly nothing other than "You have twenty-four hours to live, go!" would make me ante up that much for vino, but if you were so inclined, I don't think that this would be the place.
For an appetizer, there is no question that you should order the antipasto platter. It is an impressively arranged assortment of grilled seafood, grilled vegetables, beef carpaccio, smoked salmon, big chunks of shaved parmesan and a crusted goat cheese round that made someone squeal with joy. It fed all four of us no problem. The grilled vegetables were raw when we got them, but the restaurant quickly remedied that and brought us a whole other plateful. Big pieces of tender calamari and huge juicy shrimp inspired one diner to continue the meal with more excellent grilled seafood. The rest of us went for pasta. Everything was flavourful and hearty, nothing mind-blowing.
Prices reflected College Street trendster inflation, so not the best value for money, but all was forgiven when a huge plate of exotic fruits arrived at our table courtesy of the house. All in all, highly enjoyable. I would recommend to friends as a place to start a night out, and for cozy dates.

Subway Anecdote

Because of my commitment to morning gym/lunchtime Pilates/afterwork yoga, I am finding myself unduly burdened with an assortment of bags on my daily commute. I'm on the waiting list for a permanent locker at the gym in order to lighten the load a bit, but until then I've got the supplies to change into any one of a number of fitness-themed outfits at any given time.
This morning, when I got on the subway, it was with a purse across my body, tote bag over my arm, and coffee mug in hand. Lucky for me I got a seat and wedged myself into it. Then I started scrabbling through my purse to find my lovely little iPod nano, which lovingly insulates me from the teeming throng of commuters. As I pulled it out of an inner pocket, something else small and white came along with it -- a tampon that immediately flew out of my hand and onto the floor at my feet. I reached forward to grab it just as the subway lurched and it rolled away from my outstretched fingers. Off it rolled between the legs of someone standing in the middle of the car, before coming to rest against the pointy-toed shoes of the lady in the seat across from me. Since I was stuck under purse and tote, with coffee mug grasped between my knees, I figured I'd let it go. It was a crowded subway, the lady now sitting right next to the little tampon probably hadn't even seen it arrive. It had become litter. Oops, but oh well. But noooo... the young guy sitting in the seat next to mine chivalrously jumps up and goes and picks it up and hands it back to me. There was a split second, when he was half-way back to his seat, errant tampon in hand, that he sort of turned it over and looked at it and maybe, just maybe, realized what it was. That's when I blushed. Yup, I've got no problem with chucking random tampons around a rush-hour subway, but when some unsuspecting gentleman picks it up for me... it all just felt a little too intimate.

Restaurant review: Opus

Opus on Prince Arthur

It is wonderful when something lives up to its hype. Too often, a much-lauded restaurant falls short, relying on atmosphere (read: attitude) to prop up just-decent fare and justify overpricing. Opus, however, does not disappoint.
We were fortunate to go with a "regular", and so were greeted warmly at the door by one of the owners. Drinks by the bar were ice-cold, generously sized, and perfectly mixed lychee martinis garnished with two whole lychees, and we knew already we were in for a treat.
The restaurant itself is a study of understated glamour. If Julia Roberts were European, and a restaurant, she might be Opus. Deep grey walls, comfy leather chairs and flatteringly subdued lighting made it feel intimate even though it was a crowded Saturday night. Clientele are mainly established upper-crust types. Younger diners are likely stockbrokers or heiresses. A trip to the bathroom means you get to peek through a glass wall that displays a fraction of a most impressive, multi-million dollar wine cellar. The cool air smells of cork and money.
The wine list is novel thick. I demured from even flipping through it, afraid of being overwhelmed by my own ignorance in discerning between options, and by the surely shocking prices. We ended up drinking something Portuguese and delicious.
Then there was dinner. The menu offers a variety of dishes, each one packed with a laundry-list of flavours that had me wondering, "is that possible?" When the food arrives though, it is deceptively simple and the flavours are wholly integrated. For starters, a dish of sauteed wild mushrooms was a delight of different tastes and textures. Seared foie gras on maple-glazed apple slices is enough alone to make me go back for more - the rich smoothness of the foie gras contrasted perfectly with the slightly crisp and tart apples. For mains, both blackened cod and prociutto-wrapped Atlantic salmon were cooked perfectly and very flavourful. The cod was deliciously creamy and set off nicely by the wasabi-infused potato risotto it came on. If I were looking for fault, the closest thing I could say was that the potato cubes were al dente on the verge of undercooked. That being said, I happily ate them anyway.
Dessert offered a luxurious creme brulee delicately flavoured with real vanilla bean and topped by lots of sugary crust. A scattering of fresh berries completed it -- the adorning biscotti pushed the indulgence to overkill, but it was nice to dunk into an exquisite cappuccino. Apple fritters that proved to be so much more than doughnuts, served with a rich toffee sauce, elicited near-childlike glee.
The final impressive touch was the thoughtfulness of the proprietor of rewarding loyalty by sending over an after-dinner glass of port.
We're saving our pennies and anxiously awaiting a special occasion so that we have a reason to go back.

rating: * * * * (pretty much perfect)


After dinner, we trotted down to Hart House for the midnight finale show of the Canadian premiere run of "Reefer Madness" (the musical). The energy in the audience and onstage was great - it was certainly an enthusiastic performance. Highlights included the solo done by the sold-for-weed-money baby, and any appearance by Jesus and his gold-bikini-clad angels.

It's quiet in here... too quiet.

There are a few unusual things about my new office. The first thing I noticed was that, on the bus station platform and even at the bus stop outside the office, the people in this part of the city stand in tidy line-ups while waiting for the bus, and then board in order. The buses are fairly packed at rush hour and these queues make for some funny use of space -- People snaking all over the place. I like to freak everybody out by standing randomly somewhere and then watch them get all tense when I board the bus out of "turn".
My main concern these days, though, is the oppressive silence of my office. Yes, we are all attentively reading. That's our job and it is easier to do when there are no noisy distractions. But there's something eerie about coming in to work and it's quiet. Leaving and it's quiet. Nibbling my lunch in slow mouthfuls because for sure everyone can hear me crunching. The girl right next to me whispers into the phone to her fiance, because, yup, I can hear every word. The most noise comes from the whirring HVAC system, which kindly provides our office with constant near-Arctic temperatures. And my keyboard. It's the clackiest. All my surrounding cubicle-buddies must be wondering what the heck I'm typing (uh, that would be lengthy personal emails and my BLOG, duh) since I have no need for so much clackity-clacking while doing actual work (a comma here, delete an extra space there).
Possibly as a result from the overwhelming lack of noise, my coworkers have a kind of stunned, fearful expression whenever I talk to them. Like little nocturnal animals blinking in the glaring sunlight. I've tried to be really friendly - we all know that I would be perfectly capable of slouching in to work and home again without any human contact and I'd be just fine (I've done it before, and I still hate you, data-enterers at the WSIB) - but I really wanted to have a positive working environment. It's just hard because when you say hi or socialize with anyone, the entire office is unofficially part of the conversation. I joined the lunchtime Pilates group. Pilates is a really great way to bond with coworkers because you get to a) see them in their underwear in the changeroom and b) see them "rolling like a ball". I joined the Tuesday afterwork yoga class (Fitness Tip of the Day: Thong underwear and yoga make poor partners. Sure, it gets you all in touch with your mula bandha, but Child's Pose is supposed to be restful, not a little bit naughty!) Still, when I see my coworkers darting between their cubicles and the elevator, or in the kitchen, everyone seems a little shy. It's making me shy. I wonder if it's because everyone is feeling two-dimensional from staring so intently at a computer screen all day. Or if everyone is a little ashamed because of the content we've been reading. There's an alarming thought: it isn't stunned shyness, it's flushed excitement being repressed!
Where all this is headed is that I was responsible for a rather alarming break in the silence the other day, and since I can't confess it to my stunned and/or repressed coworkers, it's coming out here. Mid-afternoon, I decided I would just quietly let one slip out, but instead let out a big sharp bark of a fart. I waited in the ensuing total silence for some kind of a reaction. None came. Now, I react to farts (or "biffs" as we charmingly called them in my house when I was wee) like a 9-year-old boy. Hilarious! In fact, I'm giggling (silently) again as I write this. So - was it mistaken for a drawer squeaking closed, or an unusually creaky chair? Or was everyone sitting silently in their cubicles wondering WHO DARED?!? How's that for a noisy distraction?

Modern Vocabulary

We need a word that expresses the instances where a song randomly playing on your personal MP3 device is strangely and coincidentally appropriate to the situation you are currently in. For instance, one of my first days at work here at the Romance Factory, I walked up the front steps to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs crooning: "There is no modern romance." Or a couple of weeks ago, on one of the first noticeably crisp and cool fall days, I arrived to Travis' "Luv", which contains the elegant lyrics:
The summer didn't bother getting up this morning
So all the trees forgot to wake
Dropping all their leaves on the ground below them.
And today I rolled in to The Darkness declaring: "I believe in a thing called love!" Sure, a disproportionately large number of songs are about love, so I have a higher-than-average chance of encountering such world/music alignments, but I'd still like a word for it.

I suggest:

SERENDiPODIPITY : The phenomenon of a random but agreeable song played by a personal music device that coincides with the listener's current mood and/or situation.

Hockey is so Awesome

That's me, Number 7!

I love hockey. This continues to surprise me, considering that I hardly ever watch it on TV, and I've never really been one for team sports or anything that I wasn't immediately good at. Nevertheless, I have come to crave the feelings associated with hockey: Cold air rushing into your heated lungs, the echoing vastness of the arena, mouth tasting like iron from the exertion of skating full-bore down the ice. Once a week is not enough. I've gotta get some game on!

Romance Plagiarism Project #1

http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/09/romance-plagiarism-project.html


Anita spun around at the sound of a powerful motor pulling into her driveway. The air left her lungs in a rush when she saw it was Bryce's pick-up truck. She nearly dropped the trowel in her hand. Determinedly, she turned her back and focused again on the flower bed she'd been working on. She heard the truck door slam, and could picture perfectly in her mind Bryce's athletic body, nerve-taut, climbing out of the truck and striding across the lawn. From the glimpse she'd caught of him earlier that day, she knew he was looking handsome in chino pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a muted pattern of seashells. She dug fervently at the moist earth in front of her.
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear in this town," a husky voice said from behind her. She whirled around and fixed him with her frostiest glare. "I only believe things I've got proof of!" She declared, raising her chin in defiance.
Her eyes ran over his rugged countenance, taking in every familiar feature. She had stared at Bryce so many times before. It hurt her to confront him about this.
"I know that you're in love with Tammy," she choked out. He stepped back suddenly, heavily, realization hitting him like a gale-force wind. Could this really be the source of her ill-temper over the past few days? He ran a rough hand over his stubbled chin, and through his dark, unruly locks. His nose crinkled in dismay.
Staring down at the upturned earth all around Anita's feet, he finally managed to say, "Tammy was my dog. If you overheard my conversation at the post office the other day, you must have missed the beginning... I loved that dog like no other companion. I'd never even felt that depth of emotion before. That is...until I met you. You opened up a whole new world to me." He looked up. His gaze met hers and time stilled.
Anita's mouth hung open in shock. She was overwhelmed, amazed, uncomprehending. Her anger vanished immediately as she realized how mistaken she'd been about Bryce's true nature. All this time, she'd thought he was holding back because he was involved with some other woman. Now she understood, as relief washed over her, that the emotionally-wounded man needed to be taught how to love again.
She stepped closer to him. Her internal temperature had skyrocketed.
"I'm sorry, Bryce," she said softly. "I never would have been so cruel to you if I'd known that." Her voice was like a spring breeze, fresh and warm, and the first truly comforting balm to his wounded ego. "But still," she continued, "who were those flowers for? The ones I saw you carrying down Main Street?"
He narrowed his eyes and peered at her. "You," he said simply. "The flowers were for you. But I'm a coward and I never brought them over."
With that he came right up to her, took the gardening tool she was still holding out of her hand, and gently held her delicate hand in his coarse one. She tilted her head to gaze up at him.
"I'm through being afraid," he murmured, his lips almost brushing hers. A low moan escaped her throat as their lips met. He probed the line of her mouth with his tongue until she opened to him. She felt so much hope and promise in his kiss, mirroring her own desires. As they slowly collapsed onto the lawn, his mouth devoured hers, releasing their pent-up emotions in a blinding, mind-numbing blending of mouths, hearts and passions.
This was madness! She'd been furious with him only a few moments ago, and now here they were locked together, rolling around in her front garden. She was brought out of the moment for a second as she thought with regret that her award-winning peonies would be crushed. Madness! But with him, now, tonight, madness was what she wanted. Her senses were finally alive, botany be damned!
The soft earth beneath her was cool and damp. She could feel the slightly gritty texture of the dirt rubbing the backs of her arms and legs. Then, as he caressed her, gently at first but then with growing ardor, she could feel only him and his touches. The outside world ceased to exist and there was only the two of them, touching. She anticipated no less from him than this total annihilation of her senses.

The Romance Plagiarism Project

Ripped from the Pages of Real Romance!

So many words. So little plot.
In my new job, I am being exposed to uses of the English language that I do not ordinarily encounter. After a few too many over-the-top similies and some overwrought exposition, I started writing down outstanding examples of this oh-so-specific form of fiction: the romance. Inspired, I have decided that as an exercise, and also maybe in order to understand the minds of the authors whose work I am nit-picking, I will take the weekly collection of these quotes and use them to construct my own brief excerpt from a non-existent romance novel. I will do my very best to adhere to the overall style found in this genre. The challenge will be to create something around the selected quotes, which by the end of a week will be an amalgamation from multiple books and authors, and successfully incorporate them into a story segment. Phrases highlighted in purple are word-for-word stolen from actual manuscripts that are being published. Phrases in blue are cliches or expressions that come up time and time again, regardless of author or book. Further, if the punctuation between sentences is also highlighted, then the whole segment came together. If it is black, then they are two parts that I have forced together. The rest is all me, and my fervent, overactive imagination.

Update from the Pink Cubicle

A few developments at work. On day three, I arrived to find that I already have an engraved nameplate on the outside of my cubicle. I have arrived!
It is freezing cold in my office, so after a few days of shivering and drinking endless cups of hot coffee and tea, I came equipped with a big fuzzy hoodie to wear. The girl in the cubicle to my left brings a blankie. I am preparing a survival kit for next week.
I have also come down with a cold. It's a really bad one. I was all bummed out because I didn't want to be the new-girl-with-the-snotty-nose (no one wants to shake *her* hand hello!) but then I discovered that *everyone* gets a bad cold the first week they start here. It's like initiation. Maybe they need to wear down your immune system in order to make you more emotionally susceptible to the mush you'll be reading. You're all vulnerable, wrapped in your blankie, sniffling, and then suddenly the lovestruck heroine seems so much more relatable. Hey! These books are GOOD!

Regular Job Girl: Day One

I woke up early this morning after a restless night of waiting for the alarm to go off. Got all ready in a nice outfit. Then, my Sugar Daddy walked me to the subway. I'm Metropass girl now. Off I went, to work at a regular job, for the first time in my life. That's right, we figured it out last night. This is the first time that I've held a position that will go on indefinitely. I've certainly worked before - freelancing long hours, three jobs at once in different parts of the city, each requiring different uniforms, and temp jobs that stretched out for six soul-destroying months - but this is the first one where I am, ostensibly, in it for keeps.
The company seems pretty nice. Everyone was friendly when introduced, and I got a little welcome baggie with cinnamon hearts, a mug with a heart on it, a bookmark with roses all over it, and more romance novels. I am given the impression that it is permanent Valentine's Day here. I apologize to the world at large if I start wearing only shades of red and pink in the upcoming months.
I have a cubicle. It's my very own. I'm pretty pleased with its location and square footage and am planning a major redecoration soon. I also have a security passcard that I have to swipe in the elevator and at doorways. It makes me feel really official, and also like I belong. I plan on bling-ing it up and getting a fancy lanyard for it.
So far, three of my coworkers have tried to make me eat cookies. I resisted. If I'm going to be sitting down all day, the last thing I need is any help getting an expanded office-worker ass. There isn't a whole lot in the neighbourhood of the office - pretty grim prospects for lunchtime wandering. I expect to be eating at my desk a lot, and also expect to be posting more regularly as a result. Hopefully things will be interesting enough to keep writing about, otherwise I'll just disappear into the pink sound-absorbing walls of my cubicle.
Received some training from various departments. I'm learning to use a Mac for this job, and I may be falling in love a little bit. Such a streamlined, intuitive interface...what can I say? Also was trained to use the voicemail. I have to change my outgoing message every day, although I cannot imagine why anyone would call me, or that two people would call me at once so someone would get my voicemail. I'm a proofreader. I just don't see getting the urgent calls about the typo on page 187. But anyway...
We were going over "house style" prior to me plunging into my first book - which by the title I had hoped was about cowboys, but it turns out it's about single parents in a small town - and I asked just how picky I was allowed/supposed to be. My supervisor lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorily. "It's not high literature we're making here," she confessed.
I was exhausted shortly after lunch. Probably as a result of getting up earlier than I have in months and months. I was sad when I realized I couldn't nap. I'm sure I'll find a way in the upcoming days and weeks, but I figured it was my first day and maybe should try to at least stay awake for the duration.
Home-time rolled around and I hopped back on the bus. Funny how I didn't feel like reading on the way home.

Final BodyCombat

If there is beauty to be found in violence, I find it at the gym, in my BodyCombat class.
Okay, so it's basically an updated boxercise with a silly name, but I still love it. I have a non-sexual girl crush on the instructor, who is this tall red-headed Amazonian. I think the basis of my crush is that I would like to BE her. I really appreciate that she doesn't hoot and holler like other gym instructors; There's no "You can do it" or "Yeah! Let's go!" in her class, it's more: "I'm sorry Officer, I don't know what happened, I'm just a girl," and, "If you should ever have to use this in real life, remember that the power comes from your butt!" in her commentary. I practiced Karate for a few years, and have done other combatative sports, like fencing, and sometimes a girl just has to get her violence on. The class gives me my "punch him in the face" fix.
What I love the most about it is all the women. Sure, I get irritated at the flailers and the space invaders (I won't get into this too much, or it will become a post about how much I hate them, but there are some people who have absolutely no sense of space and their own bodies moving through it. Maybe it's from my early years of ballet, or that karate, but I know where my starting spot on the floor is, and I always get back to it. I do not drift forwards, backwards, or sideways after kicking or shuffling. Further, while a flailing limb would certainly hurt your target if you actually managed to make contact, it just doesn't have the same conviction, and it certainly doesn't look as cool, as a properly controlled uppercut or hook. Sorry ladies, but pull it together! And enough with the bouncing. She said "cross-jack", not "crazy aerobic dance step". You look like a fool. Go to BodyJam.) but I have faith that in time and with training, these women will also become tough fighters.
Sometimes I imagine that this is a little army being trained. Not that I think any of us should use our BodyCombat moves in the real world. That would be disastrous and ridiculous. However, I do think that all women should learn a real, practical self-defense martial art, like Wen-Do. Because the training is good for women: everyone gains a measure of self-confidence when learning how to roundhouse kick, and it is great to see. There's one move in the current choreography where everyone pretends to be repeatedly punching their opponent in the head. After the opponent has been roundhouse-kicked to the ground. This is a cathartic moment for most, and I thoroughly enjoy watching the diverse group of women of all ages and all backgrounds letting loose and wailing on the invisible soon-to-be-dead dude on the ground. Maybe it's wrong, but I always imagine that the opponent is male (unless one of the flailers is standing right in front of me, then the opponent is her). In fact, I worry a little for the few men that come to the class, like one day we might all turn on one of them and bouncily beat the crap out of him.
Now, as the sweat dries from my last Friday-lunchtime kick-your-own-ass workout, I'm feeling a little nostalgic; I'm all regular-job-girl now, and I can no longer make it to the class. So long, BodyCombat. I'm going to have to get my violence on somewhere else. Fellow subway riders, beware.

The Internet is Cool

Call me a late bloomer, but I've just discovered the joys of Craig's List. Sure, I'm all down with eBay, since it's just a new form of shopping, and shopping comes very easily to me, but this whole "act local" aspect of Craig's List is so refreshing! And posting is free!
I put up a post today advertising that I had a big stack of bridal magazines to get rid of -- I couldn't bear to throw them out, they represented a substantial investment of time and money -- and within an hour I had three responses. I gave them to the first girl who emailed me, who turned up tonight and took them off my hands. Re-using and recycling at its best.

Confessions of a Panty Pack-Rat

In the spirit of extreme self-divulgence, I have a confession to make. On a recent household purge, I had to admit to myself that I own way too many pairs of underpants. I could go three months without doing laundry, and still have a clean pair to wear on the first of the fourth month. When I travel, I take probably twice as much as I need. Weekend out of town? I've got 8 pairs with me. I mean, what if there's an emergency like you fall in a river, or you meet Will Ferrell and he makes you laugh so hard that you pee yourself and then you need a clean pair of underpants?!? What if you get into an accident and there's a cute doctor and before he cuts your jeans off, you have a chance to change into cuter panties? At border crossings, I'm always a little worried about them going through my luggage. "Like what are you, lady? Some kind of weird panty smuggler?"
But I can't get rid of any of them. I take really good care of all my clothing, underwear included, and so even older ones are in good shape (I'm not like some gross boy, with a disintegrating string that barely covers my balls hanging from a worn-out elastic -- my barely-there elastic and string is intentional, and well-looked after). I've just managed to accrue way too much. There's the fact that I can't visit the UK without visiting Marks & Spencer and picking up a 5-pack. Or two. (They're such good quality!) Also, whenever I've ordered from Victoria's Secret, I can't help but throw in an order for a few more of those comfy "Pink" ones. Then there's the "specialty" pairs - ones that came in a matching set with a cami or bra. And don't even get me started on the stuff I managed to acquire from my bachelorette party.
As a solution, I have decided to embrace the fall fashion trend of layering. I'm envisioning solid coloured thongs under meshy briefs, or lace boyshorts over patterned bikinis, or for a sportier American Apparel type thing, two of the same pair in different colours arranged just so. Don't think of it as wearing two pairs of underwear; That's weird, in a my-uptight-Granny kind of way. Think of it as resource management. Wait a second... Now I'm going to need about 16 pairs for the long weekend. I hope La Senza is still open.

Gainfully employed!

It's time to sharpen up my pencils and buy a new pair of sensible shoes. As of September 5th, I will be starting my new job as a proofreader for a major publisher of women's fiction. That's right: torn bodices, feisty virgins, and throbbing manhoods here I come!
I am already vividly imagining what my life will be like when I have a regular schedule and a regular income. I will get up early and go to the gym, instead of rolling in around Ten. There will be urgency and motivation as I get dressed in the morning - and not in sweatpants, nooooo, in something suitable for an office.
By Four in the afternoon, I will have nearly completed a full day's productive work, not be slouching around the apartment feeling guilty that I haven't done the laundry/cleaned the sink/written a poem that will change people's lives/done a painting that will reveal my true artistic genius. My regular paycheck will allow me to make personal purchases of things other than food, and pay off my credit cards in full every month in a manner that will please my fiscally responsible husband. Life with a real job is going to be great!

Miss Camps-A-Lot

Or, Why I Love Camping Even Though It Makes You Dirty And Exhausted.

As I recover from last weekend's car-camping eat-a-thon, and frantically try to plan a Labour Day Weekend canoe getaway, I pause for a moment to consider just what it is about camping that I enjoy so much. I've had a big summer for camping: Four trips, which is about three more than I usually manage to do. I had never thought to question my motivation before, as the joys seemed so self-evident. However, it was brought to light recently that not everyone really ENJOYS the camping, so much as endures it.
It started in Junior High, because my parents certainly didn't take the family camping when we were kids. No, my mother was the B&B and a play in Stratford type. I think her Honeymoon camping in Scotland pretty much did her in for wilderness adventures.
So, Junior High, and our tiny alternative school did a yearly trip to some provincial park. Despite the stresses of splitting up into three-or-four person groups to camp, (who likes me enough to be in my group?!) it was always a much-anticipated event. There was no drinking, an activity that became closely related to camping in later years, but we were a bunch of pre-teens far far away from our parent's watchful eyes, with essentially no rules beyond our day's planned activities, and no curfew as long as you could exit your tent quietly and avoid the patrolling teacher's flashlight. I hooked up with my first little boyfriend on one of those trips. Sure, it only lasted 27 hours, but it was a milestone event. We had to be fairly independent on those trips, even cooking our own meals. I had no problems there. It tested friendships: I fought with the girls in my group over who would sleep on the crack between the air-mattresses (we ended up taking turns - after the first night we realized that although you might end up partially on the ground, it was also the coziest spot and totally safe from the possibly rainy edges of the tent) and I lost my temper when one of them freaked out that she'd got dirt on her designer jeans (um...what part of camping did you not get?). But man, those trips seemed to take up more of the school year than anything else.
It was also on these trips that I became close personal friends with Her Majesty - the ancient tent that my father provided for us. This tent. How do I begin? Her Majesty is a canvas tent in a zesty pumpkin colour. Her Majesty has enormous metal poles whose elastic bits have long since rotted, and thus have to be carefully assembled by hand. They are almost too heavy for a 12-year-old to handle, never mind that the canvas itself weighs a ton. Her Majesty has to be erected in a manner just so; any deviation from the instructions -- given to me verbally by my father on a test-run setup in the back yard -- will result in leakage and probable collapse. Once you've got the tent proper up, you have to repeat the entire process with a fly. The guylines were a minefield of tripping hazards surrounding the tent. Maybe it was the inherent danger of Her Majesty that made me love her so. Once, my family loaned this tent to some friends -- Israelis: hardy, resourceful people -- and they were completely done in by Her Majesty. They came back from their Canadian wilderness adventure declaring that you would need Abdul the Tentmaker to help you set up that monstrosity. I don't think they've been camping since. Let me just say, after years with the big orange beast, Abdul ain't got nothing on me.
Throughout high school, my friends and I would take off for camping on long weekends. These were opportunities to escape, bond, drink and meet the locals. It would be the core group of just-us-girls, with the rotating guys in our lives moving in and out for the different trips. I have a scrapbook dedicated almost entirely to these either sun-and-sambuca or cold-and-whiskey drenched excursions. I'd post some pictures, but you know, none of us were at our best in those years. It was so great to not care what you looked like for a whole weekend, and to know that the friends you were with were not only in the same boat, but liked you that way.
Her Majesty never made an outing during high school -- too many other people had modern, nylon and plastic tents for us to have to bother with Her. Still, she had a revival later: I took Her Majesty on one particularly enterprising excursion involving a bus, a taxi, Penetanguishine, and a potentially dangerous pickup truck drive-by, where Jessica and I hid inside Her and waited for the threat to pass. And again on an autumn trip where, in the heavy, warm confines of Her canvassy protection, I told my future husband for the first time that I loved him.
The new tent that is now "our" tent was a gift from said future husband. I don't remember if he gave it to me before or after the accident that caused me to miss the yearly Labour Day Weekend canoe trip and be bedridden for a month, but I do know that having it in the corner of my bedroom while my bones and bruises healed was a great comfort.
So do I love camping because I am sentimentally attached to my gear? That might be part of it, only in the way that when you go camping you have to be a pared-down, basic version of yourself and your worldly stuff. It is definitely more than "getting back to nature". Nature, as such, is readily available on a day trip walk in the woods. Getting out into the back country is more about getting back to your nature. It can be revelatory, to realize how capable you are. It can be inspiring to suffer through and survive a wilderness-inspired hardship. More than anything, it is humbling to suddenly find yourself as a smaller part of the larger scheme of things. In a city, which is totally by-and-for humans, you can never get the sense of the world as it actually is: a living, changing, enormous world where we are barely managing to scrape by.
And yeah, I like being dirty and exhausted. It feels good. Bring it on.

Feel the Condo lovin'

This year's Condo BBQ was the other night - and I was ready. I prepared a tray of lemon-lime squares, because my cookbook assured me that it was an inter-generational favorite, and since generations far removed from mine are heartily represented in this building, I figured they'd be a hit. I put on my preppiest outfit and rosied up my cheeks.
Off we went!
The squares were well-received.
I knocked back a plastic cup of wine-in-a-box (J asked before he poured: "Do you want, er, Purple or Blue?") and wolfed down a gross chicken burger. J tried to be chatty. I hung on. We met a clarinet-playing computer programmer from two floors up. See you at next year's BBQ, buddy. Here's the biggest news: We're now on couples-first-name basis with the electric-blue jogging suit couple. Shouts out to Ian n' Nancy! You're such freaks for getting up at 4:45 every morning! That's right, I think you're freaky! Can't wait to run into you again some morning. This time I can say hi properly.
Burgers done, I transferred the squares onto a plastic plate and abandoned them. We had a whole bunch of episodes of Entourage that needed watching.

Vermont Yoga Retreat

It may be a fairly long way to go, but on a weekend as gorgeous as this past one was, Vermont is worth it. It is always an activity-filled trip; The first day we went for a big hike up the mountain. Even though it's August, up on the trail that morning, we could see our breath as we panted our way up to the pond that sits curiously near the top. Every inhalation was a delight of crisp mountain air, scented of earth and water from rainfall the night before.

Someone dropped their sofa cushion on the trail...

no wait, it's just a big ol' furry albino rodent.

Seriously though, little Jack did a really good job of keeping up with us.

The next day we went for a bicycle ride along the Rec path. I always forget the sheer joy of riding a bicycle and have promised myself to buy one just as soon as I have a regular income. Along the path we passed a local Farmer's Market. Naturally, I made straight for it. J and I shared a piece of blueberry cake made by a mom n' pop duo of farmer and baker that was so delicious that we both stopped walking and talking for the duration of eating it. Then we shared a glass of too-good-to-be-true homemade lemonade. It tasted the way you imagine lemonade tastes if you were to read about it in a story book. I love farmer's markets! We brought home to accompany dinner fresh local organic corn on the cob, and a triple-berry pie that weighed three pounds of fruit. God bless the United States!

All of this is very nice, but the very best thing about Vermont is the yoga teacher at one of the resorts in town: Regina. My first question on arriving is always: "Is Regina still teaching?" We went to three classes in four days. I would have gone to more if there'd been any. On weekends the class might get fairly full, but we were lucky - the most students any one class had was 6, and we had lots of one-on-one attention. Regina has been doing yoga for thirty years. She has the smooth unlined face and the calm aura of wellbeing of the well-practiced yogi. She is fairly stern when she teaches, but also joyful. She pushes you into postures you used to look at and inwardly say "yeah, right," and leads you into moments of pure revelation when everything clicks and suddenly you understand why you love yoga so much. She does things like stand on your toes when you're doing cobra, to push all your toes into the floor, but also because, surprisingly, it feels really really nice. She has healing hands. You want her to have tea with you so you can tell her all your problems and she can fix you.

On Monday, Regina took the class outside. I don't think that there is anything better for your health than doing yoga outdoors in Vermont. It is profound to stand in Tadasana (Mountain pose) while looking right at a mountain - feeling nothing above you, and the whole earth supporting you. So much better to look through your legs in Downward Dog at a gently swaying tree than at the bizarreness of your own face upside-down in a mirror! And is is absolutely invigorating to go through a series of warrior poses with the sun beating down on your skin, and the wind gusting warmly around you. Thank you, Regina, I'm feeling sooo good now.