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.