My Celebrity Look-alikes

My cool celebrity look-alike. Basically, I just wanted everyone to see how fucking gorgeous I am. The Interweb says so, so it must be true.

The Next Generation

Friends of ours recently announced their pregnancy. Apparently, at three months, the fetus is the size of a lime. (NB: "fetus" is the pregnant-lady-approved term for their spawn. As opposed to "baby," as my grade-9 health class teacher liked to call the fertilized ovum.)

I am very much looking forward to my roll as Wicked Aunt, and to teaching the mini-person how to make a mean martini.

Florida!

I always assume that the United States of America is pretty much just like Canada, only with more people and more guns. But it really isn’t anything like Canada at all. I am drawn to America at the same time I am terrified of it. America is like the coolest girl in the junior-high cafeteria. Not the most popular, but the one who is most revered, who everyone recognizes, who laughs and swears the loudest. She’s already had her period, and already has real tits, while you’re still in a training bra that your mother quaintly calls a “camisole” and are pretty sure that by the time you get your period, it will be High School and no one will care anymore. You’ve also heard that America has already “done it” with a guy from the grade above yours, that guy who got kicked out of school for being such a bad-ass, or something. Europe is at least like an older sister. Maybe a half-sister from a previous marriage. Strange and sophisticated, wiser and more worldly, but all the while still recognizable. Not so, America. By the time you’ve scoured the mall for a pair of shoes almost but not exactly like hers, she’s already moved on to something else so extraordinary that you can only despair. There is no keeping up with America.
This is what occurred to me on the first day of our mini-holiday as we made our way through the bustle of the Ft. Lauderdale-Hollywood airport, really busy in contrast to the early morning departure from Toronto Pearson, and out onto the freeway. It’s not just the obvious difference in natural landscape that struck me, but the change in architecture scale, the urban landscape. Everything is bigger. By the time my Tim Horton’s coffee buzz had fully worn off, and we were cruising by the mansions of West Palm Beach, I was well and truly overwhelmed.
Then came dinner.
At home, I never ask for doggy bags. It quite simply doesn’t occur to me. Even if the portions are large, I am happy to just leave what I don’t eat. But down there, it seems like a natural reaction. There is frankly so much food served with every order, some kind of survival instinct kicks in (My god, there’s so much food left here. I could eat this all week. I should eat this all week. Wrap it up!). It makes me think of diet tips from American magazines, ones that tell you to eat only half your entrée and bring the rest home. Frankly, eating half is still eating too much. Eat one quarter. Eat leftovers for a week. America is the land of the doggy bag. One-third of the ads on television are for food; a Technicolor bounty flashing temptingly for thirty seconds. Another third of the ads are for diet and weight loss tools and programs. The remaining third are for medications. Indulgence, recovery from indulgence, and consequences of indulgence. Their national anthem should be that Madonna song from the movie Dick Tracy--remember it? “More!” Whenever I’m in the United States, I envision a line of chorus girls high-kicking around me, shouting, “More, more, more, more! Nothing’s better than moooooooooooore!”

Eating "famous" fish and chips at John G's. I'm holding a corn fritter.
Fried goodness. Pack up the extras and we'll eat 'em later!

We had fun on our Palm Beach eat-a-thon. J’s bubbie showed us the sights (including the mandatory trip to Target) cruising around in her enormous Cadillac. She also excitedly told me she’d bought wine, and we had a lovely cocktail hour every day. We ate at Johnny G’s, twice, a local and visitor favorite. On our last day, we got up early so we could walk along the beach to get breakfast there. The "famous" french toast was worth it. We ate it all, no doggy bag required.

I made a special quest for key lime pie.

Despite some crappy weather (“You brought the cold weather with you!” all the locals joked. Ha. Ha.) J and I still managed to lie on the beach (wrapped up in towels) and go in the ocean--twice. We’ve never paid much attention to you-must-be-crazy stares. Where would we be if we did? Certainly not doing yoga on the sand, or frolicking in the exciting waves. The ocean is great fun. I also find it scary; the way the water can so easily push you where it wants you to go. Even just standing at the edge of the water, the sand being sucked out from under my feet by the receding waves, I am reminded that the ocean is a powerfully different being from my familiar lakes.

The more I travel to warmer places, the more I long to live somewhere that is warm year-round. I can’t think of anything nicer than waking to sunshine, getting dressed with an ocean breeze blowing through the wide-open window, and never wearing my Sorels ever again.

Sunrise over the Atlantic

Morning walk on the last day, headed for breakfast with a view

Romance Plagiarism Project #3: A Love Forged in History

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

Geraldine walked slowly down the aisle. She was confused, and certain that she’d been down this particular row before. She sighed, glancing from the piece of paper in her hand to the painted gold numbers on the sign at the end of the row. No wonder that training to be a librarian in the massive university library took nearly six weeks; it was only her second day, and she was well and truly lost. The arcane filing system was unlike any she’d ever encountered, governed by some internal logic that one couldn’t intuit, but only learn by practice. George, the head librarian, had sent her on a mission for a specific title; part of the training, she’d been told. She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere back in Classics, since judging by the titles on the two-story-high shelves surrounding her, she was in History. Geraldine wasn’t even sure if she was in the right wing of the library anymore, the dark brown wood of the shelves and the deep slate gray of the stone floor looked the same throughout. Maybe if she could just get a better view, she thought, she could orient herself from the large golden chandelier that hung in the center of the building. She grabbed one of the rolling ladders that reached the upper shelves and slid it to the end of the aisle. Grateful for her sensible loafers, but ruing her choice of pencil skirt, she carefully climbed up and leaned out the end of the row. The library stacks stretched out for miles, it seemed, no feature distinguishing one from the other. The chandelier was nowhere to be seen.
Resigned to wandering the library at random, she cautiously started back down the ladder. Movement down the end of the aisle caught in the corner of her eye, and she stopped her descent as she turned to see a distinctly masculine presence moving through the shadows. He came towards her with the swiftness of an animal, like a stalking wolf, graceful as a gentleman should be. By the arrogant poise of his posture, and the way his broad shoulders strained at the confines of his tweed jacket, Geraldine had an inkling of who this might be.
Professor Donovan Kendall. The other girls who worked in library had joked with Geraldine on her first day, which had only been yesterday, she reminded herself, that if she was lucky she might run into him while alone in the stacks. She stared at him as he approached, captivated by his powerful stride and the way his muscular thighs glistened in his worn brown corduroy pants. Suddenly, he was right beneath her in the aisle, beside the ladder, and looking up, his eyes laid siege to hers. All she could think was that his eyes were fringed with absurdly long and curling black lashes. Her heart almost ceased to beat as she gazed down at his face with a passionate intensity, never having seen a face so fair or so perfect in every feature. His dark blue eyes peered at her with curiosity.
“Are you looking for a special book?” He asked, the low timber of his voice sending an alarming thrill down her spine.
She found she could hardly form words. She upbraided herself for reacting like a smitten schoolgirl, and pulled herself together enough to sputter out: “Biology.”
The corners of his full lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “This is History,” he said. “Early History of the British isles, to be precise.”
“Then I am lost,” she whispered.
“Well, why don’t you come down from there and I’ll set you on the right track,” he said.
Geraldine started to descend again, realizing as she did so that she had to turn her back to him in order to slowly slide each foot successively down the rungs. His presence felt like a hot coal at her back. She became intensely aware that in going down the ladder in her snug skirt, she had to stick out her backside, and that soon it would be level with his eyes. She tried to turn, to say something to distract him from the prominent view of her rear, but with her torso twisted at the awkward angle necessary for such an interaction, she missed her footing and started to slip down the ladder. A cry broke from her lips.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped her waist as she was caught midair. He slowly lowered her to the ground, and then turned her to face him, his hands still on her. Her senses reacted quickly to the touch, the feel of him. Her eyes took in every detail of his chiseled face. Her ears listened to her heart pounding in rhythm with his ragged breathing. She could feel every centimeter of his hands on her. Her nose took the scents of musk and male that wafted over her. Looking at his full lips, she longed to taste him.
But then the sensible, highly trained librarian part of Geraldine took over. She realized that a strange man, and one who she would be dealing with on a professional level for the foreseeable future, was holding her mere inches from his broad chest. She looked up to his face, prepared to ask him to please let her go, only to find his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers.
"You were looking for Biology?" Professor Donovan Kendall asked.
"Yes," Geraldine breathed heavily.
"Anything in particular?"
"Gordon…he wants me to find…" Geraldine's voice caught in her throat as she realized the title of the book she'd been sent to retrieve. She weakly waved the piece of paper. Professor Donovan Kendall reached out and snatched it from her grasp.
"'Mating Habits of the Titmouse'" he read.
Geraldine flushed, embarrassed to be caught in such an obvious prank. Gordon had seemed so earnest that she should complete this "mission." Geraldine tried to wrest herself free of Professor Donovan Kendall's strong embrace, ready to run off and lose herself anywhere in the library where she could live down her embarrassment alone. Instead, she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practiced ease of a born seducer. Geraldine gasped. Although somewhere deep within her a spark flickered and flared, setting her skin ablaze and filling her body with liquid fire, she felt she had to resist these physical impulses and think about her professional reputation; it would never do to get embroiled with Professor Donovan Kendall on only her second day! It did not occur to her that she was already falling under the spell of a practiced seducer, such men were beyond her realms of experience. She forcefully pulled back.
"Excuse me," she said. "We haven't even been introduced."
"Of course," Professor Donovan Kendall replied, "where are my manners? I am Professor Donovan Kendall. And you…you must be the new librarian."
"Geraldine," she said confidently, thrusting out her hand. Her small chin jutted courageously upwards and her flashing eyes met his. She thought she caught a glimpse of curiosity in his look, and maybe something more...
Professor Donovan Kendall griped her small hand in his. Even now, as she tried to reestablish a veneer of formality to the encounter, he was bombarding her with signals of powerful, vibrant sexuality that set her senses on fire. Never before had she wanted so badly to kiss a man and feel his body next to hers. Never before had she known with such certainty what a horrible mistake following those impulses would be.
Before she could continue her train of thought much further, Professor Donovan Kendall closed the small distance between them and laid his lips on hers. Stunned into complacency for a second, Geraldine experience a blur of pleasure. The moment she regained a modicum of her senses, she wrenched her lips free. Acting on pure instinct, she spun around and her hand came up to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrist before she landed the blow.
Her eyes were spitting venom from behind her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses as her mouth spat out: "How dare you!"
Professor Donovan Kendall just smiled faintly, then, pulling her by the wrist, he brought her back into his embrace. "Like this," he whispered, and planted another searing kiss on her lips. Her soft lips parted in disbelief, and he took the moment to slip his tongue in to taste her. A sweet, hungering ache filled her.


Professor Donovan Kendall had been standing by the main checkout desk, checking out the grad students, when he'd overheard two of the librarians talking. They were joking about the way George, the head librarian, had sent the newest addition to their team out to find a book that didn't exist, ostensibly located in the furthest reaches of the confusing and ancient library. If there was anything that Professor Donovan Kendall hated, it was a bully. It was all he could do to keep from venting his smoldering fury on George. Instead, he thought to himself, he would simply go find the wayward librarian. If anyone knew their way around the quietest, most secluded corners of the stacks, it was he. He was well practiced at rescuing lost girls around the premises.
While he had been wandering through the stacks, he thought he would take a detour through his area of expertise, Early History of the British Isles, in order to pick out a few texts on the Viking invasions. And there, as though fate itself had intervened, he had found the lost librarian. Perched high upon a rolling ladder, pencil skirt and oxford shirt hugging her generous curves, the sight of her infused passion into his blood and loins.
Then, when she had almost fallen, causing him to pluck her off the ladder like so much ripe fruit, the feel of her underneath his hands had made him positively feverish with desire. And then she’d looked up at him, and their eyes became locked in a mesmerizing web. The force of her personality blazed through her eyes. It leaped out at him like a warrior band of Highlanders brandishing swords. More than anything, he was drawn to what he’d seen burning in those blue orbs. This was no regular conquest.
Even though his rational mind told him to take it slow with this phenomenal creature, he hadn’t been able to resist kissing her. He hoped that she wouldn’t resist him, either. He thought he looked quite dandy with his mustache freshly waxed and his hair shining like a wet beaver. His physical charms had always worked in the past. But instead of dissolving fully into the kiss, the way he’d felt her begun to, she’d retreated and tried to slap him. Now, deep in the thrall of their second intense kiss, he felt her–Geraldine, she’d said her name was—start to melt and kiss him back. He plunged his hands into the curly mane of her chestnut hair, pressing her even closer to him, plundering her mouth with his. His hands wandered down her back, feeling the curve of her spine as she leaned into him, the roundness of the cheeks of her behind, and then his hands strayed up the front of her soft cotton shirt and the sought fullness of her breasts. At the same time, her small hands were exploring the solid contours of his arms and chest, her soft hands delighting in the rough textures of his tweed coat, the smooth suede patches on the elbows, the ridges of his corduroy pants. There was no denying their mutual attraction, as rapidly though it may have overcome them. But he could sense her reluctance, a reserve. As though she were protecting her heart the way her eyes were protected by those tortoiseshell glasses. With a shuddering sigh, he ended the kiss, and sought her eyes with his. Her whole heart and soul seemed to scream at him through those eyes, which gazed hard into his, but he felt no weakening. How could he convince her that this was no chance meeting? That greater forces were at play? All the certificates and credentials in his office were useless in figuring out how to navigate this. Because out of all his library-stack conquests, he suddenly held a hope that Geraldine would be the one that would last.
“Geraldine,” he whispered softly, “I…I think…”
And now he was afraid. Afraid of the flood of emotions welling up inside him. As much as he wanted to touch her, hold her and make love to her, he was afraid. More afraid than when he’d had a dozen rifles pointed at his chest in a jungle in Africa.
"Don't." She lifted her hand to his lips, shook her head and then hurried away. He let her go. His heart was pounding the chant that he should stop her. Yet his mind was listing alphabetically the reasons why the hope in his heart wouldn't work.

Workplace Hazards

I used to work in an industry that could have been considered, at times, dangerous. Locations included filthy back alleys in Chinatown, filthy abandoned factories in Hamilton, active construction sites, roads with live traffic, and one particularly memorable biodegrading house that should have been condemned (Rumour had it that it was condemned and we were there anyway). Long hours meant sleep-deprived clumsiness and carelessness was high. Heavy equipment all around, and safety usually being monitored by a guy who would look at home operating the Tilt-A-Whirl in the parking-lot fun fair of your local strip mall, or begging for change outside the LCBO (In fact, I once mistook a fellow film crewmember for a homeless person. It was a shock. I was all, "Why does that homeless dude strolling down Jarvis at 5:30 a.m. look soooo familiar? Oh -- I've worked with him! We've, like, had lunch together.") And yet, in all this unmonitored, heavily equipped, trip-overable-cableness, I only ever had one head-bumping that, although embarrassing and mildly painful, I believe endeared me to my crew more than anything else.
In addition, I worked in a butcher shop every Saturday for nearly seven years, and never once, NEVER, cut myself on any of the wicked sharp knives, even when I had to catch one as it fell off the chopping board (letting one of those finely-honed knives fall on the ground is a bad, bad thing). Sure, there was one painful incident involving a pointy lamb bone, but otherwise I remained unscathed.
It would seem that my unsafe-workplace-safety record is now upended by a seemingly innocuous source that makes me afraid to pick up my next manuscript. Papercuts. Dratted annoying, painful, slow-to-heal, and easy-to-get papercuts. On my fingers, my palm, my wrist, the back of my hand. I can't wait to see where I manage to get my next one. I now handle manuscripts more carefully than any of the worth-the-price-of-a-beemer camera equipment I used to deal with.
All I have to say is: Ow.

Secret Pork Chop

For reasons that remain largely unexplained to me, I am not allowed to make pork chops for dinner for my husband. Lucky for me, he goes on business trips every once in a while and then I get to pull out a single, secretly stashed pork chop from the freezer. I have developed this easy recipe that brings me so much enjoyment I’d like to share it.

In a frying pan that has a lid, heat up 2 tsps olive oil over medium-high heat.
Add ½ small onion, finely chopped. Cook until soft and translucent.
Add 1 clove of garlic, minced, and cook a few more seconds.
Push the onion to the sides of the pan, and put in a single-loin center-cut boneless pork chop, about ¾ inch thick (aka half of a butterfly chop. I prefer these because they tend to be leaner than a bone-in chop, but you could use either.) Quickly brown both sides of the chop to sear in juices.
Throw in 1 red apple, chopped into chunks (can be a MacIntosh, or an empire, or anything really, I just don’t think that a Granny Smith would work).
Pour in some marsala wine -- enough to cover the bottom of the pan and go up the sides a bit.
Grind some fresh black pepper over all of it.
Put the lid on the pan, turn the heat down, and let it braise for a bit. Maybe seven minutes.
In the meantime, wash and prep a large handful of spinach. Stick the spinach into the pan, and turn over the chop. Let it braise a bit more. Check for doneness (pork chops can have a “hint of pink”). The apple chunks should be soft and coming apart, and the spinach should be all wilted but not overdone.
Dump the whole delicious mess onto a plate.
Serve with brown rice or texmati/wild rice, or baked or mashed sweet potato (If you cut a sweet potato into bite-size chunks, you can throw it into the pan along with the apple and cook it there, too).

Yum!