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!

Birthday!

In protest of becoming another year older, I have decided instead to become an immortal creature of the night. Here I am, newly re-born, with my faithful man-whore:


I will accomplish this immortality by eating up Patrick...



and licking Jessica.

Restaurant Review: Lola's

Lola's Steak Bistro, 2070 Yonge Street (just south of Eglinton)


The signage out front says “Hot steaks and sexy wines,” and this place looked so cute that we just had to try it. Be glad we did, because now you won’t have to.
Inside the small bistro-inspired space, which is indeed cute and cozy, we were greeted by less-than-enthusiastic staff. The waiter was downright surly. The wine list was interesting but very small, considering they advertise wine as a prominent feature. Also, there were no glasses to be bought for under eleven dollars – simply too high for such selections as there were.
Service was very slow, inspiring other tables to abandon their main courses in favour of a movie showtime.
For starters, the daily tomato soup was quite nice, but the tomato-avocado-roquefort salad was strange and heavy, eaten out of hunger and not enjoyment. Steaks arrived improperly cooked, and the four-dollar-supplemental peppercorn sauce was cold. The daily special –a beef bourguignon made with fillet– was flavourful, but the meat was tough. Making fillet tough is an accomplished feat. The seasonal vegetables offered with every steak were neither seasonal nor vegetables: a whole, limp stem of bok choi and a grilled tomato. I thought I was out for dinner, not brunch. Mashed potatoes as a side were uninspired.
The desserts, set out on a table near the entrance, looked so unappetizing that we skipped them entirely.
This was one of those dining experiences that leaves you angry, imagining what you would have rather spent the money on.

Rating: * (Should have stayed home and cooked for myself.)

New Year

And it's uphill already.

We came home in the wee hours to discover the fire alarm ringing in the new year. Since the elevator wasn't working, we started our year with a brisk climb in a wind tunnel. Awesome.

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.