The Record is Now !2!- 3 - 1! Muahahahahahahahahah!

I WIN I WIN I WIN I WIN! And right now I am doing the "I Win!"-dance on the "I Win!"-stage in the theatre of "I Win and You Lose, BROTHER!"

Quick rundown - the Adjudicator and I were on serve well into the awards until at 10:24pm the award for Sound Mixing went to Ray and I was like "NOOOOOOOO!" Fortunately for me, the agony only lasted a minute, because at 10:25pm Salma Hayek sputtered that The Incredibles had just won for Sound Editing. And Hurrah! We were back on serve.

The kill, essentially, came when The Motorcycle Diaries won for Best Original Song - which, like who saw that one coming?? Not a problem for me. The Adjudicator had served up Song and chosen Phantom of the Opera. And I had snickered and shot back with Polar Express. Heh. And that's all it took because we were pretty much on the money for the rest of the night. In the end I got my pick of Jamie Foxx, Morgan Freeman, Cate Blanchett, Eternal Sunshine, and Clint Eastwood. While the Adjudicator only made off with Hilary Swank, Sideways, and Million Dollar Baby. So, just to repeat, in case you didn't know - I BEAT MY BROTHER AT THE ANNUAL OSCAR BET!

About the ceremony - Chris Rock was, uh, funny, I guess. I mean, it wasn't a car crash like Letterman, or a snoozefest like Whoopi. But I thought it would be markedly more funny than it actually ended up being. So I am, I suppose, "whelmed." And overall, the speeches in general were boring. But I think that's because producer Gil Cates had reduced this to such an undignified event with the whole drive-thru approach to awards shows. (And look at how much shorter it made the ceremony! Like, well done Gil.)

Best joke - it's a tie between the joke about handing out the Oscars next year in the parking lot (heh) and saying that Jeremy Irons was a comedic genius (double heh.)

Most Inappropriate Joke - referring to Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek as "the next four presenters." They have breasts. We get it. Eyes rolling and moving on now, please.

Best dressed - I liked Kate Winslet. I didn't think it was too bright. I thought it looked lovely on her. And Hilary Swank looked foxy too. (I mean, for such a mannish looking woman she did pretty well for herself.)

Worst dressed - Adam Duritz looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, and Orland Bloom looked like he belonged in an oil painting from the 1970s. (Jude Law could have pulled off the tight pants, but not Mr. Bloom.) Men, all you've got to do is put on a tux. It's not that hard! Really! For the women - Laura Linney with the trailer park hair and the mermaid frill thing, like, yuck, what on earth was that?

Most in need of a cookie - Renee Zellweger. EAT YOU ANEMIC WAIF! Please EAT!

Most in need of a haircut - Josh Groban. What is up with the curls in the face thing there? He looks like a much nerdier version of Justin Timberlake back in the early 'N Sync days (if such a thing is possible. Which, on second thought, I don't think it is.)

Oh and Prince was totally stoned.

And I won!

A Big Bundle of Grumpy-Lovin' Joy

The next generation of Grumpy's has arrived! I'm calling him Li'l Grumpy. Or Bam! Bam! Because baby is ENORMOUS - weighing in at 9lbs4oz. Of course, Bam! Bam! doesn't hold the record for largest baby in the family. Mr. Grumpy-pants still holds that record at a whopping-mother-torturing-collar-bone-crushing 9lbs8oz. So, the moniker Li'l Grumpy seems appropriate too. And Grumpy won't let me call him Bam! Bam! But I think it's cute. Who's with me?

Longer, schmaltzier essay is certain to follow once I have actually met the munchkin - which happens this weekend. YAY!

Love,

Aunt Nerds.

Not One of THOSE Women

Nerdifer: I had one of those moments last weekend.

Ejdl: One of those moments where you’re INVINCIBLE?

Nerdifer: No.

Ejdl: One of those moments that needs CHAMPAGNE?

Nerdifer: No.

Ejdl: Okay then, I’ll bite.

Nerdifer: I chomped down on my tongue accidentally. Took a huge chunk out of it. It still hurts like a bugger. And I had one of those moments when I’m reminded that I’m so not ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Ejdl: I don’t get it.

Nerdifer: You know, those women with the perfect nails?

Ejdl: Yes, perfectly manicured, looking shiny and perfect. Those women that always seem to carry hand lotion.

Nerdifer: Yes! Exactly. Not me.

Ejdl: Well, I carry hand cream. Sometimes.

Nerdifer: Shocked. I thought you were with me on this!

Ejdl: But, but, but… Sometimes my hands get dry!

Nerdifer: We had a deal. You are breaking the deal.

Ejdl: But my hands! They’re like lizard hands sometimes they’re so dry. And it’s only in the wintertime that I need the hand lotion. I don’t have it with me all the time.

Nerdifer: See, that makes it sort of worse, in my opinion. Because it means that you have the forethought to remove the hand cream from your purse when it is no longer a necessity. It’s still a sign that you are becoming ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Ejdl: Take it easy there. It’s not like I have those little bottles of Purell on me at all times!

Nerdifer: Phew. Or band-aids. You don’t carry band-aids with you at all times, do you?

Ejdl: No.

Nerdifer: Good.

Ejdl: Or those little blotting papers to reduce the shiny-ness of your skin.

Nerdifer: Yeah, those things are a total sham anyways. Hello? It will totally screw up your skin! Diffusion and osmosis, people. It’s a simple concept.

Ejdl: AND my shoes never match my purse.

Nerdifer: … Uh, I thought we removed that as a criteria for being ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Ejdl: Yes, I did. But only since you developed the shoe-purse fetish.

Nerdifer: But I can’t help it! They’re so cute!

Ejdl: See? See how magnanimous I am? I totally removed the criteria, just for you! I’m such a good friend.

Nerdifer: You are. But it’s not just me with the matching shoes and purse. You removed that criteria because of B.

Ejdl: Yeah, I did. But B is totally not ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Nerdifer: Really? But the band-aids and the Purell AND the hand cream?

Ejdl: But she’s lacking the generic perky vapidness.

Nerdifer: Oh totally. She’s put together, AND substantial. She makes us look bad. So since you removed the shoes-and-purse thingy, does this mean I have to remove the hand cream thing as a means of measuring your THOSE WOMEN-HOOD status?

Ejdl: I think that would only be fair.

Nerdifer: Sigh. All right. I suppose I can do that.

Ejdl: Thank you.

Nerdifer: So long as you don’t put your makeup on anywhere in public.

Ejdl: Hey!

Nerdifer: What? No, wait. You don’t?

Ejdl: …

Nerdifer: You DO?

Ejdl: Well…

Nerdifer: Oh no! You DO! Oh, dude, that has GOT to stop!

Ejdl: I don’t see how this makes me ONE OF THOSE WOMEN. I sometimes put my makeup on in the train. But this is because I am totally disorganized and running late! It’s the very antithesis of being ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Nerdifer: Oh no. The way I see it, doing your makeup on the train is a total “Look at how much effort I put into this” kind of manoeuvre. Totally ONE OF THOSE WOMEN!

Ejdl: But it’s because I’m disorganized! I swear!

Nerdifer: How much application are we talking here? We’re talking the full coat? Or just a touch up? Just mascara? Or is there plucking and tweezing involved too?

Ejdl: Just for argument’s sake, which would be worse?

Nerdifer: Hmmm. Well, a full application of makeup, from start to finish, that’s just plain disorganization. In which case, dude, set your alarm a little earlier! But public touch ups? Those are pure vanity expositions.

Ejdl: So a full coat of foundation on the train doesn’t make me ONE OF THOSE WOMEN? But say, spending four full stations on the second coat of masacara, that’s right out, right?

Nerdifer: Absolutely right out! That is full on membership in the ONE OF THOSE WOMEN club.

Ejdl: What about lipstick?

Nerdifer: Oh, that’s an exception to the rule! A girl needs to be able to re-apply the gloss. Especially if it’s the yummy stuff.

Ejdl: Oh phew!

Nerdifer: Wait – you mean we went off on this tangent just for lipstick application? I thought we had better judgment than that!

Ejdl: Oh no. I was just curious. See I don’t do the full application in public. I just run out of time at home and do the finishing touches on the train – like the mascara. But it’s not a second coat. It’s a first coat. And it doesn’t take four stops. So I don’t think it qualifies. And I’m sticking to that.

Nerdifer: Okay, but set your alarm a little sooner. Because, while we’re not ONE OF THOSE WOMEN, we don’t want to be ONE OF THOSE OTHER WOMEN either.

Ejdl: Which one is that?

Nerdifer: The ones with the unnecessarily large purses.

Ejdl: Ah. Yes.

Nerdifer: With last month’s unpaid bills in them.

Ejdl: And empty candy wrappers.

Nerdifer: And business cards from their fourth-to-last job.

Ejdl: And baby pictures of their nephews…

Nerdifer: HEY!

Ejdl: … who were born in 1973.

Nerdifer: Oh, okay. Phew. And like four thousand different hair ties.

Ejdl: And eighteen billion frequent coffee buyer cards!

Nerdifer: And an empty contact case but no contact solution!

Ejdl: Hee. And their birth control pills!

Nerdifer: Which they usually forget to take!

Ejdl: And lots of condoms!

Nerdifer: Precisely! And…

Ejdl: What?

Nerdifer: And their mascara for the train ride!

Ejdl: HEY!

Nerdifer: Hee. Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

Ejdl: Dude – we totally just described our own purses.

Nerdifer: Yeah, I know.

Ejdl: We are so THOSE OTHER WOMEN.

Nerdifer: I know. Sigh.

Ejdl: Yeah. Sigh. What a minute? How did we get here?

Nerdifer: I bit my tongue.

Ejdl: Right! Wait…

Nerdifer: What?

Ejdl: I fail to see how that relates.

Nerdifer: Oh, right. Well, I was standing in Pottery Barn.

Ejdl: Right.

Nerdifer: And M______ was talking about place settings. And J_____ was examining the plant displays. And then J_____ came up to me and handed me the store catalogue.

Ejdl: I think I see where you’re going with this.

Nerdifer: You know, in case I was thinking about sprucing up the apartment.

Ejdl: Of course.

Nerdifer: And then everyone started flipping through the ridiculously overpriced catalogue together. And oooohing and aaaahing…

Ejdl: And then you lost your focus and, CHOMP!

Nerdifer: Right.

Ejdl: You are so not ONE OF THOSE WOMEN.

Nerdifer: See?

Ejdl: No Purell for you.

Nerdifer: Yeah, it’s just me and my contact case with no solution in it.

Ejdl: Just the way we like it.

Foot Exposure

This little blog of mine
I'm gonna let it shine

I'm featured in this week's New Blog Showcase. Thanks to Celebrity Cola for hosting this week!

Check out the links of the other new bloggers in the showcase. I really liked Stupid Beautiful Lies. He's definitely going in Other People's Feet.

Love to those stopping by,
Nerds

The Ballad of the Non-Exclusive Nightclub

This is how it goes, every single time. Sing it with me folks.

You will set out with your close group of friends. Some of them will be from out of town. They will think this is all very glamorous. You will not correct them. You will drink cheap wine before you leave the warm up venue, usually someone’s apartment. The wine will help. As will the company, for they are always fabulous. And always much funnier than you remember. You will even catch yourself saying “You’re so invited to my next birthday. I forgot how much fun you were!” And then you will apologize profusely with “Uh, that so didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” The cab driver will laugh at you. If he bothers to get off of his cell phone. Which, he won’t.

There will be a line-up. It is a non-exclusive club, after all, and everyone is in line. This is unavoidable. Well, it would be avoidable if you had decided not to kill the last of the super-sized bottle of zinfandel, but you did, so you must deal with the line-up. For an hour. In the freezing cold. The heat lamps placed outside will never warm up your feet. You will wear sensible shoes next time. Sigh, no you won’t. Someone will have to go pee while waiting in line. Someone will not be able to hold it. You will suggest a dark alley for them. They will not take your suggestion. But they will still have to go pee. So they will sneak into an expensive sushi restaurant, instead. This is a safer and funnier solution. Your group will inherit ‘solo male’ in the line-up. He is a strange creature of the nightclub scene. He comes without friends. You always wonder who comes to these places without friends. (??) And he will look like the token rocker guy that they always let through to the first round of voting on American Idol – leather jacket and white t-shirt included. He will ask for your number by the end of the night. You will give him a falsie. You are probably going to hell for that, but these are the rules.

Upon finally entering the Non-Exclusive Nightclub you will walk past Lecherous Alley. Nondescript men will stand in a row, leaning against the bar, all dressed alike, pretentious micro-brew in one hand, surveying the door, nodding in approval, raising their eyebrows, watching you go by, and then looking behind you to see who’s up next. You will avoid eye contact with any of these men at all costs. In the coat check line, the man behind you will say something inappropriate. Tomorrow, you will not remember what it was, and that will make you happy. You will then wait in line, again, at the bar. It will take you twenty minutes to get noticed. You will always order your beverages in multiples. This means that you will probably spill your drinks on yourself as you try to balance them delicately while grooving on the dance floor.

They will play “Billy Jean.” And “Holiday Rap.” And TLC’s “Waterfalls.” You will hear Maestro Fresh-Wes. And Young MC. And Tone Loc. You can never get enough of the “Funky Cold Medina.” You will still know all the words. These are all songs that your friends from out of town could hear in their backwater bar back home. These are all songs that you could hear at any campus bar on any campus at any college. In fact, these are all songs that you could hear at your cousin’s wedding to her cousin. But, thankfully, they have stopped including “The Macarena” in the rotation.

There will always be a line-up for the washroom. The washroom will always be a disaster. There will not be toilet paper. You will ask the stranger in the next stall to spare a square. She will not hear you because she is preoccupied with vomiting. You will always be glad that you outgrew that phase last year. You will watch with concern as the vomiting girl gets crowd surfed on the shoulders of the bouncers out the back door. You feel sorry for her. But mostly, you feel sorry for her cab driver.

You and your group will stay and dance and smile and laugh with each other until 2AM. Someone will have to play wingman. Someone will have to be rescued. Someone will have to be cut off. And then you will spill out onto the street, moderately intoxicated and comment at how much warmer it is than when you were stuck in line oh so many hours ago. Someone will smell the sweet smell of street meat and buy a hotdog from a vendor. You may be drunk enough to do the same. Go ahead. It will taste good now. Or maybe wait and get a Whopper Jr. from the Burger King around the street from home. You will pile back into cabs, harass the driver until he talks to you, and lean your heads gently on each other’s shoulders, happy to have spent the time together.

This was fun, you say. We’ll do it again. And you know that it’s not the venue that matters – you hate the venue with its long lines everywhere and its corny music and its filthy washrooms – it’s the company that matters. And they are, as always, fabulous.

Sniff, Sniff. Hack, Hack. Fight Back.

*Sniff, sniff* Ahem, hack, hack. Sniff. Wipe. Toss, turn. Can you hear that? In the dark? It’s the sound of the virus taking over.

Aaaah, fetal position. Inhale. Block, snerk, ack. Keep going, it’ll clear eventually. Exhale. Bubble, bubble. Ewwwwww. Seriously, just keep going. Clear throat. Inhale. Block, snerk. Ow. That kind of hurts. Exhale. No bubbles. Sigh, good. Half inhale. Snort. Exhale. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Aaaaaaaaah. Sweet relief. Right sinus unblocked. Enjoy the moment. It won’t last long. Relax. Try to sleep. Seriously, you’d better hurry up and sleep because you know what’s coming next. Why are your eyes still open? Stop looking at that clock. Stop it! Close your eyes. Go to sleep. Think sheep, sandman, Niagara Falls. No Stupid, Niagara Falls is what you want to think about if you want to go pee. What? Isn’t Niagara Falls what I DON’T want to think about when I DON’T want to go pee? Either way, that thought has no place here while you’re trying to coax yourself to sleep before…

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHH! DAMNIT.

Abort! Abort mission! Emergency! Right sinus over-cleared. Inhalation now causing severe pain as air whips up your nose, past your sinuses, into an empty crevice in your brain and stings you like hell. OWWWW! Ow! Ow! Ow!

Stop breathing! No, no, don’t do that. That will KILL you! What are you, some kind of sissy girl who can’t handle a little sinus problem?

Inhale. OUCH! A little sinus problem? You have got to be kidding me! This is some kind of torture.

Exhale. Too bad. Suck it up sister. You are so not rolling over.

Inhale. Oh my god! It’s like inhaling a hoard of killer bees.

Exhale. Don’t be a drama queen. You’re not rolling over.

Inhale. OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! But if I could just, maybe lie on my back for a little while?

Exhale. No. Tough it out. If you roll over you’re giving into your shifting sinuses and you’ll be up all night. You are not a baby. You can handle this.

Inhale. Oh. My. God. It’s like inhaling a dozen dirty hypodermic needles directly into my brain.

Okay. Sigh. Fine. Roll over. See if I care.

Shift, shift, shift. Ahhhh.

I can’t believe you rolled over. Sissy.

Uh oh, now my left sinus is blocked. I camt breade. Again.

See? I told you you shouldn’t have rolled over. Now you’re up all night.

Kleenex? No, that won’t work. The snot is like lodged up in there like one piece. You can’t force it out; you just have to lie here and half breathe until it works its way out. Lie on my back? No, then you can’t breathe at all, unless you breathe through your mouth. And that just dries out your teeth until you look mummified and it gives you evil breath for like a week. Lie on my stomach? Uh, have you seen what that does to your pillow, snotty girl? Ew. Nope, your only option at this point is tossing and turning. Great.

I love having a cold. I thought I had cheated death last week when I woke up for three consecutive days with a sore throat and swollen glands and then on the fourth day it just disappeared. Poof! Gone! No Echinacea, no Vitamin C pills, no penicillin, not even a swig of NyQuil. Vanished. I thought if I didn’t draw any attention to the fact that I had cheated a virus out of existence that it would just quietly stay away from me for good. I was wrong. Five days later, the sore throat returned and this time, it brought friends with it. Yep, the whole cold virus symptom gang has camped out in my ears, nose and throat, and now we’re having a turf war and it is serious business, yo. Last night, and today, finds me in cold virus hell. I am in that place where you have to cover your mouth in front of co-workers who stand an extra foot away from you. Where you have to wear your mittens on the subway so as not to touch anything and infect the entire city. I am in the place where my head is pounding and my nose is dry and aching and running and I’m sniffling and hacking and generally making a nuisance of myself. And I’m tired from the whole toss and turn/brain stinging torture dilemma. Now, if my nephew decides to be born this week, I will have to postpone my visit to meet him until I am healthy again.

So tonight, I take action against cold-related insomnnia. Tonight, I’m calling NyQuil and together we’re going to kick the virus gang’s ass. Yup, me and my buddy NyQuil are going to have a party in front of the television with a big old box of tissues and the Scrubs sitcom episode and Volume 2 of Alias, Season One. NyQuil and I are going to drool over Zach Braff and Michael Vartan and then pass out. And the cold is not invited to the party, because this is MY territory and I intend to fight for it.

Very Bad Things and the Statute of Limitations

Voice of Reason: Hello?

Nerdifer: Hello.

Voice of Reason: How's it going?

Nerdifer: …

Voice of Reason: What's wrong?

Nerdifer: Nothing.

Voice of Reason: Nothing, except?

Nerdifer: He hasn't called yet.

Voice of Reason: Well that's weird. From what you said I was sure that he was going to call.

Nerdifer: Except that he hasn't.

Voice of Reason: Well, really, how long has it been?

Nerdifer: Four days.

Voice of Reason: That's nothing!

Nerdifer: Nothing? That's two days past industry standard!

Voice of Reason: Now you're going to quote "Swingers" on me?

Nerdifer: Well, I, uh, well, it's like the Bible of guy movies, okay?

Voice of Reason: Yeah, and what do they say right after they decide that two days is industry standard?

Nerdifer: (sigh) They say they wait six days.

Voice of Reason: So you're still within the margin of error.

Nerdifer: Yeah, but he totally didn't seem like he belonged in "Swingers" to me. I mean he was sweet. He was nice.

Voice of Reason: Jon Favreau was sweet and nice in "Swingers."

Nerdifer: Ew. No. We can't talk about Jon Favreau.

Voice of Reason: Really? Why not?

Nerdifer: I can't think of him as anything other than the guy from "Very Bad Things."

Voice of Reason: Oh. Shudder.

Nerdifer: And every time I think of "Very Bad Things" I think of the part where the hooker gets k--

Voice of Reason: Ew. Yep, okay, that's enough. We're not talking about that movie.

Nerdifer: And then the security guard comes along and they have to --

Voice of Reason: Aah! Aah! Aah! Stop. It. Right. Now. I'm going to have nightmares for weeks.

Nerdifer: Totally. Worst movie ever. Did you know that Cameron Diaz is in that movie?

Voice of Reason: Really? I forgot that. I think I blocked it out. Odd choice for her.

Nerdifer: Yeah, and at the end she gets all psycho and she --

Voice of Reason: Aaaaahh! Stop it! I thought I ended this conversation.

Nerdifer: Well, it's better than talking about the alternative.

Voice of Reason: He'll call.

Nerdifer: Yeah, it just seems so random, you know. Like it doesn't matter what my strategy is, because in the end I am helpless.

Voice of Reason: You could have asked for his number.

Nerdifer: Yeah, but the last time I did that I got stood up. I was trying something new this time.
Voice of Reason: Which means that you're just going to have to be patient this time.

Nerdifer: Patience is not really my strength.

Voice of Reason: Try harder.

Nerdifer: I mean, at what point did calling become optional?

Voice of Reason: Not calling is just rude and you just need to write the rude ones off. Or, you know, you might think about becoming a bit more of a realist.

Nerdifer: If you start spouting some “He’s Just Not That Into You” bullshit at me I swear I will hang up right now.

Voice of Reason: No, no, I wasn’t going to do that. I just think sometimes you’re not much of a resident of the planet earth.

Nerdifer: Because I’ll tell you, oh he was into me all right!

Voice of Reason: Yes, he was into you. But again, no cause and effect relationship there. Planet earth, calling you! Come back down.

Nerdifer: It's just in times like these, I tend to look back through my relationship yearbook and reminisce.

Voice of Reason: Oh no.

Nerdifer: About you know, the one who was like heroin.

Voice of Reason: No, no, no, no, no.

Nerdifer: I wonder if he'd answer my call.

Voice of Reason: Vetoed. Black-balled. You are so not allowed to call him.

Nerdifer: But it's not like it was that bad.

Voice of Reason: Uh, I was there, and yes, it was that bad. The guy's a dickhead.

Nerdifer: But he was like heroin.

Voice of Reason: We all have ones like that. How would you react if I said I wanted to go call N--

Nerdifer: Oh, we are so not talking about him! No, no, no, no, NO! That guy was an asshole.

Voice of Reason: See? Now we understand each other.

Nerdifer: No, it's totally not the same! It's not like I'm thinking about going back to my worst relationship ever. It's not like having a yen to pick up the phone and talk to the one that was pure evil. This was like second to best. There's a difference.

Voice of Reason: That'd be true if you were talking about the value of the relationship. But you're not. You are talking about the fact that he was like heroin. So, you see, it is the same.

Nerdifer: Yeah, well, it's all moot anyways, because it's not like I'm about to call him. He already thinks I'm crazy.

Voice of Reason: And a call out of the blue, begging for a plane ticket would really just reinforce that point of view.

Nerdifer: Not something I'm willing to do.

Voice of Reason: Well, I'm glad we agree on that, at least.

Nerdifer: And so I just sit and wait?

Voice of Reason: Nothing else you can do. Four days really isn't that long.

Nerdifer: Well, I'll be calling you back when the six-day statute of limitations passes and I still haven't heard anything.

Voice of Reason: Don't worry. I'll be ready to stage the addiction intervention.

Nerdifer: Yeah, thanks for talking me down off that ledge.

Gone Fishin'

Uh, is it just me or is Roeper going fishin' for some crazy reactions with this column? He's going to get a whack load of angry emails in his inbox. But I feel no pity. Because he's totally asking for it with this one. Bitter kid.

So I didn't feel compelled to write anything about Valentine's day until I read that. I'm kind of ambivalent about the whole holiday. I'm certainly not willing to accept full responsibility for its existence on behalf of my entire gender. I remember hearing the real story about St. Valentine way back in, like, Grade One, so I started doing some refresher reading. The story is mostly forgotten in the general hub-bub surrounding the non-bank holiday. St. Valentine was a Roman priest who performed marriages against the will of the Roman Emperor. He was caught, imprisoned, fell in love with his imprisoner's daughter, wrote her some sweet love letters, and then was executed in around 270AD. He was elevated to sainthood at around 500AD when the Pope outlawed a Pagan love festival and replaced it with St. Valentine's day instead. So if you're going to blame anyone, Roeper, blame the pagans.

But what it really feels more like, is that Roeper is either:

a) Tired of being single,
b) Tired of being in a relationship with someone who gets crabby about Valentine's Day, or
c) Tired of being thought of as cheap.

The basic principle of inertia dictates that if we, as a society, didn't set aside a day to celebrate something, life would go on as normal and nothing would get celebrated. Without Thanksgiving, no one would take the time to be specifically thankful for their good fortunes. Without Mother or Father's Day, no one would take the time to make breakfast in bed for their parents. Without Halloween, no one would let little kids run rampant throughout the neighbourhood, dressed up as ghouls and begging for candy. Without Valentine's Day, well, at this point, you get my drift. (Around St. Patrick's Day, my logic sort of falls apart, because I'm pretty sure that people in general do not need a specific day to be reminded to enjoy the thrills of alcohol. But - whatever.)

And I have never not participated in Valentine's Day while in a relationship. I buy flowers and candy for boyfriends and cook them dinner on that day - provided a boyfriend exists at the time. Not that me cooking is much of a treat. But the point is, it goes both ways. Recognition of love is not only expected of the male. So we set up a specific day to celebrate love. What's the big deal??

Shut up and buy your sweetie some flowers, Roeper. (cheapskate.)

It’s SUCH a BAD IDEA

You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me! This is a joke, right? It’s got to be a joke. Yes, definitely a joke. It’s not a joke? Seriously? Oh you’re serious. Oh dear GOD you’re SERIOUS.

Whose idea was this? Let’s break it down.

1. In some categories at the Oscar ceremony telecast this year, all five nominees will be brought up on stage before the winner is announced and forced to stand there as the winner is announced. And then four losers will be forced to stand up there while one winner makes their acceptance speech.
2. In some other categories the winner won’t even be allowed to come up on stage to accept the Oscar or give thanks to those who helped them win what could possibly be the most prestigious award of their career.

In the first case – that’s just CRUEL and TASTELESS. Who really wants to see the look on Martin Scorsese’s face if he gets overlooked once again for the award in favour of Clint Eastwood? Not me. Well, you know, I wouldn’t mind seeing it if it was just a tiny flash of a shot while Scorsese sat comfortably in his chair next to his wife, who would console him lovingly. But do I want to see one of the greatest film directors ever fidget nervously on stage knowing that everyone in the Kodak Theatre is staring at him while he contemplates grabbing the statuette from Eastwood’s hands and bashing the presenter over the head with it? Hell no. Moreoever, do I want to watch Clint Eastwood nervously accept the award all the while giving sideways glances at Scorsese and whispering “I’m so sorry. I’m really very sorry.”? Uh uh. Who wants to see Leonardo DiCaprio steal Jamie Foxx’s Oscar and make off through the crowd with it? Heck – who wants to see Paul Giamatti crash that stage party? (Okay, well, maybe I’d like to see that…) Who wants to watch Annette Bening contort her face into a condescending “good for her” expression while Hilary Swank stammers and stumbles and forgets to thank her husband again? Who wants to watch Charlie Kaufman’s genius head explode up on stage when he loses the Oscar for original screenplay to the hack that is John Logan? It just gives me the icks because it’s a really, really uncomfortable situation. But apparently Oscars producer Gil Cates thinks it makes for efficient and entertaining TV. Oh shut up Gil Cates! The Oscars telecast is not the latest Fox reality show. It is not about humiliating the nominees for the sport of the viewing audience. It is not about the agony of defeat. Shame on you.

In the second case – that’s just elitist and ignorant and MEAN. Why would you take away the opportunity for these people to get their moment in the sun and just say a small thanks on stage, on camera, to their co-workers and their families and their heroes? I don’t know about you, but I practice my Oscar acceptance speech in the shower and I don’t even work in the industry! How much of a letdown would it be to finally get the opportunity to hold little Oscar in your hands and not get to blurt out the speech you had possibly been preparing since childhood? And how do you determine which categories aren’t worthy of getting to speak? Do you draw straws? Rock, paper, scissors? The most beautiful speech I have ever heard at the Oscars ceremony was by a lovely little Asian woman who had a tenuous grasp, at best, on the English language (and you’ll forgive me if I can’t recall the details, I’ve tried to google a bunch of things and I can’t find exactly what I’m looking for.) She was so sweet and dazzled and humbled as she accepted an award in either a short category or a documentary category (can’t recall exactly which.) I’ve never seen anything quite so touching and real on the show. And it’s moments like that that are going to be relegated to Seated Oscar Delivery. The whole show in under 3 hours or it’s free!

So essentially what Gil Cates is doing is glorifying the humiliation of the night and suppressing some of the unexpected tender moments of the night, and he’s using “time efficiency” as his excuse – but what it really is, is a shameless ratings grab. Pardon me for saying this, but someone needs to fire Gil Cates, like PRONTO! The portion of the general public that watches the Oscars does so because they are in love with cinema, and perhaps to a lesser extent, with fashion and celebrity. Get this through your skull Gil Cates – we LIKE the sweet acceptance speeches, we LIKE the kooky dance numbers, we LIKE it when people goof up and forget to thank their husbands or the Academy or the person their character is based on, we LIKE the post-mortem montage, and we LIKE it when the show runs long. Getting rid of what we LIKE is a gamble to increase the audience of the show, but I’m guessing that it will only alienate the show’s true fan base while humiliating the award nominees. That’s not good TV.

He Just Steps Up To the Microphone and Screams

I have one hallucination. And I swear it has nothing to do with the fact that I can be absolutely convinced that Michael Vartan will one day propose marriage to me. That’s just reality, folks. (I jest, put down the phone, don’t call your lawyers about a restraining order.) I have one hallucination, and it’s far more comical and waaaay less annoying than Ally McBeal’s Oooga-Chuck-a-dancing-baby. He shows up from time to time, usually when I’m stressed, sometimes when I’m bored, and always when I’m feeling like a fish out of water. I call him “Panic Man.”

The typical Fish Out of Water situation usually looks like this: me in the middle of a room surrounded by people who are all gangbusters about some idea that I just don’t get. I remember Panic Man’s first appearance. It was back when I was working as an engineer, testing stuff that was just going to end up as landfill anyways, living in small-town Ontario, working for the man on projects that involved lubricating a forty-foot double-barrelled screw. You know, living the dream! I was stuck in the lunchroom between two co-workers and it went a little something like this.

Gib: So I took my son out deer-hunting yesterday.

Gord: Really? First time?

Gib: Yup. Shot at two bucks and put a whole the size of a pomegranate into the side of a Chuck’s barn.

Gord: What kind of rifle you got him using?

Gib: Oh you know, your standard blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-bloop.

Gord: That’s great. Probably much safer for him than snowmobiling.

Gib: Oh yeah, eh? Especially after what happened last year with the Jones’ kid and the thin ice.

Gord: Well yeah, but with all the Carling he had in him, well, that was expected, you know.

Gib: That’ll learn him for riding a Bombardier blah-di-blah-di-bloop piece of crap.

Gord: Good thing Bobby brought round the truck so we could fish him out.

Gib: Yeah. That truck’s a beaut. My F-150’s been acting up lately. I think it’s the blah-di-blah-di-bloop.

Gord: Better go over to Frank’s and have him take a look at her.

All the while I was looking back and forth between my co-workers with increasing bewilderment. And then Talking Heads started playing in my head all “My God! How did I GET HERE?” And then I lost track of the conversation altogether, and the Talking Heads abruptly stopped playing and Panic Man made his first appearance.

Panic Man is roughly three apples high. He is always impeccably groomed and always wearing a tuxedo with tails. (Much like Mr. Peanut, except without the peanut.) And he lives somewhere behind my right shoulder. And when I need him, he steps up onto my right shoulder, into a fuzzy white spotlight, right up to a microphone. He clears his throat with a little “ahem, ahem.” And then he lets out a barbaric yawp that would make Walt Whitman proud.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Now just because Panic Man’s first appearance happened to be while co-workers were talking about every day rural Canadian staples doesn’t mean that that’s the only time he comes out to play. No indeed. Panic Man shows up when I need him. And I get uncomfortable way more often than hunting and snowmobiling make an appearance in the conversation around me. Panic Man also shows up during four hour conference calls with head office at work. He wears a really big watch on those days and it goes “Tick Tick TICK” really loudly. Panic Man is always hanging with me for Baby or Wedding Showers. I think he likes the cucumber sandwiches. Panic Man is by my side during Speed Dating events when the guy across the table is rambling on for seven minutes straight about insurance underwriting. I tell you, I’d take Panic Man any day over the underwriter!

Panic Man always used to show up when people talked about money. Just the mention of an RRSP would make him step out from the shadows and bellow and bellow and bellow without end. Don’t even get me started on what would happen if anyone mentioned filing taxes! But then I took a course and I quelled that sense of panic. And Panic Man politely went away. He knows there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. There will always be times when I’m stuck in the middle of an impromptu Republican convention, or standing in the middle of group of a dozen women who collectively weigh about as much as a bunch of watercress and yet still want to complain about their fat, or party to an in-depth discussion about how Deepak Chopra has changed the participants’ lives forever. It’s Deepak Chopra, people. Dig a little deeper.

Panic Man could kick George W. Bush, Kate Moss, and Deepak Chopra’s ass. Without even sending his wee bowtie all askew.

Shake Your Head Buddy, Your Eyes Are Stuck

I have a problem. And no, it’s not the fact that I cannot stay away from department store cosmetics counters when they have the free gift promotion going on. Okay, I have two problems. Okay, but I really only have the one problem because I’m not willing to give up the free gift addiction. I mean that’s FREE STUFF people! Free lipstick, free eye shadow, free mascara, free eye cream, free perfume samples, free cute little cosmetics bags of which I now have, like, ten of floating around in my room. Let me count: red canvas, red vinyl with polka dots, pink and green stripes, blue, pink and orange squares, black with pockets, tan and red strips, funky turquoise circles, leopard print… Okay, maybe it is a problem. But I digress…

I have a problem. One time, my roommate was wandering around the apartment in his pyjamas and he caught me, um, staring at him. No, I don’t have a thing for my roommate. That would be so pointless, à la Jennifer Aniston in “The Object of My Affection.” Nope, the roommate is not special, in fact, I stare a lot, at a lot of people and a lot of things. I have a staring problem.

If a friend has a pimple, wart or large blemish I’m like Austin Powers – all “moley, moley, moley.”

If they have a stain on their shirt, I get stare-ingitis.

If they have something stuck in their teeth, I’m Dr. Stare-love.

And I know this is rude, and I try to stop myself, honest I do. But I just find things so gosh-darned curious that I can’t help myself. One way to stop me from staring at other people, make sure there’s a mirror around, because then I will just stare at myself. (Usually because I have a pimple, wart or large blemish on my face.)

Public transportation offers up way too many good opportunities to stare at people you don’t even know and will never see again.

So tall that your head brushes against the top of the subway car? That’s me staring at you, wondering if you have to jump to slam dunk.

Ridiculously handsome? I’m staring at you and trying to give you my phone number via telepathy.

Overweight? Yep, I’m looking at you. I’m so sorry but I can’t help it.

Underweight? Yep, I’m still looking at you. And probably thinking about offering you a cookie.

Garish or ill-fitting clothing? Stare.

Sitting in a skirt so that uh, you’re showing your, uh, stuff? Trying not to stare, but it’s like trying not to stare at a car-wreck so I really can’t look away and I’m just hoping and praying that you’re not showing it on purpose and also hoping that the creepy, balding, middle-aged man beside me with the white mark where his wedding band was is NOT staring at you.

May-December thing going on right there? Staring and wondering which one of you was hired.

Prominent Adam’s apple on what appears to be a woman? Stare, stare, stare.

Dreadlocks on a Caucasian? Stare, stare, stare!

Committing cardinal subway sins? Unacceptable. Now I’m Glare-itha Christie.

Hey, I’m not proud of it, and saying that I’m an equal opportunity starer is NOT an acceptable excuse. It’s like all the world is a circus and I’ve paid the admission fee and now I want to see the Cyclops. Stray too far away from the average mould, and I’m likely to assume that you’re part of the show. And really, if you are straying far from the average, the point is to be different and not to blend, so you probably don’t mind the attention. At least that’s what I tell myself. And then I try to read the subway ads again, but there’s only so many times I can stare at the ad for the Men’s Health Clinic. And then I try to listen to the music in my headphones, but that only satisfies one sense and that’s just not enough. And then I try to read my book, but unless I’m sitting down it makes me dizzy. So then it’s back to staring. And really, the only way to get me to stop is to stare intensely right back at me. And then I just feel like I’m busted and I’m forced to stop. But I figure people should stare at me, because I’m the crazy girl visibly mouthing the words to the song she is listening to.

It’s such a fun little guilty pleasure. On the subway all of these different lives cross my path for the tiniest moment in time and I can’t stop myself from peeking and wondering what their days are like, what their jobs are like, if they’re married, if they’re healthy, or if they’re happy. Or I wonder where they bought that purse, because I think it rocks and I want one too.

Writing the Book on How to Get Off the Hook

Last year I was watching TV with my mom. There were chips and dips and soda pop beverages. It was a big game, but hey, I don’t even remember who was playing. At half-time Mom got up and moved over to the computer to play some Free Cell and I stayed put to see who made it to the half-time show. Not that Mom would have been shocked to see it, but she didn’t miss much. Just a boob.

As Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake frolicked and wiggled and wailed their way through their number, I was only mildly entertained. I like Janet. I think she’s got some family issues, but hey, so do I. (Though not like hers.) I like Janet’s music. When I was thirteen I tried to memorize all the dance steps to every video released for Rhythm Nation. Janet is the cool Jackson.

It’s Justin Timberlake that I don’t like. The guy gives me the creeps. I’ve got plenty of girlfriends who find him sexy. Somehow. I don’t understand it. I still see him as the kid with the bad perm from ‘N Sync, so he holds little to no sex appeal for me. And I also think of him as the guy who kissed and told on Britney Spears just to further his own career. I know there were reports that she cheated on him, and yes, Britney clearly has some Cheeto issues to deal with, but here’s the thing – while Britney may not be all that smart, Justin is a creep. Total creep. They guy went public with the fact that he had taken Ms. Spear’s virginity after they split up as a PUBLICITY STUNT. On radio talk shows, and in the tabloids, to anyone who would listen, he smirked and made it clear that Spears was post-virginal. And that’s just crass. And classless. And gross. It should have been kept private. If any guy in my life or any of my girlfriends’ lives had been hollering all over school or the Peach Pit or wherever that he had been boning so-and-so, he would have been given the icy cold shoulder by the lot of the female contingent. It would have been like “good luck getting laid again, big mouth!” Instead, the media went wild for the story, and the public ate it all up, and the next thing you know Justin is all Mr. Smooth and Sweet, and his solo CD is selling like hotcakes and his grandmother is defending the size of his member. Dear, sweet, lord. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

What is he made of – TEFLON?

So it’s now been a year since boob-gate, or nipple-gate, or the end, as we know it, of Janet Jackson’s career. The roar of common decency has been heard ‘round the world. The fines have been handed down. We now live in the era of the five-second delay and the fear of family values groups’ moral outrage causes television affiliates to pull films like “Saving Private Ryan” from their schedules. But what was everyone so upset about? An itty bitty flash of a boob. Janet’s boob. So of course, Janet must be entirely to blame. Riiiiiiiggghhhht.

Yeah, I’m still as upset by this misguided notion one year later as I was the day after the wardrobe malfunction. You know what really happened at the Super Bowl halftime? A staged and planned sexual assault.

Let’s assume that the story both Justin and Janet told afterwards was true: that they planned and rehearsed a routine at the end of which Justin reached over and removed a covering of Janet’s costume to reveal a lacy brassiere, and that Janet alone decided to forego the brassiere and reveal the boob with bejewelled nipple at the last minute, leaving Justin unaware.

That still means that the two of them planned and rehearsed a routine at the end of which Justin would reach across Janet’s body and brutally grab a hold of her clothes and physically rip them off of her while singing “Gonna have you naked by the end of this song.” It looked a lot like assault to me. I’ll grant you that both of them agreed to it – which was dumb. I’m not saying that she is any less responsible than him, because clearly, it was not a smart decision on either of their parts. I mean, did they even think for two seconds what that would look like to the millions of people watching? What kind of behaviour it would look like they were condoning? Have you seen the look on his face in the still shots as he performed? That’s not innocence. That’s not professionalism. And it doesn’t look like shock either. It was lecherous desire.

Unfortunately, the millions of people watching the halftime show seemed to miss that point entirely, settling instead for the point of view that “boobs on tv are bad” and “please, won’t somebody think of the children?” Instead of a discussion about how it was a bad decision to portray a sexual situation with violent overtones, we got the condemnation of Janet for the simple fact that she 1) had boobs and 2) decided to show one of them on tv. Hey – every woman has boobs. And you know what, Janet’s boob was a pretty nice one. But I fail to see how the condemnation of Janet was relevant. Or constructive.

Because TEFLON-boy seemed to get off Scot-free again! With a doleful “I’m sorry,” and a quick reference to how he was upset because his grandmother had been watching, Timberlake was again restored to his status of Golden Boy. While Janet, well, we know what happened to poor Janet. How many times does this guy have to drag a woman’s reputation through the mud before we see him for what he really is? And how many times can he rely on good ol’ grandma to save him from his bad behaviour? Because, really, that strategy makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And not in a good way.

Even though there was only one boob shown up on stage, there were still two people present. And two people made the decision to stage an act of male sexual aggression upon a female. And instead of realizing that THAT is the real problem, the female was vilified for showing off her sexual organ and the male just got to shrug and get let off the hook. It's akin to using the excuse of "hey man, she was asking for it by looking so sexy. I'm a male, I have impulses I can't control" and it makes me SICK! Last year’s Super Bowl Halftime show was a glaring example of sexual inequality. And I shake my head in dismay to think that all anyone saw was a boob.

I Knew Then What I Forgot Later

There are stories that come up repeatedly about my childhood that I look back upon fondly, that I chuckle about, that I don’t have my own memories of but feel as if I do simply because I’ve heard aunts and cousins and my mother and brothers parade them out in front of company and new friends and old friends and boyfriends and lovers alike.

There’s the time I glued my eye shut with my father’s model airplane glue.

There’s the time I tried to climb over my aunt’s shoulder and out of the Ferris wheel because I had discovered I wasn’t the biggest fan of heights.

There’s the time I sang “Coco-ka-bye bear!” over and over and over again, until one day the light went on in my father’s head and he shouted out “Colt 45 BEER! She’s singing the jingle to the BEER commercial!”

There’s the time my eyes rolled back in my head because I apparently hadn’t had enough potassium.

There’s the time I got lost at Busch Gardens in Florida and scared my mom half senseless.

There’s the time I peed my pants while attempting to snorkel in three inch deep water.

There’s the time I broke that glass bottle against the cement curb (and all over my hands and feet,) because I thought it would be easier to bang out some remaining dirt in the bottom of the bottle rather than scrape it out with my hand.

There’s the time I called my mom at work to snitch on my brother for having a girl over while Mom wasn’t there. (I’m a bad sister, I know.)

All these things about me I know, and remember, and feel as if I remember, though most of them I don’t. I know that I’m curious. I know that I don’t like Ferris wheels or glass elevators or rope bridges. I know that I can randomly burst into song and that it’s better if you know how to pronounce the words. I know that I need to eat bananas and drink Coke when I’m feeling low in potassium (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) I know I’m adventurous. I know I sometimes focus too much on one thing and forget about everything else. I know that sometimes the shortcuts I take are ill-advised. And I know that I should think ahead and consider if perhaps one day down the road I might need a favour too.

But out from a forgotten place came two very strong memories of my childhood this evening, over birthday dinner with Dad. When I was little I used to spend every other weekend at my dad’s place. And, at this time in his life, my dad was an independent book publisher for aviation books, which meant, oh to my great luck, that twenty years ago in his home he had several computers, some comparatively primitive desktop publishing software and a photocopier. And with these tools, weekend after weekend, I used to set seriously to work, as only a seven year old can, to publishing my monthly neighbourhood newsletter. I was a budding journalist, artist, editor and papergirl all-in-one. But I didn’t just use these tools of technology to report the truth. I also used them to weave my tales. By the age of twelve, my dad helped me bind my first unfinished novel. It was an adventure tale of a gang of kids from Corpus Christi, Texas who found a treasure map and followed the map along the coastline and down to Mexico, to riches and buried treasure galore. And, if I recall correctly, I was pretty darn proud of the story.

Oh how I had forgotten the days spent reading and writing, editing, creating crossword puzzles, laying out the masthead, plotting out the characters’ next adventures and perfecting my journalistic integrity and my artistic voice, I’ll never know! I don’t know whether I seriously considered pursuing either of these options and then gave up, or whether I had always considered them “just fun” and not something you set out to do for your life’s work. But somewhere along the line I forgot, and then felt like I remembered but didn’t know why, and then remembered again for the first time in a long time tonight.

The best thing is – Dad kept them, the newsletters and the unfinished manuscript. So he’ll go home and search through old boxes and desk drawers for them. And when I see him next I hope I’ll get to relive the days and have a chuckle and admire what I knew then but forgot later. See, I knew there was an upside to having a packrat for a father!