Reality Wrap-up: American Idol 4

Simon is wrong, Paula is slurring her words and Randy thinks everyone is just awesome dawg. Really? They are not.

It's all at Just Ask Sammy.

I... Er... I Don't Know

Check this out.

You know when you read something so, hmm, good, and you’re so tempted to comment, just to say “thanks”? And you even open up the comments section on random site X and start to fill in all your details? But when you get to the meat of what you actually want to say, you’re all stumped? Because you want it to be deep, and poignant and true? And you want it to add value to the original posting? And your brain is still awash in the fact that lately it has been ripping on reality TV, and burning out on Alias, and poking fun at mesh-backed hats? So you can’t write anything? Yeah, that’s how I felt.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

Oh, Erin, you think you're so smart, but Carolyn could instantly vaporize you if she really wanted to.

Need more info? Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

Who's dating who? And who's tears are completely fake? I think I know!

Psssst! The secret is at Just Ask Sammy.

Belleville: It’s Not Me, It’s You

The whole of Canada hates Toronto.

Even though I loooooove Toronto, I can’t say I don’t get it. I mean, I can think of a hell of a lot more reasons why the whole of Canada should hate, say, Calgary – with its hot-and-cold unpredictable weather [Chinook is Native Indian for “the joke’s on you!”], and its we-don’t-hire-foreigners-and-by-foreigners-we-mean-Ontarians­ hiring policy, and its constantly go, go, GO citizens with their skiing and their snowboarding and their hiking and their mountain biking and their mountain climbing. I’m sorry, I moved to the city to get away from people like you! But I understand why Toronto is the bigger target. I certainly understand why Calgarians hate Toronto: Toronto is everything they want to be, only without the monogrammed belt buckles and with taxes.

Toronto has been called “rude, snobbish, smug, boastful, pretentious, obnoxious, arrogant, hoity-toity, brash, crass, uptight, workaholic, lazy, self-absorbed, self-centred, self-obsessed, self-satisfied, spiritless, cold, out of shape, unfeeling, unsmiling and unfriendly.” (Linda Diebel, Toronto Star) But as a true small-town Belleville girl at heart, I can think of three “valid” reasons to hate Toronto.

#1. The price of real estate.

$170,000 in Belleville will buy you a three bedroom, two bathroom, fully detached house, in a nice neighbourhood, with a driveway, and a two car garage, and all new appliances, and a brand new furnace, and a landscaped backyard. The house will come with sunny windows. And a patio set – completely rust free! There will already be a sign out front of your new house with your name on it when you move in. The neighbours will have already added you to the neighbourhood watch group. (But there isn’t all that much crime in the “Friendly City”, so they will mostly only be watching the squirrels dig up bulbs from your garden.) And a friendly dog will wait on your front stairs, a basket full of goodies held gingerly in its teeth, to greet you on move-in day.

$170,000 in Toronto will buy you a 100 square foot crack den with a flickering single light-bulb dangling from the ceiling and a shoe rack by the door.

#2. Not enough Country Music on the radio.

Percentage of Radio Stations that play Country Music in Belleville: 50%. I will grant you that there are only, like, four radio stations – maybe five if you count the Christian station and the College Station as a half a station each. But Country is King on Big 8 Country and the brand new 100.9 FM. The new station’s tag line is “So Hot, It’s Cool”. I swear to God I can’t make that stuff up.

Now I’ve never been a country music fan. My natural tendency has always been to turn up my nose like the smug, arrogant, hoity-toity Torontonian I would become. But country music sounds like home. The strains of Shania’s break-out “Any Man of Mine”, Alan Jackson’s toe-tapper “Chattahoochee”, Garth Brooks classic sing-along “Friends In Low Places”, I swear to God even Billy Ray Cyrus and his annoying “Achy Breaky Heart” take me back home. They take me back to a time where we all used to just drive up and down the main street in our trucks, blasting music and mouthing to each other from opposite lanes: “BOWLING ALLEY” or “WATERFRONT” or “TIM HORTON’S PARKING LOT”. There aren’t too many choices for teenagers in a small town. They take me back to the first long weekend of the summer seasons: May Two-Four. Back to a friend’s cottage, with copious amounts of beer and peach schnapps. (Not mixed together. Ewwwwww.) Where there’s a sign on the bathroom door that reminds you: “If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.” Where Babie-J and I decided to go for a drunken dingey ride and only realized when we had reached the middle of the lake that the dingey was LEAKING and we were going to die a terrible death of hypothermia unless we paddled our inebriated asses back to the shore FAST. Where we stayed up all night one year trying to convince our strongest friend that it was, in fact, not a good idea to go swimming in the middle of the night after polishing off the last of the 2-4, and better he should sleep under the picnic table with all of us standing guard above him. Where I introduced my big city boyfriend to real tail-gate parties and he looked at me in all earnestness and said “You mean, people actually just hang out in the back of their trucks? I thought that was just in the movies.”

Percentage of Radio Stations that play Country Music in Toronto: basically zero. Why no love?

#3. The Ball Cap is not in fashion.

I took a quick and unbiased (read: totally unscientific) poll while driving around Belleville this past Easter Weekend. Percentage of men in cars driving by me wearing baseball caps? 100%. And these are a special breed of men. These are the D-men: the Darrells, the Dougs, the Dwaynes. (But also, occasionally the Gords.) You know them to see them. Darrells, Dougs and Dwaynes wear Hockey ball caps: Leafs, Senators, Habs. A die-hard Darrell will wear an old Nordiques or Jets hat. A Backwater Doug will wear a John Deere meshy. A posh Dwayne will have bought the ball cap fitted to his head. But mostly, Darrells, Dougs and Dwaynes prefer the original adjustable plastic snap-backed baseball cap. Darrells, Dougs and Dwaynes are the kind of guys who drive 1987 Pontiac Sunfires. Maroon. With four major rust patches: one on a wheel well, one on the driver’s side back door, one on the hood and one right by the key hole for the trunk. The hubcaps are mismatched. The original passenger’s side back door has been replaced with a turquoise substitute. The rear view mirror is missing. The radio is blaring Big 8 Country. Or, alternately, a cassette tape of the original “Frosh” compilation, but the tape has worn thin at track number seven because Darrell (Doug, Dwayne,) cannot get enough of David Wilcox doing “The Bearcat”. Darrell (Doug? Dwayne?) is clad in a mesh Buffalo Bills Jersey (with Jim Kelly’s number on it – because Thurman Thomas? Was a fairy.) Overtop of that jersey? You guessed it – plaid flannel shirt. His jeans have rips in the knees, and we’re just thankful he has finally retired the acid wash. And his feet sport a pair of work boots from Mike’s Work Wearhouse. Darrell (Doug and Dwayne,) always looks over at me while waiting for the light to turn green and gives me the “You wanna race?” look. His car makes a faint “putt, putt, putt, cough… wheeeeeeeze” sound as it pulls away from the green light. My little Hyundai Pete perks right up and speeds away from the Darrell – not in the I’m-racing-you-and-totally-kicking-your-ass way, but more in the your-car-smells-bad-and-I-don’t-want-to-inhale-your-fumes way. And me? I have that smug look on my face that says “I live in Toronto now.”

Percentage of men in cars driving by me wearing baseball caps in Toronto? 0%. For some reason, this makes me terribly happy. I take it as a sign of maturity on my part that I no longer find the ball cap attractive.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

Ulong sucks the suck suck and James is a crazy ol' coot.

It's all at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race 7

Rob and Amber are the luckiest, smiliest, smarmiest couple ever and the rest of the teams need to get over it! And Patrick needs a big old helping of "SHUT UP!"

You know what to do: Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

Good performances, really bad hair, and Paula acts like a drunk dog in heat.

You'll want to check out more information at Just Ask Sammy.

My Out-of-Office

BEEP

“Ahem. You have reached the voice mail of Jennifer J______ at Company Blah Services. I’m out of the office today, and returning on… Returning on…? Oh, crap, what day am I coming back again?”

Click.

[Co-worker looks at me over the cubicle divider and giggles profusely.]

“Shut up. It’s hard! Okay, once more.”

BEEP

“Ahem. You have reached the voice mail of Jeffiner J--. Oh damnit. I, nevermind.”

Click.

“Stop laughing.”

[She won’t stop. Of course, I wouldn’t either.]

Sigh.

BEEP

“Ahem. You have reached the voice mail of Jennifer J______ at the Company Blah Services. I’m out of the office today and returning on Tuesday. If this is an urgent matter please contact the Blah Services department at… WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME LIKE THAT?”

Click.

[Co-worker: “Hahahahahahahahahaahahah!”]

“See, now you’re doing it on purpose and I’m going to be here trying to do this for, like, an hour.”

[Co-worker: “Hee hee hee.”]

“And as much fun as that would be… Once more. Ahem.”

BEEP

“You’ve reached the email of J— OH DAMNIT!”

Click.

[Co-worker: “Don’t give me a dirty look. I didn’t do anything. That time.”]

“But you were totally going to, I don’t know, start barking or something to screw me up.”

[Co-worker: “Barking?”]

“Okay, take, like what? One thousand?”

[Co-worker: “One thousand and four.”]

“Oh, now you’re a comedian?” Deep breath.

BEEP

“Hello. You have reached the VOICE mail of Jennifer J________ at the Company Blah Services…”

[Co-worker: “Meow! Meow”]

“Oh that is so NOT FUNNY! You are totally screwing me up!”

Click.

“I suppose I asked for it this time.”

[Co-worker: “Sort of.”]

“All right. This is serious now.” Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Eyes down.

BEEP

“You have reached the voice mail of -- I AM SO NOT LOOKING UP AT YOU RIGHT NOW!”

Click.

[Co-worker leaning over cubicle divide and making funny faces at me.]

“I hate you.”

[Co-worker: “Hee hee hee.”]

BEEP

“You have reached the…”

[Co-worker chuckling.]

“You have reached…”

[Co-worker snorting milk through her nose.]

“You have rea—“

[Co-worker going red in the face she is laughing so uproariously.]

Click.

“That’s it.”

BEEP

“You have reached the voice mail of Jennifer J______ at Company Blah Services. I’m out of the office indefinitely. All calls have been forwarded to [my evil co-worker.] If she meows like a cat, don’t worry, she won’t bite.”

Click.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

Two tribal councils, a whole lot of "SHUT UP!" and someone's butt gets saved big time. It's almost time for the cool kids to start being cruel to each other. But, but... NOOOOOOOOO!

More at Just Ask Sammy!

Exhuming the Dead

I had touched upon the idea of the lifespan of a writer’s greatness (the idea lay in shambles and fragments up in my head, and I apologize for the shards that follow,) when I updated my book list. I’ve picked up an old John Irving book to pass the time now (The Water-Method Man). It’s his second novel, which he wrote eons ago at the tender age of twenty-nine. Anyway, I got to thinking while I was wandering the underground on my way to a meeting downtown and there seemed no way out of the train of thought except to do it up as a full entry.

[Yes, I know, March 21st and I still can’t bring myself to walk in the daylight! The digital thermometer on the corner of Bay and Adelaide confronts me each time I exit my building. Today it read 4C. I won’t walk above ground until it hits 10C – because until then the concept of spring is still just a hallucination, like some whim James Joyce dreamt up one night while on a drinking binge in Dublin at the turn of the century. Until the thermometer hits 10C, we are all still Winter’s chumps around here. And while I’m thinking about it:

Dear Winter,

We talked about this two weeks ago and I thought I had made myself clear. I don’t think we should see each other anymore. We’ve had some good times, but I think I need to move on. I think I need to give Spring a chance. I thought you understood. So why do you keep showing up on my doorstep each morning all fluffy and white, all “I’m so pretty. I promise I’ll be good this time. Won’t you take me back?” The answer is still No.

What about “Don’t call me” DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Sincerely,
Nerdifer

End of digression.]

Where the hell was I? Irving. Right. I consider myself a respectable fan of John Irving’s work. I haven’t read all his stuff, but I’ve read the biggies: A Prayer for Owen Meany, The Hotel New Hampshire, The World According to Garp, The Cider House Rules and Setting Free the Bears. He started out with Setting Free the Bears in 1968 and he was only twenty-six years old. Twenty-six! And it’s a pretty darn good piece of work, if I do say so myself – full of goofy characters and tangent stories that could only evolve from the brain of a young man whose sole purpose was traveling around Austria until he had enough material for a lifetime. I read the book when I was 17. I actually read it aloud and taped myself reading it, so that I could mail the tapes to my then-boyfriend who was on exchange in Japan. (Awwww. Yeah, get over how sweet that is, because dude ended up marrying his Japanese sister.) And I remember bursting out into fits of giggles and periodically having to stop the recorder because I was snorting and kafuffing about so much.

It must have been some burden on Irving, showing that much promise at that young age. He must have been bogged down by the responsibility of having to act the part of the writing ingénue. You know, being the token young writer at all those socials, having to wear tweed jackets everyday, rolling all those anecdotes about New England out for every single cocktail party. Exhausting. It was that sort of tweed-wearing credibility that I envisioned for myself four years ago. Only I substituted Japan for Austria. But I could never summon up the energy required to fix up all the dropped plotlines and the under-developed characters populating the graveyard that is my unfinished manuscript – let alone do the necessary research to make that proposed ending, you know, believable. Yeesh. It makes me tired just thinking about it. And, of course, the thought of facing rejection upon rejection was not something I was ready for. So, the manuscript still lays and waits for me to dig it up. And every once in a while I plot out a new character diagram. And then, more often than I care to admit, I just think about scrapping it all and starting anew with an even more screwed-up story, with even more screwed-up characters. But maybe not.

Maybe later. After Setting Free the Bears, ten years went by before Irving created anything of real substance again. A whole decade lay between Bears and Garp. (And I don’t even like Garp because it was just so damn full of its own bad self, and sometimes Irving likes to cram his books with the disturbing not because it, you know, makes sense for him to do that, but just because he figures he can and that it will get more of a reaction out of the public if he does that. But I do have to admit that, even though I didn’t like it at all, Garp had a hell of a lot more substance behind it than The Water-Method Man, which is kind of annoying thus far.) It’s like with Garp he decided to stop writing characters that were exclusively unlikable. He stopped relying on infidelity as his only device to drive the story. Which, okay, I’ll grant you that Garp did have that one aff– … oh well, you know, there goes that theory. Like I said, I didn’t like Garp. The point being: for a decade Irving was not interesting and not living up to his potential. And you can just feel him withering under the weight of some editor’s cruel deadline schedule. And he was in his late twenties and early thirties, and he was probably quite the jackass at the time. And then came Garp, and then followed Hotel, and then the beautiful character study of Cider House and the crown jewel of in-depth quirk: Owen Meany. From ’78 to ’89, Irving was experiencing a glory period that comes from growing up.

So the point is that the goal is not to be an ingénue. The point is to experiment and grow and work at the craft until the characters gain real depth. And the subplots exist for some purpose, other than that there ought to be some bulk to the story. And the resolution of the whole story feels like it is earned and deserved. Writers in their twenties are just babies. I’m just a baby. And my characters are unlikable and I’m relying on infidelity as a crutch to drive the story! Oh crap. Shame on me. So my fiction shall lie fallow while I populate my corner of the internet with other random babble, in the hopes of gaining that sense of wisdom that only comes with time.

Except…

Except a couple of things. I have a day job. (As, I’ve been told, writers should always have.) And I like my day job. But my day job right now just allows me to exist. It doesn’t afford me the luxury of any spare change to invest in buying a domain name or enrolling in a creative writing course. And it’s nine to five, so it occupies my peak inspiration time, which generally occurs between 11am and 4pm. This was not a problem when I was in Japan, since I worked evenings back then, but evening work that pays the bills and doesn’t bore me to death is scarce around here. And I’d be the only one doing it that way, and that would totally screw up my social schedule. And if advancement is the key to getting that luxurious spare change, well then that comes with a few side effects of its own. Namely – more effort and attention required for the job, longer hours that suck away at my creativity and replace it with mediocre exhaustion.

[Also, it would come with the distraction of having to work with that one guy in the company who is like this big fat Karmic joke on me. Like the universe is laughing and saying “here it is, everything you want in a man, all wrapped up in this cute smart-ass package complete with the smirk you can’t wipe from his face and YOU CAN’T HAVE IT! BECAUSE IT’S TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE and HE’S COMPLETELY UNAVAILABLE ANYWAYS! So just learn to understand that there actually is a difference between ‘bantering’ and ‘flirting.’ And have fun with that needle-in-a-haystack-adventure that is the search for another guy EXACTLY LIKE THIS ONE (whom you can’t have. Nyah. Nyah. Nyah.)” Sometimes I hate the universe.

Last digression over. Promise. How many of those side-bars could I actually write before you all completely lost track of what I was trying to say?]

Being a published author is always just this illusion I’ve had in my head. I’m not even the best writer my family has produced. And god knows we’d all like to see the Adjudicator follow through on his reservoir of potential, but it seems at birth he was not granted the gene for committing to his goals. So I’m left pulling up the rear, figuring that if the Adjudicator isn’t going to ever be able to get to “THE END” then that will be my duty. Except… Yeah, screw the “excepts.” I’ve got a plan.

Jealous in the Ears

I had been assigned a task by a friend of a friend of a friend. Or rather, I had been asked a favour by a friend of a friend of a friend (but I set about it like a task): write a review of his recently released CD. I sat down at my computer, popped the disc into the drive, nestled a pair of earphones up against my head, pressed play, opened up the word processor and waited for the words to flow. Only they didn’t. So I tried it again later. Same progression: computer, disc, earphones, music, keyboard. Aaaaaannnnndddd, nothing. Mrrrrr, pffffff, naaaarrrrrggghh. Blocked. It’s not that the disc was bad, or not my style, or uninspiring. It’s just that the words that came to mind when I listened to it were more about the process of reviewing it and not at all about the music itself. It appears that if the medium doesn’t have a plotline then I have neither the skills nor the vocabulary to critique it. I find this highly frustrating.

Reviewing movies, television, books – not a problem. I write about five recaps a week about television shows, complete with snarky comments, tips for the producers, grammar pointers for the characters, game theory analysis, wardrobe suggestions, inside jokes, commentary on the effects on society, and my own big fat opinion. No problems! (Well, a few problems. 1 – they require a lot more effort than I had at first estimated and 2 – they interfere with my ability to create other thought-provoking and poignant entries on other topics, you know, like Paris Hilton’s sidekick getting hacked!) I mean no problems finding the words to describe what constitutes good, or bad, or a waste of time, or love disguised as hate, or hate disguised as love. But movies, television, books – these mediums all have characters, and timelines, and plot developments and lots of concrete things that I can hook onto and expound upon.

Music, not so much. Unless it’s operatic, like Queen, or Styx, or maybe Meatloaf, it turns out that I am stumped. A music CD is a set of discrete creations that may or may not link together to form a coherent storyline or dialogue. More than often: not. Don’t get me wrong – I love music. I love a plaintive singer/songwriter. I love a thickly layered electronic mix. I love a catchy hook, a well-timed fake ending, a sweeping key-change just as much as the next person. And I can tell you what I think is good (Ray LaMontagne, Hed Kandi, Kelly Clarkson, or Sloane for a start.) I just can’t seem to tell you why. At least not at any great lengths. I would have made a terrible teenager on American Bandstand. “Uh, I like Green Day, but I can’t dance to it.” And so I will have to tell my friend, to tell her friend to tell his friend that I cannot help him out. The task was larger than I.

But speaking of music – I am currently in the throes of a great deal of music envy in general, iPod envy in particular. These little iPods are everywhere now! It’s an iPod invasion. It’s an iPod nation out there! They’re not just up on the billboards, spotted and frozen mid-groove in pink and green and yellow and blue, the pods themselves have actually entered the streets and the subways and the gyms and the parks. People on bikes are wearing them. Business men with briefcases are bopping up Bay St. with them. At my yoga studio, a woman unplugs the iPod earphones from her ears before rolling out her sticky mat. “Pre-meditation tunes,” she says. And I am green with envy!

I want one so bad now that every time I see someone enjoying the benefits of 6 gigabytes of uninterrupted, personally designed playlists I simultaneously feel pain in my chest and butterflies in my stomach. The thought of my whole music collection, completely customized and mixed to my preference, sitting in a handheld device just waiting for me to press “play” thrills me. Imagine: a mix of Ray LaMontagne, Josh Rouse, Mary Lou Lord, Emm Gryner, Sarah Slean and my husband Jason Mraz* for the morning subway ride, just to get my brain functioning. In the evening, mix it up with some Keane and The Shins and maybe even The Killers. Dirty Vegas and Van Dyk for peppy walks through the park. If I ever join a gym again, I could get motivated with Avril or Kelly Clarkson. Or Jennifer Lopez or Britney Spears or Kylie Minogue! (Yes, I like them. Yes, really. I’m serious! Yes, even Jennifer Lopez. Even after the whole Ben Affleck thing. Yes, even Britney. Yes, I know she married a deadbeat, he-capri wearing, classless piece of ****. Yes, I do still like her. Yes, I swear to you I can still sleep at night. No, I’m not ashamed. NO, I won’t apologize!)

The thought that I can’t afford this little piece of heaven breaks my heart.

Apple why have you done this to me? You’ve supplied my demand but priced it completely out of my natural equilibrium! And given the fact that it seems like everybody and their cousin is sporting the contraptions around their necks lately, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to narrow the price gap just for little old me. Let’s make a deal: I’ll give you $40 for one? No? No. Sigh. Okay. I’ll go back to the intermediary technology of my MD player. It’s a gizmo that I love for the fact that it is tiny and the discs hold up to six albums each on them. And they’re completely re-writable. But the problem is this: there are just too many steps involved in maintaining my music collection on MD. I have to go from downloaded MP3 on the computer, to burned CD, to converted MD. That’s three whole steps! In three whole different formats! I’m tripling the memory storage required for my musical data. I’m a huge music hog! The iPod is so much more convenient. And flexible. And cute. And, yeah, right, expensive. That was my point all along.

* In no way is he really my husband.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race 7

There's a lot of eating and barfing and quitting and scheming going on. And I am a fan of none of these things happening on my favourite reality TV show. To find out just how Rob is breaking my heart, check out Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

Bo gets his hair done! For real!

For other thoughts, see the whole wrap-up at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol 4

There's a whole lot of peace, love and mediocrity going on on the big stage over at Idol. Check out Just Ask Sammy for the whole story.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

John is a big fat jerk and his chain wallet makes me wanna laugh so hard I snort milk out my nose.

For more details, check out Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

"Our Gang"? Still at critical mass. Kim? Still unbelievably useless. Angie? Perhaps a prophet. Check out Just Ask Sammy for the whole story.

In Memoriam

His posture was straight and proud; his nose hooked, and his smile very warm. He had pilot’s eyes: sharp, intelligent, understanding. His speech, haunted by something only vaguely Dutch after all these years, seemed metered by a metronome – so precise, so rhythmic. Among the many topics upon which he could expound: patience in golf, woodworking, marine history, the internet, the call of the loon, life in the tidal pools, and the eagle. All of these captured my attention.

He and his family were always on the move. Military. It took them from Trenton to Greenwood, down to California, across the world to Australia, across a pond to Europe, ever in my memory in Halifax, although ultimately on the west coast in British Columbia. I think I may have only seen them just over a dozen times throughout the years, but they are always there as a permanent extended family: V__ and his wife and their two girls.

I remember their cottage, with its square outline and light-coloured timber. I remember the fact that the water there never seemed cold (and I am incurably not fond of cold water.) There was a giant toilet composter the size of a monarch’s throne. Daytime was spent swimming, picking berries and annoying Mr. Grumpy-pants and one of their daughters. Early evening, after dinner, V__ would identify the calls of the birds and his daughter would try to teach me how to make the sound of a loon call. And at night, the sound of V__’s snoring shook the walls of the cottage to their very foundation.

How do you capture the essence of a truly great man? How do you give it words, and which experiences do you use as examples of its existence? Do I tell you about the day I spent with only V__, where he taught me about the internet and took me to Swiss Chalet, all the while treating a twelve year old me as the perfect adult companion for a day? Do I tell you the valuable lesson in patience he tried to impart to Mr. Grumpy-pants out on a western golf course, while I caddied and Grumpy tried not to throw his clubs in the water after a miserable performance? Do I tell you about the hours we spent scouring tidal pools, overturning all the rocks and identifying all the tiny sea urchins and crabs?

How about this: V__ always held his wife's hand wherever they went. V__ always took the opportunity to lovingly tease his daughters until they shrieked for him to stop. V__ always showed you the latest pictures of his grandchildren. V__ always seemed wise and comforting and fatherly to me and Mr. Grumpy-pants, without seeming affecting or condescending. V__ always let you know just what balmy temperature it was out in BC while we wallowed in winter misery back east. He always let you know how many eagles he had spied from his favourite bench, on his favourite beach, while sipping his daily coffee with his wife. And when he got sick, he faced each day with optimism and determination and a love for the great life that he had made.

His daughters, both married with children of their own, often find themselves remarking with affection for their husbands “it’s like I married my father.” We should all be so lucky.

Rest in peace, V__. The eagles I see will always remind me of you.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
--Mary Frye

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

Eleven people are deserving of their spot. Whoever stole my boy's spot, though, better hope that they are curse-resistant!

Check out Just Ask Sammy for my wrap-up of the American Idol Results Show.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race 7

It's the Rob and Amber show over on The Amazing Race as teams race from Peru to Chile. Turns out Rob is both sneaky and smart at the same time. I hate myself for loving him. Check out Just Ask Sammy for my wrap-up.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

The girls are the opposite of "inspirational" over at America Idol. At least they don't give me nightmares like Constantine. Check out Just Ask Sammy for the wrap-up!

What’s Up With the ‘Zsa Zsa Zsu’?

I saw that episode of ‘Sex and the City’ last night – the one where Carrie is all googly-eyed over Berger in the Hamptons at the faux-wedding because he gives her the “zsa zsa zsu”. (A saying which I love and have appropriated into my daily vocabulary.) And before that I had the never-ending conversation with I_____ about the list of requirements in a mate we all have that needs to be satisfied. There’s your standard sense of humour/intelligence/polite criteria that all need to be met. And then there’s the indefinable zsa zsa zsu that makes you feel swept away.

My Non-negotiable list, for the record, is as follows:

1. Intelligence. It can take many forms. He can be book smart, or street smart, or both. But it has to feel like, forty years hence, he’ll still have something to say to me. And I’ll still want to hear it.

2. Sense of humour – of the form “goofy” or “ruthlessly sarcastic.” He doesn’t have to be a complete whore for a laugh, but the occasional purposeful pratfall usually does work on me. And if he’s going to be sarcastic, then he has to include himself in on the joke from time to time, otherwise he will just fall into the category of “mean”, and that’s no good. Oh, and to clarify, for me “sense of humour” does not mean the ability to find something funny. It means that the subject is, himself, funny. I don’t care if he laughs at MY jokes, I can do that for myself. (ba-dum-bum-chh!) He needs to bring original material to the table.

3. Ability to make me feel safe. I don’t know where this one comes from. I think it may be some throw back to hunter-gatherer societies where the men hunted and protected the women, and the women nurtured and healed the men. Whatever. I’d like to think I’m strong and independent and all of those good modern women things. And I am. But if I don’t feel like when a man has his arms wrapped around me that nothing on earth could hurt me, well, then there’s something that’s not being satisfied. I oughta feel safe.

4. I like to group all these tiny little idiosyncrasies of mine into one category. He can’t litter. EVER. He’s got to have the basics of table manners down cold: no hats at the table, chew with your mouth closed and sit up straight. He has to like dogs more than he likes cats. He has to be able to get along really well with at least one member of my immediate family. I know Mom can seem pretty intimidating at first, and Dad is basically American sometimes, and Mr. Grumpy-pants is, well, grumpy, and The Adjudicator has the market cornered on being obnoxious… He doesn’t have to love them all the way that I do, he just has to choose one. He has to have decent grammar, both spoken and written. I’m willing to put up with the “dyslexia” excuse for the occasional whacked-out spelling, so long as he remembers to begin each sentence with a capital and makes an effort for his written work to be pleasantly readable. You may think it’s stupid, but I think it’s important. He also has to be able to put up with reality TV. He doesn’t have to watch it, or even enjoy it, but he must be willing to accept the fact that I always have the TV on and it often showcases fame-whores who want to be on TV just to be on TV. Whining or proclaiming this a sign of the apocalypse is not allowed.

And then there’s #5, which is as close as I can get to defining what gives me the zsa zsa zsu. Not every guy has got it. And not every guy who has it gives me the zsa zsa zsu. But if he’s got the first four covered, then this kind of completes the set.

5. Freckles along the top of a set of nice, broad shoulders. I don’t know why, I just know it works for me.

Some people like big hands. Some people go for good teeth. Some people are all about the abs, or the butt, or the eyes. And sure those things are nice. Hands I’m not too fussy about – so long as they aren’t, you know, girl hands. And sometimes I like a crooked smile even more than a perfect smile because I feel it has more “character” somehow. A nice body is always a good thing, but not so nice that I feel guilty for eating donuts or McDonald’s. And I prefer blue eyes to brown. That’s just the way it is.

There are all these little physical indexes that have to align before you can even get out of the starting gate, and they are different for EVERYBODY. I know a guy who loves it when a girl wears a sporty pony-tail, nice and high on the back of her head so that it bounces when she walks. I know a guy who loses all train of thought when a girl goes by him with long, dark, curly hair. And another proclaims simply to be looking for Natalie Portman – specifically the character she played in “Garden State” (to which I say, good luck.) For some people I know, if you can sing then you’re automatically on the hot list. For me, it’s the shoulders with the freckles. Which is sort of random, I know. I can’t quite explain it, but there you have it.

So now, what gives you the zsa zsa zsu?

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

Some boys are boring. Some are soulless. Some are scary like a horror show. And then some are just so freaking awesome singing Brother Ray that you just want to cry. That is why I watch this show. Check out "Just Ask Sammy" for my take on the latest episode of American Idol.

My Torontiversary

A year has passed since I pulled most of my belongings out of the mothballs of Mr. Grumpy-pants basement, packed them hurriedly, and moved my newly employed keister to the big city. And so, to celebrate, I would like to present a retrospective of my life in Toronto.

March 2004: In which I moved into the third floor and began my new job. The skyscrapers seemed so TALL, and I felt so filled with potential. I decorated my new workspace with a coaster that reads “The Crisis of Today is the Joke of Tomorrow,” and a fake voodoo doll with pins in it. (It’s a conversation piece.) I began riding the TTC every morning. New beginnings are good.

April 2004: In which my friends from Japan officially broke up, altering forever the rest of the year. The snow melted and it began to smell like spring. And I made friends at work. It didn’t take long for the place to feel like home.

May 2004: In which the Leafs did not win the Stanley Cup. But neither did the Flames. YAY! Eat it, Calgary! I found a yoga studio near work and bowed to the god of urban living. And Friends came to an end, but Sammy got in the best quote of the year. “What do you need Friends for? Your whole life is like an episode of Friends – commercial free!”

June 2004: In which I got food poisoning from mussels and threw up all over myself on the street in broad daylight. Not worth repeating.

July 2004: In which an old habit didn’t quite die hard. In which I began playing with fire. In which I decided to refer to everything cryptically… The Voice of Reason left Montreal for Toronto. And Toronto offered me fireworks at Ontario Place on Canada day and discount tickets to the musical Hairspray.

August 2004: In which my new roommate arrived from Australia, kicking off a three-month long non-stop party. And the crazy lady from downstairs moved out and made us sort through her old knickers that got dumped all over our lawn. Long story. Shudder. And Mr. Grumpy-pants announced that he and the missus were expecting.

September 2004: In which the roomie and I snagged an invitation up to the Baron’s cottage and generally made asses of ourselves. This weighs in as the best weekend getaway of the year. Also another roommate moved in and we collectively took over the second and third floor. Painting the living room was HARD WORK.

October 2004: In which I got kicked out of the bar on Halloween. Because I am dumb. Incidentally, not because I was rowdy or overly intoxicated. Just because I am dumb.

November 2004: In which it got cold. Very, very cold. In both the physical and metaphysical sense. So I began to hibernate. In which Toronto offered me speed-dating, and a discount shopping experience at Roots. (I bought something for Li’l Grumpy.)

December 2004: In which Christmas didn’t quite go as planned. And in which I decided to get a puppy, because it will give me lots more comedy material! I live out the rest of the months of 2005 knowing that my freedoms are about to be severely limited by the pee-schedule of my future shi-tzu. Adulthood, here I come.

January 2005: In which I turned 28. And my co-worker left for paternity leave. I miss him. And roommie announced impending departure. And the Voice of Reason agreed to replace her. So soon we’ll be kicking it, old-school-475-style! And somewhere in there I think I started a blog.

February 2005: In which my nephew, Li’l Grumpy was born completely perfect in every way. Also, in which I beat The Adjudicator at the annual Oscar bet, and won a year’s worth of bragging rights and an evening at the Shaw or Stratford Festival.

Overall, a great year that leaves me looking forward to the next one. A new nephew, a new set of roommates and a new puppy await me this year. That seems like plenty already to wax about. Spring is temporarily in the air today, and there’s something very fitting about that.

Reality Wrap-up - The Apprentice

My take on all the DRAMA going on in The Apprentice 3. Shut UP Donald Trump!

Just Thank Sammy

I've started up a Reality Wrap-up Blog over at justasksammy.com. On the left-hand sidebar, click on Jenn's Blogs to take a look at what I think about the latest episode of Survivor Palau. I'll also be doing wrap-ups about The Apprentice, The Amazing Race, and American Idol. Damn, I'm ambitious! Thanks to Sam for giving me more ranting space than I already have!

Adding To the Family

There’s nothing quite like holding a newborn in your arms. You get to cradle a fully-formed mini human being in your arms. They have all ten fingers and all ten toes, each with itty-bitty little finger- and toenails. They have a little bit of fluffy hair on their heads (or on their ears, but that will go away soon enough.) They have those perfect little baby noses, and those cute little baby mouths. They have those baby blue eyes, which don’t quite know how to work together so when they open them to try and get a look at who is holding them they go a little cross-eyed. They wiggle and squirm without any real purpose, other than their basic reaction to stimuli. They can’t even fully straighten their arms or legs yet. And they smell like baby. And that is just an indescribable smell that ought to be bottled and sold for a fortune because it is beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you babies smell like sour milk and poop. Babies. Smell. Awesome.

It’s enough to make you want one right away. Ha. Or not. No, I didn’t have any immediate urges to procreate when I held my newborn nephew. But I did have the thought that one of my own might be nice, someday. Such are my vague conclusions about possible eventual motherhood.

But holding Li’l Grumpy is a real treat. I’ve decided on “Li’l Grumpy” as the most appropriate nickname for the fellow. Together with Mr. and Mrs., they make a whole Grumpy-pants family. Not that Li’l Grumpy was particularly grumpy. In fact, over the four days I spent with the new family, Li’l Grumpy grumped less than Mr. Grumpy-pants in total. (“Don’t touch that button!” “Pay attention when I’m telling you how to do these things!” “Who moved my over-sized barbeque spatula?” “No we don’t have any Diet Pepsi in the house! Nobody here drinks Diet Pepsi. GEEZ!!”) Li’l Grumpy is, in fact, at this stage a pretty fantastic baby. He sleeps for long periods of time, wakes up when he’s hungry, grumps a bit before feeding, grumps a lot when his diaper is changed and then usually peacefully falls off to sleep for more hours at a time. Not a bad way to live.

And Grumpy Jr. looks exactly like Grumpy Sr. looked when he was a baby. My dad went through his photo archives to pull up Mr. Grumpy-pants old baby photos, and the resemblance is remarkable. They look exactly the same through the eyes, nose and mouth. I would normally at this point insert a sarcastic jibe about how sorry I am that Li’l Grumpy is going to look like my brother – the poor thing – but I’m still in the midst of gushing about how beautiful a baby he is, so maybe I will save that for when the tyke hits the awkward teenage years. Li’l Grumpy’s ears seem to have come from his mom, and we’re all thankful for that. Ears on our side of the family are ill-proportioned, enormous affairs with giant earlobes that, much like shark teeth, never stop growing. So Li’l Grumpy definitely got lucky in the genetic lottery on that one.

Mr. and Mrs. Grumpy-pants are quite the doting parents. And it is a joy for me to see the look in Mr. Grumpy’s eyes when he looks down at his son while burping him and talks to him. “The nurses thump you harder on the back to get you to burp, but Dad’s not quite that comfortable right now. Yes, Dad still thinks you’re fragile.” A-dor-a-ble!

I also love to hear the proud parents say things like “Oh, he always sleeps like that,” or “Oh, he never wants to wake up,” and such. Because I thought “always” and “never” seem like such funny terms to use when you’re talking about a baby that’s only been able to breathe independently for forty-eight hours. And then I thought that if anybody were to know what Li’l Grumpy always and never does, it’s his parents. They were there to usher the babe into existence. And since then it’s like they have been cataloguing his every ability, preference, reaction and personality quirk. So then the terms just seemed so fitting. A-dor-a-ble!

Right now, Li’l Grumpy sleeps all swaddled up in a blanket. But he’s a good little wiggler and no matter how tight you swaddle him, he will always get his arms free. And then he will sleep with his arms raised above his wee head and Mr. Grumpy-pants will look at him and smile and say “He looks like a hockey player already. Just look at him with his arms in the air like he’s just scored a goal. GOAL!” A-dor-a-ble!

The first week of his life is almost entirely under Li’l Grumpy’s belt now. And there’s a whole future waiting ahead of him. He has mastered sleeping, crying, eating and pooping. He can already hold his head up on his own for a little while, and voluntarily turn it from side to side. And he can roll himself up onto one side already, but he can’t quite flip all the way over on his own. Soon enough he’ll be rolling and crawling, and trying out new foods, and then walking and running on his own, tying his own shoes, learning to read and write, learning to skate and putt. He’ll learn how to ride a three-wheeler. And then a two-wheeler. And then he’ll learn how to play kissing-tag. And soon he’ll be learning how to drive a real car. And getting to vote. And he’ll go off to school and learn how to derive differential equations and defend unifying theorems and he’ll read Shakespeare, Whitman, and Fitzgerald. It’s really not a bad way to live.