Don't Touch the Feet

Cuba Diaries

2006-02-05T18:22:00.000-05:00

Monday

It always astounds me how my prose leaves me on vacation. I cannot find the words to describe the little moments, the vignettes, of the beach in Varadero—

the little blonde girl, about five years old with curly hair who frolics naked on the beach and builds a sandcastle with her father,

the bumbling old man, knuckles to the ground, grumping about in his Speedo,

the small pleasure crafts and amateur windsurfs that dot the water before the horizon,

the spongey Latino man in hot pants who holds his arms away from his sides like a human peacock, claiming territory…

All of these are before me as I decompress into vacation-mode on the beach. And I know that none of these moments are authentically Cuban. These are all tourists. I know soon my heart and my feet will long to find the authentic Cuban experience. But this phase, this decompression, is necessary to bring me to that meditative Caribbean state of mind. When I am ready, I will find Cuba.

Wednesday

The gardener’s name is J-L. Yesterday he played peek-a-boo with me from behind the shrubs of the front lawn while the girls and I waited for a bus to take us to swim with the dolphins. Today, he gave me flowers.

Thursday

Last night, dressed all in white with the gardener’s flowers in my hair, I went to Mambo Club with the girls and J-L. His arms are solid and his skin is smooth. He smells of Cuba: sea salt and sweet, unlit tobacco.

Saturday

J-L sits on the edge of my bed and stares rapt at the television, almost childlike. I curl myself behind him and just observe how happy he is to watch ESPN – soccer and basketball. He doesn’t like baseball. Perhaps they just tell the tourists that all Cubans love baseball because it’s become part of the romanticism of the island. Every once in a while I let a hand glide gently over his back.

On commercial breaks, he turns back to me and kisses me and I giggle happily. I ask him if he has a television at home. He says yes, but Cuban television is boring – no sports, no movies.

When a commercial for a movie comes on, he turns his attention to the screen. The commercial is in English and it’s for Jodie Foster’s movie from last year, available now on DVD.

J-L makes a face of disgust and kind of half-heartedly throws his arms in the air. “Ugh, DVD,” he says and frowns. He asks me if I have a DVD player. I nod. I don’t have the heart to tell him we have three in the house.

Later in my readings I find that a few years back, VCRs and the like were banned entry at customs by the government. This is a part of the Cuba that the gardener lives in every day.

Sunday

The guide on the bus to the resort seven days ago specifically told us that Varadero was not Cuba, and that if we wanted to see Cuba we should really go to Havana.

But on the bus tour in Havana we are given half an hour at the Capitolio – a grandiose parliament building that really hasn’t been used since the Revolution. We’re given only five minutes in Revolution Square, where we are not even allowed to cross the road and stand at the steps where Castro addresses Cuba. And we are given fifteen minutes at a cemetery that holds no real Cuban life. We don’t even get to stop at the Granma to see the boat Fidel and Ché stormed the beaches in. Later that night at the Tropicana, I look around and know there are no Cubans watching in the audience. And really, since the cabaret opened in 1939, have there ever been?

I still don’t feel like the day trip to Havana let me experience Cuba. I feel like they held my hand and pointed me in the prettiest direction for short periods of time and cut me off before I got a chance to let the important questions even occur to me.

And maybe that realization that I have not been allowed to know everything is my authentic Cuban experience. Here’s what it feels like to me. It feels like Fidel was in love with Ché Guevara (consciously, subconsciously, pseudo-consciously, I don’t know…) Together they battled to wrest Cuba from the hands of the dictator Batista. Hand in hand they ousted Batista, the Americans, and tried to mould the island into a utopian socialist society where everyone was equal and no one climbed the backs of other Cubans to rise above. And when Ché died after he left Cuba to bring socialism to the rest of South America, Fidel was devastated.

It feels like Fidel made a promise to a dead man that he loved to carry out his ideals, no matter what, until the day he died.

So that’s what he continues to do. Despite the trade embargo. Despite the fall of the Soviet Union. Despite the collapse of the Cuban economy. Despite the dual currency the island has had to adopt. Despite the black market, and the information explosion, and the fact that most Cubans seem to want better for themselves and for their families and for their neighbours. Fidel made a promise to Ché, and he will keep it until he dies.

And so my first trip to Cuba is filled with moments of tourist apartheid. But there are things I am grateful for: the moments stolen with the gardener. The fresh flowers, the dancing, the kisses in the quadrant, the jokes we both laughed at despite the tremendous language barrier, the immense generosity of his birthday gifts to me, and the letter he wrote that I’ve read hundreds of times over already. These are what I take home with me of authentic Cuba.

And I will be back.

Politics on the Brain

2006-01-19T22:10:00.000-05:00

The Canadian federal election is on January 23rd, 2006. Because I will be in Cuba (whoo!) on that date, I had to vote on Monday in the advanced polls. I love voting. I’ve never missed a vote. I like the mini-golf pencils, and how the Elections Canada staff are so polite and happy to see me, and I love reading the unknown candidates names (hmmm, who is this “Bob” from the Marxist-Leninist party?) I like the simple feeling of empowerment I get from putting an X in a circle, folding up my secret ballot and stuffing it in the ballot box. But this time around, I could not get jazzed up about the whole ordeal. Not jazzed up. More like crazy, loathing, disbelieving and irate. For a lot of reasons.

Reason the first: the last federal election was only 565 days ago! It elected Paul Martin’s minority Liberal government. The balance of power split between Stephen Harper’s Conservatives, Gilles Duceppe’s Bloc and Jack Layton’s NDP. And all the leaders promised they’d play nice in the sandbox and get down to the business of, you know, governing. It took two votes of non-confidence to dissolve parliament. And I get the feeling that that had been the plan all along. A minority government that won’t form a coalition is doomed to be defeated. Not in the best interests of its citizens, but in a mad grab at more power. As Liberal support wanes and the public’s patience wears thin with all this Gomery sponsorship madness, Harper and Layton rub their hands together all Mr. Burns “excellent”, carrion waiting for a feast in death. The 2004 election cost $277.8 million. How much do you suppose this Harper ego-stroke is going to cost?

Reason the second: nothing has changed. No major party has elected a new leader. We’re just re-running Martin vs. Harper with Layton pounding his fist insisting that there is another option and Duceppe yawning in the background knowing his exclusive Quebec electorate will put him back on the government pension plan. Even if we shuffle up the house of cards that is the 308 seats of the Commons we’re still getting the same people, the same parties, the same platforms. I know that the pollsters are all gangbusters on reporting an imminent majority government, but I don’t see that happening. The Conservatives may make up enough ground to buy themselves a minority government, but with no real change in the MPs making up the Commons how do we expect these people to get along long enough to govern? They won’t! They hate each other! The Conservatives are even less likely than the fat-cat Liberals to find another party to form a coalition with. The Bloc and Conservatives might agree that Quebec has no business in Canada, but the Bloc’s politics outside separatism are so off-the-scale-socialist that it’d be outrageous to think of Bloc MPs helping to pass Conservative cutbacks. More than likely Martin would go groveling to Layton to form that Coalition he should have formed last year and a non-confidence vote would topple the Conservatives in short order. Can you imagine the public outrage?

Here’s the problem. I hate Stephen Harper. I think he’s creepy. I think his blood bleeds deeply Reform. Alberta is Canada’s own red state. Call me a traditionalist, but Canadian Prime Ministers ought to have their home ridings in Quebec like decent folk! You can’t trust a Westerner! Trust me, I’ve lived there. They’re weird. The Conservatives would make an issue of gay marriage, gay rights, a woman’s right to choose, complying with the United States’ paranoid anti-terrorist sentiments. They’d cut back social programs that help out our poor and infirm to support tax cuts for the upper-middle class. They’d bring religion back into our House of Commons and back into our classrooms. Next thing you know, our children would be studying intelligent-effing-design. Listen, I don’t have a problem with people of faith at all; I have a problem with people of unbending dogma. I have a problem with society moving backwards. It’s the hallmark of the fall of an empire. Sitting at a table with four of my enlightened friends I was shocked (shocked!) when three of them piped up for voting Conservative. I understand the choice is difficult. I’m going on for pages and pages about how difficult the choice is. But to vote Conservative? Sorry. It’s against my religion to eat my own soul.

But I can’t vote for Gilles and the Bloc, and I think it’s patently unfair that Quebec gets to take a pass on participating in the federal elections with the very existence of a uniquely Quebecois party. I maintain that it’s the Bloc’s fault Canadian politics have become so regionally divisive. Quebec: you have seventy-five seats in the House of Commons. We know you don’t really want to separate anymore. We recognize that you are unique within our country. Show up for Canada already!

And then there’s Layton, the abrupt man who is ruthlessly on message: you have another choice. Although I think Layton has made great strides for the NDP, the orange party remains third in the country’s consciousness. They’re kind of like the check in our system of checks and balances – ensuring the governing party doesn’t forget about the little guy. I like the NDP. I just think they are more effective in a supporting role.

Unfortunately, I’m also not a big fan of Paul Martin. And not entirely because of the sponsorship scandal, either. I don’t like the fact that he bullied Jean Chretien out of office for his own personal ambitions. I suppose I should respect that sort of tenacity, because Chretien’s not the kind of guy you want to get in a street fight with, but I don’t like the way Martin went about becoming the next Prime Minister of Canada. I don’t like how he then ran all of Chretien’s friends out of the party. I’m still bitter over Lyle Vanclief’s decision not to run in my hometown riding in 2004. Seems he didn’t feel welcome in a Martin caucus. Martin is ineloquent and perpetually nervous on camera. He’s done everything to shake the shadow of the sponsorship scandal – complied with independent inquiries, fired old cronies left right and center – but he just can’t escape the fact that the Liberals have been in power for thirteen years and the sentiment out there is that absolute power corrupts absolutely. It annoys me that the party needs to lie fallow to redeem itself. No other party’s platform matches my point of view quite like the Liberal’s. No other party comes as close to defining what I think it means to be Canadian. When a friend of mine set his msn screen name to “Abuse of power should not be rewarded when voting” it made me madder than a rabid pit bull being hit with a stick. Oh, golly! Thank you sir for simplifying the matter for me! I see it all so clearly now that you’ve set me on the straight and narrow path! You insipid foppish nightmare! You prancing self-righteous cad! It’s not that I don’t in some ways agree with his sentiment. But the problem as I see it isn’t so much an abuse of power as a lack of viable leadership.

None of these party leaders are charismatic, compelling, trustworthy, visionary. None of them are leaders. I’d have voted Rhino if I could have, but changes to the rules for candidacy in 1993 killed the party.

So I did what I had to on Monday: I spoiled my ballot in protest.

And until the Trudeau boys ascend to claim their legacy, I may just keep on protesting.

Brokeback Mountain and Third-Person Sanity

2006-01-09T18:38:00.000-05:00

The roomies and I went to see Brokeback Mountain on the weekend, and I was going to do this up as a general film critic blurb for Happy Feet Movies, but then it got all tangled up in some critical-thinking, self-analysis, third-person-sanity, first-person-insanity thing I’ve got going on inside me, so now it gets the proper full entry treatment.

First of all: the movie.

The Voice of Reason said she expected more. After plenty of hemming and hawing as to “more what?” precisely she meant (more gay? more graphic? more epic? more ground-breaking? what more than Jake and Heath making out do you want woman??) we all settled on this: The Voice of Reason expected more angst. And I’ll tell you, I was surprised because I felt the angst.

Brokeback Mountain is what it is: a slow-moving character piece that tries to stab the audience through its emotional heart with as few histrionics as possible. It is soft and subtle (Sean Penn and Russell Crowe need not apply.) Heath Ledger has to get his point across with wrinkled eyes and tough worker’s hands and the slightest of smiles. He doesn’t have a lot of dialogue to lay it all out for you. Even the showier character, Jake Gyllenhaal’s Jack Twist, has to hold it all back for the better part of the movie in the presence of the ever-removed Ennis Del Mar. The movie arcs quietly to its conclusion and it won’t hold your hand to get there. In fact, it almost asks you not to shed a tear for these two. They made their choices given the constraints of their world. You’re not there to sympathize. You’re there to plainly witness.

Brokeback Mountain is similar to last year’s Million Dollar Baby in this respect. It only wishes to tell a story about its characters. It does not wish to be controversial in and of itself. But like Million Dollar Baby and its coincidental discussion of life rights, Brokeback will inevitably bring out a discussion of homosexual rights. But Brokeback isn’t about homosexuality. Only the fearful and uneducated will make that assumption.

The real core of Brokeback Mountain is the choice the two cowboys are presented with. As star-crossed lovers they can accept that there is no choice but to live without each other, or they can sacrifice their whole lives to be with each other. Such is the crossroads all ill-fated lovers come to. One of the men is desperate to leave it all behind – the wife, the children, the myriad responsibilities – for the love that woke up one morning on Brokeback Mountain. The other cannot fathom it.

And neither option is perfect. Neither is correct. Neither is morally superior to the other. Neither brings with it the guarantee of elation. Of this, I am the expert of generations of knowledge. If you choose love, you guarantee the resentment of others. The wife, the family, the myriad responsibilities will all look upon your choice as abandonment. If you choose to abstain, you guarantee your own resentment of the life that becomes yours by default. What’s more important: your happiness, or the happiness of those to whom you are beholden?

It’s that feeling that life is not a fairy tale with happy endings that hit a tuning fork inside me. You can decide to be Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor and throw all caution to the wind, or you can decide to be Spencer Tracey and Katherine Hepburn and keep it quiet for propriety’s sake, but either way there’s the possibility you might be screwed. It’s the reason I’ve been playing Rilo Kiley non-stop on NanoBob, and it’s the reason I drown in a river of tears and kleenex when I hear Meredith say “pick me” to Dr. McDreamy on Grey’s Anatomy. And it’s kind of icky and absurd and as a third-person observer of myself I can see that. But as a first-person being myself I can’t quite make it stop, and if it did stop I’d feel like that was the last stop ever.

That’s why I felt the angst of Brokeback Mountain. When Jack Twist’s life of frustration led him to yell “Why can’t I quit you, Ennis?” Oh boy, I felt it. When Ennis replied that his life was nothing because of Jack, I felt it. They loved each other and they could neither move forward nor backward from that point. They couldn’t be in a place where that love never existed and they couldn’t be in a place where that love could exist. Brokeback Mountain is that tragedy at its finest.

My Remote Control - Shocker

2005-12-03T12:20:00.000-05:00

"I’m guessing that Duncan assumes it’s his child, given that he’s been pining away at the door of her intensive care unit for months now. But I… just don’t think it’s Duncan’s. Nothing in Neptune is that simple."

Settle into the couch and read more here...

The Nightly Routine

2005-11-28T22:26:00.000-05:00

11:00 Put Ned out.

11:01 Tell Ned not to pee on neighbour’s lawn.

11:02 Tell Ned not to chase passerby.

11:03 Tell Ned not to pee on neighbour’s lawn.

11:04 Tell Ned to hurry up.

11:05 Tell Ned not to pee on neighbour’s lawn.

11:06 Ask Ned nicely to hurry up.

11:07 Shake numb fingers and yell at dog to hurry up.

11:08 Watch Ned run laps on the front lawn at breakneck speed.

11:09 Inform dog that he is a shih-tzu, not a greyhound, and that not even the most naïve of gamblers bets on the toy dog to show.

11:10 Console disillusioned race-puppy.

11:11 Usher dog inside.

11:11:04 Prevent dog from scrambling up the stairs to the apartment all wet.

11:11:15 Trip over dog.

11:11:45 Snag dog by hind leg before he scampers up the stairs all wet.

11:12 Dog kisses.

11:13 Dirty paw prints on pajamas.

11:15-11:18 Play peek-a-boo with doggie towel and Shih-tzu.

11:18:10 Apologize for embarrassing dog with baby talk.

11:18:15 Take vitamins before bed.

11:20-11:25 Attempt to teach dog to shake a paw with doggie treats.

11:26 Dog unwittingly succeeds at “roll over” instead.

11:27 Abandon “shake a paw”, attempt “roll over” again.

11:35 Seven doggie treats later, “roll over” proves unrepeatable.

11:36 Inform dog of the dangers of gluttony. Wag finger treacherously.

11:37 Bed time.

11:40 Lights out.

11:41 Growl at dog to stop chasing his tail while on the bed.

11:42 Kick dog off bed until he stops chasing his tail.

11:43-11:54 Dog attempts bed re-entry. Pick up dog and dump him on the floor. Repeat times one hundred.

11:55 Sigh and give up. Let dog back on bed. Administer stern warning that bedtime means sleep time.

11:59 Smile as dog nuzzles chin.

12:04 Dear GOD NO MORE PUPPY KISSES! GO TO SLEEP!

12:06 Remove dog from chin and place at foot of bed. Kiss dog goodnight.

12:18 Sleep.

My Remote Control - They're All Criminals

2005-11-26T11:52:00.000-05:00

"Meredith has (another) one-night stand on Grey’s Anatomy."

Settle into the couch and read more here...

My Remote Control - I Hate Sweeps

2005-11-19T13:36:00.000-05:00

"Watching Bree get herself messed up even further with George on Desperate Housewives is giving me post-traumatic stress disorder."

Settle into the couch and read more here...

On Air

2005-11-18T11:26:00.000-05:00

When I was nine I had a crush on the most beautiful boy in my class. He had big blue eyes and fair, fair skin and cool spikey hair and I wanted to marry him. Unfortunately for me, he was what I categorized a Class “A” boy, and I was only a Class “B” girl and going steady in elementary school is a rigid caste system to say the least. The ace up my sleeve was the girl who lived next door, a classmate and friend of mine and a certifiable Class “A” girl. What I figured was that if I hung around her enough – which was no problem because I genuinely liked the girl; she was way more fun than me – then she’d naturally elevate my popularity food chain status and the beautiful boy would fall in love with me forever and ever amen. Of course going steady at age nine simply meant two kids standing awkwardly next to each other at recess while the girl attempted batting her eyelashes for the first time, and the guy attempted shuffling his feet in an aww-shucks manner, and both of the children looked fearfully to their friends for judgment or acceptance, and their friends just kept on playing kissing tag or Red Rover or British bulldog whilst trying to remain blissfully unaware that OH MY GOD A BOY IS STANDING NEXT TO A GIRL OVER THERE!

One day the girl next door convinced me that it would be cool to call into the local radio station and see if we could request a love song on the all-request hour Eight O’Clock Rock. She had a sweetie and she knew I had a crush on the beautiful boy, so we could make a dedication. She picked the song and at seven o’clock sharp I picked up the phone and started dialing to see if I could get on the air.

The DJ picked up the line on my first attempt. It was that easy! I couldn’t believe it. I was prepared to have to dial the whole hour through. I giggled and squirmed in my seat as he asked me for the dedication. “Can you play Broken Wings by Mister Mister and dedicate it to Stephen from Karen and to Jamie from a Secret Admirer?” I was so wily! The beautiful boy would never figure out my “Secret Admirer” handle!

And then the DJ engaged me in a bit of conversation about why I wanted to hide my identity, where I went to school and what grade I was in. I dodged his questions to the best of my young ability and flushed pink at the thought of being found out by the beautiful boy. That would be the most horrifying of horrors – oh the public humiliation of exposed unrequited puppy love! I begged the DJ not to hang me from the proverbial flagpole and he laughed kindly and said okay, he’d play my song for me. I breathed a sigh of relief and let my guards down. Before I hung up the phone, the DJ asked me “I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was again?”

“Jennifer.”

Waaaaiiit a minute, I’ve… -- been… -- TRICKED!

I squealed like a little girl and slammed down the phone.

And then? Panic! Hate! Stupid DJ! How could he do that? How could he ruin me? I was ruined! RUINED! I could never show my face on the playground. Everyone would laugh at me. I ran to the couch, sobbing, grabbed a blanket and hid under it. My mom came over to ask me what was wrong. I choked out some response about having to go into witness protection and get awful plastic surgery so that no one would recognize me. And then, my mom laughed at me: the same entertained little chuckle the DJ had laughed at me while I squealed torturously. And she patted my head lovingly and told me maybe they wouldn’t air it on the radio anyway.

Only I had no such luck. The squealing secret admirer (aka Jennifer) kicked off the most-listened to hour of radio in Belleville. And I spent the next day at school feeling as if I was twisting in the wind, avoiding eye contact, and running out of the school the moment the bell rang. Oh the horror of it all! There is nothing more embarrassing than a vulnerability parade.

Jamie never did fall in love with me and marry me. But a day or so later, Stephen did ask me why I was so embarrassed. When I told him about my enduring love and the radio city disaster, he said that sooner or later everybody would forget about it. And eventually, after they’d had an indulging little chuckle about it, everybody did.

Everybody except Mister Mister and his broken wings. I still have to change the station when I hear it come on the radio.

My Remote Control - Coming and Going

2005-11-12T11:37:00.000-05:00

"Not only that, but they’ve shelved Kitchen Confidential as well. I think it’s strongly-worded-letter-time."

Settle into the couch and read more here.

My Remote Control - Sex, Death and Resurrection

2005-11-05T17:55:00.000-05:00

I'm changing up the format of the television column at Just Ask Sammy, and I've also decided that TV should have its own wing in my virtual world here at Don't Touch the Feet. Welcome to the first installment of my television column called "My Remote Control" where I'll take a look at what's going on and what's coming up in all my favourite shows. As always, don't be scared to let me know what you think! But please don't ask me to add a show that you love to my current roster. I've lost enough of my life as it is to television!

"Don’t despair yet fans, the meek still have the opportunity to inherit the Aztec pyramid."

Settle into the couch and read more here...

And How Have You Been?

2005-10-28T18:04:00.000-04:00

Okay, after a much-prolonged hiatus, I’m back. Actually, I’ve been thinking about writing something forever. It wasn’t that there was a lack of material, rather there was too much to choose from. I’ve been suffering from overload paralysis. Too much going on! Should I focus the acupuncture I’ve been getting? My new iPod? [I call him NanoBob.] My five-year Homecoming? The digital cable and PVR and my subsequent new TV boyfriends? (mmmmm, Logan Echolls…) The vitamin regimen that has me peeing radioactive yellow every six and a half minutes? The fact that I got laid off by nitwits? Or the fact that I love my new job? After much thought, I’m going to go with the last one.

(Long story short: I got laid off at the beginning of September. Thirteen days later I got my new awesome job in project management for an engineering design firm. I love the universe.)

Top 10 Reasons I Love My New Awesome Job

10. Free cookies in the kitchen. And not just any cookies, either. The vanilla Oreos that are ripoffs of the oh-so-delicious Girl Guide cookies. My favourite non-homemade cookies EVER! I eat, like, six a day. Is that wrong?

9. In fact, I love the whole kitchen at the new place. The kitchen at the old crappy job was the size of a broom closet and you couldn’t use the toaster oven and the microwave at the same time without blowing a fuse. At the new awesome job, there are couches and stools to relax at, two microwaves, a dishwasher, cupboards full of cutlery and dishes (which, by the way, match my acupuncturist’s!) AND a fridge full of Coke! A-COLA! Can you hear my angels singing?

8. Hot water in the washroom. At the old crappy job the tap water in the washrooms was frigid. And only one soap dispenser worked. And somebody was always hogging up the good sink with dishes, or toothbrushing, or something that was better reserved for the home time. God! The washrooms at the new awesome job have hot water. And not wait-a-few-minutes-for-it-to-warm-up-hot-water, either! No. At the new awesome job, you turn on the tap and presto! Water at the perfect temperature! It’s like peeing at a hair salon!

7. My co-workers use words like “coplanarity”. And they know what it means.

6. The streetcar commute. Remember when I said I thought that streetcars were a lower former of transportation? Yeah, I was so wrong. Streetcars are awesome. (At the old crappy job,) I used to have to take the cram-jam-sardine-packed subway all the way downtown. I never got a seat. I inevitably got someone’s backpack stuffed in my face, or someone’s elbow in my kidney, or some pervert’s hand hovering ‘accidentally’ someplace it shouldn’t have been. At my new awesome job, I hop on a virtually empty streetcar, grab a seat, turn on my iPod to the Veronica Mars soundtrack, and fifteen minutes later the streetcar drops me off almost right in front of the office. FIFTEEN MINUTES!

5. My new workspace. Old crappy job? I propped up my monitor with a phone book and stole my chair from the messengers. I also had to wait four months before a real divider on my cubicle was delivered. So I spent four months just hanging out in the aisle, basically. It sucked. New awesome job? Everything’s adjustable and the chairs are soooooo comfy! And my workspace is right by a ginormous window that looks out on the Gardiner Expressway, Exhibition grounds and Ontario Place. Not to mention that the ceilings are about a brillion feet high and the walls are all exposed brick. This place is gorgeous.

4. Sometimes, I get to wear steel-toed boots. Nothing makes you feel tougher.

3. I have my own whiteboard. I love my whiteboard. I can’t even tell you why. It’s just one of those things I love – like animal-printed socks, or pickled beets, or when Ned the dog attacks my foot for twenty minutes without interruption and he’s got this crazy wild look on his face and I can see the whites of his eyes. That’s how I love my whiteboard.

2. No sexual harassment. WORD.

1. Mostly (and I’m about to get sentimental here, so prepare your “awwwww”s,) I just love the fact that my boss is two feet away from me. And he reminds me of my favourite professor from university – the one who looked like a Keebler elf and used to hop up onto the tables at the back of the classroom just to see what everything looked like from a student’s perspective. I love the fact that my boss checks in with me to make sure that I’m happy and that I have lots of interesting things to keep me busy. I love the fact that he puts his weight behind all these new systems I’m working hard to design. I love the fact that just two days into the job, I already felt like I was accomplishing something. I am appreciated here. And I love the fact that most days I look at the clock and realize it’s past time when I ought to go home – not because I’m bored of working, not because there’s no work for me to do, but simply because my dog’s bladder will burst if I don’t get home and let him out.

Seriously guys? I love my new job.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Guatemala

2005-10-25T19:13:00.000-04:00

Note to Blake - this episode was brought to you by the concept of DISCRETION.

Learn the lesson at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Guatemala

2005-10-18T20:45:00.000-04:00

SHUT UP JUDD!

More verbal abuse at Just Ask Sammy.

Into the Blue

2005-10-11T20:44:00.000-04:00

Bottom line, it's just not fair to have to compare my body to that of Jessica Alba's.

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race Family Edition

2005-10-11T20:32:00.000-04:00

What's more obnoxious - a son who constantly yells at his mother, or a father who blames his son for his mistakes?

It's a close call at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Guatemala

2005-10-06T18:36:00.000-04:00

In which no one wrestles with, or loses a limb to any crocodile or alligator.

More disappointment at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race Family Edition

2005-10-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

Forty players on the field. And one of them looks and acts suspiciously like Dakota Fanning. Hmmmm....

More conspiracy theory at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Guatemala

2005-09-28T14:04:00.000-04:00

Vultures get your fix at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Guatemala

2005-09-16T16:00:00.000-04:00

I'm baaaaaaaaaack! (And also I'm a little drunk, so the details are fuzzy.)

More cocktails and barf (unfortunately) at Just Ask Sammy.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

2005-09-02T17:02:00.000-04:00

So... believe the hype, it is as good as everyone says.

Read more here...

The 40 Year-Old Virgin

2005-09-02T17:01:00.000-04:00

Thank you Seth Rogan for... being awesome.

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The Aristocrats

2005-09-02T17:00:00.000-04:00

WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT

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A Little Bit of Everything

2005-09-01T17:00:00.000-04:00

It’s been one of those days. It’s been a day where my mood has been high as a kite and my wit has been pretty zingy (if I do say so myself,) and I can bust through stuff without letting it get me down. It’s also been one of those days where emails about random nothingness and funny forwards and “damn, you guys have got to read this article” have been flying back and forth between me and my girls at a frightening pace, such that ten minutes of “hmmmm… nothing yet” seems like an expanse of nothingness that could make me wonder if maybe something had happened to them out in the universe.

You guys all right? Okay. I know it’s only been twelve minutes. I’m just… checking.

(Also, I have spent a decent amount of afternoon time cruising the Tomato Nation archives and drinking Coke, so? Kind of twitchy, is all.) That said, I present to you, “A Little Bit of Everything”.

1. On the way to the subway station from my place there is an eternal puddle. I’m not quite sure what’s leaking because I can’t see water actually flowing from anywhere, but not one day of this heat-scorching summer has this puddle been dry, so it’s gotta be a leak from somewhere. That said, my dog will not walk through said puddle. He actually hops up onto the staircase to the beauty salon in front of the puddle lest he chance wetting his furry paws. It’s embarrassing. Princess!

2. While we’re on the subject of my dog Ned, can I just mention how I never fully realized what thick skin you have to have to be the owner of a “little dog”? I grew up with Golden Retrievers, folks. I have all the sensibilities of a “big dog” owner. I did not realize that if your dog will never even remotely approach the 70-lb-big-dog-weight-threshold then you’re going to have to endure some ridicule. No, sorry, not “some” ridicule – more like constant ridicule. Suddenly, every joke is about Ned being a canine Nerfball. Everything’s a punting joke! And please don’t tell my dog he’s “not a real dog” – he can hear you!

3. I spent no less than thirty days ruminating on what a reply to Dad should convey. Dad, in kind, reacts at a breakneck speed of just ninety-eight minutes with well, less than encouragement, okay? Thanks for giving it some thought, Dad! Oh shit, he reads this stuff… Maybe I should edit that to make it sound nicer. Hell, it’s my site! He’ll just have to be tough. Yeah, but he’s not tough. Oh, shit, he’s going to read that too. Oh well, let’s just call this “my quick reaction” and be done with it. At least it’ll get some laughs. Maybe? Crickets? Umm… anyway…

4. Ever wanted to contact an ex just to confirm that, you know, you were actually good in bed? Is that insecure? I’m not saying I’m going to do it, but the thought has occurred to me. “Hey, Heroin, the fact that half the time we couldn’t even make it to the bedroom means that the sex was good for both of us, right?” Of course, there is only one possible answer to the “I was good in bed, right?” question. Don’t think, just answer. Whatever, I’m awesome.

5. Anybody watching Rockstar: INXS? Yeah, I know, too much talent, not enough drama. And sequel possibility? Could INXS have a rotating-door of cattle-call driven and internet-vote-whittled down lead singers in their future? Not so sure it’d be about the music if it got to that point. The point being dude, J.D.? Looked sooooo familiar to me. On commercial breaks with Sparkles on the phone, I’d be tic-tic-ticking away at my forehead all “Where do I know him from? Where, where, where do I know him from?” Then this week he mentions he used to do Elvis impersonations and BING! I REMEMBER! Belleville United Way Charity Casino 2003! He plays cute and charismatic young Elvis; I play volunteer balloon girl with the little black dress. The memorable exchange goes a little like this…
J.D.: If I win the Trip For Two to Vegas in the auction at the end of the night, you’re coming with me.
Me: That sounds like fun. Bid away!
J.D.: You have to promise to bring that dress, though.
Me: I think it might fit in my suitcase.
J.D.: As long as it fits on the floor.

HEE! I’m so glad I’m not even kidding. It’s too bad he got outbid for that trip to Vegas. My life could look a whole lot different now, is all I’m saying.

6. Bob Saget’s version of The Aristocrats joke really isn’t any more eye-poppingly foul than anybody else’s version. It’s just that Saget has been miscast as the family good guy forEVAH! You know what? I’m thinking that telling this joke on camera is going to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Honestly. Bob Saget’s agent, take note – the dude is now legitimately eligible to audition for the role of smarmy cads, underhanded jerks, used car salesmen, grifters or con artists of all varieties, and the guy-who-doesn’t-call-back. THINK ABOUT THE POSSIBILITIES! Now that we all know Saget’s impure, we don’t need to rely on Nolte, Busey, Paxton or even Hugh Grant! (Well, maybe Grant. We’ll still need a British asshole.) Although that thing about the light absorbency tampons? I’ll remember that one. ;) Ew. I’m kidding. Sort of.

7. I cut my hair off again – impetuously. And I dyed it too. So now it’s short and red. Again. I tend to do these things when I get disappointed about one thing or another. Mad at a parent? Navel ring. Felt it necessary to create conflict with a boyfriend? Military short haircut. Reaction after a car-avoids-transport-truck-but-car-meets-black-ice-and-then-finds-ditch scary incident? Magnolia tattoo. Denied the job position I really want in Montreal? Lose about a foot of hair and dye it from blonde to red.

Okay, I think that’s probably way more than too much information for you to handle. I’ll stop now.

Wedding Crashers

2005-08-04T17:03:00.000-04:00

Funniest movie since There's Something About Mary. Swear. To. God.

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Bewitched

2005-08-04T17:02:00.000-04:00

Not only is it too cutesy, flopsy, in love with itself, it's also in love with the fact that it's a wink, wink, inside look at the shallow, shallow (wink, wink) world of Hollywood.

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I’m Not Considering Divorce (Yet)

2005-08-04T17:01:00.000-04:00

All right, here are some incoherent thoughts on my husband, Jason Mraz’s* sophomore album, Mr. A-Z. And some of this pains me to say, because I try to love my husband* unconditionally.

The first lines of the opening tune ("Life is Wonderful") have an incoherent melody and make it awkward to settle into listening the whole album. He tries to ramp it up nicely with the arrangement, but I'm still a little unforgiving of the entry.

"Wordplay" They’re playing this every twenty minutes on the radio. Like, could they kick the crap out of that song any more, please? The song doesn’t impress me and the video for it kind of freaks me out in a bad way. Unremarkable in the melody and annoyingly self-absorbed in the lyrics. Skip.

"Geek in the Pink" Has a really twee intro, like he thinks he's the Fresh Prince of Bel Air with his DJ Jazzy Jeff circa 1988. I really dig the rest of the song, though. I think it's fun. Perhaps not as much fun as "Waiting for My Rocket" or "Too Much Food", and I suppose comparisons to tracks from his first full-length album are inevitable, but I'd like to avoid them at all costs. Mostly, I guess I just dig this song because of the title.

"Did You Get My Message?" Annoying and repetitive. Skip.

"Mr. Curiosity" It's funny, I've seen Mraz slip into opera in a live show and it really works very well in that setting because his voice is beautiful and can fill up the space, but on an album? Maybe not the best choice by the producer. It's not the kind of clip you're going to want to hear on repeat, is all I'm saying.

"Clockwatching" + "Bella Luna" Both unremarkable. Although "Clockwatching" may grow on me.

"Plane" This one I am entirely sure would rock live. He could just dim down all of the accompaniment and belt the sucker out and make the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I don't know, maybe he just didn't jive with the producer. Maybe he just hates the recording studio. Maybe he was just over-ambitious... I don't know.

"O. Lover" I got nothing.

"Please Don't Tell Her" This one I know rocks live. There’s something about the way he grins “She’s a warrior”. And I think it's the best track on the album, despite the fact that the arrangement starts out like some Coldplay/Keane-hybrid-wannabe. That part pisses me off.

And then the album just sort of peters out. It's not a coherent ALBUM, either. The tracks don't pull together to give you a sense of plot, development, beginning, middle or end. Plus, dude is just really digging on himself throughout, and I like a cocky man as much as - or maybe more than - anyone, but he's losing universality with all the "me"-talk. (Dear Mr. Mraz, you are not a Hip Hop star singing about your cars and your women and your bling; please tone it down.)

With Rocket, I got the sense that Mraz was almost embarassed to have made a self-indulgent piece of work, what with all the pictures of the cocky ol' rooster acknowledging his presence throughout. I got the feeling that maybe next time around he'd strive for something deeper than his own surface psyche. That's why the theme of Mr. A-Z puzzles me. The jacket art is all about Mraz-as-student. But instead of being the diligent student committed to the subtle turn of phrase and the nuances of his big voice, he ends up coming off more as the class clown: totally into himself, begging for attention, whoring it up for a laugh and cutting corners on quality.

With the exception of about three tracks, I guess I don't like it. It's not as good as Rocket, and nowhere near the quality of his live album.

That said, he's still a thousand miles better than John Mayer (who I no longer enjoy,) with his "I hate the label of sensitive singer-songwriter" whining. Dude? Then stop singing songs about how fathers should raise their daughters properly so that they can grow up and have sex with John Mayer who will treat their bodies like wonderlands. I mean, REALLY.

*in no way is he really my husband.

Please Come Soon

2005-08-04T17:00:00.000-04:00

In the moments leading up to Ray’s taking of the stage, ejdl and I had engaged in a battle-royale of Ray-association. (Highlight’s included my “If he were John Cusack with a boombox, he’d be ‘Ray’ Anything, and her brilliant “If he were Hamlet with a skull in his hand, he’d be a solilo-Ray!) The three of us (ejdl, The Voice of Reason and myself) had found a table with our backs to the wall, off stage-left, and were more than happy to ignore the mediocre Cobain-inspired relic from 1992 that served as opening act, and just revel in some silliness before Ray arrived. “If he were the object of King Kong’s desire, he’d be ‘Ray’ Ray… Nah, that doesn’t work!”

Not a one of us had ever seen a picture of Ray before. “What do you think he looks like?” ejdl asked.

“I think he is tall and wiry thin, with a big, bushy beard and a lonely country demeanor,” I offered. I don’t know why I thought this. I’d really never seen a picture of him before. It’s just what his voice evoked from me – something about the mood of “All the Wild Horses”. And sure enough, as he stepped into the blue spotlight his thick hair and full beard glowed, and his thin frame lit up from within. Exactly as I had imagined. And as he opened with the wounded and jealous “Burn”, he broke my heart.

“Oh so kiss him again
just to prove to me that you can
and I will stand here
and burn in my skin”

A simple guitar, a spotlight, the voice that takes your breath away and the soul of a poet – that is Ray LaMontagne. I have never heard a crowd so hushed as when he finished that first song. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his shy eyes through the fixed crowd in front of me. In between songs Ray took what felt like extended breaks, often in silence, as if to let me absorb the meaning of the last. Sometimes he spoke, low and unintelligible. He is painfully shy, but that only adds to his power when he sings. While he spoke of the difficulties he has encountered in the past year, a woman catcalled out from the audience that she could make him feel better. Embarrassed, he stopped right in his tracks and raised a hand to cover his eyes. The attention was too much for him to bear. I whispered to ejdl that it’s like he’s the shy guy in class that you always suspected of being a bottomless well of emotion. If you get the chance to examine someone like that, so exposed by the spotlight, you can’t help but be rapt.

And so, I wasn’t surprised when murmurs of sing-along built up slowly in the chorus of “Trouble”.

“We'll I've been...
saved by a woman”

I wasn’t surprised to hear ejdl’s pure soprano pipe up in the chorus of “Jolene” (quite possibly the saddest song ever.)

“Jolene
I ain't about to go straight
It's too late
I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze on my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
in the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means”

I wasn’t surprised to catch my breath at the beauty of the line “It’s as if they’re applauding the quiet love that we’ve made.”

And I wasn’t surprised to see The Voice of Reason lower her gaze into her lap, hold her breath in, and absorb the moment as if it were holy. But her silent reverence was definitely the most affecting part of the evening for me.

Ants Ants Ants

2005-08-03T17:00:00.000-04:00

So here’s how I know I’m a grown up now:

I love Ned. Pretty much unconditionally at this point. Let’s forget about the way he looks at me like a baby Ewok. (Seriously, I’m considering getting him a little spear and an orange hoodie. The pooch is the spitting image of Wickett.) Let’s forget about the way he belly-flops on the hardwood floors when he attacks his tennis ball, and let’s forget about the cute way he rolls over on his back and wiggles both his front paws at me to scratch his belly. Let’s forget about the embarrassing plethora of nicknames I’ve developed for him, including Nedders, Neddles, Neddykins, Sir Neddingham or Professor Nedison. Let’s forget all about how he runs circles around my feet when he knows it’s dinner time, and let’s definitely forget about how I was reduced to tears of relief and joy by solid poop, people! Because god knows I would never forgive myself if puppy had continued to have diarrhea, got dehydrated and died! Could NEVER HAVE LIVED WITH MYSELF! How I really know I’m all grown up has to do with ants.

Last month, I put Ned out on the front lawn just before bedtime. He does his business, sniffs around the lawn for a bit, flops down on the dew to cool himself off, and puppy-flops towards me to be taken inside. We go up to my room and I deposit him in his cage and get ready for bed myself. Lights out, all appears normal.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Plaintive whimpering.

Oh, dude, Ned, no. It’s BEDTIME. Go to sleep.

The vet has told me that shih-tzus are a wilful breed, and that in order to prove that I am the boss I should ignore Ned’s whimpering because he’ll just do it for attention. So I dutifully follow the vet’s advice. I thought I was being a good mom. I sleep fitfully for a few hours, because I can hear the little critter being restless in his cage from time-to-time. Pace, pace, pace. Pant, pant, pant. Scritch, scritch, scritch. WHIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!

Oh, dude, Ned. What the hell is your problem? I’m EXHAUSTED!

3AM. I give up. Irritated, I flop out of bed, open the cage door and drag puppy down to the lawn again. He dribbles a bit of pee, and then turns towards me, and cocks his head as if to say “Um, now what?”

For that?! For that you got me out of bed at 3AM?! Oh, this is not a game I’m willing to play, puppy.

I scoop him up off the lawn and drag him back upstairs to bed. Door on the cage slams shut and I drop back into bed. Before I scoop the covers back over me, I notice a single, solitary ant crawling on my leg. Poor little critter, I think to myself and then smack it dead and turn the light off. Phew. Darkness. Sweet relief.

Except…

Sting. Ow. Slap. What the hell? Tickle, tickle, tickle. Sting. Slap. Ouch. I scritch-scratch my ankles together. Clearly, my imagination is over-active. Stupid puppy woke me up. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I sigh and roll over. Ned the Puppy scratches about in his cage some more.

Sting. Sting. Sting. STING. OUCH! No, seriously? What the hell is going on?? I reach an arm over to my nightstand. Lights on AND…

There are ants. EVERYWHERE. Crawling on my legs. Crawling on my bed. Crawling on the floor. There are at least fifty little red fire ants milling about, doing dastardly deeds and stinging and biting my lower extremities with glee (I can tell.) It’s like something out of a horror movie: I feel them crawl on me; I reach for the lights and BOOM— insect nightmare. I actually screamed. Thank god they only had six legs, and not eight, or (gulp) more.

I spring from the bed and grab some Kleenex and go to work on manually killing the little buggers. Pow, pow, splat. I’m still actually kind of screaming a bit while I do this. And also, I’m in a decent amount of pain now as the formic acid tingles unpleasantly under the epidermis of both legs and feet. The duvet gets a sound beating and gets tossed to the floor. The sheets get swept liberally. I beat at the pillows with my fists. I hit the floor on hands and knees and slap ‘em good. Pow, pow, splat. It’s as if I’ve gone into some sort of insecticidal trance. I’m bound and determined to get every last one of those six-legged stingers. But wait… where did they come from?

It’s at this point that I cast a glance over my left shoulder at the five pound shih-tzu in his cage. Ned, at this point, has his ass butted up against the bars of his cage and is proceeding to furiously dig up his pillow and scratch through the floor of the cage. Oh dear god! For four hours you’ve been sleeping with killer ants! I’m SUCH A BAD MOM!

I fly over to his cage and spring him from his insect-infested prison. I wipe off his little legs and belly and his pouffy tale. I get stung in the process, but this time it doesn’t seem to enrage me so much as feel like punishment for negligent pet ownership. When Ned’s clean I toss him on the bed, which is also clean at this point, and run downstairs to find the Raid. Then, like a good protective mama bear, I spray the shit out of the floor, under the bed, and poor little Neddle’s cage.

It takes me about forty-five minutes to be satisfied that I’ve gotten all of the ants. I wipe up their poison shells and clean up the floor. Ned, lucky exhausted pooch that he is, gets to sleep the rest of the night on the bed with me since he can’t sleep in a cage lined with a thin film of Raid. He wiggles around for the rest of the night, never quite getting to sleep, but I sort of sigh a happy sigh as he nudges his cold nose up against my arm to snuggle. I have saved my puppy from the certain doom of being eaten alive by fire ants. I’m a grown up now.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

2005-07-06T17:00:00.000-04:00

Over and done with in forty-eight hours, it was absorbing much in the same way that I found Catcher in the Rye absorbing.

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The Purpose of Teddy Bears

2005-06-29T17:00:00.000-04:00

Jennifer? Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

…

Jennifer? Wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.

…

Jennifer? Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.

…

NOW.

There is a flash. Eyes open. Darkened room. I begin to take inventory. Where am I? I’m in my room. I’m at home. It’s still night time. And the dog? Is the dog okay? Ned the dog is sleeping in his cage at the foot of my bed. It’s just slightly after one in the morning. The air conditioner, Chilltron, is still whirring away in the window. The room is cool. But I am sweating. I go to close my eyes and something prevents me. They will come back if I go back to sleep too soon. Eyes wide open now, I start to piece it all together.

Where was I just then?

The dream is lit with a murky blue filter. It was a long dream, but I can only hold onto the end of it. My companion is tall and lanky, with dark eyes and dark hair. I have a feeling I know him, but not very well. We have decided to find privacy from the old school halls in a secret room that he knows. We run, almost floating along the halls. There is mahogany trim around all the doors. The halls are enormous and oppressive all at once. In the classrooms, ballerinas stretch at the bar in front of long mirrors. They have blank faces. One lifts her leg onto the bar and opens her right arm overhead as she stretches back and tilts her head. Her fingers are long and thin. We move past her and through the halls, faster and faster now. I can’t feel my feet touch the ground. My companion holds my hand.

And then we are climbing a wide, steep staircase. Up, up, up. Steeper and steeper. Higher and higher. I almost get vertigo. At the top of the staircase, everything is darkness. We slow our pace as we approach. “It’s in here,” he whispers to me. As his head peeks just over the top stair, he tentatively reaches up to grab the knob to the small attic door. Beyond the closed door, I know, is a small room. It’s supposed to be empty.

As he turns the knob, we hear the murmur. There is a rustling from within the room. Something scurries and whispers. My companion looks at me with wide eyes. This was not supposed to happen. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t. He looks at me as if he wants to stop, but is compelled to keep going. He continues to turn the doorknob. It clicks open and the door swings inwards with a creak. Crreeeeak.

I am still on the stairs, looking up at the open doorway. The room beyond is in darkness too. But it is eerie. I’m worried. From out of the darkness, two sets of glowing eyes float towards us. At first glance, they are children. They speak to us.

What did they say? What did they say?

It’s some sort of warning. I can’t remember it. They aren’t there to hurt us. But they are there to warn us of danger. They slowly move closer and closer to us. As they approach, their form becomes clearer to me. It is a boy and a girl, and each looks about ten years old. I can see right through them, as if they are ghosts. Or a hologram. They are enveloped in an aura. My companion reaches out to them, and they shift shape. Like a hologram. All of a sudden the children become adults—ghoulish adults. They are both blood-stained. I can tell how they died. Blood loss. Stab wounds.

My companion recoils. He pulls his hand back quickly. The hologram shifts again, and we see the children with the glowing eyes. They whisper and warn us again.

What did they say? Why can’t I remember it?

My companion looks at me and without speaking explains to me what these two forms in the doorway are. They are young souls. They are imprinted images of childhood after death. But they are impermanent. The adult form of the holograms shows us how and when these two died. We can see both forms, young and old, switch back and forth and back and forth as they move toward us in the dim light. I try to hide in the stairwell. My companion tells me to run. I turn and flee.

The stairs are steep and I fly down them, until I feel like I’m heading straight into a never-ending hole. My companion is far behind me. I can’t look back to see if he is safe. I have to keep going. I have to keep going. I have to get away.

Are they chasing him? Are they after him? What did they want? Did he survive? Should I go back and help him?

And as I fly down the stairs, my subconscious meets my conscious and I force myself to wake up from the nightmare. And I am freaked out.

I often have nightmares, but they are rarely supernatural in nature. I reach for my teddy bear and hold it tight. [Shut up.] Sleep comes again after about an hour of going over the nightmare in my head with a fine-tooth comb. I cannot remember what the young souls were trying to tell me. But if anyone can analyze that dream or recognize some archetypes coming out of it or anything, however Jungian it may be, I’d love to know where that came from.

Because, damn, that was some scary shit.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

2005-06-20T17:02:00.000-04:00

And hey, who’s not interested in a little sexual intrigue between what could quite possibly be the two most beautiful people ON PLANET EARTH?

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The Longest Yard

2005-06-20T17:01:00.000-04:00

And I didn’t buy Sandler as the straight man… or, for that matter, as an underwear spokesmodel.

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Madagascar

2005-06-20T17:00:00.000-04:00

More penguins, less lemurs!

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Just a bit of fun...

2005-06-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

Lifted from Gwen World, who got it from someone else.

1) My uncle once: showed pictures of his windsurfing adventure at his sister’s wedding. It was awesome.
2) Never in my life: would I throw myself out of an airplane with a working engine. Daddy didn’t raise no fool.
3) When I was five: I could still whistle though missing my two front teeth. Take that urban myth!
4) High school was: just as tough for me as it was for everybody else.
5) Fire is: too damn hot for this stupid weather!
6) I once saw: over three hundred shooting stars from the balcony of my Japanese apartment.
7) There’s this woman I know who: sneezes like a little princess. I think she’s going to have an aneurysm if she doesn’t just let it out already!
8) Once, at a bar: I inadvertently stole a Yakuza’s seat. I have never gotten up so quickly in my life!
9) By noon I’m usually: thinking about what I want for lunch – soup, salad or sandwich?
10) Last night: I walked home and gave myself yet another blister. And then I skipped out on yoga because my shoulders hurt so that I could stay home and watch Canadian Idol. Dude, those kids are not that good.
11) If I only had: an iPod mini! The iPod envy continues unabated.
12) Next time I go to church: will probably be for a wedding. Not mine!
13) The best thing about my last relationship was: um, yeah, there was really only one good thing about my last relationship. And it was phenomenal.
14) What worries me most: is the thought that I might never make be as “successful” as I used to be when I graduated.
15) When I turn my head left: I see the picture that Sunny said looked like a boob. But it totally doesn’t.
16) When I turn my head right: I see the people who laugh at me when I get mad at the person on the other end of the phone.
17) You know I'm lying when: I can’t tell you that!
18) What I miss most about the eighties: The Police. Man, they kicked!
19) If I were a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be: as difficult as a certain shrew, but loveable nonetheless.
20) By this time next year: I’ll be twenty-nine. Think about THAT for a second.
21) I have a hard time understanding: the mechanics of heat transfer, the point at which calculus started using all those crazy summation symbols, what the point of inorganic chemistry was, the appeal of Ben Mulroney, how jurors can’t see that Michael Jackson is crazy-dangerous, and also why I can’t seem to stay away from a hangnail.
22) You know I like you if: I giggle a lot. Or blush. Or hang the phone up on you – that’s a definite sign.
23) If I won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: the Academy! Hee! I’d probably thank my mom last, in a super-embarrassing way, too.
24) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: all walk into a bar … ??
25) Take my advice, never: leave the toilet seat up at my house.
26) My ideal breakfast is: Eggspectations, downtown Montreal.
27) If you visit my hometown, I suggest you go to: the Belleville Waterfront Festival – where all the drunkards come out of the woodwork to celebrate Kim Mitchell and the Prairie Oysters. Good times.
28) Why doesn't everyone: drive on the right, pass on the left?
29) If you spend the night at my house: you don’t need to bring a sleeping bag. I have a spare set of sheets, pillows and even a comforter!
30) I’d stop my wedding: if it was all just a horrible mistake.
31) The world could do without: fermented bean curd, giant Ferris wheels, tsunamis, and cancer.
32) My favourite blonde is: the one I’m currently sporting.
33) If I do anything well, it’s: Trivial Pursuit, 90s Edition.
34) And by the way: I’m getting a puppy tomorrow!
35) The last time I was drunk, I: didn’t do the drink and dial. Quite remarkable, really!

An Ode to Chilltron

2005-06-14T17:00:00.000-04:00

Ejdl: So for the air conditioner, we’re going with Chill-tron?

Nerdifer: Amen. Long live CHILLTRON!

Ejdl: Eeeeexcellent. If it were in a horror movie, it would be Chilltron of the Corn.

Nerdifer: If it were a romance, it would be Chilltron of my Heart.

Ejdl: If it were a soap opera, it would be All my Chilltron.

Nerdifer: Hee

Ejdl: If it were in a nostalgic reunion flick, it would be The Big Chilltron.

Nerdifer: If it were Oscar worthy it would be Chilltron of a Lesser God.

Ejdl: If it were a comic-book-inspired children's movie it would be Teenaged Mutant Chilltron Turtles!

Nerdifer: If it were a raunchy comedy it would be Married... with Chilltron

Ejdl: Nice one!

Nerdifer: Thanks!

Ejdl: If it was an extra on the set of Moulin Rouge, it would be one of the Chilltron of the Revolution.

Nerdifer: Oh, now I hurt from laughing!

Ejdl: If you were to ask CSNY for advice, they would stress how important it is to Teach your Chilltron Well.

Nerdifer: Stop! Oh dear - if we enter the music zone, I AM DOOMED!

Ejdl: Awww… If it were a futuristic social-comment novel it would be Nineteen Eighty-Chilltron.

Nerdifer: Ha! Wait-- how does that work??

Ejdl: It doesn't! I wanted to make you feel better so you'd keep playing.

Nerdifer: You gave me a pity play? Must mean it’s time to step it up. All right: Won't somebody please think of the CHILLTRON!!

Ejdl: Hee. Nice!

Nerdifer: And if it were a bootylicious singing trio, it would be Destiny's Chilltron! Uh, -- sort of.

Ejdl: You know, Whitney Houston believes that Chilltron is our future.

Nerdifer: I heard that.

Ejdl: Squeee!

Nerdifer: It's 11:00 - do you know where your CHILLTRON is?

Ejdl: You do!

Nerdifer: Oh boy, do I ever!

Ejdl: When NKOTB wanted to don their 'social responsibility' persona, they sang 'This One's for the Chilltron'.
The Chilltron of the World...
May God keep them....
nice and cold.....

Nerdifer: We are the world
We are the CHILLTRON!
We are the ones who bring a cooler day so let's not give in!

Nerdifer: Hee hee hee

Ejdl: Live long and prosper Chilltron.

Nerdifer: May you usher in the Summer of Cool.

Ejdl: I’m coming over.

Nerdifer: Sweet. I’ll have the creamsicles ready.

The Heat, She Will Not Stop

2005-06-13T17:00:00.000-04:00

It’s a bazillion degrees outside again today. It’s hot. It’s hawwwtt. It’s officially BA-ZOILING. It’s the kind of heat where toweling off after a cold shower immediately covers you in that thin layer of sweat you were looking to rid yourself of. It’s the kind of heat where popsicles melt and drip all over your hands and fall off the popsicle stick and into your lap, making you whine loudly. It’s the kind of heat where you press your back up against the wall of the subway station, in denial of the layers of grime you are leaning on, just because it feels so cool on your back and your neck. It’s the kind of heat where you lie naked in bed at night, sweating through the sheets, comforter tossed aside, pillows thrown on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, shaking your fists at your bad luck for living in a heat-seeking attic apartment! I. CAN’T. TAKE IT ANYMORE!

My garden is dying. The dahlias have burnt. The hostas are limp and wilting. Those things whose name I don’t know, they’re parched. The crab grass has more than just crept in. It has taken over. I would love to stop this all from happening. I would love nothing more than to get in there and weed out the bad stuff and tend to the good stuff. I’d like to take popsicle sticks and twine and set it up so that the morning glories actually climb up to the verandah all dainty and pretty. But you know what? It’s too goddamn hot to be mucking about in the sun. I’ll get sunstroke! Every morning I run out of the house and hope my garden doesn’t see me trying to sneak by. I’m sure the bleeding hearts are shooting me dirty looks. I’m sure the tiger lilies have put a hit out on my life. I’m sure the morning glories are fantasizing about choking me. There’s something quite “Little Shop of Horrors” about a neglected garden. Seriously, I promise you plants, as soon as the heat wave breaks! Just hang in until then!

But it’s never ending. My old window-unit air conditioner works overtime. This morning at 6am I hear skreeeeegh! Kung kung kung kung! Sputtter… Fuzzzzzzzzzz. Whhhhhrrrrrrrr. I leap from my bed, wrenched from sleep. ‘It’s falling out of the window!’ I think, ‘It’s going to go through the porch roof! It’s going to land on my GARDEN! Save the GARDEN!’ I grab the power dial and turn the A/C off. It has been running for almost sixteen hours without interruption. It shudders a bit, exhausted, but doesn’t move in the window frame. I quickly open the neighbouring window to let a supposed existing ‘breeze’ into the room, and then I fall back into bed, hoping for another hour of sleep. And then it occurs to me. I don’t think the air conditioner was actually ever falling out the window. I think it was just dying. That sound? Was the sound of coils breaking, fans giving up hope. It was the sound of entropy winning the battle. This thought distresses me so much that I can’t even test out the theory after my morning shower. I’m just going to leave the air conditioner to rest a bit before I attempt to turn it on again.

What am I going to do without the air conditioner?? The humidex puts the temperature into the forties at mid-day! There is no tangible cooling off overnight! No breeze comes in through the window! Folks, I’m serious: I live in a sauna. In a steamhouse! In Dante’s Raging Inferno! We have had more 30C+ days in this month of June than we had all summer long last year. This isn’t the dog days of summer down on the Louisiana bayou, okay? I live in CANADA. The extreme temperatures are supposed to (and often do,) skew the other way!

My sunburn is peeling too. Which makes my back both sweaty and itchy. It’s a lovely combination. You should try it sometime. Yeah, yeah, I can hear you. “Ever heard of a little thing called sunscreen?” Oh, shut up! The weekend before last I was thrilled that the hot weather had arrived. I was frolicking in the sun with reckless abandon. I overdid it. I admit it. I am a foolish little imp. But I’ve reached my limit now. When I can no longer find a cool corner in my home to escape the heat, I’ve officially learned my be-careful-what-you-wish-for lesson. Rain! Please! Now!

Okay, but not like this. Surely Mother Nature can find me a happy medium.

And I Still Know All the Words

2005-06-08T23:46:00.000-04:00

Before Alanis took stage last night, ejdl leans over from her seat and ponders aloud “Do you think she’ll sing the hidden track?” Wow, I think, I don’t even remember that track… It was a capella, right?

Then a single lamp is lit on stage and there she is, singing a capella, bringing us into the evening with the hidden track from 1995’s “Jagged Little Pill”. Ballsy.

Would you forgive me, love
If I dance in your shower?
Would you forgive me, love
If I lay in your bed?
Would you forgive me, love
If I stayed all afternoon?

She is calm, smiling, glowing, and deserving of every wizened look she gives the audience that evening. And she is so happy! She has taken that whining edge off of her voice and softened it to suit both her years and the acoustic setting. And it has so much power behind it. So even though I had organized this girl’s night out for the express purpose of seeing my husband*, Jason Mraz, as the opening act, Alanis stole her own show back with only a few notes.

And I still knew all the words. Mind-blowing.

I’m sitting there at the Hummingbird Centre, twenty-eight years old, a whole ten years packed with experience I would not have had if I had seen her on the original “Jagged Little Pill” tour. But I also feel like that eighteen year old girl again, with every note. I’m both at the same time: me now and me then.

The memories come back fast and furious.

I’m angry with the ex-boyfriend who went to Japan and married his host-sister. I can’t even shake his hand.

I’m driving my Buick Century station wagon (yellow with wood paneling, yeah!) as fast as I can over Oak Hill – dropping it into neutral at the crest of the hill and flying down the backside at dangerous speeds. [We called it the Alanis-mobile, thanks to the video from “Ironic”.]

I’m bored at the bowling alley. I’m hiding red painted finger nails from my mother. [It looks so trashy!]

I’m trying that first cigarette. [“Have you ever had to use an asthma inhaler?” he says. “It’s kind of like that.”]

I am in hysterics after losing a ring of sentimental value at a house party – the one where the empty bottle of peach schnapps got tossed over the fence along with my sanity.

I am screaming “You Oughta Know” at the top of my lungs from the top of the slide at the park behind the hospital. The Dub joins in, also at the top of her lungs. The boys are terrified and get back in their cars.

Alanis IS the soundtrack of my high school senior year. She is sexy and bad-ass and the best goddamn catharsis I have ever heard. And she fucking rocks my eighteen year old world. She shocks the hell out of me and I love every moment of it as she sings:

You took me out to wine, dine, 69 me
You didn’t hear a damn word I said
- “Right Through You”

It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced
Are you thinking of me when you fuck her
- “You Oughta Know”

My brothers they never went blind for what they did
But I may as well have
- “Forgiven”

I don’t want to be your glass of single malt whiskey
Hidden in the bottom drawer
- “Not the Doctor”

But it’s more than just the shock value that reels me in and makes eighteen year old me hold on tight. There’s a depth beneath the shaking anger. She hits all my insecurities with “Perfect”. She bonds with me when she rolls her eyes over her Catholic upbringing in “Forgiven”. (Though not raised Catholic myself, I did have a short phase as an evangelical in the earlier years of high school. I stopped when someone had a seizure during the service and the pastors specifically told people not to help, as she had simply been consumed by the spirit.) She sympathizes with my worry for a friend with a tendency to withdraw and shrink in “Mary Jane”. Alanis Morissette is my best friend, the rebellious older sister I never had, and my own personal GOD at age eighteen.

I never bought another album by her. I thought we just drifted apart. Actually, I thought I outgrew her. And last night she showed me how wrong I was.

Twenty-eight year old me still knew all the words to every song she sang. But this time, I responded to different parts, different keys, different lilts of her voice. To say I was a precautious teenager is putting it mildly. I was Good with a Capital G. I didn’t vandalize, or drink and drive, or experiment with drugs and there was absolutely no sex to my teenage years. I only ever skipped class once and straight-As were a mandatory expectation I placed on myself. Two words describe me:

1) Late
2) Bloomer.

So a lot of that inevitable experimentation with good and bad, right and wrong, and the expansion of my universe happened when I finally felt old enough to be able to keep myself “safe” and mature enough to deal with any of the consequences, should they arise. Alanis afforded herself no such luxury – by the time she released “Jagged Little Pill” she had seen and done it all. But I had not.

It wasn’t until ten years had passed that I could begin to relate to that sharp edge of badness she presented in JLP.

You must wonder why I’m relentless and all strung out
- “All I Really Want”

And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me you’d hold me
Until you died, ‘til you died
But you’re still alive
- “You Oughta Know”

The individual lines from “Hand In My Pocket” are like a tuning fork inside me:

I’m high but I’m grounded

I’m young and I’m underpaid

I care but I’m restless

I’m free but I’m focused

I’m hard but I’m friendly, baby

JESUS.

And she giggles when she changes the line in “Ironic” to

It’s like meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful… husband

I still sing the original words. And they send a chill down my spine. I get it now. I didn't then.

I get it all now. Everything that she sang to me then was true then. And it’s still all true now. It just hits me different. It hits me with profound piano keys, instead of wailing guitars and huffing harmonicas. It hits me with the soft purity of her voice and the knowing look in her eyes, instead of that twitching, keening, high-strung wail she used to adopt. Alanis smiles and loves her audience because she’s pretty sure they all get the point of this “Where Is She Now” Tour.

Alanis Morissette, you are still my best friend, my rebellious older sister and my own personal GOD. Thank you for the show.

*In no way is he really my husband.

I’m Telling You, He’s My Husband

2005-06-08T23:30:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was spent on pins and needles. I changed my screen name on MSN at least a dozen times in homage to my husband*, Jason Mraz. First came “Fighting tides of an ocean’s undertow”, then came “Unable to inhale all the riches”, and then there was my personal favourite “Which one of us will state the obvious.” They’re all snippets of lyrics from his songs. I was preparing, you see, to see him in concert for the third time – this time only a short forty minute opening set for Alanis Morrisette’s “Jagged Little Pill” acoustic tour.

A gang of six of us – mostly new recruits in my pursuit of Mraz – arrived at the Hummingbird Centre with no time to spare and fumbled our way to balcony seats in the dark while Jason and Toca hummed and beat away to his new single “Wordplay”. I like it. It’s a fun song, radio friendly, but it doesn’t blow my socks off. But I feel that way about the two singles off of “Waiting For My Rocket to Come” – they’re good for radio, but they’re not holy fuck I just lost my mind—great like “Unfold” can be, with Mraz’s voice soaring and peeling like bells, filling up all empty space in the auditorium, tangibly pulling the breath from the audience’s lungs, while he sings of the pull of tides and forces greater than ourselves moving through each other’s lives. I have worn through his live disc on that track because it opens my eyes wider each time I hear it. That voice is why I love my husband*.

Though the set was short, he did not disappoint. He pulled out a bit of new material off the disc due out at the end of next month and the two played back-to-back really struck me. One, a song of lamenting not being the pillar of strength or even of regret for a woman of boundless reserves. (Nice.) The second, and this one really hit strong, was a romping play on words about those first evenings of flirtation. It captures all those certain notes of confidence that set my bell a-ringing. It’s smart and funny and alludes to lots of different, ahem, talents. (Double nice.) And in it, Mraz refers to himself as “The Geek in the Pink”. So, if you know me, you know why this is funny. If you know me and you think I should be better than that, you’re probably disappointed that I was fanning myself by the end of the song. And if you don’t know me, well, just take my word for it: geek+pink=swoon!

No encores for Jason last night, but if it would have had any effect, I would have stood there all night begging for him to come back. Instead, I plunked my swooning self back down in my chair and sent out some text nonsense into nothingness from my phone. What can I say, Mraz has the same effect on me as champagne: itchy fingers on the dial pad.

Then it was onto the main event.

*In no way is he really my husband.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

2005-05-30T17:01:00.000-04:00

Tana turns out to be crazy in a bad way, while Kendra is just competent. Which is all she needed to be to out-do Looney Toon. This show is so irrelevant anyway. I'm totally not watching next season. (Yeah, I know, nobody believes that. Least of all me.)

Check out Just Ask Sammy for more.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-05-30T17:00:00.000-04:00

A quick (and late) recap of all that I had fallen behind on.

Tom Jedi-Knight-ed Ian off a buoy to claim the prize. It's too bad, because Tom really is a total fox and I'm sure a nice guy, but he egregiously mind-fucked Ian out of a million dollars under the guise of honour and loyalty, and that sucks.

There's more at Just Ask Sammy.

Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

2005-05-24T17:00:00.000-04:00

The dialogue is stilted and lacking in finesse. Every line delivered between Anakin and Padmé feels like an anvil is being dropped on your head. It’s painful. I cringed. A lot. This is clearly nothing new. No one expects Lucas to be as skilled with the pen as Homer, but maybe if he’d bothered to make it believable that a beautiful and influential older woman like Senator Padmé Amidala could ever find Anakin Skywalker anything other than a petulant teenager then there’d be a lot less groaning out in the audience.

Cinderella Man

2005-05-20T17:00:00.000-04:00

The Voice of Reason got advance screening tickets for this one, and I have no natural defense against advance tickets. I will go see anything if it’s “advanced”. Paris Hilton flicks are fair game if it’s “advanced”. As are any movies where the trailer begins “In a world where…” And clearly, so is a movie with the tagline “When America was on its knees, he brought us to our feet.”

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: Amazing Race Finale

2005-05-18T17:02:00.000-04:00

Listen, I'm not saying that the plane went back to the gate because of some purported Rob and Amber backlash. I'm not saying that it went back to the gate out of the goodness of the pilot's heart, either... But either way, a two-team finish is more dramatic than a one-team finish, even though in this case it feels like a total rip-off AND even though the team that won are genuinely nice people and I'm sure they deserved to win. Still, kind of a rip-off, and I feel you, but it's over now so we have to move on. At least we get to see Romber's wedding. I'll be covering that too.

More conspiracy theory at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

2005-05-18T17:01:00.000-04:00

I am very, very, very far behind and I apologize.

Rob and Amber's tour guide does it all for them, and a double-decker bus derails Meredith and Gretchen. The finale's up next!

More old news at Just Ask Sammy.

Kylie Minogue Has Breast Cancer

2005-05-18T17:00:00.000-04:00

Here’s a warning: this one’s not funny.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

She’s 36, in great shape, and fabulous in every way. Except she has breast cancer. I mean—please, no. Can it just go away? I’d rather not have to hide out under my bed in fear of it, but some days, at least symbolically, that’s what I do.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I can hear a voice in my head whisper it to me at intervals throughout the day. Reminding me: it’s out there. It knows where you live. It will find you too. Walking downtown, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in the windows of a shop. And I’ll hear it, ominous.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Not just Kylie. She’s not the only one spinning around in Chemo. Melissa Etheridge, Edie Falco, Patti LaBelle, Olivia Newton-John, Lynn Redgrave, Carly Simon, Gloria Steinem, and two of Charlie’s Angels Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith have all had it. I can’t believe it.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Not just the famous people either. Here’s where it gets really scary for me. Here’s where I want to hide out under the bed. Cousins checked for abnormalities. Aunts in remission – thankfully. Aunts who never got a chance at remission – sadly. Great aunts long gone. Others currently in treatment and fighting. Through both arms of my family tree, it is eating its way through the women. And I am waiting for it to find me.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

How young was I when the knowledge that the diagnosis was in my future settled upon me? So much clearer than a premonition. Fifteen? I think that was it. You make your own future, Jenn, Mom told me. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Yes, I know, but still… There it is, like the break in my lifeline that I already know the explanation for.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Remember that movie “Step Mom”, with Susan Sarandon dying of breast cancer and Julia Roberts left to grow into mothering Susan’s children? Horrible movie. But I cried throughout, and sniffled my way back to the parking lot afterwards. “Stop worrying about me,” Mom said, hoping to make me stop crying. “It wasn’t you I was worried about,” I choked. She stopped a moment and realized what I was saying. She gave me a look of sad understanding. But how do you reassure your twenty year-old daughter that she will live long enough to see the children of her future grow up?

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I’m long past the point of joking “if there’s any lumps there, I’m sure to find them!” My body has moved from that of a thin and boyish young girl to one of a grown woman. I worry the curves will hide any lumps. I check religiously. Tenderness under the left armpit? What’s that about? Keep an eye on that one. But you won’t feel pain, they tell me. You won’t feel pain until it’s too late. It must just be hormonal, silly. I wake up in night sweats, and panic. It wasn’t a nightmare. Didn’t Mom tell me once that night sweats were a warning sign for cancer? Is it? Is that what that is?

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I alternate between being preventative and being brazen about it. The studies all contradict themselves. The warnings on the label of the prescription are vague and unclear. I’ve gone through phases where I simply snot well, it runs in the family so it’s going to get me no matter what I do, so I’m just going to do whatever I want anyway. And then I get scared and stop. Because maybe taking that pill is just adding fuel to the fire. Maybe that will just make it get me faster.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I’ve heard the stories of women getting preventive mastectomies. They choose to lop off their breasts before anything is ever detected. It can’t kill them if they ain’t got ‘em, they figure. I don’t condemn their resolute belief, but I could never make that choice myself. My femininity is all wrapped up in my curves. Take that away from me and I wouldn’t just want to hide out under my bed, I’d want to hide out in the dark. I’d feel bare, exposed, stripped of my identity, of my attractiveness. Please don’t touch me. Don’t pay any mind to me. I’m just a eunuch. Forget me.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Fight it Kylie. Cut it out and smack it down with whatever chemicals and radiation you need to. Get rid of it. Live to tell. Tell every woman you come across to get regular checks. That’s what I would do. That’s what I will do when the time comes. Get it early; get it out of me.

Save Kylie.

Kicking and Screaming

2005-05-16T17:01:00.000-04:00

I mean, I even forgave him the ending of Elf because the man made me fall out of my seat laughing when he ran into a wall.

Read more here...

Monster-in-Law

2005-05-16T17:00:00.000-04:00

I think it ought to be mandatory that Lopez appear in a wedding dress every time she's on screen. The woman just looks so comfortable in them!

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

2005-05-10T17:01:00.000-04:00

There's got to be some sort of therapy group started for this. I'm throwing my support solidly behind Carrie Underwood after those performances, because, damn. And wow. And awesome. What can I say? I'm fickle.

All the wrong notes are at Just Ask Sammy.

P. Diddy’s Yacht

2005-05-10T17:00:00.000-04:00

When it comes to celebrity there is a fine line between “fascinating” and “please, please, for the love of God, get on a yacht and sail far, far away, and never come back. EVER.” Some celebrities have built up enough goodwill in their careers to stay on my “fascinating” list for far longer than they should. I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m too loyal.

Exhibit A: I still love Jennifer Lopez. Okay, I’m sort of sorry about this, but the fact remains, I love her. Girl can’t act her way out of a cubicle, can’t sing her way out of the shower, and always looks like she’s trying too hard when she dances. But, DAMN. Cheekbones! Fox fur eyelashes! The clothes – the Gucci sunglasses, that Versace dress that is soooo irrelevant because it was like eleventy-eight damn years ago (but still!), the Louis Vuitton everywhere! And don’t get me started on her bum, because it was, is, and shall remain mesmerizing. I. Love. Her! Honestly, she built up enough goodwill with “My Love Don’t Cost a Thing” being the catchiest song ever – and an awesome video to boot – that I forgave her the whole “Jenny from the Block” thing. And I forgave her the whole Bennifer thing, too. Because the ring? She was pink and sparkly. And I was buying up US Weekly by the truckload when the two of them were on the cover. So? Lopez? Love her. Still. Can’t help it. Although her lovers, I am torn about.

Marc Anthony? Hate. Hate. Hate! Dude is gaunt, with the eyes of an alcoholic and the personality of, oh, I don’t know, a cigar butt. Okay? How did she end up with him? Oh the pains of rebounding, all right! Jennifer, I feel you, I’ve been there. But you’re just supposed to cringe, shake off the hangover, and sneak out the back door of the house without anybody noticing! You’re not supposed to MARRY HIM!

P. Diddy? Hate, also – although less so than stupid Latin crooner. It’s like Diddy was never allowed to play Show and Tell in Kindergarten, so the rest of his life has become One Big Show And Tell! Miami and the yachts, the “bling”, the women, and what’s up with all the white tuxedos, okay? I just… no. P. Diddy, you are not Frank Sinatra. And Ashton Kutcher is not Dean Martin. And HELL NO, Bruce Willis is NOT Sammy Davis Jr. for chrissakes. [Sidebar: Usher? HATE.] Also, Ashton Kutcher and Bruce Willis vying to be Diddy’s best friend is just kind of ooky. And wrong. And I don’t want to see that, okay? I don’t care if y’all are still friends for the kids’ sake. Fine. Be the brand new Brady Bunch, for all I care. But leave Diddy out of it. There’s not enough room on his yacht. Okay? Thank you.

But Ben Affleck? Love him. And yes, there is some shame in this. Because? Forces of Nature. Pearl Harbour. GIGLI! I can’t even remember the last time Ben Affleck did a movie that didn’t annoy the snot right out of me. But something tells me that the last time I thought he was good on-screen was in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. And only in the scenes where he was playing himself. And particularly in the scene where he and Matt Damon were making fun of each other. But that’s it. [Also, I love Matt Damon, but I’m tired of him and Ben being all wifey-happy together in interviews. You’re lifelong pals. We get it. You wuuuuuuuuve each other. That’s great. But we got it the first time in 1997! So – enough, already!] The thing that I love about Affleck is that he’s so damn affable, and genuinely comes off as being smart in interviews. Affleck is in on the joke, folks! He knows he’s a bad actor. He knows he’s even a bad matinee idol. He’s genuinely sorry to put everyone through this. It’s charming! I love it! I could watch him on Leno every night. And that’s saying a lot. Because Leno? Hate.

You know who else I love? Jennifer Garner. Yes. Awesome. Adorable AND Kick-Ass. Sydney Bristow is the best character ever to grace my television. And Garner balancing crying and kick-boxing? Well, I could watch that all day. I admit, I’d love to see her train a little less though, because there are days where she looks like her collarbones could cut glass. I mean, a cookie wouldn’t kill her, is all I’m saying. I’m happy that she and Ben Affleck are together and out of the spotlight. I’m really happy that the only photo of the two of them together on file is at a Red Sox game. That’s just awesome. I just hope that they name the baby something normal, for heaven’s sake. Please, Jen and Ben, just name your kid “John” or “Bobby”, or “Sarah”, or “Rachel”. Nothing after a fruit. Or a Celtic clan. Or a Chinese dynasty. Or,… just please don’t. Because that might be the end of all my goodwill for you. And then you’d end up sailing away with Marc Anthony, P. Diddy, and Ashton and Demi and Bruce. And it just doesn't seem like the two of you would have a good time on Diddy’s yacht.

Now let’s talk Charlie’s Angels – which, I know, not so relevant riiiiight now, but bear with me. Demi is already on Diddy’s yacht with her ex-husband, and her children, and her boyfriend who should be in daycare still. Hate. Drew Barrymore, however, can stay off the yacht. I love her. She’s not a typical beauty, nor is she a girl-next-door beauty, but she’s still, you know? Pretty. And she seems happy – which I love. Because she was a pudgy kid doing cocaine before she even needed a bra, okay? That’s a lot of crap to go through. And to come out on the other side not like Dana Plato IS impressive. IT IS! It builds up enough goodwill for her to get away with marrying Tom Greene. YES IT DOES!

Lucy Liu I’m pretty ambivalent about. Loved her in Ally McBeal. For a while. Then it got old. Loved her guest spot in Sex and The City. Hate her in Joey. So, she’s batting just under five hundred, which is still pretty darned good. But you know what’s annoying? Since the first Charlie’s Angels movie came out, I’ve been conducting an informal survey of every guy I come across: which angel do you like the best? Like one guy in twenty will say Barrymore, because she just ain’t got it for them. (Sadly overlooked.) About twenty-five percent of guys will say Cameron Diaz. But the majority of them will just start drooling over Liu. Over. Rated. Ugh.

Cameron Diaz, I’m sorry to say, has worn out her goodwill. And I thought with that goofy chick-flick,The Sweetest Thing, that I would love her forever. But no. Hate! Out. Gone. Off to Diddy’s yacht with her. BECAUSE SHE’S DATING JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. And I’ve already gone on at length about Mr. Timberlake and his grandma and his women-hating, doe-eyed, Teflon-coated luck streak, okay. Just, no. Cameron, dump squidly and we’ll see what we can do about putting you back on the cool list, okay? I mean, you’re MARY! You can do BETTER! But for now, you and your boyfriend can hop on Diddy’s Yacht and sail off into the sunset with Kevin Federline.

Ew. Kevin Federline. Hate. Fertile little bugger though, I’ll give him that. But, I mean it’s self-explanatory. I don’t have to go into detail about the wardrobe, or the Red Bulls or the dumping-of-the-pregnant-mother-of-his-child-for-BRITNEY-SPEARS [who I still love… I’m sorry,] do I? Yuck. No. Sail away, Kevin Federline. Leave Britney on the shore. Mama Lynn will take care of the baby, and Britney can get back to doing what Britney does best: making well-produced and ultra-catchy pop ditties. Honestly, all I have to do is say “Oops!” and it’ll be stuck in your head all afternoon. I’m not kidding. And while Kevin is on Diddy’s yacht, he can slobber all over every other fly-by-night pop princess THAT WILL NEVER MATCH BRITNEY. That’s right: I’m talking about Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff and Ashlee-bloody-Simpson. You know they’re all on the yacht.

As are Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Stop BITING EACH OTHER IN FRONT OF THE CAMERAS! Also on the yacht? Angelina Jolie. Home-wrecker.

On the shore? Jennifer Aniston. In fact, the entire cast of Friends has built up enough goodwill with ten years of solid entertainment to remain on solid ground with me. Even Matthew-I-Drove-My-Car-Through-A-House-And-I-Was-Sober-Swear-To-GOD-Perry. And for right now, I’m going to let Brad Pitt enjoy terra firma. Because? So pretty. But if he gets all weird with the vials of Angelina’s blood, well, don’t think that he ain’t too good looking to be sent sailing. Mr. Pitt, your good standing is hanging by a thread. I hope you know how to swim.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

2005-05-06T17:05:00.000-04:00

Alex is a total dork, right? Yeah, agreed. But here he gets fired for not knowing the difference between one loss and two, while Tana gets away with fixating on beads and glue on a T-shirt!

Tana's stock has dropped too far. Go Kendra!

More outrage at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-05-06T05:00:00.000-04:00

We finally say goodbye to Stephenie who, despite being awesome, is remarkably useless in a crunch.

Fare thee well at Just Ask Sammy.

Paula-tics

2005-05-05T17:17:00.000-04:00

Oh Paula! What an eventful few weeks you have had! I mean, I know that the American Idol machine thrives on supposed controversies. God knows it’s seen its fair share. What with all the child-porn posing of Frenchie Davis, the sister-smacking of Corey Clark, the myyyyssteeeeeeriooouuuus dropping-out of Mario Vasquez, the cell phone assault followed by completely sincere regret of Scott Savol, the totally predictable drug admissions of Bo Bice, with all the votefortheworst controversies of John Stevens and Scott Savol, the whole Hawaii time-zone auto-dialler nightmare of Jasmine Trias, the Oprah-pimpin’ of Ruben Studdard, the Oops!-we-showed-the-wrong-phone-numbers-by-accident-(honest!) incident earlier this season, and the Elton John smackdown accusation of rampant racism! It’s just getting hard to keep all these things straight. Nothing stops the juggernaut. All these little issues keep seeming to add fuel to the fire. And God knows I’m not going to stop watching any time soon. But, Paula, Paula, Paula, at you? I shake my head in dismay.

First with the happy, grinning, nonsense, babbling and carbon-copy commentary. Then with the constant cutting off of the Simon— for whom we watch the show, so, um, stop raining on his parade already! Then with the climbing into Simon’s lap and slobbering all over him. Then with the rumours of drug use, which, I’m totally buying because it explains the babbling and the interrupting and the dog-face-licking perfectly. But the drug rumours persist long enough to migrate out from the internet world and into the actual real world, where there are red-states and full-on outrage at that kind of “illicit behaviour”. This is not good. So you go on Entertainment Tonight and spin, spin, spin. You educate the world about reflex sympathetic dystrophy, and I must admit, I got nothing out of that lesson. But you say you totally have it. And it’s a totally real disease. And you are totally not on drugs. Things look up for two seconds.

And then you go and let Corey Clark burn you. Shame, shame, shame.

COREY CLARK! Y’all remember him, right? He was the weaselly looking café-au-lait, with the mop of “wear it natural” curls on his head, with the soprano voice and the ook-ook-ooky look in his eyes that got righteously dismissed midway through the semis of season two because of the aforementioned sister-smacking. He’s a claaaaaaaass act, I tell ya.

Paula, you slept with Corey Clark, didn’t you? At least that’s what Clark says. Clark’s got phone bills, and parent affirmations, and shifty friends to back him up, too. Also, he has a song called “Paula-tics” on his upcoming “album” that explains the whole sordid affair. But in case that song never hits real radio stations (which it won’t, because it’s, um, not so good,) he’s also got Prime Time Live to play it over and over and over, as the soundtrack to his one-hour exposé all about you, PAULA ABDUL, and the sex he, you know, had with you, PAULA ABDUL.

Here’s the thing: Clark is about as convincing in his story as Ben Affleck is when he says he’s “so over the gambling thing and the drinking thing.” Clark is shifty. He won’t state things outright. He’ll only answer the most painfully leading of questions. His friends are hoodlums who won’t look the camera in the eye. Clark has been peddling around a tell-all book and he just got a record deal and the whole thing REAKS OF PUBLICITY STUNT. There are enough holes in his story within which to taxi a Boeing 747. And yet, despite how poorly portrayed this whole bungling mess of a story is, I STILL TOTALLY BELIEVE YOU WERE BANGING HIM!

And, I mean, if that’s true, then I’m just as sure that Justin Guarini came before Clark. And I’m even more sure that Constantine Maroulis came after Clark. You deal with them all the same way. The same ruthless adoration and sly smiles. You never backhand them like you backhand Carrie with the “I’m glad you have so many fans.” You publicly admit that you are falling in love with them. You melt and cry and fall apart when they leave the show. You touch foreheads with their mothers. And can I just say?

Ew.

Girl, please. Paula Abdul, I bought Forever Your Girl when I was thirteen years old and I still know all the words to “Straight Up”, and “Forever Your Girl”, and “Cold-Hearted Snake” and “Opposites Attract”. Hell I PROBABLY STILL KNOW ALL THE DANCE MOVES. (As sad as that is... This ISN'T about me!) I love your crazy-act. I think Idol would be just as lost without your loopy grin as it would be without Simon’s snooty criticism.

But you have bad taste in men (or, you know, boys, as the case may be.) Please stop sleeping with the creepy male contestants. Go back to Emilio. Live happily – and reflex sympathetic dystrophically pain-free – ever after.

The Subway Ride (The Book List)

2005-05-05T10:52:00.000-04:00

Chabon seems to have fallen so in love with the character of Grady Tripp that he doesn't understand that what the reader reeeeeally wants to see is more Terry Crabtree.

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

2005-05-04T19:34:00.000-04:00

Okay, so you know how I've been saying how creepy I find Constantine Maroulis? Well, I'm not really going back on that. But there's, like, a natural order to the universe. And that natural order has been disrupted. So I expect that the four horsemen of the apocalypse will be on their way shortly.

More doomsday predictions can be found at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

2005-05-03T17:28:00.000-04:00

Boston Rob? Meet Karma. Karma? Boston Rob. I'm sure you two will get along fine. Hehe.

There's more laughs at Just Ask Sammy.

Job Hopping

2005-05-02T16:14:00.000-04:00

I have had ten proper employments. Which generally doesn’t seem a lot, and I’m sure that the masses could whup the heck out of that number if they actually sat down and counted up, wrote down on paper, and collectively remembered all the ways in which the money was made. I sat down and thought it out. For an educated woman, who stakes no claim to “acting” or “entertaining” or “selling art” of any kind, and is yet still not thirty, the ten jobs of my history seems a lot to me. I mean, try putting together a coherent resume out of the jumble that follows! On a good day, I bite my lip, cross my fingers and attempt the spin. On a bad day, I forever relinquish hopes of “achieving my goals” and landing that “unique job opportunity” that I “so well deserve.”

I started out as a cashier at the brand new Ultra Mart when I was seventeen. Hundreds of unemployed stood in line in the winter cattle call, because the set-up of a brand new business in a small town is a big deal. I got the job because I smiled in the five minute interview. And then for the minimum wage of $6.85 an hour, for about twelve hours a week, I smiled while the UPC codes booped their way through the laser eye of my checkout. I have to say, it wasn’t a bad way to enter the workforce: brainless and grinning. Often I shared shifts with my best friends, the Dub, her boyfriend, or Dark-Boy, and we could chat away the slow evenings or afternoons. Also, it was in the employ of the Ultra Mart that I first got the nerve to proper ask a boy out, after stalking him for weeks (or months, whatever.) He accepted. I loved him so bad.

After the job at the grocery store, I worked as a full-time nanny for a stint, and then did some time working in a strawberry patch before Mr. Grumpy-pants pulled the nepotism card at the manufacturing plant where he worked. Working on an assembly line is as close to accidental meditation as I have ever come. Eight hours a day, repeating the same four motions. Forcing myself not to look at the clock, like an insomniac begging for respite. I made vacuum tubes for automotive air conditioning parts. I still have one to remind me what repetition does to the brain. A summer student lost a finger to a machine that year. Luckily, it was not me, although I did have my own close call. As the top part of a small vertical hydraulic press came loose and crashing down, I pulled my hands out of the way at the last second. With the noise of the crash still echoing in the air, I stared at the gloves of my intact hands. In its closed jaws, the press held the material of my left glove, but not my fingers themselves. It was that close. The next summer I found a job at a paper mill that was decidedly more challenging and safety-conscious.

Then fresh out of school, engineering degree in hand and iron ring on finger, I still felt something a little less than enthusiasm at the prospect of the “ideal job” that I had landed. Fortune Five Hundred company, excellent pay, top notch benefits, the promise of technical challenges and the myth of time to work on my own projects – they build careers, they invest in their people, they recruit only the top! I had so scored the perfect job on paper. What I got in reality was a standard communist grey uniform, a stale cubicle, a sixty hour work week, plus on-call hours, and the tacit and unspoken understanding that the female engineers were to stay in the lab and off of the machine. Combine with that the fact that I had moved to the middle of nowhere and had just suffered a post-graduate crisis of identity, and you could maybe understand why I spent so many hours hiding in the washroom stall, pretending not to be a drama queen when that was exactly what I was. Dramatically ungrateful for the whopping paycheque. Dramatically unhappy at the prospect of making this my whole life.

ESL teacher would seem the next logical step, wouldn’t it? And from there French-English translator sounds about right, doesn’t it? And from there it’s just a small leap to mutual fund sales before landing at a desk job on the phones in customer service, right? The last jump was made in such a time of desperation, after the savings sputtered out into less than nothing, and six months of searching online yielded zero results. And I’ve given it my all for more than a year, but this job is never going to be enough for me.

I logged onto Monster last week for the first time in over a year – just casually, just to take a peek at what was out there. And moments later I found myself in the throes of a full-on panic attack. The sight of “Company Undisclosed”, or “Only successful candidates will be contacted”, or the dreaded “5 years + experience required” kind of sent me into a tailspin. Head between the knees, paper bag in my hand, telling myself “Just breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You are not going to throw up.”

But what’s a fool, with a beautiful honours degree but a spotty employment record supposed to do? How do you get it right when all you’ve ever done is get it wrong before? What happens when the serendipity that had followed you for so long abandons you less than half-way through the ride? I swear I would rather put a black marker through all I have done thus far in my life, crumple up the paper and start over on a new draft, in pencil, on yellow foolscap, than submit myself to the online employment search once again. Head hunters are vultures. And what they feast upon are the dwindling and dying egos of the dejected jobseeker. Not again. No way. Not me. No siree-bob.

So instead, I’ll be sitting myself down with a personal career counsellor and receiving all the you-can-do-it, we-can-help motivational speeches I can stomach. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

2005-04-29T17:57:00.000-04:00

Okay, I just can't get over how good I think Anthony Federov was. So Air Supply. So REO Speedwagon. So Christopher Cross over-the-top soft-rock radio-friendly. Just. Awesome.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit it at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

2005-04-29T17:56:00.000-04:00

Condescending? Young Lady, you don't even know what that means!

It's kind of arrogant, but there's more at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-04-29T17:01:00.000-04:00

She gets a spot on the jury? For pulling that kind of crap? Unacceptable. Really and truly.

The whole story is at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

2005-04-27T12:08:00.000-04:00

Animal molestation, Xanadu, NOT Milkshake spills, and a game of duck, duck, goose.

And I still don't get the whole Scott Savol thing. I just don't.

The translation is at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

2005-04-27T10:50:00.000-04:00

Gretchen - get out of the elephant. STAT.

There's always more at Just Ask Sammy.

Buseus Moodicus TERRIBILIUM

2005-04-26T13:44:00.000-04:00

It’s not that hard to have a bad day. All you need is a work screw-up book-ended by the public transportation system’s evolutionary equivalent of the thing that crawled out of the primordial ooze. So this is my day yesterday.

I have to head out to Etobicoke early in the morning for a day on-site at a customer’s. But Pete the Car is in the body shop having this itty-bitty scratch fixed so that the goddamn lease company won’t charge me for it upon his safe return to them. The lease basically reads like this: please return car four years later exactly as you found it. Don’t drive the car in such a manner, over four years, as to receive any scratches, scrapes, key marks, stone chips, glass chips, broken mirrors, fender dents, paint marks, rust stains, upholstery tears, gravel on the floor mats, coffee stains on the cup holder, dust on the dashboard, or fingerprints ANYWHERE. I mean, just, don’t touch the car. Just look at it. For 1460 days. So when my driver’s side mirror got stolen (bastards,) the inconsiderate thieves left a wee scratch on the door that I am now being forced to have fixed. And I have no car right now. You know what this means?

It means I have to take the bus. The BUS.

Now, here’s how the food chain of commuting works. At the top of the food chain are the car commuters. They are inefficient, and often irritable bordering on ragey, but they are self-sufficient. So they are at the top. Then there are the GO-trainers, heading in from the ‘burbs at 15 minute intervals. Their trains run to an actual schedule and there is ample leg-room in the bi-level cars. So they come in second. Then there are the subway-ians, of which I am usually part. Subway-ians get to work quickly, but they do so in a sardine-crammed fashion that can make them often as irritable as the car commuters. And the subway trains arrive at shoddy, ill-planned intervals, but often enough as to calm the growing sense of universal panic. Below the subway-ian lies the streetcar-ite. The streetcars are equally as crammed as the bloody subways, but there are less places to sit, and more interval stops along the route. Streetcar-ites tend to be less hygiene conscious than subway-ians, but they still consider themselves urban and they stop at such hip places as Little Italy and my dimsum place in China Town, so we forgive them the forays into Parkedale, and Leslieville, and Cabbagetown.

And at the very bottom of the food chain: the bus. Buseus impurius antiquiorum: antiquated, slow, overcrowded and dwelling in obscure regions of the outer-city. And this is where I am, under a threatening grey sky, laptop in tow. And my laptop carrying bag, despite looking oh-so-attractive, is really not all that useful. It doesn’t have a long shoulder strap around which I can swing the computer hands-free. So instead, I have to grip the handles of the bag like a briefcase with my tiny animal paw hands. So as the bus careens around corners, it’s slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And my destination office building is a good walk away from the bus stop. As I exit the bus, the wind howls and the sky opens up in full out rain, and I run, slip, slip, slip, re-grip and switch hands, all the way to cover.

Then I spend all day, isolated and alone, in a foreign boardroom, providing what we call a “support role” at the client’s for the day. The connection to my work PC is uber slow, and my cell phone daytime minutes are quickly mounting as I call in for reinforcement. I’m on the phone with head office and dude is all “What are you even doing there? Wasting the company’s time and money?” And I’m so with him on that because that’s exactly what I’m doing there. But he could, you know, pay attention to me and give me some more details so that I don’t feel quite so lost and lonely. He could pretend that we are friends and throw a joke my way instead of being all pissed off that his bloody project didn’t go quite so smoothly. It’s not my fault! And I’m stranded! Because: no car and… BUS. (buseus publica overcrowdium) But he doesn’t, because he’s in a mood that is quite matching to my own at this point. I don’t even know what irked me more – that he wouldn’t tell me all the information I needed, or that he mistook me for someone else entirely when he first answered the phone. Because I would always recognize his voice. And that’s why I don’t have the upper-hand I so desperately seek. After languishing away for six hours independently, it’s back on the bus. (buseus aromicus stinkae)

Slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands. Errrrrrgh.

On the bus ride home there is a kid sitting in front of me that is maybe twenty years old. In a three piece suit. With a backpack and a goddamn iPod and sneakers. I’m thinking job interview. I bet his girlfriend thinks he cleans up nicely in a suit. But the sneakers kind of ruin it. Instead of looking all professional, he just looks like a bored kid from the suburbs in an ill-fitting suit. He actually looks like he could be the younger brother of an old roommate from Japan. He’s got the brooding eyes, and the goatee that took him six months to grow in because without it he would look like the youngest member of Menudo. And he’s even got the tweaked-out furrowed brow that Cooliam used to pull out on an exhausted Monday morning. And the kid smells like Axe body spray/eau de parfum/eau de toilette/eau de cologne. I think he’s seen the commercials that imply it makes women want to hump Axe-wearing men. But for me, all I can think about when I smell the stuff is Gay Roomie. Gay Roomie practically bathes in it. Every morning, still more than half asleep, I come tromping down the stairs from the third floor, turn the corner and run into a wall of Axe. A cloud of Axe. A stink bomb of Axe! Boom. It is intense. Does it make me wanna go after the man who ate the tequila worm that once grew in the graveyard of the man who once wore Axe while he was alive and had a heart attack while being molested by a woman overcome by that overpowering Axe aroma? Not so much. I don’t so much associate the smell with burning desire. Because: Gay Roommate.

Finally at my stop I exit the bus (buseus interruptus nonstoppium) and walk the rest of the way home dragging the trusty old laptop. In the rain. Slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands. Aaaaaargh! I open the door to my apartment, contemplating my soon-to-be-entirely-car-less future. I contemplate all the car rentals, bummed rides, taxis filled with groceries, and goddamn busses in my future. Oh help and bother! And as I walk up the stairs? (One final slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands.) I get hit by the roomie’s Axe-bomb.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

2005-04-25T10:13:00.000-04:00

Paula is not on drugs, folks. They are prescribed to her by her doctor. Winona Ryder recommended him, so it's all totally legitimate. Stop making fun of her! It's mean.

I can't help myself at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

2005-04-24T17:07:00.000-04:00

Three guys versus two chicks and Craig? It's not even a competition.

And it's really not. Heh.

Continue reading at Just Ask Sammy.

Sitting In The Dark (The Movie List)

2005-04-23T15:39:00.000-04:00

I was too embarassed to tell people that I was going to this movie, on opening night no less, let alone tell them that I was excited to go see this movie.

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-04-21T11:56:00.000-04:00

Steph gets friends! YAY!

More at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

2005-04-21T00:36:00.000-04:00

So much filler. And the mysteries of the voting ways of the American audience continue to baffle yours truly.

Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

2005-04-18T22:17:00.000-04:00

Pit Stop? False alarm. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

You can see it all at Just Ask Sammy.

Lamentations On Being A Girl

2005-04-18T15:57:00.000-04:00

Okay, so before I begin, Dad the content in this might not be considered suitable for your viewing – so quick, look over here!

[Well, it’s not that bad. But it does entail me going on and on about the weird things girls do, including a lengthy discussion on undergarments. So you really might want to check this out. Seriously? Okay, well you were warned. Your baby girl is pushing thirty.

As for what Mom would think of this, well, she’d probably just shake her head and huff at all the trivial little things I do and tell me how unnecessary it all is. And to this, I sigh, agree that I am indeed very silly, and resign myself to the fact that there is some bizarre instinctive remnant not yet evolved out of the species. Moving on.]

Saturday morning was shopping time. I decided it was time for new business pants, of which I am sorely in need. I have an old pair of black stretchy ones that used to be awesome until I dorked out and set the iron on way too high for the miniscule spandex content that give said pants their awesome stretchiness. So now, if my poor laundry regime forces me into actually wearing these pants to work I have to find ways to hide the big old glossy iron burn mark on the upper thigh. Not the easiest place to hide, as you might imagine. Then I have an old pair of classy grey pants with a sweet little ribbon running a few inches above the hemline that, in theory, I love, but in practice are just super uncomfortable. The waistband has no give, and this makes me understand how as you grow old you just gradually start to convert your entire wardrobe to the evil elastic waistband. And then somewhere in between forty and sixty, you just end up looking like the grade three elementary teacher you had, with the stretchy waistband pants, with the pleats down the front, and the beige Hush Puppies with arch supports and white tennis socks, and the reading glasses on a chain, and the Northern Reflections pink cardigan embroidered with birds and flowers and insects eating the all the birds and flowers and – creepy. I resolve to never let this happen to me, so I have retired these pants because the mark they leave upon my stomach as I sit down digs right through my belly button and pushes up against my spleen and causes all sorts of grief. And then I have the old standby pair of black dress pants: fitted in all the right places, flowing in all the right places, classy buttoned pockets here and there and very, very versatile. Too versatile. I have worn them so much that they are frayed and burred in places and it’s starting to feel not so proper to be wearing them anymore. Hence: shopping.

And under the fluorescent lights of the fitting room, one thing becomes very clear: I am in between sizes right now, swimming in the larger, stretching out in the smaller. Drat. The dilemma being that I really need the pants, like stat. The solution being that I blame winter for the extra soft bits, buy the smaller and walk my tooshie through the park every day after work. The immediate compromise required, though, was the real kicker for me: I’m going to need a thong.

I’m a hold out. I know. I know practically every other woman my age has long since adopted this form of undergarment. Along with high heels, co-ordinate purses, make-up every day, at least three different varieties of hair care product, manicured nails, pumiced soft feet, eyelash curling and tinting, and waxing of all various and sometimes intimate areas of the body – as if all of these uncomfortable chores have become requisite just to be admitted into the girls’ club. But I just didn’t want to give in on this one!

I have already given so much over to consumerist tendencies. Honestly. A quick inventory of my beauty product shelf reveals some scary, scary stuff:

· twelve makeup bags from various free gifts at the Bay
· a veritable lifetime supply of anti-wrinkle eye creams, travel size mascaras, and eyeshadows
· a whole bag full of lipsticks!
· half a dozen different scents of perfume, none of which are of the no-name variety
· two tins full of hair elastics and barrettes and scrunchies and claws, which is insane given that for ninety percent of my life my hair has not even fallen beyond my chin
· a pumice stick that is essentially just sandpaper for the feet, and it is a lot of work, yo!
· daily body moisturizer, and then also a body moisturizer with a hint of sparkle in it for special days
· daily body wash, and then a special body wash I only use when I need to exfoliate, and just those last three words actually make me roll my eyes
· cleansers and toners and daily cloths and masks of the facial variety
· disposable razor, twin blade razor, electric razor with five different attachments and three canisters of ladies’ shaving cream, which is no different from men’s except in the scent
· two tubes of Nair, despite the above, and despite the fact that from time to time I actually pay someone to physically rip all my deeply rooted hair from my body, which OUCH, why the hell??

IT. NEVER. ENDS.

I have a bin full of purses, and a rack full of colour-coded sandals, and a closet full of season-appropriate coats. I! CAN’T! STOP!

And half the time I don’t even know if I possess all these things and put all that effort into my own body maintenance because 1) some commercial told me I needed them, 2) boys really do think I look prettier that way or 3) I just saw some other woman do it one time and thought to myself “If she’s doing it then I guess I have to.” Would you notice if I didn’t wax my eyebrows? If I didn’t wear mascara everyday? If I didn’t wear the push-up bra? Would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Because thongs are un-comfortable! And ass-baringly un-sexy! I mean, I know there are plenty out there who would disagree with me, but I once heard thongs referred to as “butt floss” and the visual that produces is both accurate and unpleasant! In my humble opinion, the site of a giant T-bar sticking out of the tops of ladies low-rise jeans is more unsightly and more of a huge turnoff than my nemesis: the visible panty line. BUTT. FLOSS. People! And it’s not like I haven’t tried to enjoy the thong – I have. I just don’t like them. Thongs are unnecessary, lascivious overkill. I like a full cushion for my bottom. I’m not talking Granny panties, but a cute little bikini or boys’ cut will do just fine, thank you very much. So, honestly, would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Yes, yes you would. Especially in these new pants in the early stages of shedding of the winter layer. So I caved, finally. Just add it to the ever growing list of uncomfortable things I need to do to maintain my membership in the girls’ club. I think we need a referendum on this sort of thing. The president of the chapter might want to ease up on the list of admission requirements. It’s getting out of hand.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol 4

2005-04-18T00:30:00.000-04:00

Hall and Oates look like mummified. And if they're not dead yet, then the shock of Scott's lacklustre performance ought to push them over the edge.

More wit at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice

2005-04-15T17:53:00.000-04:00

Words cannot describe just how ridiculous this all is.

But I give it my best shot over at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-04-13T23:04:00.000-04:00

I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! MAKE IT STOP!

(sniff, sniff.)

More tears at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

2005-04-12T19:11:00.000-04:00

How do I hate you Scott? Let me count the ways...

Television brings me nothing but disappointment on Wednesday.

There are more tears at Just Ask Sammy.

You, In the Backseat! Ten Minutes: No Talking.

2005-04-12T00:15:00.000-04:00

I am not a nervous driver. I’m not! I’ve been driving since I was sixteen and I have a clean driving record. Parking tickets DO NOT COUNT! I’ve been behind the wheel on cross-country trips on more than one occasion. [Stupid Calgary.] My silver Hyundai Pete has a standard transmission and I am always considerate of backseat passengers when gliding off the clutch to ensure smooth transitions. I am comfortable behind the wheel of a car.

Not something I came by naturally, I’ll openly admit. I was allowed to go for my learner’s permit at age sixteen without so much as a go-karting experience under my belt or even a general fondness for Indy 500 video games. There was one condition to my driving education: Mr. Grumpy-pants was not allowed to teach me. Mom felt he was too aggressive and wanted to protect me from picking up his racecar driving fantasies. (A little late considering the eight years I had already spent with him as one of my primary chauffeurs, but, whatever.) Mom survived two lessons with me behind the wheel and her instructing from the passenger side. The first: along a dirt country road with no one else in sight while I got a feel for the gas and the break. The second: driving five minutes to the neighbourhood Becker’s where I promptly botched all attempts to turn left. As she entered the house, nerves all affray, after the second driving lesson, she muttered “[Grumpy], you teach her. I don’t have the patience.” Then she downed a tranquilizer with a glass of wine.

And Mr. Grumpy-pants turned out to be the best defensive driving teacher I have ever needed. I mastered emergency braking, parallel parking, and proper highway merge techniques long before I ever sat in the car with an insurance-industry qualified Driver’s Ed teacher. All that, and there was only one incident where I mistook gas for brake and almost ended up through the store front of that neighbourhood Becker’s! No matter, Mr. Grumpy-pants, myself, and the Becker’s all lived to buy another Slurpee. And I learned that a good deal of “don’t panic” goes a long way behind the wheel of a car.

At the end of university I took a road trip down to New York State with my thesis group, to present our final project to our sponsor company. We had four drivers for the eight hour drive, so no big deal. D_____ took the first leg of the drive and promptly lost everyone’s confidence in his driving skills by getting us lost. Before we had left our university campus. I took the second leg of the drive and got us across the border. M___ took the third leg of the drive and played speed-up-slow-down-change-lanes-for-no-reason-and-switch-the-radio-dial-as-if-she-were-surfing-satellite-television-for-porn for the longest fifty miles of my life. Then she got pulled over by the State Trooper for speeding. Oh, bra-vo! As the trooper approached the car, she realized that she hadn’t actually remembered to bring her Driver’s License with her. Oh! Bra---vo! Then she sweet-talked the Trooper-with-the-very-large-firearm into letting her off the hook. This was pretty impressive given the fact that I was wearing the Please-Officer-I’m-Too-Young-To-Go-To-Jail look on my face. But, because she did not have her License on her, we had to switch up drivers yet again before we could continue the journey. Lastly, our resident Master’s student A_____ took his turn behind the wheel. Within ten minutes, he almost ran another driver off the road when he cut into the passing lane. I told him to pull over and took the wheel for the rest of the remaining six hours nonstop. ALSO during that roadtrip? The back-end of the van got clipped by a deer that I had to swerve to miss. Did I let someone else drive after that? Hell no. There was no way any of them were getting back behind the wheel!

So I am not a nervous driver. And I’ve long since outgrown the reckless phase too. But you know what I hate? I hate people who make me feel as if I ought to be a nervous driver.

It irks me that an old friend of mine, with a spotty driving record of her own, always used to hold onto the door handle of the passenger side for the entire ride – like she was prepared to open the door and ninja roll to safety while I was driving a comfortable 115 km/h along a dry highway. On a clear day! On a Sunday afternoon! In the middle of Nebraska! (Okay, maybe not Nebraska, but clearly I mean this wasn’t the Indianapolis 500 cutthroat stakes.)

Also I have another friend who is ridiculously particular about her car. She loooooooves it. And her boyfriend? Always makes me feel as if I should be more careful. He always cocks an eyebrow at me as I flip on the turn signal like “Are you sure you want to leave that ‘til the very last second? It’s not safe.” Dude, if my Dad – the king of pokey safe driving – has proclaimed me a safe driver, why on earth does your eyebrow of judgment bother me? Boyfriend is the kind of guy who will stand in the driveway and make the hand gestures to let me know exactly how much space you have to weasel out of my parking spot without bumping my friend’s car. (Which, did I mention she loooooooves?) One time he made me so nervous that I slipped the gear and stalled the car with a lurch. And bumped friend’s car. OH NO! Mind you, I was going like negative two kilometers an hour, so it’s not like I even left a scratch. THANK GOD.

Today I had a backseat driver in a full car on the way to a business lunch. As I turned left out of the parking lot and into traffic, he screamed like a little girl that I was going to kill them all. Hey man, Pete’s got pep! So relax already. I know you’ve been riffing on me, just assuming that I was a bad driver for the past few weeks in anticipation of this business trip, but how about you keep your soprano scream to yourself while we have a client in my car? Even my Mom doesn’t flinch when I turn left anymore.

Trust me, I know what I’m doing.

Writer's Block

2005-04-11T21:38:00.000-04:00

Wow! I’m totally falling behind on the Reality Wrap-ups. My apologies to my three (or so…) fans. Also, I am fighting a serious case of like eight-day-old writer’s block. But I promise a new entry by the end of tonight – even if it means I will be up until 3AM, and also, even if it sucks.

But for right now, Raj and Robin from The Apprentice are totally judging the Miss USA Pageant on TV and my roommate is dying for me to come join her so we can pick apart the contestants' Vaseline lips and silicone breasts! (Incidentally, Raj and Robin are not seated next to each other. Heh.)

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

2005-04-11T21:32:00.000-04:00

Swimsuits? Seems reasonable!

I heart the Brothers!

More at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice

2005-04-06T16:56:00.000-04:00

Sigh. I miss Andy. He never said fuck or chewed tobacco.

Just Ask Sammy.

A Call to Arms

2005-04-05T12:30:00.000-04:00

Dear Stuart,

I saw your show this weekend – the Decide Show, so you call it. And? Not so good. Let’s leave aside the technical difficulties you experienced that left the audience in silence for the better part of one segment. Let’s leave aside the non-catchy ditties interspersed throughout the night. Or the hokey “give yourselves a standing ovation” trick at the beginning. Let’s even leave out the fact that you seem to repeatedly rhyme the words “love” and “glove” as if that were novel.

What the hell is the show about? It’s called “Decide” and yet that’s the one thing you seem to have been incapable of doing.

Is the mixed-media an attempt to enlighten? Or is it misdirection?

Are the other characters up on stage meant to go through development? Or just support your journey?

Is it a personal experience? An invitation into the world inside your head?

Or is it merely an extension of your day job as a motivational speaker? An opportunity for you to let everyone know exactly how you think they can make your world a better place?

Because the show never makes up its mind, it fails on all accounts.

Musical sequences, prose, poetry, free-verse, beat-boxing, interspersed video content and interpretive dance! One word: overkill. Pick one medium, or two – preferably the ones you are best at, and run with them. Attach the medium to a story that is worth telling – not the other way around. Stop manipulating your audience. Every time you touch on a subject matter that will tug on the heartstrings of those in their seats, you switch gears on us so quickly as to give us whiplash of the consciousness. Every time you hook into something that feels real, the chorus is quickly trotted out on stage to muddy up the point entirely. It’s not cool. Don’t assume that your audience has the attention span of a gnat. Don’t assume that we aren’t willing to simply listen to what you have to say. If what you have to say is worth listening to, then you will not have to force the point with us, or misguide us, or make loud noises to keep us off balance. Commit to what you are doing, already.

And those other people up on stage? Those aren’t puppets. Those are actors. They’d like some sort of purpose instead of just ambling around, supporting your self-assumed grandeur. Most of their names are only mentioned in passing. None of them have a story-line of their own. None of them have any story arcs, or character development, or resolution. That cute scene where you break through the fourth wall and have the discussion about how each of those actors made the decision to recite your predetermined lines? As cute as it is – and we all have a chuckle at it because the audience loves to be in on the joke – it really only serves to reinforce the point that the chorus is just full of minion-bees, serving up honey to the writer-producer-and-the-only-bona fide star-QUEEN BEE of the show: YOU. As the writer it is your responsibility to do justice to every single thing you put up on stage, not just to yourself. Writers make choices. Good writers make generous choices. Great writers make necessary choices. All you did was choose to hog the spotlight. Are you still in your twenties? Perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to make the necessary decisions that will make it yours a great show yet. But, maybe, just maybe, it’s time to grow up.

And here’s the crux of the problem: are you confiding or preaching? I can’t tell. You haven’t let me in far enough. At the outset, I can almost peer into the seed of the idea for the show. I can envision you, sitting at home in front of your computer, beginning the journey of moving words from inside your head to the keyboard of your computer, and onto the stage in front of your audience. It feels as though you want to tell me something personal. It feels as though you want to confess something to me. As you move through how tough it was for you to tell your parents that you could not be a nine-to-fiver, I feel for you. I’m almost right there with you. You’re so close to moving me. And then? And then it’s gone. And then the seed of the idea becomes vague and unclean. You don’t back up the idea with any personal experiences. You don’t back it up with similar experiences from the rest of the characters. There is just some talk about how everyone up on stage totally agrees with you as they nod their heads up and down, a blank stare across their face. Why do they agree with you? Why don’t they want the nine to five? WHY DON’T YOU WANT THE NINE TO FIVE? Tell me. Let go of what’s holding you back and trust that the audience will not judge. It all repeats itself again with the sequence about love. We’ve all been burnt before, you tell me. And then you open the door to your experience just a crack with a monologue about loss in love. But? Why? What did you lose? Who? And why? And how? And what about the others? What did they lose? Did they watch their parents fall apart? Did they watch a lover self-destruct in loathing? Was there infidelity? How badly were they let down? Don’t just ask me to fill in the blanks for myself. Make the decision to take me to that vulnerable place inside of you. The possibilities then are endless.

Instead, you do what feels safe and, perhaps, more natural for you. You sit back into the groove that got you started in the first place. You pull up to your pulpit and you begin to preach your version of the gospel. You tell the audience of their own power to decide. You let them know that they have nothing to fear but fear itself. You turn them around and congratulate them for being so possessed as to attend your gracious enlightenment. It’s all in our hands! Go forth and spread the word! I have heard that you are a motivational speaker by day. I read it in your too-wordy-for-the-pre-show-dim-lights program. [I’ll be sending you the bill from the eye doctor, incidentally.] Here’s what I think: you choked. You set out to perform something intensely personal, but in the end something is preventing you from doing just that. Because once you get up on that stage, an archetype takes over and you are not showing the audience anything real about yourself. You are telling the audience what they need to do to be like you. Well, you haven’t given me any reason to want to be like you. So I’m not listening. You have mastered the art of oratory. Now it’s time to learn the difference between “performance” and “acting”. You are not an actor. No matter how badly you want to be considered one.

Your ideas may be fundamentally good. You may be headed in the right direction in the wrong vehicle. But none of that matters. I think you have surrounded yourself with an entourage of people who tell you that you’re already great, and so you’ve stopped somewhere halfway to your intended destination. ‘Right here is good enough,’ you tell yourself. ‘Right here, people like me and I am safe.’ I’m here to tell you that it’s not good enough. Make up your mind already.

What you’re striving for is universality. What you’ve stopped at is generic.

Sincerely,
Jennifer

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

2005-04-05T10:37:00.000-04:00

I am strangely in love with Bobby Jon and his sad, sad, sad brown eyes.

There's more gushing at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

2005-04-04T21:35:00.000-04:00

We say goodbye to Jessica even though Carrie is creepy in a JonBenet way and Scott should totally have been disqualified for being violent like a big fat lumpy bear. Oh, and did I mention the Muppets? There are totally Muppets.

You know you want to - Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race 7

2005-04-04T00:12:00.000-04:00

I just don't know how television can get any better than this.

All that is awesome is at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol 4

2005-03-30T19:59:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-29T14:54:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-29T13:28:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-28T23:28:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-28T17:58:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-28T11:30:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-23T16:33:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-23T12:25:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-22T15:10:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-22T14:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-21T17:12:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-17T17:43:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-17T13:31:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-16T21:54:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-16T12:26:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-15T14:18:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-14T18:42:00.000-05:00

"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

2005-03-14T16:58:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-10T11:24:00.000-05:00

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.