Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Tick Tock Clock

2011-08-22T14:02:00.001-07:00

Okay, we all knew - myself included - that I wouldn't make the deadline. Pooh. Then again, we all know - especially me - that I don't break my word on matters like this, and resurgence is inevitable.

The greatest of thanks to those of you who have stuck through this journey, the best is yet to come!

And very, very soon at that.

-FG

2011-01-10T11:09:00.000-08:00

Back in Action
Honest-to-Goodness
Really and
For Surely

Spring 2011

The rollercoaster thrills on! Stay tuned....

2009-03-26T11:08:00.000-07:00

(I know, I know, I'm a shit. BUT on the bright side I've written about 30 pages these past few weeks - really! - and have set up a schedule to religiously post twice a week. Stay tuned...)

Well, I suppose it’s because of a lot of other things I don’t do.

I don’t work out much. I have my fits and spurts like, become a gym fanatic to look good in this dress, or, summer is coming it’s sit-ups time! But I’ve never really made exercise a routine or daily fixture of my life. This is a shame in more ways than one, made bigger by the fact that I do in fact have a dog and should, at the very least, be running around with him every single day.

I snack. Boo. I snack later on in the evening, especially. Bigger boo. And while I don’t snack “bad”, at least for the most part, snacking later is not a good thing in general. Boos all around.

I may not thrive on unhealthy foods but I am a gourmet fanatic, and the lipids count on too many of those items is high, baby high. Rich cheeses, delectable pasta, sumptuous, fruity rich oils. I do try and eat these in moderation but every now and again a puttanesca will look at me longingly, and I’ll oblige by giving it a home. In my stomach.

Salt. Heavens to Betsy, I love salt. I think the sweet tooth I didn’t get is due to the oh-so-savoury taste buds rock ‘n rolling away in my mouth, bossing the sugar wants away. I have four kinds of sugar in my cupboard to fulfill every coffee and baking need; I have 14 different kinds of salt. Among them are kosher and sea salt for everyday, Fleur de Sel and Sel Gris for finishing, black salt for earthiness and truffle salt for everything from hard boiled eggs to popcorn seasoning. Air popped.

I love vegetables but don’t eat them as often as I’d like, especially in the winter months. I never pre-plan my meals, either. I do my best but then sometimes I just get so hungry or tired or both, and with few options before me I usually go for the toasted bagel that’s quick, easy and packed with carbs.

So while it could be said that I try hard, I really don’t try hard enough. But I’m not going to let that get me down.

In spirit of Love and Me, or, Loving Me, I think I’ll stop slapping myself on the wrist all the time. I’m human. I’m doing good but not my best; I’m not going to resolve to try harder because honestly, that mostly accomplishes nothing. I just know I can do better. And the main difference between this year and all the years behind me is, I want to do better.

I’ve been saying I have to I have to I HAVE TO for years now and quite frankly, it’s gotten me nowhere. I’ve been saying I can’t I can’t I CAN’T for even longer, and that’s taken me just as far.

I remember saying I HAD to study hard for this or that exam in university, then ending up going out with friends instead. I also remember my father telling me time and again in high school that I COULD NOT go out with boys, but you know what? I found a way around that. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

What I also know and remember is that when I wanted something that was totally achievable, I would get it. I wanted to learn how to rollerblade, and no matter how many times my ass hit the pavement, I made it happen. I wanted to get into journalism school, I wanted that internship in Europe; I worked my butt off for both, and did it.

It will happen because it will; it will happen because I want it to. It’s when I want something that badly that it stops becoming what it started as: want. It becomes a need, the air that I breathe. That’s when the magic happens.

2009-02-03T20:03:00.000-08:00

Hi there! Again, I've taken a lot longer to come back than I thought I would, but something pretty major happened a few weeks ago - something major, and to something I really, really love. Thankfully it was to a "something" and not "someone" (and majorly thankful my dog was not in that category, either) but nevertheless it was poopy all the same. I'll be writing about that in a few weeks time. Cheers :)

I don’t eat candy.

I’ve never really liked the stuff, at least not since the age of 10. The novelty of Halloween only took me so far, I suppose. I don’t even have a yen for sugary products, and can’t stomach anything too sickeningly sweet. I love to bake, but that’s mostly for holidays and special occasions. And, I rarely dig into the finished product because by then, I’ve had my fill of staring at it.

I don’t eat chips or other junk foods, not all that much. A handful of times per year, tops. I never drink soda, except ginger ale when I’m sick. I almost never eat takeout food, and no delivery man knows me by name. I can’t stand breaded foods, and ixnay on anything deep fried.

I’m not a chocoholic, though I do indulge in a good dark when my hormones dictate it. I don’t drink all that much, either. Sandy and I share maybe two bottles of wine per month. I do love coffee, but never more than five cups per week, or even more than one cup per day, except maybe sometimes on weekends. Coffee is more of a fall and winter thing, too; come spring and summer, my consumption of the stuff wanes down to almost nothing. Hot beverages and hot days rarely coincide on my planet, and truth be told, I really don’t like flavoured, iced or whip cream topped caffeine.

When I have parties I don’t spend a mint on ready-made, assembly line foods, I make everything myself, with fresh ingredients, from scratch. For the most part I hate canned food, mixes, overly processed crap, and the chemically-laden. When I do have any of these things I read the labels like a hawk, making sure the nutritional values are acceptable, and the ingredients are all natural.
Good yes, trans fats no. I try as hard as the next girl to put only the best things in my body.

This isn’t how I function when I’m being saintly or super careful; these aren’t my food-fascist ways at their peak. This isn’t me tiptoeing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding tasty, fatty products in fear of gaining an ounce. Very truthfully this is my everyday, how I choose and make the foods I eat. This is just me.

So all that said, why the hell am I still fat?

A New Year's message to You, to You

2009-01-12T20:11:00.000-08:00

I’ve been away for a lot longer than I thought I would be, than I said I would be and so forth, and while I’m super tempted to apologize and say that things will be better from here on in, I’ll write more regularly (and so forth), I don’t have to this time.

See, I didn’t want to be away. I wanted to write and I did do a lot of it, but my computer (and all the viruses it contracted) had its own ideas. I’m not totally sure if the matter is cleared up ‘cause I’m just not tech wired like that, but I am positive that current state of said PC is enough for me to continue where I left off.

Besides, it’s time for me to be here, time for me to write and finish what I started so very long ago. It’s the beginning of the end, I can feel it. And while many of you will disagree with the word “end” I’ve never personally had an issue with it. Everything comes to an end in one way or another; childhood, Harry Potter books (and movies); the Gucci 2008 collection.

It’s because ends make way for beginnings, wonderful beginnings. Just like winter snows always thaw into Spring, I’ll always be me, this crazy curly-haired writer trying to find her way one word at a time. But I want an end to the dream just being a dream; I want to capture the Me I envisioned for myself such a long time ago, the Me I gain a little more of, every single day.

It’s the Me I’ll never have if I don’t finish this story of here and now, my story. I want the rest of my story. I’m sure you do, too. So let us start the Beginning of the End, the rest of this story, with a story.

And, a question. Have you ever asked this of yourself: “What am I worth?”

Before I could be old enough to ask myself this question and truly ponder on it, it was asked of me.

My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Vinsanto, was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Maybe it was because he was one of the odder choices, I mean, being a man and teaching the fourth grade to begin with was quite an oddity in itself, but throwing pointy shoes and permed hair into the equation made for interesting hallway gossip. Still, Mr. Vinsanto wasn’t one of those teachers who was there for summer months off and a great pension; he taught because he wanted to, because he loved his job and he was great at it.

Even though it was a really long time ago, one of Mr. Vinsanto’s lessons in particular has always stuck with me. Actually it wasn’t even the lesson itself, since I really can’t remember most of it (hey, I was 9), but what he said in it that was so significant.

It was during a Religion class. Being a Catholic school we were subject to religion classes every now and then, where we learned all about the bible, the saints, pain, suffering, guilt, and who was flogged most effectively under Roman rule. Anyway, the subject matter that day was Worth.

How we got to that point is beyond me, but I remember, clear as day, Mr. Vinsanto looking all around the room, pointing his fingers at us and saying, “Tell me, all of you, how much are you worth?”

How much was I worth? I thought and thought, but had no answer. I could see brows furrowed all around me, but not one hand was up. Heavy thinking in a nine-year old universe.

“Think about it, as hard as you can,” Mr. Vinsanto went on. “How much are you worth?”

Hmm. Being young of course I put this down to monetary value, and concentrated. I knew I was definitely worth more than $10, and definitely more than $100! $1000 was a no-brainer too, but $100,000 started to sound steep, I mean, that much money could buy truckloads of Cabbage Patch Kids. A million I didn’t even want to think about, it was far too extravagant. Those types of fortunes were only for people like Queen Elizabeth and Scrooge McDuck.

$10,000 would cut it, I thought, maybe even $50,000 on a good day. I very apprehensively started to put my hand up in the air, noticing that others around me were being shy about the matter as well, when Mr. Vinsanto shook out those gorgeous black curls ever so slightly, flashed his pearly whites and said, “Well, I know how much you’re all worth!”

Hands went down quickety-quick. Fantastic! I thought. I took out a pencil to write the number down and show my family when I got home. Just imagine, my very own price tag! Maybe Oli could draw one up for me, and make it all nice and pretty. In my heart of hearts I secretly hoped I was worth more than Theresa, the teacher’s pet, while I KNEW I was worth more than stupid Bradley, who always threw dirt around at recess.

But Mr. Vinsanto didn’t give out any numbers. Instead he leaned a bit forward and said, most seriously, “You can’t attach a number to how much you are worth. You’re priceless.”

Maybe this would have garnered applause in an eighth grade classroom, but not in our fourth grade world. Most of us just sat there with blank looks on our faces after he said that. Priceless? What did this word mean? I knew what Price meant, and what Less meant, but the two didn’t quite seem to match up. Was I less a price?

Thankfully Mr. Vinsanto was used to dealing with kids our age every day, all the time, and so started to clarify. “Let’s imagine you were kidnapped,” he said, to which the class gasped. We all knew what “kidnapped” meant. “Let’s say you were kidnapped, and the bad people who took you only did it because they wanted money from your parents. How much would your parents give, to get you back?”

I thought and thought. The car? Maybe the house? I didn’t think they would trade Oli in for me, though.

But Mr. Vinsanto had a different answer. “If you were stolen, your parents would give away everything they had. They would give their lives for you. Do you know why?”

I thought I sort of knew why, but kept my hand down. So did everyone else, instead, we just stayed fixated on Mr. Vinsanto. “Because they love you, and because you’re worth everything they have, everything they can give. That is what 'priceless' is, it means, more than money.”

I didn’t look around the class just then, but assumed that everyone’s mouth was as wide open as mine. I was worth more than $10,000 and $50,000? I was worth more than $100,000 and even a million? Or a billion? What was bigger than a billion, anyway? And how crazy was it that I was worth more than that, too?

Mr. Vinsanto, amused and satisfied at our shock, sent his point home. “Each and every single one of you is worth more than money, or jewellery, or stuff. There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are. You are unique. You are everything.”

We had a special spring in our steps that day, Mr. Vinsanto’s fourth-grade class. Throughout recess, throughout lunch, throughout the rest of lessons and then going home after the final bell rang, we knew, every last one of us, no diamond on earth shone as brightly as we could.

Then, we grew up. I don’t know how the rest of the class has fared with that lesson but I’ve forgotten it too many times. I’m sure everyone does; other people tell us we’re nothing, we believe them. We read job contracts, mortgages, insurance policies and we believe those, too. Almost everything we have and everything we know can be bought for money and we believe in the metaphorical price tags on our heads too, when the reality of the matter is that no money could ever buy us, duplicate us, or bring us back after we’re gone.

We’re only a few days into 2009, and usually January is a pretty down time for me. It’s a new year, I’m back in the exact same place I was last year, disappointed, not where I want to be in my life, not looking at how I want to look. I pick apart my circumstances, I don’t like what I see. I stand naked in front of mirrors, I don’t like what I see.

Self-loathing, even in its most constructive forms, isn’t the most positive way to start off any year. I haven’t been very good to myself.

But this time, something’s different. Physically I’m not very far from where I was last year at this time, but emotionally, spiritually, something is changing. I feel lighter, happier. I feel free in a way I can’t explain.

So this year, instead of cutting myself up, feeling bad and punishing myself for bad choices, I’m trying something new. I’m going to try and love myself for a change, to forgive myself easier, to be more patient and overall, more understanding. I’ve given a lot more to people who have meant much less, even done less, so why can’t I give more to myself?

I’m worth it. Even if I don’t feel that some of the time, in fact most of the time, I do mean something to those around me. My family loves me, I crack my friends up. My boyfriend, bless his blue-eyed soul, looks at me in that extra special, sparkly way. My dog thinks I’m the bee’s knees. If I am worth nothing else in my own eyes, I am plenty in the eyes of others. I mean something in this world. There is only one Me.

There is only one You, too. You’re worth it, and this world would not be the same without you. So if there’s just one thing you take away from this long, long post today, maybe a little mantra you should carry with you throughout this New Year, even for every year following, let it be this: There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are.

You are irreplaceable. You are everything.

100% Real Juice: Becoming Jane

2008-10-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, one more quote and then I’ll get back to the real world of writing, promise.

Becoming Jane, starring the ethereally gorgeous, my-eyes-are-freakishly-large Anne Hathaway and that delish piece of Scots man candy James McAvoy, is a historically inaccurate tale of the beginnings of Jane Austen as a writer, and of her first, apparently only, real love.

I’d just started watching the flick and was only a few minutes in when this bit caught me; I had to grab the remote to rewind and pause in all the appropriate places, letting me write it down word for word so I could put it up here for you. Thank you, Video On Demand.

Jane’s father, a pastor, is giving his sermon at Sunday mass, and forms this ditty around his daughter’s unmentionable behaviour; fits of written talent and some brackish piano playing all too early in that 1800s morning.

“The utmost of a woman’s character is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction, virtuous love, and quiet in the early morning. If a woman happens to have a particular superiority, for example, a profound mind, it is best kept a profound secret. Humour is liked more, but wit; No. It is the most treacherous talent of them all.”

Interesting. Debasing and discriminatory, but still interesting. And, yuck. Wit is the hallmark of a sharp mind, and a sharp mind the key to a universe of knowledge. Sometimes we take for granted that these keys only became available to us women just a couple of generations back.

It’s hard enough to be a woman nowadays; I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. Imagine such an existence, rules rules RULES until you went absolutely insane, or got married, or both. For some it was a good deal, but what if you were smart? Knowing what More is, wanting it, and only in very few cases, having the balls to take it. It was a stiff price for those who dared.

This topic might be seemingly unrelated to anything I ever have to say, but I’m writing about it for two reasons. One: It’s important to pay respects. This woman was one of many who dared and made it possible for all women, to go to work every day, own real estate, drive ourselves wherever the hell we want to just because we can, tell dirty jokes and have lascivious affairs with men of our choosing. It’s because of women like this that I can come here to the internet, to this quirky little planet of mine, and shoot my mouth off all I like, and you can read it.

Two: Thank you, all, for reading my shootings off. It amazed me, after being gone for so very long, that there were still people checking this site often enough to get almost right back to me with a comment, or even call me, to those of you who know me personally. I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me, or how happy I was that so many of you still believe in me. Through the thick and the thin (especially the thick), you have always been there, and I’m so, so grateful for that.

Kisses.

Resurgence. For now, anyway.

2008-09-15T20:28:00.000-07:00

Starbucks The Way I See It #286
Hypocrisy is annoying, but not evil. Someone who says one thing and does another has doubled their chances of being half right.
- Penn Jillette, Magician

According to this, I’m annoying but not evil. I said one thing and did another, that is, I said I’d be back a long time ago. I didn’t do that.

I suppose in one way, that makes me a hypocrite. My return, my homecoming, my long-awaited, triumphant welcome back – to be most celebrated by myself, believe me – was delayed. Much longer than I would have liked.

At first, I didn’t want to write. I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. I’ll call it Burnout. I’d written so much, sometimes so often, that ever now and then it felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. Many of my posts in the last while were half-ass, which for me, is unacceptable. I didn’t like that and so, I didn’t write at all.

Then I wanted to write again, but stifled myself not to. It was for noble reasons: I spent the better part of my time that I would have spent writing here, trying to get a job. There were successes and there were failures, but there were changes. I’ll get into those later.

The past few months was supposed to be a grand return, signaled by this newer, grander layout. And I wanted it to be that way, but despite my best intentions, that didn’t come to pass. I could bog you down with excuses and reasons and stories alike, that I tried but I couldn’t, blah this and blah that, but I’m here to tell it and not whine, so I’ll be as quick as possible.

It’s been a bitch of a summer. It was supposed to be three months of discovery, of learning, of eating better, of yoga and weekend trips and writing, writing, WRITING, especially here, to keep with the journey that I started, now so long ago, and very desperately want to see finished.

Instead, to sum it up as quickly as possible without turning this into a rant, it went more like this:

My father was sick.
There was an overseas cousin.
A baby was born (not mine).
My dog was sick.
My dog was sick.
I was sick.
My dog was sick.
There was a wedding (not mine).
There was another wedding (really, not mine).
My dog was sick.

The sickness bits, not a one, were attached or intertwined. All new things, crazy things, that led to a lot of panic and stress. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Usually when I’m gone for such long periods of time I apologize to you all, then I spend weeks or months ridiculously trying to catch you up on what you’ve missed. With the story of my life, that is. I’ll keep to the apologies, I am truly sorry it’s been so long; for the most part, I had really, really good reasons to be away. With some exceptions, I won’t be writing too much about this past year either, and especially not about the past few months. I really don’t want to relive any of it; to be honest, I’m just glad it’s all (hopefully) over.

I’m ready to be here. I’m ready to be back and I’m ready to write, even if it is going to be on a more truncated schedule. Girls digging their heels into their careers have to divide their time among other tasks, too. I’m ready to be here, and I hope you’re ready for me… those of you who are left, that is. Thanks for sticking by me.

And now, if fate will grant me this one kind favour of some quiet time and a perfectly uneventful near future, meaning, nothing like what this past summer has been, then I can start again.

There is still much more to tell.

The Floating Book Club

2008-03-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

Thanks so much for all your kind comments!! After the Easter holidays I plan to get into things, full swing, starting with some much overdue pictures of my almost fully decorated loft.

But for now, there's one more thing I'd like to share with you. I've gone on and started a new blog. I'm not abandoning this space, never fear, and it's not another blog of wall-to-wall writing; it's actually a book club.

I've always wanted to start a book club or at least be a part of one, but then these days, who the heck has the time? So, I've gone a bit Off-the-Hook if you will, and I would dearly love for you all to join me in this mission.

http://www.thefloatingbookclub.blogspot.com

Spread the word, too - the more the merrier!

It's been...

2008-03-04T09:05:00.000-08:00

... too long. Far, far too long.

I'm not going to give excuses or explain myself or wax philosophical, let's just say that I've really needed it, this time away. As always, everything shall be revealed in due time.

I haven't written anything new or planned a grand comeback, not in any way, so I'm at a loss... for now, though. And, thanks to those of you who messaged me, have been in contact, or just come here to still keep reading. You mean the world to me.

Before I get back onto a regular schedule, to again commence on this journey that isn't yet over, here's some new, unrelated-to-this-blog material, but something funny anyway. I wrote it for a job application, but I'll get to that a little later.

I'm not leaving for long this time, in fact, I'll be back before you know it.

--WLFG

My Strangest Food Experience

Molokhia, pronounced “Mo-lu-heea”, is a leafy green indigenous to the Middle East, and main ingredient of the dish with the same name. Molokhia is a rarity, in the Americas that is, and we were about to try it for the very first time.

“We” are myself and James, or, the self-acclaimed foodie and classically trained chef. James and I are in Jordan on the invitation of our best friend Raj, and today we are going to his family’s house for dinner. It is a special occasion in this country, having guests in one’s home, and so the whole nine yards of delicacy have been stretched.

Arabic hospitality is magnificent to behold. Extra leaves to the mahogany dining table are brought out, along with extra chairs to seat family related to family, related to family. Far more foodstuffs have been provided than anyone could comfortably manage, and the true guest shows proper courtesy by never saying No. To even think of doing otherwise is the gravest of insults, after all, food is love and acceptance. Food is the celebration of life.

Today’s celebration was roast lamb, roast steaks, fish from the Red Sea and scores of barbecue chickens with various herbs and spices. There was bulgur pie, three salads, seven dips, minted yoghurt & babaganouj; oceans of hummus and Everests of pita to mop it up with, bowls of fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, to be dipped in salt, and chickpeas harvested just that morning. For something sweet, we were surrounded with dishes of pastries made with the Arabian holy trinity of dessert ingredients: Phyllo, pistachios and honey.

Food was coming at us from all directions, spooned onto our plates by doting aunts, and brothers-in-law carving the choicest cuts of meat. Flying pitas gracefully landed next to our place settings while little cousins kept the glasses full. Raj’s father, generous host, explained every single creation on the table to James and I, and made sure we tasted all of them.

That is, all but one.

In the middle of this smorgasbord was a large porcelain bowl, filled with what looked like a thick, dark green soup. I noticed that everyone was helping themselves to this, yet no one made a move to offer any to James and I, explain what it was, or even suggest it. Raj was sitting next to me so I nudged him and quietly asked, “What’s that?”

While Raj is superbly gifted with flamboyance and a keen sense of fashion, tact is not his greatest asset. He looked at the bowl of green stuff, inhaled dramatically while clutching his hand to his heart and then loudly exclaimed, “Molokhia! Oh, my favourite! This is the one thing at home that I can never have, so Mummy always makes it for me when I’m home!”

Naturally, this outburst achieved the effect I’d been hoping to avoid: Every single person at the table looked up, and stared at me and James. Then, oddly enough, everyone shifted their stares to the Molokhia, grunted, and looked down again.

I know when I’m being mocked. So does James, and he asked Raj, who was by now pouring a generous amount of green over a plate of rice with pine nuts, “And what exactly is Molokhia?”

Raj shrugged. “I don’t know, this herby stuff. It’s not really your thing.”

Not really our thing? Did he know who he was talking to? I was about to retort when Raj’s mother, who had been watching the entire scene, nodded and said, “You Europeans do not like this. We do not expect you to eat it.”

James and I were agog. Were these people aware of who we were? Did they know that I was a Kensington Market junkie, or that I’d celebrated the end of my university career with 20-year old Stilton, Port & Sevruga? Or that James had spent the better part of last year crafting the eighth wonder of the culinary world, Susur Lee’s signature salad? The vinaigrette alone was a three-day process.

We adore food, we adore trying new things, and we’re no neo-phobic wilting blossoms. Simultaneously, James and I held out our plates. We were going to try Molokhia, and we were going to love it.

Raj’s mother listed off the constructional elements of Molokhia as her aunt twice-removed, Fateena, ladled up our servings. “Chicken stock, a little tomato paste, a little onion…”

I studied the Molokhia carefully as Fateena gave it a stir.

“…some coriander, lemon juice…”

It smelled delicious, but something about it was really unnerving me.

“…salt, pepper. Then, a lot of Molokhia leaves. Lots and lots, or…”

I was starting to notice that the ladle didn’t cut through the soup, but that the soup itself acted as an independent entity, following the ladle around in the bowl. I’d never seen anything at a dinner table behave that way.

“…it won’t become like this. You see, the leaves have a special quality, they are… oh, what is that word again…”

As Fateena reached out to my plate, the Molokhia didn’t exactly pour out smoothly from the ladle, so much as fall out with a noisy plop.

“….ah! Mucilaginous.”

Whoa. “I’m sorry?”

Raj’s mother smiled. “Mucilaginous. Thickening property. This is what makes Molokhia special.”

Well, then. I don’t know about Mucilaginous making anything special, but that definitely explained the soup’s autonomous personality. There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ve gone too far when you’re already both feet off the cliff, but it was too late to turn back now. All eyes were on me and James (who was prodding his portion suspiciously with a fork), so I mustered up all my courage, scooped up a huge spoonful and went to town.

Once the Molokhia was in my mouth I quickly assessed the taste, and it was actually quite remarkable. Something like an overdone, minted spinach stew with just a hint of lemon. Very passable. I was starting to wonder what I’d been so silly about. Then, I made the mistake of swishing it over my tongue.

The root of the word Mucilaginous is Mucus, known the world over as the gloppy stuff we constantly hork up when we’re sick. Pseudo mucus is used to great effect in Hollywood, be it grotesquely dripping from the monster’s teeth in Alien, or enslaving Neo in the kiddy pool capsule via The Matrix. However you want to describe it, mucus is thick, it is slimy, and it has no place in my mouth.

Mucilaginous Molokhia. Ugh. Its texture was dense and coagulated, goopy, like having a mouthful of raw egg whites and phlegm. James seemed to be faring no better as everyone continued their observations of us, now in a somewhat bemused manner. I was stuck. It obviously couldn’t come out, but I just didn’t know how to make it go down.

The situation was getting desperate. I forced a gigantic smile on my face and, under the table, pinched my thigh as hard as I could to take my mind off gagging. Then, I swallowed.

Let me tell you that I’ve tried some strange things in my life. I’ve had chicken feet, alligator, ostrich steaks, parsley juice, jellyfish hor d’oeuvres and lamb intestine from a spit built into a home fireplace, but not one of these things could equal the oddity that was Molokhia. In one slick motion it went down my throat, and made itself right at home in my stomach.

I was momentarily triumphant, until I saw the rest of the Middle Eastern Jell-o Jiggler trembling on my plate, beckoning to be devoured. The hardest part was over, though; if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Actually I had no choice but to do it again… and again and again.

After some improvising, I found that there were plenty of ways to make the journey easier. There was washing it down with water, for one. Spreading it along the rim of the plate was great too, gave me just that much less to get through. And, one part Molokhia to four parts rice actually made it tolerable. Of course it was goop-laced rice, but it still helped.

After a good 20 minutes or so I ran across the finish line, and sent the last bite to its reckoning. Spoon down, I was at last victorious. I love Arabic food, but this one definitely wasn’t a repeat.

James finished not long after I did, smearing his last bite, I noticed, over a slice of eggplant. Task accomplished, he looked at me and rolled his eyes, right before Raj’s mother looked at us and piped up, “Well! You’ve both finished? So, what did you think?”

Like a pair of trained monkeys James and I both responded at the exact same time, “It was lovely. Very interesting.”

She motioned towards the bowl. “Would you like some more?”

We looked at the Molokhia and said, perhaps a little too quickly, “No, thank you.”

Smiling coyly Raj’s mother replied, “Ah. We knew you would not like this.”

Defeated by a bowl of phlegm. A worthy opponent. It appeared that I wasn’t the culinary superhero I thought I was, not on Arabic turf, but at least I’d tried the stuff and even finished a whole serving. The experience was always mine.

The final concensus of Molokhia: Taste, wonderful. Texture, not so much.

The meal was winding down, or it was for James and I. Molokhia or not we were still the distinguished guests, and as such had been pampered, served first, and made to eat third, fourth and fifth portions of it all. So it was that we remained in our seats, ungraciously struggling to breathe, and slowly sipping water in the vain attempt of trying to look as normal as possible.

James’ knee suddenly prodded mine, and when I looked at him he very discreetly motioned around the table. I looked around; it seemed as if everyone but us was now having a full dish of Molokhia. Whispering back to James I said, “So?”

He replied, very quietly, “What does it look like they’re eating?”

I looked around again. About a dozen people sat around me, deep bowls in front of them, mopping up Molokhia with torn pieces of pita bread. Thin, white pita bread. Thin, white pita bread that was now oozing green slime, an effect that made it look for all the world like snotty tissues.

I giggled.

2007-12-10T06:27:00.001-08:00

Scene: a classroom at your local community college.

Event: Culinary Math. Even chefs can’t escape numbers.

Reason: Work, for me.

There’s an hour of class time left, but most of the students have filtered out in favour of hallway gossip and smokes outside. There are only five people left in the room: Me, my student Brian, a boy with a permanent open-mouthed gape, a girl in kitchen pants, and the instructor, a fast food chain owner shaped like a big eggplant.

Everyone is engaged in a conversation about formulaic bla bla that is usually beyond my scope. If I’d liked math in school, lord knows I’d be having coffee in a hospital doctor’s lounge right now instead of taking notes. Kitchen Pants asks some kind of question, Eggplant responds in kind, then shuffles over to our side of the room and to our table where he whispers loudly to my student, “She said it like that because she’s a woman.”

I’m not allowed to speak in class, but my mouth doesn’t often grasp this concept. “What did you say?”

Eggplant does a double take, since he’s never heard me really talk before. “I mean… I said… What I meant was…. Aren’t you only supposed to be an impartial observer?”

Ha! Like he’s familiar with the terms of my contract. I leaned forward and said, a bit quieter, “I can do a lot more than observe, you know.”

Eggplant blinked once, twice, then opened his mouth but nothing came out. He stared at me like that for a good half minute, then turned around and resumed with the lesson.

I love blindsiding assholes. Especially because I’m a woman.

Rant of the Skinny Girl

2007-12-05T05:36:00.000-08:00

This will be my only post this week, because I think it hits a nerve that needs to be read, pondered and discussed. As a matter of fact, this post isn't even mine.

Adriana is a good friend of mine, a beautiful face with a firecracker mind on the best set of legs this side of the country. She is a business woman, a writer & model, and she wrote this piece about being thin.

While it seems everyone has gripes about being fat, many of us could never possibly imagine the physical complaints of a skinny girl. As it turns out, her world isn't that different from ours.

***

As a kid, I was always very skinny. It seemed to my parents that I was always too preoccupied with games, and never wanted to take a break to eat. I have always found eating to be a chore that took time away from my creative processes. Even though I liked all food I never wanted to stop, sit down and have a meal. My adrenaline kept my appetite in check so unless someone was shoving a piece of bread in my mouth while I was playing, there was no way to get me to eat. My parents tried offering me everything from my favorite foods, to bribes and then punishments. I hated the punishments! I was not allowed to leave the table until my plate was done, but my plate would be packed with more food than I could ever finish. It was ridiculous. I would sob and eat and sob and eat and then puke it up 30 minutes into playtime. Needless to say I grew up being at constant war with all the yummy things this world has to offer, which consequently turned me into a 5’8, somewhat malnourished 25-year old woman.

As I observe society around me, I am figuring out that a woman of my body type is, as they would say, in. It took me some time to realize why people reacted to me the way that they did, and no, I’m not completely oblivious to the way the world seems to work these days. I know that tall and thin is the shit. The model body is what everyone seems to be striving for, but all I have to say to that is “bull-shit”. Let me elaborate.

I am a tall skinny girl who did go to university and has traveled a significant portion of this world. I think and read and analyze and more than anything, I spend my time searching for people to share ideas, thoughts and opinions with. Now, I’m at the point where people are really starting to piss me off. Nine out of ten people I meet don’t converse with me beyond their thoughts on my becoming a model, or some other sort of “pretty” and ignorant female stereotype.

Now, if any of you out there are sitting there thinking, “What is she complaining about?” then let me welcome you to my world. On a daily basis I have cars honking at me, or even producing vile profanities (usually from the passenger side… scrub) Old men follow me on the subway and women nearly snarl when I’m dressed to go out which, needless to say, makes me feel like crap. I realize that there are girls who break their ankles trotting in heels, just dying for an offer; Little, socially-accepted hookers that have yet to realize what their calling is, but I’m not in their movie.

Why is it that the fat girls are always labeled as the ones with “great personalities?” To me that would be an awesome compliment. I grew up around intelligent and very funny full-figured women in an atmosphere that believed big is beautiful. It was like the Baroque era with voluptuous curves of angels painted all over the ceilings of some of the most famous cathedrals and chapels in the world. And there I was, a skinny, flapper-girl built like a 12-year-old boy trying to find a pair of jeans small enough and long enough not to make me look like I borrowed them.

Men don’t speak to me; they speak about my body and what they want to do to it. Women either don’t give me the time of day or they treat me like I was some sort of giggly half-wit aspiring to earn a title as some old rich dude’s arm candy. Please! I hate that, cause I’m here thinking, For once, be someone chill to talk to.

Now, aside from the emotional stresses forced upon me by society there are so many other shitty factors to being a skinny girl. For example: partying. Man, those fat girls can drink a shit-load, dance all night, laugh their asses off, keep drinking and not feel a thing in the morning. I have half a beer and a shot, dance to one song and there I am hugging the toilet until I have completely emptied out my system and am too dehydrated to continue walking. In fact, I have been known to pass out in my boyfriend’s arms, standing in the middle of the street after puking up a couple of beers and half a sandwich. Now, combine that with two days of shameless recuperation and you get pathetic.

Also, I didn’t want to have to go here, but I do: Shopping! I have worked in retail for 10 years and let me tell you, it is NOT easier for skinny girls to shop. In my experience, full-figured women stay away from certain fashions due to their own insecurity and most of the time they look better in them than any walking-hanger-type chick such as myself. Butts and boobs are great and that’s clearly stated by the seams on garments for women. Bellies are endearing and thighs are sexy while a barely “B” cup in a corset is neither. Narrow hips, a small butt and stork-like legs can easily be freaky looking if not dressed properly, trust me. Let’s not even discuss the never-ending search for a freakin’ blazer that fits. I mean come on, all sleeves are ¾ length to me and the ones that fit in the waist, my shoulders rip apart. I hear people all the time saying how clothes are made for skinny people. My ass! Where are those clothes? Please, someone guide me to this skinny people heaven-of-fashion where everything fits my bony ass perfectly. I can’t even find gloves that fit because I have these gross, skinny, alien-looking fingers that no one ever considered in the magical world of mitts. I learned quickly that “one-size-fits-all” does not apply to me.

But who gives a shit about clothes? Let’s get down to health issues. It appears that since I am in fact skinny, I am condemned to deal with a common three-day cold over a period of two weeks. I am incapable of surviving the winter without five layers on bottom and five layers on top, and sometimes I even sleep like that. Socks are layered accordingly to accommodate the desired footwear, not that it matters since my blood only seems to flow down to my ankles and back as soon as the temperature hits lower than 15 degrees. I have the same circulation problems in my hands; it’s just that the blood tends to reach at least the first row of knuckles. To sum it up, from November until April I turn into a mass snot-producing, half-dead ice queen; a corpse on stilts.

To make matters even worse, I have apparently lost my privilege to conceive. My ovaries seem personally offended by the lack of food I consume, and have chosen to rob me of my womanhood by refusing to ovulate. I’m not too worried about that, though. I’m engaged to a Persian. If a Muslim doesn’t get me pregnant, science will.

Now if you thought that the self esteem, emotional and health issues were bad, it doesn’t end there. As a skinny girl, I have learned and gotten personally acquainted with the word “frigid.” In fact, I wanted to shoot myself when I realized that I am party to this disgusting characteristic that strips me of everything that is great when it comes to sex. With direct relation to shitty circulation, I will get too cold to even consider removing a layer of clothing, let alone get naked. And in the magical event, with a half bottle of wine, that I do get hot enough to consider further layer removal, the entire process in itself turns out to be awkward, clumsy and sometimes downright ridiculous, which causes me to deny myself the best natural pleasure known on earth: the orgasm. This process in turn makes me the poster girl for frigidity. It’s at these times that I get the brilliant idea to roll a fatty which automatically deals with the cold issues and allows me to enjoy a few short minutes of foreplay which to me seem like hours and to my partner like seconds.

Needless to say, being the cheap drunk that I am, the wine and herb have gone to my head and now, not only do I not feel the cold, but in fact I don’t feel anything, but a tingly sensation on a momentarily unidentifiable part of my body. Noticing this, my partner wastes no time (having dealt with this before, poor guy), and we proceed to passionate intercourse, which instantly wakes me up and urges me to reciprocate. Ok, now we’re talkin’. This is good times; this is what I’m talking about. Grinding, sweating, moaning…yes! Then of course I start to feel subtle discomforts as all skinny bitches do. When he’s on top of me he’s too heavy, when he’s sitting up I’m too cold, I’m way too drunk to be on top and doggy style hurts my knee caps. He has barely any patience left for me and is in pain (severe bruising) from all those bones sticking out all over the place while attempting to please me. All I have to say is, Thank God he loves me.

Now that we’ve crossed all lines of TMI (too much information) I will leave saying this: Skinny girls have it just as hard, at least the ones with brains. We all have to deal with our own issues. You may not like the fact that your love handles spill over your jeans; well, buy better jeans, just like I have to layer extra tank tops so my ribcage doesn’t show through. Being called Fat is just as hurtful as receiving a belittling, so-called “compliment” about your physical appearance that consistently implies your ignorance and promiscuity.

Fat girls are a blast and some are some skinny ones, so please stop looking at me like a freakin’ mannequin because truthfully, my world is no prettier than yours.

Home

2007-11-29T21:22:00.000-08:00

It didn’t take us long to pack and hightail out of our room at the Red Knight Motel. We were scared that if we looked in the closet again with alert & sober eyes, the dead hooker really would be there.

It was even quicker for us to check out, and ixnay the free continental breakfast. Axle grease coffee, day old bread and dispensable fruit loops in curdled milk just aren’t our scene. Food snobs, remember? Realists, too. So, we ended up going the way of motorists and truckers traversing scenic America: Drive thru McDonalds for egg mcmuffins, coffee and hash browns. We may be food snobs, but totally agree that breakfast is the best contribution McDonalds has made to the planet. When will they wise up and make it an all day thing?

We were still into our coffee when Sandy poked me in the ribs and said,

He: Cheech?

Me: Yes, Ace?

He: I really liked Target.

Me: I know you did, and I’m so glad!

He: Cheech?

Me: Yes, Ace?

He: Is there another Target close to here?

Me: Didn’t satisfy the craving, huh?

He: Noooo….

Shirley found us a Target in Buffalo, New York, conveniently located across the street from the Walden Galleria Mall. More Target AND other fantastic stores we are not privy to at home. Happy, happy shoppers, us.

When the number of bags in our hands got to a level of ridiculous (we’re in a Mini, remember), we decided that it was definitely time to go. In less than two hours, through some pretty poopy weather and all kinds of hilly roads, we finally made it home.

It never really hits me that a trip is over until that hour or so before I get to my front porch. I can be on a plane, in a car, whatever, but until that last hour I’m still in full vacation mode. When the skies opened up to rain down on us, as we made the last merge onto the highway that would take us home I thought, This is it. It was great, fantastic, but it’s over.

It’s never a very happy thing, coming down from your vacation high. But it’s nice at the same time, having that experience and knowing how it has, in some small way, changed you for the better. And so for my thank-you prayer:

There once was a girl in a bucket
Who decided to go Nantucket
She so loved her time there
That it made her swear,
“I’m coming back here someday, Fuck it!”

Crass, so crass. A poet I ain’t, nor bucket resident, but then rhyming really isn’t my thing. I think Sandy said it best, after we’d unpacked everything into his house, after the mess had been sorted and divided into His and Hers piles, when he pulled me in for a soft hug and quietly told me, “Thank you for this.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Getting away, seeing what we did, taking our time, sleeping well, not thinking about the daily grind if only for a few days, made all the difference in the world.

Conversations of a Road Trip

2007-11-29T06:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, I love Target. I don’t care if it’s considered cheap stuff, I don’t care if the designer-savvy look their noses down on it. I love it I love it I love it. I love that it’s red, I love the stupid bullseye, and I especially love that even though I only go a small handful of times per year I always get the best stuff: paisley bedding, gorgeous frames, funky tees and kiwi-scented wipes for my dog, which he hates but of course, I love.

Sandy has never been to Target, but has plenty heard me talking about it. This was his inaugural trip, and I knew I’d struck a vein all of ten minutes after we’d walked in, and the cart was full of clothes for him, clothes for his son, clothes for the rest of his family and of course, car stuff and some snacks.

He: Cheech! Look at this awesome winter coat! It’s sixty dollars! Sixty dollars! What the heck is that all about?

Me: Wow, that looks great on you!

He: Did I mention it’s sixty dollars? For a dressy coat? Sixty dollars?

Me: Yeah, I caught that bit already…

He: Cheech! Sixty dollars! This is just the best store ever!

Etc. We were there ‘til they kicked us out at 11pm, at which point we threw our (multitude of) bags into the backseat and hightailed out. Bit of advice: Power shopping with a Mini Cooper is not the wisest thing in the world to do, but still very doable when absolutely necessary.

We are on the road, it is close to midnight and we are tired, so the time is right to look for somewhere to sleep. Most unfortunately, the only place available within the next 40 miles is the Red Knight Motel, personified by a masked & shielded knight in full body armor on the dimly lit sign.

We knew that the Red Knight Motel wasn’t exactly luxury accommodation - places that come with $10 off coupons rarely are – but we just wanted a bed to crash in for five or six hours, and free parking for Joey, so we took the plunge.

When you walk into a motel room and the very first thing you see is a burn on the carpet the exact size and shape of an iron, it’s usually not a good sign. Neither are the cobwebs under the chairs, the brown stains baked into the bathroom linoleum, or that really strange plastic smell permeating just about everything. We were half expecting a dead hooker in the closet but thankfully, that was nonexistent.

When in such questionable surroundings, it is fortunate to be in possession of alcohol. We had alcohol. Sandy cracked open those mini wines he’d purchased at the liquor barn, and we sucked down the lot along with our dinner of those vine leaf rice rolls, asiago crackers, and chocolate covered pretzel sticks.

Me: Fuck, this is good wine.

He: I know!

Me: More, please. I don’t want to remember this room.

He: Bottoms up...

After drunkenly giggling our way through the mediocrity of our surroundings, then showers in the cracked tub (taking care not to use the stinky motel soap, I might add), we got ready for bed. This normally doesn’t consist of pulling a bedspread off with ice bucket tongs and then tossing it to the floor, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Sandy looked at the bedspread, then at me and said, “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

Me: Yes. This blanket is paper thin.

He: Why don’t you cover yourself with the bedspread too?

Me: I don’t want to touch it.

He: Are we supposed to huddle together for body heat then?

Me: Okay!

He climbed into the double bed, then we wrapped our arms around each other and slept like babies. He’s just the best boyfriend ever.

Ciao, Nantucket

2007-11-27T13:02:00.000-08:00

Sandy and I left Nantucket at noon on a Thursday. We took that morning nice and slow, last minute packing, breakfast at the Inn, and just before lunch, boarded the ferry that would take us back to the mainland.

Again, I don’t do well on boats. I don’t like mass bodies of water, I don’t like cramped cabin space, and I especially don’t like the squalls and swells of choppy waves. It makes me sweaty and clammy, nauseous and icky, the lot of it. I bought us some hot chocolate and tried to discover Sudoku instead. I discovered I have no patience for it.

The Fall colours going home were just as beautiful as they were on the way up, and we got to enjoy them even more by spreading our journey over two days. And why are we spreading our journey over two days, when it’s just as doable to make it in one? To shop.

Nantucket has been good to us, but in terms of retail therapy, it sucked. It was great for pretty things and kitschy stuff; that hand-painted ornament I got will look really nice on Sandy’s Christmas tree, and the pumpkin beer was a blast. But for everything else, nada. Our shopping buds crave more.

Thus, we mapped out a few interesting stops to make our trip (and retail) experience all the more fruitful. First Luke’s Liquor Barn. Ta da! Discounted spirits in a gigantic aluminum sided fake barn! Sound cheesy? Oh it was, but another thing Sandy and I have in common is a passion for finer distilled products. When months ago I told him that I’ve been collecting old & unique liquors and wines since my teen years, he didn’t laugh because he does the same thing.

Purchase at the Barn: A nicely expensive bottle of pear brandy, ooh-la-la. I had to tear myself away from the Macadamia Liqueur and Kona Coffee Liqueur since there would be a border to cross, and I already had a bottle of Nantucket rum in the trunk. Boo. Sandy got a kick out of the miniature wines, and got himself a four pack of Woodbridge Estates. I laughed. Wouldn’t you?

Next stop: Ihop! We finally made it to the pancake house of glory and ordered... Steak! Isn’t all-day breakfast a scream? As tempted as I was by the mile-high stack of buttermilk babies topped with strawberries, the fruit looked suspiciously like canned pie filling, and so I passed. Our meals came with sides of small pancake stacks anyway, which we happily doused with maple syrup only after removing half the butter sitting on top. Really, who needs an ice cream scoop’s worth of milk fat?

Now that I’ve finally been to an Ihop, I can finally make my concensus: Alright. I won’t be going through Ihop withdrawal symptoms anytime in the near future, but I did really really like the bottomless coffee. By the time we left, my hands were shaking, I had a massive permagrin stapled to my face, and talked about everything under the sun, at a mile a minute. Sandy laughed. Wouldn’t you?

After this we get lost because our GPS system, which we have christened Shirley, decided she wasn’t up to working just then. While Shirley took over an hour to find a freakin’ signal, Sandy and I had no choice but to better discover the state of Massachusetts. Very pretty, very well put together, very nice during this time of year. A journey very full of profanities, because we really wanted to get that signal and on the highway.

After an hour Shirley finally got off her ass, found the signal and thus the highway. We drove for a few more hours, stopping only for the obligatory nature call, until it was dark and we slid into our next destination in Schenectady, New York.

Say Schenectady ten times really fast, Ske-neck-ta-dee, and you might just give yourself a headache. We didn’t exactly share a burning desire to go to Schenectady, New York, I mean it’s not like it was on travel list of dreams or anything like that, but we’re definitely here for a reason. You see, Schenectady, New York is home to the underestimated haven of cool, the pilgrimage of bargain hunters and the promised land of discount shopping: Target.

Nantucket

2007-11-21T21:13:00.000-08:00

We docked at Nantucket Harbor around 10pm and our inn was a short drive away, so we parked Joey, hauled our bags up all three floors of the Inn we were staying at, and called it a night. So, our first real glimpse of the island was the next morning, from one of the outdoor wraparound verandas close to our room.

Here are some of the logistics of Nantucket: Settled in the 1600s, nicknamed the Grey Lady, huge in the whaling industry once upon a time, fodder for Melville’s Moby Dick; present day summer colony and subject of dirty limericks. Our Inn view, coincidentally one of the highest points on the island, is one of trees, sails and miles of ocean set against the October sky.

Nantucket amazes me; I find it near unbelievable that such places exist. It’s crazy quiet for one, since the only real noise comes from the two boats ferrying passengers back and forth, loud foghorns signaling either a docking or departure. There is really no traffic on the island, because there are not enough cars. There aren’t even all that many street signs, since the locals already know where they’re going.

The houses are built in the colonial style, shingled with beige cedar shakes that weather into gray over time. The doors are painted dark colours and adorned with knockers in the shapes of scallops, pineapples, or lightship baskets. The population of full time island residents is around the 10,000 mark; I’d say that at least 10,000 people walk by my window every day at home. There are probably 10,000 people walking outside my window right now.

Downtown Nantucket is a small neighbourhood surrounding Main Street, still paved with its original, ancient now very smoothed over stones. Walking on them is a lark, but driving on them is pure hell. Sit on top of a life buoy in a raging jacuzzi, that comes pretty close to the experience; Joey’s alignment will never forgive me. On either side of Main Street are the sweetest little shops and boutiques, harboring not-so-sweet prices: I saw a gorgeous little painting around the size of one square foot that I thought would be a wonderful little souvenir of our time there, but wasn’t about to part with $17,000 to pay for it. Sandy and I did a lot of coughing, then showed ourselves to the door.

Main Street leads right to the docks, which leads right to the ocean, which is beside the beaches and shores that cradle Nantucket. Shells wash up by the millions on these shores, and quaint lighthouses dot three parts of the island. The rest of it is trees, cranberry bogs, organic farms, sailboats in the harbours and the perpetual scent & tickle of salty ocean spray.

So what did Sandy and I do in this place, this very beautiful, very small, very quiet place abundant in natural charm and pretty much zero nightlife? What did we do in a place that, truthfully, is very renown for not having much to do at all?

Well, we started by doing something we don’t get to do that often: We relaxed. We went to bed early, we slept late, we took our evenings in the room to snack on tidbits and watch horror movies. We took long walks, perusing the shops for interesting (and affordable) items; we walked through the streets, up and down the hills and through the beaches, collecting seashells and picking up live scallops to watch them creep open, and then snap shut. We sat on the rocks at Brant Point to take in the boats, the sky, and the sea.

We took daytrips because we could, because we had Joey with us and because in small places, it always seems like you have all the time in the world. We drove to the other side of the island and saw the rose covered cottages of Siasconset. We went to Nantucket’s vineyard, distillery & brewery, all in one convenient location, to sample bourbon, rum & beer. We found the most obscure seafood market in the world and went back again and again for the unbelievable clam strips and oysters on the half shell. The day we went for lobster bisque it was so cold outside that we ate the soup in the car, and completely fogged up the windows.

We drove five miles for coffee for the hell of it, partly because it was good coffee, and partly because we had nothing better to do just then. We went to the bookstore around the corner and found our own treasures: Ringo Starr’s Postcards for Sandy, and Roald Dahl’s collected ghost stories for me. We had homemade chocolate chip cookies for teatime everyday at the lily leaf, wicker furniture, candle-bedecked veranda of our inn. We went to the pub down the street, an ancient whaling tavern, for dinners of clam chowder and cheese platters with strawberries and grapes.

We took lots of pictures, Sandy on his digital and me on Dad’s old Minolta, the one camera that year in and year out has never done me wrong. Perhaps the Resurgence of Photogirl is on the horizon at last? It was a promising (re)start.

Best of all, Sandy and I had time. We had nothing to do time, we had holding hands time, we had be mushy be funny be silly time. We talked about everything under the sun, because we do that. We didn’t rush, because we never get to do that. We lazed around and didn’t check our email, because neither one of us is so foolish to let something like that slide, at home.

There are many kinds of vacations in life. There are the vacations where you climb mountains, or go on daring adventures, or live in a tour bus for weeks on end, only experiencing what you’re allowed to experience when the bus comes to a complete stop. There are beach towel vacations, culinary vacations, spa vacations and weekend road trips just a few hours south.

But every now and then comes that special getaway that gives you the most important time of all: Each other time. It’s a funny thing, being swept up in the everyday, that even though you can see someone as often as you wish, you can’t really see them until you go somewhere else. There is no running around, no paperwork, no endless catastrophes to mend. The buzzing comes to a standstill. You can finally feel the wind in your hair.

For those few days, those good days, we had time for everything in the world, especially one another. I am forever grateful for them.

2007-11-19T19:11:00.000-08:00

Soon....

2007-11-13T13:13:00.000-08:00

University was the first time I ever got to live away from home. In the months prior to my departure, I was crazy excited and got all kinds of kitschy things to decorate my shared room with: Mickey Mouse sheets, a beer bucket, and posters. One of these posters had a diagram of a two-headed turtle on it, and underneath that, The Procastinator's Creed:

1. I believe that if anything is worth doing, it would have been done already.

2. I shall never move quickly, except to avoid more work or find excuses.

3. I will never rush into a job without a lifetime of consideration.

4. I shall meet all of my deadlines directly in proportion to the amount of bodily injury I could expect from missing them.

5. I firmly believe that tomorrow holds the possibility for new technologies, astounding discoveries, and a reprieve from my obligations.

6. I truly believe that all deadlines are unreasonable regardless of the amount of time given.

7. I shall never forget that the probability of a miracle, though infinitesimally small, is not exactly zero.

8. If at first I don't succeed, there is always next year.

9. I shall always decide not to decide, unless of course I decide to change my mind.

10. I shall always begin, start, initiate, take the first step, and/or write the first word, when I get around to it.

11. I obey the law of inverse excuses which demands that the greater the task to be done, the more insignificant the work that must be done prior to beginning the greater task.

12. I know that the work cycle is not plan/start/finish, but is wait/plan/plan.

13. I will never put off tomorrow, what I can forget about forever.

14. I will become a member of the ancient Order of Two-Headed Turtles (The Procrastinator's Society) if they ever get it organized.

In the student world of party-rather-than-study, this was a hilarious creed and I got many compliments on it. I still think it's funny, and look it up every now and again for a good laugh; my original poster has long since been given away.

In reality, it's scary how sometimes what seems like a joke can all too much mimic your life. In my case, that means my writing, health goals, work... everything.

Enter Road Trip

2007-11-05T18:03:00.000-08:00

Sandy and I flip our vacation choices back and forth. San Francisco was my idea; Vegas was his. I get a week off every October, and if we’re lucky, Sandy gets to spend it with me. This October we got such luck, and my choice of destination was Nantucket.

Nantucket belongs to the state of Massachusetts, an eight or nine hour drive for us, and then just a ferry ride away from the port of Hyannis. If you look on a map, it’s right beside its better known big sister, Martha’s Vineyard.

I’m a big purveyor of the underdog. One of the huge benefits of traveling is that you get sick of tourist traps all too quickly, and choose the road less traveled. It was why I chose Sonoma over Napa; that bit of less glitter makes it more real.

Everyone and their mother has been to Martha’s Vineyard, has raved about Martha’s Vineyard, has come home with stars in their eyes from Martha’s Vineyard. I too have always wanted to see Martha’s Vineyard (and verify that it actually has a vineyard), but when the Cape Cod & Environs guidebooks kept describing Nantucket as the “Martha’s with less flash,” the itch began.

Besides, I’ve always wanted to go to Massachusetts. We’re talking the home of the Salem Witch Trials (not to be stereotypical, of course), New England clam chowder, and some of the most glorious Fall colours on the planet. Internet photos of beaches, lighthouses and whales tails poking out of the ocean surf did little to sway us in any other direction. We booked. We planned. And then, at 5am on a Saturday, we went.

The drive East was everything we thought it would be, with the mountainous reds and golds of Autumn at its peak. We didn’t stop too much really, only when it was necessary, and when we did stop for meals it wasn’t for the typical roadside grub but tasties from the picnic basket we’d packed ourselves. Sandy and I have sworn off fast food for the most part, a move prompted by some serious stomach upsets after our last weekend road trip. It was burgers & rings all the way through, followed by a night of rationing bathroom times. Very unglamorous, I can assure you.

Thus, we may have been in the parking lot of a McDonalds just like everyone else, but Big Mac combos made way for delicatessen salamis, fromagerie cheeses, seven grain breads, Turkish rice rolls wrapped in grape leaves, fuji apples, dark chocolate with almonds & cherries, and cups of hot butternut squash soup that I’d packed in a thermos that morning. Are we snobs or what?

The near-constant driving, already prepared food and our constant chatter made the hours pass like minutes, and nightfall saw us at the ferry dock in Hyannis, where my little Joey was packed into the belly of a gigantic ferry boat, beside dozens of 18-wheeler trucks and SUVs. It was dark by then and pretty cold, so we opted to spend most of the two-hour crossing in the car, napping.

Enter Ocean Neurosis, sister to my ever popular Airport Neurosis. Thanks to Oli putting me through Jaws when I was four, I have a deathly fear of boats in the middle of the ocean, at night. I don’t see land, I flip. I’m older now and more relatively able to talk myself through things, so I’ll put up with the occasional boat ride here and there to feed my love of travel, but if Sandy ever gets us tickets for a cruise, I just might have to kill him.

To make matters all that worse, I don’t have sea legs. I especially don’t have sea stomach, so being in the very hot cargo hold of a gynormous ferry feeling every little UP and DOWN and SIDE to SIDE while the suspension of my car rolled us BACK and FORTH was really, seriously gross. At least I’m smart enough to recognize my (many) flaws, and had Pepto Bismol chewables on hand. Viva pink drugs.

2007-11-05T04:30:00.001-08:00

So, who guessed Nantucket (or was the closest), without prior knowledge of it? What shall your prize be?

2007-10-19T04:39:00.001-07:00

.....aaaand my camera is really broken. Dead. Caput. Figures.

I'll have to borrow Sandy's camera to do this, and that'll be after a week or so. Why? Because in a few hours, we're packing up into Joey and heading on a road trip. Everyone gets three guesses as to where I'm going, and the winner receives a prize! (Unless you already knew, in which case, sit back and smile while everyone guesses away).

Booyah. I love you all, very much in fact, and will alert you upon my return.

Ain't life grand?

2007-10-15T19:02:00.000-07:00

It wasn't until I actually logged on that I realized just how much I missed you all, this... thanks for all your well wishes, it was a bitch of a flu trek made better by the fact that it's OVER! What can I say, I'm not one for being sick.

There's a lot coming up in this little corner of my world: a new look, scheduled posting, a personal trainer, and pictures of the loft. In fact, if you cross your fingers super hard, I just might have them up tomorrow....

If you're reading this, thanks for still coming here and, as always, thanks for your patience.

2007-10-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

This is where I normally apologize for being gone so long and I've been lazy and such and bla bla but all I have to say this time is:

Sick. So sick. So tired. Doing my best. Boo on the flu.

2007-10-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

I was in the car with Oli, and we were making a quick trip to the store. As Oli pulled into the parking lot, we both noticed a retro silvery blue VW beetle, and that’s when she said, “Hey, isn’t that a vintage Bug?”

I saw it coming a second too late, by then Oli had already socked me in the arm with a whooping, “PUNCH BUGGY BLUE! No pun…”

Ah, the memories of our youth, when we would beat each other senseless in the back seat over beetles seen and unseen. Of course this time around, before Oli could get the “No punch backs,” out in full, I’d cuffed her right back with a, “PUNCH BUGGY SILVER NO PUNCH BACKS!”

“It’s not silver!”

“It sort of is!”

“Alright then, PUNCH BUGGY SILVER BLUE NO PUN… Ow, fucker!”

“You can’t just go and combine colours like that! And I said no punch backs!”

“I can combine whatever I want! You ignored my first no punch back!”

“Cause you didn’t get it out properly! OW! What the hell?”

“I said (punch) PUNCH (punch) BUGGY (punch) BLUE (punch) NO (punch)PUNCH (punch) BACKS!”

“What (punch) the (punch) fuck?” (Keep in mind that throughout all of this, she’s still driving)

“Okay then, (punch) PUNCH (punch) BUGGY (punch) BLUE (punch) BLUE ([punch) SILVER (punch) NO (punch) PUNCH (punch) BACKS!”

“That’s (punch) what (punch) I (punch) said! You (punch ) wanna (punch) be (punch) like (punch) that? PUNCH (punch) BUGGY (punch) PEWTER (punch) NO (punch) PUNCH (punch) BACKS!”

“Pewter? (punch) PEWTER? (punch) IT’S (punch) NOT (punch) PEWTER!”

“It (punch) sort (punch) of (punch) is!”

“Stop!” (punch)

“You stop!” (punch)

And then, in unison: “Why (punch) are (punch) you (punch) still (punch) hitting (punch) me?”

Needless to say, we went into the store both rubbing our shoulders. I forecast a near future of bruises. No one loves a sister like a sister.

2007-10-01T19:29:00.001-07:00

Why? A bunch of reasons really, number one being, who would think that the smallest space would need the most work?

I have plans for this room. I want a desk, a good one, because I’m tired of using the pine thingamajig my dad bought when I was 15. I want to get rid of the carpet and put in flooring. I want to paint over the horrible blue I chose, and I want to wallpaper one wall. I want to hang up two pictures I took and developed years ago when I was doing photography. I want to make linen boards, I want to cover up that yucky fuse box; I want this to be my greatest space.

It takes time and it takes money to make a great space, both of which I ran out of before the relatives arrived. They had to be content with what I had so far, this wonderfully purple room which was blue not too long ago. The only things in it are a chair, two rolls of black and white wallpaper, the wallpaper kit to put it up, and two pictures I took over a decade ago, framed and waiting to be put up.

Good things come to those who wait, I’m told, and I really don’t want to rush this. I’m wild over everything else, that it looks so great, that it’s done. The completion of my den, my office, where I’ll do all my work, will have to wait just a little bit longer.

In retrospect, that’s not such a bad thing. After all, I get to be a décor nut for just a little bit longer.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Office

2007-10-01T04:37:00.001-07:00

Later.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Living Room

2007-09-28T04:41:00.000-07:00

I have a huge problem with the term Great Room. I recognize that it’s now in vogue to term your fanciest sitting room the Great Room, but really, what the hell makes it so great? Pompous furniture you almost never sit on? What if you clearly love one room more than your Great Room, does that mean it’s still great? Are any of your other rooms not as great? What about that episode of Designer Guys where one couple expanded their bathroom and pimped it out in post-modern Parisian to the point where it was the best looking and most expensive room of the house? Why wasn’t that the Great Room, especially when you realize that it now totally outdid the actual Great Room in function and finance? And, by calling one room Great, are you imposing roles on your other rooms, making them feel less welcome and thus, they won’t even try to be great?

Psychosis! Hence, I will call it what I’ve always called it: The Living Room. I know that there are a whole bunch of wrong associations stuck to that term too, but fuck it. That’s what I called it growing up, and that’s what I’m calling it now.

Getting back to the point: As soon as my bedroom, bathroom, steps, kitchen and book wall that was supposed to be a dining area were done, all that was left was the Living Room.

My downstairs, or main floor, is just one big room really. Living room and under-stairs crawlspace next to the dining area now book wall, next to the kitchen which is cordoned off by another little wall, over to the two doors leading into my furnace room, next to what I suppose you could call my foyer, next to the steps. It was a bit of a mess to figure out the layout, or more appropriately, where the TV was supposed to go, but I finally found my formula.

Rule #1: Abandon pretension. Remember I said way back that I was into the French boutique hotel look? Ixnay. Not that it didn’t work, I just wasn’t ready to spend the thousands upon thousands needing to get it. I have some great old stuff that, combined with great new stuff, can give me exactly what I want. Looking around at everything now, I do believe it did just that.

Rule #2: Piggybacking off Rule #1, don’t try too hard to be something you’re not. Am I French hotel? Until I can go back to France once day and check into a boutique hotel for at least a week, I’ll never know.

Rule #3: Make your space yours. Surround yourself not just with magazine ideas, but with YOU.

Rule #4: As quoted by my cousin Maggie, “Take what you like and make it work.” Of course this can be taken to excess – do you really need to display the pig figurine collection of your youth beside that Missoni vase? Nuh uh. But you do want to take those pieces you do love, and make them feel cherished in your home. When something truly belongs, it sings. Maybe people and furniture are just alike that way.

Why am I waxing philosophical about the Living Room then, especially after finishing all this other stuff before it? Because it’s an important place, the Living Room. It’s a busy area, the place your guests come to know well, the epicenter of your home where talking, entertaining, eating relaxing, just being, all come together. At the very least, it deserves some attention.

So, here’s what I started with: chocolate brown and creamy coloured walls, a couch, coffee table & end table combo, a fantastic painting, surround sound system & DVD player, a rug I hated and a platted I adored. My couch is the coffee coloured ultrasuede sectional you’ve all heard so much about, and the coffee & end table were the dark wood, black leather topped marvels I got at a very chic store in the city. Floor model sale. The painting was the huge one I picked up last year in Jerash, The Meeting, and had framed for not a small sum of money. I always find it ironic when the art is cheaper than the frame.

Surround sound and DVD player speak for themselves. I don’t hate the rug because it’s a shitty rug, I just hate it because it did nothing for the space. A nice coffee coloured broadloom that matched SO well with my couch, it blended everything a little too well together. No striking qualities, no pick-me up, no “Man, that bitch did a great job decorating,” but more like, “She sooooo screwed up the colour scheme.” Meh. I blame Oli the rug error, after all she was the one who convinced me it’d look great.

The fantastic metal platter I picked up at an African store near work. Not on sale. Very expensive, as a matter of fact. But hey, life isn’t just about sales, you know. As much as I’d love to get everything on discount, sometimes you just gotta splurge, especially on those pieces that ooze class.

What I needed: TV stand, TV to put on TV stand and plug all that surround sound into; possibly something a little extra to display more of my endless stuff and, my favourite, funky l’il accents to pull it all together.

Okay. The first thing I did was change where the couch faced. It used to face the book wall, but since that idea is dead and gone, now my couch faces the much closer wall to its right. Unfortunately, this involved a decorative casualty: the end table. No more room for it now, unless I want to bruise my knee every time I turn the corner. So with a somewhat heavy heart, I pack it away in the back of Blue’s room, the crawlspace. Only somewhat, though. Turns out it’s an excellent storage piece for all those extra serving dishes and kitchen things I don’t have room for. Rejoice! And yes, I covered it up with a tablecloth so the leather wouldn’t get scratched.

So I have a brown couch, a dark coffee table made darker with all that black leather, and dark walls. Too dark. White shag rug makes the space pop. White shag rug, excellent for shagging; also excellent for fluffing. Spend hours vacuuming up the soft white tumbleweed now littering my loft, until the situation is under control. Send coffee broadloom rug down to storage, where I’ll either use it someday, or find it a new home.

Shopping for a television on a limited budget sucks. SUCKS. You want a flat LCD, you want it big, but you don’t want to pay the couple grand to have it. Grant it, flats screens have come down nicely in price since their $15,000 inception, but nothing I looked at under $2,000 was really any good.

I refuse to pay $2,000 for a television at this stage in my life. I don’t have a huge place, a husband to help foot the bill, or an X-Box. But, I do have a wonderful boyfriend with a Costco membership. If you don’t mind not having a big name on your TV, which I certainly don’t, then $800 for a 37-inch Viewsonic LCD television is a bonus and a half deal. Having a wonderful boyfriend with an SUV is also a bonus and a half. Could you imagine me trying to cart that gynormous box home in Joey?

TV stand, back to Ikea. The Expedit is nice, dark, contemporary, and matches my bookshelves to a fault. The DVD player didn’t fit inside it (not shitty measuring on my part, I just liked the Expedit more than anything else) so it had to go underneath, but the spaces the stand itself provides show off my speakers very well. Sandy hooked everything up and arranged it nicely. Good boyfriend. On either side of the TV is a lamp, complete with dimmers. Hey, lighting is important. Don’t want to glare out the romance of horror movies, you know.

Over the television I had room for an espresso coloured floater shelf. I messed around with a bunch of things before deciding what to display and what to nix, and here’s what made the cut: Two silver glass candlesticks, a pile of old books, the kitschy antique volleyball from Portobello market, the pre-Communist camera I got in Europe but still have no idea how to use, and an old electric fan I found in a pawn shop.

It’s pretty obvious I love vintage.

As for accents, I toss some navy embroidered cushions on the couch, finds from a store near work. My silver platter goes on the coffee table and on that, a bunch of shells. I love shells, too. If you ever see me on a beach, 10 to one I’ll be elbow-deep in a sandbar, digging for shells. I found these great shells for half off at Pottery Barn, and some even better faux silver shells I scoped out in this adorable boutique near the units’ house. They’re supposed to be place card holders, but I like them better on my platter, mixed in with the real thing.

In my haste for accents I picked up a clear vase and filled it up with some cowrie shells, intending to put it on the floater shelf over the TV. It looked terrible there, too crowded, so I stuck it next to a lamp for the time being, just until all the boxes and mess was cleared up.

It doesn’t go with my theme of symmetry but looks good there anyway, kind of at home. Who would’ve thought?

It’s kind of the same as me and this loft, when I think about it. I won’t say that nothing turned out the way I intended, because some things did. Lots of things but, overall, not what I anticipated. A lot different, but I love it.

I’m comfortable.

I’m home.

2007-09-26T05:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Moms,

Not an hour after you came over to see my decorating progress, I received a wonderful compliment from you. You looked at my book wall and said that it was absolutely stunning and that in fact, it showcased Me most wonderfully.

Imagine that. However, why is there always a however with mothers? Not five seconds into my glowing bask of happiness, you interjected with a crinkle of the nose, and asked me what sort of dining table and chairs I’d purchased, and when they would be arriving.

Oh, mother. Mother, mother, mother. Moms. I can see where this idea of yours came from, after all, this is the space in my loft provided for dining, and a place where I’m sure everyone else who has a unit identical to mine has placed their dining table and chairs. But when I told you that I hadn’t purchased any kind of dining set and would, in fact, not be getting one at all, the look on your face was akin to that of a perplexed flamingo.

Where am I going to SIT? Where am I going to EAT? Am I not aware that being sans table & chairs is perhaps the most unstylish, etiquette-less way of living? How can I expect to have any manners, in fact, how can I even expect to bear children with manners if I don’t SIT DOWN properly on a CHAIR, and eat dinner from a TABLE?

Ah but you see, I’d thought of that. I again showed you my pair of brown ultrasuede topped bar stools, pulled up to my extended kitchen counter (a.k.a Breakfast Bar), and said this, mother, this is where I am going to eat. It’s just me, myself and I living here you know, and I’d rather enjoy the full view of my shelves, books ‘n stuff, than swallow up space with furniture I’ll hardly ever use. (Note that I also refrained from telling you that I love sitting & eating on the kitchen counter).

Seeing your victory quickly fading you played the Sandy card, since you properly adore him, and asked me where he would be sitting when I make him dinner? Where will my boyfriend eat if I’m not properly serving him dinner on a table? The couch, I replied, and if not the couch, the floor. We really like to sit on the floor and eat off the coffee table, watching movies.

You snorted. Knowing you, snorting is trouble. You snorted, rolled your eyes and told me, point blank, how this type of living was for perverts and women of the night. Not only was I being a ruffian, but I’d just gone right ahead and RUINED my loft.

Oh, mother. Mother, mother, mother. Moms. I know that even trying to explain that this is my house and this is the way I like it would be totally futile, since you absolutely know your way is best, but what else can I say? This is my house, and this is the way I like it. Really like it, in fact. I value my space a lot more than a table, and some extra chairs that I really, really won’t be using. I mean, really.

Fine, then. Your defeat absolute you turned to leave, muttering all the while.

Oh, moms. I may not be a fan of dining sets at this age or with this setting, but never fear. I know which forks to eat with, and when I’m in restaurants, I almost always opt to eat sitting at a table. And I know that one day, should I ever bear children, you will sweep in and make sure they know how to sit properly on chairs, and eat even more properly off fine china plates, that are nicely set on a table. A far, far cry from their Bohemian mother, I’m sure.

Most very uncouthly,

Your daughter

Decorator's Handbook: Living with Books

2007-09-24T18:56:00.001-07:00

Note: I'm trying really, really hard to get some pics up here, but my digital camera is in a state of shock. Why does this always happen when I don't need it to? Anyway, I'm doing my absolute bestest to get it all up by next week. If not by then, rest assured - pics coming! Also, thanks for bearing with me during the decor phase. It's almost over. --WLFG

I love to read, hence I love books. I’ve loved to read all my life, or at least since I first learned how. So if loving to read means loving books, loving books means I have lots of them.

Anyone who ever wants to get me a present knows that a trip to the bookstore is never out of order. Combine that with my own huge weakness for the written word, and there are books, hundreds of books, mostly in boxes stacked kind of, sort of neatly in my parents’ basement. I’ve been adding to these boxes for years in the hope that one day, I’d have enough room to display my books properly.

I may call my loft a shoebox for all kinds of reasons, but one of the reasons I love it is for the east wall in my living room, a wall beside the kitchen and big enough for plenty of bookshelves, housing plenty of books. The wall itself is chocolate brown, and only a few inches more than I needed to fit five Billy bookcases.

Billy is your standard bookshelf, the pride and joy of Ikea. Billy is sold in a variety of colours and sizes, and the espresso shelves looked great against the chocolate. Why shouldn’t they? Coffee and chocolate are already great pairings in life. Three of these shelves are 40cm wide, and two are 80cm, so I sequenced them thin, fat, thin, fat and thin. The two wide shelves hold nothing but books, while the three skinnys hold part books, part stuff.

I’m a huge fan of stuff. Some might call this a tendency towards packrat-itude, but I think the far better word is Collector. Collector of stuff, that’s me. Collector of stuff that only I could find totally cool, while others harbour their different, varying opinions. About my stuff, that is.

So among my cornucopia of stuff are vintage piano music books, cigar boxes, an old clock (unwound, the ticking drives me mental), a Pastis bottle from the side of the street in Paris, a Coca Cola bottle from the side of the street in Amman (I thought the logo in Arabic was hysterical), a blue tin filled with Czech letter stamps that, once upon a time, used to set newspaper typeface. Black & whites of dad’s mom, mom’s parents, and mom’s grandfather, my great-grandfather who sailed to America in the dawn of the 20th century and worked for a farmer named Louis.

In short, stuff that looks great next to books. Stuff that’s familiar; stuff that I love. On the floor next to my shelves, kind of offset in the corner, are two vintage wood & metal crates that held bottles of some sort during WWII. They now hold several bottles of red wine that I’m sure me and several guests will be enjoying over the coming months.

When all was said and done and my Book Stuff wall completed, I sat back to enjoy the view. I’m very happy with it.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Kitchen

2007-09-24T08:49:00.001-07:00

My big dream for the kitchen: Replace all cupboards with something darker, buy stainless steel appliances, a granite countertop, and tile the backsplash with something shinily funky. Replace lighting.

Reality: Accept that my cupboards will never math my floor (stupid condo developers), love my black appliances, accept my black formica counter, save backsplash tiling for when I have more $$, and put up two Ikea steel racks for extra storage. Keep dreaming about lighting replacements.

Boo. But at least on the wall right outside the kitchen, I have a most fabulous painting of a purple chandelier, bought on power sale at an art exhibit.

I love art.

Decorator's Handbook: Bathroom Bling

2007-09-19T17:47:00.001-07:00

Ta DA!

I bought a stainless steel toilet seat! I'm kitschy, fabulous and fun.

On the other hand, I bought a stainless steel toilet seat. Have I gone totally insane?

(Note that the seat itself is plastic, it’s the lid that’s steel. I’m not stupid enough to rip my ass off a cold steel toilet seat in winter. Still though, have I gone totally insane?)

100% Real Juice: Shirley Temple

2007-09-18T09:00:00.000-07:00

Finally, our 100% Real Juice actually involves Juice. Note that I’m not talking about Shirley Temple Black, the actress and United Nations Ambassador, but her namesake, Shirley Temple the drink.

Though it should carefully be noted that anyone within their right minds would aspire to achieve even half of what Shirley Temple Black has throughout her life, me included. Moving along, then.

Shirley Temple is a cocktail and a virgin to boot, meaning there’s no alcohol. The standard mix is parts ginger ale, orange juice and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry and orange slice. Many a bartender has played with the recipe since its birth though, and each new recipe is slightly different from the last.

I’ll never forget the first time I had a Shirley Temple. I was seven and having brunch at the country club, la-dee-dah. Brunch and country clubs for the seven-year old who was I wasn’t exactly the norm, no no, but more on the lines of our family getting a special invitation from Dad’s boss.

Mr. Harrington was a dashing British fellow in his 50’s, who always wore custom suits and was never short of breath mints. He had crisp blue eyes, perfectly behaved white-blonde hair parted to the left, and a way of charming women right off their slingbacks. Mr. Harrington always traveled with two things: the silver tipped cane he didn’t need, and Mrs. Harrington the second ,the model-turned-secretary-turned-mistress-turned-wife who was no less than 20 years his junior. It was heavily debated as to whether he really needed her, either.

This was all quite scandalous and thrilling for my sister and I, and we chattered excitedly about it for days on end. Just imagine, we would be having brunch in a country club with a British person who happened to be Dad’s boss, and a second wife with peroxide blonde hair. We could hardly wait.

It was much less thrilling but a lot more scandalous for our mother, who had to prepare a couple of mop top kids for this poo poo event. Two weeks, two new dresses, two haircuts, four shoes and endless etiquette lessons later, we were properly pruned, educated, and terrified of embarrassing ourselves and our parents. “And for crying loud (to this day moms says it, for crying loud), don’t say anything about swallowing your tooth!”

“Or where you saw it later,” Dad chipped in. I gulped, Oli snickered but faltered under the steely glare of our mother, and in we went.

It was magnificent. A huge, pastel ballroom with panoramic windows ornamented in creamy, gathered curtains that accented the glorious view of the green, green golf course. A string quartet played Beethoven to the sea of patrons in their diamonds, furs, Rolexes and tailored garb, as everyone politely nibbled their meals from heirloom flatware.

Oli and I had never seen such opulence in our lives. We were the children of immigrant parents striving to make it in a new world, after all, and our mouths dropped open in wonder and shock. A quick nudge from moms and our traps clapped shut again, just in time for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Harrington.

They waltzed toward us, having come in from a separate entrance, he in his tweed suit and she in her silver fox. A liveried gentleman hurried over to take their coats as all the grown ups gave their proper greetings and salutations. Then, the Harringtons turned to us kids.

“You must be Olivia,” said Mr. Harrington, as Mrs. Harrington made a big to-do with kissing my sister on both cheeks. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Oli replied as she’d been taught, coached incessantly by our mother at home: “It’s very nice to meet you too, Mr. Harrington. And Mrs. Harrington. You look lovely.”

Mr. Harrington then turned to me with a big smile on his face, and said, “The youngest of the family! Tell me, are you your father’s daughter, or your mother’s?

Uh oh. A trap. We hadn’t gone through this at home. I’d been all prepared with my, “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, I’m so very pleased to meet you. Thank you for inviting us today.” Everyone was staring at me, waiting for a response, and Mrs. Harrington was coming at me with her jingly jewellery and enormous breasts. “They’re both my parents, Mr. Harrington. At least that’s what they always tell me.”

The Harringtons burst out laughing, Oli looked down to giggle in peace without our mother noticing; Moms and Dad turned fifty shades of purple. And with that, we were led to our seats.

The table settings were as superb as the room; celadon green linens, then a smaller white tablecloth on top, Wedgwood china and about 835 forks that, thanks to Moms’ tutelage, I now knew how and when to use. No sooner were we seated, than a black tie waiter came over to take our order for drinks.

Mr. Harrington had a gin & tonic; Mrs. Harrington an olive martini, very dry. Dad ordered a scotch & soda and moms, white wine. Then, it was mine and Oli’s turn.

This part was supposed to be easy. Moms had drilled us on this at home, too: two drink maximum, in the form of 7-Up for Oli, and ginger ale for me. We were not to go for broke on Mr. Harrington’s tab, but ordering water was a no-no; we didn’t want to look needy. We were not permitted to drink Coke, thus 7-Up was perfect for 12-year old Oli, and ginger ale the perfect choice for me.

Oli ordered her soda and then the water looked at me. I asked for my ginger ale but was interrupted by Mr. Harrington. “Nonsense. She’s a lady, and needs a lady’s drink. Fetch her a Shirley Temple.”

Shirley Temple? Wasn’t that the kid in black and white singing and dancing around in The Little Princess, a movie Oli had taken me to see for free at the library last month? I was very confused by all this and started to ask Mr. Harrington about it, but a swift kick from my sister shut me up. I was left to stew with my thoughts while the adults made small talk and then, the waiter delivered everyone’s drinks and with them, my Shirley Temple.

I’d never seen anything like this before, much less tried such a colourful drink, complete with little paper parasol and plastic sword spearing an orange slice & maraschino cherry. I’d never even had a maraschino cherry. I stared at that drink, not touching it until Mr. Harrington lifted his glass with a, “Cheers, all!”

Moms had told us all about this and what to do so Oli and I lifted our glasses to clink along, as Mrs. Harrington squealed. “Look, they’re cheers-ing with us! Isn’t that just darling, darling?” My sister and I exchanged knowing looks and finally, we were able to try our drinks.

It was heaven in a glass, this Shirley Temple. It was fruity and tangy and delicious all at once, tasting like cherries and oranges with just the right touch of gingery, bubbly snap. Not too little, and not too much. Mr. Harrington was right. This was a lady’s drink, and as I sat there sipping my Shirley Temple, I felt very much the lady indeed.

Fast Forward: 25 years later, I’m at my cousin Seth’s wedding, hanging out at the bar drinking Bloody Caesars with Sandy. The bartender has been most generous with the vodka and hot spices so we’re happy and flushed, laughing at each others’ red lips.

My little cousin and flower girl for the night, Jinny, meanders up to the bar. Jinny is a very beautiful little girl and is even more so tonight in her white dress with chocolate brown sash, hair decorated with rhinestones and baby’s breath. She’s six-years old but will be seven in a few short weeks, and tonight, she’s at the bar to get herself a ginger ale.

This struck something in me, and I quickly halted her order. “Hey kiddo, would you mind if your Auntie got you something else to try? I promise it’s really good.” We may be cousins, but our huge age difference grants me the title of Auntie. Jinny nods, and I ask the bartender to whip up a Shirley Temple.

Carlos, the Costa Rican bartender of miracles, makes a very pretty drink in a highball glass, and adds a dash of pineapple juice for extra colour. I slide the drink over to Jinny, and she tiptoes up to the bar to get it, clasping the glass with both hands and taking her first sip through the red straw.

Jinny’s blue eyes widen as she looks up at me and her lips, still on the straw, curl into enough of a smile to betray her dimples. I know that look well, after all, I had one just like it at her age. “Oh, Auntie, this is so good. It’s…” and there she paused, lost for words.

“Positively ladylike?”

She smiles again and says, “Yeah!” then clasps her glass again, taking another sip.

How wonderful it is, to be young. How even more wonderful, when you are young, to find that first real taste of grownup in cherries, orange juice and a little paper umbrella. May it be as marvelous for every little girl, as it was for Jinny and I.

We left the bar then, Sandy with his arm around me, and Jinny with one hand in mine. The three of us and Shirley Temple head back to our table, our cheeks pink from vodka and first-ever kiddy cocktail giddiness, respectively. “Hey Jinny, want to hear a story?” I say.

“Okay.”

“It’s about a woman with big hair, big nails, and way too much gold jewellery that always makes noise when she walks.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Harrington the second.”

Jinny’s face scrunches up a little. “She sounds weird.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Elegy for a Tape Measure

2007-09-13T20:52:00.001-07:00

You were black on the outside
Yellow, in.
Centimetres, Inches
Millimetres too,
The man at the couch store gave you to me
Free with purchase
I thought after spending thousands
I’d get more.

Nonetheless we were happy
And oh, how we measured
From bookshelves to kitchens
Then ceiling to floor,
My bed in the corner
My desk not yet bought;
The pictures on the wall
You specified them all.

Then one fateful day
I don’t know what happened,
I packed you into my bag then thought,
“Just a quick double check,”
I pulled out your little sunshine strip then let go,
Woe, horrific woe,
When the stopper clip on end flew clean off
And too quickly,
You were sucked into the dark depths
Never to see light again.

I wailed for five minutes,
It did me no good,
Then ran to get dad’s trusty Old Silver,
Crying out in despair when I saw firsthand
That it only measured in feet.
Father, how could you?

Oh, my tape measure, how I adored you.
Oh, my tape measure, how I shall miss you.
Though broken you are still on my nightstand,
A testament to our time,
Numerals silenced; never to stretch again.

My home, not yet finished, craves your attention,
Untaken measurements quietly weep,
Centimetres unfulfilled;
Desolate portrait.

Oh tape measure, my life is incomplete,
My heart torn apart without you.
Had my sister not bought furniture at the same store,
Also receiving an identical free tape measure
(Which she has now given me),
I would be truly inconsolable.

R.I.P.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Steps

2007-09-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

Never ignore your stairs. Many will tell you that a staircase is a staircase is a staircase, but I say your steps can be a wonderful window to your personality.

(I totally think the same goes for hallways, but I don’t have one of those just yet)

My loft is many things, including tiny and badly laid out, but it’s got some great stairs. Imagine this, if you will: open the front door to a small landing, with six steps up directly ahead of you, and eight steps down to your left. The steps going up lead to the bedroom, and the steps down, to the living room.

For starters, I’m a huge fan of the floor on my landing. It was one of the few things I splurged on, with my limited budget, when it was time to pick the finishes for my place. That was long before I moved in and very fortunately, the result was a happy one. My landing is covered in the most marvelous chocolate brown stone tile, happy happy joy joy.

A little more unfortunately, my steps are covered in light beige carpet. Boo. I’m not a fan of carpet, but the alternative, all wood flooring, cost megabucks that I didn’t have. But to make things all better again, the railing alongside the steps is some very charming painted white wood.

When you’re standing on the landing and look upstairs, you don’t see much. That’s because it’s a very enclosed space, it is; if it was open, right next to the stairs, on the second floor, would be my bedroom. But since that half-wall that gives the initial loft concept its name starts on the outside, and not in, that’s what’s on the side. I painted the outside of that chocolate brown.

When I said my loft is badly laid out, I wasn’t kidding. At the top of my stairs is a space that’s too big to leave empty, yet too small to fit anything substantial. What’s that all about? So, after much deliberation and tearing out of hair, I thought it a great cranny to fit my tallboy.

Oh, my tallboy. How I love it, bought at an outlet, all shiny sleek black with silver vintage-y handles on the drawers. It’s a fantastic piece rendered almost useless by its too-shallow drawers, a throwback to contemporary furniture. I forgive all its shortcomings by the sheer beauty of just being able to look at it. Gorgeous piece. I commend myself highly on its purchase.

On top of my tallboy is a white doily. I call it that because that’s what one calls a piece of fabric placed on top of furniture or a plate; just understand that I hate frilly shit, and my doilies are never frilly. I got my square, white, sheer doily at a vintage store for next to nothing, and it’s on top of the tallboy for a reason.

On the doily is the only garage sale item I have ever taken home in my entire life: a brown vintage typewriter. A good decade ago I was walking through the West Village just after getting my hair done, when I passed by a corner house in full garage sale mode.

I never stop at garage sales; you can decide if that’s a good or bad habit. But that day as I was walking by their hedge, my foot brushed something. I looked down and saw the most beautiful old typewriter.

A middle-aged wiry Englishman/bloke made his way towards me when I inquired about it; it was his typewriter, over a hundred years old he said, and he’d been putting it out at garage sales for years. At the last minute though, he’d always take it back. Too attached to the piece, you see. That’s why it’d been under the hedge, and as a writer, he just couldn’t part with that beloved machine.

I told him I totally understood, being a hopeful writer myself; we chatted for a few minutes and then, out of the blue, he gave me his typewriter. Gave it to me, just like that. Up and down I refused, but the man insisted. “The only reason I could never part with it, really, is because I didn’t trust anyone else with it. But I know a writer will treasure it. You’ll give it a good home.”

Through several moves, that typewriter has come with me. It weighs a ton but it’s great to look it. I’ll never write a book with it, of that I’m positive, but I’ll always wonder about the sheets of paper and words that did come out of it. It adorns my tallboy with pride.

Beside the typewriter, to its back right corner, is one more ornamentation that I threw together at the last minute: my now very dried up maid-of-honour bouquet from Oli’s wedding. It looks great in the small glass vase that once housed her centerpieces.

Looking down from my landing is a different story altogether. To your left is my chocolate brown wall with my two very long windows, ornamented in thick, white waffle drapes. The same drapes cover the window on my door, in Roman blind style. I really wanted Roman blinds for the windows too, but the moron installer kept insisting that the height of my windows would wear on the drapery track. Boo again.

The wall that ends my square footage, your view from the top of the stairs, I’m very happy with. Right beside my loft bedroom is a piece of wall with a shelf built right in, which I thought would be a great place for an objet, some art, anything funky. My something funky turned out to be a silver and brass astrolabe.

Underneath that is the corner belonging to my main floor, and in that corner I have several things. To your left, the minute you hit the bottom of the steps, is a very simple black and silver coat rack, the kind you anchor right into the wall. Hung on it, for now, is a red paisley cashmere scarf with red faux fur pompoms. I love that scarf, and thought it made the space look more fun.

Under that, nestled in the corner, is my porcelain French umbrella bucket. I only call it French because it’s got some painting on it, vis a vis Paris before the Art Deco age, and inside it are several umbrellas. Just a bit over from that, directly underneath the astrolabe, is my tall black wall mirror. And on the floor, beside the mirror, are two very tall Michael Aram silver candlesticks that look like tree branches, complete with two very tall white taper candles.

Just over from that, going into my living room, is the black French cabinet I got at that secondhand store last year, which is in turn bedecked with a white doily, silver and glass Indian lantern, and two black frames. One has a picture of Oli and Corey on their wedding day; the other is of my parents, circa 1969, when they were in Schlossburg, Germany.

When I open the door to my loft now, when I look up and then down at these little things that make all the difference, I love what I see. I feel at home.

That's a good thing.

2007-09-11T10:54:00.000-07:00

We have been lost to each other for so long.

Not my line, but the opener of one of The Red Tent, one of my all time favourite books. Scary enough I think I’ve used it here once before, again after a particularly long absence. I’ll refrain from using the search tab.

I haven’t forgotten you. I haven’t forgotten writing, and I haven’t forgotten this blog. But sometimes, every now and then, life hands you a typhoon of events that, to deal with properly, requires some slack in other areas.

Is that a proper excuse for being away for so long? Heck no. Just know that I’ve been busy, crazy busy, and while the weather is getting better here on this front, the winds will still blow for another odd two weeks.

I’ll be posting very occasionally until then, and taking you back in time to cover everything that’s been missed: the decorating, the wedding, my insanity. And hopefully, very soon, you’ll be greeted with a whole new look to this page as well.

Thanks for your patience. Stay posted for the story of my stairs.

Decorator's Handbook: Pet Friendly

2007-08-30T09:18:00.000-07:00

Having crappy neighbours and their crappy cats (apologies, feline lovers) everywhere makes me appreciate my dog all the more. He's so good and he's so cute and dadblast it, he deserves his own special piece of home, too.

Underneath my stairs is a crawlspace. They couldn't have named those any closer to the point: You go through the tiny door, and access the space by crawling, but then I guess if you're short enough all you have to do is hunch down. Mine isn't too big, maybe three by eight feet, but it's great for storing just about anything. Until recently, it was full of boxes and paint cans.

When I bought my loft I got two things with it: A parking spot, and a storage locker. I didn't have Joey at time of purchase, but figured I'd get a car eventually and voila. Parking occupied.

I figured I'd need the storage locker, oh, just because. You never know when you'll need that extra bit for a rainy day and besides, it's a tidy little plus for resale, too.

A few days ago I was going through those boxes and paint cans in my crawlspace when I got an idea. It took me a while, but I emptied everything out of there, then carted it all downstairs to the storage locker (downstairs in the garage). Stupid thing to do in the month of August; sweat galore! But back in the loft, not an hour later, the nook under my stairs was completely revamped.

In the very back of the crawlspace is an end table I no longer use, holding all kinds of things like serving platters and cushions. Things I won't need unless I have parties or lots of guests.

Right in the front of the crawlspace, when you open the door, is Blue's bed, a few of his toys, and his special pillow. Just a little something for my little four-legs, a place for him to nap or just chill in general. I'm still trying to find his name in letters so I can tack them up on the wall above his bed.

Unfortunately, my opinion of the nook is quite different from Blue's. This little space has not gone over well with him, not at all, and when I ask him to lie down in his bed there, the look of panic on his face is priceless. Needy bum. I suppose he prefers stretching out on the sectional with mummy, and I don't really blame him for that. It's one heck of a sofa.

Then again, I wasn't totally wrong about a dog needing and wanting their own space. Blue doesn't think much of his nook, but Loulou's dog Petey thinks it's positively the cat's meow.

Hopefully, the next thing I do for a dog will be loved by my own!

**Just a small note to thank everyone for putting up with my frequent absences - getting everything together these past few weeks has been hectic at best. It's been a great break from writing, if only to experience a little more of life and collect even more stories to tell you all about! There's plenty more in the weeks to come, including pictures when all is said and done...

2007-08-27T04:56:00.001-07:00

Dear Cat Owning Neighbours,

While I do consider myself a dog person, I would never go all out to say that I actually "hate" cats. I do not hate anything. However, you are furthering my dislike of these creatures by letting your felines crap on my terrace.

While we must be at a certain odds with each other because that is the way between dog and cat people, I do not whatsoever appreciate wasting my very valuable time shoveling shit with a garden trowel. Let us take a tally of the damage thus far:

Monday: 7 turds
Tuesday: 5 turds
Wednesday: 3 turds
Thursday: 3 turds
Friday: 4 turds

I always found it amazing of the reprimand that dog owners face if caught not picking up their doodies, while outside cats are free to roam and do as they like. Remember this: Just because you don't see what your cat does, doesn't mean she isn't doing anything at all. You may not be picking up after her, but it's very likely that someone else is.

Furthermore, if I actually wanted to live in a litter box, I would let my dog run hog wild throughout my home.

Should this arrangement continue, I will be forced to resort to more extreme measures. Don't come crying to me when your cats are running through your townhouses with paws covered in chili powder. And should one of the village dogs all of a sudden become, oh, predisposed to terrorizing cats when he was never allowed to before, you all had it coming.

While I am sorely tempted to leave a bag of flaming dog poo at your doors, I must remind myself that I am out of grade school and this would reflect badly upon me, if discovered. Then again, I haven't been pushed past my limits yet. I ask you not to test that.

Sincerely,

The Ticked Off Resident

2007-08-23T06:02:00.000-07:00

I sincerely do apologize for my lack of posting recently; please believe me when I tell you that for the past couple of weeks, I've been in a perpetual chicken dance. Chicken without its head dance, that is.

My place has never looked better, but there's still lots to do. As for my relatives, the first wave arrives tonight...

2007-08-20T04:41:00.000-07:00

Just yesterday....

"Ace?"

"Yes, Cheech?"

"As you know, my cousins start arriving in a few days, and my decor time is running out. So I was wondering..."

"Yes…"

"If just maybe..."

"Yes..."

"I could ask you for a few favours? Please?

"Sure, what's up?"

"Well, I have some pictures to be put up."

"That's no problem at all. I'll come over on Saturday and take care of that."

"Thanks! I have a coat rack that needs to be put up, too..."

"I can do that with the pictures."

"Towel ring for the bathroom..."

"Yeah..."

"Robe hook for the bathroom too..."

"Anything else?"

"I just might have a garbage can that needs to be installed to the cupboard door."

"Just might, huh?"

"And there's still the problem of the stiff window... but that's it, promise."

"Cheech, I will be happy to do these things for you. That's what the best boyfriends in the world are made of."

"Aww, thanks Ace! I may not know how to do much in the home repairs sense, but at least I have spectacular taste."

"Yes, you do. You know, we're like Home Depot, you and I."

"How's that?"

"You can do it. I can help."

"Uh huh."

Decorator's Handbook: Project Bathroom

2007-08-15T20:05:00.000-07:00

Hateful things about my bathroom: A gold door handle, gold hinges and gold knobs on my vanity. Really, this isn’t 1989. What were the developers freebasing when that happened? I’m less than bonkers about that vanity, too. It’s wood and that’s fine, but a blond stain? Pfft.

Mediocre things about my bathroom: Blue tiles, as in Aegean sea blue. They’re okay and all, even if I had limited say in their choosing. I’d much rather prefer stone brown tiles, which would blend terrifically well with my second floor swathings of chocolates and purples, but they’ll do. Actually, they’ll have to do. Pfft again.

Bathroom love: What I’ve done to it. On the outside of my door are two small blue rectangular vintage bath signs, advertising baths and towels for 10 and five cents, respectively. They’re unique, and support that retro look I’ve dotted throughout my pad.

I also love my white waffle shower curtain, white shaggy rug, and truckloads of white fluffy towels. I love my shower rings capped off with replicas of vintage white Hot & Cold faucet taps, and corner of my vanity that’s home to my very small silver clock with its tall stand. Every bathroom needs a clock. How else are you going to know when you’re running vicious late in the morning? I love my white, blue and brown china bathroom accessories, and I love the rectangular silver tray on top of the throne that now displays my three most awesome cologness: Fig Cassis & Black Vetyver Café by Jo Malone, and Tobacco Caramel by Fresh.

I love even more what will be done to my bathroom and that is, painted. As I write this, Corey is over at my place, going above and beyond the call of Brother-in-Law duty by doing some painting (among other things) for me. So here it is: I have deep blue tiles, and plenty of white things that currently, are washing my bathroom out. My solution is to paint the walls to match the floors, giving me a big, deep blue space with striking white accents.

Okay, blue wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but this is okay by me. I’ll just pretend my bathroom is a spa. Remind me to throw in some lit tealights for parties.

As for the ridiculous gold door handle & hinges, throughout my entire place in fact, they’re on my To Do list of the future. Must concentrate on the larger things at hand for my almost-here relations, see. I’ll just have to ignore that tacky stuff for now, pfft again. But at least the vanity is getting new stainless knobs, so the old ones are going, going, gone. Phew.

2007-08-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

So you want to decorate. So you’re a cheapass. Join the club. I’m one of the unfortunate many who likes the finer things in life, but detests paying for them. That said, it pays to have a few tricks up your sleeve to make the implausible, possible.

Here’s my personal dozen, in no particular order:

1) Gay Friends. Artistically inclined gay friends, or the severely fashion nitpicky, are even better. When in doubt over which colour or settee, gather your divas and mull on it over espresso.

2) School Thyself. The Home and Garden Network isn’t just there for your health, you know. Decorating isn’t boring and textbook like it used to be, there are literally hundreds if not thousands of different ways to do things. Stick to a few shows or designers whose style you like, and watch an episode every now and then. Picking up a magazine or two never hurt, either. Take down the addresses of interesting boutiques or instructional sites, and educate yourself on the finer points of décor.

3) Good Maintenance. The cheapest, most incredible way to spruce your place up and give it that extra little something, is to really take care of your wood furniture. Don’t believe me? Go out right now, buy orange oil wood polish, and spend an hour or so greasing down your pieces. The rich shine is something remarkable, especially on dark furniture that picks up fingerprints all too easily. I’m telling you, that old piece of junk inherited from your older sister’s dorm room comes to life, and what once cost 20 bucks looks priceless.

4) Paint. Never underestimate a good coat of the stuff. It’s a quick, cheap way for a new look, and the most effective. Plenty of arguments can be made for white, and I do agree with some of them, but then I was never one to begrudge a wall of deepest red, either. Benjamin Moore says that every room has a perfect colour, and to find it. I say, every room has at least 10 great colours, and they’re not that hard to spot. Stock up on colour wheels and swatch books.

5) Wallpaper. It was greatly in vogue once upon a time, then suffered a bad rap. So did a lot of things in the eighties. But the resurgence of wallpaper is on the rise, and your creativity levels with it. There are some gorgeous patterns out there, not to mention great old patterns made new. Wallpaper is easy, cost efficient in a lot of cases, and totally fabulous. Just remember not to overdo it: often, an accent wall is the most striking.

6) Candles, Candles, Candles. A lot of people will say candles are passé, and they are if you go completely wax bonkers. But, done properly, they’re striking. A beautiful pillar arrangement is a simple, beautiful centerpiece on a dinner table, and candles in the bathroom gives that spa-calming effect. But if you intend on burning them, be careful with the scents you choose. I usually go for unscented candles, just to avoid mixing all the smells together. Not nice.

7) Eagle Eye, young paduwan, Eagle Eye. Shop around. Know the great shops in your neighbourhood, and all the greater ones in surrounding neighbourhoods. Also, it’s not where you shop, but when you shop. If there’s something you really love and really want but can’t afford it, don't just settle for something else: Stick around for the price drop. January and July have the best sales, and signing up for mailing lists is a step up. Also, take advantage of store credit cards, but only when they have those incredible offers like the, "no interest for a whole year" poo poo. And never, ever forget about outlet sales.

8) Think Vintage. Flea markets and antique sales are great places to find hidden treasures, and they’re easy on the wallet. That beat up old chair frame really just needs some TLC; sanding, staining & painting is easy enough for anyone, and a good upholsterer can make the ordinary, extraordinary. Just make sure to shop around for a good one.

9) Bargain Art. How many times have you heard me say that by now? Think about it this way: there are a lot more obscure, unheard of artists, than famous expensive ones. Go to arts shows, go to crafts shows, scout gallery openings and exhibitions. Go to an art school and see what the students can do. You don’t even have to frame a great painting either; just get the canvas stretched for a fraction of the cost and hang it that way. Wonderfully urban, minimalist, and doesn’t distract from the art itself.

10) Frames. There are times when frames are great though, and lots of them on a wall or assembled on a surface are a wonderful way to tell a story. Frames are sold for thousands of dollars, and frames are sold for a couple of bucks; variety of frames is virtually endless. Invest in a mat cutter for the customized look, and don’t forget to be creative, either. I’ve framed antique handkerchiefs, vintage stamps, and greeting cards. One of the pictures I get the most compliments of is an ad for a White Star Line ship, circa 1910. I printed that picture from the internet, on photo paper.

11) Ikea. Go on, laugh. Done? Good, shut up and read. If you can put up with the bullshit of hauling and assembling yourself, Ikea is a goldmine of finds designed to suit every pocket and every need. Be warned, though: it is very, very easy to be caught in the Swedish trap. While I do think Ikea is fabulous, I would personally die if I had to wake up every morning to what looked like their second floor, and not mine. Thus, use their looks to accent yours, and not the other way around. I didn’t even think of buying my coffee table or bed at Ikea. Then again, I’m not even thinking of getting my bookshelves anywhere else.

12) Finally, It’s the Little Things that Count. Your personal touches are what make your home yours, after all. Your memories, your finds, the little treasures that mean nothing to anyone but you, are what dazzle. I’ve been collecting interesting tins for years, and it turns out they look marvelous in my kitchen. The empty Pastis bottle I found in Paris, the ancient camera I got in Prague, and the even more ancient typewriter I got at a garage sale will all be displayed somewhere. So will the vintage volleyball I picked up in London, and the little statue from Amman. My big, lumbering sofa is awesome and all, but it’s these little things that are me all over. After all, I want to comfortable with my home, and I want my home to be comfortable with me. It’s these little things that get places of honour.

2007-08-12T21:21:00.001-07:00

Oli’s townhouse is behind my loft. I have discovered something interesting: When I’m not at my place for longer periods of time, she likes to spirit my things away. As per our conversation a few days back:

Me: Hi sis!

Oli: Hi sis!

Me: So chikita, you know I specifically came down this week to clean, right? Want my place all spiffy and slick for when the relations arrive?

Oli: Uh huh. How’s that going, by the way?

Me: Fantastic! It’d be going even better if I could find my vacuum cleaner.

Oli: Oh, that.

Me: Oh that what?

Oli: I borrowed it.

Me: When?

Oli: Dunno, a few months ago I guess.

Me: Oli, you have a vacuum.

Oli: Yeah.

Me: Oli, why do you have my vacuum?

Oli: Yours works better.

Me: Were you planning on returning it?

Oli: At some point.

Me: Great! While you’re returning it, would you throw in the Goo-Gone?

Oli: What do you need that for?

Me: To get rid of a small stain on the carpet, it looks like wine. Only Goo-Gone will do the trick.

Oli: But I have it.

Me: I kinda figured that.

Oli: I’m using it, you know. It works really well.

Me: Yes it does, that’s why I got it. Put it in the box that has my vacuum and bring it on over. Oh and Oli…

Oli: Yeah, sis?

Me: Do you have my iron?

Oli: Maybe.

Me: Don’t you have your own iron?

Oli: Maybe.

Me: Why do you have my iron?

Oli: It works better than mine.

Me: That too, huh? Well if we’re going out later, I’ll be needing to look presentable.

Oli: Okay.

Me: The Dryer look won’t do.

Oli: Okay.

Me: Do you have anything else of mine?

Oli: I don’t know, I’ll have to look.

Me: You do realize that by taking these things away, you’re hindering my cleaning process?

Oli: Yeah.

Me: What have you got to say for yourself?

Oli: I put scented beads in your vacuum. Now it smells pretty.

Me: Wonderful.

2007-08-07T05:17:00.001-07:00

Hi kids!

I must beg your forgiveness over the next little while, as I concentrate on scrubbing and finishing my abode, rather than writing. Relatives will be here very soon, after all, and my possessions must look presentable. Or clean, at the very least.

So think of me on these beautiful summer days, not enjoying the weather, but swearing my head off, elbow deep in wash buckets.

In the meantime, enjoy this corny joke that Sandy told me last night:

How do you please an Amish girl?

Three Mennonite.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Bedroom

2007-08-01T20:57:00.000-07:00

I love art, you all know that. I love the picturesque qualities of realism, the daring of nouveau, and the raw strokes of abstract. I especially love the brilliant, economical finds of the undiscovered artists, either the up-and-comers or the forgotten, buried in pockets all over the world, painting and sculpting solely for the sake of creation.

I think I’ll forever fancy myself a Charles Howard, searching far and wide for his Seabiscuit, the looked over, tossed aside winner that he purchased at bottom dollar.

Why then, am I hanging up a canvas from Ikea?

The whole notion goes against what I believe in. Great art, bargain art, scouring the expanses of the globe etc., versus completing my bedroom with what’s been duplicated millions of times, and sold in a Swedish franchise. Why am I doing it?

Because it’s Audrey. Who isn’t just a little bit in love with Audrey Hepburn?

I discovered Audrey in high school, the years when I had a wonderful relationship with the VCR. My social life wasn’t exactly kicking, so on the weekends when I wasn’t studying or with friends, I rented movies. On a whim one Saturday I bypassed Ghostbusters II for Sabrina, and was dazzled by the big eyed, big smiled, slip of a girl telling the man she loved, with just the slightest of accents, “I have a lovely evening dress with yaaaards of skirt. Shall I wear it?”

She was beautiful, she was elegant, she was in a class all her own. She was a star of the silver screen, the goddess of the golden age, and she’s immortalized on canvas to decorate my bedroom wall.

It’s a picture of a scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a close up of Holly Golightly in the little black dress she wore to her own party, with her hair swept up. In one hand is a cigarette, her long eyelashes are lowered amusingly, and the half smile on her face make you think she’s up to something. I don’t remember if it was before or after this scene that she told Paul Varjak, “I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is, but I know what it’s like. It’s like Tiffany’s.”

It’s a great picture for a room. It’s a great picture for a girl’s room, especially if that girl has a room done up in the dark colours that one would think becomes a boy. She gives it that bit of sass, Audrey does, and will forever smile at anyone coming up my steps.

What can I say? She fits here. I’m asking Sandy to help me put her up next week. S’wonderful.

100% Real Juice: Countess Zsa Zsa

2007-07-30T07:34:00.000-07:00

Note: Apologies to anyone who may have read a truncated version of this last week. I was working on it and hit the Publish key by accident, instead of Draft. This one's the real thing.

One of the channels courtesy of my awesome cable package is Deja View, which shows nothing but the Hollywood goodness of yesterday. If you want to see Brenda and Dylan lock lips again, Bo & Luke Duke getting into trouble, or Ricky bellowing, "Luuuuuuuucy!", Deja View is the place to go.

I was flipping channels randomly last week, when a very blonde hair toss by Lisa Whelchel caught my eye. If that's not familiar, think 80's kitsch and you just might arrive at The Facts of Life.

I grew up on this show. Decades before troubled youth were having emotional breakdowns in Orange County, I was getting my weekly goodness from private school girls Jo, Blair, Natalie, Tootie and their den mother, Mrs. Garrett. It was a happy go lucky show, now cheesy at the best of times, but my memories of it are fond nonetheless.

The episode on last week was one I'd had faint memories of, so I stuck around to watch the rest. Blair becomes a salesgirl for Countess Calvet Cosmetics (a fictionalized Mary Kay, if you will), and is later on visited by the Countess herself, in a guest appearance by the fabulous Zsa Zsa Gabor.

The Countess is talking to the girls about natural beauty & vegetables, telling them how important it is to get your greens. Tootie makes some sort of grip about Zucchini, and the Countess replies with:

"Vegetables make you glow. You eat junk, you look like junk. Right, dahlink?"

So true, so true. A nice little play of You are what you Eat, spoken by none other than the mentor of drag queens everywhere. If you eat junk you look like junk. Or, have you ever seen someone who ate greasy foods all day look great? You don't even have to be eating anything for it to show, better put by, have you ever seen an addictive smoker look terrific?

Our bodies are a canvas, manipulated by what we do to them and put in them. And if we put the best things in them, they become works of art. Right, dahlink?

2007-07-24T20:20:00.001-07:00

Feeling nostalgic for my youth, I added the Magic 8 Ball application to my Facebook page. We’re all familiar with that gigantic black snooker ball, that you can only ask Yes or No questions to. I shook it up for the first time today, my question being, Will I have a better job soon?

Reply hazy. Try again.

Very funny. Will I have a better job soon?

Better not tell you now.

What, think I can’t handle it? Will I have a better job soon?

Concentrate and ask again.

Right now I’m concentrating on kicking your sorry ass through the window, if it was possible. WILL I HAVE A BETTER JOB SOON?

Cannot predict now.

What, is this too difficult? Shall I fetch some champagne and caviar while you focus? Stupidhead!

2007-07-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

I figured that today would be a fantastic day to start working out again. Great weather, a few hours to spare and, it’s a Monday. I figured it would be an even better day to take my inline skates for a whirl again, and an absolutely awesome day to explore a new trail I found. Good things all around, right?

I am now back from my skate, and have learned three very important lessons:

1) Check out the trail first, on foot, before you skate it.

This is very important, as not all trails are created equal. There’s pavement difference, smooth vs. gritty, distance, ups, downs, and external factors. Family places, for instance, are a pain in the ass. Quality workout skating does not include maneuvering around biking children and their training wheels.

This trail, I found out much too late, is covered with shitty pavement, gravel in places, sand in other places, tons of families with toddlers in tow, a wooden bridge, and scores, scores of Canadian goose poo.

2) Being an experienced skater means nothing if you’ve taken a two-year hiatus.

Taking long breaks from your inline skates is never a good idea. Unless you’re an absolute pro at it and always have been, lacing up after 365 days and then some, begets shakiness, uncertainty, and accident prone-ness.

3) Not experiencing a fall in over a decade does not, by any means, make you impervious to future wipeouts.

Ah, my first ever inline skate wipeout. I remember it well, since I was in the store at the time, buying my very first pair. I’d wheedled and whined to my parents for a set as my 18th birthday present, and despite my cautious mother’s better judgment, I convinced them both to join the dark side.

I was sitting on the bench in the store just after lacing them up. I stood, then whammo! Flat on my ass. I laughed, the store employee laughed, my dad laughed, and moms shouted warnings of revelation: Oh my God! You’re going to kill yourself! You’re going to roll straight off a cliff! And etc.

The second was a few weeks after. Improved somewhat, I was going down a hill at top speed, then turned into the parking lot of a high school. Going much too fast, I found out much too late that there was a hose lying across the entire lot, and there was no way I could avoid it. My options were either to go right over it, or jump. I jumped, and flew straight into a brick wall, face first.

My third and last colossal wipeout was a couple of years after that. I was 20, in school, and skating through a national park. On a dare I went down a really steep, narrow path that turned onto a tiny bridge. A second after starting, I knew there was no I’d make it safely across, and would most likely end up in the creek. To avoid this, I turned roughly into the woods, where I slammed into a tree then rebounded onto a sand patch. I was so freaked out by the whole mess, I walked back uphill in my socks.

Twelve years between wipeouts is a very long time, and the older you are the more they hurt. I discovered this not five minutes into my skate today, trying to go through a big scrap of gravel on the trail. I went down like a ton of bricks, falling right on my butt.

Sonofabitch. Children everywhere laughed and an old man asked, “Are you alright?” I told him I was, that my ego was bruised a lot more than my behind. And with everyone watching, I collected myself and went along my (not quite) merry little way.

Everyone says that when you fall, you’re supposed to get right back up, brush your knees off, and keep going. This is not true for me. When I fall, I need a good hour or so to collect myself, and then I can forge on. Not doing so results in Shaky Knees Syndrome, making more falls pretty much inevitable.

Do I know myself, or what? About 15 minutes after that spill I took another, crossing the wooden bridge that connected one half of the trail to the other. Back on my ass. Who the fuck puts speed bumps on a wooden pedestrian bridge, anyway? Do people walk so fast they need slowing down? Are there jogging speed limits? Does Superman exercise here?

While I can totally laugh at myself for one fall, I get mad as heck at two. Two falls. I’ve never fallen twice during a skate, ever, and I haven’t fallen in over 10 years. Even more, I get ticked at people asking, “Are you alright?” I know they mean well, but do I look alright? Do you think I like picking myself up off the ground, again, and dusting the dirt and dead leaves off my butt, again? Think, people!

I’d had enough at this point, so I took my skates, and walked my way over to a tree stump where I sat down. Definitely time for a pep talk, even if it’s just to get my legs to stop shaking. So there I sat for the longest time, while bicyclists and bird watchers alike passed me by, wondering why my skates were leaning against the stump instead of being on my feet, while over and over I repeated to myself, Get a grip. Get a motherfucking grip.

While I was doing this, a text from Oli came through. All it said was, PLEASE GO HOME. I’d been telling her about my journey, see.

So, after my pep talk and a sip of water, I walked barefoot back across the bridge, and all the way uphill. It’s not so bad when you pretend you’re on pilgrimage. Millions of people have done this for much longer distances and in worse conditions, right? At the top of the hill I got my skates back on, and bladed all the way back without incident, avoiding scores of goose poo all the while. When I got back to the gravel patch near the beginning of my journey, I took my skates off again, and cut through a big field to get back to the car.

I unlocked the trunk to throw my skates inside, then got into my driver’s seat quite painfully. How ironic that I’d come here to make my ass hurt with workout grease, not pavement pain. Feeling myself up for what I knew would be big, big bruises in a couple of hours, I watched all the happy, happy park people, sitting, tanning, walking, running, biking and stroller-ing. Then, something clicked.

There wasn’t a skater in sight. Not a single one. And, I hadn’t seen any during my whole time there, either.

So what then, children, is the moral of this story?

Learn from the mistakes of others. If you’re wearing wheels and see none of your kind, turn thine ass around and go home before falling on it. Twice. And, beware of goose poo.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit on a bag of frozen peas.

Decorator's Handbook: Project Bedroom

2007-07-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

“One Day at a Time” is the doctrine for Alcoholic’s Anonymous, thus I have made “One Room at a Time” the decorator’s philosophy. My unprofessional decorator’s philosophy that is, and definitely one that suits me well. I can multitask just fine, but home décor isn’t something I’m so terribly comfortable with, that I’ll just up and bedeck everything right off.

So, one room at a time. Besides, seeing something done, even if it’s just one little thing, gives me the boost I need to keep going. I’m just weird that way.

To make this whole project a simpler one, I have cordoned my space into sections:

1) Bedroom
2) Bathroom
3) Office
4) Stairs
5) Living Room
6) Kitchen

I’m starting with the bedroom, because it’s a great place to start. I’m also starting on the bedroom because of all my rooms, it’s the most completed.

I love my bedroom, because it’s where the “loft” part of the loft comes into play. It’s tiny, as are all my rooms, made much larger by the half-wall that overlooks the steps, and my almost floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t have to buy anymore furniture for this room, which is just fine by me, as it’s already stuffed to capacity with my bare essentials: bed, chair, candles, and hatbox.

We all need beds to sleep on, and mine is fantastic: dark espresso wood with a chocolate ultrasuede headboard. Being totally addicted to all fabulous linens, I’ve got some fantastic bedding, too: 1,000 thread count white sheets, bought on sale of course, and chocolate corduroy duvet covers & shams. I also have a white ivory quilt, made from some awesome fabric that feels like a cross between fuzzy peaches and Teflon, folded in half and on top of the duvet.

Bed, sweet bed.

Going back to my half-wall (I really do hate calling it that), and you’ll see where I’ve placed my candles. Five chocolate leather votive holders in a line, about a foot apart, which I think make a nice touch. Keep going to where the wall turns inwards, and tucked into that is my chair. It’s opposite my bed and was an awesome find: a cream, ultrasuede art deco dealie from a store moving sale that fit my taste and budget. And on that chair is a white cushion, silk screened with the handwriting of Franz Kafka. I’d tell you what it says but I don’t speak Czech. Even if I did, his penmanship was terrible.

My hatbox is next to my chair. It comes up just past my knee, making it far too big to be a hatbox for any of the hats I own, but it’s gorgeous all the same. Chocolate brown leather, and a big, metal Asian-style fastener. A turn of the century Chinese box, according to the lady at the store. Oli got it for me as part of a birthday present a few years back.

I’m not 100% happy with this space yet; the carpet is just alright, that light beige condo issue, and the plain white closet doors are up there on my “s’okay” list. Lord knows the light fixture isn’t anything special either, but for now it will have to do. Even so, of all the rooms I have, this one is the most Me. This room feels like home.

It still needs something else though, something kitschy, yet classy. My room needs Audrey.

2007-07-20T05:11:00.000-07:00

I know I said that today would be all about decor, but I've decided to push just one more business day, and wait for Monday.

Today isn't about boring you with a meme (which incidentally, will happen below), but it is about goodbyes. Harry Potter, boy wizard and one of my biggest literary vices, makes his most awaited and final appearance tonight. I first fell in love with this series right after the publication of book 4 (which was tremendously stupid since J.K.R. made us wait three years until the next one), and am tremendously sorry to see the journey come to an end.

I'd drown my sorrows in firewhiskey if I could but until then, I'll take comfort in the fact that millions of my brother and sister geeks all over the world tomorrow will be doing the same thing as me: neglecting all duties and chores to bury their noses in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Aaaaaand here's the meme:

1. Butterbeer or Pumpkin Juice? Butterbeer, definitely. It has a very nice ring to it, sounds warm and inviting. Pumpkin juice sounds great too, but in the back of my head I'll always think of drinking pies.

2. What's your wand? Almond, 14 1/8, Phoenix Feather. (I did not make this up for myself either, go to www.alivans.com, then click on Virtual Tour for the wand game. It's actually pretty fun)

3. What would be your Hogwarts house? Scary enough I actually took a very detailed test on this pre book 6, and the person who'd devised the test made me take it an extra time, then answer all kinds of other questions, since apparently I'd scored dead centre between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. In the end I got the Gryffindor badge.

4. If you were an animagus, which animal would you be? How about a slug? Just kidding. Not that the choice would be mine anyway.... horse? Wolf? Falcon?

5. Which character do you resemble best? Easy. Hermione, to the point where I actually dressed up like her for a kids Halloween birthday party years back. The party was last minute and I needed a quickie getup, decided that since the screwed up hair was natural (also Hermione's trademark), all I'd need was a cape (purchased at drugstore), a school uniform (my old private school uniform), and a magic wand (thank you, tree outside my building). The minute I walked in a 6-year old dracula yelled, "It's Hermione!" And, to this day, even James calls me Hermione and he never saw the outfit...

6. What position would you play at Quidditch? Either Seeker or Chaser, I suppose. I associate beaters with big, strapping boys, and I've been a shitty goalie my entire life.

7. Pet? Pigwidgeon. Imagine having an owl the size of a tennis ball deliver mail packages 50 times his size....

8. Which teacher is your favourite? Professor Flitwick. C'mon, he's a charm-casting midget!

9. What would your patronus be? Killer goldfish?

10. Which disgusting Bertie Bott's every flavoured bean would you be willing to try? Probably the puke flavoured one, only because I can't see how puke ever would taste the same. You're hurling different foods out all the time, right? I mean, would that bean taste like MY puke? Of course right after eating it I'd have to really puke...

11. Which Hogwarts room would you love to visit? Definitely the Room of Requirement. Or that awesome bathroom with the singing mermaid.

12. Favourite Harry Potter moment? I always get a kick out of the scene in book 4 where Harry and Ron are coasting through their Divination homework, and making up all this bad stuff that's going to happen.

Dedicated and tagged to all Harry Potter fans, in and out of the closet!

2007-07-19T05:14:00.000-07:00

Hey kids,

This morning I was going to regale you all with more decor tales, alas, I was called away last night and didn't have time for a decent write up.

Tomorrow you shall see it, but for now, we again resort to meme-lane. While I totally hate the word "meme" because it sounds like something someone with a serious stuttering problem would say over and over again, right now, here, is the perfect time for it: rainy and gross! Enjoy, and Airam, consider yourself tagged. Only because I don't know anyone else who would do this!!!

(However if you would like to do this consider yourself tagged too, then I'll know for the future).

1. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up? His middle initial is W. Do the math.

2. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be? Definitely, without thinking twice, New Kids on the Block, a.k.a. the pox of planet earth.

3. Who would you really like to just punch in the face? Ben Mulroney. Seeing that idiot on TV makes me want to pull an Elvis and actually shoot the tube. That total dimwit, the son of a former (also dimwitted) prime minister, thought that Che Guevara was a musician. Would you not want to punch him too?

4. What is your favorite cheese? The stinkier, the better! Though I am partial to an edgy gorgonzola....

5. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal. What kind will you make? A Montreal bagel, toasted & slathered with a real, great quality cream cheese, and smoked salmon. Nice and simple.

6. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Oh Eric Bana... I promise I won't tell... if Eric is indisposed, then Christian Bale...

7. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who do you pick? For some reason, Chad Kroeger, the lead singer of Nickelback, has been mighty appealing lately.

8. Now that you've slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy shit, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it? Wow, the whole hundred, huh? Seeing as I need some nice Ikea shelves right now, I'd put it towards that.

9. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go? Morocco, hands down. That's my dream trip.

10. Upon arrival to the aforementioned location, you get off the plane and discover another hundred-dollar bill. Shit! Now that you are in the new location, what are you gonna do? Well duh, I'd go to the bank and get it changed to dirhams. Then, off to the spice market!

11. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. It is...? I'm not a hard core drinker, so I'll have to be boring and say red wine. It'll save me a lot of money for all those dinner parties.

12. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you traveling to and what are you going to do when you get there? The Dark Ages. I'd like to know, what exactly made them so dark? :)

13. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place? Toupees not allowed. Anyone wearing one gets thrown to the sharks.

14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what's the premise? Didn't I already answer this at some point? Gay Survivor! And by that I mean the most diva girly boys you could think of, living in total squalor without their makeup. Quality television, my friends.

15. What is your favorite curse word? Fuck, hands down. Anyone who knows me can attest to this.

16. One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren't really doing anything, they're just standing around your bed. What do you do? Take strong hold of one end of dangling fabric, and pull...

17. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don't worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what's the item? My cameras.

18. The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour? I'd be all sombre and say, tell everyone I love them, but this is a meme for Pete's sake, so I'm going to say, have a half hour of the best sex EVER!

19. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What's it gonna be? Everyone wants to fly, and I'm no different. Harry Potter, eat your heart out.

20. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again? The prom, dancing at the top of that boat with Sandy. I know, too cheesy for words...

21. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? (the answer "nothing" doesn't count) One particular ex-boyfriend, no surprise.

22. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit... you can move to anywhere else in the world! Bitchin'! What country are you going to live in now? London England, to my nice little townhouse in Notting Hill. Oh I do love it there....

23. This question still counts, even for those of you who are under age. Check it out. You have been eternally banned from every single bar in the world except for ONE. Which one is it gonna be? The funkiest pub I could find.

24. Hopefully you didn't mention this in the super-powers question.... If you did, then we'll just expand on that. Check it out... Suddenly, you have gained the ability to FLOAT!!! Whose house are you going to float to first, and be like "Dude, check it out... I can FLOAT!"? David Copperfield. Nya Nya, I can float without Photoshop...

25. The constant absorption of magical moonbeams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous-person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life? Beethoven. Then I'd chain the maestro to a living room chair and force him to give me piano lessons until he dropped dead again.

26. The Celestial Gates of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn't think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person, etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back? The one grandparent I never met, my dad's dad, but just for an hour or so chat.

27. What's your theme song? It changes all the time but today, it's Icky Thump by the White Stripes.

Icky Thump
With a lump in my throat
Grabbed my coat
And I was freaking
I was ready to go!

Happy Thursday everyone!

2007-07-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

If there’s only one question in the world more grating than the infamous, “When are you getting married?” it’s definitely, “Why aren’t you married?”

Pfft.

When you’re a single girl, everyone wants you to have a boyfriend. When you have a boyfriend, everyone wants you to have a fiancée. When you have a fiancée, everyone wants you to have a husband. When you don’t have kids everyone wants you to have a baby, then a brother or sister for the baby, then a house for the children to grow up in with fancy hotshot cars in the driveway and savings bonds in the bank.

I currently live in Box B, which is Yes Boyfriend, No Fiancee. As you’ll notice, that’s just the second rung on a very tall ladder. While my immediate family is fantastic enough to never bother me, knowing full well I’ll come to them with wedding news when the time is right, it’s the greater count of extended biology, also known as Annoying Ass Relatives Really Only Seen During Special Occasions and Reunion Picnics, who have become unbearable.

They can’t help themselves, really, it’s just a part of their busybody code. Unfortunately for me though, these vultures have descended with a fury. You see, of all the close cousins I have, I’m the only who isn’t married, or engaged to me married. Uh huh, that’s right. Moi.

Worse yet, I don’t have any immediate plans to get married, thus making my lifestyle a bacteria slide underneath the microscope of scrutiny. It’s been a cesspool of scandal so far, resulting in what you see today as the 32-year old She with a really well moisturized, ringless ring-finger hand, with nicely bitten down nails.

Not having a ring on my fourth left is one thing, but I wonder what everyone would think if they knew that I don’t like wearing rings?

Anyway, the point of all this is that you can imagine and perhaps even understand that two of the questions I’m most frequented with, ever, happen to be, “”When are you getting married?”, and “Why aren’t you married?” And you can imagine, perhaps even understand that after years of hearing this, answering oh-so-politely and being very accommodating in general, it’s all become quite irritating.

All that said, I don’t think it would surprise you to learn that I’ve begun to deal with this in a more creative fashion.

One must always distinguish between, “When are you getting married?” and, “Why aren’t you married?” There’s a huge difference. Relatives who ask when I’m getting married often mean well, at least in the beginning, and so I humour them accordingly. In the beginning, that is. Should they persist and let the inner harpies through, it’s time to get even.

Definitely the most effective reply to this question ever, was “Very soon, if the result is positive!” followed by a wide smile and belly pat. Oh, how mouths dropped. This one spreads like wildfire, but also takes no prisoners. If you have parents that actually give a shit about standing within their social circle and you don’t want to take a First Response test in front of your mother, don’t toy with this one too much.

The more standard smartass answers were, whispered loudly, “The very minute he’s cleared of all charges. Really, it’s just a technicality!” and, “Right after the family give their blessing. It should come any day now.” Associating one’s would-be fiancée with crime is always a dangerous game, but at the very least, shuts people up for a little while.

I had the most fun telling one aunt, “Shh! He still hasn’t willed everything to me! But I’m this close!” knowing full well she’d get a good laugh out of it. And seemingly the most innocent retort, but really the most cutting, went to one bitter, distant relation with a penchant for gossip bigger than the hairy mole on her upper lip: “Oh, as soon as possible! I just can’t wait to be as happy as you!”

Slightly damning, yes, but some noses just need to be pinched. And finally, the one that I would absolutely love to use but haven’t yet dared: “After the herpes clear up.”

Moving along: “Why aren’t you married?” is a lot more fun to deal with. You see, when someone asks the question that way, it’s a lot more insulting than, “When are you getting married?” Asking When insinuates that one day you’ll be walking the aisle. Asking Why You’re Not pokes the theory that no one has popped the question because something is wrong with you.

That may seem extreme, but you’ve never met my family.

The most fun answer to use in this case, hands down, is, “Because there’s just too much of me to go around!” This one can be taken two ways: sheer cheek, or pure trampy. Stick-in-the-mud relations usually choose the trampy route, but then I find that those kinds of people are usually jealous of trampy, whether they’ll admit it or not, and whether you are or not.

The silver medal goes to, “There’s no point, I’ve already gotten the milk for free.” The mouth-drop factor on this one alone is quite shocking and shoves point-blank in their faces that you are, indeed, having SEX. Sex is quite the dirty word/act/notion in the immigrant household.

And finally, the grande nacho supreme answer to end this argument forever, in fact, the answer that will not only shut up your pokey relative but pretty much ensure you’ll never see them again:

“Why aren’t you married?”

“Why aren’t you thin?”

Maybe one day, I’ll actually have the nerve to use it.

100% Real Juice: John Lennon

2007-07-15T15:02:00.000-07:00

It’s one of those gorgeous summer Sundays, where the weather isn’t too hot and puffy white clouds accentuate a stunning, icy blue sky. Sandy and I are in his study, and we are working. It’s not the ideal way to spend half the weekend, but it has to be done and so, here we are. Sandy is working on his desktop computer and I’m opposite him with my trusty laptop. And, as usual, the radio is set to our favourite stations, and belting out a variety of songs.

Sandy is a huge John Lennon fan, and has every single piece he ever recorded. He actually sold me on Lennonism back when we were in high school, and I’ve become an admirer since. Not as big a fan as Sandy, but a fan regardless.

A few minutes ago John Lennon’s Working Class Hero came on, and the lyrics intrigued me enough to write them down.

As soon as you’re born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
‘Til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class her is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate you if you’re clever and they despise a fool
‘Til you’re so fucking crazy you can’t follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

When they’ve tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you really can’t function you’re so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

There’s room at the top they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

If you want to be a hero well just follow me
If you want to be a hero well just follow me

For the greater part it’s bleak, so bleak. And in too many ways, oh so true. We are swallowed up very young into the machine of Order, schooled, conformed into particular ways of thinking, then churned out upon the earth, expected to have all the answers to make it work.

It’s a lot of pressure for anyone, and the realization of all this “stuff” usually hits us later on, and not under the best circumstances. Sometimes, it’s when you’re floundering that the philosophy of life hits you square between the eyes.

All that said, I didn’t intend to write all this down just to depress you. My point doesn’t rest with the dreariness of the song’s message, but in the fact that it was written by John Lennon.

John Lennon is the god of music or at the very least, one of its top contenders. Though tragically taken from us before his time, he accomplished so much in his life, and touched millions of people. I’ve never heard of anyone not liking John Lennon.

John Lennon wrote this song all by himself, and we all know that the best songwriting is taken from life’s experiences and thoughts. In that case, it’s nice to know someone so artistic, famous and influential had the regular, scared thoughts of us little people, too.

Many of us get lost in the great blender of life, but the way to the martini shaker is always open and clear. Inside each and every one of us, there is a creative genius.

2007-07-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

There is still one more line I have to draw.

I was at a subway station in the city last week, just walking across the platform and taking my time, when I saw her. She was running down the stairs, her heels clip cloppeting on the concrete, in a hurry to catch the train before it left. She looked very smart in her pantsuit and shiny black hair cut to a shorter, more fashionable length. She was carrying a sassy leather briefcase, and I saw her flick her wrist right before getting onto the train, to check the time on her gold watch.

She didn’t see me. I preferred it that way.

“She” is Gisella, and she was my best friend. That declaration was never made, but for a long time we were pretty tight. The beginning of the end for Gisella and I was during the start of the new me, back when I lost all that weight. Instead of one of my dearest friends being supportive, which I’d stupidly assumed would be the natural route, Gisella started making snide little comments every chance she could, and became more distant altogether.

I knew we were done on my 25th birthday. She didn’t even call me, but showed up three days later with a present I knew had been re-gifted. A few weeks later, she stopped calling altogether.

Seeing Gisella after some seven-plus years affected me in a way I can’t quite explain. She looked very put together, all business and clean cut, a far cry from the grunge girl I remember from our school days. She was sophisticated, she was polished, and wore a look that screamed, I’m doing well.

You may be tempted to ask how I know this, being out of touch with her for so long, but when I spoke with her last she’d just accepted a job with a national corporation. A small, fresh-out-of-school job with lots of potential to climb the corporate ladder, which I’m guessing she’s doing as we speak.

It’s safe to say I don’t like Gisella, not after the way she treated me, and the bottom line is that I don’t want her to be doing well. Or at least, I don’t want her to be doing better than me. Is that bad? Yes. Is that jealousy? Yes. Do I deserve to be whipped? Big time.

I know I’m being awful, but I’m only human. Do the people who are cruel to us not deserve to do well? I suppose if that were the case all the bitchy cheerleaders would never become prom queen, and all the boys who bullied us in grade school would flunk out of college. Lord knows I haven’t been an angel my whole life so maybe someone out there is gunning for my failure, too.

There’s more to the story, though. The enigma of Gisella isn’t just about what she did, but what she’s like. That said, how could the dullest crayon in the box get so far?

You’ll be tempted to think my bitchy head is talking here, but I couldn’t be more serious. This is the girl who almost ran over a blind man, knocked the side mirror off her new car the first day she got it, and sprained her ankle in a revolving door. She stalked the lead singer of her favourite indie band for years because she wanted to marry him, and actually set herself on fire while lighting candles. As I recall she was wearing an acrylic sweater at the time, and it went up like a torch.

So you might understand how I felt then, watching her run for that train, checking her gold watch. You just might accept that going through my mind was, You set yourself on fire and still got the business suit?

I can do as good as that, and I can be as good as that. Line I’m drawing for myself: New job. Must get new job. Not to show people up or display my gold watch for passerby, but for myself. I want better, and I want to do better.

There is another reason for this line, but that’s more a labour of love. When I was just an infant one of my cousins from overseas came to stay with my parents, and ended up looking after me. Lucia was the child of my mother’s oldest sister, so the age difference between them was only four years. Biologically she is my cousin, but I consider her more of an aunt.

She stayed with us for the better part of a year and as the story goes, I was very attached to her. I don’t remember any of this, I was too young, but my family always tells me that after she left I waited at the front door for a week, hoping she would come back.

Lucia has never returned since, but will be touching down on our soil in a couple of months, as she and her daughter are confirmed guests at the wedding. It will be her first time back in just over 30 years.

She is very excited to be making the trip, and we are all excited to welcome her. As fate would have it, Lucia is one of those fabulous relatives we all agree on. She was on the phone with moms he other day and after going over the details of their tickets, said that her dream has always been to return here to see how I’m doing.

This woman used to carry me everywhere, sing me to sleep, and dress me in pink jumpsuits with matching pom pom hats. She wanted great things for me.

I want great things for me too. At the very least, I want her to know I’m okay. Is that such a bad thing?

Decorator's Handbook: A Swift Kick in the Ass

2007-07-12T05:16:00.000-07:00

My body isn’t the only thing I’m drawing the line on.

A few days ago I went to my loft, threw the door wide open and proclaimed to my half-baked space, “Let’s get ready to ruuuumble!”

After I (failingly) assured myself that my neighbours don’t think I’m a complete jackass, I shut the door and took a good, long look at my space. Concensus: Great idea. Great start. Must finish.

I officially moved into my loft last August, “officially” standing for, This Is Where My Bed Lives Now. These days I live sometimes in the loft, sometimes with the parental units, and sometimes with Sandy. It’s been a happy arrangement so far, made much easier by the fact that Joey takes me wherever I like. But, no matter where I lay my head at night these days or any day, the time is ripe. My abode screams for completion.

I’ve had this on my list of goals for over a year now and have started plenty of times, only to drop the ball for whatever reason. But now, now is different. This time, it’s going to happen.

I’m tempted to let you think I’m all naturally gung ho over the matter and I am, but one thing I haven’t told you yet is that it’s going to happen this time because it has to. As you may or may not recall, my cousin Seth is getting married this September. As part of the wedding package, he and his lovely bride have decided to invite several relatives from overseas.

As luck would have it, those overseas relatives are also related to me. I was talking to them a few days ago and they’re all really excited, these scores of cousins on my mother’s side, and over a crackling telephone connection I heard them say, “We your rooms must see!”

Translation: Can’t wait to see your place. And, we might be sleeping there, too. Bugger. It’s safe to say the fire’s been lit. Not a little one either, but a seething fury of a blaze that is intensely scorching my butt cheeks.

I have six weeks to make this all happen, which in anyone’s right mind should send them running for the hills, but my foundation is good. I wasn’t lying before when I said that everything is half done, and so I’ll just have to take it from there.

In truth I’m RELIEVED that this will all be done very soon, but then again, I’m in for one crazy summer, no?

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo
In so much space

2007-07-10T12:18:00.000-07:00

Legend has it that mothers were the first to colour eggs, in order to make breakfast more fun for their children. Only later was the practice incorporated into Easter.

Sometimes, small things make the ordinary extraordinary, or at least more pleasurable, especially for the palate. Since we’re talking about eggs, let’s talk hard boiled. I don’t like them. Unless they’re devilled or between two pieces of multigrain bread in salad form, total ixnay.

Chinese tea eggs, on the other hand, are fabulous. Hard boil some eggs for 20 minutes, gently crack all the shells, then simmer on extreme low heat for two hours in a soup of water, soy sauce, black tea leaves & star anise. Continue marinading them in the fridge overnight, and in the morning you have gorgeous, marbled eggs with a taste of the slightly exotic.

It makes all the difference, these small touches that keep us sane. Another thing I’m not a fan of is salad dressing, for the most part that is, but then the concoction that Sandy and I discovered just tickles my senses. In a plastic bottle or jar, mix together equal parts olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a few drops of sesame oil and a generous dollop of honey. Shake shake shake, pour over some salad, and be taken away.

Little things. Water is wonderful, but flavour is easier to drink. I don’t like bottled or canned stuff, much less powdered anything you can add to H2O for a sweeter taste. Good quality tea though, that’s something else. Bearing in mind that the summer is too hot for hot drinks, making iced tea, proper iced tea, with good quality green leaves, is superb.

Two Chinese tea eggs, a handful of blueberries, vegetable stew, a baby green salad with dressing, and a pot of white ginger iced tea, equivalent to six cups of water. Thus far, this is what I’ve eaten today. Healthy whole foods, eaten in moderation, with the intent to proceed slowly but surely, in the hope to make a difference.

I’ve been dabbling for a long time now, losing a bit here and there, but it’s not enough. These body issues of mine, this crisis, is stopping me from being me.

I miss me. I’m drawing the line.

2007-07-03T19:36:00.001-07:00

They say that blood is thicker than water, but I say that love is the greatest binding force. Strength and emotions don't lie in blood, because biological ties don't determine the people you choose to be your family.

Yesterday, a dear friend of mine suffered a great tragedy. No one has died or been killed, but the news is devastating nonetheless.

I love my friend and his family with all my heart. That said, my mind is with them, not my writing.

Please forgive my absence over the next few days.

My Birthday, last part

2007-06-29T05:37:00.000-07:00

I say that because birthdays are parties, or at least thought of to be or have parties, and if there was a party on that day, it was waiting for me at his house.

Sandy had had a rough day. He’d woken up with the birds that morning, flew out for a business trip consisting of site visits on what was so far the hottest day of the year, flew back, and was upstairs in the shower when I arrived.

I walked into the house carrying my overnight bag and a bottle of sparkling French lemonade for later, which I’ve decided to make a birthday tradition. I walked into the kitchen to put the bottle in the fridge and saw, on the counter, a bouquet of a dozen white roses, and a yellow envelope leaning against the tissue and cellophane they were wrapped in.

Maybe I should have waited, but the giddiness bubbling inside me was too strong, and the smile on my face too big. I took the card out of the envelope but before I’d had a chance to read it properly some rectangular beige papers fell out.

Stores call them love coupons, but no store was selling these. Knowing my perfectionist Sandy he’d made these himself, and a quick glance at the top one confirmed my theory. He didn’t just scrawl them on scraps either, he’d *designed* them on AutoCAD, used different colours and fonts, then printed them out on the finest quality stock.

Crazy, nutty, beautiful man. I got a massage, a movie, two date nights with the works, and a shopping trip this weekend to get me a GPS. He would have gotten me one already, he said, but wanted me to pick out my own so I’d be comfortable with it when driving.

Yes indeed, I am the luckiest girl in the world. And written inside the card, besides all that great stuff (that I won’t be sharing, thank you very much), he’d put down “Oh, you wait! I predict a very good year…”

Oh, I think so too. I also predicted a very good next half-hour, after I’d run pell-mell up the stairs to pull my man out of the shower and smother him with hugs and kisses.

After Sandy was dried & dressed, he took us out for dinner as per my birthday Rule #5: One Special Meal. I didn’t tell him or even ask him to do that, but he thinks one special meal is a great thing for birthdays, too. I’m glad we see eye to eye on so many things. “Your choice,” he told me, and even though we’ve already been there dozens of times I asked to go to our favourite sushi haunt. Sushi is great summer food and as any decent sushi freak knows, you can only go so long until withdrawal symptoms kick in.

We had our shrimp tempura, California rolls, spicy tuna hand rolls, salmon, white tuna & surf clam sashimi, and even shared a honking bowl of soba just for kicks. When we were thoroughly sushi-ed out we got back into the car and back to his place, where he had more waiting for me.

My Rule #6 for birthdays, the last one, is that You are the Celebration of your Life. It is very important for us to celebrate ourselves, particularly on these special days, for the ups and downs of the year gone by, and the hopes and dreams for tomorrow.

Then again, how nice is it when someone else sees something special, and creates a celebration for you?

Sandy sat me down on the floor at his coffee table (where we usually eat dinner) and made me promise not to look. Next thing I know, all the lights are off and he’s approaching with a mini chocolate vanilla swirl cheesecake, covered in more chocolate and strawberries and alight with candles. He put the cake in front of me, sang the birthday anthem, and took the obligatory picture of me blowing out the candles, cheeks puffed out as if I were storing nuts for the winter.

I think the last picture I have of me in that pose was from my eighth birthday party. “Did you make a wish?” he said, after flicking the lights back on, and while I told him Yes, I don’t think special wishes are required ever since we found each other again.

While I was cutting the cake, Sandy ran back into the kitchen for yet more surprises: cannoli and sfogliatelle. Damn those Italians and their suberb pastries. We all know cannoli as those delectable crunchy tubes filled with sweetened ricotta, used by Talia Shire to bring about a fellow mobster’s demise in Godfather III.

Sandy knows they’re my favourite, but he also wanted me to try the sfo-lyah-tel-e, which look like clams, and are filled with flavoured ricotta. Move over, cannoli. And, a few laughs on the side. It turns out that before Sandy and I eat any pastry, we do the exact same thing: shake off the icing sugar.

It was late by then, Sandy was nodding off from his long day, and I was looking forward to some sleep myself… afterwards. Later on in his room, as we lay there enjoying the breeze from his ceiling fan being set to High, Sandy turned to me and asked, “Did you have a good birthday, Cheech?”

No no no. Not good. Not good at all. The best.

2007-06-28T11:07:00.001-07:00

Happy Belated Birthday to Me!

Mrs. Loquacious of Loquacious Musings saw fit to present me with this honour yesterday, which had me tremendously touched (and somewhat tear-streaked). A couple of days into 32 and I'm a Rockin' Girl!

I'm supposed to respond in kind, awarding this to five other Rockin' Girls. As hard as that was to do, not to mention going around those to whom it was already awarded, here are my picks (in alphabetical order):

1) Diary of a Diapering Madwoman is new to my world, but she rocks because she's hilarious, honest, a gritty writer and, new though she is, she comments here a lot. Any writer worth their salt knows how important feedback is, and I hope to do her justice in the way she's done me.

2) Once Upon a Day has had me in stitches for ages, be it about her day-to-day or snappy meme responses, authored by this fabulous chick who was truly born to rock. Seeing as we only live a stone's throw away from each other, I really hope to meet her one day soon, and that she never stops writing here.

3) The Cats Demand Answers is the sauciest of my group, a journal with a humourously raw approach to life, speckled with a sarcasm that only the truly sarcastic can totally appreciate. If I could pass some cupcakes through the bandwidth here, I surely would.

4) The Misadventures of (Mommy) Laural is the only one of my bunch where I personally know the author, a brainy sweetheart of a cool girl who makes great parenting look like a snap. As long as no one else from our classes reads this, we can always say we were the best thing that school coughed up!

5) The Torments of a Single Girl has been on my roll for the longest time, written by the sassiest of fabulous girls who never fails to make me laugh. She hilariously captures singledom for trench warfare that it is, and has great taste in gourmet snacks. I really hope our future martini date stands for that fateful someday.

Now, pass this on to five others, and live up to your titles with grace, style, charm and neverending wit. Rock on!

My Birthday, in two parts

2007-06-28T07:44:00.000-07:00

My birthday didn’t start out on the actual day, but the day before. The 25th of June, 32 years after my mother lay screaming in agonized labour, my loved ones gathered together for my Rule #3 of birthdays: Friends and Family.

But why early? Because when you’re grown up, celebrating with other grown ups, schedules conflict. My birthday was Tuesday, but our party was Monday. Not that I’ve ever been one to complain for an extra party.

Oli and Corey came over to the house for the family thing, where I was showered with love, cards, gifts and cake. I got Ikea gift cards, bookstore gift cards, t-shirts with cute designs, nail polish and, believe it or not, the Method Mop I’ve had my eye on for the longest time. Wonderful family is wonderful to have.

Sandy came over a bit later, thoroughly delayed by work, but just in time for good food & conversation. Then as I was walking him out I saw a blue envelope sticking out of the mailbox, complete with card & coupon for a dinner and girl talk, courtesy of a friend I grew up with. Wonderful friends are wonderful to have.

The next day, my real day, followed beautifully in the steps of last year so that I can say now without a doubt: it was a good birthday.

Every morning is a great one with wet, sloppy kisses first thing in the morning from my baby boy Blue. And even though the weather was sucky in that hot, overly humid and (really) sticky kind of way, I fulfilled my Rule #1 birthday requirement with Going Outside. A ridiculous humidex is one thing, but then it’s definitely better than howling winds and mountains of snow dumped on your doorstep. No offence to all you winter birthdays.

The day went by pretty quickly, mostly taken up by errands with moms. She’s a busy lady and has limited to shop for her every this and that, so running around to shop for her every this and that we did. I still managed to apply Rule #3 by Gifting Myself though, with a gorgeous picnic basket and an iTunes card. I’ve always wanted a picnic basket and have plans for it in the month of July; as for the iTunes, to wax philosophical, the gift of music keeps on giving.

My Rule #2, Alone Time, came back at home and in the shower of all places. I usually like to do this part outside but I was in a rush and just so hot and sticky, that in the shower it was. Like I said last year, alone time is necessary because you’ve just finished a year of your life, and today is the first day of the next 364. There is reflection, plans, goals, ambitions, love and dreams to be had. And again, like last year, I could tell you what I was thinking, but then I’d have to kill you.

I was all ready to go to Sandy’s place but he told me via text that he needed a little more time before I got there, so I put the music card to use and downloaded some songs onto the pod. For your quizzing pleasure:

1. Usually when things have gone this far
People tend to disappear
No one would surprise me unless you do

2. You say the party’s over
But like a drunken fool
I never know when to leave
It’s just that in the eyes of the beholder
You mean everything to me

3. And I’ve been meaning to call you
I’ve been meaning to call you
Then I do

4. Every night my dream’s the same
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don’t know why but I know I can’t stay

5. There’s no time to lose, I heard her say
Catch your dreams before they slip away

My real birthday, on my birthday, began at Sandy’s.

2007-06-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

Many, many thanks for all birthday wishes! And now, as promised, the Wednesday meme. Tomorrow we get back on track with fresh posts, starting with the bday fodder.

I lifted this from Emma even though she didn't tag me for it... it's just that she's always got the best memes.

The rules are simple. There are 9 questions (3², each of which has 3 answers, to give a total of 27, or 3³. The whole point is that the questions are somewhere between eclectic, banal and downright bizarre, so that you can answer completely truthfully without actually giving much away. Just put down the first three answers that come to mind if you can’t work out the “most appropriate” three.

Objects Within One Metre Of You

1. My corkboard, couldn't live without it
2. A pair of silver earrings that are shaped like four-leaf clovers
3. A jar of marbles. I just like having them around.

First Names of People You Sat Next To At School

1. Michael in kindergarten. He was the first kid in the class to learn how to print his name, tie his shoelaces, and colour in all his squares without going over any lines. Being the class troublemaker, I was the last to do all of that.
2. Gilbert in grade four. He was in remedial, three years older than any of us, and a metre taller, too. He was a huge bully and smelled like stale pasta. The teacher put him next to me hoping I'd positively affect his GPA.
3. Angie, grade seven. We were the tallest girls in the school and had the back of the classroom to ourselves. When she read anything, she would trace the lines in the book with her finger and mouth all the words out. It drove me bonkers.

Programmes You Won’t Watch

1. Grey's Anatomy. I refuse to fall victim to this show!
2. Anything on the Country Network
3. Pro fishing competitions

Favourite Trivial Pursuit Categories

(Admittedly it's been so long since I've played that I'm just using Emma's answers - they all sound good to me)
1. Geography
2. History
3. Arts and Literature

Superpowers You’d Like To Have

1. Flying, baby!
2. The power of healing. Does that count as super?
3. The power to control the weather strikes me as being pretty useful.

Newspapers, Magazines or Periodicals Read Regularly

1. The National Post
2. Vanity Fair
3. The Donna Hay quarterly magazines. Oh how I love those.

Songs You Dislike

1. Hello, by Lionel Richie. It makes me want to poke my own eyes out so I'm just as blind as the girl in the video.
2. All I wanna do is zoom a zoom zoom zoom and a boom boom
3. The Sweet Escape. Gwen, why?? The song itself isn't that terrible, but that Woohoo, Wee-oo! is AWFUL!

Blog Posts of Your Own That You’d Recommend

Uh, no. If you can remember any, you tell me :)

As for tagging, I'm going to follow Natalie's bit... you, you, you, you, and you!

2007-06-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

Some days, we need to think of what defines us. Sometimes, we need to see what makes our world spin.

1. My wonderful family

2. The best boyfriend in the whole world

3. The best dog in the whole world

4. The most fabulous friends ever

5. My gorgeous car

6. A loft to call my very own

7. A blog to call my very own

8. Rain

9. Flip flops

10. Music on my stereo

11. Books

12. Plane tickets

13. A day in the darkroom

14. Learning about wine by reading all the bottle labels

15. Writing

16. People who read my writing

17. Spring afternoons

18. Summer nights

19. Cafe time with my girls

20. Sitting on a curb with some great company and gelato

21. Retail therapy

22. Fantastic clothes

23. Helping the less fortunate

24. Rollerblading

25. Great food

26. Coffee

27. A road trip with my sister

28. A soccer game like no other

29. The stars in the sky

30. Those moments you want to relive over and over again

And never least,

31. Love

31 reasons, 31 thank-yous, 31 things for every year of the life that I've lived. Today, we start on 32.

Happy Birthday to Me.

2007-06-25T04:36:00.000-07:00

I've been stuck lately. It's not a pretty thing to have to tell you but I'm sure you've noticed, being with my lack of posting, flippant use of memes, etc.

It's not an easy thing to admit but a good break to have, since I can feel the words starting to buzz around in my head again. While this justifiably labels me insane, it also means that soon, very soon, you shall have fresh reading.

Today you have a meme, because I was tagged for one. Tomorrow you get a post, Wednesday you get another meme while I collect my collective thoughts, and from Thursday on out it's new stuff. Sound good?

(But just so you know, memes are great for when you feel you've exhausted yourself. And, so much fun to do!)

INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

A Blog of a Good Time
Classy & Fancy
[Cherry] Ride/5of9er
Airam
Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Select five people to tag: (and I've chosen to keep Airam's following message)*If I've tagged you and you HATE these then please accept my sincerest apologies and a kiss on both ass cheeks.

Emma, because I know you love these
Common Girl, because you don't post so often anymore and these are fun to do
Laural, because you're a sweetie
Temporarily Me, because you're witty as heck, and
Natalie, because you're an interesting person all around. It stands for some good reading, I'm sure.

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Finishing up my undergrad degree, applying to all kinds of journalism schools, and perfecting my plan for world domination.

What were you doing 1 year ago?

Exactly what I'm doing right now, perhaps, as in writing this blog. I'd gotten back from the Middle East a few months prior, and was debating my relationship from hell.

Five snacks you enjoy:

1. Yogurt
2. Muesli
3. Lemon Gelato
4. Sesame Snaps
5. Summer fruits (thanks for that inspiration, Airam)

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:

1. Laid, James
2. I bet you look good on the Dance Floor, the Arctic Monkeys
3. Sloop John B, the Beach Boys
4. Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Green Day
5. Ticket to Ride, the Beatles

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

My answers here reflect Airam's quite a bit.

1. Erase all debt for me and my family.
2. Buy myself a house in the village. If you live in this city, you know exactly where the village is.
3. Invest heavily so none of us will ever have to worry about money again.
4. Travel and pick up some international real estate along the way.
5. Start scholarship funds at my alma mater, give to the hospital where I had surgery as a kid, and donate to several charities in general.

Five bad habits:

1. I'm a nail biter
2. Serious road rage
3. Procrastinating
4. Not checking my cell messages for days at a time
5. Grocery shopping when I'm hungry. Bad, bad thing to do.

Five things you like doing:

1. Traveling, when cash flow permits
2. The cafe scene
3. Driving with the music blaring
4. Photography, and
5. Being with my one and only

Five things you would never wear again:

1. Black shoes and white socks. Yes, I fell into that trap too....
2. Shoulder pads
3. Peacock blue eyeliner
4. Polka dots on stripes
5. A banana clip. What was I thinking?!

Five favorite toys:

1. Does my dog count? He's cuter than a toy...
2. Ipod
3. Laptop
4. The PS3 at my sister's house
5. My car, because it's a beautiful piece of ass. Thank you Airam for that witty remark, and for letting me borrow it!

2007-06-21T04:43:00.000-07:00

Meme time... can you tell I'm being lazy lately?

If you don't comment here, please feel free to clip this to an email to share with friends!! We all need to feel like teenagers sometimes, you know.

Are you:

A cuddler? At first it's great, but I hate when people are breathing on me when I'm trying to sleep.
A morning person? Only once I'm up and have been (sometimes) heavily dosed with caffeine.
Are you a perfectionist? For some things. I could give a rat's ass what my desk looks like, but my car has to be immaculately clean at all times.
An only child? One older sister.
Catholic: Half. Is that possible?
In your pajamas? At the moment, no.
Currently suffering from a broken heart? No. How nice is that?
Okay styling other people's hair? NO. I can barely do my own, why would I want to inflict that pain on others?
Left handed? Nope, a righty.
Addicted to MySpace? Heck no.
Shy around the opposite gender? These days, very little.
Loud? Sigh. I've been told!

Do you:

Bite your nails? Indeed.
Get paranoid at times? Sometimes
Currently regret something that you have said/done? Can't say that I do. That's a good thing.
Curse frequently when you get mad? Fuck is a big word for me.
Enjoy country music? Uh, no. See profile.
Enjoy jazz music? YUp, especially for cool little dinner parties at my place.
Enjoy smoothies? Yes! I love making them, I think they're a lot more efficient and better tasting than anything you can buy out there in smoothie world.
Enjoy talking on the phone? Meh. Not so much anymore.
Have a lot to learn? Everyday, all the time. The day I stop learning is the day I die.
Have a pet? My dog!
Have a tendency to fall for the "wrong" person? Don't we all fall for the wrong person until we're married? Don't we even sometimes marry the wrong person?
Have all your grandparents died? Yes... I never met my dad's dad, my dad's mom died when I was 14, my mother's dad followed suit six months later when I was 15, and my mother's mother died seven years ago.
Have at least one sibling? Sister... Thought we cleared that up....
Have been told that you are smart? Uh huh.
Have had a broken bone? Nose & right pinky toe.
Have Caller I.D. on your phone? Oh yes, It's most useful.

Have you:

Changed a diaper? Never. Can you believe it?
Changed a lot over the past year? I like to think so!
Had friends who have never seen your natural hair color? No, But I have friends who have never seen me without highlights.
Had surgery? One.
Killed anyone? Thankfully, no.
Had your haircut within the last week? A week and a half ago.

Last person who:

Slept in the bed beside you? Sandy, last night :)
Saw you cry? My dog.
Went to the movies with you? Oh lord that was almost a year ago. I was with my sister and Lance, though.
You went to the mall with? Sandy...
You went to dinner with? Shelley? Sandy...
You talked to on the phone? Sandy...
Said 'I love you' to you and meant it? Sandy...
Broke your heart? The Icee man stopped coming down our block. I miss hearing the bell on the truck??
Made you laugh? Sandy...

Would you rather?

Pierce your nose or tongue? YUck, neither. I'd do my ear again, though.
Be serious or be funny? Oh, funny.
Drink whole or skim milk? Whole. If you're going to drink skim you might as well have water with some liquid paper mixed in.
Die in a fire or drown? Hopefully, I'll never have to choose.
Spend time with your parents or enemies? Parents, of course. Does that make me a nerd?

About you!

(Then what's the above been all about?)

What time is it? 7:58am
Name? I plead the fifth...
Nickname(s)? Currently, Cheech.
Where were you born? The fifth! The fifth!
What is your birthdate? June 26, very close.
What do you want? What everyone else wants, happiness and inner peace. A few million wouldn't hurt, either.
Where do you want to live? Ideally, London, England. Realistically, where I am isn't that bad at all.

Oh, that's it? Okay. I suppose I have to tag people now.... GO! YOU'RE IT!

2007-06-19T06:02:00.000-07:00

Last week was a week of men. Men, boys, whatever, and this past weekend played into that too.

On Saturday we had our annual family garage sale. We’ve been doing it every June for the past handful of summers because of 1) tidy profits, and 2) we have a lot of junk. Not junk so much as stuff, but there’s a lot of it nonetheless. Things tend to pile up after so many moves, and you can’t keep those boxes in your parents’ basement forever.

A garage sale is a crazy time. You have to clean through all your piles for days before the event, categorize, box and carry it all to the garage, make & put up signs, possibly advertise, get a cash float, then wake up mega early to accommodate your customers, the bulk of who like to do their shopping between seven and 9am.

This sounds like a lot of work for a few bucks and it is, but it’s not all about the money. A garage sale is cleansing, the post-modern purification of the soul. You’re lightening your load, losing dead weight, and having the wonderful satisfaction of knowing that something you don’t want, have brushed aside for years, is starting a whole new life somewhere else.

But still, the cash doesn’t hurt either.

The prices on our driveway, we’ve been told, are much higher than your standard garage sale. That said, most people have no problem paying the prices on our driveway because, as we’ve been told, my sister and I take superb care of our stuff.

For instance, last year one woman asked me the prices of our books. I told her one dollar per paperback and two dollars per hardcover, when she retorted back with, “Everyone knows that the standard price for books at garage sale is 25 cents!”

Without missing a beat, I told her the book she was holding was a trade paperback, not mass market, was two years old, in perfect condition, and didn’t have a single crack on the spine. I also told her that if it was a romance novel circa 1972 with a missing cover and dog-eared everything, I’d be more than happy to take a quarter.

Needless to say, she coughed up a dollar pretty quick.

Anyway, bottom line, our stuff ain’t cheap in garage sale land. However, if it’s something you want to get rid of just for the sake of getting rid of it, let’s talk power sale, baby!

Example: in the furthest recesses of the basement is a box labeled PRICK. Metaphorically labeled anyhow, I wouldn’t go so far as to write that all over a box, even if its contents belong to Jess.

That’s right, the ex-boyfriend box made the cut. It’s not like I’ve heard boo from him for almost a year and that said, he can’t be too attached to anything in there. I bought most of it anyway, meaning I get the final say as to what happens to it.

So one woman/customer is going through some things I’ve just laid out on the table, and one of them happens to be a Jess shirt. I still remember the day I bought him that shirt, a nice short-sleeved rust surfer boy dealie with maroon detailing along the bottom. She holds it up and says, “How much?”

The shirt’s in phenomenal shape, is about four years old, but hasn’t been worn for the past two at least. If it was one of mine I wouldn’t take less than four dollars, however, every now and then we have rules to follow, the first of which is: Rid yourself of crap karma at (almost) all costs.

“Ma’am, you’re in luck. That shirt you’re holding there is a part of the infamous, ‘I hate my Ex-Boyfriend’ pile, and it can all be yours for the low low price of 10 dollars!”

Her eyebrows perked up. There were a good dozen shirts of his lying around her, all fairly recent and in great condition, and then she said, “Do you hate him for eight dollars?

Ah, bargaining. The great constituent of garage sales. I thought it over, and even though the whole point of this was to get rid of these things, I decided not to fall trap for Rule #2: Never sell yourself short, especially if what you’re offering is too good to be true. “Nope, sorry. I hate him for 10.”

With that she took the lot and I watched a handful of Jess’ old clothes go away, away from me. It was good.

Many would argue that holding out for a couple of extra bucks somehow ties me to him, that I didn’t want to get rid of his things that badly. In fact, even selling any of it, as opposed to giving it away, is full of symbolism in its own right.

I beg to differ.

After the garage sale was over, I went to the market and picked up for myself a bottle of Boylan’s vintage root beer. Boylan’s is made with all natural ingredients, and is sold in glass bottles here for almost two bucks a pop.

Back home, I put the bottle in the freezer, pulling it out when it was so cold it couldn’t get any colder without being slush. I savoured my root beer sitting on the grass, enjoying the beautiful day with my dog.

His stuff, my stuff, two bucks. The moral of the story: a couple of extra dollars can go a long way. Even a truckload of bad memories can make way for a good one, if you play your cards right.

2007-06-14T07:47:00.001-07:00

When Sandy and I hooked up again last August, I thought of Asad briefly and the irony of it all. Would he have been understanding, I wonder, if he knew that the one boy I could never forget, the boy I never let myself forget, is that man I’m with today?

Life is full of surprises. Sandy and I talk about the past every now and then, telling each other the things we would never, could never say during the awkwardness of our teen years.

“Why did you like me so much?” he asked me once, referring of course to our “emotional tryst,” if you will, of yesteryear.

He has a lot of reason to ask. It isn’t often that you still think of a high school crush well into your 30’s, to the point where it drives you to email.

“I don’t know, I just did,” I replied back, still momentarily shy to confess that from the moment we met, everything clicked and started to make sense. Even at the sweet age of 16 I recognized that with him, it all fit. It still does.

A few months ago I was going through some old boxes and I happened to find my 11th grade day planner, full of the scrawlings of the busy life of a junior, and as I was flipping through it I saw a big red circle around June 13th, 1992. Inside the circle I’d written all in caps, THE PROM.

Exactly 15 years later, after a sushi dinner and some time with family, Sandy and I celebrated our little anniversary at his house. There were no expensive outfits, no flowers, no fancy boats, but we recreated our magical moment with a dance in his kitchen instead.

“Ace?”

“Yes, Cheech?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Boy, you’re tall.”

“I know.”

The Men and the Boys: Asad, part 3

2007-06-13T08:08:00.000-07:00

The human heart can be a terrible thing. Here was this incredible, sweet boy who wanted me, treated me wonderfully, and thought he had me. My heart, on the other hand, had decided she wasn’t in it. Sure there was the occasional flutter, but no more than that.

Poor Asad. How was he to know I belonged to someone else? I was still with Sandy, even though he wasn’t mine, wasn’t even close to being mine. You don’t have to be with someone to belong to them, and in retrospect, you don’t necessarily belong to someone just because you are with them.

I’d decided to let Sandy go, but my heart was still his. Asad had given me himself completely, but I could not take him, accept him, or have him as mine. At the ripe old age of 17, I was slowly starting to realize that just because someone really, really liked me, didn’t mean that I could really, really like him back.

Unfortunately that realization came over time, and at the expense of someone who cared about me very much. Why did it play out that way? I’ll have to pull out my Lack of Experience card yet again. I’d never dumped anyone, never sat down to have “the talk,” or issued ultimatums that wound up in singledom.

And, I’d never broken up with someone, least of all for treating me so superbly well. That alone made me second guess myself over and over again. I mean really, how often does that happen?

So while Asad continued being his gentlemanly self, while he was still holding my hand, taking me places and introducing me to friends, I did what I do best, especially back in those days: I froze. Brick by brick I put up my emotional wall and threw away the key, until he couldn’t help but notice. And finally, after all the analysis on my part, and the prodding to confide why I’d changed on his, I decided it was time to get things out in the open.

After weeks of my frigidity, we were on the phone when I told him, “I’d like to have a little talk.”

They say that men are stupid about relationships, but some catch on pretty quick. Asad was one of them. “Is it about us?”

I was silent on the other end for a long, long time. Nerves. My heart beating through my chest, etc. “Yes.”

His turn for silence. Then, “Will I be seeing you sometime soon?”

Ah, the question. More silence and, after an eternity, I whispered, “No…”

Without missing a beat he said, “Goodbye,” and hung up.

I never missed Asad as a boyfriend, no matter how wonderful he had been. That’s the true mark of being the emotional anorexic of the relationship, I suppose. But for a very long time, I did regret treating him so badly. Sometimes, I still do.

After mulling it over for months, after discussing it to death with friends, I discovered that there was a word for everything I’d just done: Rebound. Apparently, when one’s heart is broken, hurting, run amuck etc. by a previous love or relationship, it is the custom to quickly move onto someone else and make them feel as shitty as you do.

That wasn’t my goal, truly, and I beat myself up over it plenty. He was so nice, he was so good, he was so this and that and here and there, I’d really had no excuse. Can I chalk it up to being young and stupid?

I heard from Asad once after that, or at least I thought I did. Eight months after that disastrous conversation the phone rang, and I picked it up to silence on the other end. I knew someone else was there, and I knew it was him. After another minute of nothing I quietly said, “Asad,” to which the caller contemplated for another 20 seconds or so, and then hung up.

How did I know it was him? Out of all the random prank calls one could ever receive, what possibly drove me to the conclusion that it was Asad on the other line? Because. That day was his birthday.

I saw him a few years later too, when I was in my first year of university and on a weekend shopping trip with roommates. We were in a department store checking out the teen section when there he was, with his own group of friends, walking through the crowds as if he owned the place. He looked good, very good, and was garnering the usual stares from girls in every which direction. Then, as fate would have it, he turned and looked my way.

I looked back. We held that gaze just long enough for recognition to hit and then, he turned and walked away. I didn’t blame him for that, not at all, though it took my hands a good half hour to stop shaking.

Relationships come and relationships go, but none truly leave you if you learn from them. That could just be my opinion, though. So, what did I learn from my time with Asad?

Rebounds don’t exist if you don’t let them. Your time in mourning is never healed by entering something new. Don’t get involved with one person if you are in love with another. Your first gut instinct is usually always right.

Don’t be afraid. Talk. Getting things out in the open is often best for the both of you, even hurtful things need to be said. If anything, talking can avoid disturbingly loaded confrontations at the mall.

I suppose it would serve Asad little consolation to know that he helped me learn all these lessons, in that way, but I learned them nonetheless. Wherever he is these days, I hope he’s happy.

The Men and the Boys: Asad, part 2

2007-06-12T04:33:00.000-07:00

I caved. Not two days later I was lying on a table, the guinea pig of a live class demonstration. My hair was tightly pulled back and my face thoroughly gooked in Vaseline as the teacher and Asad began applying the very wet gauze strips.

Cover your entire face with a mud mask, a good half-inch thick, and you’ll have a good idea of how I felt. It was pasty, gunky, very smelly, and filled up every tiny detail of my facial features. Cold rivulets of the stuff kept trailing down onto my neck and scalp, where they hardened and dried. I could even taste it, as it was all over my lips, and my breathing was limited to two teensy, pseudo nostrils.

Plaster of paris is half correct application, half ample drying time. In my case, the drying time part meant a good 30-40 minutes of me laying there in my mummified state, feeling seriously gross. Asad stayed with me when the room cleared out, when everyone else went on their lunch break, when the only two students left in that room, maybe the entire school, were me and him. “I’m here,” he told me, and held my hand so I wouldn’t feel alone.

Another hint? No. Absolute clarity, more like. At that point I remember thinking, this boy likes me. He really, truly likes me. No strings attached, no hidden girlfriends, no issues. Just me.

I also remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, me voluntarily doing one of the most repulsive things I had ever done in my life meant that I liked him that way, too.

So after the mask was off, after I’d come out of the restroom from some serious cleanup time, after Asad met with me in the secluded hallway to thank me for being Nefertiti’s face, I didn’t protest when he pulled me close, or when his hands snaked around to the small of my back. And when he kissed me, I didn’t say no.

Asad was good to me. He held my hand, he kissed me often, told everyone I was his girlfriend, and was proud of the prospect. He bought me beef patties on a bun for lunch at the local student hangout, and took me to the park so we could make out under the tallest weeping willow. He took me to the movies where he let me lean on his shoulder, and nuzzled my ear teasingly while I entertained one simple, devastating thought:

I wish you were Sandy.

The Men and the Boys: Asad, part 1

2007-06-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

Of course, sometimes we do hit the rocks. The weather has nothing to do with it, either. I was saving this for another time, but lately it’s been pestering me. Maybe it just wants to be told, this story of the first boy who ever gave me his heart freely, and how I threw it away.

I met Asad in the summer of ’92, a few days after my 17th birthday, and a couple of weeks after the prom. I was a girl in love, and a girl hurting from the love she could not have. Sandy had his girlfriend, so I’d decided to back off. I didn’t like my decision, but thought it best.

I was also a girl in summer school. Being trapped in a junior art class wasn’t my ideal choice for a perfect weather July, but I still needed that credit and thought, no time like the present. I enrolled at a Catholic school a half-hour from home, a school where the students wore uniforms by day, but were blissfully free to do as they liked in summer time.

Asad started the class three days late, walking in one morning when the seating arrangement had already been decided, and everyone had formed their cliques. I still remember the minute I first saw him. We’d all just gotten our textbooks and I was wrapping mine, when the door opened and there he was.

My height, dark hair, deeply tanned Egyptian skin. Huge brown eyes. Killer body. If there was anything I noticed about Asad from that first glance, it was that he wasn’t striking in the conventional way of your high school god, that is, all talk no walk. He was more intense, exotic. Different.

I didn’t have to wait long to speak to him, either. Not five minutes after walking into our classroom he quickly became all thumbs trying to wrap his textbook. “I’ll wrap it for you,” I said, not totally sure why, and took his book and wad of the brown paper to my desk to make pretty.

After I’d returned it to him he told me, “Thank you,” in a moderately accented voice and then, very briefly, touched my hand and smiled.

Did I take the hint? Nope. Like I’ve said, I wasn’t used to boys feeling these things for me. Besides, from the moment Asad had stepped into the room, it was painfully obvious that he was never at a loss for admirers. Girls from every which corner were staring at him, goggly eyed and lips a lickin’. When it came to scenarios like that, I followed my usual pattern of lackadaisical nothings. Really, what was the point?

The hint started to find me though, over the weeks that followed. Asad came over to talk to me every single day, during every single break, and asked my opinion on every single assignment. For the first still life drawing project he drew my sneaker, while my foot was still in it. He asked for my phone number, which I reluctantly gave only after we’d developed a system that wouldn’t sound the parental alarms: he would let the phone on my end ring once and hang up, a sign for me to call him back. Thank goodness call display was a non-factor back then.

I started taking the hint more when he told me that he loved looking into my eyes. Even more so when, on the bus ride home he would ding the cord every minute, making the driver pull over at all stops. He said this was so we could spend more time together.

I really started to take the hint when Asad asked me to be a part of his big project, the one that was worth 30% of our mark. We were either to make a mask, a big honking mask with spray paint and tons of detail, or a bust. Not boobs bust, but head bust. Like the statue of Beethoven’s head you always see on Schroeder’s piano in the Peanut Gallery comics.

I made a gigantic mask of the sun, complete with cotton stuffed rays to give it a more cartoony appearance. Asad chose to make a bust of the Eqyptian queen Nefertiti, but soon ran into problems with face creation and the limited materials of the high school art room. Our teacher informed him that in this case a live model would be required to shape out the face and with that, they both looked directly at me.

“You have a classical face,” the teacher said, and while I won’t pretend that didn’t stroke my ego more than a little bit, I wasn’t crazy about the other details.

I love art. I love Renaissance, Baroque, Cubism, Pointilism, and anything by Chagall sends me to a deeper place. Being a part of art is another thing altogether. When I found out that the part of the bust I was needed for involved a plaster of paris mask made of my face, I balked with an, “Uh, no!”

Think about it. Strips of gauze dipped in icky, stinky, gloppy, drippy mess and then pressed down over your eyes, nose and mouth. I’m not one for disgusting and had made up my mind that there was no way in hell I was going to do this, not ever, when Asad came over, took my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Please? Now I can have your face forever…”

Dammit.

2007-06-07T05:20:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my L-A-Z-Y week, as in, there won't be much writing at all.

Actually I'm kind of lying, it's not so much a L-A-Z-Y week as much as it's a O-H M-Y L-O-R-D T-H-E-R-E I-S S-O M-U-C-H T-O D-O I'-M G-O-I-N-G T-O E-X-P-L-O-D-E A-N-Y F-R-A-C-K-I-N-G M-I-N-U-T-E.

Work, more work, and a garage sale. Is that ay excuse? Nooo... but I really don't want to give you half ass writing, so I'll have to bow down for a couple more days. Here's a preview of the next men and the boys, though:

"Of course, sometimes we do hit the rocks. The weather has nothing to do with it, either. I was saving this for another time, but lately it’s been pestering me. Maybe it just wants to be told, this story of the first boy who ever gave me his heart freely, and how I threw it away.

I met Asad in the summer of ’92, a few days after my 17th birthday, and a couple of weeks after the prom. I was a girl in love, and a girl hurting from the love she could not have. Sandy had his girlfriend, so I’d decided to back off. I didn’t like my decision, but thought it best.

I was also a girl in summer school. Being trapped in a junior art class wasn’t my ideal choice for a perfect weather July, but I still needed that credit and thought, no time like the present. I enrolled at a Catholic school a half-hour from home, a school where the students wore uniforms by day, but were blissfully free to do as they liked in summer time.

Asad started the class three days late, walking in one morning when the seating arrangement had already been decided, and everyone had formed their cliques. I still remember the minute I first saw him. We’d all just gotten our textbooks and I was wrapping mine, when the door opened and there he was."

I'll put up something fun for tomorrow, too. Ciao until Monday, loves :)

100% Real Juice: The Sopranos

2007-06-05T05:50:00.001-07:00

It’s amazing that a mob show could have so many hidden gems.

After all, it’s not the most logical first guess. Life lessons from The Sopranos? How on earth could one find insight from a show full of gangsters, violence, strippers, and liberal use of the word “fuck”? Liberal use of all profanity, actually, mixed with heaping tablespoons of political incorrectness, copious whackings, and slaughter of the Italian language.

Then again, Tony has been in therapy since the show’s incarnation. Really, is there anything more fun or ironic than a mobster in touch with his emotional side?

This juice doesn’t come from the boss though, it comes from the writers of the show via Tony’s uncle, Corrado Soprano, known to us as Junior. Old man Junior, with the honking glasses, shooting his mouth off and giving orders no one listens to. He tried to kill his nephew twice, which I suppose would strain any family relations, but every now, surprisingly, he does have his pearls of wisdom. Such as:

That’s what being a boss is. You steer the ship the best way you know. Sometimes it’s smooth. Sometimes you hit the rocks.

Junior means “boss” as in, head of an organized crime family, but a boss can be many different things. The ship he speaks of is the course of life.

If any one of us is never the boss of anything, we must always know that we are boss to ourselves. As for steering the ship, we make our ways through life the best way we can, doing the best with the weather we’re given. Sometimes it’s smooth sailing; other times, we hit the rocks.

I may not be a goomba, but I’ll always be my very own captain. We all are; no one can ever take that away. As long as there are no whackings, that’s a pretty damn good thing.

8 Random Things

2007-05-31T06:04:00.000-07:00

I have another Men and the Boys in the works, but packaging supplies just got more demanding, so the next couple of days are lazy ones. You know what that means?

Yup. Memes. Forgive me, though I know exactly what I do.

My good friend Laural tagged me on this meme quite a while ago, but until recently, I didn’t even know she’d done that. She tagged me as her beautiful friend, a link I never even thought to click on because, well, I just didn’t think that was me!

Laural, kisses. Not just for the compliment, but because every time I think of you I think of the two of us giggling behind the back row of computers at our school’s newspaper office.

8 Random Things about Me

Every September, I get sad when I see the flip flop tan on my feet start to fade.

One of my biggest pets peeves is when people mispronounce certain words. For the love of Pete, it’s Nuke-lee-er, not nuke-u-ler. It’s Interac, not Interact, and Dr. Seuss doesn’t start with a Z. I’m sure Zeus would have something to say about that, if he existed.

Good writing inspires me to write good (however badly that was just written), so whenever a well-written bit from a book or article I’m reading strikes me, I save it in a desktop file. For instance, I stumbled upon this today in Kate Muir’s superb novel, Left Bank: “She tapped in the security code, but before she was through the door, Madame Canovas was upon her in a flurry of shawls, lamentations and halitosis.”

I’m addicted to stupid online games, like Motherload, Alien Abduction, and Crypt Raider. That’s Crypt Raider, not Tomb Raider. No Lara Croft. Remember that 80’s subterfuge, Hunt the Wumpus? I still play it. Every now and then I still do a search for Bouncing Babies, hoping I’ll get lucky, but nothing yet.

You will never see me eating fresh papaya. The pits remind me too much of rabbit poo.

Orange juice always makes me feel better. If there’s any problem that seems too big or some icky feelings just won’t go away, I have a glass of extra pulp OJ.

When I was a kid I once say this geologist displaying all his rocks, and he had a geode among the haul. A geode is a big plain rock on the outside, but hollowed out on the inside and beautifully lined with purple quartz. I not only thought this was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen, but that every rock had something like this on the inside. I took my dad's hammer, went outside, and spent days whacking open every rock I found. No geode.

I always pack a roll of masking tape when I travel. Too many shampoo spills and important, broken things to travel without it. I have a feeling that if I ever make it to the wilds of Africa or South America, it’ll be duct tape.

I have worked in four housewares stores. So far I can carry nine cups and saucers in one hand, all stacked one on top of the other. That’s my record.

Now, I have to tag people. Let’s make this creative: EVERYONE! Go on!

2007-05-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

Hold your horses. It’s not as big as you think.

This is A job, not THE job. And while I recognize that a new job is a new job, and I may not necessarily be getting THE job anytime soon, this one here is just a little ‘un, a a from-home sensation, a sideline gig. Veuve bottle the second remains tightly shut.

Here’s what happened: a friend of mine from way back, currently running his family’s web design business, called me up. Web design and writing go hand in hand, he said. Clients are always wanting things like copy for their sites, or ads written up to advertise this or that. Writing had become such a priority, he said, that he was considering hiring an in-house writer.

He’d thought of me first because I’d done a few freelance jobs for him a while back. In terms of this job, what did I have to offer?

Plenty, as it turned out. We met up over coffee, and discussed lots of things: different kinds of writing, what he was looking for, my experience, prices. Then, he made me the company’s in-house writer. Their only writer.

It’s freelance, one step up. Contract work, as in every assignment is a contract, and I work from home. The company funnels me the writing they need, and I give them a percentage. Currently, I am writing a press release for a packaging supplies company.

Admittedly, not much. Not THE job, in fact, if nothing else comes my way by September, I’ll be back in the trenches taking notes for the deaf, while still doing this from home. But then, it is writing. Writing, not typing.

There is one huge pitfall to the timing of this though, and that’s no Ride for Heart. No 20k for me, at least not this Sunday, on the highway, for charity. I’m donating the little cash that I did raise to the Heart and Stroke Foundation

I really did want to roll down the highway, but opportunity knocked. I had to take it. As for my second mini bottle of celebration champagne, that stays properly sealed for something else. I’m not sure exactly what, but I’ll know when the day comes.

Back to packaging supplies. Boxes, baskets, bubble wrap. A goal’s still a goal, right?

2007-05-27T21:28:00.000-07:00

Ride for Heart is in six days. The 20K highway bike & skate-a-thon for charity that will raise money for all kinds of heart issues is in six days.

Have I been training for this event? Have I been skating, sweating and pushing myself past all limits to be victorious in this event? Have I been a terror on wheels?

No. I haven't done anything. I haven't been skating, sweating, or pushing myself physically past any limits. I haven't been doing any of these things because I am too busy writing my ass off.

I have gotten a job.

100% Real Juice: Nelson Mandela

2007-05-25T04:59:00.000-07:00

Today’s juice is (almost) courtesy of one of the greatest presidents and orators of our time, Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. I heard him speak once several years ago when I was still a student, but the below was narrated by Laurence Fishburne in Akeelah and the Bee:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
But that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
Gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

I strongly urge you to print this post, cut out that quote and paste it to your foreheads, immediately.

Nelson Mandela spent almost 30 years in prison fighting apartheid; that’s a lifetime. And while his position today is far more secure than it ever was in the past, I’m willing to bet his feelings of doubt and inadequacy were, at times, almost crushing. There’s something to be said for never giving up.

We are fortunate in this day and age to have so many examples of brilliant, compassionate, strong people in our midst. We are even luckier to already have hardwired into our systems the limitless capacity to achieve.

Just a little something to think about, the next time any one of us feels doubt pulling at our heartstrings. Be the light that is inside you, and you will never go wrong.

Calorie Chronicles: Jenny Craig

2007-05-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

The first time I ever saw Kirstie Alley was on the 80’s miniseries North and South. She played Virgilia, a beautiful and fervent activist of human rights, a literal Cassandra of her times, and was the most exciting character in the series by far.

My family and I watched North and South religiously, never missing an episode, running back to the TV after commercial breaks if we heard that fiery voice on the speakers. “Go, Virgilia!” we cheered, as she triumphantly defied her family to run off with the African slave, escaping the Main family plantation in the dead of night.

Boy, were we ever sad when she was hung. I’ll assume everyone else was too; the show was never the same after that.

Kirstie’s career had its ups and downs after North and South, the most notable up as Rebecca in Cheers, and even though her acting hasn’t reached a high point in eons, she’s certainly not hurting for publicity these days. We see her all the time, you and I, dancing her way across our TV screens as the spokeswoman and living success of Jenny Craig.

She looks fantastic, a far cry from her Fat Actress days, all sumptuous and sexy and flirty with the young bucks. How many pounds has she lost now, 75 and counting? It’s an astronomical number on those lines that not only adds to the presence Kirstie always had, but makes her virtually unnoticeable. She now commands attention in true goddess form.

Recently, I caught my dad watching Kirstie at her finest in a slinky black dress, and he said, “Son of a bitch. She looks amazing.”

That she does. But dad, she’s not just a regular client of Jenny Craig. She’s also an ad campaign.

My own experience with Jenny Craig started almost a decade ago when I was 22, far before Kirstie Alley ever tried it, or was even fat to begin with. I’d just gotten back from Europe, and was on the comedown from the summer of eating disorders. I’d lost a lot through starving, exercising and puking, then gained it back being a normal human being, which left me right back where I’d started. Fat girl. Needing to lose. Lots of weight.

Why the Jenny Craig diet? Because it was everywhere. On television, billboards, newspapers, magazines, brochures dropped in the mailbox, and that catchy tune playing endlessly on every radio station known to man:

Dial one-eight-hundred
Ninety-four Jenny
That’s one-eight-hundred
Ninety-four Jenny.

It was safe to say that in the late nineties, at least on my corner of the earth, Jenny Craig had the weight-loss market in a handbag. That and their advertised claim of safe, supervised weight loss on the tastiest food possible had me sold. After that terrible summer the primary thoughts in my head were, I need to lose weight sensibly. I need reprogramming.

I signed myself up that September, tying in with the beginning of my fourth year at university, and threw myself into the Jenny Craig plan. It was easy, really, mostly because Jenny Craig was the only diet program I ever went on where the food was provided. Sure you had to buy the stuff, but it made mealtimes guesswork free, and 100% idiot proof.

The amounts are small but you’re eating between six and eight times per day, so you’re rarely ever hungry. And, the food is delicious – Kirstie ain’t lying about that. Chocolate, pasta, sauces and grilled meats, all in polite little amounts, served up in cellophane wrappers, or microwaveable black plastic containers. I remember my favourite was the blueberry pancakes, and I made sure to get plenty of those whenever I went to the center for visit, and once a week groceries trip.

My starting weight at Jenny Craig was 218, if I’m not mistaken, and during my time there I managed to get down to a little below 200. Then, I left.

Why? If the program is so easy, if you just eat what’s in front of you, if you’re losing weight and all that jazz, why stop?

Reason #1: Ta ta, social life. All meals are provided on the Jenny Craig diet, as in ALL meals, so a lot of “Sorry, not tonight,” and, “Maybe next time” are doled out to friends while you sit at home, microwaveable dinner perched on your lap.

Reason #2: Eat at least one supplement bar every single day. Sure they taste great, but tell me how you feel after a couple of months.

Reason #3: Cha-ching. There was barely a time where I walked out of the JC centre with less than a $100 bill of groceries for that week. Couple that with

Reason #4: Exceedingly slow weight loss. When you’re paying that much money to lose one pound a week, one pound a week, one pound a week and one pound a week, it starts to wear on your nerves and dimes. The first few weeks were great, I was dropping all kinds of great numbers, but that eventually trickled down to single numbers and even ounces.

I know weight loss is supposed to be slow. But if I can lose one pound per week stuffing myself with all their food, can’t I just lose one pound per week doing my own thing?

Jenny Craig and me didn’t last. I was young, I wanted to go out with my friends, and I was really, really, REALLY sick of supplement bars. I trickled myself off the diet, and watched every single pound I’d lost fly back on with a quickness.

I thought that strange. I mean, if you lose weight slowly, isn’t it supposed to stay off? Of all the programs, diets, fads, anything I’ve ever done (with the exception of the eating disorders, naturally), I lost weight the slowest with Jenny Craig, but gained it back the fastest. It’s a great mystery.

I highly doubt Kirstie will be gaining any weight back though, and if she does she’ll be years away from the Jenny Craig diet. Being an ad campaign, I’m willing to bet they’ve invested *plenty* into Kirstie’s success, and thrown in all kinds of extras to boot. You may get your microwave portions on the Jenny Craig plan, but the trainers and stylists are extra. I’m almost positive.

What did I learn with Jenny Craig? A few things, actually.

While many people have successfully lost weight on this program and happily kept it off, I am not one of them. All diets are not created equal, and this one was not made for me.

Losing weight doesn’t have to taste like shit.

And last, but never least, I never want to see a supplement bar again for the rest of my natural born life.

2007-05-22T05:20:00.000-07:00

For weeks, Herbal Magic has been calling me. I haven’t been taking the calls or answering back because a long time ago I came to a decision, and I’ve been too much of a chicken shit to tell them.

When the fatties stop coming for their vitamins and don’t return the calls, they start getting letters. Mine arrived a few days ago, here it is:

Dear Client,

It is normal procedure for us to stay in contact with all of our clients. Most of the past clients we have contacted have successfully achieved their goal and are now maintaining their weight using the tools they learned throughout their program. It appears, however, that you stopped before reaching your goal.

No shit.

This is certainly understandable. Dieting is tough! We have helped so many clients attain their goal and we feel confident that we can help you too.

But what if I’m not so confident about that anymore?

Your file has been closed.

I won’t pretend that doesn’t sting, just a little bit.

Whether you have already reached your goal or would like support with maintenance, you may have a new goal in mind, we would like to take the opportunity to sit down and discuss all your options available.

There is nothing to lose by calling and booking a free re-evaluation!

Sincerely,

Herbal Magic

I can honestly say that of every diet program I have ever been on in my entire life, it was with Herbal Magic that I showed the littlest interest. Lord knows they were patient with me and always treated me well, but I was never really 100% with them.

Why? Maybe it wasn’t for me. Maybe I’m cheap, maybe I’m lazy, maybe I just don’t want it bad enough. Maybe I’m sick of programs and weigh-ins, or, maybe I just want to change my life by myself, one day at a time.

I gained all this myself, didn’t I? Now, I want to lose it myself. I’m almost 32-years old, after all. If I can buy my own clothes and drive my own car, why can’t I take the wheel over every aspect of my life?

With a deep breath I pick up the phone, dial Herbal Magic and tell the answering service Thanks for being patient with me, but I think I’m better off flying solo.

Coming from a competitive home, I am now programmed to feel like a quitter. I can’t help that, it’s hardwired into my system.

But I’m tired of it, tired of people telling me what I already know. Eat right. Exercise. Respect yourself. It’s not Herbal Magic, it’s the icing on the proverbial diet program cake. I mean, I’ve done this so many times. Shouldn’t I know the formulas well enough now to do it on my own?

Up to this point, where I am right now that is, how far have diet programs taken me?

2007-05-17T06:26:00.000-07:00

Dear celebrities of the world,

If you are famous and you have become fat, can you please tell me how that happened?

It’s an anomaly, and I really don’t understand it. You have money, LOTS of money, to keep you svelte, stunning, and in tip-top shape.

You have money for people. You have money for trainers, money to buy Richard Simmons in fact, to keep you worked out. You have money for chefs, money to imprison Wolfgang Puck to be your gourmet bitch and prepare your bok choy in 2875 different ways so that it’s tasty from every conceivable angle. If you’re too lazy to get any food yourself, you have the money to bring it to you.

You have money for nutritionists, dietitians, swimming pools, spectacular home gyms. You have money to pay Mr. Universe to carry you to the treadmill if you’re too lazy to get out of bed, and money for Rodney Yee to personally show you the correct positioning of downward dog.

If you’re too busy to plan your diet, you have money for assistants to do that for you. You have money to station Rottweilers beside your fridge to chase away the midnight munchies. You have money for your very own drill sergeant to follow you everywhere, making sure nothing tainted touches your lips.

Heck, if you even go so far as to think regular, run-of-the-mill food isn’t good enough, then you have money to buy your own organic farms, complete with organic farmers and pretty brown hobby cows.

And, if all else fails, if you don’t have the willpower to make all of the above work or, if none of it works for you then you have the money to go under the knife, the very best cosmetic surgery knives on earth to nip, tuck, suck, slice and fold you to outstandingness.

I know that fat & fat loss is just as much an emotional issue as it is a physical one but my point is, you are blessed with ridiculous salaries. You have the gerbillions of dollars that make what’s really hard for the rest of us, that much easier for all of you. With that said, is there really any excuse?

Many of you will be tempted to scoff and that’s fine, but take a look at this quote by one of your very own:

"How can women be as thin as we are? We have personal trainers to work us out. We have specially prepared meals." – Sarah Michelle Gellar

While I’m on topic I have another question for the fat celebrities of the world, or at least that handful of overweight, fat-advocating glitterati who all of a sudden drop a landslide of pounds: if being fat is so great, why are you now thin?

I saw Carnie Wilson of Wilson Phillips fame on a talk show once doing a “Big is Beautiful” schpiel. Big women are gorgeous too. Big women deserve love too. Big women love sex too.

A few years later, her gastric bypass surgery was broadcast live on the internet. Now she’s just a teeny little thing.

I remember once reading a feature article on Sharon Stone after she went up a few sizes. Being more rounded out was fabulous, she said, because now she could eat more and be comfortable with it. She could make gigantic bowls of pasta, stick two forks in and share it with her husband. Skinny girls only look good in bikinis, she said, and who cares anyway because you only wear bikinis at the beach.

Enter Basic Instinct 2, and Catherine Trammell is as bony as she ever was.

I don’t care if you’re fat or thin or go up and down on the scale for the rest of your lives, but how can you go out in public with these holier-than-thou attitudes, then do the exact opposite? It’s not very respecting.

How ironic then that Camryn Manheim, the last actress you’d expect to be self-satisfied, should hold up her 1998 Emmy and proudly proclaim, “This is for all the fat girls!”

It is a refreshing reality, especially since she’s put into practice what so many of us are in denial over, that life isn’t about being thin, it’s about being happy. Happiness isn’t about being fat or thin, it’s about being yourself.

And so to those of you who have healthily maintained your figures, whatever size they may be, and glow in the skin you were given, I praise you. You set a wonderful example for the rest of us.

To the yo-yo dieters and champions of cellulite that’s actually being cut out next week, what can I say? You may be untouchable, but on some levels it’s nice to see you’re still human. And, if you’re not appreciating Wolfgang Puck preparing your bok choy in 2875 different ways then by all means, send him over. I could always use my own personal gourmet bitch.

2007-05-16T07:07:00.001-07:00

You know someone is a good person if they are good to your child.

That said, your child doesn’t necessarily have to be your biological offspring or even anything living; it’s what you love with your whole heart. Your child can be your work, your garden, or the car you redid yourself. Or, as is the case with me, your child is your pet.

Blue is my baby, the child I never gave birth to, but rocked to sleep anyway when he was just a tiny puppy, sad at being separated from his litter. I knew he’d made me his mommy barely a week into having him when, just like that, mornings became the time when he would smother my face with kisses. If kids are indeed in my future, believe me when I tell you that I’ll always consider Blue to be my first.

The list of people I trust Blue with is small. My family, Sandy; a very small group of friends. You don’t just hand over your heart when you’re not sure. Those who have mistreated my dog have gotten a piece of my mind (at least), and never saw us again. Those who have loved him, taken care of him, I’ve adopted forever.

A few weeks ago, our list grew. On a beautiful, perfect sky Sunday, I packed Blue into the car and drove over to a barbecue at Sandy’s house. His whole family was gathered there, and I was eager to introduce the furry l’il kid of mine they were always hearing about.

Even though he never does it with people he doesn’t know well, Blue kept tossing the ball at the feet of Sandy’s dad. And before his mom left later on that day, Blue approached her shyly, tail a-wagging, to lick her nose.

He rested his head on Sandy’s sister’s lap to look at her with those huge brown eyes, and Sandy’s brother-in-law got the five-star Blue greeting, as if he’d known him his whole life. Sandy’s nephew he just adored, running and barking in delight whenever a soccer ball flew up for him to chase.

But Blue’s favourite (paws down), was the teenage boy who got his undivided attention. Those two played for hours on end, to the point where Blue did all his tricks unprompted, behaving like the little angel I know he is. Blue followed Sandy’s son around in a way that reminded me of his puppy days, licking his cheek at every unexpected moment.

What’s it like to watch your favourite thing in the whole world, your dog, fall madly in love with your boyfriend’s son?

Some things are so good, they’re indescribable. Some things, you just can’t write about.

My life is truly a wonderful place.

100% Real Juice: Designer Guy & the Goddess of Love

2007-05-15T05:43:00.000-07:00

One of Mia’s required classes in the Graphic Design program is called Concepts in Design. The students look at art and design through the centuries and what makes design what it is, bla bla bla. In short, lots of design.

It’s actually a pretty interesting class made more fascinating by the professor, a swarthy Frenchman built like a sea captain, with a six-inch long bushy mustache that makes him look like a retired Pugwash. He’s hard to understand sometimes as ‘e talk like dis, but has great insight overall, and always makes interesting points.

Every class has a slide show of this art and this design, and during one class a huge picture of the Venus de Milo flashed onscreen. Daunting in a way, considering what class we were in, after all the Venus de Milo is a very classical work. Frenchie paused for a bit and then said, accent not included:

“The Venus statue that you see here, when she was made she had all her arms and attributes. But it was through the ages, after she lost some parts, that she became the epiphany of beauty.”

As a finished work, she was a jewel. But after she broke, priceless.

I like to think that applies to the rest of us, too. How wonderful to think that after time has passed, when we are no longer young and fresh, that the experience of life is what adds to our features. Our battles scar us, but not necessarily in a negative way. In fact, they make us who we are.

Every minute that goes by, every hour and every day, with every hardship and every joy, we become more human. And, more beautiful.

2007-05-10T20:16:00.000-07:00

First, a meme. Then, we have some fun.

This one I graciously lifted from "A Day in the life of a Terrible Mother," only because she's got the best memes. Thanks Emma!

1. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up? Dubya, we never knew ya.

2. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be? Ciao, New Kids on the Block!

3. Who would you really like to just punch in the face? Ben Mulroney. Seeing him on TV makes me dry heave.

4. What is your favorite cheese? A nice, sharp Gorgonzola.

5. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal. What kind will you make? Nothing better than a fantastic veal parmiggiano sandwich, covered in roasted mushrooms, peppers, mozarella and tomato sauce. Defibrillator on a plate.

6. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice? I'm playing the threesome card: Eric Bana and Christian Bale

7. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who do you pick? Toss up between Keith Urban & Gavin Rossdale. Nicole and Gwen, you're two lucky cats.

8. Now that you've slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy shit, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it? Ice cream and balloons for everyone in the park! Including my baby boy Blue.

9. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go? My dream country, Morocco.

10. Upon arrival to the aforementioned location, you get off the plane and discover another hundred-dollar bill. Shit! Now that you are in the new location, what are you gonna do? Go to the soukh, of course.

11. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. Apple vermouth, I've just discovered it.

12. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you traveling to and what are you going to do when you get there? Either Ancient Rome or the Ottomans. Both empires had profound effects on my parents' homelands; I'd like to see what brought their countries to what it is today, and the mixture that resulted in my family.

13. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place? Toupees not allowed.

14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what's the premise? Gay Survivor!

15. What is your favorite curse word? Oh, that's easy. Fuck.

16. One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren't really doing anything, they're just standing around your bed. What do you do? Well, seeing as that's totally impossible, I also perform the impossible by opening a big ole can of WHOOP ASS and beat them back into their tombs just like in "The Mummy."

17. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don't worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what's the item? My jewellery box. I have a lot of great vintage pieces.

18. The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour? Try to take the world's worst dictator with me.

19. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What's it gonna be? I always loved Storm from the X-Men, so I'd either want to control the weather, or fly.

20. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again? Dancing with Sandy at the prom...

21. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? (the answer "nothing" doesn't count). Jess.

22. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit... you can move to anywhere else in the world! Bitchin'! What country are you going to live in now? I'd live in Notting Hill, London.

23. This question still counts, even for those of you who are underage. Check it out. You have been eternally banned from every single bar in the world except for ONE. Which one is it gonna be? Les Trois Brasseurs, Montreal.

24. Hopefully you didn't mention this in the super-powers question.... If you did, then we'll just expand on that. Check it out... Suddenly, you have gained the ability to FLOAT!!! Whose house are you going to float to first, and be like "Dude, check it out... I can FLOAT!"? I'd go to Gabriel's house and be all, "I'm the ghost of the girl you played jooooookes on.... Woooooo....."

25. The constant absorption of magical moonbeams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous-person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life? Queen Hatshepsut. I had an Egyptian thing in high school.

26. The Celestial Gates of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn't think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person, etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back? The one grandfather I never met, just to say hello.

27. What's your theme song? According to the meme I did earlier this week, Gabba Gabba Hey by The Ramones. And, that suits me just fine.

Now, we have a bit of fun.

What's your stripper name? According to the old adage, you combine your first pet's name with the name of the first street you lived on. Unfortunately for me, Jane Royal York sounds more like a jilted 16th century woman biding her time before being sent to the chopping block.

Oli's is fantastic, though. Fishy Coxwell. Wow sis, bet you never thought I'd mention that!!

Thanks to the wonders of the internet and people who have way too much time on their hands, there is another way.

1. Use the third letter of your first name to determine your new first name:

a = Chesty
b = Fantasia
c = Starr
d = Diamond
e = Montana
f = Angel
g = Sugar
h = Mimi
i = Lola
j =Kitty
k = Roxie
l = Dallas
m = Princess
n = Heidi
o = Bambi
p= Bunny
q = Brandy
r = Sugar
s = Candy
t = Raquelle
u = Sapphire
v = Cinnamon
w = Blaze
x = Trixie
y = Isis
z = Jade

2. Use the second letter of your last name to determine the first half of your new last name:

a = Leather
b = Dream
c = Sunny
d = Deep
e = Heaven
f = Tight
g = Shimmer
h = Velvet
i = Lusty
j = Harley
k = Passion
l = Dazzle
m = Dixon
n = Spank
o = Glitter
p = Razor
q = Meadow
r = Glitz
s = Sparkle
t = Sweet
u = Silver
v = Tickle
w = Cherry
x = Hard
y = Night
z = Amber

3. Use the third letter of your last name to determine the second half of your new last name:

a = hooter
b = horn
c =tower
d = fire
e = thighs
f = hips
g = side
h = jugs
i = shock
j = cocker
k = brook
l = tush
m = sizzle
n = ridge
o = kiss
p = bomb
q = cream
r = thong
s = heat
t = whip
u = cheeks
v = rock
w = hiney
x = button
y = lick
z = juicee

Are you ready for it?

I am Raquelle Leatherfire.

What's yours?

2007-05-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

This isn't exactly a meme, but a heck of a lot of fun to do. It also answers the question of three people who've asked me what my tally was, but I never got around to answering.

Sorry kids, but rest assured that my shame is now available for your viewing pleasure.

How much do you owe?

It's simple, just take the values of everything you've done on this list, and add them up for your life's debt.

Smoked pot -- $10

Did acid -- $5

Ever had sex at church -- $25

Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you -- $40

Had sex with someone on MySpace -- $25

Had sex for money -- $100

Ever had sex with the a Puerto Rican -- $20

Vandalized something -- $20

Had sex on your parents' bed -- $10

Beat up someone -- $20

Been jumped -- $10

Crossed dressed -- $10

Given money to stripper -- $25

Been in love with a stripper -- $20

Kissed some one who's name you didn't know -- $0.10

Hit on some one of the same sex while at work -- $15

Ever drive drunk -- $20

Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk -- $50

Used toys while having sex -- $30

Got drunk, passed and don't remember the night before -- $20

Went skinny dipping -- $5

Had sex in a pool -- $20

Kissed someone of the same sex -- $10

Had sex with someone of the same sex -- $20

Masturbated -- $10

Done oral -- $5

Got oral -- $5

Done / got oral in a car while it was moving -- $25

Stole something -- $10

Had sex with someone in jail -- $25

Made a nasty home video -- $15

Had a threesome -- $50

Had sex in the wild -- $20

Been in the same room while someone was having sex -- $25

Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars -- $20

Had sex with someone 10 years older -- $20

Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27 -- $25

Been in love with two people or more at the same time -- $50

Said you love someone but didn't mean it -- $25

Went streaking -- $5

Went streaking in broad daylight -- $15

Been arrested -- $5

Spent time in jail -- $15

Peed in the pool -- $0.50

Played spin the bottle -- $5

Done something you regret -- $20

Had sex with your best friend -- $20

Had sex with someone you work with at work -- $25

Had anal sex -- $80

Lied to your mate -- $5

Lied to your mate about the sex being good -- $25

Me = $570.60

Oh, man. I also love the two little bits that are only worth cents, so even if you don't know everything I did to incur that $550, you know exactly what I did for the extra 60 cents.

Yes, I kissed someone who's name I didn't know. I was a student, in a pub, drunk, and he was cute.

And yes, dadblast it, I've peed in a pool! But then at some point or another, doesn't everyone?!

2007-05-08T07:55:00.000-07:00

And the next one is, The ABC's of ME

A - Available or Single? Unless Single means unmarried, that's an oxymoron. Unavailably single.

B - Best Friend? Plural... my sister, my dog, my homo.

C - Cake or Pie? Cake all the way, especially making them.

D - Drink of Choice? Water for everyday. Cocktails: winter is all about martinis, and summer's for margaritas.

E - Essential Item(s)? Cell phone, wallet, Ipod.

F - Favorite Colour? Blue!

G - Gummi Bears or gummi worms? Oh, the bears. Biting their heads off is way too much fun.

H - Hometown? Wouldn't you like to know.

I - Indulgence? A trip to Sephora. Cha-ching!

J - January or February? Ugh, neither. Too cold.

K - Kids? 1 Dog.

L - Life is incomplete without… the moments and people who bring happiness to your heart. This has been brought to you by Kodak.

M - Marriage Date: 15/09/2067

N - Number of Siblings: 1 sister

O - Apples or oranges? Apples, but if I lived somewhere more tropical, I'm betting it would be oranges.

P - Phobias/Fears: My sister made me sit through Jaws when I was three. You do the math.

Q - Favorite Quote: "It takes 46 muscles to frown, but only 4 to flip 'em the bird."

R - Reasons to Smile? Right now, the absolutely gorgeous, sunny day it's becoming. In general, almost everything these days :)

S - Season? Toss up between Spring and Fall

T - Tag Three: Airam, Common Girl, OLI!. And, everyone else who'd like to do this!

U - Unknown Fact About Me: It took me a long time to get used to the hills of San Francisco. My first time there whenever I walked downhill my knees would shake. Uphill, I'd automatically have to pee. The first few days were very taxing.

V - Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animals? I would love to be a Brussel Sprout, but as Laural says, I do love a good steak.

W - Worst habits? Nail biting, talking too much, laughing so hard I almost choke.

X - X-rays or Ultrasounds? Are you serious? Why would I choose either one? That's like saying, "blood test or tetanus shot?" But then having to drink 17,000 glasses of water while people PRESS DOWN on your stomach really sucks.

Y - Your Favorite Foods: I'm dating an Italian, need you ask?

Z - Zodiac: Cancer.

2007-05-07T19:25:00.000-07:00

I discovered something today.

1) Writing deep shit about your former significant other is exhausting. Writing deep shit about the burial of the essence of your former significant other is exhausting. 3) Spending four days away does no good for your work ethic, in that it relaxes you way too much.

Thus, I am taking a week off to recollect my thoughts and come back to you with fresh literary meat, come Monday. Yeah I know, I'm a lazy ass. BUT, I don't like to leave people hanging, so welcome to.... wait for it...

MEME WEEK!

Just because I'm not writing fresh material, doesn't mean I won't be writing. I'll do my best to put up the coolest ones ever, and you're all welcome to cut and paste for your blogs!

Our first one for the week is a music one:

Last seen at Slaves of Academe, the newest music meme: "Simple directions: use the shuffle function on your music player and see what you come up with in answer to the following questions."

This should be fun.

How does the world see you?
Cosmic Girl - Jamiroquai (hey, nice start!)

Will I have a happy life?
Laid - James (wow, I guess I will)

What do my friends really think of me?
Precious - Depeche Mode (okay really now, this is too much)

Do people secretly lust after me?
Voodoo Child - Jimi Hendrix (whatever that means)

How can I make myself happy?
The Real Me - The Who (things that make you go hmm...)

What should I do with my life?
Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz

Will I ever have children?
Piggies - Beatles (HA!)

What is some good advice for me?
A New Refutation of Time and Space - The Digable Planets

How will I be remembered?
Gabba Gabba Hey - The Ramones (oh, I like that)

What is my signature dancing song?
The World has Turned and Left Me Here - Weezer

What do I think my current theme song is?
Flathead - The Fratellis

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Queer - Garbage (HA! again!)

What song will play at my funeral?
Keep Hope Alive - The Crystal Method

What type of men/women do you like?
Lovely Day - Bill Withers

What is my day going to be like?
Freedom - George Michael

Oh that was way too much fun....

2007-05-03T08:24:00.001-07:00

There is only one song left to play now, and I put it on right after this call.

“Hey, Cheech?”

“Yeah, Ace?”

“I have a business trip to go on and it’s pretty far out, so I won’t be around tomorrow night.”

Pout. “That’s cool.”

“Want to come with me?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we can even make it a whole weekend thing, check out the sights, do some shopping, spend some time together. What do you say?”

“Okay!”

Love isn’t easy, nothing about it is, but we strive for it anyway because of those moments that make us feel so good.

Love isn’t easy, but recognizing good love, a true love, is half the battle won.

It's the room the sun and the sky
It's the room the sun and the sky

I've been waiting
I've been waiting for this moment...

Funeral for an Ex-Lover, Part 3

2007-05-03T08:13:00.000-07:00

Whenever things go bad with a man, I remember a conversation I had with my mother.

I was seven, eight years old, something young and innocent like that. We were talking about boys, and I proudly announced to my mom that no boy would ever make me cry. Moms looked back at me, somewhat sadly and in her own language, said, “My child, the tears you will cry for men will fill oceans.”

You were right, mummy. It is not a truth I like to admit. The tears I cried filled oceans but for this one, I don’t have to cry anymore. He’s gone now and with it, my idiocy over him.

My Ipod continues to blare its messages that I did, after all, specifically choose for this event:

I loved you but,
That was way back then
Now I'm alone outside
And I face the wind
The rain washes me thin

Knocked me down and I got back up
And I got myself back in the race again
Knock me down, and I'll get back up
And I'll get myself
Back in the race again

There’s only one thing left for the grave. I cover up the picture and papers with some dirt, and then before filling up the hole, completely, I scatter some seeds overtop.

Forget-me-not seeds, an entire packet patted down gently into the earth, that I water with the bottled supply from my backpack. If they grow, and they will, it will be a patch of blue in a tiny forest of green.

There are many legends attached to this flower, down to the drowning knight who threw his lady a posy, shouting for her to never forget him. I suppose all that armour weighed him down and he sank like a stone. Ever since, it is said that women wear the forget-me-not as a symbol of enduring love and faithfulness.

It is another symbol for today, one of love and remembrance. I must never forget what happened. I must never forget what I did here, and I will never forget that I’m stronger because of it. And, if there’s anyone who should own my enduring love and faithfulness before I give it to others, it’s me.

Speaking of all things Blue, I look over to my dog, who’s very busy sniffing a patch of moss. I call him and he trots over happily, all waggly tail and floppy ears. “Thanks for coming with me, kid,” I tell him, and he licks my cheek in reply. “Do you need to say goodbye, too?”

Blue just cocks his head in reply, and is quickly distracted by a chipmunk. It’s time for us to go.

It was a good thing to do, I think. This is what I think about as I walk out of the woods with my dog. It was a good thing to do, and a good thing to put to rest. If anything in my life needed to be put to rest, it was this.

Yet another song carries us home.

I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well the landslide brought me down

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love
Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing cause I built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I’m getting older too
Well...

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing cause I built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I’m getting older, too
Well I’m getting older too

So, take this love and take it down
Year and if you climb a mountain and you turn around
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well the landslide brought me down
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well maybe
Well maybe
Well maybe the landslide will bring you down

Funeral for an Ex-Lover, Part 2

2007-05-02T20:53:00.000-07:00

I say goodbye, I take my bow because lovers change, as did you.

Your construction
Smells of corruption

I don’t know what happened, if anything ever really did happen or you were always that way to begin with. I’d fallen for one person but moved in with two, a Jekyll and Hyde hidden underneath your skin. My love for you blinded me. I was a sitting duck.

I’ll manipulate to recreate

If I can’t take it back, I can use it to be better.

This air to ground saga

Is almost over. In a little bit, it will all be over.

Gotta launder
My Karma

If anything needs a run through the rinse cycle, it’s my karma. That’s where the list comes into play.

Gotta launder my Karma.

The list. My list, or, Mea Culpa. A list of things you said to me over the years, things you told me or yelled out at me or spat at me in fits of anger, and I usually answered back with nothing but tears.

Not anymore.

You’ve never been happy with yourself.

Not true. I used to be plenty happy, in fact, right around the time I met you.

You’re going to live in your parent’s basement forever.

Not true again. My official address now is elsewhere.

Will you get liposuction if I pay for it?

Will you get a lobotomy if I provide the sledgehammer? Wait, I’ll even do the hitting myself.

Fat hairy bitch.

Original. What insults were you using by the fourth grade?

Psycho.

Takes one to know one.

I don’t want people talking about my fat girlfriend behind my back.

Okay, let them talk about your little dick instead. Oops, I wasn’t supposed to say that.

I don’t want to deal with this right now.

I don’t want to deal with you ever again.

Only guys who like fat chicks look at you. I’ve seen them staring.

Who liked you, then? I never saw anyone staring.

Six years of misery, that’s what this has been.

It is what you made it. And that’s why you’re not here right now.

Why would I ever get into the fucked up institution of marriage?

Because you should only be so lucky to love and be loved in the way that I once loved you. I promise, you will never experience anyone as good as me, ever again. Count on it.

Do you know what your problem is?

You.

Do you know what your problem is?

You.

Do you know what your problem is?

YOU.

I don’t want to be with you when you look like this.

Honey, I'd take one good, long look at those dipstick legs of yours before trashing anyone else's appearance. My stomach never had creases on it from multiple spare tires like yours did, and as for your personal hygiene... tsk tsk. Start showering daily, then we'll talk.

Jerking off is more pleasurable than fucking you.

Six years, six orgasms. Please, did you honestly think I never did my own handiwork?

I can’t be with a fat girl. That’s my choice.

Ciao.

I just want a hot girlfriend.

I just want a kind, tender, understanding man who genuinely loves & respects me, is great to talk to, and knows how to make me laugh. Ah, yes. I do have that now.

This is your fault.

No, it wasn’t my fault.

This is your fault.

It took me a long time to see that.

This is your fault.

The trademark of the abuser is to isolate his victim, after all.

Did you hear me? I said, this is your fault!

I don’t care, because I don’t hear you very much anymore.

Fuck YOU!

Fuck you too, asshole.

Yes, I was stupid. Nobody should take that, or feel they have to. Nobody should have to listen to their worst fears come to life, that they’re no good. No good, as spoken to you by your loved ones. I was stupid to have ever let you treat me like that.

But I can change too, Jess. I like to think I wasn’t so stupid as to keep you around forever. Six years come, six years gone, six years learned. I’m worse for the wear since you came into my life; there are worry lines and gray hairs coloured over, but I’m here. Im here, and I’m happy.

Part of me is going into that dirt hole with you, make no mistake. She was the one who was too tired to make the rest of the journey. The rest of me though, the one right here, only sees the way ahead. You’re not in that path.

I crumple the list up and toss it into the grave, followed by the poem I wrote, my eulogy:

Charming boy
Green eyes bright
I fell for you
Something stupid

Fucked up boy
Elephantine ego
You’re such a head case

I don’t hear you very much anymore, Jess. And after today, I will never hear you again.

Funeral for an Ex-Lover, Part 1

2007-05-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

In the movie Crazy in Alabama, Lucille, played by Melanie Griffith, kills her abusive husband and gets rid of the body, but saves the head. She carries this head around in a big hatbox purse for the longest time, until one day, when it feels right, she dumps the head into the Pacific.

Actually, she gets stopped by police right before being able to complete the act, but the intention was there.

I’m ditching the head. The head is my stupidity. My guilt. Jess. I have no ocean to do that with, but I do have a patch of woods by my parents’ house. I often take Blue to play there and it’s a beautiful place for an everyday walk, or an impromptu funeral.

For this, there are two mourners: me and Blue; the ex-girlfriend and the dog. I never wanted to be the demented ex-girlfriend but here I am, might as well play the part. Blue is mine, bought with my dollars, but Jess and I lived together when he came home. In effect Jess was the closest thing to being Blue’s Daddy, and so he gets his chance to say goodbye too. If he even knew what was going on, that is.

There are some ingredients as well: a garden trowel, an effigy, a list, a poem, some seeds, a bottle of water and finally, an Ipod, bundled up in my backpack and ready to go.

I leash Blue up and we’re off. It’s a short walk, only 10 minutes or so, and Blue is very happy to go there. The minute we turn that corner he knows the woods are in sight, and plows me the last few yards. I unclip the leash from his collar – he’s a very good dog and never strays too far – and we make our way to a quiet little place where the sunlight streams through the trees, and the ground isn’t too thick with clover. I need some clear space to dig, after all.

I pull out the trowel and do dig, but not the traditional six feet. Could you imagine? I’d be there all day. I may not consider myself a girly girl, but serious digging ain’t my thing. Besides, I don’t need six feet, I need just enough to cover a few small things. Before long I have my hole, so I set the trowel aside to begin the ceremony.

I’d call Blue to sit beside me, but I think he’s happier mourning in his own way: sniffing around and chasing squirrels. Hey, he’s a dog. Follow your nose, right? We should all be so lucky to learn from that.

So I’m in the forest, I’ve dug my hole, and I can do what I came here for. From my backpack I pull out the effigy, a picture of Jess.

I took this picture when he came to visit for a couple of weeks for my 26th birthday. He’s sitting in a deck chair on my apartment balcony, wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt. He’s barefoot, his legs are loosely crossed, and his arms are folded over behind his head. Wisps of his wavy brown hair frame his face, and there’s a slow smile playing on his lips. He’s relaxed. He’s happy.

My heart pangs a bit when I see this. Does that make me a terrible person? I’m not sorry things are over and I know I don’t even remotely love him anymore, but I am sorry for the bad, awful turn we took. Not sorry enough to stop what I’m doing, though. The picture goes into the grave.

What do we do during funerals? We remember the good times. Even though I don’t want to remember the good times, any of them, I make myself do so. After all, I devoted years of my life to this man. I like to think I wasn’t completely devoid of reason.

Jess, Jess, Jess. When two people like each other it seems they have everything in common, and our attraction quickly turned to more when we realized that. We’d come from similar places in life, similar backgrounds, and had a world to conquer. We wanted to do that together.

I remember the first time you kissed me, and how that turned into a steamy, five-hour makeout. My face was red from your stubble, and lips pouty and swollen. I couldn’t stop smiling. I remember how my heart pulled every time you e-mailed me, called me, or picked me up at the airport with arms outstretched for me to jump into. You always lifted me up off the ground when you were extra glad to see me.

I remember traveling Europe with you, cooking all those dinners with you, and visiting you in LA, where we locked ourselves up in your apartment for days at a time. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

I truly did love you, with all my heart. No one can ever tell me that I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t always make the best decisions, but during our time together, I always put you first.

I don’t have to cry now because I’ve done enough of that, I’ve done more than my fair share of it. Besides, I don’t want to. What I do want to do is say goodbye.

That’s where the Ipod comes in and with it, some Madonna.

Your heart is not open, so I must go
The spell has been broken, I loved you so
Freedom comes when you learn to let go
Creation comes when you learn to say no

Man, could it get any cheesier? But cheesy songs often contain the messages we need, and this is one such time. All I have to say is, I did and I hope so. I really, really hope so.

You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress you had to burn
Pain is a warming that something’s wrong
I pray to God that it won’t be long

Sometimes, lessons are too hard to learn.

There’s nothing left to try
There’s no place left to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of goodbye

But if they bring us to places like this, there has to be some value to them. I take my bow.

2007-04-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

At funerals, we say goodbye. We mourn, we cry and hopefully, get the closure we need to close that chapter of our lives forever.

I’ve mourned, lord knows I’ve cried, but I really need to say goodbye and close the door on that chapter of my life forever. More than I already have, that is. That is why I am burying Jess.

Should it matter that he’s not dead?

Last year I read a book called Her Story, a compilation of short stories by women authors. In Funeral for a Live Ex-Husband, author Ellen Sommers writes of the turmoil she experienced after her husband left her for another woman, sending years of marriage and their entire way of life down the drain. Her friends got tired of her endless bitching and suggested some closure, so they had a funeral. A funeral for a man very much alive, but ceremonial in that it gave her the sense of peace she needed.

I never forgot that story. I too need a sense of peace, because there’s something I haven’t yet done. We will always be bound to each other, Jess and I, until I get rid of the one thing that ties is together. And that one thing tying us together is my hate.

I hate the man. I can’t help it. I hate the fact that he was a part of my life. I hate him for finding me and using me and treating me as badly as he did. I’m not perfect, but I don’t think I deserved that. I hate the bullshit excuses, the drugged hazes and the promises of better tomorrows. I hate how it ended, how he was never even remotely apologetic, or even thought of re-compensating me, or that six plus years of my life were wasted on the biggest jerk in the universe. I hate it all.

To get rid of that hate, I have to forgive. But, it’s not Jess I intend to forgive.

Why the hell should I forgive him? He’s an asshole of the worst kind, who landed on my life with the sole intention of making his easier. If I really forgave him, that would make everything he did okay. If I truly forgave him, it would mean that I’d have to forget. And if I forgave him, then I may as well have never broken up with him in the first place.

Jess doesn’t deserve my forgiveness, but someone else does. Me.

If there’s one person in this world that I hate more than him, it’s me. I hate that I ever looked at him. I hate that I ever started anything with him, and I hate that I gave him so much of myself. I hate that I gave him so many chances, I hate all the picked up tabs, and I really hate the hundreds of times he yelled at me until I was reduced to a blithering mess.

I hate that I thought he ever loved me, because that isn’t what love is. I hate that most of all.

I’ve been hung up on this for a long time now, that I made this mistake. This huge, unbelievable mistake that’s cost me so much time, and so many years of my life. How could I have been so stupid? Me, the girl who never took shit, falling for the biggest shit disturber around.

I’ve been thinking about it and thinking about it so much that I know I’ll never move forward, with anything, until I let this all go. I have to let it all go.

And so, it’s to the burial ground with Jess. A makeshift one anyway, because I’m pretty sure a legit corpse is required for cemetery occupation. I could only imagine his face if he knew I was doing this; he’d yell, he’d scream, he’d call me a lunatic of the worst kind and maybe even flail holy water at me. He was superstitious, that jerk.

But none of that matters, because he’s not around. What matters now is me, and which steps I take from this day on.

It’s time to bury the past.

2007-04-30T04:54:00.001-07:00

I have a lot of work to do. If I’m going to be skating 20k in a mere few weeks, I have to eat right, exercise more, go back to the gym and skate every day.

Except when it’s raining. Slippery roads don’t mesh with wheels and besides, water makes the bearings rust. Not a good story. But it’s safe to say that if I don’t take the eating right, exercising and skating in dry weather part seriously, I’ll be wheezing within the first three kilometers.

While a big part of me is still all chattering teeth and shaky knees at the huge task before me, the other part is relieved for this change, this much anticipated genesis of all good things to come. I know once I get into the habit, I’ll be okay.

But there is something else I have to do first. Before I take on this biggie, this genesis of all good things to come, there is a part of me I wish to leave behind. There is something that needs to be settled; old ghosts must be laid to rest.

It’s a gorgeous day today, pearl white clouds against a crisp blue sky. The green grasses of spring are here, and the trees are starting to bud. It is the newest, clearest part of the year, that first turn in the cycle of seasons and the prelude to summer.

It’s a beautiful day for a funeral.

2007-04-26T08:32:00.000-07:00

June 3rd. 20K. D-Day.

Pros: I’ve always wanted to do this. It’s a highway full of smooth, beautiful pavement. The weather in early June is gorgeous so I won’t drop dead from heat exhaustion, and if I learn how to pace myself properly, I can do anything. Plus, it’s for a good cause.

Cons: I’ve never done this. I just might die.

While it’s very clear that I didn’t do all that much thinking before I signed up for this, I’m doing plenty of thinking now. Most of those thoughts circle around stroke, cardiac arrest, pulmonary respiratory failure, toppling over a guardrail etc. etc., there is that one tiny little glimmer whispering to me, You can do this.

Let’s go over my skating history. Got my first pair of Rollerblades for my 18th birthday, spent a few weeks with bloody knees but within a few weeks, was whizzing around just as easily as everyone else. I skated a lot that summer, and every summer after that, especially during that June and July of my eating disorder time. Skating was my one shining star then, and I easily did between six and 10 k per session.

However, it has been awhile since I’ve done any serious skating, making me all the more nervous of impending death. But I really do think that if I lay out good skating and workout plans, this is completely possible.

After all, this is Rollerblading. I love doing this. And I do need some kind of kick start, right?

I have just over five weeks to train. Let the games begin.

2007-04-24T20:43:00.001-07:00

Well, it’s very safe to say that I’ve possibly gone ahead and done the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. My whole, entire, ridiculous life. And believe me, it’s getting more ridiculous by the second.

The Becel Ride for Heart takes place every June in my city. A major highway is shut down for the day, and the cars are replaced with hundreds, thousands of bicyclists all united in motion to cure heart disease. They collect their pledges, bless ‘em, and bike up to 75k to raise money for the Heart and Stroke Foundation.

I have always been in awe of these people, coupled by the fascination of wanting to exercise on a real live expressway, but never even thought of signing up. I haven’t significantly ridden a bike in years, and the thought of dying of a heart attack while in the midst of raising money for a heart foundation is a little too ironic.

I got my first pair of inline skates, Rollerblades, for my 18th birthday and haven’t looked back since. I love the freedom of it, the wind in my hair, the speed, every muscle in my body working as I push onward. I may have been a really fat girl on skates at 18, but boy, could I ever skate. I always thought, if Ride for Heart ever includes skaters, just maybe I’ll sign up.

I checked the site. They include skaters for 5k, 10k and 20k increments. In a moment of pure dementia, I signed myself up. For the 20k.

Here are the thoughts that were running through my head: “Wow, they finally let skaters in on the action! I so have to sign myself up!” So, I did.

Then, after seeing the 5, 10 and 20 kilometer distances, “Well, I can do the five no problem. 10’s totally doable, but 20, what an adventure! What a great way to get in shape too!” I checked off the 20 box.

After the forms had gone through and the screen congratulated me for being registered in Ride for Heart, I sat there with a smug smile on my face, full of self-indulged satisfaction that Wow, I’m going to skate 20k! I am daring, I am brave, I am going to attempt what I’ve never attempted before! I am Spartacus!

Five minutes later, after remembering that I haven’t done any serious skating in years, any serious exercise in months and that I’m nowhere near fit enough to do this, my thoughts somewhat altered.

Oh, man. I’m going to skate 20k.

2007-04-24T05:36:00.000-07:00

Top 10 Things to Do when it’s official you’re Terminally Insane:

10) If you build it, He will come. Start building.

9) Reenact Ophelia’s madness for houseguests. Strew flowers.

8) Invent a new sorority, Kappa Delta Ya Ya. Make the uniform.

7) Bake dozens of pizzas just to spell out different words with the pepperoni.

6) Chase your childhood dreams and audition for the lead in Annie.

5) Quit your day job to become an alchemist. Claim you’ve cracked the formula for gold.

4) Run through the streets with your arms outspread, singing “Fly like an Eagle” at the top of your lungs.

3) Pierce your forehead. Convince everyone you meet that you’re just using the stud to fill up the bullet hole.

2) Design your own line of newspaper pirate hats. Sell them on street corners.

1) On a whim, sign yourself up for a 20k inline skate for charity knowing full well you haven’t done any serious rollerblading in a good two years.

Get out the butterfly nets.

2007-04-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

I was watching Gilmore Girls last Tuesday night, one of the few TV vices I have left along with HBO mega dramas, and TMN On Demand.

In this particular episode, Rory, that darling, blue-eyed innocent of Star’s Hollow, has gotten a job. Not just any job, but a newspaper job. Jumping up and down ecstatically, she exclaims to Lorelai and Logan, “Someone actually wants to pay me to write!”

Well, aren’t you special. Born under a lucky star at the end of a rainbow with a leprechaun up your ass. Stupid Rory. If she wasn’t a fictional character, I’d want to rip all the hair out of her pretty l’il head.

What a lovely theory there presented on Gilmore Girls, that the very second one finishes Journalism school they’re snapped up by a fantastic paper. Hired, paid, with benefits and a 401K, doing what they love to do the most in the world: write.

While this has happened to people I know, the number is pathetically small and worse yet, I’m not among them. I really did think I’d be among the chosen ones, I mean I scored pretty good grades and was the only one to land such an opportune internship.

Bla bla bla. Point is, I didn’t get the close-to-graduation phone call from people willing to pay me to write interesting things, and outside some dithering stories on less than fascinating subjects, any call like that has yet to come.

So while I sit here in my angst, peeling a blood orange so roughly you’d think it did me a great personal wrong, something is becoming abundantly clear: I need a job search strategy.

2007-04-20T05:51:00.001-07:00

It’s been a week and some change into the “new me” program. I set down some ground rules for myself, small things, and agreed that come what may, I wouldn’t be too hard on myself.

So, how’d it go?

I have been drinking at least eight glasses of water a day, but that’s no biggie. I’m a beverage girl by nature, especially during meals, and water is 99% of my liquid intake. I didn’t force that, either. I just don’t like drinking much of anything else.

I have had at least one cup of green tea every other day.

I haven’t eaten after 7pm for three whole days. Yes, I know there’s plenty of room for improvement there, but there’s even more room in the “eat whole foods only” section. While I did make a special effort to do that, I didn’t make a spectacular effort.

But keeping in the spirit of not being too hard on myself, I have to see this as a good start, albeit a shaky one. At the very least it builds for a strong foundation, I’m hoping. And at the very least, the waistline on my jeans isn’t so snug. Nothing drastic, mind you, just a bit more free flowing.

That has to mean something.

Points over the next week: try harder. And, lose the sugar.

New incentive: My cousin and his fiancée have asked me to emcee their September wedding. What is it with my family and September weddings?

2007-04-19T05:45:00.000-07:00

Oh, how crude my friends can be. In fact just yesterday, when on the phone with Raj…

Me: Hi honey!

Raj: Where the fuck have you been?

Me: What are you talking about, I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.

Raj: You haven’t called me!

Me: Have you called me?

Raj: Only because I’ve been so upset at you not calling me!

Me: Oh, please!

Raj: What is this, you have some sex and forget about all your friends?

Me: Raj!

Raj: Is this what a few orgasms do to you?

Me: RAJ!

Raj: James, sweetheart, you-know-who hasn’t been coming to see us because all she does now is have sex! She’s too good for us now! Sex sex sex!

Me: THAT’S NOT TRUE!

James: (in the background) Is there white stuff leaking out her ears?

Me: JAMES!

2007-04-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

I took this picture from last week’s selection on www.postsecret.com. The rules state that when you borrow from the site you’re supposed to link directly back to it, alas, I’m not good at those things whatsoever. I’m hoping the mention and address will suffice.

This postcard struck me right away. I caught myself reading it over and over, because I know exactly what she means. I thought being thin was THE answer.

At the time, I very much thought it was. It’s an easy notion to get wrapped up in, when you’re fat, that being a skinny, gorgeous goddess will solve absolutely every problem you ever had.

Why is this the case? Because being fat in a fat person’s eyes is, hands down, the biggest problem they have. It was the biggest problem I had and thus, every other problem stemmed from it. I was fat. I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t have a great job because I was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t have a boyfriend because I didn’t have a great job because i was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat.

Fat fat fat. It’s a vicious cycle.

So I was fat, so I dropped all this weight, so I became thin and for awhile it was a dream come true. But then, other things started happening.

I don’t know how a thin person thinks, in regards to a thin person who has always been thin. I don’t know how a fat person thinks, in regards to a fat person who’s always been fat. But being fat then becoming thin, I know exactly what’s going through that person’s head, the head that starts to play tricks with you once the euphoria has worn off and reality sets in.

I’m walking down the street; a good looking guy winks at me. Instead of being happy and oh, smiling back or tossing my hair, I’m thinking, Why didn’t you look at me before? I was still the same person. Is this the only reason why I get a second glance?

Dinner. I’m with my friends at a trendy little café, chatting the afternoon away. As we look through our menus and they all compare suggestions, my stomach is tying itself into a knot. I can’t eat this, or this, or this. I can’t eat anything here. I’ll get fat again.

Speaking of friends, this was also the time when I started to lose them. Some acquaintances here and there, I wasn’t terribly injured over those, but two very good friends, girls I loved and trusted, flew the coop. The first very suddenly started making fun of my appearance telling me over and over that I had a big ass. I found that more than somewhat strange, considering this was the smallest my ass had ever been.

The second, at the drop of a hat, decided I was letting my new appearance get to my head. Wearing tighter pants, fitted t-shirts, wearing my hair down, traveling Europe with my boyfriend, none of this was me. In fact, I’d become an insufferable snob.

But I worked so hard for this. You’re my friends, shouldn’t you be happy for me? Were you only my friends in the beginning because I was bigger than you, because I made you look good? Am I that bad a judge of character?

Then, I fell in love. Or at least I thought I did, with Jess, and I was skinny at the time. I was thin, I was fine, I was dressed to the nines and he didn’t stand a chance. Neither did I, for the affair that ensued. And every single day into it I remember thinking, Would this have happened to me if I was still fat? Do I deserve it more now because I lost weight?

The deeper I fell for that boy, the more I felt for him, the more I worried. I remember asking him once what would happen if I ever got fat again, if his feelings for me would change. Jess assured me that he loved me no matter what, and would always love me no matter what. As long as I was happy, he was happy too.

Well, look what happened with that.

I’m not saying I wasn’t happy with my newer self, I was. It’s just that I wasn’t happy as I thought I would be, because I know now that it wasn’t the end all, be all solution to absolutely everything.

There is no solution to absolutely everything. That’s why it’s so important for me to not do things so blindly this time around. I have to be doing it for all the right reasons, not just the flirting and couture. In the end, it’ll only be me and myself left to face the music. Fat or thin.

There will always be jerks on this planet for thin and fat girls alike, just because there will always be jerks on this planet, period. There will always be people who will like me better a certain way, or not like me at all either way. We live in a vain world, and no matter how beautiful one person may think I am, there will always be another who thinks I'm far from it. I’ll have to live with that.

As for the voices endlessly nagging me about what if, why not, don’t do this or that… I’ll just have to learn to let things go, one at a time, and definitely not be so paranoid.

So, why do I want to do this again? For dozens of reasons that I’ve mentioned dozens of times, but one in particular stands out.

I want to look at myself in the mirror again. Really look. And watch that face smile back at me.

2007-04-16T19:56:00.000-07:00

I loved being thin.

I was 24 years old and not even two months into journalism school when the weight started to go. I’d been sick of myself for a long time by then and started the Dr. Stern Diet, a miraculous regime that advertised weight loss at five pounds per week.

Being constantly busy with school, sharing my first city apartment with Oli and being in the throes of newfound love boded well for my waistline. I didn’t have time for food, or at least I didn’t make the time like I used to. I started that diet a size 16; three months later I was a size 6.

The whole thing had happened so quickly, it took me time to get used to. I’d never been so small before. Everything felt lighter and men, lots of men, were taking notice. I was becoming braver, letting my hair down and dressing more stylishly. Slouchy pants and baggy sweaters gave way to low rise jeans and fitted tops, and I took shopping more seriously in general.

I loved the simplicity of it all. Things became so easy. I didn’t have to limit which stores I shopped at, because most everything fit and looked good on me now. I didn’t have to critique my appearance with the supreme efficiency of days past, contemplating if every single inch of clothing fell exactly as it should. I wanted to go to clubs, I wanted to be more physical, I wanted to dress sexier. And if a friend would nudge me to say that some guy was checking me out, I’d flash my pearly whites and believe them. Not, Oh please. There’s no way anyone would ever look at me.

I won’t say I didn’t love that attention, either. My, invisible girl, finally garnering some appreciation from the opposite sex. How you look, or how you think you look, drastically affects your appearance and how others react to you. If you’re miserable or down on yourself, everyone notices the black rain cloud over your head. If you’re happy and full of life, everyone notices your radiance. People want to be around you.

I knew I was looking marvelous, and that gave me all the confidence in the world.

Now, when I look back on that time, I realize just how lucky I really was. I had everything I wanted, you see, and I was exactly where I wanted to be. I was in graduate school, I lived in the city, I had a boyfriend who adored me and I was thin, THIN. I wanted to scream from the rooftops.

Then again, after experiencing all of that and being where I am now, there are other things I realize now too. There are lessons to be learned before I go down that path again, because as wonderful as it is to be thin, it isn’t the key to a charmed life.

In fact, a whole new set of problems come with it.

100% Real Juice: Showgirls

2007-04-16T04:54:00.000-07:00

You read right, but I can’t blame you for the second glance. What inspirational anything could possibly come out of Showgirls? The writing is horrific, and the acting is overdone and cheesy. The doggie chow scene alone makes you cry blood. I always wondered if the producers made the movie terrible on purpose, guaranteeing it would become a cult classic out of sheer badness.

Anyway, seeing as the movie is more comedy than drama or boobs, it’s fun to watch every now and again. But only if it happens to be on when you’re channel surfing.

One of the scenes in the very beginning, when Nomi is still in the pickup with Elvis wannabe dude hitching a ride to Vegas, he asks her if she gambles. She says no, and he replies, “You gotta gamble if you’re gonna win.”

We all know this to be true. How on earth is your hand going to win if you don’t put any money down on the table? Similarly, in the grander scheme of things, how can you experience victory if you don’t, in some sense, put yourself out of your comfort zone? Or just even, go for it? How will you know what triumph really feels like if you don't reach out and try?

That’s my take on things, anyway. You can go back to staring at boobs now.

2007-04-13T04:46:00.000-07:00

Being completely brain dead this morning and therefore at a total loss for words, how about we try something different?

Tell me what the above picture says to you, or what you imagine the story is behind it. Then, guess the name of it. In the spirit of Natalie's song snippets, I'll give you a hint. The name of this picture is contained within a line from the poem:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

2007-04-12T05:44:00.000-07:00

The Quest for Peace, Love and a 24” Waist, Exercise #1: Writing your Story

Apparently it is mucho importante to answer certain questions about one’s self in order to discover why there are body image issues to begin with. We’re getting to the root of the problem, remember, and in order to do so, we must start from the very beginning.

Again, these questions are reprinted without permission, but I hope that if Deborah Low ever gets around to reading this, she’ll understand.

And now, let us delve into the past and therefore, the ugly truth.

When did you first begin to have issues with food?

Early teens. Eating just made me feel better sometimes. Most times actually, which is probably why I’m doing this test to begin with.

When did you first begin to gain weight?

When it really started to pack on I was 17, 18.

What was going on in your life?

A million things. Nothing. I was flunking physics, I had overly strict parents, a gorgeous sister who seemed to have it all. There was all that pressure to get into a good university, and my heart was broken. I thought I’d lost my soul mate.

How did you feel about yourself?

How do you think I felt? Awful, miserable, like shit. Less than human.

Are there any patterns in your story?

As a whole? Of course. Every time the going got tough, I made it better with food. I’d say that’s a pattern.

What weight loss methods have you tried?

Good lord, everything. Behold my shame: Calorie counting, the cabbage soup diet, the Scarsdale diet, performance drugs, a gym membership, Atkins, Weight Watchers, Slimfast, a personal trainer, body cleansesJenny Craig, starvation, diuretics, vomiting, Herbal Magic, the Dr. Stern Diet…there may be one or two more I’ve forgotten.

How did these different techniques make you feel?

The gym memberships and personal trainer made me feel great. The others, great in the beginning. I would get high off the initial loss of the first few weeks and then… crash and burn.

What have you learned?

That none of these methods work, or I don’t work for the methods? That the diet industry is geared towards failure? That I’m weak and not working hard enough towards what I really want? That I’ve wasted a lot of time, energy, and money? All of the above?

Where are you today?

At work, ready to start in 10 minutes, in the dreaded valley of in-between. Meaning, I’m marginally comfortable with myself physically, but not yet where I want to be.

Why do you want to lose weight?

To be healthier. To be happier. To look good in a bathing suit. Hell, to be able to actually wear a bathing suit. To not have to think about stupid things like the most flattering way to sit, or turning away from mirrors. To silence these stupid voices in my head, once and for all. To be a peace with myself.

Are you willing to challenge yourself and work at your goal?

Yes, but I’m scared. I don’t want to fail anymore.

The Men and the Boys: Jules

2007-04-10T19:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, every now and then, something happens to show you the more beautiful side of life. These lessons are not always obvious though, in fact they can be under the most cryptic disguises. Be careful because if you blink, you might miss them.

It was the beginning of the eighth grade, the first day of the last year of elementary school ever. The playground was rammed with chatty kids and adolescent hormones, and I was a 13-year old nerd.

Puberty had not been good to me. I was a year into my growth spurt, and maintained the record of tallest kid in the school. I wasn’t allowed to wear any kind of makeup and had no idea what to do with the mop on my head, my naturally curly, short, brushed out do that could’ve been the envy of all nefarious 80’s hair bands. Nor did I have any clue about things like upper lip waxing or eyebrow plucking, and went about with dark twin bushmen hiding my eyes. The final nail in the coffin was parents who’d wisely learned to budget with my growing ways, so I was stuck with ugly, too big shoes.

I started that year freshly returned from a Europe trip with Oli, knowing that even if I wasn’t the school bombshell, I did have the best tan. I also started the year still smarting from the emotional blows of Gabriel just months before, but with newfound adopted wisdom. The way I saw it, I’d gotten some hard knocks on the streets of love, but had spent an entire summer toughening up and getting him out of my system. Gabriel could never get to me again.

Just to prove to myself that I was impervious to Gabriel’s charms I sought him out on the grounds, quickly spotting the handsome devil. He was a few yards away and he wasn’t alone, talking to someone I didn’t recognize. New kids, from the looks of it. A boy. A really cute boy. And as I found out soon after, he was in our class.

He was a skater boy by the name of Jules, and his family had moved to the area just three weeks before. Jules had dark wavy hair, a mischievous grin, and quickly earned the respect of his peers by sarcastically putting the teacher in her place not five minutes into roll call. While that assured he would never be teacher’s pet, it automatically boosted him to the Uber Popular level of our class and therefore, untouchable to me. I was still squirming within the echelons of the geek squad, after all.

The first few months of the school year passed just the way I thought it would; I read a lot, studied a lot, and didn’t mix with the other kids all that much. My brush-ins with Jules were few, but he seemed nice enough. We almost never spoke, but it didn’t escape me that he never teased me or made me the brunt of jokes like the other, more beautiful kids did.

Then, for the second time in two years, the impossible happened. In seventh grade the teacher had put Gabriel next to me in the class setup, and now, in the eighth grade, the teacher sat Jules beside me. The desks in our room were arranged in three columns of pairs, and Jules and I now occupied the top right corner for the rest of the year. I may not have been cute and flirty, but reading a lot proved you always got to sit next to the cute boys.

Was I happy about this new arrangement? Yes. Did I like this boy? Yes. I dared not show it, though. If there was anything I’d learned from the year before it was that Jules never would and never could like me. I was an ugly duckling, too tall, too bookish, and the basic rules of physics dictated that popular kids never mixed with nerds. We just didn’t go together.

But that didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends on some sort of level, and sitting next to Jules everyday was a lot of fun. He was easy to talk to and a big prankster; we’d spend a lot of our time laughing about this or that. He had great music taste and got me into The Cult and Black Sabbath when the other girls in class were bopping to New Kids on the Block. We didn’t hang together at recess, but he never once ignored me or made me feel inferior.

It’s safe to say that the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.

As it turned out, Jules liked me in his own way. Our relationship, in all its early adolescent awkwardness, was put to the test. One day in the spring Jules and I were talking about something, I don’t remember what, but I do remember being reluctant to tell him because it was something I wanted kept secret. He may have been my desk buddy but he was still in the trendy crowd, and you know how they are. Any juicy tidbit from someone lesser, they tear to shreds and tease you for weeks.

He swore up and down it would stay between us, and so I caved. Unfortunately a busybody girl sitting in front of us heard me say the word “secret” and by recess, it had spread like wildfire that Jules had dirt on me.

I was prepared for this and spent that recess away from everyone else. Being alone often made things easier to manage. What I wasn’t prepared for was almost an entire class full of Jules haters, because he’d refused to dish. “I told you I would keep my promise” he said, as we went back to our desks.

“But no one’s speaking to you.”

“Who cares? Most of them are posers, anyway.”

I was astounded. Outside of Hollywood, boys like him didn’t protect girls like me. It just didn’t happen.

Things between us didn’t change after that, we still sat next to each other, talked every day, and teamed together over assignments. He was better at math and I was better at the comprehensive subjects, so we were a good match that way. I didn’t keep my hopes up that he was in love with me, but took very great comfort with the fact that we were friends. Good friends.

The rest of that year passed quickly and before I knew it, we were on the verge of high school. Our last day as eighth graders, the teaching staff had arranged a special dinner in the school library, followed by a dance in the gym. The library was bedecked in streamers and the tables were arranged in rows, covered in crisp white tablecloths, and rented china and silverware. I sat across from Jules because that’s where my place card told me to go. I figured our very wise teacher had paired everyone across from their desk buddy in the seating arrangement, to avoid the awkwardness of the recess cliques.

The gym dance opened up with some good fast music that the girls honed in on right away, while the boys either mingled amongst themselves or held up the wall. When the first slow song came on the girls did their customary “hurry up, stop dancing and grab a chair” thing, all of a sudden becoming sweet & docile, waiting for the boys to approach.

Ugh. I hated those times. I almost never got asked to dance and when I did, it was by my male compatriots in the geek squad. I knew the drill well by now, as did everyone else: the most popular boy would approach first, taking his pick of dance partner among all the girls, usually the prettiest one. This would muster the courage of all the other boys who, one after the other, would ask the remaining girls to dance. The second most popular boy, then the third and so on, eventually declining in status and looks until the last two squares went for their turn.

It’s amazing how the mating rituals of adolescents can be compared to those of mountain gorillas.

I took my place on a bench next to the wall and assumed my position of staring at the floor, waiting for the worst to be over. There were more girls in our class than boys, and past experience dictated that either one of the very last boys would ask me, or I wouldn’t get asked at all.

Not 30 seconds into my self-pity, I saw a pair of polished black shoes approach me. And then I heard, “So how about it, kid?”

I looked up. Jules was standing in front of me with his hand held out, and he was smiling. I looked around quickly and saw everyone looking at us, their mouths wide open, surprise written all over their faces. Jules, the most popular boy in our class had made his choice for first dance of the evening, and he’d picked me.

I smiled, stood up, put my hand in his and off we went. Everyone else watched us go, still in the throes of their shock so that we were alone on the floor for the first little bit, dancing in the atypical Catholic school style of a casual sidestep, one arm’s width apart. I don’t remember what song was playing, but I do remember thinking for the first time ever that maybe, just maybe, good stuff happened to too tall, big haired, nerdy girls too.

When the dance was over that night, so was our time as eighth graders. The next day our summer vacation would begin and in two months we’d all be Freshmen. Our ending was bittersweet, Jules’ and mine. We signed each others’ yearbooks, hugged, and left youth behind forever. We went to different high schools in the fall, and I never saw him again.

Looking back on it all, that was my first really first positive relationship with a boy. I started high school a little more grown up, and with a different take on life that would carry and grow stronger through the years. It's amazing what happens to a person when they realize that good things can happen, and that good things do happen.

I’m not sorry that nothing ever happened between Jules and I, not in the emotional sense that is, because I truly love remembering it for what it was: the impossible friendship of Skater Boy and Nerdy Girl.

Jules, if you’re out there somewhere, I’ve never forgotten you, or what you did for me. And, I’ve never forgotten that dance. Thank you.