And The Winner Is ...

ME. 

(I do prefer "And The Winner is .." over the uber polite “And the Oscar goes to …” don't you?).

ME!

Look, when you spend as much time as I do going to movies, talking about movies and loving movies, it would actually be sad if I didn’t win at least one Oscar pool.  Seeing as how this is actually the first year I’ve won a pool (and not that anyone’s counting, but I won two), it’s nice to see my efforts have finally paid off.  I feel like an Olympian – all those years of training and now, I can declare myself:

Winner of the Cat Cunningham Guess the Oscar Winners Pool!

WOW! This is such an honour!  I’m … speechless!  Holy F@ck!  Oh no!  GEEZ, Did I really ?!  Hope that was time delayed! Am I really here?!  Is this really happening? I love you all!  This is so amazing!  Okay, let me try to get it together – thank you … everyone!  It’s just so amazing to be in the company of such devoted movie goers, so of course thank you and congratulations to my fellow participants.  While there can only be one winner – and, that’s me! – you all deserve jumpy claps for trying!   I didn’t get here alone, well, it was my brain and my decisions, but still, I guess that I need to thank a few people so, tonight, I share my ‘suitable for framing’ certificate with Julie, Suzanne, Cres and Jess – the bestest movie dates a girl could ask for.  It’s been an amazing year, so get out your scissors, ladies, scraps of this are yours too!  And to all you kids out there with a dream – dream big kids!  Dream big – this could be yours one day too! Thank you, everyone, THANK YOU!

And now, a word on speeches

The Oscar telecast is a full on time commitment.  It’s a long show (even longer when it sucks, but more on that later) and most attempts to tighten things up and keep things moving have failed (remember that brilliant “we’ll bring the Oscar to you” trick?).  I recall one year producers thought they’d get firm with the length of acceptance speeches, starting the music after a speed talking course necessary 30 seconds or something.  Not a bad idea, but when everyone talks over the music (Dear Julia Roberts, The person leading an orchestra is called a “conductor” not a “Stick Man”) what’s the point?  It’s time to get tough and the only way to really do this is to consolidate the speeches. Hear me out!  Most winners thank the same old people, and we don’t need to hear it said in a different voice 24 + times! We’ll start the telecast with a huge Disclaimer Thank You, that simply lists all the obvious thank yous and winners will then be able to freestyle on their own. 

The Disclaimer would thank: Mom;Dad;Kids(no need to name them, they should know who they are and if not, this isn’t the time to tell);Agent;Lawyer;PersonalAssistant;High School Drama Teacher;Everyone At The Studio Who Released Picture Winner Is Accepting For;Voice Coach; Driver;Craft Services; Entire Cast of Picture Winner Is Accepting For;Fellow Nominees. If Applicable: Grandparents;Siblings;Producer(s)/Director/Writer of Picture Winner Is Accepting For.

We can really make this list as long as we wish and it will be read at the start of the telecast by James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman and then we’ll get on with the show.  So efficient. 

Now if only know we could find a way to ensure that awards were only granted to those who could actually honour the moment with a decent acceptance speech I’d be truly happy.  Look, I get it’s hard  to find the perfect balance between coherent bewilderment and rehearsed stiffness but is it really that hard?  Aren’t you actors?  ACT like you’re confident and poised and gracious and surprised and humbled – it can be done (kindly review all acceptance speeches given by stage actors)!  Lost Without A Script – A Horrifying Tale of An Actor’s Search for Words.  Someone make that movie. 

And now, a word on the show

Just one.  Just one word on the show:  CRAP.  I really don’t want to talk about it.  As a devoted movie goer and pop culture junkie the Oscars are IT for me.  My IT failed me huge last night.  What were Anne & James doing at “rehearsal”?  I have more banter with Jerry the shoeshine guy!  Where was the singing?  Where was the dancing?  Bring back Rob Lowe & Snow White if you must – the Oscars are not the Oscars without a song & dance number (Anne's does not count)!   Honestly.  I can’t continue. It was a piss poor way to celebrate a really amazing year in film. Thankfully, I rarely Oscar without a party and the company & Indian Food last night spiced things up considerably – So, I thank (not “like to” or “want to” thank but actually thank thank!) my guests last evening for providing much needed show banter and all around good times.  Next year, we will hopefully have a bit more to work with.  Okay, that’s way more than one word and way more than the show last night deserved – I now declare the commentary on the 83^rd Annual Academy Awards Officially Closed.

‘Till next year …   

Et Tu, Tootsie Roll ?

I love Tootsie Rolls.

In truth, I love all sorts of candy.  Chewy, chocolately, nutty, caramelly, licoricey, you name it it's all love.  Thankfully, my dentist is an all right guy and seeing as how all my teeth have cavities anyway, what’s the harm now?  Damage done!

Teeth may be saved, but I'm starting this new (yes, late to the party again) thing now where I'm actually looking at the insides of things I eat.  Look, look! at what's inside my beloved Tootsie Roll:

Sugar, Corn Syrup, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, Condensed Skim Milk, Cocoa, Whey, Soya Lecithin, Artificial and Natural Flavours

(I think the ‘artificial and natural flavours’ bit is a tad of overkill, but whatever).  This is like Superman finding out Lois Lane was made of Kryptonite!  It’s just not fair.  My Tootsie Roll seemed so benign in its simple yet bold wrapper, but apparently this laundry list comprises some of the worst things you can possibly eat. Listen, I know the chance of my Tootsie Rolls being made of flax, kale and pomegranate juice were quite slim, but all the bad things (I tried to focus on the cocoa, but even I can't delude myself that much) ? Why is all the yummy deliciousness in the world actually so bad – it sounds like I’m eating plastic.  Plastic yumminess?

No more Tootsie Rolls.  I will miss you, Tootsie Roll.

This new insides of things is going to get very depressing very fast.  I am saving looking at the insides of ice cream for the very, very last. 

The Chronicles of Jerry

Jerry’s the shoeshine guy who comes to my office every Friday to, well, obviously, shine shoes.  He also comes to my office every Friday to shock the hell out of me.  Jerry’s a class-A weirdo.  Not like normal people who have weirdo tendencies, I’m talking a bona fide kook.  People like this are fascinating to me, so of course I talk to Jerry and because I’m normal and likely fascinate Jerry, he talks to me.  Although, “talk” is overstating things a bit.  We don’t converse. I ask him some pretty benign questions like “how are you?” and in response, a litany of tales so peculiar you’d think there was life on Mars. End of chat.  Once those are over, or sometimes instead of those, I just get some shocking, amazingly inappropriate, eye popping lines. Jerry dishes them out, I get embarrassed (open concept office + loud voice, friends ! ).  End of chat.  It’s all somewhat hilarious and marginally creepy.     But let’s focus on the hilarity.

To set the scene, Jerry is not only a weirdo in spirit, he’s a weirdo in looks.  So, every Friday when he turns the corner for his weekly visit and line delivery, I see a guy whose  about 5 feet tall and maybe 95 pounds.  He’s little.  He has this really unfortunate likely self done mullet style hair do (n’t) and his hair is grey and white and wiry, although I do think it’s clean.  His face is well – lined and also grey.  He wears a leather vest and smells of cigarette smoke and shoe polish.  He’s been polishing shoes so long his hands are the colour of charcoal.  He could be 40 or 80, it’s just really hard to say.  That’s Jerry!

As he turns the corner, and makes sure I’m around, I hear one of two stalwart greetings:

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” Or “Hey there bathing beauty” (safer not to ask about this one, I think).  

Rendered by a voice that is something else all together – it’s as high pitched as a life long smoker’s voice can be and he combines this really interesting staccato delivery with a long draw on vowels.  The combined effect of the visual and audio are weird.  All very weird.  He’s like an animated character in a macabre cartoon (not quite sure they actually make any of those).

About a month ago I asked him how he was and he went into a replay of his weekend where the highlight was being knocked in the head by a 2 by 4 at his buddy’s house because his buddy doesn’t have a doorbell and was using a 2 by 4 instead.  Exactly.  I have no idea either.

The response to what he’s doing for the holidays? Equally peculiar:  “Not too much.  Staying home, alone, trying to figure out how to stick my head in the toaster oven.”   I’m sure that was a scene in A Christmas Story, wasn’t it?

Many more of those, but the best of Jerry really comes out in those lines of his. 

Fellas, take heed – don’t try these at home (unless you’re staring at lotsa wine and a sure thing):  

“That’s a real pretty colour.  You look like a grape. Wish I could squeeze you and make you wine.  Hope you know what I meant there. Hehehe.”

“Really like your top.  Bet it looks good on the floor too.”

“Ya like being tickled?  Sure do wish I could find out.”  (okay, I admit, this one, taken out of Jerry-context I LOVE.  And now, he's now ruined it forever.)

And, my all time favourite, said along Adelaide Street , because you know your life is just your life when you run into Jerry on the streets of Toronto :  

“Hey there, bathing beauty, wanna lick my cone?”  He was eating an ice cream cone at the time, but still.  Still.

I’m not sure where he comes up with these gems, but after 8 years (and two office moves, the guy is dedicated) there’s surely enough material for a book.  A bad one, that would make you take an SOS shower and burn all your clothes, but a book nonetheless.  I really should have documented our weekly meets better but I’m just so busy trying to forget them, it’s hard.  So, there’s Jerry.  He’s nuts and perplexing and inappropriate – oh, yes.  But he’s got something else you sort of have to admire:  for all his shockingly inappropriate weirdness, Jerry’s got game.   

Go Jerry.

My AH ! LIFE ! Life

Getting pretty tired of working. 

Like my job / career and all but it’s just getting in the way.  It’s not like I’m some superhero or anything – poor Diana Prince*! Imagine the internal stress and scheduling dynamics! – but I do have things I’d way rather be doing and work is simply getting in the way.

It’s getting in the way of my real life goal of becoming a full fledged social butterfly and travel savant; of visiting friends and family often and just because and never fretting about not having enough time for anyone; of becoming a fully cultured – museum and art gallery going person who is also a gourmet cook and voracious reader ; of learning languages and how to play the piano in a relaxed way and going to the gym in an enjoyable way.  I realize this life sounds rather superficial, but I’d buttress these leisurely pursuits with much charity work at home and abroad, Jolie-styles. 

AH! LIFE!  I want an AH! LIFE! life!

Funding this AH! LIFE! life will be a challenge and I need to start putting the wheels in motion before it’s too late and I’m at Del Boca Vista# dreaming about what could have been. Money.  Where to get some money.  I have a few options: 

Win – it.  Pros:  it’s all luck, baby.  Cons:  must play and it’s all luck, baby. 

Need something more reliable.

Anna Nicole Smith – it.  Pros:  money.  Warm weather housing.  Cons:  Gross. Old person could be secretly healthy, meaning long time to wait for money. Nasty legal battles with jealous children.  Potential drug addictions and sad tabloid life. 

Forget it, want something less soul destroying.    

Save – it.  Pros:  honest and dedicated approach to problem.  Cons: Will take forever.  Current partaking in spend-hearty lifestyle minimizes save-ability of funds. 

Would prefer something faster.

Discover – it.  Pros:  unearthing the next Justin Bieber could yield significant rewards and likely invitations to awards shows.  Cons:  the world would hate me.

I like being liked too much, next!

Invent – it  Pros:  lots of dough to be had in coming up with the next big thing.  Cons:  Facebook and the Internet are taken.  Not smart enough to think of anything else.  Yet. 

I’m not smart enough yet.  This could be it.  I could invent something WOW-worthy that will turn the world on its axis. What, what will it be?  The flugelbinder^ , too, is already taken but it really only needs to be that simple. 

I’m working on it.  And it will be huge.  Maybe not huge enough to cause a revolution in an Egypt-type country, but HUGE. 

Don’t laugh.  I don’t want to hear nary a snicker – is that doubt I hear?  You all must know you’re invited to this Ah! Life! life of mine, of course! Don’t worry on that for a second!  How fun would my Ah! Life! life be if all of you were still working ?!   I'm working on it.  I'm working on it for all of us !

I am so excited.  SO EXCITED!

*if you didn’t know that Diana Prince is Wonder Woman’s alter ego, you should probably just stop reading my blog now.  Thank you.

# if you didn’t know that Del Boca Vista is the retirement community where Jerry Seinfeld’s parents live, you should probably stop reading my blog now.  Thank you.

^ if you didn’t  know that the flugelbinder is the fictitious name for the tip of a shoelace, as told to Brian Flanagan by Jordan Mooney during a discussion about the ordinary objects that can turn inventors into millionaires in the movie Cocktail, it means you’re normal. If you did know this, we’re soul mates – kindly make yourself known so we can get on with our lives together. Thank you.

The Morning Busker

I walk through a pretty depressing tunnel on my way to the subway every morning.  Nothing much to report about the tunnel itself, aside from the regular presence of the busker who sings there every single morning.  She’s a pretty regular style busker by all accounts, except for the fact that, well, she sings like crap.

I mean, even with my limited (read: zero) musical sensibilities I am confident in saying she sucks.  Making this worse, she sings (and I’m using this word in the most charitable way possible) songs I really like and now can’t listen to in the same way again.  This makes me angry.  What is worse than being angry in the morning?  Not much.

This morning she was torturing Yesterday.  The song is so tender, wistful and lovely - one of the best ever.  But out of her mouth?  I can’t fully explain.  My adjectives aren’t working properly it was just so, so, CRAP.  I’m certain she sang a verse in what she thought was French, but it was certainly no French I am familiar with.  She really likes the Beatles.  Poor Beatles.  We all know how hardcore they are with copyright and protecting their image – if they knew?  If they knew what she was doing they’d have her killed.  Which is what I will do myself if I ever hear her “singing” Here Comes the Sun.  That, my friends, is where I will draw the line of peaceful acceptance.

Now the kicker to my little busker pal, the thing that takes the experience from mere ear torture to something else altogether is if you steal a look at her, she looks so damn happy.  Blissful and completely full of joy possessing every happiness that could possibly be known to man ! There she is, plunking away on her portable keyboard contraption, killing songs I adore with this big – ass grin on her face completely lost in her “music”.   She has no clue.  But I guess that’s the point – if she knew how badly she sucked and how crap her voice sounded to everyone around her, she’d likely stop.

So, there I am, at once angry confused and amazed. 

Maybe the morning busker isn’t so crap after all.  (But she’s still dead if I ever hear her corrupt Here Comes the Sun).

Mourning Jeans

DENIAL ANGER BARGAINING DEPRESSION ACCEPTANCE

These are the five stages of grief. 
I'm going through all of them somewhat simultaneously as I mourn .... my favourite jeans.

Come on.  We've all got a pair of these babies and once we truly face facts and realize they shouldn't be worn in public again it's a sad, sad day.

You've owned your favourite jeans forever and while they may not be your best jeans or your best fitting jeans they are simply your favourite jeans.  From their most perfect wash, to their magical ability to fit you no matter what to the well placed tears and rips ... ah ... a second skin and best friend.  I wear my favourite jeans so much I'm certain most people think I only own one pair of jeans.  This is actually half true.  I own one pair of jeans that I wear.

Nothing's wrong with my jeans.
WHAT ! NO ! NOT THESE JEANS !?!
I can totally still wear these jeans.
My life is meaningless without my jeans. 
Okay, okay ... I am tossing these jeans.

The rips that used to be in all the right places are now in all the wrong places.  Perhaps on some this would still look sexy cool, on me it looks simply homeless and maybe a tad obscene.  These are not looks I'm going for.  The jeans must go.  Which means a new favourite jean must now be crowned.   The task will not be an easy one - there isn't a pair in the current rotation worthy of the title.  A brand new pair of favourite jeans must be procured, but this pilgrimage, too, will be fraught with obstacles.  Think I'm overstating things? On a recent trip to YVR my bestie and I were favourite jean shopping.  What song came blaring on the shop's stereo as I tried on my third pair ?  U2's "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For".  As a person who is really all about signs, this was a big sign.  The road, my friends, will be a long one.

I think my only real solution here is to seek out the same pair of my favourite jeans - it'll be my homage to dating a twin.  This could work.  I will use my trusty Internet.  Yes, I will use the Internet for the forces of good as I try to replace my favourite jeans with, the same pair of favourite jeans.

Great.  Right back at denial.

Less Is More

Not all that great at math, but I think the tally now is just shy of a million hysterical first – ish dates. 

I’m tired of being greedy.  

I don’t want to go on a million hysterical first – ish dates. I want to go on one hysterical date that lasts a lifetime. 

L'Internet

I love you, Internet

The Internet appeals to my life in tangents as I have real trouble conversing and browsing straight forward.
The Internet appeals to my dream of becoming an International Spy as it lets me sleuth and search with abandon.

All that really means is I'm a major procrastinator and also insatiably curious (aka nosy).

I have so much to do,  but the Internet won't let me.

I hate you, Internet.

I Never

Ever played "I Never" ? You tell someone something you've never done, they look at you bug eyed shocked at your loserish ways, they tell you something they've never done and you do same?  Could expose you as a total moron social misfit, but whatever, those are the risks of playing "I Never". {Full Disclosure :  Not entirely sure this game is real.}

While tippling in this game recently, I began to think it's often not what we've done in life that defines us, it's what we haven't done - and I don't mean this in a regret filled "shoulda woulda coulda" type of way.  I mean that we're defined by the boundaries we set for ourselves while we lay out the parameters of our personal comfort zones, one "I never, and never will" at a time.

It's okay to never do things that disinterest or scare us.  This doesn't make us less adventurous or (eek! don't say it) boring.  It makes us comfortable in our own skin. Comfortable in our likes and dislikes and where we want to push the envelope and where we won't.  Nothing wrong with that. 

Some of my "I Nevers" are lame to the max :  never smoked a cigarette (squares actually come to me for proper measurements); never driven stick shift; never roller bladed or roller skated.  There are things I can take off the list : 2 weeks ago I played my first game of Scrabble and things that will always be on it - bungee jumping and crystal meth come to mind right now, but there are many more. 

I'm good with this.  Why shouldn't I be - I'm not going to say "yeah, uh, no, thanks" to everything.  I never I never said that.

Kid Styles

Ever spent some time kid styles?

Park, play, nap, snuggle, being read books that rhyme, puzzles or, my personal favourite: busting out your PJs at 7pm while on a visit to be totally ready for bed on the way home (one of these days, I'm going to do this).  Repeat.

Is anything better than laughing it out kid styles?

The laugh that starts as a giggle but turns into a throw your head back, count all the cavities in your teeth, tears streaming down your face with a potential nose snort laugh?  Made more hilarious because the thing you were laughing about was so utterly dumb and silly you're actually laughing at laughing at it but then you can't remember what you were laughing about in the first place. Repeat.

Kids.  They know where it's at. They know because they don't know.  They don't know all about the hard stuff that may come their way.  They don't know about worry or struggles or maybes or what ifs or work or paying the mortgage.  They don't know about tomorrow, they are all in for today, right now.

Kids.  The know where it's at. They think anything is possible because why wouldn't be.  They are amazed at everything they see and touch because everything they see and touch truly is amazing.  They want to learn and explore simply for the sake of learning and exploring.

Kid Styles - I can totally dig it.  Let's do it up Kid Styles more often - clearly, it's where it's at.

F'n Headache

I don’t get headaches very often so of course when I do they are motherfuckers. 

I have a motherfucking headache today.

I’m in the most shiteous (shit + hideous, try it – it’s an amazing word) mood.

I hate taking medicine so I’ll be in this mood until I stop being so stubborn and just pop a few pills.  

It’s best not to deal with me when I have a headache.  Every person / situation / thing annoys me and I basically turn into my evil twin.  Like, not a good-bad-sly-evil, but a real evil – bitch – type person.  I snap.  I’m impatient. I can be mean.  This is not very becoming. It’s god awful.  I’m god awful.

In a most good / bad stroke of luck, I’m also flying today.  Flying with one of these headaches is beyond the pits.  It’s like your brain is in a vice AND your head could explode at any second.  The only thing keeping me from scowling back into my dark room, under my cozy blankets where I can’t do too much damage to the outside world is knowing that when this painful flight is over and I land I’m going to get big hugs from some of the best people on earth and goddamn if this headache isn’t gone by then.

Fuck it.  Give me the pills. This cranky bitch thing is so over.  SO OVER. 

Those Emails

I’m not sure what’s going on these days but I seem to be getting a very high number of “you matter to me” “you’re special to me” “thinking of you” emails from all sorts of nice, thoughtful people.

I’m compelled to forward them of course, because the consequences of not doing so (as outlined in the emails) seem quite dire. You can never be too careful.  So I do and I get them back and it just goes on and on.  I will tell you, some of these emails are really quite good – they get right to the core of my schmaltzy sentimentality in the same way picking out a perfect Mother’s Day card for my mom does.  I know, when I’m not completely cold hearted I am one weepy sucker. 

Anyway, these emails have me thinking that while nice to receive I’m not going to send them anymore (regardless of the consequences).  You see, if you matter to me and are special to me I don’t want to tell you this with a pre-scripted schmaltzy email (regardless of how good they may be) - you’re worth my personalization (regardless of how matter of fact it may be). I’ll simply connect with you in some way (an eloquent text : “Time for me this week?”; a poetic email invitation : “Hey!  Let’s do this!”; the ever popular, touching, BBM “seriously, are you still alive?” or, if hour appropriate, a good old fashioned phone call will do the trick) - just ‘cuz.  Or you’ll do any of the above to connect with me – just ‘cuz.  If the gods are smiling on us, we’ll be able to make some plans for some face time – just ‘cuz.  Just ‘cuz you’re on my mind, I’m thinking of you and, well, I want to real life connect with you and, ultimately, you do too.

So, listen, you keep sending them because that’s totally cool and I like them, I do. Just don’t despair when you don’t get any from me.  I will suffer the consequences, but I’m pretty sure that if we’re both doing what people who matter to each other do - just ‘cuz - those are some consequences I’m ultra happy to face.

Femme de Luxe

A number of years ago a dear friend of mine called me a “Femme de Luxe”.  I was outraged.  What?!  I’m just a simple Greek girl from the village! ME a Femme de Luxe ?!  Images conjured in my head of some brassy highlighted over botoxed animal print wearing socialite getting manicures while being fed peeled grapes by a 6-pack ab'd dreamboat.  This is not me! How in the world could he think this was me?!

I’m tough!  I don’t need constant attention and pampering!  I scrub my floors on my hands & knees! If you dropped me in the wilderness with an axe and compass I could probably make it back to civilization!  Come on – a Femme de Luxe?!

But then, reality set in.  I don’t like to be tough. I don’t really need constant attention, but some is nice.  And I do like being pampered, if that means spaing (yes, spaing is a verb).  Sure, I can scrub and clean just obsessively enough to make my Greek mom proud, but I don’t really like to.  And truly, if I was dropped in the wilderness with an axe and compass it would only be my angered determination to give the person responsible a severe tongue lashing (so much more effective than a punch in the face) that would guide me back to civilization.

So, maybe yes, I am a Femme de Luxe.  I highlight my hair (brown just got a bit too boring), get regular massages (because in place of shoulders I have bricks) and prefer to wear heels & skirts (am short, don’t like pants).  If you catch me wearing Birkenstocks, feel free to shoot as I’ve obviously been evil-cloned.  I can acknowledge that camping (or similar) can be fun, but I really, really don’t like bugs.   Beer isn’t really my thing and neither is cold pizza (unless I had way too much gross beer the night before).   I guess it’s time for an image adjustment.

No Brass. No Botox.  No Animal Prints.  I’ll take the manicures and ab’d dreamboat, but I can eat my grapes with the peel, thank you very much. 

No apologies: I’m a Femme de Luxe … Re-Dux. 

Thanks Matthew. :)

Hearts & Smiles

And Happy Valentine’s Day !  I haven’t fallen that far deep into cynicism that I can’t appreciate today for what it is – a day to acknowledge the people in your life who share a part of your heart.   Great day : full of hearts and smiles and Valentine Cards of the (hopefully) traditional but sometimes non- traditional variety.

For a few years now, I’ve been missing a card from someone who qualifies as a non – traditional sender:  My Dad.  My Dad made up for his lack of demonstrative sweetness and affection by being uber – sentimental and the best of this came out on Valentine’s Day.  He’d buy me a plant (saving the roses for my mom, of course, and never going the fresh flower route because they were already dead and just a waste of money), something potted and flowering, accompanied by an amazing card.  The card was picked with care (and I know this after having watched in awe as he spent what seemed like hours in Hallmark choosing just the perfect one for other occasions) and written with conviction.  He was such a perfectionist - God forbid his personalized note was lopsided or angled – so out came the ruler along with the pen.  The script was pretty much the same every year:  To my Olga, I Love You, Your Dad.  XXOO, written so hard the indentations of the writing could be felt on the other side of the card.  To my Olga, I Love You, Your Dad XXOO – concise, straightforward and perfect – just like him.

Sure, this all may seem a little corny but in a life where we’re so often questioning everything and where we stand within that everything the sheer consistency and rock solidness of this gesture, of this knowing that no matter what goes on with the craziness of it all “To my Olga, I Love You, Your Dad XXOO” would never ever change says more than the actual words do.  I miss that.  I miss him.  It’s funny, as time passes it is little things like this that I remember and they make me wistful and, of course, sad but they also make me smile.  Smile with all my heart.

XXOO to you, too, Dad.

Where's The Guidebook?

When confusion reigns supreme and the only action or response I can conjure up is a perplexed eye squint, complete with side head nod, I wish there was a Real Life Guidebook lying around that I could reference like my car manual (saved my butt on a recent trip up North, thanks VW & Zhuzana!) to point me in the right direction.  It would just make things so much easier.

The black or brown boots? PAGE 2 (answer: Both)!
The smart sensitive one or the cool aloof one?  CHAPTERS 7-10!
Is buying organic worth it? PAGE 54!
What’s a gigabyte? (Intro)
What to say to the dude who, on date #2, asked how I’d feel about a 3-way? (True! Story!)? PAGES 77 / 128 / 329!

With respect to Emily Post, we live in complicated times and that Etiquette Guide, well, it just doesn’t cut it anymore.  It’s just not enough.  I need to know what to DO!  Someone – Obi Wan – tell me what to do!  Steer me proper! I don’t want to think about the pros & cons, whys & wherefores, what if’s & never will be’s, I’d like someone else (ideally, someone very smart and logical and objective who has my best interests at heart) to take care of this mind crushing work for me.  Because then, I also don’t have to live with the ramifications of any decision I have to make.  Absolution!

Now thinking guidebook's not enough for this all encompassing help I need. I need a massive “Play the Computer / Best Choice in Life Game”.  It would have bells, whistles and all the answers.  Yes, ALL the answers.  I’d enter my conundrum and out would come my logically assessed and strategized action.  I wouldn’t waver, I’d just do it and be content.  Like a non-evil Fembot.  What a fun game.  I really want this game.  My life as a super fun game.

But wait.  

It’s not a game, is it?  It’s my life. It’s pretty fun, mostly all the time, but it’s definitely not a game.  And there will always be ramifications, from the miniscule lunch decision to the monumental career change decision.  And because I’ll be the one living and doing this decision it’s obviously me that needs to make all the decisions.  Okay, fine.  This life game is a really a dumb idea.  But listen, that guidebook?  Pure genius.

Good Bad

In the normal course of description, I'm a pretty good person. Maybe not 'straight to heaven' good, but all in all good. Moral compass pointed in the right direction, kind to others, all the important stuff - check, check, check.

Every or so often, though, I like to be a little bad.  Like naughty - sly grin - cat ate the canary - type of bad.  It feels sssooo good.

Try it, you'll see.

;)

Hair

Not sure about you, but it’s pretty hard for me to objectively look at myself and say “damn, girl, looking good”.  Well, I don’t talk like that anyway but you get the idea. There’s always something wrong with something, or a bit that could look just a bit better.  Or my classic – “you can’t look your best everyday” white flag.  Used just today!  L-O-N-G week, my friends.  L-O-N-G week.  All this self criticism changes though, when it comes to my hair.

At the risk of sounding completely conceited, I love my hair.  On even my worst day I can always count on my hair for a solid.  To be honest, it’s really not all that special:  it’s brown and medium length and super thick, and, thanks to the power of the CHI that changed my life, straight.  It does have a bit of shine, but it's truly quite plain.  What makes my hair so great and what makes me love it oh so much is that I can always count on it to be exactly all those things all the time.  It’s so consistently brown and straight and thick and shiny that I never have to worry about it.  I get ready in the morning with the precision of a military operation so it’s just a nice relief to not have to stress about this and, trust me, I would stress about it. 

Now, the crazy thing is that I’m actually contemplating throwing all this consistency out the window.  I am contemplating the mother of all hair cuts.  I know.  I don’t know.  I know it’s crazy.  But is it really that crazy?  It’s just hair.  But it's my consistent stress free hair.  I KNOW!  I DON'T KNOW.  I’m almost there, but not quite there. 

Should I cut my hair?

Time

Tough one. 

Never enough of it, always running out of it.

We’re always trying to make more time, for what matters, for who matters.

But if it matters and if you matter, we shouldn’t need to make time because we should always have time.  We should always have time for what matters.  So, the real issue isn’t time, it’s figuring out what and who matter.

Time. Tough one. Told you.

Reunions

Went to a book launch last night.  Simply couldn’t miss it as the book being launched was written by my old high school pal, Steve Hayward.  (Don’t Be Afraid is the story of a family that digs into grief as they deal with the loss of a child.  But, it’s Steve, so it’s also pretty funny.  That’s talent, my friends.  The Globe & National Post & basically everyone else who has reviewed it agrees.)

The launch was incredible; incredible to see Steve so accomplished and mature (eek!) yet still the same loud and obnoxious guy from high school who tried to steal every scene of every play he was in with me.  He usually did.  That’s talent, my friends.

Also incredible about last night was the gang that organically gathered from those old high school days to celebrate Steve’s success – many of us haven’t seen each other in way too many years but, as it should be with old friends, it was like time hadn’t passed at all.  I love that. 

Everyone’s doing their thing: Ed’s still nuts, a musician who I swear is still carrying the same World Famous satchel he was in high school; Mike was on the radio but is now in marketing; Curt’s in PR; Cate’s a teacher; Jen’s a mom; Dan’s a pastor; Kristy’s a midwife; Ian (my personal hero) does graphic animation for a company that WON AN OSCAR; and me, a person who can’t describe their job in less than a paragraph.  Our drama teacher, Mr Dragonieri (still can’t manage to call him Theo) was there, too, telling those involved that “our production of Midsummer Night’s Dream was the best high school production of any thing he’s seen or done since”.  Sweet stuff.  Come to think of it, it was pretty damn good.  Mind you, that “O Spite! O Hell!" monologue was a motherfucker to learn, but seeing as how I actually remember most of it I guess it was worth it.  That was 23 years ago.  WHAT ?!  Wow. 

I loved high school - there wasn’t any Breakfast Club clique-ness going on as we were just too small for that and simply needed all hands on deck: the school nerd was President of our Student Council and reigned benevolently alongside the captain of the lacrosse team, the yearbook editor and the drama geeks (that was me).   You could be cool and you could be a nerd at once and all together.  This clearly spawned my enduring love affair with nerds and also taught me the value of acceptance.

Seems to me we’re so caught up with where we’re going we don't often take the time to look back to where we came from. We should.

Richmond Hill High School, Rah Rah Rah.

Olgieville

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world inhabited by Mary Poppins, The Barbapappas and only people I really, really liked.  Everyone would be happy and giving and kind.  There would be no hardcore conflicts, but if there were we’d all go down to the Hall of Justice and have the Superfriends sort us out.   No one would really work, well, there would be things to do but only things we wanted do like smell fresh flowers and bake cookies with the Kiebler elves. Everything we said to one another would be sweet and complimentary and relayed in a soft sing-song way.  In fact, we’d sing everything.  And skip.  Actually, scratch that part.  No skipping.  But content strolling.  Yes, better.  We’re not rushing anywhere, which means we’re never late. Ever. 

Anyway, the really interesting, and likely weird, part of my own little Neverland is when I think of how amazing it would be to actually live there, I'm not on any meds. 

What Happens

What happens when things don't turn out as you had hoped ? 

What happens when someone isn't the person you thought they were ?

What happens is you feel like you've been had.  Like all your instincts are off line and out of sync.  Like you have absolutely no fucking clue about anything at all and probably never did.  But, ultimately, what happens is next time 'round, it will take a long, long time to believe and hope like you did before.

Stop

Stop trying so hard to please everyone that you become a shadow of yourself.

Stop pulling yourself in a million directions because you think people are counting on you, when they really should be counting on themselves.

Stop saying yes to everything if it leads you to a place where you can’t remember the last time you said yes and was actually excited to do that thing you said yes to.

Stop to remember you’re only one person.  You’re a good person; a great person; a person people count on, look up to and rely on – but you’re still only one person and you can’t do everything. 

Just stop.

Cheese

Yes, cheese.  Not the insult “you’re trying too hard and are really tacky” cheese, but real, actual, delicious, yummy cheese.

I love cheese.  I’m not sure if this is because I’m Greek and was thus brought up on feta or because it’s just too delicious not to love.  All of it and lots of it – just bring it on.

I’ve met a few people in my day who don’t like cheese.  I'm suspicious.  Isn’t that like saying you don’t like weather? I mean, there are so many different kinds and types, how can you unilaterally not like any of it?  At all? Is it the sharp tang of old cheddar that’s turning you off?  The wonderful stink of blue not to your liking?  Perhaps the gooey creaminess of brie a bit much to handle, especially when baked in the oven with bourbon, brown sugar & pecans?  Wow.  I feel for you.  I mean, I feel really bad for you.  In the same way I feel bad for people who think running is fun.

Bet they don’t like cheese either.  Shame.

Mes Chaussures

I had been coveting a glorious pair of shoes for a very, very long time.  Like, a year long time.  This isn’t really like me because I’m a see it / buy it type of person, but there was something about this certain pair of shoes that just sort of held me back.

Well, as you can easily see from the past tense above, I finally did buy these glorious shoes – at Barney’s, in New York amidst the “ooh’s, aah’s” and “we’re going to kill you if you don’t buy those shoes” of my best gals, with that blasted monumental birthday looming (wow, my life is such a cliché) – and, what can I say:  Holy Fuck I Love My Shoes.

Look, I don’t trot out the Holy Fuck for just anything so trust me when I tell you that these shoes are just IT.  They’re not crazy styles, they’re almost sensible.  Heh, that’s funny.  They are black and shiny and sexy and super high and sleek and, in three words, because I could go on forever, Red Soled Perfection.  I would sleep in these shoes if I wasn’t worried about my sheets.  Now, your sheets on the other hand … AH !  See!  See what these shoes have done!? Who says stuff like that ?!

Anyway, what I love best about these shoes (aside from all the above AND what they do to my calves) is how at once they make me feel all sorts of smart and stupid.  Smart for having carved out a little life for myself where I can drop some serious coin on a pair of shoes without a struggle, and stupid because regardless of this nice little living, I dropped some pretty ridiculous coin on a pair of shoes.  Is this not a perfect dichotomy?  My shoulder perched angel and devil are in continual conversation and they are both absolutely right – I am sometimes smart.  And I am often quite stupid. 

Told you: Red Soled Perfection. 

Who Are You ?

For the last few years I’ve exchanged neighbourly pleasantries with a man who lives down the hall from me.   He’s often with his enormous dog or petite wife.  Nothing odd or weird, just normal neighbour stuff. 

While reading The Globe this past weekend, there he was again but this time he wasn’t with his dog or his wife, he was staring up at me from The Arts section.   

Turns out my nice neighbour is a world renowned artist.  He chats with Madonna and the guys from Metallica and has major showings of his work in prestigious galleries all over the world.  While his work is a bit weird for my “I love flowers” conventional taste, it is really quite cool.  Along with this, he’s also suffered from various forms of mental illness his entire life.  The art heals him, he says. 

I’m not sure which aspect of his life I found more interesting, but reading about him made me think that we really don’t have any idea about anyone, do we?  Now, I’m not saying that the lady sitting next to me on the streetcar is a Nobel Laureate or anything, but I’m sure she’s got some story - just like you do and just like I do. 

Thanks to The Globe, I now know who my neighbour really is.  But, tell me, who are you?

My Slap In The Face

Everyone needs a Slap In The Face. 

As I’m only a supporter of movie violence, this Slap In The Face actually takes the form of a person and, as such, is figurative.  Your Slap In The Face always has your back and because of this is allowed to be brutally honest.  Your Slap In The Face tells you the things you need to hear and not the soft serve pandering of advice we’ve grown accustomed to these days.  They are adeptly able to wade through your specific issue of delusion, often replete with unicorns and fairies, and see it in its truest form (delusions full of unicorns and fairies) and provide you with the requisite Cher to Cage “Snap Out of It” slap.  Then, you regroup and proceed normally through life all the better and wiser for your Slap In The Face. 

I love my Slap In The Face.  She is the actual to my probable; the hard ‘never will be’ to my wistful ‘what if’; the 60 Minutes to my 30 Rock; the Sara Connor to my Mary Poppins; the .. okay, you get the picture.  I wish she lived closer so the figurative slaps could be in person – there is something about a furrowed brow that really makes me snap to attention - but, she doesn’t so she must cyber deal with me.  This also means a hella lot of caps and bolds which I can handle, but only for her.

I am obviously reducing our relationship to a miniscule aspect of what she means to me and for this I know she’ll forgive me.  She knows there’s way much more to her and me and us than this particular role she takes on.  Obviously.  But sometimes, when I really need it – and lately, I seem to be needing it quite a bit - I am ever so grateful that she’s there for me like this.

I love my Slap In The Face.