Surprise!

Anyone ever positively shock the crap out of you?  Like you thought they were one way and then they do something which makes you look at them in a whole new way? 

Love.  This.

I was working away the other day and a guy I work with – who I do talk to and pal around with – sent me a really sweet music video, just out to the blue.  It was an old song I hadn’t heard in years, by a band we’d talked about in the past, and it put a real smile on my face. 

When I asked him about it later, he simply said he was walking by my desk and I looked a little blue so he thought he’d cheer me up with this video.

Love. This.

Half the time you wonder if people notice you have a head, let alone a little frown.  This guy falls into that dudeoblivious category pretty succinctly, but him sending me that clip has me thinking that maybe he’s not so dudeoblivious afterall.

Love.  This.

Turn a table. Do the unexpected.  Don’t be your assumed self.  Create a smile through shock and surprise.

Love.  It.

Crime Against Humanity

I was at my cousin's for dinner the other night.  Truly great night, only to be made greater with my all time favourite dessert :  pie & ice cream.

Into the freezer my sweet cousin goes and what - to her embarrassment and my horror - does she discover?  The ice cream she wished to serve - and I hoped to eat - had developed freezer burn.

Do you know how long it takes ice cream to develop freezer burn?  I've never witnessed this phenomenon first hand, but can only guess it's an eternity.  How can this happen?  How could she let this happen to ice cream?  How could she commit this crime against humanity?

Ice cream must be shared, devoured, enjoyed.  Often.  It must not be forgotten in a cold dark freezer left to spend its days with frozen peas and ice packs.  It must be used to spread happiness and joy to those around us and ourselves.  We must eat more ice cream.

Share, Devour, Enjoy.  Often.  Perhaps not the most appropriate life philosophy, but as an ice cream philosophy, it's perfectly delicious.

Share, Devour, Enjoy.  Often.

Like Now.

Best.Night.Ever.

I knew I'd arrived when the announcer said :

"If you will be going to the washroom, there will be seat filler taking your place for the duration of your visit.".  That's right.  Me.  A seat filler.  I needed a seat filler.  Do you know who needs seat fillers ?  People at award shows.  I WENT TO AN AWARD SHOW!  LIVE!  IN PERSON! I WAS THERE! 

The Junos.  Me, Cres (who better ?! - a music encyclopedia AND the funniest person I know) and a whole lotta fun.  In a break from written prose, I will write about my Juno experience in stream of consciousness ...

*I love Drake. 
*We're being entertained during commercial breaks with performance highlights from past Juno shows.  Platimum Blonde is up now - is it sad that I still know all the lyrics to "Not in Love" ?  Really hope the guy beside me likes my voice - he'll be hearing it a bit ...
*Who is this Hedley person and how great is his song Perfect ?  Cres doesn't like them.  She's stubborn.
*Bryan Adams is looking good. 
*It's a real testament to Shania Twain's beauty that no one notices her atrocious fashion sense, or the odd bit to her acceptance speech, in an ode to Canada: "I love our lakes I love our bush." Well, yeah, okay.
*I know I'm a girl, but I LOVE RUSH.
*Cres is convinced Joni Mitchell wrote in a journal for years and one day opened it up and started strumming her guitar to the words in the journal. "You're a mean old daddy but you're all right."  Can't say I disagree. 
*I am so proud to come from a country that not only inducts a band like The Band into it's music hall of fame, but holds them is such high esteem.  Honestly who can't love a band that finds a word to rhyme with "ruckus" ... "Lord you don't know the shape I'm in".  Tribute to them was amazing.  And Robbie Robertson ?  So, so, cool - take me down that crazy river anytime, darlin'.  Anytime.
*Cres and I serenading each other to Crying.  Why not?
*Is it a bad sign for all "new artist" nominees that we've never ever heard of them ? We clapped hard for the winner - didn't want her to feel like Arcade Fire at the Grammy's.
*Tokyo Police Club are from Newmarket.  Shout out to the 905 ! Nice. Me likey.
*Ben Mulroney. Why are you here ? Why is your suit shiny ?
*Drake is losing everything (he went 0 for 6) but still a gracious host. He is incredible.  The "Old Money" bit ?  Classic.
*Cres gets quote of the night (of course).  Half of Lady Antebellum (so, Ante or Bellum?) announces a country performance by Johnny Reid.  Cres advises " time to sleep". Hey, he's no Dixie Chick, but not all bad !
*We are bummed Natalie & Fiest didn't perform with Broken Social Scene, looks like they've moved on, so I guess we should too.
* I want Sarah McLachlan's hair.
*Another great commercial break clip with Celine when she had eyebrows.
*Daniel Lanois confuses me.
*Neil Young - all class.  Humble, gracious, wise.  "Look to yourself and your friends to see how to be a humanitarian." We will Neil.
*ARCADE FIRE - Rococo was one of the best live performances I have ever seen. Ever.
*Neil gets Artist of Year. Take THAT Biebs.
*Who the hell is Chromeo ? HOT MESS ? Yes, please !
*So, Alex and Geddy are here but they're not performing. If you don't know who I'm referring to, I don't want to know you.

What a night, what a night. It all went by so fast - much faster than an at home telecast, although I'm not sure if this particular show's pace translated as such to the folks at home. Weigh in, won't you? Can't say I'm any closer to the GGs or Oscars (aka mecca), but as a life experience night these Juno's rocked. Hard.

Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume Three - Mr AlmostPerfect

Welcome to Friday, I’m in Love!  This Friday series will share my tales, both funny and absurd, but mostly funny, from my real life as a crummy dater.  Or, maybe just my crummy dates.  Either way, these cautionary tales are public service announcements for the heart weary and hopeful – read wisely, carefully.  These “types of dates” are rare breeds indeed, so, please, fellas, don’t be insulted – and also don’t be one of these guys.   Ladies:  interesting times, yes.  On the bright side, I've already spent time with these quirky cats so you don’t have to and you’re welcome.  

Volume Three - Mr AlmostPerfect

So, yeah, after all this time, this one still really, really bugs me.  Not for anything more than when it was all said and done I ended up feeling like a super chump.  

It’s a Thursday night, I’m at The Drake.   You know those nights when you really don’t  feel like going out, but once you commit you must also commit to having a good time because why be the downer? That was me on that Thursday night at The Drake.  Mr AlmostPerfect started talking to me immediately.  How lovely.  He was lovely.  And cute and ridiculously silly.  His silliness was witty and clever so that also meant he was smart.  The night was progressing rather well.  I suppose in date-speak you could say I was picked up.  I really hate that term, but we must all follow the vernacular, right?  So, time to go and Mr AlmostPerfect writes down my email address and – get this – circles back after we’ve said our goodbye’s to ensure he’s reading it right.  I’m impressed.  But I force myself to immediately forget about him because the chances of him actually getting in touch with me are maybe 40%, even though we (in my opinion) totally hit it off and he was (in my friend’s opinion) totally into me.  {This forgetting about him attempt was really just an attempt. Impossible!}.

Okay, Friday morning.  At work.  Feeling and looking a little worse for wear but all worth it.  Totally worth it.  I’m channeling positive thought territory by assuring myself that even if Mr AlmostPerfect never contacts me again, I had a great night so who cares. Moreover, it is possible to actually meet someone decent and normal with a good job and jazzy personality at a bar.  It is possible to be picked up.  Olga:  2 / Life Alone With Cats: 0.  So, I’m feeling good. 

How to feel better?  You know it - Mr AlmostPerfect Emails Me!  Amazing.  Plans are made (by him!  I told you:  Mr AlmostPerfect!), off we go and for a time, it’s all quite great.  He’s the requisite check mark on that long stupid list we make:  funny/smart/well travelled/well read/great job/snappy dresser/thoughtful/proactive/ interesting … blah, blah, blah.  So, imagine my shock / surprise when I get an email (don’t even get me started on the method here – an email?  If this is a step above the post- it note, it’s a broken step above indeed.) that basically says: “You’re so great and so amazing, blah, blah, blah but I don’t think we share enough common interests for the long term.”

I will note now that Mr AlmostPerfect was really really sporty.  He played soccer obsessively. He ran marathons for fun.  He skied all winter in places where they helicoptered you to the mountain and dropped you from the helicopter so you could then ski down the mountain.  Cool.  For him.  I believe the last word anyone would ever use to describe me is sporty and this, most specifically the skiing, was apparently a big problem for Mr AlmostPerfect.  I, of course, just didn’t get it.  If I went out with someone who only shared my common interests I’d be dating a gay guy (totally fine, but not for everything) and wouldn’t be expanding my own little brain for the something new.  I really like this aspect of meeting new people – Show me!  Tell me!  Teach me!  We did talk about it, but ultimately when one person makes this sort of decision, the 2^nd person has no choice but to accept it.  I’ve now (finally) come to believe this is completely true – you can’t change a person’s mind here because they are already out.  So, we’re out.  Bye, Bye Mr AlmostPerfect.   I’m not going to lie:  this one stung like a motherfucker.  I wasn’t heartbroken, I was heartdemolished and will now publicly thank the friends who had to listen to my whining self talk about it until even I had nothing more to say.  This took a long time. 

After awhile though, things pick up as they do.  Until of course, something else happens to take you right back.  You see, I eventually discovered – completely innocently – that Mr AlmostPerfect, throughout the entire time we were whatever we were, had a girlfriend.  Not a Lars and the Real Girl girlfriend, a real person serious girlfriend.  She lived out of province and had, just before my discovery, moved here to do all the things real couples do, with Mr AlmostPerfect.

Jesus Christ.  So now I’m not only heartdemolished, I’m braindemolished too?  How did I not figure this out?  Are my Spidey Senses broken? How could I be so stupid?  He wanted to cut loose because we’re obviously not Mormons and I thought it was because I didn’t like to ski.  Dumb.  Dumb.  Dumb.  Stupid. Stupid.  Stupid.

So that’s the story of Mr AlmostPerfect.  Still stings like a motherfucker.  Not because of what could have been, but because of what I did, albeit unknowingly, to this poor girl who actually thinks Mr AlmostPerfect is her Mr Perfect.  How do you get over that?

Your Uniform

Do you feel like you dress in a uniform?  While not flammable polyester with a nametag, it’s basically the same thing everyday with minor variances so people don’t think you are wearing the same thing everyday?  

My answer to this question is a resounding YES.

Work :             Skirt / tailored shirt / sweater of somesort.  Repeat. 

Play:                 Jeans / tailored shirt / sweater of somesort.  Repeat.

I have a closet (okay, fine – 2 closets) choc a bloc with clothes that all look the same.  Everything’s either black, white, brown or grey and any real colour is muted and light.  There are no prints, there are no brights.  Stripes?  I laugh at you. I have 16 collared, tailored shirts and 9 of them are white.  Obviously, I have a problem. 

But do I?  I like dressing like a Garanimal.  It’s so easy.  I’ve tried to bust out of my shell a few times but I feel like a fraud – who is this person in the flowered shirt?  I’m a comfort zone person who relishes consistency and stability and I think my uniform – like wardrobe is a reflection of that.   Boring ?  Maybe.  But I’m down with it. 

Now, my shoes on the other hand …

Limitless

Saw Limitless this week - it's the story of (no need for a spoiler alert, if you've seen the trailer you know the story but not the whole story, so go see the movie!) a guy down on his loser luck who pops this wonder pill - NZT - and his luck and life completely turn around.  He's writing books, playing piano concertos, learning languages, manufacturing algorithms to beat the market, being fitted for custom made suits (moviedom's symbol that you've made it) and living this incredible life.  There is no end to his brain capacity and no limit to what he can do.  He is Limitless.

The movie ends as it ends (not telling!) but I wish it didn't end that way.  What I wanted for everyone to discover at the end of the story was that NZT wasn't some complex pharmaceutical magic elixir at all, but a Tic Tac.  For The Coop (Bradley Cooper, of course.  Can I digress for a moment and admire the smile of God that befell Jennifer Garner, who, whilst on Alias, got to work with The Coop, Michael Vartan and the talented Victor Garber ?!) to learn that this newfound power of his limitless brain was a product of his own brain, of his own will.  He accomplished all this stuff because he simply believed he could, so he did.

We're all limitless.  We can set our bars high (Gold ! Medal ! Olympian !) or low (eat ! chips !) but either way it's up to our own brains to convince us that we can or can't do things.  Sometimes, the things we think we can do don't work out as we wanted or hoped but that doesn't matter.  What matters is the try, the belief, the do.  You don't need NZT for that - you just need you.

Do. Believe. Try.  Be Limitless.

Excuses, Excuses

Tired of excuses: heard 'em all, trotted some out myself.

You're not helping matters with excuses.  You're separating yourself from the problem by making it about something else.  Your lateness could never possibly be about not giving yourself enough time to be on time, it's clearly traffic !  That work snafu ?  Yeah, obviously Joe didn't give you proper instructions - I mean, how could you possibly have legitimately misunderstood ?  Didn't run that errand you promised ?  Well, the subway was delayed and you couldn't get there on time.  God forbid you actually forgot !

This is so lame.  What ever happened to taking responsibility ?  To owning your shit ?

Are we so concerned about being perfect we can't admit to making a mistake, to screwing up, to being human ?  Think about it - when your excuse becomes the story, you divert focus. Let's take the mother of all excuses :  The dog that ate your homework. Problem isn't your not done homework, it's your dog.  Late isn't your problem, it's traffic.  You're not moron, Joe is.  Damn subway !  Why the pressure ? Who cares ?  You'll screw up, you'll get it right, you'll ebb, you'll flow - that's life.  Stop wimping out by trying to be perfect, because that's what excuses are :  an attempt at perceived perfection.  Perfect's easy.  Know what's hard ?  Manning up to your screw ups and living to tell the tale.  Being confident in knowing you are not a colossal moron, just a teeny one at this brief moment in time.  No sweat.

Take responsibility, own your shit and become a better person. 

No excuses.

Alter Ego

My Mom is something.  Something pretty fantastic.

She was dealt a pretty hard blow three some years ago, thinking her life was set and ready for all the enjoyments she and my Dad deserved and worked so hard for.  She's now alone, missing dearly the man she spent 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with for 37 years, basically rethinking and rebuilding her whole life plan.  Ever feel lost ?  Try that life blow on for size.

Old fashioned has nothing on my Mom.  My bro and I often joke that she is the oldest almost -  60 year old  you'll ever meet in your life.  She never gets really excited about anything and asks you the same question a zillion times to either ensure you're not lying to her or to make sure she heard you right.  She loves the monarchy and really dislikes The Jolie because Jennifer and Brad belong together.  She calls Jennifer Lopez "La Lopez".  She won't drive if it might rain, says things like "ask the internet" and has real trouble figuring out the On Demand feature on her TV.    We nicknamed her Panic Pat ages ago - everything is a big deal and when she's not making a big deal of it, she's worrying about it or convinced it's going to go all wrong.

I know she sounds like a total loon, but she's totally not.  While Panic Pat gets the most attention, I like to focus on my Mom's alter ego.  This alter ego, which my Dad christened Mighty Mouse, is invincible.
 
To give you a visual, my mom is tiny - maybe 5'2" and she's pretty adorable - she doesn't have any wrinkles and really hasn't aged (which is scary to be honest but actually pretty cool), her style is markedly classic.  She has clothes that are over 20 years old, still fashionable, still beautiful and they still fit.  Where Panic Pat is unsure, Mighty Mouse is determined, competent and efficient.  She can whip up dinner for 20 with a moment's notice; iron a shirt in 5 minutes flat; resuscitate dead plants; tell me what’s happening in the markets; get a stain out of anything; paint your bedroom; lay patio stones and do all this while baking a cake and telling off the furniture delivery guy.  Mighty Mouse is sarcastic (family curse), funny and doesn't let anything slide.  She is always exactly where you need her when you need her.  She's a little spitfire.  This is my Mom.

I get frustrated when my Mom lets Panic Pat take over, but I know Panic Pat is a product of being married to an incredibly strong, solid and decisive man.  Our house was nothing if not patriarchal and it didn't leave her much room to manoeuvre.  Regardless of how often my Dad tried to get her out of her comfort zone she knew she didn't need to, so she rarely did.  Now, without him, she needs to figure herself out for herself.  For a woman who has spent her entire life completely devoted to her family, thinking semi - selfishly can only be a struggle.  Imagine that.

We all have aspects of my Mom's alter egos within us, I know.  Panic Pat is an easy default, for sure.  Mighty Mouse is intimidating - being competent and all knowing and capable ?  That's pressure.  My Mom ?  She IS all those things without even knowing it and that is infuriating to me - she has no idea how amazing she is and doubts herself all the time.  Worse ?  Growing up and even now, when we exhibit a remote slide into Panic Patness out comes Mighty Mouse to whip us back into shape.  So, what are we going to do ?  I'll tell you, we're not letting this Panic Pat thing take a strong hold for long and we know she's up to the challenge.  The woman is remarkable and we need to patiently get her to a place where she knows what we all know.  We're going to turn the tables on her with reassurance and love, love and reassurance.  It's the least we can do because this Mighty Mouse ?  This Mighty Mouse needs to fly.

Did It!

Do you sometimes contemplate something for so long that by the time you actually DO it it feels like a big meh ?  Like, what was all that thinking about ?  Me ?  I do this all the time. 

I finally did my big think thing today and, of course, what was all that thinking about ?!  It's great - I feel great - what a waste of time all that thinking was !

I feel like magnifying the significance of this thing I did by embarking on a whole new road.  It's sunny, spring is in the air and I'm getting the funk out.  Done with the funk.

Sometimes it's easier to work from the outside in.

Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume Two - The Fake Vegan

Welcome to Friday, I’m in Love!  This Friday series will share my tales, both funny and absurd, but mostly funny, from my real life as a crummy dater.  Or, maybe just my crummy dates.  Either way, these cautionary tales are public service announcements for the heart weary and hopeful – read wisely, carefully.  These “types of dates” are rare breeds indeed, so, please, fellas, don’t be insulted – and also don’t be one of these guys.   Ladies:  interesting times, yes.  On the bright side, I've already spent time with these quirky cats so you don’t have to and you’re welcome.   

Volume Two - The Fake Vegan

This was likely doomed from the start. I mean, who was I kidding with this one?  A vegan?  I’m Greek!  I love my meat!  I love ice cream! And cheese! I often think the world would be a much better place if we only ate cheese, ice cream and burgers – so, this Vegan thing is really really outside my box, but it’s bad to have a small box so off I went to enlighten myself.

In truth, the whole notion of veganism, vegetarianism and any type of foodism fascinates me.  Anyone who can be so diligently restrictive with their diet in the name of (perceived) good health gets major kudos in my books.  I have a hard time with even the  mildest restriction because everything I eat tastes so damn good, how can you say no ?!

All in all an okay start.  Chit chat, ha-ha-ha’s, you know how it goes. I was incredibly curious about the day to day food life of a vegan so I had to ask what he ate. “Interesting” fare:  lots of brown rice, vegetables, oatmeal, fruit, tofu, tempeh (have you eaten this?  It’s the culinary world’s answer to smelly socks).  It all sounded rather greybeige boring. I know for sure I could never do this.  Food was obviously just fuel for this guy, and that’s okay, I guess.  I’m not sure if he was trying to convert me but the conversation never ever ventured far from the “veganism rocks” path.  It went on ad nauseam, ad finintum: It cured his mom of rheumatism; it gives him more energy; red meat is the devil; give it a chance and it will stabilize the global economic crisis AND world peace in general.  I mean it was a bit much but, again, passion is passion and he was truly passionate about this lifestyle. 

Time to order and I’m conflicted.  Do I order a meal respectful to my date or do I draw my line in the slaughterhouse and order the lamb chops?  Of course, I do the former – Portobello mushroom salad for me, please.  And then it’s his turn.  And he orders:

THE SALMON.

This is not a joke.  If you know anything about me you know I am rarely able to let things like this slide – so I asked him “Sorry, am I confused about veganism, because that’s fish.”  He responded that it’s very hard for him to stick to the lifestyle in restaurants so that’s when he treats himself with fish or meat. 

So, you’re not a vegan then, are you? Am I actually a vegetarian, but only at breakfast when I don’t eat bacon?

Time for dessert and I literally had to bite my tongue not to ask the waitress for any “meat based cakes”, I can’t believe I missed out on those lamb chops! I order the dairy rich gelato, he, after sending our waitress back to the kitchen to verify that his own order of gelato was not dairy based orders his own.  Both come to the table – along with TWO cappuccinos, both of which were not for me – and he digs into my gelato before I get my spoon in.  Of course he did.

So, no, dear date - you’re not a vegan.  You’re a fake vegan.  Moreover, you’re the worst kind of everything – you’re a poser.

Look, I’m trying not to judge but this is all sorts of wrong to me on so many levels.  I can rationalize pretty much anything.  Anything, but this, seriously?  How? Come on!  Don’t espouse a lifestyle so fervently and poo-poo mine when you revert back at the first sign of trouble.  Yes, I agree, being a vegan is one hell of a commitment – but you’re not making any sort of commitment if you don’t commit are you? This is hyprocritical and self righteous and easy way out to the max. At least play your food charade game for the duration of our date and grab some street meat on the way home – no would be the wiser (except your conscious!).

You know it’s not the food thing, right? I know so many people who are REAL vegetarians and others with some pretty quirky food hang ups and while this is completely opposed to my food view as I eat it all (even my lifelong hate on for Brussel Sprouts is now over because I learned to make them with bacon.  Shut it.) it’s never an issue.  Why should it be?  No one gets holier than though about not eating this or that, not one person is better or more pure - we all just enjoy what we enjoy in non-preachy yummy-ness.  The Fake Vegan, though, is about sucking and blowing at the same time and while you can take this in small bits from some people you’re not going to take it in big bits from most people, especially ones that suck and blow with an air of self righteousness that should be saved for saints & martyrs.

So, good luck to you, Fake Vegan – enjoy your life of lentils and lamb chops.  I know you eat them both, and not just when no one is looking.

Everything for the Why

Cool little technique we're learning in Improv class:  Everything for the Why.

Why are you doing what you're doing in this scene?  Justifying your action (washing dishes, fishing, baking cookies, whatever) endows your location and solidifies your "where".   Your why makes your where stronger, so everything you do is for this why.  I'm baking cookies because there is no damn way Sally Sithman is going to win the church bake sale again ! Bam - go.  I'm angry baking in the kitchen, and who knocks on my door ?  My scene partner, who now becomes Sally Sithman, or my sympathetic neighbour or ... !  Simple beginning to a scene.  I'm sure there's a better way to explain this, but this is what I got out of teach's long winded monologue on the topic (he is a working actor, don't you know).

This Everything for the Why got me thinking.  Do we do this ?  Do we stop and think about what we're doing, why we're doing it ?  Are our whys solid ?  Meaningful ? Or are we going through motions ?  Are we just because-ing through life ?

Try it:  contemplate your whys.  They don't need to be monumental and sometimes they're as simple as "because I don't want to get fired" or " to relax" .  That's completely fine, but if your why seems slightly lame or  not worth the effort of the action, you've got to rethink things.  You've got to step back and maybe not do that thing.  Time is precious, we know this, by contemplating your why you immediately, effortlessly, honestly prioritize your life and do the things worthy of your time.   You owe this to yourself, don't you?

Bam - go : Everything For The Why, people !

January 1991

Where were you in January of 1991?  What were you doing? 

If you asked me that question last week it would take me some time to do the math, figure it out and piece it all together.  But not today - today I’m armed with a tool so powerful it makes thinking unnecessary and bad memories unembarrassing.  I am armed with:  a mixed tape.  More specifically, a mixed tape succinctly labelled “January 1991”.  The mixed tape, of course, was all the rage back in the day and I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have had the most amazing mixed tape benefactor.  SFW had a mixer (a mixer!) and worked at Starsound(s?) – possessing tools and tons of time, we were soundtracking our lives something fierce. Here’s the track list of this miraculous tape, found in the 149 dust up over the weekend:

SIDE ONE

Ride on Time

Back To Life

Ain't Nobody

Useless

Can You Still Dance

Acid Thunder

Just Started

Get A Life

Reachin

SIDE TWO

Round The Way Girl

Take Me With You

Enjoy The Silence

What It Takes

Leave Your Hat On

Hot in The City

Young Americans

Miracle

Somebody

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

The Rose

Eclectic, you bet.  Surprising, maybe.  I know you’re thinking it – no U2?  Don’t fret , U2 got their own mixed tapes, dream concert playlists, if you will.  

So now, armed with this musical time capsule, I can tell you without even thinking exactly what I was doing at this moment in time in January of 1991.  I was in 2^nd year University at UofT taking International Relations at Convocation Hall with the esteemed Janice Gross Stein.  We were learning about the Gulf War Part One but mainly, I, along with SFW (of course, do any great memories not involve her?), were staring across Convocation Hall at the perceived man of our dreams PM (we hoped he was a twin).  These were glorious times, because “All I Ever Wanted, All I Ever Needed Is Here In IR”.  With apologies to Depeche, I still sing it just like that.  We were hitting that place on Richmond on the weekends (GoGo’s?  Whiskey Saigon?) - so we could see new and different people, which is a huge plus to going to university in the city because who wants to see the same old people all the time? - and generally just having the greatest times, although you never really realize that until after the time, right?

So there you go, just like that the power of this mixed tape magically transported me back to a place 20 years ago without a second’s hesitation.  Very cool.  Even cooler?  I’ve transferred this music onto a CD and can take myself back in time anytime I want.  Perhaps coolest, though?  These songs?  These songs haven't aged a bit.  Or maybe my taste hasn't, but I guess that's pretty cool too.  Either way, I can't stop listening to this new CD of mine.    

Amazing Find.  Amazing Music.  Amazing Memories. 

Ageing

Don’t worry – this isn’t going to be a deep and new agey piece about how we should all accept the signs of aging with maturity and good humour.  Yeah, I know we should, you know you should, so just do it and stop whining.   Let's instead talk about something more fascinating :  ageing and Brad Pitt.

So I’m watching Spy Game (did you not LOVE this movie? Pitt / Redford / CIA intrigue / flashbacks / turmoil / love / war / friendship – it’s all there, so great).  The film was released in 2001 which of course is just 10 years ago but it’s not really “just” 10 years for Brad.    

I’m not sure what happened over the past 10 years.  You know the Brad I’m talking about, right?  It’s the Brad you think of when you think of Brad:  a really amazing looking shockingly handsome guy – unbelievably good looking, like Great Job, God – you did it!  You have made the perfect male specimen:  a perfect frame to match the perfect face and a really sexy voice as well as the double whammy dual sexy capability to rock a pair of pants and sunglasses like no other known human creature.   I’m not really gushing – this is all universal fact.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I will declare my stake in the Great Divide of Womanhood now as a George Girl.  The Clooney vs Pitt debate is a strong one amongst females the world over – you’re one or the other.  Loving George means you can still love Brad, but it’s not the same kind of love.  My love for George knows no bound or judgement, which is why I would never be writing anything like this about my Georgie (who, by the way, is ageing extremely well).  I have a huge soft blind for George and his dirty little life – that’s love!  Anyway, back to Brad : I feel 2001 will go down as the Best of Brad on film: Spy Game, Ocean’s 11 (don’t get me started), The Mexican (yes, it sucked, but he looked divine).  A really beyond great looking trifecta of cinematic Brad delight. 

After that?  We have beards and goatees and long hair (not Legends of the Fall long, just gross long) and odd head wear, not so great skin and that weird toothpick he was sporting for awhile.  We lose Jen and get The Jolie and a villa full of kids and obvious exhaustion and … we lose the look.  We have lost the perfect specimen.  There was a glimmer in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – you know the scenes - he’s on a motorcycle and then that boat and you think he’s back, but really it was just great lighting.  Tease.

It’s all too bad, really.  For our viewing pleasure, I suppose.  But in a real life way it’s actually rather satisfying, because regardless of the charmed life Brad is leading – what, with his United Nations family, hot sex with The Jolie, philanthropic pursuits, tons of dough, satisfying career and, and, and, we’ve all got one over one him.  How?  Easy! Go right now and look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?  I bet the last 10 years have been kinder to you than they’ve been to Brad.  Right?  Am I right? 

Okay, fine, maybe not completely mature, agreed.  But good humoured, oh yeah, baby.  I’m chuckling just thinking about it.

Your Wheelhouse

Where’s your wheelhouse? 

Where’s your go-to place for feeling confident in your knowledge, skill and familiarity?  Somewhere where, even if things do go a bit wrong, they won’t go disastrously wrong because, well, you’re ready for anything and can roll with the punches?  Your wheelhouse doesn’t need to be anything formal or something you’ve actually been trained or schooled in, but more a life comfort zone place where the best of you can shine. 

Where’s my wheelhouse? 

At first glance, my wheelhouse will likely seem a bit superficial (I’m sure at first glance I seem a bit superficial too, but I really don’t care) – it’s obviously not in an operating theatre or behind the wheel of an ambulance, but it’s pretty life crux stuff in its own little way.  My wheelhouse, if I had to say, is entertaining.   No, that’s it:  entertaining – like hosting parties.

I love hosting anything and everything:  open house drop in shindigs; bring your slippers movie nights; good old fashioned booze ups; formal dinner parties; bridal / baby showers; casual buffet affairs – you name it, I’m on it.   From deciding to do it, to invites, menu planning, cocktail concocting, cooking and getting the old place in order it’s all full on fun to me.  I will admit to being a bit of an OCD planner (you can admit I’m a LOT of an OCD planner), which takes all of the day of stress off the table, but truth be told even spontaneous affairs never stress me out – they almost relax me. 

Entertaining big & small was the way I was brought up – the restaurant business is deeply embedded in my DNA, and growing up our home was simply an extension of the family restaurant.  People coming over, food cooking, beverages pouring, lots of laughter.  It seems that any monumental occasion that took place in my extended family happened at our house.  We were pros and ran things like a military operation:  Dad was the General, of course, and the rest of us simply followed his instructions and took our posts really seriously (fun is very serious business!  Do you want to be running out for ice during a party because YOU FORGOT THE ICE?? Criminal!) – even as full grown adults and my brother as a schooled restauranteur, we never went rogue with anything.  Why mess?  We had tents and clowns and DJs and animals on spits (just lambs & pigs, relax) and so many amazing times.  Clean up was always a pain, but, hey – you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

Growing up like this takes the edge of entertaining for sure, but it also added some initial pressure. I am, of course, the black sheep of the family by eschewing the family business and going into … finance, and I shied away from this sort of thing for awhile.  I figured without a full on restaurant, large house and small army backing me how could I succeed.  I soon came to miss it, though – the warm feeling that comes out of the very simple notion of breaking bread with good friends when the only real thing on the agenda is more wine and laughter.  There were obviously some initial marginal disasters (nothing blue soup or food poisoning worthy) that you can only learn from - like, some things are not worth making from scratch (baba ghanoush, seriously, why bother?), it’s typically best when you keep things simple and, of course, stick with what you know.  I’m not Martha Stewart-y in my methods or execution as sometimes I think she does forget that it’s really all about the company of friends, but I am particular (surprise!) and I prefer not to leave anything to chance.  This means there’s always enough food & drink for at least 10 or 20 more people, so please – come one come all!

There you go, friends.   I’m sitting in my house surrounded by you all, your plates and glasses are full and there are big smiles on your faces, and, maybe, I had a little part in putting those smiles there - that’s my wheelhouse.  What’s yours?

Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume One - Mr Radio

Welcome to Friday, I’m in Love!  This Friday series will share my tales, both funny and absurd, but mostly funny, from my real life as a crummy dater.  Or, maybe just my crummy dates.  Either way, these cautionary tales are public service announcements for the heart weary and hopeful – read wisely, carefully.  These “types of dates” are rare breeds indeed, so, please, fellas, don’t be insulted – and also don’t be one of these guys.   Ladies:  interesting times, yes.  On the bright side, I've already spent time with these quirky cats so you don’t have to and you’re welcome.   

Volume One: Mr Radio

I really liked Mr Radio.  Mr Radio really liked me. 

He’s Mr Radio because he is actually on the radio and I gotta tell ya, waking up to the sound of his professional voice in the morning was pretty awesome.  Like he was just talking to me, but I knew he wasn’t but he sort of was.  Anyway, his voice - what a voice!  On air, in person, on the phone, it was beyond the best.  Quite soothing, with a bit of an authoritarian vibe – quite simply amazing.  We hit it off immediately, and quite honestly there is no better feeling in the dating world than this - nothing was ever awkward or questionable it was all just so easy, comfortable and quite, well, kinda hot.  Our dates were some of the best ever - insanely spontaneous, fun and exhilarating.  

I was soon high on Mr Radio and, it turns out, Mr Radio was simply high.

You see, along with all the great stuff Mr Radio had going for him and all our shared interests, Mr Radio really really liked pot. 

He talked about it quite frequently, right from the get go, actually.  And he is from out West, which I hear is a hotbed of pothead activity but I didn’t really put it all together because it really didn’t bother me. I take no moral stand on this at all.  Live and let live, I say!  It’s not for me (okay, yes, it’s true: Never done it.  Okay.  Judge That.) but why shouldn’t it be for you? 

Over time, though?    Over time it all became a bit much.  The layers of flakey-ness peeled themselves off his very attractive frame and it all became a bit, well, tiresome. 

He’d call me at 8 and think it was 4, when he called back at all. I had to stop leaving “hey it’s me” messages because he could never really put it together that me was ME.  I could have found this curious, but I mostly found it annoying.  He was obviously ultra lax on the parameters of time, punctuality and making any sort of plan.  He slept all day most days in his apartment that was one empty case of beer, a milk crate shelf and dirty sock away from a frat house.  I could have gone on with this for a long time, but when he breezily told me he had sired a child with a gal he saw “once or twice a couple months before we met” and “it was all cool, it’s all gonna be real cool”, I guess I kind of figured his life had actually taken a clear Spicoli minus surfboard path and all I could do was laugh.  I’m really trying not to be judge-y and independently maybe these things would have been somewhat okay and kind of quirky, but I don’t know – all together? Aren’t we done that now?  When you’re a grown up and you have a responsible sort of life should you really be smoking pot all the time and being completely flakey and impregnating random girls and being irresponsible all of time? 

It’s too bad, really.  Mr Radio’s potless persona was pretty amazing and I suppose his potfull  persona had it’s charm too.  I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with a guy like this – hell, I have a friend who married a guy like this – but I didn’t want to be Mr Radio’s momgirlfriend,  as I awaited things from his scary closet to pop into random conversations.  Talk about a buzzkill.  Who even knows if Mr Radio was as into me as I thought – I’ve come to think he liked my clean place, well stocked fridge and proximity to the bong shop down the street. I’m sure solid relationships are built on less, so, yeah, maybe I am searching too hard for something that’s right in front of me.  I’d like to think not. 

I do miss Mr Radio’s voice every now and again so it’s mildly reassuring to know I can just turn on my morning radio and get a little hit of him.  Pretty sure he’s getting his hits too.

Enough Already

Impressive Hollywood pedigree
Academy Award Winning Actress (now is not the time to discuss the merits, but Cate was robbed).
Blogger
Wife of Acclaimed Rock Star
Mother of Two Super Cute Kids
Pals With Really Cool People
Fitness Business Owner
SNL Host
Cookbook Author
Recurring TV Guest Star
Possessor of Recording Contract

Enough Already.  Enough Already Gwyneth Fucking Paltrow

I know you all love her and I, once, loved her too.  How can you not - she's full of class and poise and smarts.  Talented, gracious, so stylish. She speaks fluent Spanish and hangs with the Prince ! Admittedly, she's made some pretty questionable film choices, but I'm not sure if they were all her fault (Thanks for buying me that Oscar, Uncle Harvey, sure I'll make View From the Top for you!), so I'll slack her for that. The superlatives never end and I think it got the best of her.  She now wants to do everything and is everywhere.  Singing at The Grammy's AND Oscars, traipsing around Spain with Mario Batali, front row centre at Fashion Week, magazine cover over magazine cover, Glee, it never ends, does it ? The Gwyneth Paltrowfication of the world is numbing me.  What's next ?  Cirque de Soleil ?!

Enough Already!  Go look after your kids, make Chris some soup for his haggard voice (we know you can do this from scratch), read an amazing script (you must still get those, right?) OR focus on the singing OR one other of the gazillion things you think you need to do. Stop bombarding us !  You don't need to be a super-hyphenate.  You're better than that, Gywneth - you don't have to prove anything to anyone.  What is it ? Are you bored ?  Unfulfilled ? Do you need a hug ?

As William Blake said (I know you'll appreciate that, smartie pants ! ) : You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.

It's more than enough, now, Gwynnie,  much more than enough.

So Uncanadian

But is it really?  Just because something is Canadian do we have to like it, even though it’s crap? 

You know what I’m talking about people - it’s quintessentially Canadian with roots ingrained deep in our psyche.   The nation has bestowed it a nickname and the company itself uses our own national hero as a spokesperson (those are some heartwarmingly good commercials, I will admit).

It’s Tim Horton’s Coffee.  And it’s crap.

Gross.  Crap.  I don’t know how the people in charge of coffee (The Juan Valdez Cartel?) actually allow Tim Horton’s to call their coffee coffee.  Are there not standards?  There should be standards!

You all know I love my coffee.  I don’t drink it for its magical wake up properties – I drink it because I love how it tastes.  Bit of milk, slight stir, nice and hot  … I could drink 10 a day.  But I don’t because that’s just excessive and apparently not good for you.  Whatever.

Back to “Timmy’s” – Timmy’s!  How quaint!  This insipid nickname even annoys me.  “Going to grab a Timmy’s, can I get you one?” – Yeah, and pour some kerosene with a lit match down my throat while you’re at it.    NO!  No coffee is better than Tim Horton’s coffee.

I know this is almost flag burning unpatriotic but I will not waver. I’m not a ‘just because’ type of person and I’m not going to drink that swill just because it’s Canadian and it’s on every street corner and really the only drive thru in town.  NO!   I love my country, I do, and my enduring love affairs with peameal bacon and Kiefer Sutherland’s voice prove that.  I just wish my country loved me enough to stop the charade known as Tim Horton’s “coffee” once and for all.

Sick Day

Sledgehammer to the face.

This is how I describe a sinus infection.  Gross.  Like, EWW Gross but also really painful.  Like, my glasses feel like they weigh 100 pounds sitting on my nose and my eyelids are so heavy I am looking out of slits.  My face is actually swollen. Painful grossness.  Good times.

I don't get sick very often, but when I do it's hardcore.  I don't get colds, I get pneumonia.  I'm just that kind of overachiever. 

So today, I actually stayed home and had a sick day.  I don't do this very often either because, well, I don't really get sick.  I think I can count the number of sick days I've taken in my entire career on half a hand.  Feels weird here.  Sick, with kind of nothing to do.  Well, I can find things to do but I don't want to because my head hurts when I move it.  Sleeping would be great, but it hurts to lie down and sitting up sleeping isn't very relaxing.   It's all making me quite exhausted.

I can't read (back to hurt!) so, instead, I've watched movies.  FOUR movies!  So that's good.  Tangled, The American, Moulin Rouge & Inside Job.  All amazing, although the sledgehammer to face feeling magnified considerably with the last one.  Nothing like being reminded of the worst time in your career to get the joy of Walt, George & Ewan out of your system and good.  Sheesh.

In between the movie watching I made brownies because the smell of baking makes me really happy.  But, I can't smell anything.  I'd eat some brownies, which also makes me really happy, but I can't taste anything either. So that all sucks and what's the point.  

I'd like to watch Oprah but she has Gayle on today.  I hate Oprah + Gayle.  They are so annoying together.  You know I really hate them together because I want my best friend to be Oprah so I can be Gayle, right ?  Whose life is better than Gayle's ?  She could teach a Master Class on riding coattails.  Well played, Gayle, well played.

So, that's me on a Sick Day.

I'm going to go catch up on my celebrity gossip now.  It's been awhile since I tuned into Charlie Sheen's Tornado of Awesome and I could use a hit right now, likely better than a sledgehammer to the face, right?


Feel better, me !

Whimsy

I've been bombarded with whimsy lately.

From stage productions of Midsummer Night's Dream and The Fantasticks to the opera of The Magic Flute and an anniversary screening of The Princess Bride and finally Moonstruck, I can't seem to get away from fairy tales of whimsy and mirth where the girl always get the boy, baddies get their due and anything remotely wrong rights itself with minimal strife and struggle.

Charming, fantastical, whimsical. Delusional?

I don’t think it has to be.  We're inundated with bad news and real news and hard news at lightening speed everyday from here at home, abroad and beyond, it all gets a bit crushing, doesn't it?  Why can't we save a little room somewhere in our hopeful hearts and overtaxed brains for a bit of whimsy? A little place where, yes, the girl always get the boy, baddies get their due and anything remotely wrong rights itself with minimal strife and struggle?

This will open you up to a bit more heartache and disappointment, sure.  Most likely people will think you're a little crazy. Well, that's okay. You'll have highs and you'll have lows but you'll rise again to see what else life has in store for you. So, bring on the cynic and the sourpuss and bring on Don Henley, too, who told us we were being "poisoned by these fairytales", to them, life is about erecting barriers of cautiousness to exclude hope.  None for me, thanks.  I'll take a little shot of whimsy to warm my heart anyday.

The Demo

Big stuff going on at the family homestead and in the interest of your boredom, here's the 411 :

House tic-tac-toe, with D and family (aka the Constantopoulos Juniors) taking over the house we grew up in, and Mom downsizing to a smaller townhouse literally 2 minutes away.

All good.  All great.  It is the ultimate best situation ever. 

Our house - in Greek, the "patriatico spiti" or "patriachal home" - is an awesome house.  Huge house, huge lot, huge memories, huge patriarch.  Everything that was anything happened at 149 and now it will all continue to happen there with the Juniors.  Sweet.

Today, I walked into the house (can I still really call it "our" house ? it's D's house now, right?) and it didn't look much like "our" house.  It's demo'd - gutted to the core.  Walls are down.  Ceilings are exposed.  The place is a shell and I was simply overcome.

Overcome with what, it's hard to say.  Lots of feelings, but I can't quite place what they were.  I wasn't sad - we all would have been heartbroken to say goodbye to 149 so this move is amazing for everyone; not quite happy - too much destruction for that; excitement ? not that either, the finished product is too far away.  

I think I was flatly overcome with the realization that we are moving on.   Things are changing and while the changes are all good the reason why they're happening isn't.  It sucks, quite frankly and ineloquently.  I liked the way things used to be - I want things back the way they used to be.  Stubborn, huh?  Just like that huge patriarch who is, of course, indirectly responsible for all this change.  We can tip toe around things for a long time - I could tip toe forever, but sooner or later something has to happen to snap you into attention - the walls literally coming down did that to me today.    It's time to move forward and make new memories at 149, only now we have to make these memories without the person who made 149 so amazing to begin with.   Maybe overcome is understating things a bit.

Found Him!

It’s been a long road, friends.  The stories have been many, the heartaches deep.  You think it’s him - you hope it’s him – but in the end, inevitably, he ends up being a cruel imposter clothed in superior footwear awash in yummy smelling aftershave.  You can never really give up hope that he’s out there.  You must continue to believe that one day luck will finally smile upon you and you’ll find him, so you keep searching and hoping and hoping and searching. Then one day, yes, somehow, miraculously, by some mere fluke of timing and the fate you’ve really only seen on screen and stage, it happens - the moment when you realize you have actually found him, The One.

I found him quite by surprise, which is really the best way – better not to plan for these things, really.  He’s quite amazing.  Everything I ever dreamt about and more: funny, charming, smart, quick, supercute.  We laugh and giggle and BBM and roll our eyes together and play fashion crime court and talk all about boys.  Oh, I’m sorry.  You look confused.  The One, like, guy for me?  Hells & Whatevs – who needs him?  I have found The One Better.  I, Julianne, have found my George!

George is my Boybestie!  My Boybestie is … the bestest.  Because he’s amazingly funny and charming and smart and quick and super cute and makes me laugh all the time and has a very high alcohol tolerance and likes all the same things I do like books and musicals and keeping tabs on Jennifer Aniston’s happiness and is just like me in only the good just like me ways and is just simply the bestest Boybestie a girl could ask for. 

Every Julianne needs her George.  And my George was well worth waiting for.  

I love you, George!  J

Talent

I wish I had a talent.  A natural God given creative talent.    

I know I’m good at a few things but it’s not really talent.  It’s more like I’m good at following instructions (baking).

I try to get good at things but I soon realize that no matter how hard I try or how many lessons I take I will never ever be amazing at it and, well, I give up. 

I can’t sing to save my life.  The only place I feel comfortable singing is in my car – dear Lord, thank you for car windows!   I was forced to sing in Improv class last week.  I think it was worse for my classmates and let me tell you it was THE WORST for me!  This is why I’ve never karaoked.

I can’t draw anything.  If I tried to draw a map of directions from my office to the photocopy room, you would have no idea where to go. My last attempt to actually draw something was done under duress - a “self portrait” most 3 year olds would laugh at.  I don't precisely know the whereabouts of this drawing, but I can only hope it has ended up somewhere dark and lonely where people can't see it.

I can’t really dance.  Well, I do have some pretty fly dance moves, but they can only be considered fly when there is some form of alcohol in close proximity and everyone is drinking it.   I went to hip hop class once.  There was no alcohol.  There were many steps.  There was much laughter.  There was not much dancing.  

I can’t play a musical instrument.  I really tried hard at this one.  Initially, my piano lessons were fun and somewhat rewarding - hey! that’s me making music! But it soon became clear that I wasn’t actually reading the music, I was just memorising where my fingers needed to go.  This is fine for a start, but if you want to get to a level beyond “Three Blind Mice”, it’s a problem.

I realize that to become really great at something you need to train and practice – two things marginally remiss in my ‘talent searching exploits’ as noted above – but there does need to be an element of natural talent that allows you to truly excel with all this training and practice.  I know for damn sure that no training or practice would have allowed this voice, those moves and that pencil to make it to Broadway or study at the École des Beaux-Arts.

This kind of depresses me.  This ability to create something from nothing is, to me, the most amazing talent of all – I regularly attend shows/concerts/exhibits/plays/you name it to not only be transported to another time and place but to also be amazed at the wondrous feats taking place before me. Man, how I wish I could do all that! but, I can’t do any of that and I am simply awed by those who can.  This is admiration to the max and I should just consider myself incredibly lucky that I’m able to immerse myself in the talents of those that continually awe me like this, while I stick to what I do best:  following instructions.