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"I can still actually feel that smell..."

~ ~


i hit my first crush in the face with a tetherball.
then held his hand all the way to the nurse's office.

are you going far?

~ ~
Inspired by the best.homage.to.public.transport.ever. three of us decided to see just how far a TTC pass can get you. I've been in this city about a year and a half now, in cities in general my whole life so the 'burbs have always been a scary, mom-jeaned, angsty teen malled, lawn dotted place I rarely venture into. So, on a rainy Sunday we mapped out a route, gathered our bearings and were Steeles bound. We were glaringly obvious fish out of water, lost and found quickly, clutching transfers as reminders of where we came from. Having spent a maximum of eight minutes on a single subway car in the past, the nearly 20 minute stint was enough to start up suppressed childhood claustrophobia that was only further agitated on the solid half-hour bus ride. We peered through misty windows at identical dwellings, cubed into neighborhoods between expanses of basically nothing.

The mall itself was a different experience altogether. Personal boundaries were tested by people strolling arm in arm through narrow walkways, and babies reaching out of buggies for various shiny baubles on easy-access shelves. The sensory overload was immediate, expected and welcome after we spent thrity minutes amusing ourselves with funny sounding bus stops (Waggoner's Wells Lane was especially mirthful in our haze of ennui). We were carried by the flow of the crowd, ducking into the occasional shoe-box sized boutique and revelling at the sheer, miniscule and fuzzy. One shop in particular had me at hello (Kitty) as it was filled with plush or plastic renderings of the Japanese cartoons that were dubbed over at home and helped me learn Arabic.
Soon after I rediscovered the deliciousness of strawberry cream-coated biscuits in stick form, we acquiesced to the flashing, eardrum-shattering call of the enormous arcade. We were immediately enveloped by the scent of prespiring teens, who had their eyes trained on fleeting symbols that rained down the screens in front of them, expressions grave with concentration. Naturally we only debated joining in for about three seconds before the thought of obliterating zombies with machine guns had us battling tweens for turns and rematches.

The main reason for our Markham jaunt, the search for DVDs priced in package deals and sold on the DL, was seemingly in vain at first. One of the shopkeeps we'd asked, led us away from her other customers and, leaning in conspiratorially, informed us that the summer's seige/cop crackdown had left an impression on those that once openly sold bootlegged copies and that they had all but stopped completely. Her tone was grim and bordering on ominous, but the message was clear: keep looking. Somewhere between bubble teas, pointing at strange things in jars and wandering aimlessly (while debating returning to the addictive arcade for "just one more!") a flutter of loose leaf printer paper caught our collecive gaze. Knowing what it was immediately we stopped in front of the store, poised to pounce if we saw it again. Ever since the DVD crackdown certain stores have had to keep secret lists of the movies they had (but couldn't display) that one could order and come back for after a certain amount of time.

We may or may not have entered the store, huddled around that piece of paper, made three selections and listened to a surreptitious phone call in Mandarin. We also may or may not have stalled by eating sushi, wondered what the quality would be like (i.e. heads in the way of hand-held cams vs. FOR PROMOTION ONLY warnings) and returned 30 minutes later with a ripped piece of paper marked "30" in lieu of a receipt.

We may or may not have felt slightly badass on the way home.

would you like some fries with that ploy?

~ ~

I have a love hate relationship with Burger King. I abhor their fries, but I like their junior Whoppers. I dislike eating in their "restaurants", but I enjoy that they don't charge me for extra sauces. I hated this marketing strategy, but love this one.

Enter Burger King's "Flame". Obviously nobody's asking the public to genuinely wish to smell like "the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat". The very idea of reeking of beef is enough to turn ones stomach, and yet there have been reports that the wee bottles of meaty seduction are selling out. That's because the big thinkers behind BK's adevertising realized that it would take a lot more than paper crowns and a king with a giant head to sink a certain special-sauce encrusted ship- especially with their urban-friendly, coolhunted, internationally-reaching endorsements. Can we say Tim-ber-lake between bites?

Now, Burger King has decided to take the more facetious, playful route and created a product that is so repellent and unexpected that it's just aching to be a hit. And cheap! At only around $4 a bottle you can buy the perfect gag gift or stocking stuffer for some dude in your life who'll actually get the joke.

And if even one person is tempted to sink their teeth into the real thing (beef, I mean, not a guy friend) and pop over to their nearest drive-thru, then "Flame" might just reignite BK's fire.

the shortest day.

~ ~

We're all orphans this year.

Not in the depressing Twist/Copperfield kind of way, thankfully, but in more ways than we expected. Some are stranded, with family so far that staticky phone calls blur messages of love. Some have parents with reverse empty-nest syndrome that escape to foriegn islands leaving their chicks behind. Some have obligations to friends that demand they witness ceremonies that only happen once (ideally). And some have chosen paths that isolate and yet complete them in the way only a close friend can understand.

So when a good friend decided to hold her very first solo Winter Solstice dinner, we all gathered like bits and bobs from a shop of oddities, bringing with us the overflowing feelings we can't offer to our individual families this year. We broke bread (literally, as grain is key to good fortune), laughed and basked in our post-gorge glow. Terrible weather was easily forgotten, life stresses put on hold, anecdotes cordially drowned out by bursts of cassette tape nostalgia.

We rediscovered that friends can be like family- I even banished my ever-cynical ways as we made jokes about the impending year knowing that if in 2009, we found ourselves abandoned, marooned or deserted, we would find a way to one another again.

As our collective For-Solstice adopted Papa says, "Health, abundance, happiness and all the best for the new cycle."

F. Baz Fitzlurhmann.

~ ~

I love me some Luhrmann but ack?!

I won't even get started on the seemingly neverending, poorly written, cattle-heavy Aussie romp that made me wish I was at a screening for anything else- even this (because at least with that there would've been zero expectations, and at least three rows of squeeing teens to laugh at).

Fitzgerald is sacred, and lord knows Baz is capable of better, so if he so much as dreams of making this the last installment of a Luhrmann-Kidman* trio so help me...

* She's way too old to play Daisy, right? Too plastic?

hello, my name is...

~ ~

Corporate Cannibal

Now that I've (somewhat) gotten over my endoplasmic embloism, I bring you Grace MF-ing Jones. She's back with a MF-ing vengenace with her in-your-face, creepy brilliance and shows the cookie-cutter music industry who's boss. She will bite your MF-ing head off and lay an egg-case of sheer genius that only those that survive will be able to sample. Men are afraid of her. Women are afraid of fearing her.

Her new album Hurricane (her first after a nearly 20 year self-imposed hiatus/exile) is so her it practically slaps you in the face and says "I'm Grace Jones, bitch".

Also, yes, those are gratuitous chocolate MF-ing Grace Jones heads on the cover art.

Can we just talk for a moment about how she's old enough to be a grandmother and still sometimes wears only thongs to perform? I'm pretty sure she's actually an extraterrestrial.

shut up Piglet.

~ ~
I know it's really meta to blog about a blog but I just love coming across people with the kind of humour grandmothers across the universe would never attest to- rage against all things cute and furry.

Par example:

"What. The. Fuck. I don't even know what to say, Platypus. YOU MAKE NO SENSE. You're like some kind of anti-drug message, designed to make high people totally freak the fuck out. You are so weird, Platypus, that they don't even have a universally agreed-upon word for the plural form of you. That's because if you see two of these animals(?) together, the fabric of space and time will literally tear apart. Remind me to never close my eyes again, Platypus, you duck-billed asshole."



Because sometimes even the adorable need to be put in their place.

Hmmm, I wonder if the doily crocheting, Beanie Baby collecting, Thomas the Tank Engine watchers over at this hellish aberration are aware.

pinching Bennies.

~ ~

Ah, schadenfreude.

‘Tis dark times for us all, yes, and as the convenience store owner at the spot I frequent pointed out to me “we still gotta work, less money is still money”. Word. Normally, I would be swept into a depression akin to that of those sloshing around in the wintery haze clutching mall procured shopping bags (some surreptitiously hidden in designer bags brought from home- Bloor West I’m looking at you), but I can’t help but find these tidbits amusing beyond belief.

I promise I’m not an asshole. I will not attempt to justify why I find these articles so funny solely because they speak for themselves. The recession has become in my mind the kind of Robin Hood that would exist outside utopic fiction- robbing from the rich and giving to no one. I have nothing against those that have garnered enormous piles of Scrooge McDuck-like riches through the sweat of their own merit, but I indifferently detest those heirs/esses that were born with diamond-encrusted rhodium shovels in their mouths and whine about it.

Remember this?

Giving up lavish massages or one of multiple vacation homes hardly counts as “slumming it”. I’m not judging though. I’m too busy laughing my way to the nearest temp agency.

tell me a story.

~ ~
I'm just going to respond to the recent kerfuffles the best way I know how.

In the form of a children's story.

Yes, y'heard right.

The Little Brown Frog

Once upon a time there lived a little brown frog named Boggy. He was born and raised in a large pond commune in a wide forest filled with all kinds of creatures. The frogs in his commune were all very important. Each had a specific role in the upkeep of their individual homes, as well as the pond at large. Boggy’s own parents were very responsible and his siblings already had their lillypad stations all picked out for when they were old enough to leave the family’s pad. As the youngest Boggy still had a lot of time to figure out what kind of role he would play in the community, whether it was to catch flies or croak warnings in times of danger. His classmates all knew what they wanted to do, but Boggy still wasn’t sure. He didn’t quite fit in at school and was often teased because of one very obvious thing. Boggy was the only brown frog in the whole forest. His peers often called him strange and his family often worried about where he would end up.
“He’s just so different,” His father would croak. His mother could only hide her concern with a smile.
“Maybe he’ll grow out of it.”
Boggy learned to have fun by himself. He made up his own games, went on his own adventures and sang his own songs (as best a frog could). One day a little green frog from his second period Jumping class overheard Boggy singing and playing on his own.
“Well that’s a different game,” She said looking angry.
“It is,” Boggy said carrying on and hoping she would leave him be. Instead his classmate watched and watched until finally he invited her to join. She was hesitant at first, wondering what all the other green frogs would think if she joined in his strange game. But when she realized how much fun Boggy was having she decided to give it a go. Pretty soon more little green frogs from the neighbourhood began to join in against the wishes of their parents.
“Those games are dangerous!” They would warn, when they just didn’t recognize them.
Boggy soon had a small club of friends who all liked his games and began to create their own versions that he would join in. They began covering their green bodies in brown mud hoping to look more like Boggy and began to question if they really wanted to be fly-catchers and guard-frogs. The small club grew and grew and grew until most of the young, even some tadpoles, had joined. They were all so overjoyed and finding new ways to have fun!
Boggy was thrilled to finally have friends and began to throw parties to celebrate. One party in particular was especially grand because almost the entire school was invited. They had to keep it a secret because all the parents and some of the other young were not too happy about what they called ‘Boggy’s Influence’. Boggy sang songs, his friends danced and hip-hopped. Before the end of the party Boggy was surprised to discover that someone from the Amphibian Media had been to the party and left. This was sad news because it meant that their very secret location was going to be made public. The news was sadder still because Boggy was going to end up grounded.
Sure enough the next morning, photos of the party emerged on the cover of one of the smaller news weeklies under the headline ‘Do you know where your spawn are?’ The article called Boggy and his friends ‘Bogsters’ and said they would amount to nothing. His mother was distraught and his father banned him from ever having another Boggy Bash again.
But Boggy couldn’t. He had never had as much fun as he did at those parties and continued to have them. The guest lists grew smaller and the locations more hidden away. These parties lasted for a long time without anyone finding out about them and Boggy started to grow tired of them. The kids that did end up coming to the party weren’t really his closest friends anymore and the games they played were really becoming dangerous because they knew they could get away with it.
Worried, Boggy left one of his bashes early and started to hop home thinking about what to do next. He missed just hanging out with his good friend from Jumping class and even missed being the only brown frog. Most of the little frogs at the party had fashioned brown outfits from twigs, and leaves that they had found around the off-limits swamp.
Boggy hopped and hopped, lost in his thoughts until he saw a twinkling light. Right before his eyes the light grew and grew until it was a glowing fairy carrying a tiny wand.
“Well hello, grumble-pants!” She said cheerily.
Boggy could only stare. “Who are you?”
“Your fairy godmother of course!” She chirped. “I noticed you’re back to being lonely and sad again, Boggy. Did you have a fight with your new friends?”
Boggy explained that he no longer felt like they were his friends and that his original games and songs were turned into something completely different. “They don’t feel like they used to,” He said sadly.
“Well of course not Boggy! Things change all the time! Look at you for example- you went from being a tiny egg, to a tadpole to a bright young frog!” His fairy godmother pointed out. “Wasn’t one of your dreams to have friends to play with?”
“Yes,” Boggy replied.
“And that you wanted to be just like all the other little green frogs?”
“Then I don’t see what you have to be grumbly about grumble-pants!”
Boggy considered what she said for a moment. He had wished for friends and he was grateful to have had them, but as for being like everyone else…
“I like coming up with games to play,” Boggy decided out loud. “I like singing my own songs. I like meeting new people.”
“And?” His fairy godmother asked.
“I like being a little brown frog!”
At this declaration Boggy fairy godmother disappeared with a little *pop*.
He knew what he had to do.

The End

dear hiring manager.

~ ~
I'm just saying... I'm available.

Career Objective: To secure a placement in the field of blaque communications that will challenge my community relations skills, as well as give me the essential experience and tools needed to succeed in the field of interracial hobnobbing.


1) At 5 ft nothing I would, even in heels, be suitably below eye-level for all those who think Tom Cruise is statuesque.
2) I’ve been told I eat like a bird so I’ll keep my pesky hands off the ors d’oeuvres (not making the same promise for attractive waiters).
3) I have seen most Spike Lee movies so I can help with references and/or catch phrases.
4) I’m ESL (Ebonics as a Second Language) so I can act as a deciphering liaison between you and other bl-accessories.
5) I have had years of tokenism experience* and can easily adapt to high-paced, multi-tasking environments.

* References available upon request.

motha fucka I'm ill

~ ~

Why are parental units capable of being so ominous?

It took a 5 minute convo with pater, who attempted to scare me into getting my flu shot (which fell onto very deaf and now very ringing ears) for me to end up getting it? Full force mind you. I woke up the morning after the celebrated return of one of my faves only to realize that the old wives tale about wet hair in below zero weather was probably true. Throw in a complete lack of scarf and a semblance of pants and you're pretty much begging to be smitten with the nouveau plague.

Had a new Shopper's not literally sprouted up under my building, I would've probably resorted to chewing garlic and sucking on lemons because I'll be damned if I even attempt to engage in that thing called "winter" just for meds.

I have spent the last three days indoors to the point of delirium. I've had heavily self-medicated conversations with my cat (who knows nothing about the coalition apparently), yell-croaked at lame commercials on T.V. and won a hazy game of Clue which I haven't played since I was in fifth grade or so.

The one perk of this phlegmy unpleasantness is that I've surprisingly been inspired to write more. I guess there's something very Dickensian about feeling like you're on your death bed that inspries maudlin, and usually contrite prose. I won't share what I've written lest it be a far cry from what I currently think it is (Poe meets Sedaris), and will reconsider it when my eyes are no longer half-cast and my viens aren't filled with cough syrup.

Lagerfeld Loves My Energy

~ ~

Meg Ryan’s dubious expression trumps her When Harry Met Sally fake O.


~ ~

A week tomorrow marks the end of my internship and as per my MO I have nothing planned. I have had many a discussion about what I would like to vs. love to do next. While I’ve learned the type of ink I wouldn’t want to dip my fingers into (newspaper beat reporting par example), I still haven’t quite figured out my niche. And now that there’s that hovering, dirty “r-thing” things won’t be the slip n’ slide into the job o’ my dreams I once envisioned.

Stumbling upon this article(tte)the other day was no help either. If the daughter of a TIME-chronicled, movie-inspiring editor (also the daughter of an editor, natch) is worried about getting work as a writer, WTF are those of us with non-bedazzled family trees meant to do? Try?

Tell me what to do, before I edit myself out of the field altogether*.

* I’m being facetious here, as a change of route would likely mean a law degree and a lifetime supply of valium.

note: adorkable image was snagged from here, where you can find (and purchase) more of the same.


~ ~

I spent a great portion of my wee years in the hegemonic, sap-producing, sing-a-long hands of one of the most demonized conglomerates to date. I spent hours watching and re-watching multiple versions of similar princess stories that I have to admit moulded a lot of my tiny self because its watered down, family-time goodness easily grazed past the ever critically protective eye of my mother. Disney movies were a major hit, my friends and I clamoured to own anything stamped with the swooshy logo in a cut-throat fashion that can only be likened to a couture sample sale. The “princesses” themselves were most coveted, followed closely by their dashing chunks of handsomeness and the token eloquent sidekick (some splashed with a dose of sociopathy- re: Eago). Naturally, elementary playground games for us girls involved running to/away from the ever elusive, cootie plagued boys or, if the chase/interest wore off, Princess Game.

As a card-carrying Disney kid (and connoisseur of cool, obviously), I knew all there was to know about every movie that came out and could sing most songs (including celeb-studded versions that appeared after the credits rolled) and yet Princess Game oft left me a little wary. The reason was that our young minds were far from completely socially developed and, as per Cosby’s Darndest Things, wildly uncensored.

The rules of Princess Game were simple- pick a princess and behave as she would. For example, if you chose to be Ariel, you would have to take on the role of a “swimming” mime. In a group of about eight, the debate over who got to be which princess often grew heated (everybody coveted Cinderella), but eventually each girl would pick the princess she thought reflected her the most- hence my conundrum. I recall picking one of the fairer princesses in my first ever time playing, and blatantly being told it was impossible because of my complexion. In fact, the only plausible characters I could pick from were Pocahontas (the darkest of the heroines) or, wait for it, Nahla. In their eyes, because the story was set in Africa, I was closer to a giant feline than any of the princess options available solely based on my pigment count. Inevitably I took on the role of the bare-footed, hair-for-days cheif's daughter, because I would be damned if I got on all fours.

Enter this chick:

A lot can be said here about a million women’s studies-related hoo-hahs, but I’d rather not use up my tokenism membership in one post. I’m also not going to say this new character is in anyway going to soothe my childhood wounds of not feeling like I was being reflected in the franchise that God forgot. Instead, I’m going to revel in the fact that it took 10 years to re-create pretty much the same story yet again. This new princess, who looks like a colored-in version (in Crayola’s ‘burnt sienna’ to be exact) of her counterparts, will likely fall in love with a man that will somehow save/enable her, and will have a wise-cracking lackey (which judging by the teaser is a gum-toothed insect of some sort from the deepest of bayous)that will tag along for comic relief.

Naturally the Big O is involved and, with a release date of 2009, a certain other first will most likely be taking his little'uns to watch the magic unfold (in 2-d!) all over again.


~ ~

disconnected from age
mere numbers that
dictate the way in which
you un-choose to live
express nothing but isms
chronologically befitting
according to an earthy clock
lodged somewhere between
an ovary and
a pregnant pause...

Sunday, Un-day

~ ~
Sundays are slow days that remind me with each passing hour that I should keep track of time. With constant deadlines, meetings, endings and beginnings I need to learn that mere minutes can expand into entire lifetimes. Forget smelling roses. My weeks are a blur of typed copies, gulped coffees and the occasional salute to youth in the form of weekend romps. There's a disconnect I'm not used to, between my thoughts and my actions. I make wishes at 11:11 and forget what they were by 11:12. I don't so much follow through as carry on.
This un-day feeling is not a novel one but with each passing birthday (my last actually landing on a Sunday) it becomes harder and harder to shake. I miss home, where I could taste the sea salt in the air, and I could hug my littlest sister until she protested.
I woke up late today, even though I spent the night before in with a borrowed DVD. My eyelids lifted at noon, and it took a considerable amount of effort for my body to follow suit. My mother called for the weekly report and the best I could offer was "same old. it's snowing though." She wasn't impressed. I concur.

totes J.

~ ~

Like most of you, I like stuff.

I especially like stuff that relates to stuff that I like. If there's humour stuff involved then that's just an added bonus.

While killing time between fact-checking bouts at le work today I stumbled upon (and by stumbled I mean, was directed to by a fellow wordmonger) a lovely blog about stuff a certain group of people like. No, not that one. Similar name, different (albeit overlapping) demographic. Also hosted (and subsequently absorbed) by Wordpress, is Stuff Journalists Like which follows the same format as it's quite hilarious predecessor, and lists exactly that- covering everything from caffiene fixes and shorthand (which I have yet to attempt to grasp) to interns and Barack Obama. My personal favourite so far is #356, mainly because of these 9 words: “Help me, Wolf Blitzer, you are my only hope.”

I'm also the kind of gal that enjoys lists (yes, that kind) in case you haven't noticed.

10 things I hate about... what you say.

~ ~
So, the bigwigs (bigwhigs, rather) at UniOx joined forces and came up with a list of some of the most annoying phrases in the English language. Finally. There are quite a few things people say, and I don't mean ESL folks (or ETL, EFL... etc.), that come across as unintelligent, confusing and just plain lazy.

According to the new book these are the top ten most irritating phrases:

1 - At the end of the day
2 - Fairly unique
3 - I personally
4 - At this moment in time
5 - With all due respect
6 - Absolutely
7 - It's a nightmare
8 - Shouldn't of
9 - 24/7
10 - It's not rocket science

... and I don't know if I agree 100%. Annoying words like 'irregardless', and 'irrespective' are surprisingly missing in the tenner, and phrases like "in my humble opinion" (shut up, soapbox), "femme fatale" (shudder) and "easy as pie" (have you ever tried baking one? no? then shut up.) were allowed to slide. I don't know what the rest of the list looks like, but if those aren't on there then they need to do a recount.

While the idea of compiling a list of irritating phrases is absolutely fairly unique, I personally think that at this moment in time- and I mean this with all due respect- they shouldn't of bothered, because at the end of the day it's a nightmare trying to tell people how they should speak 24/7 even though technically, it's not rocket science.

an open letter.

~ ~
Dear American Electorate,

The Rest of Humanity

the devil also votes.

~ ~

The pillar of fashion turns it out.

(Insert comment about voter equality here)

is this ashton?

~ ~
It's fairly, if not glaringly(literally), obvious that I am the last person to support/endorse/defend the certain VP hopeful I've come to call Baked Alaska. By no means do I think she's even remotely credible, in fact I have openly mocked her ambitiously misguided views on foriegn poilcy (and basic geography). I've tuned into witness Fey's apt renderings of her foibles and joined in the uproar around her being called a reflection of women in politics (cyanide anyone?).

Granted she's not the brightest bulb (maybe even less "luminous" than the current White House resident), but is this all that funny?

So, she completely fell for it. Haha, so hilarious.

They might as well have just done the 'is your refridgerator running?' bit and called it a day because I'm pretty sure she would've been tempted to check. This prank is bordering on bullying, especially since it's being littered all over the internet (it was even picked up by the AP). Besides, listen to how excited she sounds.

The Palin's-a-dumbass novelty has officially worn off for me. The dead horse has been beaten, decapitated, run-over and covered with maple syrup. And I thought all Canadians were nice, no?

home free.

~ ~

i've done a post about this site in the past i know, way back before ecomomic conditions pilfered my old blog in one fell swoop, but i just can't get over it.

i love seeing people's homes.

i'm nosy like that.

mainly because i'm fascinated by people in general. what better reflection of a person's very self than what they choose to surround themselves with? if we are to define ourselves inside a four-walled box, then everything from the hangings and artsy knick knacks, right down to rugs and toilet paper brands should somehow come together and provide an answer to who we are. sometimes it takes a lifetime to get it just right. sometimes you have to work at it and brand your "home" (be it a teeny bachelor apartment or a house with more rooms than residents). i've visited all kinds of homes over the years and within every one i was able to discern a little something about the tenants, whether or not they really wanted me to know.

the site has been adding a lot of new faces/spaces to the list lately, and my personal favourite thus far is Ingrid Schram's. this may have to do with the fact that she describes herself as a "fashion diddler". and it shows.

when in doubt, wear black.

~ ~

i know i whined about it.

i refused all candy, laughed at those who wore costumes while the sun was still up, waited until the absolute last second to "make" my own and in the end i wasn't completely horrified. thanks to a small batallion of inebriation i call friends, and to the random bar patron who was dressed as a dress.

here's a brief list (from what I can remember) of my costume interpretations:

1. "a reflection of the economy"
2. wall street
3. enron
4. trade
and my personal favourite:
5. a chart

where every palm tree knows your name

~ ~

Ugh. I don't even know where to begin.
Actually, I do:
First, that's not Arabic. I know I'm not fluent, but I'm pretty sure a jumble of tribal yells with the word "Allah" thrown in doesn't equate a language fragment.
Second, I can only imagine the thought process behind the song -"Hey yo, Flip, who got alotta money?"
Third, A-rab? Really? I'm pretty sure Busta's voting for Obama, and yet, he chooses the deliberate and derogatory mispronounciations of the GOP.
Fourth, they fully stole the idea from this guy.

i could have gone as a pumpkin

~ ~

As Hallow's Eve and sexified anythings draw near I can't help but try and recall why the event never quite excites me. What could be so unappealing about piles of individually-wrapped sugar, "hilarious" costumes and general tom foolery?


I swear I'm not a buzz kill (a majority of the time), but something about nearing quarterlife and trying to make a list of 'must-haves in witch couture' makes me very, very tired.

Once upon a time as a wee little FOB, Halloween was this elusively obscure event that the other kids talked about ad nausuem and I, having spent the toddler/early learning years tethered to a condo, spent the majority of my first two fall months at school trying to figure out how they were allowed to go from house to house asking strangers for candy. I remember approaching my mother one day, a costume parade permission slip in hand, and explaining that a parent's signature on the dotted line would promise a 7 year-old's appearance at school that Friday, dressed in a suitably fun costume (preferably of the home-made variety as prizes wouldn't go to three Rainbow Brites). What a lack of ink-spelled permission equalled, I hadn't known yet.

Of course, my equally foreign mother decided anything drawn from paganism/satanism/too-time-consuming-ism was a definite 'no', so to my horror I was the kid, the foriegn kid, without a costume that day.

The ramifications were as follows:
1. Appearing at school that Friday in my pink sweatsuit to realize I was the only kid in class not in some form of costume.
2. The new, new kid had one of the better costumes, immediately bumping him up above me (the old new kid) on the playground social ladder.
3. No costume meant I had to sit out the parade and the chance to win a plastic pumpkin full of candy the size of my head.
4. Not being in the parade meant I would have to stay behind in class while the rest of the kids went out into the courtyard.
5. Being the only person, including the teacher, not in costume meant I couldn't be left alone in the classroom so I was trotted off to the library.
6. The arbitrary group of non-costumed kids from grades 1-4 that awaited me in the library looked like a model UN, made up of ESL kids mostly.
7. We had to play Hungry Hungry Fucking Hippos.

In the years that followed, my parents eventually eased their vice-like grip on Halloween and allowed my sisters and I to trick or treat (but only to 5 places)and wear costumes (but only if they were store-bought) but somehow that first experience always left a sour taste in my mouth- no matter how many Blow Pops I consumed.

And I don't think she's planning to have a good Halloween either.

worse for wares

~ ~
Remember that time you had to sell something you owned because you wanted/needed something better instead? Whether it was selling your old toys in a garage sale so you could buy new ones, bartering with Used CD store reps so you could afford a weekend show, or, as my co-worker confessed recently, selling limited-eition Star Wars action thingies for neek-covered bills to go towards your rent. Most of us have at one time or another sold something near-and-dear, fleeting, broken or self-made in order to make ends meet. I know I have. My sisters and I ran an illegal my-junk-your-jewels cartel at summer camp in grade school where we sold everything from our old books and Happy Meal toys to free-with-purchase lollipop tattoos (that we would apply at the appropriate station). So, I can honestly say I can relate to the saddest headline I've seen since 'Haper wins Minority':

"Last 'Titanic' survivor sells mementoes to pay for care"

Apparently the Britt who was only two months old when the big "practically unsinkable" ship sank (and Leo died)is now resorting to selling her Titanic-related belongings to cover her nursing home bills. Up for grabs is a century-old suitcase filled with the courtesy clothes the family received once they arrived in the States.

My heart.
~ ~
on her last night she pulled each daughter aside. bestowing last-minute confucianisms and fragements of what she hopes is awakening is customary. my turn came sooner than I'd hoped as I sulked into the room after her. we sat side by side, the silence palpable. taking my hand to examine, she sighed. i braced myself for the criticism my jagged cuticles usually receive as they bear the likeness of my many moments of weakness. instead she enveloped my hand with hers, whispering "see, they're identical."


~ ~

don't bother.

except do.

never thought that hip hop would take it this far.

~ ~


mean girls.

~ ~
Due to popular demand (and the fact that I haven't been able to shut up about this only to receive blank wtf stares), I bring you the Mallick-Palin smackdown. If this were boxing Mallick would have TK'd Palin easy (all three rounds)- only to be falsely accused of fouling after an anchor or two made a large enough kerfuffle.
The gist is that Heather Mallick, a well-known Toronto-based columnist for both CBC and The Guardian, wrote a very emotion-driven, clearly opinion-based piece on just how unfit Madam Baked Alaska really is. She uses angry, slashy, very descriptive words that are, in my opinion, intended to shock. She holds nothing back attacking every nuance of Palin's life, from her intelligence to the way she raises her kids. I don't necessarily agree with a lot of what Mallick wrote- although some was witty and dry- but the consequences she received as a result were over-the-top and misguided.
Basically, U.S. right-wingers came across the column on-line, made a big ol' stink about how Canadian tax-payers' money was being used to fund such a hateful site and proceeded to notify the most reliably right-wing news source: Fox.

Yes. Really.

Surprisingly, CBC decided to pull Mallick's article “A mighty wind blows through Republican convention”, which has been since labelled controversial (it's even be added to her wiki page), and an apology/retraction was issued. The article was dubbed "grossly hyperbolic and intensely partisan" which makes me wonder if the same terminology or adamant scrutiny would've been made if the author was a male columnist. Mallick clearly used emotion-charged terms but to mock them as extreme exaggeration? Why not just blame mensies while you're at it?

Long story short Mallick never made any apologies herself, was called a pig by the very same blonde Fox "reporter", and is continually berated by the American public via email, blog posts, message boards etc. She recently posted an update regarding the issue on her website where she weighs in on the events in hindsight.

So, as a CBC spokesman put so pithily, "liberty is not the same as license".... vrai ou faux?
But make sure you don't have it published, lest Fox sics van Susteren on you.

next time, just turn over

~ ~
i woke up this morning with the kind of headache that makes you feel tethered to your bed, or at least to your most current bad dream. walked into work only to realize I had two days worth of crap to cram into one (the "perk" of an editorial Friday off in lieu of normal thanksgiving). came home to find my cat in heat (again). misplaced aspirin due to my misplaced thoughts. was almost late in meeting a friend for a theatre date. was moved. had a cabbie that tested my fear of oncoming traffic.

by my count, i nearly cried four times today.

nuit blah

~ ~

my very first Nuit Blanche was sub par for the following 10 reasons:

1. being totalled by 40-year old men who can't say excuse me.
2. strollers.
3. strollers with children in them.
4. being followed by a hoard of males who only uttered 'bloodclot' ad nauseum.
5. being too vertically challenged to actually see any art from behind huge crowds.
6. huge crowds.
7. waiting in line for public restrooms.
8. public restrooms.
9. running into people you didn't want to see, while missing the ones you did.
10. overhearing this: "I think Nuit Blanche has lost some of its meaning. I mean, it's all about being just for show now."

it wasn't a complete loss due to the following 5:

1. ndeur/duponchel
2. public drunkeness = shadenfraude.
3. watching an elderly couple study an overflowing trash bin as though it were installation art.
4. seeing faces I've missed.
5. szechwan at 4 a.m.

mother-daughter cliche

~ ~

almost a week into the my mother's visit. it's strange how much a year and a bit apart can feel so epically vast. conversation runs dry often. she asks if I've eaten. I shrug or politely answer. she mentions law school ad nauseum. i pretend not to notice, nauseated. we sit side by side. who's line?. i run off to work before she takes her first coffee sip. return to more questions. exhausted I succomb, and say "Sure, Mom."

black monday - the recession took my blog away.

~ ~

Hello Friends,

So I was at work on Friday, surfing the internet for election piece ideas when I decided to check my email. Settled comfortably in my inbox was a little note from my ex-blog carrier, Uber, that began, "Thank You. Goodbye. Uber will be turned off on Monday." Just like that. Casual, in passing, an 'oh, by the way'. Now, it may seem like I'm over reacting, dedicating the first post of a brand new blog to the death of a former one, but the irony is just too beautiful.

In my very first Uber post I candidly wrote:
"I've had blogs before, some of which I have shared and others that I have banned to the depths of the internet so I'm hoping this one sticks. I have a tendency to lose interest in my mini-projects, but I'm willing to give this another shot in hopes that one day I make it past 10 posts within the span of an entire year. "

I didn’t lose interest. I went a lot over 10 posts. And quite frankly I enjoyed it. So natch, some other force intervened.

At first I thought it couldn’t be true. I mean honestly:

“The crisis in the economy has claimed Uber as its latest victim.”

That’s the blogger’s equivalent of the Crash of ’29.

I shoved my story notes aside instantly and scrambled to copy-paste my little life-sonnets somewhere safe and finite. And there they sit.

Luckily, I have turned back to my old blog host, one I’ve abandoned easily and frequently in the past, in hopes of continuing and reviving my little blog in hopes that this one will… overcome?

Anyway, thanks to those who’ve followed, commented, frequented and just plain creeped- I appreciate the dedication and I hope this new (graphically challenged) version lives up to your expectations. Think of it as a step-cousin of sorts.