Prattle on

2008-06-17T13:25:00.000-04:00

So, we had a big weird hailstorm here. It’s odd, I know, seeing as we are in the middle of June. Sadly I missed the main even, but from what my neighbours have told me the hail came down in sheets. It destroyed all sorts of plants and dented cars.

My mother is now mourning her plants in the yard. They will bounce back, I tell her. But, it really is like the worst thing that has happened to her in years. The hail has also inspired some wishful thinking. The neighbour on our left side has a massive maple and the branches reach over into the back yard. This irritates my mother as the leaves and maple keys fall onto the pack patio – God forbid – causing my mother to sweep up the back area weekly. This drives her crazy for some reason.

The neighbour has promised to cut that branch down, but it has been about 10 years and the branch remains. It hangs there mocking her as she sweeps. Reaching over her head spitefully dropping it’s leaves, sometimes right after she makes her final pass with the broom. Sometimes I catch her standing in the back doorway staring at the hateful tree thinking about how clean the patio would be without it. She curses it and dreams of chain saws.

Now, my mother is convinced that the branch is now much lower and damaged by the storm and may just fall down. So, she recons, they should cut it before it falls and damages the fence. The tree looks the exact same. My mother is delusional.

2008-06-10T13:18:00.001-04:00

So, as I mentioned in my post below I am out of a job and currently looking for one. It is funny to me that I am out of a unemployed because I only worked the last one for a year and while I am happy it is over I dislike sitting at home job hunting. It sucks. Also, it is hot as balls outside. When you combine that with my aversion to pants – or clothing in general really – it was just a matter of time before I ended up sitting in front of my computer in bra and a very small skirt. Then I start to worry that I am going to be one of those people in the family. You know, the one who can’t seem to hold down a job no matter what the circumstances. I have one of those in my family, ok the more I think about it the more I realize that we’ve got a few of those. I do not want to add to that count.

So, here I am.

The job hunt has not been totally fruitless – and in reality, I have only been unemployed for 8 days. Yesterday I had an interview with a company I wasn’t even going to apply to as the job advertised was really below my skill level. They wanted someone with one year’s worth of experience. I have several years. They wanted someone to head up a team of people to, “take the circulation of the magazines in a new direction” for all 19 titles. Right. Generally you need more than one year’s worth of experience to take on something like that. Now, I think I can do the job, don’t get me wrong. But, you have to wonder if they are under estimating the scope of the job.

Anyway, who knows what will happen with this job.

What I do know is that I will need to invest in some job interview clothes. Yesterday it felt like down town Manila outside and all I could come up with was a wool skirt and a light wool sweater. Come on now.

Here We Go Again

2008-06-10T12:51:00.000-04:00

So, I owe my blog an apology, as I haven’t written in a very long time. The last post was something silly on November of 2007 and yes it is just below this post.

Well, there has been a lot happening and at the same time not too much. Let’s see if I can condense it to a point form update.

We had Christmas at my cousin’s new house. It was fun. I made the shrimp and hosted the family trivia game after dinner.
I was very busy with my job for all of January, February and most of March
I went to Japan
I visited Montreal a couple times
I quit my job due to the obnoxiousness of my insane bosses
I am currently unemployed

I would give a lot more details about my job, but I am terrified that my blog can be traced back to me and years ago, when I started blogging, I talked about my job (all the while keeping my employer anonymous. After my departure I discovered he found this blog and was displeased because of the way he was characterized. However, he needs to know that I still liked and respected him. Poor guy, he took it personal. I never meant to hurt him. I mean, I did actively try to infect him with a really bad cold once, but that wasn’t that serious.

Obviously this point form life update cannot really give you a good and colourful picture of my life as my blog did for the years I have been writing it. However, I will now endeavour to do just that again.

Back to the inane ramblings of me. My next post will be right after this one.

GUESS WHO I JUST SAW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-11-16T09:17:00.000-05:00

I just saw, and spoke to Colin and Justin of "How Not to Decorate. That are SUPER handsome in person and very gracious.

They were on the corner of Richmond and Spadina and looked like stars.

2007-08-09T14:34:00.000-04:00

So, most mornings I take the Queen’s Quay streetcar on my way to work. Once the streetcar emerges from the underground part, the ride is pleasant enough right near the water and the posh condos. The drivers are nice and it is only ever crowded for one stop. However, it has gotten much nicer lately because of a new fixture one stop below King. He is a TTC supervisor who now talks to the drivers and takes notes on time or whatever. I love him. I have seen him for several days now, and I think I am gonna write him a letter. I may even give it to the driver so he can pass it along. It is important that I tell this man how I feel. I think the letter will go something like this:

Dear TTC Supervisor Guy,

I don’t know why you appeared along my route to work, but I remember the exact day and time I first saw you, and my commute has been made better ever since. With every inch of road the streetcar rolls along, you are etched deeper and deeper into my heart. And I firmly believe that is where you will stay.

You make my morning both torturous and exhilarating at the same time. From the second I step onto the streetcar platform at Union Station, during the glide along Queen’s Quay and through the climb up Spadina, I sit in quivering anticipation, suffering until you appear in uniform.

Shamelessly I stare at you from the moment the car glides into your stop until I can no longer keep you in my eyesight as we pull away. The moment lasts less then two minutes, but every time I cling to the desperate hope that you will take a break from your note taking or short chat with the driver and look my way.

You look like you go about your day’s work in a serious manner. You don’t smile and despite my wishes you rarely hold up the driver. You relay your commands efficiently and it is my belief that you are there to ensure streetcars stick to a precise schedule. Perhaps you are too busy to notice, but when you approach the driver’s window, I am the one sitting four seats back, in the single chairs, with my heart on my sleeve, holding my breath.

I know that one day you will no longer appear at the stop below King Street. I know that I am headed for disappointment. Until that day I will remain caught up in your rapture. And after, although it breaks me to think about it, you will remain crystallized in my mind as perfection in grey trousers.

Yours in Public Transport,

Debbie

2007-08-07T14:45:00.000-04:00

So, it is the end of the August long weekend here in Ontario. The official name of the weekend is “Simcoe Day” but really it is “Caribana weekend.” This year I didn’t go to the parade but I did to make it to one party on Sunday night. In keeping with my policy that I will embarrass myself at least once during a weekend, I jumped on the opportunity that presented itself on Sunday night.

It may have been the drink, it may have been the heat, it may have been the fact that I no longer have any shame, but I decided that yes, I will chat up the attractive man standing beside me. I struck up a conversation and it was going well enough. Then there was a bit of a lull as my brain searched feverishly to find something else to say that he would find interesting or funny. About three minutes later I had come up with something good and I leaned over to him to point out the guy who looked like Akon on the dance floor.* This comment was golden.** Also, it kind of related to what we were talking about before.

Well, as I get the words out, the guy kept saying “what?” Thinking that he couldn’t hear me, I kept repeating my comment, which was getting less and less funny with repetition. It was clear he had no idea what I was talking about. It was also clear that it wasn’t the same guy I was talking to just thee minutes prior. It seems that I was concentrating so hard on figuring out what to say that I didn’t notice the guy I was talking to walk away and some other guy stand in his place.

Undaunted, I transferred my affection immediately to this new guy who wasn’t as cute, but much more funny and interesting. None of that mattered anyway because the new guy had a girlfriend or so he told me.

My friends were really embarrassed, but I wasn’t. I’ve done much worse. Also, they didn’t talk to anyone. Both those guys have probably forgotten about me already. So no harm done. And, I think I sent good vibes out into the universe because at the end of the night this other guy did give me his phone number. It was, however at the very end of the night and there were only about four other women left in the room. Still, I think it was a success overall.

*In all fairness, he didn’t really look like Akon, but there was a young woman behaving like a porn star while she danced with him.
**I know for a fact that it was funny because I later tried it on my sister and she laughed pretty hard.

2007-07-23T16:09:00.000-04:00

So it has been a long time since I wrote something. Here is a short point form update on what I have been up to:

I moved back to Toronto
I started a new job

OK, that is about it. Those are pretty big things I thin k so let’s just say it has kept be pretty busy.

Now that I am home I am very quickly picking up where I left off. I’m seeing old friends, going for brunch, and most importantly I have returned to the Portuguese chicken I love so well. And, yes, he is still there and I am thrilled!*

Now that I am home, I think I need to put my feelings for him out there in the universe once again. Perhaps, this time, I really will post this letter the door of the chicken place. I just have to let him know how I feel, and I know that I will be speaking for hundreds of women when I say…

Dear Portuguese Chicken Guy,

I have come home. It has been two long years and I could barely stand the pain of being separated from you. I have had other chicken, but please believe me when I tell you that they meant nothing to me. I have saved my deepest devotion for you… and perhaps your equally hot younger brother… and your dad.

I left this city thinking of you and with every visit home I would make up an excuse to stroll by your shop window hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall, you would stand in your family shop serving delicious chicken to your customers, almost exclusively women, with a bad boy look in your eye, and the slightly suggestive curl on your lip. You know we love it.

I don’t know if you would remember me. Why would you? You are your own urban legend. The vast numbers of women passing your storefront shop all know you. I am simply one of the adoring fans mesmerized by the smallest movement of your forearms as you separate two breasts and two thighs. I am held in thrall by the smile that slides across your perfect mouth to greet customers. I am hypnotized by the sound of your voice, though I have only ever heard you say about fifteen words. How did you get this hold over me?

The sight of you has stopped me dead in my tracks. Indeed it has stopped me in time. I remain hotly frozen in your doorway the day I first discovered you. Me, in a t-shirt and a pair of Taekwon-do pants, you in a white tank top and soccer shorts. There you stood, surrounded by glistening chickens and hot roasting ovens, piles of rice and stacks of potatoes, you looked like the God of Passion in the hot, steam filled air. The Greeks and Romans would have worshiped you, given half the chance. I would say that on the 8th day God created you, but that wouldn’t do you justice. Your form, your wicked face, your complicated air, and your simmering sex appeal would take God at least a week, and I would take years to adore you.

Yours in sauce and side dishes,

Debbie

*http://prattleondebbie.blogspot.com/2005/06/so-today-i-cant-help-but-think-of.html

2007-05-25T11:36:00.000-04:00

So, last night I watched Stomp the Yard. It is basically Drumline but with stepping rather than drumming. But, that doesn’t mean that it isn’t AMAZING! You have to see this movie. The stepping is great, yes, but what makes this movie spectacular is the ridiculously handsome cast. There are a lot of gratuitous shots of topless well-built men doing intricate dance moves. In the beginning, most of the men are fully clothed, but they get progressively more naked as the film goes on. The pinnacle is when one of the groups of men in the film stand together on a mountain top with no shirts all rippling muscles and sweat. Yes Please!

P.S. the guy in this picture, Columbus Short, is a dancer and I love him. Amazingly, there were men in the movie who were even better looking – if you can imagine.

2007-05-24T18:27:00.000-04:00

So, it has been a long while since I have written. My blog hiatus was unplanned. Life works in funny ways sometimes and some very dramatic events – the details of which, I will not bore you with – has taken me away from my blog. But, I am back with a bit of a life update.

Two years after my shocking move to Montreal, I am planning my triumphant return to Toronto at the end of June. I am actually trying to stay in Montreal as long as possible. You see, I only started really loving – ok really liking – Montreal a year ago. I have made a lot of friends here and I really enjoy them and I am going to miss them terribly. I will miss my apartment and the awesome coffee shop (I’m sitting in it now). I will miss the lovely parks and I will miss my hot capoeira instructor. Everything ends.

On to some other news, as is the rhythm of my life I met a cute boy at a party last week. Prompted by 5 glasses of wine and the group of guys I barely know chanting, “Do it. Do it. Do it.” in the corner I actually asked him out. This happened last time I moved to another city, I suddenly started behaving very boldly. I wont bore you with the details of that either, but it was scandalous.

Amazingly he said “yes”. Imagine. Then he gave me his phone number. And, now it is time for the real shock – it was his actual phone number. This dude has two jobs. You all know that I love a man with a job. Well, I really love a man with TWO jobs. I called him and had to leave a message. Then I convinced myself that he wasn’t going to call because I was so drunk when I met him. But then he did call and we talked briefly and made plans to go out this week. So, I called him back the next day and left a message.

Now time for the tragedy, I haven’t heard from him since and it has been three days. THREE DAYS!*

How could he do it? How could he throw away our potential life together? We were supposed to have a passionate romance during the weeks I had left until I moved back. Then we were supposed to have a long distance relationship – with me traveling to Montreal at least once a month, running to his waiting arms and him traveling to Toronto once a month to be with me. Then, after we realized that our lives are meant to be intertwined we would decide to live in either Montreal or Toronto (probably Toronto, the dude has two jobs. He could get more jobs in Toronto). Then we were to have a life strikingly similar to the life I was supposed to have with that security guard from the gym who, I imagined, was working on getting his welders license in Quebec and Ontario. We were going to end up with a house in Parkdale that he was constantly renovating and a couple of really adorable kids with my hair and his smile. Everything ends, I guess. Sometimes even before it begins – well, begins in reality regardless of what had begun in my head.

*Please note that I called him yesterday (Wednesday). However, I will not call again.

2007-04-11T12:59:00.000-04:00

So, this morning I was on the bus on the way to the office, as I am every morning. Depending on the time of my bus ride I get surrounded by a very specific group of people, mainly young women on their way to their daily studies at McGill. Due to the presence of McGill (and a few other school) in Montreal, the city is, for eight months out of the year, under the grip of 18 – 24 year-olds all attending a post-secondary educational institution convinced of their own originality. They make me smile because frankly I was one of those people not so long ago (Although, I didn’t go to McGill).

There are a number of McGill student types – and I am confident that you can find these same types on city campuses everywhere. There are McGill students who feel the need to wear large jogging pants with salt and sludge stains on them all day and everywhere in an effort to look like total slobs. There is also the McGill boy haircut. Some melding of the mohawk/mullet with shaved sides, or the crazy and totally unkempt curly top. Mind you, the curly top is generally worn by grad-student boys cultivating a look that says, “intellectual bordering on absent minded genius.”

These people are not the ones I am concerned with today. They don’t take the same buss I do as they generally live in the few square blocks we lovingly call “The McGill Ghetto.” No, I deal with a whole different McGill creature. My neighborhood brings together two aspects of Montreal that are as unique as they are maddening: the slovenly McGill girl and the tasteless fashionista.* I like to call them “McGill Slovenistas”

As the weather gets warmer they get more shocking. In the picture that accompanies this blog we see a young woman who thought that it was a good idea to wear the shortest denim skirt she could find (what you can’t really see in the picture is that it is clear that she made this ‘skirt’ out of her old jeans). She paired it with black nylons that she cut so they would stop at her knees. While standing on the bus, she bent over to grab her bag off the floor. Please note, the skirt did not cover her behind.

*I want to make it clear that Montreal has a great and lively independent fashion scene. There are people here who make clothes that are both edgy and beautiful. Whatever your taste, you can find it. The city is home to several fashion design school graduates and they know what they are doing. But, you also have people who will take a pair of scissors to clothes they buy at a thrift store or decide to wear several different patters together and maybe three skirts or something.

2007-04-02T11:31:00.000-04:00

So, yet again, tragedy struck my heart. I have it on good authority that my favourite boy* has left the capoeira gym I go to as a direct result of the incident I have come to call “Smack down 07.” I wont get into the details of his dispute with someone else at the school, mainly because they are incredibly boring.** As a result he has left the gym and I will no longer be able to gaze at his movie-star smile from across the room.

This has caused overwhelming sadness for me. I had built a meaningful relationship with this guy. I always smiled at him and he would smile back (sometimes I would get a little bit mesmerized while watching him warm-up. He may have known that I was into him). I found out his name and complimented his athletic skill, which is tremendous. Also, I got as far as asking him where he hangs out as a good friend of mine suggested that I say something to him that required more of a response than ‘yes’ ‘no’ or ‘thank you.’ It was great advice, and I had followed it. I had planned to start with “When you are going out, where do you normally go?” and then move on to something more substantial, like “I could love you and make your life like an eternal spring.” But the day I asked him where he liked to go out (no, I did not say, “where do you go, my lovely?”) smack down 07 happened. I didn’t have the chance to go any further. After the incident I had a fast-car feeling. He looked upset about it and I wanted to suggest that he and I get in his car and just start driving, driving in his car, we could speed so fast, I’d feel like I was drunk, city lights lay out before us and his arm would feel nice wrapped round my shoulder. I have a feeling I could be someone. You know what I mean.

It took me a month to get to this point. Now that time is wasted. The worst part about it is that when I asked him where he likes to go out, he said that he has no regular place. I can’t even find him. It is especially tragic because a friend of mine and I have imposed a date deadline. By April 30th we must have a date, or have a date planned with a real person of the opposite sex. It may be completely irrational to put some arbitrary deadline on these kinds of things, but strict rationality is for boring people.

The only option open to me is to go to the other capoeira groups in the city and look for him. But, that is more than a little bit psycho, so I wont do that. Who am I going to have a crush on now?

*While my dedication to my instructor is still strong, I am not so crazy as to actually make him the sole object of my desire. Plus, the last time I saw him he was wearing these ridiculous gigantic black-jogging pants – in public. This makes me wonder if he got kicked in the head and is, perhaps, a little punch-drunk.

**Basically the only thing that would make it interesting is if a woman was involved or something. Like someone got someone else’s wife pregnant. However, this is not the case. Sorry.

2007-03-28T11:44:00.000-04:00

So, I finally did the unthinkable. Those of you who read this blog or know me personally know that I have some conflicted feeling about my chosen sport at this time of my life. Capoeira is a great work out and I really like it, but if I am to become more serious about it I would have to buy the uniform pants to play in. Yes, the tight white ultimate low-rise pants.

The pants have become something of a pet conversation topic for me and my instructor. Well, sort of, you all know that I will do anything to stand close to that magnificent specimen, but that is not the point of this. The reason I do not want to wear the pants is that tight white ultimate low-rise pants do not look decent on a woman of my proportions. I am built for comfort, after all. I have tried to explain this to him a million times. He just laughs at me.

Well, last week, after I looked for some new jogging pants to sport at the gym I decided to buy a pair of the pants. Yes, I caved. Also, at my particular school, they come in blue so, at least, I wouldn’t have to wear the white ones.

I immediately took the size Large, as that is the size I gravitate to. So, I put them on and then the cute guy behind the counter tied the belt for me. They looked ridiculous. And, as is the normal problem for me, the started to fall down the second I started running around in the warm up.* So, I had to run around holding on to the pants to prevent them from dropping to the ground.

Finally, after the second lap, one of the more experienced pant wearers suggested that I try a smaller size as the pants expand with sweat (they are made out of a fabric not found in nature. In fact, I think they are made out of imitation polyester). So, I went back to the cute guy behind the counter and got the size Medium. They were better, but they also started to fall down after about 20 minutes. Please note these pants are NOT too big for me.

Due to the cut of the pants I have to wear thong panties. So, my pants fall down and people can see my thong and it is NOT my choice. Now, because my friends know how I feel about the visible thong** I have become the laughing stock of my class, and that feels great.

*In all honesty, pants generally fall down on me. GRC will say that it is because I don’t wear belts, but that is not the case. I am high waisted, long legged and flat assed. As a result pants don’t stay up. They do at first but then they make their way down my body after about 2 hours of wear, faster, if I am moving quickly. In fact, when I wear pants to work out in, they have to go past my belly button. This is actually the reason why I don’t like wearing pants. For some reason, I don’t have this problem with most skirts.

**Why not just wear a t-shirt that says “no class” and be done with it?

2007-03-22T10:58:00.000-04:00

So, last night yet another building burned down in my neighbourhood. Burning buildings are a fairly regular occurrence in my large corner of Montreal. Last night’s inferno happened a couple blocks away from my place.* A friend and I were on our way to the neighbourhood posh bar when we noticed that the air was kind of smoky and it smelled like a gigantic BBQ. We looked into the distance and noticed a smoky orange glow in the sky. We also noticed the ash falling to the ground. Whatever was burning, it was big. It rained last night, but no torrential downpour (if there was a down-pour, my power would have surely gone out).

I remember as a kid learning about Quebec and learning French. Some of the lessons really stood out for me. One of them was the “snow roofs” in Quebec City. They give that city a distinctive look. Of course we learned all about carnival and the Bonhomme de Neige. The other lesson that stood out was about the firewalls and firemen. Of course, that could just be me looking back on those lessons in the light of what feels like Montreal burning down around me.

*The last neighbourhood fire that I’ve seen happened on the night of an ice storm. The power went out (another regular occurrence in Montreal) and as is often the case, something burns down as a result. That night the building destined for cinders was standing right behind mine. I was asleep and woke up to the loud crashing sound of a building falling apart and firemen yelling information to one another. It was about 6:00am and flames went shooting into the sky out of the top of that building. Flames also reached out of the windows while firefighters stood on the balcony and roof of the neighbouring building. I had never seen anything like it. I don’t know if it was someone’s home that burned down, but I do know people were living next door. They were obviously evacuated. A few days later I saw a guy with a plastic bag picking his way through his kitchen, which I think was damaged from smoke and water. I think – I am not sure – but I think that they are back as I always see the lights on. Also, work has started on the shell that was once a building. Loud crashing has again woken me up this week. This time it is not nearly as dramatic. There is a clean-up effort, but who knows when it will be done.

A friend of mine, who lives down the street, told me that a building just down the street from her had also burned down recently. I have also been told that the insurance for business in the plateau area of Montreal is really high due to the fire risk (which is connected to the frequent power outages). The whole city isn’t like this, just my neighbourhood. I am also one of the lucky people who got a letter explaining that due to old pipes, my water may be contaminated with led. Awesome.

2007-03-16T11:03:00.000-04:00

So, now it’s time for my new weekly feature. Is I-ML wearing a bra? Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to guess in which picture I-ML is wearing a bra.

2007-03-13T12:13:00.000-04:00

So, it is probably obvious to most of you, especially those of us in many Canadian cities, towns, hamlets and villages that spring is here and gleefully skipping into our lives. That is the kindergarten version of events. I actually think of it in violent terms. Nature isn’t kind and in my brain each year winter and spring become locked in a death match. But spring will always emerge victorious. Sometime in April in a last ditch effort to control the atmosphere winter will deliver a desperate yet powerful strike and fall onto its knees weak and exhausted. That is when spring moves in for the kill and plants its foot firmly on winter’s neck.

Of course there are obvious atmospheric signs that spring is coming but I think the sign that we humans most enjoy is the magical moment when we all remove our scarves, stop bracing from the wind and for the next six months or so, go on the make.

For me, and a few others around me, that magical moment occurred last night around 10:00pm on St. Viateur walking home from the YMCA. As we walked home, talking about our capoeira instructor, a man stepped out of St. Viateur Bagel and complimented my hair (as we all know, the most direct path to my heart is through my vanity). I turned, smiled and thanked him by blowing a kiss. He said, “do that again and I’ll come home with you.” Well, what is a woman to do? So I replied, “better be careful or I’ll take you up on that.”

Now there was a lot of giggling from my girl friends, probably still talking about the various hard and soft angles on our instructor’s body. But, there gathered on the pavement was his friends and mine, separated by only three or four meters, us laughing, them staring and that was when spring really grabbed hold. Perhaps to make too fine a point a cyclist rode by and actually said, “Well, spring is here.”

Prepare yourselves, the forecast calls for extreme flirting.

2007-03-08T16:59:00.000-05:00

So, as many of you know I love my interns and sometimes develop fun relationships with them. Sometimes they let me meddle in their lives, sometimes they, rather foolishly, ask for my advise. I have a former intern here who now works for us and does a great job that is why we keep asking her to come back. She will be called I-ML to protect her anonymity, but yes, that is her in the picture.

She and I spend a lot of office time together and have developed quite the friendship. I like to take her with me where ever I go. To lunch, to the bank, to unplanned shopping trips I-ML comes along and tells me stories about her love life to keep me entertained.

One of the things I-ML and I talk about is growing-up and becoming adult women ready to be fully functioning members of society. She has just finished school and sometimes she freaks out about her future – like we all did. So, I tell her to chill out and set goals and while she normally listens to me, one lesson she refuses to grasp is; adult woman wear bras every day. I’ll say that again, adult women wear bras every day.

Go ahead and call me old fashioned, but I really feel that unless you are built like a twelve-year-old boy, you should wear a bra… to work. Not our I-ML. No, she decides not to and frankly, this girl needs a bra. Not in a bad way, she just needs to wear one.

I don’t understand it. The woman wears six shirts at the same time and at any given moment she’s got a vest and a belt and more accessories than you can shake a stick at. However, she can’t be asked to put on a bra.

We often play a little game in the morning (ok, we work in publishing… and she is a bit of a free spirit, so the ‘morning’ for us is anytime between 11:00am and 1:00pm). She comes to the office and I guess if she is wearing a bra. I think you should all join in, everyone look at her picture. Is this woman wearing a bra?

2007-03-05T13:31:00.000-05:00

So, I spent this weekend with my mom and sister. Generally, when I am with them, my mother’s insanity kind of outshines my sister’s. However, spending time in my sister’s condo you really get familiar with her various neuroses. My sister and I are very much the same in some ways, but we are very different in others. For example, I wake up in the morning in a good mood. My sister is the most miserable grump on earth when she wakes up. At night, if it is late and I am tired, I get really pissy. My sister could have been deprived sleep for three days and she will still be happy to start a card tournament at 2:00am.

She has one issue that really highlights the difference between the two of us. She gets angry that I don’t wear pants while sleeping. Now, I already compromise a lot when I am at her house by wearing a nightdress to sleep in. However, it only goes to mid thigh and it really bothers my sister that it creeps up at night. God forbid my pantied ass touches her sheets. This particular obsession is really strange to me. I am the kind of person who will live for years without curtains and walk around in a t-shirt and no pants. I don’t care to look presentable while sleeping (generally, I sleep naked, I think people who wear pajamas are repressed). I certainly don’t care how she looks like while sleeping. She happened to catch a glimpse of my under ware on Saturday night at 3:00am. Her 10-minute grumbling soliloquy about the visibility of my under ware woke me up. Could you imagine what it would be like to live with this woman? You’d have to be covered from head to toe at all times, even when you are alone, in your own bed, asleep and in another room.

2007-03-01T13:33:00.001-05:00

So, last night a friend of mine and I were chatting on the way home from the gym when she told me the most ridiculous story. It wasn’t a long story. Well, it was more of a statement. She told me that on Thursday’s her boyfriend – who happens to be real nice looking – goes with her to the YMCA to take African dance class and he loves it*. The class is called “expressions African.” I am afraid to go to it due to the possibility that half the class may actually be the Tam tam girls who think they can do African dance to an ill-conceived drum beat under the July sun on Mt. Royal.

Anyway, this dude goes to a dance class with his girlfriend and he loves it. From what she tells me the class is an intense work out, and she suspects that is why he likes it so much. Whatever the reason, I can’t believe that guy is doing this, and I really want to see it.

I wondered for a few minutes where she found this lovely guy. Then I remembered they are from Alberta. I have had the opinion, for a while now, that in Alberta they raise their boys properly. Everyone wants a good Alberta boy. Everyone I know, who has an Albertan for a boyfriend has a wonderful guy.

It seems that there are a few traits to the good Alberta boys that makes them so, well, good. First, Albertans like to be employed, this puts them heads and tails above many of the available Montreal boys. Second, Alberta boys tend to be strapping farm lads and lead healthy lifestyles. Their manliness becomes them. The Vancouver pot-heads are generally to lazy for that. Third, the Albertan male seems to like companionate relationships. This trait is increasingly hard to find in the Toronto – and Montreal – male.

One key to the perfect Albertan boyfriend is that they have moved out of Alberta and probably will never move back. These Albertans, raised with all the above qualities also enjoy life in the country’s more, shall we say, spontaneous urban centres.

I really think that I should start some sort of “Date an Albertan” web site. It can run along side my “Date a publishing executive” site**. There must be thousands more Albertan boys who want out of Alberta, they just need a great reason, why not some charming non-Albertan ladies. I am sure Albertan women are just fine, I am sure they have great personalities, but don’t you want to get a get a job and start a companionate relationship in a different place, somewhere with exciting cultural and night life? Don’t you want to experience the larger cities with a local?

The second key is that the Albertan boy actually wants to be the Albertan man. This is important because the curse of the 21st century is that adults want to be 21 for the rest of their lives as if that is the best thing you could be. Right now, I think North America is plagued with people who don’t want to grow up and make adult decisions. Many of us would rather live like we are still in a university residence. This is why the movie “Old School” was so popular. However, I think that many of us missed the end where only the looser of the group continued that lifestyle and the main character moved out of the frat house and moved on with his life.

*I have met this guy a couple times and he never fails to charm. He is one of the guys who would end up with the prefix “The lovely.” His name is Mark, so, he’d be called The Lovely Mark. He would join a select group of men including, but not limited to “The lovely Matthew,” The Lovely Alex,” “The lovely guy at the cheese store in Jean Talon Market,” “The Lovely Nordic Looking Fellow at the YMCA.” You see where I’m going with this.

**“Date a Publishing Executive” is a web site that I have been tossing around in my head. It would be geared to investment bankers or corporate lawyers, cardio-thorasic surgeons basically people who make much more money than publishing executives but want to date someone who works in media or some other cultural industry because we are great at parties and dinners. Basically, we are awesome conversationalists and that can get you some much-needed social credit that may help with career advancement. A long shot? Absolutely. Worth a try? Totally!

2007-02-28T13:10:00.000-05:00

So, about a year ago a friend of mine, who also happens to be a hopeless pervert, sent me a link to the ‘bounce-o-meter’ (http://www.shockabsorber.co.uk/bounceometer/shock.html). Needless to say I was a bit shocked which was OK because I was actually looking at the web site for the “shock absorber” bra. It is the best sports bra technology.

At the time, I was really interested in the bra, however since it is just stupid to order bras over the internet (I don’t care how small your boobs are, it is a bad decision) and they did not sell the shock absorber line in Canada, I was out of luck and had to continue to rely on the three sports bras I was using, one of which, made me look like a 1950’s pin-up girl and I was too lazy to put on the other – it has too many clasps. The best of the lot merged my boobs into what I called ‘uni-boob mountain.’ It even had it’s own peak.

Anyway, a few weeks ago while shopping in my favourite Montreal lingerie store I found the shock absorber and I have to say that I am very happy with this bra (sadly, it is not the one in the picture). It has passed the test of bra ownership (I had it on a month long probation). The most amazing thing about the shock absorber is that I could wear it outside of the gym. It does not create the uni-boob mountain. I have two boobs all the time! Two boobs! I guess I have more of a mountain range now.

I probably think about gym attire more than I need to. This is for a few reasons. First, I am built for comfort, so there are things that I can’t wear out of respect for my fellow gym goers. Second, I am really picky* and don’t like to wear anything that is too big or has sleeves that are too long. Third, I only like pants that go a few inches past my knees. I also need shirts that go precisely to my hips. The final complication is that, due to my dedication to capoeira, I spend a lot of time upside down. I am either doing handstands, cartwheels or, most recently, front walkovers.

Also, I have specially chosen panties that will aide my silhouette when sporting close fitting pants and shirts. I only have three of the perfect panties for the job, so that makes for some difficult laundry timing. It is all very complicated.

Upon revision of this post, I think I may be a slave to my vanity.

*I had originally written "...a little picky" but I have changed it on Vijay's insistance.

2007-02-27T17:08:00.000-05:00

So, this morning I lay in bed conflicted. I had these two competing drives. I wanted to keep sleeping but I was also really excited to pull on the new jeans I bought yesterday. I like them. They are black and it has been years since I have bought a pair of black jeans. Mainly because when I see black jeans they make me think of two things. I either think of rockers in the 80’s and 90’s or I think about my aunt who, while a lovely person, always wears black jeans because they are slimming. She often goes for the mom-cut and then wears it with a purple turtleneck tucked in and some sort of black or African print vest with matching jewelry. You can understand why I would be hasty when it comes to buying a pair of black jeans.

Anyway, obviously I decided to go and get up and come to work and now every minute that passes I wonder why I came. I’m lacking desire to be here, but that is ok, I have come to terms with it and I am leaving in 15 minutes anyway. OK, my managing editor just handed me a beer, so I will be here for at least 20 minutes.

Later tonight I have to go to the health food/hippie store near my house. That cardamom scented palace* just happens to sell the Burt’s Bees product line cheaper than the Pharmaprix and it is right close to my apartment. After I fight my way past blonde women with dred locks and parachute pants, sundry other tam-tam attending hippies and a collection of hipster/yuppies (or ‘huppies’ or ‘yupetrs’as I like to call them) I have to try to return a Burt’s Bees cream I bought yesterday. While the cream is rich and luxurious for sure, it also has this smell. At first it smells like honey, which I love. Then, as it absorbs in your skin, it smells like a small chlorine spill in a public restroom (yes it is the product in the picture). Why did they put this product on the market? I have to change it and go with something a bit more traditional.

The scent of my body cream is especially important. You see, on Friday I have plans to travel home to Toronto for the weekend. That isn’t a big deal. The big deal is how I may be getting there. I may well get a drive with, I hope you are securely seated, my capoeira instructor. There will be others on the car, but I need to look cute and smell great. This isn’t a done deal. I have to convince him that I would be the best car passenger ever. I will get final word on Wednesday or Thursday. Right now, all I can do is hope! Well, hope and plan my hair.

*There must be a law or custom that forces health product and organic food locations to smell like cardamom and various other “exotic” spices. If anyone knows why this is, please place a comment in the dedicated section.

2007-02-21T16:23:00.000-05:00

So, today is February 21st and in a month’s time I will be getting ready to post my muffin top/camel toe report. By the end of March the weather gets much better and people decide to start wearing the same lighter clothes they were wearing back when the weather was nice and warm. The problem is that most people gain a few pounds over the winter to protect themselves against the wind and snow and who can blame them. There is just more to love and cuddle with, provided, of course, that you are part of a cuddling couple. However, we forget what the extra sweetness does to the waistline when crammed into clothes made for the slimmer summer season and really we shouldn’t. Hence, the muffin top/camel toe report.

So, those of you who are counting the degrees on the thermometer as it inches upward have a choice you must make in the next 4 weeks. Either do your best to do away with the extra or buy a pair of pants that fit. I don’t care what you do. Just choose one. No one needs to see your camel toe.

2007-02-20T12:36:00.000-05:00

So, I have this dude who has developed a long distance crush on me and while at first it was ok, because he lives on the other side of the country, it has gotten out of hand. This person and I have a professional relationship and while he is pleasant to do business with, I really don’t need him calling me constantly and sending me a million text messages. Really who cultivates a crush on someone living on the other side of the country? He is a great guy, just not the guy for me. I think I need to write him a heart felt letter to express exactly how I feel. This is the first draft. Remember, you have to be cruel to be kind.

Dear Long Distance Crush Sufferer,

It seems to me that we need to talk as I think you need a little reminder of what is going on here. Please hear what I say and let it sink in. This is the naked truth. We work together and that is it. It is clear to me, due to the constant text messages, calls, emails and artificially extended phone conversations that you imagine there could be more than circulation and marketing between us. I don’t want to be harsh, but your relentless nature is forcing my reaction. There is nothing more between us. There will never be. Please believe me when I say we have no romantic future.

You may assume that I have led you on, but I have a naturally friendly and affable manner. This is how I make my way through the world. I was raised to charm and I have sharpened this skill to a knife edge. I could give lessons in the art of being disarming. Please don’t think that I turn this charm on for you. I don’t. You are not special, you do not inspire me to sparkle any more than I normally do and I am not using my charm to entice you. You are not being seduced.

In the end, you will see that I am a waste of your emotion. We live in different cities on opposite sides of the country. Only a madman would think there was a chance for us to develop the kind of relationship you are hoping for. I beg you, do not waste any more time or energy than you already have.

I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to get to that point. We will meet in person at our industry’s conference in June. We will have drinks and I will, no doubt, make you laugh. We will be in my hometown and I will be happy to show you around, invite you out with my friends and show you some of my favourite places. We will have a good time, but that is all it will be. If you try to romance me, you will fail, feel embarrassed and realize that you spent the last six months living in an illusion. It will be a bad day for you.

Please take my advice and use your charm on a woman in your area of the country. Choose someone who can appreciate you. Because where you are concerned, I am unavailable.

Yours in business only,

Debbie

2007-02-15T15:10:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday was the big day for those of us in love or those of us wanting to be in love and I believe that covers the entire population no matter what the cynics say. Yes, it was the big day and I was concerned that my co-worker, Meredith (also known as my romantic superhero) would not get her flowers from boyfriend-number-one due to the demolished look of the floor we work on. I was also worried that once the flowers arrived that I would break down crying. This kinda happened last year because while all of editorial was in a meeting I snuck over to her desk and stared at the orchid behind the clear plastic for at least ten minutes. Call me a simple girl but really, I would love to get flowers, and I have never gotten them. Well, not from anyone that mattered, and not for an occasion other than my dad’s funeral.

As is normally the case in my office we had no idea where the boss was and frankly that was a bit of Valentine’s Day treat. But, when he did manage to come in, he entered in style. At about 2:30pm he walks in wearing a black velvet dinner jacket with roses for all of us (we are in production right now and my boss has ended up with a staff of all women. He didn’t plan it) and chocolates. Good job. I think he enjoyed it more than we did.

My super romantic evening was spent at capoeira class. Due to the holiday of love and a bad winter storm I was one of maybe 5 students and for a while it looked like I was the only one to show up. It was Valentine’s Day night and I needed to look at someone beautiful. My capoeira instructor would do. So would the other random topless dude.

I spent the rest of the evening reading Robert Green’s The Art of Seduction. I want to apply it to my capoeira instructor. I would also like to apply it to this other guy but I don’t see him nearly enough. I will have to be diabolical. But, as the book says those of us who believe that love and romance just happens if it is meant to be are just lazy.

2007-02-07T12:19:00.001-05:00

So, I am working from home today and I just saw a commercial for Dove. OK, I saw the commercial last night too. It was for their contest for hair. Basically you send them a picture of your hair and then if you win you go into their hair “magazine”* Now, I obviously think this contest is tailor made for me. Anyone who knows me will know that I have one major vanity (and several minor ones). I truly believe that I have a spectacular head of hair. Seriously, it is beautiful. The problem with me entering this contest is that I would never let a Dove product anywhere near my hair. No way! I have very specific product tastes and Dove simply does not make the grade.

However, vanity can make you do crazy things. I read the rules and if you win (and in my brain I would be the winner, hands down) you would have to agree to rep the product somewhat, and that would make me a liar. Interestingly, I didn’t see anything in the rules that would require you to actually use the products. You have to write an essay and you have to believe in the Dove philosophy. But, you don’t have to actually use Dove.

Anyway, no Dove contest for me. My hair will exist only for the enjoyment of people around me. Also, I am not as deluded as most of the American Idol contestants.

*I put magazine in quotation marks because it is purely an advertising piece for Dove but they call it a magazine so that stupid people will not realize they have just picked up a bunch of advertising and thereby take the material is as if it is informative editorial. I used to think that these things don’t really work until one day when this young woman told me that her favourite magazine was “Glow” which is purely advertising for Shoppers Drug Mart. She honestly couldn’t tell the difference between marketing

*** Little Mosque Update ***

I have changed my mind about the show a bit. I watched another episode on the internet, and found it endearing. One of the charaters was upset because his wife was dead and his daughter started her period and she was supposed to have her wear her veil. It was done really well. Good on the CBC!

2007-01-25T13:17:00.001-05:00

So, I have no dinner table at my apartment and I am totally sick of it. Last week I decided that this no table issue needed solving. I am happy to announce that I have recently picked up an antique table for $175.00. It is lovely and will look very nice in my apartment when I get it next week. Thank you, Craig’s list.

The man who sold me the table was short with a love for mismatched furniture, ugly oil paintings and floral printed carpets. He was short and older and had a personality made for sales. While his phone rang off the hook he gestured me to follow him through his packed small apartment while saying, “talk to me, talk to me, talk to me. You like these paintings? You need chairs to go with this table?” So, I did talk to him, well, I tried but it was too difficult. He wasn’t actually giving me room to say anything and his phone was screaming to be picked up.

As he shuffled past an old tile-top staging table and between two floral printed arm chairs, his phone screamed and I guess he was going to ignore it. But, he answered, finally and at my insistence. I assumed he would deal with the caller quickly. But I was wrong and in the ten minutes that followed I got a window into this short man’s life.

Yes, he is a real estate agent, and by his reckoning a good one. He is recruiting agents perhaps for a new office I guess, but that office is run by a young woman, who has never sold a property and who treats my older friend like a glorified office manager. Her attitude makes his task more difficult as she doesn’t understand the business and is not giving him the respect he deserves. He doesn’t have a title and this gives him more problems as his role is unclear to possible recruits.

He talked like I wasn’t there to some fellow named Dan who, based on what I was hearing, was charged with the task of begging him to stay with this project, or whatever it was. I must have heard the phrase “You know, Dan, if this continues, I’m gone. I’m gone, Dan.” about 5 times during their chat. He hung up the phone frustrated, it seemed, but not angry enough to effect the transaction at hand.

Once he got off the phone we struck the deal and I gave him part of the money. We agreed that I would return to pick up the table with the remainder of the cash a week later. Then, while he was making a note in a small book pulled from his shirt pocket, I made a joke. I said, “If I had all the cash with me now I’d talk you down.” He stopped writing immediately and looked at me dead in the eye. Five full seconds went by in silence before he said, “I don’t think so.”

2007-01-15T12:00:00.001-05:00

So, after my capoeira class, on Saturday night I was a special kind of sweaty. I rushed home to get myself ready for a party, for which, I had to dress up. When I got back, I turned on the tap and the water when came shooting out of the top of the faucet and not the showerhead where it is supposed to come out. Great. After some quick thinking I pulled my coat on and got ready to head back to the YMCA. Thankfully I called first because they had closed by then. Great. I ended up showering at my friend’s place around the corner.

About 3 minutes ago the plumber just left (yes, he was attractive). I was (and still am) wearing what, to most people, would be pajamas. He was in my bathroom for about 30 seconds looked at the faucet, told me he would fix it but not today. Great. Hopefully he will fix it this week. He told me that my faucet is old fashioned and while they still make it he doesn’t know if when he fixes it I will still be able to use the same shower head and if not, the landlord (who is notoriously lazy) will have to replace it. Which means I will have to replace it and wait for him to pay me back. Or, perhaps I will get a real nice one and just keep it. I don’t know.

Since my landlord is both cheap and lazy, I can see him finding a faucet in the street and trying to use that – without even cleaning it. Think I am crazy and no one would do that? You are wrong. He once replaced a window screen with a screen he clearly found on the ground. Before he duck taped it onto the brick wall (needless to say that doesn’t really stick) he cut the top off so that it would kinda fit the window. It is hilarious. He also propped up the window with an empty killkenny can he found in my neighbour’s recycling bucket. So, you can see why I wouldn’t put anything past him.

2007-01-12T11:29:00.000-05:00

So, this morning I was standing by the bus stop waiting to really start my commute to work. I was kinda irritated because it is clear that the later we get in the week, the later the crush of bodies happen on the Metro and it seems that the entire city is on my schedule. While waiting I was doing what I normally do in the morning, looking at the men at the stop and wondering what kind of boyfriend they would be and what kind of woman would go out with them. It’s a fun game.

Generally, there is a bunch of old men at the stop of the short and Portuguese variety. I always look at those men and imagine they have even shorter wives at home sitting on the porch or looking after their grandchildren while these guy go and play cards at the community centre or the basement of the gigantic Portuguese church strangely decorated by odd Christmas lights year-round.

Today there were two guys who were neither short, nor Portuguese. They were of average height and there was nothing about their looks that would make them stand out. This may explain their choices in terms of fashion and personal grooming.

The first guy, he was wearing a blue beret. I really can’t take a beret seriously unless it is being rocked by a fashionista. But, they still look funny. It is a bold choice to say the least. My mother has a beautiful beret and she looks real cute in it. But, let’s be honest, my mother is adorable, even when she is being annoying – ok, that is a stretch. But she is super cute and can make a beret look precious.

The other guy, made what continues to be the most confusing grooming choice a mad could ever make. I don’t know what makes a man do this, but it is fairly common in what may well be the ‘community’ that plays those role playing games. However, he didn’t have a black trench coat, nor did he look like he spends all his time indoors and he was actually with a woman. I don’t know why she has not put her foot down. I don’t know why she would let him walk around like this. The guy had braided the hair growing on his chin. It was about six inches long and he had wrapped an elastic band around the bottom. Really, does this dude own a mirror?

See, she can’t really love him. Here is a story that illustrates my point: Last week a friend of mine and I were at a bar and we saw this woman wearing a backless shirt WITH a bra. Her bra strap was clearly visible and it looked like a bra strap – even in a dimly lit bar and from across the room. It ruined her look. Her ‘friends’ must have told her it looked OK, because she must have been afraid to go bra-less. Well, someone should have taken this girl to the Pharmaprix to pick up one of those stick-on bras. I hear they are awesome. Whoever she was with was NOT her friend.

So, this dude’s girlfriend, if she loves him, should do her level best to convince this guy that the beard-braid just looks stupid, because it does.

2007-01-10T12:38:00.000-05:00

So, Little Mosque on the Prairie...

I have love for the CBC that I can’t shake, nor do I really want to shake it. I give all CBC shows a chance and I am normally glad that I do. However, last night I watched Little Mosque on the Prairie. It was more than a little disappointing, but I don’t know what I was expecting because I saw this coming a mile away. The story, just in case you missed the marketing, is about a small Muslim community in rural town called Mercy, Saskatchewan. They have gotten a new Imam to move there under some false pretenses and comedy follows. Well, the comedy is supposed to follow, but in this case, it doesn’t.

There are some notable Canadian actors in the show and possibly the best looking man in Canadian television (no, I am not talking about Ian Hanomansing – or Ian Handsome-man-thing as I like to call him), Zaib Shaikh who plays Imam Amaar Rachid. The premise, for some reason is shocking to some people, but the writers and producers seem to think that Muslims in rural Saskatchewan is automatically funny. It’s not.

What is it about CBC situation Comedy? The group sketch shows are very good (with the exception of Air Farce which must lift their material from suburban elementary school playgrounds). But the sitcoms are like watching a cold dead fish on the floor. It would be awesome if it came to life so you could watch it jump around. The dialogue is wooden, the jokes are obvious and I feel like I am being told everything I already know or assume.

In my high school drama class one of the key lessons Mr. Finan taught me about dialogue is that people in real life do not take turns talking as if we are holding talking sticks. Nor do we wait for the audience to get the joke. It seems that the actors and directors for Little Mosque never learned that lesson. Or perhaps they were trying to pace the show like the wildly successful Corner Gas, but the attempt comes off as phony.

OK, there is a culture clash between the people of Mercy, Saskatchewan and the Muslim community that are recent arrivals. They are part of the greater community but they stand out, especially now in what news personalities insist on calling ‘the post 9-11 world.’ But, there seems to be no truth in fiction here. All of the action happens somewhere in the ridiculous spectrum. As if the fact they are Muslims living there makes everything ridiculous. For example, at the end of this first episode we learn that the man responsible for bringing the Imam to the town has mislead him about the salary. Now this is just stupid. The writers ask the audience to believe that a former LAWYER from TORONTO never discussed his salary before he moved to Saskatchewan. The Imam says that he is flexible about his salary and then learns that there is no money to pay him. But, the four days he spent dealing with the culture clashing community is enough to make him feel bonded to the to the people there so he doesn’t leave. Instead he takes the news super well and even seems to think it is funny. Just the fact that he is there is enough to make him stay, even to his own detriment.

How many people watching the show expected the new Imam to have trouble at the airport? Well, I guess that was in the previews. How many times did you think you were gonna hear the word “terrorist”? Could the writers be more obvious? Yes. How many times are we going to have to hear the anti-Toronto bias? Last night it was like I was being bashed over the head with it repeatedly. Guess what, it’s not funny.

I don’t know if the Corner Gas people were watching, but they must feel completely ripped off. Perhaps they should take it as a compliment. Corner Gas is a smashing success and a very intelligent show. Little Mosque looks to be an obvious rip off. Let’s look at the similarities. Corner Gas has Lacey, the Toronto import running the café where the community congregates. Little mosque has the New Imam from Toronto who runs the congregation for the local Muslim community. Both shows are set in rural Saskatchewan. Little Mosque has done their best to mimick the pace of Corner Gas. The Muslim community is full of querky townsfolk. Dog River is full of querky townsfolk. It seems to me that the CBC threw this one together over the weekend after watching the Corner Gas DVD set but thought to themselves “hey, you know what would make it timely and controversial, make them all Muslim!” Or, someone approached the CBC with a show set in the Muslim community and then the executives watched a lot of Corner Gas.

I wonder why this show exists. It is typical of CBC’s attempts to remain relevant, interesting and controversial at a time when the choices for consumers is increasing not only in number, but in the way we choose to consume entertainment. Not only do they have to compete with better quality and more challenging programming on networks that didn’t even exist 15 years ago, but those of us who don’t even subscribe to those channels that carry this programming can download what we want to watch from a multitude of internet sites, or we can rent the DVDs. I have watched , Weeds, Big love, Six Feet Under, Carnivale, Deadwood, The Sopranos and a number of others shows from UK. But that takes planning and in some cases, space on my laptop.

While our choices have increased, there still are only a few hours in an evening. Sadly, last night Little Mosque didn’t even stand up to the competition available on my television that only gets 3 channels. I passed on Degrassi to watch the Rick Mercer Report – always worth it and Little Mosque on the Prairie – a smashing failure. When Little Mosque went up against Degrassi, CTV brought their A-game. Someone got stabbed in a very timely story line about violence in that age group. Now, twenty years after I first started watching Degrassi, it has brought me back. I was sorry I missed the episodes last night, but no fear I can watch them on the CTV broadband network whenever I want. Good work. If I missed Rick Mercer last night, I’d have to wait for a repeat.

The CTV broadband is a great idea and is exactly what ABC does but only for people in the US. It is the perfect venue for another CBC show, Jozi-H. That show, much more interesting than The Hour (the most painful hour on television where ageing hipster, George Stroumboulopoulos talks to the audience like we are idiots) suffers from a terrible time slot, Friday night at 9:00pm. I am normally hoisting a glass of wine by then.

The last CBC show that made a blatant attempt to be relevant was 11 Cameras. The show was about people all over talking to each other via web cam. I don’t know how it did in the ratings, but regardless of how obvious the show was I thought it was pretty interesting. But it was like the show was developed by some 55 year-old guys sitting around a boardroom table at the CBC all talking about this new fangled thing their kids were all using called web cams. Still, I wish that writing team would work with the Little Mosque people. Perhaps they would come up with something worth missing Degrassi for.

2006-12-13T10:58:00.000-05:00

So, on Monday evening I went to my capoeira class for some exercise. It is pretty obvious why the majority of the people in that class go and why we keep coming back. The instructor is probably the best looking man I have ever seen in Montreal. I’m not joking and I would post his picture on this blog if I didn’t think there is a slim chance that I would get caught. There is a picture of this dude floating around the internet in front of a Brazilian waterfall wearing nothing but a pair of white spedos and a smile. Sometimes, when I am bored in the office, I look at the photo and think about how happy my mother would be if I were to bring that specimen home with me for Christmas. All she wants for Christmas is a handsome son-in-law.

He is so handsome I want to write a letter to him, and I think it would go something like this:

Dear Capoeira Instructor,

You must get a lot of attention and I am sure I am not the first woman to put her feelings down on paper where you are concerned, but I have to tell you, I cannot help myself. Generally good looks are not enough to make me cross a room, but you are in a whole different category, and if I can’t approach you to talk it is only because upon seeing you I go weak in the knees and my legs fail to sustain my weight. I don’t faint at the site of you. It is more of an all over body collapse.

When I first saw you, in that first class I took, I was confused. I looked around the room and no one else seemed to notice that you were perfection personified doing complex movements in a display of bare strength and superhuman agility. How could they have missed it? How could they not be moved by the fluid movements of the omni-sexual masterpiece stretching by the mirrors? The answer is, they are moved but their awe has forced them into silence. Yours is the beauty that dare not be spoken.

Now that you see me at least twice a week, we talk and laugh and I see that when you relax, your personality is golden. The joker you are while we are sparring is actually a glimpse of your true nature. Also, I have heard you singing those weird capoeira songs and I am impressed that you can hold a tune. You speak three languages and sometimes, while standing in front of you, I can’t even string together a coherent sentence. You must think the world is full of idiots.

I know for a fact that you spend the vast majority of your time training or teaching. Your dedication to sport added to that terrible outfit I saw you wearing a couple weeks ago probably means that you don’t have a girlfriend. I would love for you to pick me. But, I think it would do a disservice to the community. While you would certainly be better dressed, I can’t imagine that I would ever let you get out of bed. I simply can’t let the city survive without your beauty.

Capoeira instructor, you have been nothing but respectful to me, and the whole class. You are never too friendly and you avoid talking about your personal life. Although you could, you never use your good looks to your advantage. And for that, I thank you, because, if you wanted to, you could have each and every one of us. You could play with our hearts and confuse us and frankly, Capoeira is hard enough.

Yours in Fitness,
Debbie

My Year In Review

2006-12-06T14:37:00.000-05:00

So, it is that time of year again. It is time for my second annual “year in review.” Yes, it is my blog anniversary. It’s my blogaversary. Happy Blog Day to me.

Another year of prattling has gone by and again I have some comments. Now I did much less blogging on 2006 and I think it has to do with a better job. While it has its problems, it certainly has kept me busy.

I have done a lot of traveling this year. Since January, I have been to Toronto, San Francisco, Niagara on the Lake and New York City. I count myself lucky because my job has been paying for me to travel as the trips have all been for professional development purposes.

I really do think of interns as play things. I have written about them, used them in social experiments and I like to watch them get drunk. At the same time, I really appreciate them and you wouldn’t know it, but they often confide in me. I have respectfully kept their personal problems off the blog. But, I admit, that was a struggle.

The most popular blog post of the year had nothing to do with bras, panties, or bikini waxes. It had to do with a cat. A big fat cat named Oscar. How much does Oscar weigh now? I’m not sure but on June 9th he was 25 pounds. This came as a surprise to GRC but it was plainly obvious to both me, and Nadia (the woman who guessed his weight).

I decided to keep my love life off the blog but I did write about two proper crushes I had this year, the security guard at the Nordelec building and the guy at the gym. Both respectable crushes, but nothing compared to 2005’s Portuguese Chicken Guy, Construction Workers, and certainly not to Dust.

However, there is a new crush on the scene, my capoeira instructor. I have named him “The Best Looking Man in Montreal” and he really is. It is a little bit crazy, actually. He is like his own urban legend.

On the fitness front I have belonged to two gyms. I got back together with the YMCA but still think about U.N.I. Training in my old neighbourhood. It was my first extended experience with a personal trainer and I miss him. Scott was amazing, so were the facilities. I work out as hard as a girl built for comfort should work out.

My work related drinking was at an all time high in 2006 thanks to many an industry event and the aforementioned professional development opportunities. I even swore of the bottle when at work events. But, that was a useless measure especially since I work in an office that encourages wine drinking while working. And, my boss was really upset this summer because we didn’t have the chance to “get hammered and go see Talladega Nights” together.

I had the chance to publish in arenas outside the blog this year. Nothing special but actually getting paid to write was new and exciting. It was an article about interns but I was disappointed because I really couldn’t mention that they are my playthings.

So, this was my Blog year in review. My close friends know what I have left out. There are some things a woman has to keep to herself. On to another year of blogging.

2006-12-04T13:21:00.000-05:00

So, I am sitting at my desk here so tired I have no ability to really concentrate on my work. I think I am in stage two of a bad hangover. I can barely keep my eyes open and I have no ability to apply my brain to anything I am actually being paid to do. As a result, I can only blog my progressive hangover away. Really, I don’t know if you can call it a hangover. It is more like the culmination of a ridiculous weekend that involved booze, the Montreal fire department, a winter storm and power outages.

On Friday, I left the office early because the city had been gripped by a huge storm and giant clumps of ice came falling from the sky, bouncing off the windows of our office building. Much of the city lost power. Here in Montreal power outages are common. I like to think of it as our homage to developing nations. I’ve heard there are two reasons that when combined cause the frequent outages. The amount of ice here is surprising, and the power lines are old and the cost to replace that infrastructure is prohibitive. At least this is the layman’s reasoning for the outages, but it doesn’t explain why the power was also going out in the summer. I called Hydro Quebec to get an estimated time for the power to come back (Hydro Quebec encourages consumers to call for this kind of information). The agent curtly informed me that there were over 270,000 people without power and every five minutes another block goes down so I cannot expect her to tell me when my power is coming back. We pay for this service.

Totally dependant on my laptop screen and cell phone for light, the temperature in my apartment quickly fell, and there was no way I could just stay there. Luckily the hosts of the party I was going to attend got a generator and it was time to dance. Body heat replaced Hydro Quebec. I have learned that a blackout + lots of booze + generator powered music + full moon = a house full of scandalously drunken adults. I got home at 4:30am, or so I have been told. I can’t believe I got my key in the door. I think my power was on when I got in because there was enough light for me to wash my face in my drunken state and not fall over.

A couple hours later, loud crashing noises and some yelling got me out of bed. Not sure if it was a dream and still intoxicated I started wandering around my apartment naked as the day I was born looking for the cause of the commotion. It wasn’t until I stood in my kitchen did I see that the building behind mine was, well, burning down. Drunk as I was, I immediately became concerned for the people living in the building and started to cry a little. I stopped when I noticed that the firemen were pointing in the direction of my apartment and I remembered that since there are huge windows in my kitchen the inside of my apartment is plainly visible from the backyard – where the firemen looked to be heading – I decided that I had better get some clothes on which would prove difficult as the power had gone out again making it almost impossible to sift through the tangled mountain of clothes on my bedroom floor. And, oh yeah, I was still pretty drunk. Luckily they did not evacuate my building, and I could sleep the booze off – sort of.

For some reason I decided to get out of bed at noon and attend a capoeira thing that afternoon with a friend of mine. Oh, I remember what the reason was, my power had not come back and my apartment was about 1 degree warmer than outside. I am a trooper, I tell you because I sat through that whole thing. After ward I went home and took a bit of a nap. Thankfully the power was back on.

After my nap, I attended two parties with the intention of staying mostly sober for the whole night. My plan failed and two red wines, a beer, three gin and tonics and a caprinha later I found myself dancing to the Thriller album in my coworkers kitchen. You know, the thriller album really is timeless.

I arrived home at 4:00am. Sunday morning I got out of bed at 2:00pm, making it Sunday afternoon and spent the whole day – well, what was left of it, on the couch. I went back to bed nine hours later and shockingly I couldn’t sleep. So, now I feel terrible. I did it to myself.

2006-11-21T15:18:00.000-05:00

So, something has been bugging me for a really long time. I just can’t ‘get’ exactly what is happening with Rona Ambroses hair. It is beyond terrible. Is it just that she has a super small forehead? Or perhaps her head is just too wide? In any case, you would think that she would have a styleist that could sort that out for her, unless one already has and this is the best that they could do. But every time I look at her I think perhaps it is a sub standard wig. I know and see plenty of people who choose to wear wigs for vanity, religious reasons or due to some health issues. But, they all have wigs that look great. So, if Ambrose is wearing a wig, she got a really poor quality one. Or she has really bad taste in wigs. This is why I think it is just her hair. And that she has made some bad hair choices.

And what is with that ridiculous part in the middle just a touch on the right side or her tiny forehead? Is it a symbol that she is right of centre? Who knows? On TV and in newspapers it looks like Ambrose has a very thick head of hair. You think that you could do so much with it. I think women nation wide would love to have all that hair. I am also sure that they would make it look nice.

I understand if she is wary of her hair looking too nice. We all see what happens when a woman in politics dares to look good. But, that said it is like she has done her level best to look like her head and hair are one solid unit. Remember those lego people with the stiff hair? That is what she looks like.

2006-09-13T15:42:00.000-04:00

So, today everyone in my office, and those who work with my magazine all called our moms. The staff and freelancers, mostly current Montrealers and mostly from other parts of the country all picked up the phone as a direct result of today’s shootings at Dawson College, a school just a few blocks from my office. We even got an email from a reader wishing us well.

I really wish gun toting lunatics would keep to themselves.

***UPDATE***

It seems the news was all over the place yesterday and very little of it was accurate. Last I heard, only two people were killed, the gunman and a young woman. While the article on the CBC website this morning does not mention a dead woman the article beside that one does. It is ridiculous. Late breaking internet news really is just like a rumor mill creating news.

Yesterday, while at the YMCA a couple of the flat screens in view of the eliptical trainers were on the RDI (Radio Canada International) station. In the all-toll 30 minutes I spent in that area of the gym, I saw the same footage looped over and over again. is that really necessary?

2006-08-22T15:58:00.000-04:00

So, when I was younger I thought that if a book was published it was because it was good, the writing was good, or interesting or innovative. I came to understand that there were always trends in writing style, those of us forced to read way too much of that lyrical prose in university can certainly attest to that (while I appreciated some lyrical prose, the collection of bad books in that sub-genre made me really appreciate the get-to-the-point writers). I also understood that book publishing is a business and that publishers will print and distribute books that are sellable. While Paris Hilton’s diary makes no positive additions to the literary landscape that is not going to stop tens of thousands of tweens from buying it.

I know that we have romance, and science fiction, mystery and that ever more sickening chick-lit (please tell me this will soon end). Authors who write in those genres seem happy there and they do not fancy themselves among the literary greats. But, every so often, I come across a book that is trying to pass itself off as serious literature and it is really just self-indulgent crap (much like this blog).

You may be wondering what brought all this on? This weekend, while lounging at a country house in the Eastern Townships I read the first four chapters of Alan Cumyn’s “The Famished Lover.” It was my fault really, there was pretty lingerie on the cover and I picked the book up off the boardroom table because of that. Never has a cliché bitten me harder. The book is about a guy who has come back from WWI, is totally changed by his experience and looks at beautiful young women as an escape. In fact, fantasizing about a former girlfriend helped him to survive captivity. Original. He is so struck by a woman’s beauty he is compelled to paint the female form naked in all its glory. Again, original. He is just that moved by beauty. Sure.

Back in Canada, years after the war he marries an inexperienced woman many years his junior. They married about three weeks after they met, as he was attracted to her youth and beauty. BORING. Upon marriage, she was, of course a virgin, and her first time with him was, obviously, totally satisfying for her. Then, when she gets pregnant, he fells trapped. Poor guy. Everything would have been fine had she just never aged, matured or had her own mind. Feeling stagnant in the marriage to a woman he barely knows, he has an affair and it is absolutely passionate. Yes, a shocking twist.

This is what I have pieced together from the first four chapters and the back of the book. It was so sickening I could go no further. Perhaps for a fair judgment of the book I should actually read the whole thing. But, we all know that wont happen – partially because I forgot the book on the floor of the living room (that’s where I left it when I decided to quit that book and read the collected letters of T.S. Elliot*). A significant reason stopping me from finishing it is I have a strange aversion to reading boring warped male fantasies. I mean, if I have to consume male fantasy at least make it exciting, like Fight Club, or really weird, like Eyes Wide Shut.

The other significant reason why I just can’t read the book is that it is just plainly over the top. It is like he concentrated on writing these sentences with too many words but didn’t give a thought to how the sentences fit together. Nor did he seem to care that conversations and characters generally need a context so the reader is not left thinking, “What the hell is he on about?” or “Where the hell is this coming from?”

Anyway, the book, thus far, is bad and not train wreck bad, but just plain bad, the worst kind of bad. You can’t even make fun of it. It’s depressing.

*While reading these letters I found out that T.S. Elliot’ uncle – also an Elliot – bought a fair bit of land in Memphremagog lake in the Eastern Townships, very close to where I was sitting at that moment. I wonder if the living descendants of those Elliots still own that land, and if not, who did they sell to?

2006-08-03T13:43:00.000-04:00

So, as some of you may or may not know I work in publishing – specifically magazine publishing. Those of you that have been paying more attention than others know that I have spent my short career in the independent press. What an education it has been!* I work in the independent press because here, more than in a large company, I have the chance to learn a lot. Also, I have a certain amount of power over the final product that I wouldn’t have at the large companies. Finally, any large company turns into a large burocracy. Working in one of those at my tender young age is not a good idea for me as it would be terrifically boring and at the end of the day all I will have to show for it is this blog.** For this I make certain trade off. The main one being a salary that is equal to the volume of work I do. Whatever, I have made my choice. One day, it will pay off. And, I wouldn’t change that choice now.

While working in a small magazine wouldn’t have too many perks, one of them is the free books, About six weeks ago I got Toby Young’s new book “The Sound of No hands Clapping.” I also have on my list to read Stephen Lewis’ “Race Against Time” and I just found Peter Behrens’ “The Law of Dreams” which is supposed to be good, but it may be about the Irish sweepstakes of misery and, frankly I saw Angela’s Ashes.

My other perk is that I get this laptop, to which I download Coronation Street and my new favourite televised obsession “Celebrity Love Island.”

_________________

*Now, just to be clear, I don’t work in the independent press for any political or social statement. I don’t think large media companies are evil (except for Fox “news”) But, I do sometimes cringe at the embarrassing or transparent or decidedly simply editorial published in some large newspapers and magazines (and I say “decidedly simple” because it seems to me that some writers who rant for attention have made the choice to stop thinking beyond a certain point, or at least, they write like they have stopped thinking).

**Indeed before I discovered the blog world, before I started in publishing I worked for the Ontario Public Service. Swallowing two and a half years of my young adulthood, the OPS took years of my life I will never get back. At the OPS I discovered that a large office full of bored administrative staff is not the place for a young ambitious person. Every idea was passed on, every initiative was thwarted . I was once told to stop working because they could not have that project finished, as they had not budgeted for it. In fact, my job – which consisted of absolutely nothing – existed to inflate the budget the department was getting in the first place. To add the scandalous frustration was the multitude of barriers to career advancement. I wanted to get into communications, yet union rules and the amount of employees doing nothing peppered through any office (they were often ‘working’ the job for a year before it was posted) made movement almost impossible. While the stereotype of the lazy government employee reflects unfairly on a lot of people, some do work very hard and put in long hours at the ministries that administer our public lives, at the level of office administration there exists an untouchable yet bored, secure yet unmotivated workforce. Some are not so unmotivated. To make this log aside even longer, I once worked in an office where a man was actually running a small business – a dance studio – from his desk in the OPS. You know what happened to him? He was given a warning and moved to another area. Also, the employee paper runs a story – every issue – about an administrative employee who has just published a research heavy book. In fact, I recently heard a story that some writers who work for the OPS brag about the response they get for their book once it is reported in the employee paper.

2006-08-02T13:10:00.000-04:00

So, last night I finally made it o the YMCA in my neighbourhood to have my free trial work out. I have been back and forth about rekindelling my relationship with the YMCA since our break-up in Toronto was so ugly. It just refused to see the simple fact of it and continued to force itself on me for months after I moved to Montreal. They even tried to make things hard for my sister. The end finally came when I screamed at them over the phone, “I’ve sent you faxes, I have told you in person, I have even stopped payment at the back, what more do I have to do for you to get the message that it is OVER!”

When I moved to Montreal, I started seeing another gym U.N.I. Training. It spoiled me for other gyms. It is amazing there. The staff is fantastic, and the work out environment is second to none. It has hardwood floors, cool music and the requisite eye candy that keeps you coming back for more. However, since I moved neighbourhoods it is too far away to get to.

But, just as I spoiled myself with the gym, over the past three months I have spoiled myself with the premium ice cream and total body laziness that is as satifying as it is destructive.

With this in mind, I went to the YMCA for my free work out. It was good and I even checked out their Kung Fu class. That’s right, they have Kung Fu. Now, some people may know that I have a bit of a liking for martial arts. I have a red belt in Taekwon-Do and I had a brief relationship with the Brazilian art of Capoeira (it was cut short by an argument with an instructor and a pair of tight white see-through pants). The kung Fu looks really cool, but there is no yelling it, which really is the best part of martial arts. You don’t get to yell when you hit someone. So, I would kind of feel cheated.

Anyway, it is time for me to get myself back to fighting shape.

2006-07-13T14:31:00.000-04:00

So, on Monday night the power went out in my apartment, and I had no one to make out with. There was a tremendous rainstorm. Sheets of rain came down. We’ve had some good storms this summer, but this one was different. This was spectacular. Thunder bounced off the walls in my apartment and once the power went out, blue lightening flashed through my rooms.

Earlier, during the heaviest rain, I watched people walk by my window. Rather, running up the street drenched and hunching over as if bad posture will make them less wet. I opened the window to hear it, only to back away from the tiny drops of rain making it past the mesh separating me from the weather.

Before the power went out I was doing what I normally do on a Monday night. Twisting my hair to the distracting words and pictures of a DVD. The TV shut off and the lights went out when I had about thirty minutes to go on my hair.

Generally, I need to watch something when I am doing my hair. I like to watch movies or the Coronation Street omnibus on CBC at 7:00Am on Sundays. But, doing my hair in complete silence is just too boring. I need a distraction. I guess it was the lack of distraction that made my mind wander and I wish I could say that I started to think of something profound or even interesting to others. But, no, I just started to have some crazy thoughts regarding my hair.

Should I just texturize my hair, employing a chemical to render it only partially straight and maintaining a certain look (which no doubt can not be replicated in my actual life, it is just the way it looks in my brain)? It would be a risk. I have a massive head of hair and if I didn’t like the way it turned out, I would have to live with it for the 18 months it would likely take to grow out.

It took about 18 seconds for my sister to talk me out of it. She takes a rather hard line on hair. Perhaps it is a hard line for my hair specifically. Anyway, she was against it. Also, I just can’t take the risk.

About a Cat

2006-06-09T01:31:00.000-04:00

So, I’m home in Toronto again and attending a conference about magazine publishing. I can hardly contain my thrill. I am writing this from my sister’s condo just a short walk from the subway at Lansdowne and two major intersections away from everyone’s favourite house cat, Oscar.

This morning GRC took him to the vet for his check-up. I am a bit disappointed that she didn’t ask me to come with her. But, she, no doubt, assumed that I would be busy actually attending the conference, silly woman. Plus, it is probably best that I didn’t go to the vet, as animal doctors probably don’t take kindly to people openly laughing at the pets they are giving medical attention to. And, believe me, I would be laughing.

Oscar’s visit to the vet was a dramatic one, as always. His surely disposition and difficult nature proves to be a serious obstacle to getting him to the office. What’s more, his obvious girth and stunning obstinacy makes maneuvering him into his little cat cage (and, when I say “little” I mean massive cat cage actually meant for a medium sized dog).

Oscar’s personality did not go unnoticed by the vet as she was forced to note in his permanent file that he is “grumpy.” I guess is grumpiness in a serious problem as is his weight. Since GRC got Oscar he has gained almost 10 pounds. In an effort to monitor Oscar’s weight loss (he has been put on a seriously restrictive diet) the vet has advised GRC to buy a scale to weigh Oscar fortnightly.

So, you are all probably wondering how much the Gatto Mas Gordo weighs. Once the scale stopped spinning, Oscar came in at a whopping 25 pounds! The winner of the “Guess Oscar’s Weight Pool” is Nadia. Thanks to everyone who participated.

2006-05-16T16:36:00.000-04:00

So, I went home on the weekend for two things. I had to attend a wedding on Saturday evening and Sunday was Mother’s Day. The wedding was actually a lot of fun. I have been to two weddings that were just cocktails. They were both really good. So good, in fact, that I have decided that I will only attend weddings that have cocktail receptions. There is no way I want to do the whole dinner thing ever again. And I mean it.

While at home I spent some quality time with Oscar the cat, or Gatto Mas Gordo, which is his Spanish name. He has a vet appointment coming up. Good thing because I was amazed at his girth. So, I am starting off the “Guess Oscar’s Weight” contest here on the blog. Here are a couple hints: 1. the shoe beside Oscar is a size 10 ladies PF Flyer. 2. He is NOT all hair. When you pick him up, you realize he is all body.

So, let the guessing begin. When GRC takes Oscar to the vet and if they can get him on a scale she will report back with his weight. Let the guessing begin!

2006-05-03T10:20:00.000-04:00

So, my resolution to consume less wine at professional evens has failed. On Monday night a collection of people from my industry got together to talk about how great, challenging and interesting we are. We were also celebrating those of us who got nominated for some industry awards, the gala to announce the winners will follow in June (and yes, last year at said Gala I had too much wine and ended up singing to my panicotta in the bar line up while some snooty gold medal winners from Toro Magazine – I think – starred at me with disgust. Little do they know, one day I shall crush them. Plus, it wasn’t my fault. My bosses gave me several drink tickets. It was like getting drunk was part of my job.). Predictably, Aldo, the guy from a wine magazine, and I had about a million glasses of red wine. Then my boss showed up and well, it went down hill from there. We are going to be known as the staff that is ALWAYS the last to leave the party.

See, I should have gone home, but no, I decide to come back to the office to do some work, make some long distance phone calls and harass the copy editor and art director who were there finishing the issue. Armed with flowers that the event organizers gave us – yes, we really were the LAST people there – we stumbled into the office laughing. Once I got into the office and realized that perhaps we should have just gone home, I did my best to stay out of the way. I must have done a good job because the copy editor invited me to her place where she made me an awesome pasta dinner. You know what else was good? The wine we had with it. It made for a very painful Tuesday morning.

2006-04-22T12:30:00.000-04:00

So, last night was yet another strange episode in my life where my professional and social life sort of merged into one drunken evening involving me, too much wine, and a Canadian icon. My friends may recall the night when Farley Mowatt looked at me, said “Hubba hubba” and then planted one on me. That was pretty funny. That story got me some good mileage. Indeed last night, I told that story to people I have no business talking to or being at the same party as. Nevertheless, there I was telling film directors, inventors, violinists and television produces about the time the eighty-year-old writer kissed me in the home of Anna Porter, and they laughed.

I had a good time, but really my problem is that I just have too much free booze at these things. I mean, I’m not the only one, but I am not actually part of these social circles. So, it is not like I am getting drunk with a bunch of my friends. I really should be on my best behaviour because it is not like these people are going to hang out with me the next day laughing over my antics at the open bar while putting back the home fries portion of the hangover breakfast. These are well placed professionals who can replace me by just snapping their fingers.

So, I have decided to make a resolution: less wine at professional events. I really think that this is the direction I should go in.

2006-04-16T13:31:00.000-04:00

So, last night was a very exciting night for me. I went to my very first professional hockey game. Hockey is still very much a sport for white guys, but I have to tell you, black people are only 10 years from taking over. And so we should. Now that us North American blacks are comfortable in cold weather sports, soon black hockey players will dominate and diversify with their own clothing lines, fragrances and of course, rap music contracts. There are now WAY more black men playing hokey in the NHL than there was when I was in high school. One of them, a player from Buffalo, was on the ice last night. Mike Grier, number 25, is from Detroit and plays RW – which I think means Right Wing. He is 6’1” and 220 pounds of hockey. I think Mike and I were the only two black people in the arena. I tried to do a google search for other black hockey players, but I don’t care that much.

My boss gave me the tickets as he couldn’t use them. I was going to take my Japanese intern so that she could experience something very Canadian. But, since it was my first game my co-workers insisted that I go with a guy who LOVES hockey. So, my friend Degan came with me. As well as an avid sports fan, Degan is a well-know chef here in Montreal. He promises to pay me back in spades – you see where I am going with this.

Anyway, as I know almost nothing about hockey I know even less about arenas and ticket prices. But I learned my lesson last night. Now I know that for $110.00 you can get close enough to the ice to see the bruises on the faces of these professional athletes. You can see how easily they manouver on the ice. You can actually hear the sound of the puck making contact with the hockey stick’s blade. No one can sit that close for the three hours of a game and not be a fan. You actually don’t want an intermission. All you want is action on the ice.

Now, I have to say that I wouldn’t call myself a hockey fan. That is, until you get me into an electric area full on screaming fans, and hand me a cup of poor quality beer at more than premium prices. Then, I am a super fan with emotions that swing wildly from elated excitement to pitiful depression. And, oh my god, was last night a testament to that.

The Habs were down against Buffalo 10 minutes into the first period. Then in the second period they tied. Two minutes later they scored again and after both goals the crowd rose to their feet in unison screaming and dispensing high 5’s. The man in front of me grabbed his wife and kissed her.

The lead was short lived and watching Buffalo dominate on a Habs power play frustrated me to no end. The man beside me was similarly irritated, and we both shook our fists yelling “Tabernac!” Buffalo scored short-handed. The injury of it!

But, with a minute and a half to go, the Habs pulled their goalie – down one point, they had nothing left to loose. Buffalo’s net was a wash in the red and blue. I sat on the armrest between our seats, it looked like the Habs were gonna tie it up!

Then, the insult. Buffalo not only managed to clear the puck out of the net, but they shot it down the ice and it sailed, uncontested into the Habs goal. Ouch, that hurt. Most people couldn’t even watch, they had already turned their backs and in true Canadian style, were making their way to the exit.

What a game!

2006-04-11T10:56:00.000-04:00

So, it’s that time of year again. The time when we all come together to lean to the left and finish our glasses of wine. That’s right folks, it’s Passover and those of us not who are not members of the Jewish faith now troll shamelessly for invitations to Passover Seders. In my brain Passover has two meanings. There is the more conventional one that celebrates death passing over the homes of Jewish slaves while God punished Egypt for enslaving them by killing the first born of every family. Death didn’t visit their homes because they marked their doorways with lamb’s blood. For me, the second meaning (which I came up with last night on the treadmill) is far more practical. I began thinking about the holiday (it starts on Wednesday at sundown) and it came to me. Pass the matzo ball soup over here.

My Passover plans are not looking good. They look pretty bleak, in fact. It looks like I will be singing that song about the goat you buy for two Zuzim all by myself. How pathetic is that?

2006-04-05T16:53:00.000-04:00

So, I have just been commissioned to write something for actual money. Cold hard cash, folks. As much as I would like to say that I am to be published in a well -read consumer glossy like Vanity Fair or in a small prestigious fringe title like Descant I cannot. Magazine’s Canada - that graceful association that binds this industry together – has requested an article from me on my favourite topic, interns. Wish me luck. Perhaps I could direct them to my blog where we learn important lessons such as: ‘Interns are not my playthings’ and ‘I am NOT an intern matchmaker’ and finally ‘while I love my interns I can not LOVE my interns, know what I’m sayin’.’

Anyway, now that I have an actual assignment I am in this awesome position to fail. But I think I can do a reasonable job. Wish me luck!

2006-03-24T10:45:00.000-05:00

So, I write this blog from my co-workers computer. My laptop was involved in an unfortunate accident involving my elbow and a cup of office coffee. It was a pretty shocking sight. I witnessed the coffee flood over my keyboard like the onset of the evening tide (the tide comes in during the evening right?). Anyway, I immediately had my intern turn the laptop upside-down hoping that would help drain the liquid – which I briefly considered licking off my desk as I had only actually consumed a third of the beverage before the table top bathed in approximately a second third and the laptop consumed the balance. Once the laptop was turned upside-down I am not kidding when I tell you – to the best of my recollection – not a single drop made it’s way from the keyboard to the desk.

After calling the office computer guy, and two separate Mac dealers I have come to understand three things. First, while it is a great thing that I do not take cream in my coffee, it is rather tragic that I take sugar. Second, spilling coffee – sugar or no sugar - on a laptop – PC or Mac - is a always a bad idea, but if you wanted to choose the worst possible machine to pour coffee on, that would be a Mac. Third, due to the plastic that the iBook G4 is made out of, once you spill coffee on the iBook it will smell like coffee forever.

The laptop is now in rehab and will live there until the new keyboard comes in which for some reason is taking forever and it is driving me nuts. Which, in turn is driving the technician nuts because while I have a number of good qualities, one of my bad qualities is a total lack of patience and refusal to understand what a technician is telling me even though they will speak to be in both plain English and rudimentary French. I have spoken to the technician about six times since Sunday, forcing him to give me up-to-the-minute updates on the status of the keyboard shipment. No, it did not come in this morning and although he expected it to come in last Wednesday it will most likely arrive at their St. Laurent location on Monday. Torture.

2006-03-12T14:19:00.000-05:00

So, the romantic life of Debbie has suffered yet another set back. Every Saturday since early January I’ve been seeing the same guy working the desk at the Nordelec building where my gym is located. For the first few weeks that I began seeing him I would forget how attractive he is only to be reminded the moment I finished the flight of stars up to the reception desk. Flashing me a smile while sliding the brown and metal clipboard and pen across the modern stainless steel desk, there he’d sit. “Bonjour,” he’d say, perhaps to prompt me to action because on more than one occasion I believe I was so caught up with smiling back I neglected to write my name, the time and where I was going. Smooth.

After a few weeks of agony I decided to formulate a plan to ‘chat-up’ the smiling man at the counter, perhaps get some semi-personal information or maybe find out his age. It was a daring plan, but I just had to take a chance. My problem is that in social settings like a party, club, base ball game or community street fair I am super approachable and very friendly. I have no problem meeting and talking to men. However, should I form an attraction to someone in a setting that isn’t all fun and games, I get trapped in a force field of my own stupidity and I am incapable of getting my mouth to form actual words.

Last week I was ready to put my plan into place. I decided to talk to him. That’s right, folks I had prepared some questions and conversation starters. During the three-minute walk up my street, I visualized myself having an affable conversation with him, leaning on the desk, and laughing at his brilliant jokes. The plan was solid.

So, last week I actually talked to him. We had a nice conversation but all together too short as cute-couple-of-the-year, Alain et Andre, from my gym appeared at the desk just as I was getting the details of his work schedule, but before I found out his name. Apart from learning that he works twelve- hour days I got nothing. I don’t know if he is single, I don’t know if he lives in the neighbourhood. I have no idea how old he is (This is partially due to the fact that us black people are famous for not showing our age. We have what I call BPIAS – Black Person of Indeterminate Age Syndrome. This guy could be 25, he could be 35, you just don’t know. All I know is that he is old enough to hold down a full time job).

Anyway, as Alain et Andre stood there waiting to sign out, I thought better to just get to the gym rather than wait for them to leave and risk an awkward moment as he’ll no doubt wonder why I was still standing there to talk about his work schedule. So I took my leave thinking that I would see him on the way out. No such luck. When I left, he was nowhere to be found.

It was not a complete failure. I, at least, got him to chat with me, so I decided that I had laid the foundation. It was time to start building the structure.

Of course in the week between the plan’s first strike and my triumphant return to the Nordelec building for the second strike I had fully imagined what this guy is like and our life together. Of course, the plan would work out better than I could have dreamed, if that is indeed possible as my dream was as follows:

I had decided that his name is Marcus and that his family is from Guadalupe. He works as a security guard full time, but he is very busy in his time off as he is a welder’s apprentice working toward getting his welders license both here and in Ontario – which will become invaluable for our eventual move back to Toronto.

After the move, Marcus and I would live in a small, one bedroom, Parkdale apartment and work extremely hard to save up a large sum of money. Then, we will travel around the world together for about six months or so, stopping in England or Australia depending on the time of year, where we will both get work VISAs. I will work for Conde Nast and he will be a builder.

While away I will get pregnant, we will come home when I am a few months along and make my mothers decade! We will have gorgeous twins, one boy and one girl. They will have their mother’s hair and their father’s smile. Due to our fantastic genes they will never need braces.

We will buy a modest house in Parkdale, which Marcus will forever be improving, and live there happily ever after. The end.

My dreams came to disaterous end just yesterday. I was pumped and ready to bounce up the stairs to greet Marcus, the future welder and father of twins, with a smile. The skies over Montreal were clear and the sun had warmed the earth in earnest. It was the perfect day for me to welcome the love of my life.

I walked toward the desk smiling warmly at Marcus and the other guy who works there ready to remark on the clear blue sky and bright yellow sun. Marcus barely glanced at me and returned his gaze to his computer screen managing only to get out half of ‘bonjour.’ He ignored me. How could he throw away our home, and our children like that? Now I really know what Millie Vanilli meant when they lip synced, “It’s a tragedy for me to see, the dream is over. And I never will forget the day we met, girl I’m gonna miss you”

Note on the drawing:
A few years ago my friend Toni and I had a year long diary of such pictures. In it is a pictoral representation of my life in the year 1998. So, this is a throwback to Toni and that time. The boy's shirt reads "I'm with her" and the girl's shirt says "Parkdale of for Lovers." If only I had a scanner. My digi cam did nothing for my crayon picture. Perhaps I will scan it at work tomorrow.

2006-03-05T19:48:00.000-05:00

So, one of the things I have learned living in Montreal is that not only is it perfectly acceptable to pamper yourself, it is expected. As a result, I have decided to throw myself into spa culture whole-heartedly. Two weeks ago I started with a seaweed wrap and yesterday I had a body scrub. At first I was a little apprehensive about having some woman I don’t know rub seaweed or sea salt into my naked skin while I lay there with a spa towel providing only a scrap of modesty covering my muff, but I got over it.

Of course muff maintenance was something I had to consider before both of these appointments. When in public, you need to keep things tucked away. Of course I had to have a conversation about these things with a friend of mine who, partway through the conversation felt the need to confide in me.

As it turns out she went to the esthetician last week, and the woman giving her the “treatment” went a bit to far and now, my girl has a landing strip. She’s upset about it and actually embarrassed. She is also concerned because her boyfriend … well let’s just say he’s a real man and likes a real woman. I’m sure he’ll get over it.

Feeling badly for her I decided to share the following story:

Once a few years ago when I had just joined the YMCA (and you know a story is going to be embarrassing when the YMCA is involved) I would always see a friend of the family there. For the purposes of this blog we’ll call her “Auntie Mary.”

An old friend of my mother’s, Auntie Mary for as long as I can remember has been super fit. As it turns out she joined the Downtown Toronto YMCA the same week that she came to Canada. She has been a YMCA member longer than she has been a citizen, and it shows. The woman has been an example of fit since 1968.

When I first started at the YMCA I was super keen. I’d get there before work every other day. By the time the clock struck 6:40AM I was on the treadmill and I didn’t stop pushing it until 8:15 when I’d head for the showers. Well, one day I was in the change room after a hard work out getting my stuff together to walk to the shower. There was Auntie Mary, the women who had changed me, cut my food up and given me countless tips on how to maintain soft and glowing skin. We chatted a little bit, while we got our stuff together. But at one moment I guess to emphasize the point she was making she stood straight up. She was also completely naked. That is when I noticed it and the image will stay in my brain until the day I die.

Auntie Mary had a porn-star muff. Why did I have to see that? Why can’t I forget it?

2006-02-22T11:56:00.000-05:00

So, with the help of the great and powerful Noz, I can show you what I would look like if I were a Simpson's character. Please note, my real hair is MUCH nicer.

2006-02-21T13:37:00.000-05:00

So, last night I had yet another appointment with my personal trainer, Scott, so that he could design another program for me. This is the third of such programs and they are getting progressively harder. But, I’m a warrior.

Anyway, Scott put me on a contraption aimed at building the muscles in the small of my back. I have to secure my legs and suspend the top half of my body so that I am basically hanging off the thing face to the floor. Then, I have to raise my body up until I am straight, repeatedly. While doing this exercise I noticed that there is a lot of butt clinching involved.

You can imagine that the butt clinching concerned me. I just got my butt. It’s brand-spanking new. I am very proud of it and I talk about it all the time. It is still very little, but it’s there and I have been waiting thirty years to welcome it. Anyway, I asked my trainer if I had anything to worry about, “Scott”, I said, “Scott, I just got my butt and I noticed that in that last exercise I do a lot of butt clinching…” At this point Scott began laughing at me even though this is serious business. So, I continued, “I do a lot of butt clinching and I am worried that I will loose the little butt that took me all this time to make. This is the butt that you built” Scott assured me that the clinching is good and will help in my booty creation.

Folks, what I am out to do here is grow a “B Donka Donk” (also spelled B Donkadonk, both are acceptable). For those of you who did not rent the Dave Chappelle season 2 DVD just look it up on Urbandictionary.com. I started by just politely asking 15% of the fat that grows on my belly to just please grow on my bumb, but that wasn’t working so I had to take action. I am working hard, so wish me luck in my fight for a butt. The battle rages on.

2006-02-20T10:27:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday I learned an important lesson about Skype. While waiting for my friend Vijay to sign in, I set my profile to “Skype me” with the little smiley face. Like a moron, I thought only the people I have listed as my contacts would be able to see that little smiley face. I was wrong. A few minutes after I signed on, someone I thought to be my sister contacted me. Wrong again.

As it turns out, the “Skype me” setting signals to all those in the Skype universe that you are ready to talk. In a flash I have become part of a worldwide movement. Next thing you know, I would be Skyped by 17 year-old girls from Iran telling me what it is really like to be on the US hit list.

Alas, my stranger Skype conversation was nothing of the sort. I was contacted by a Turkish guy named Ozan who has no clue what is going on in the world as the news “doesn’t interest” him. OK… He is studying to be a professor in international finance and wants to practice his English.

This time we just messaged, we didn’t actually talk as that’s what I had Vijay for.

In all seriousness, I really do love this kind of thing. If I have a couple hours to kill and someone living across the world wants to have a conversation with me, so be it. When am I ever going to have the chance to chat with a Turkish guy who is actually in Turkey … wait, I guess I’ll have a number of chances now that he knows how to contact me on Skype.

2006-02-15T13:49:00.000-05:00

So, today, this afternoon, just about 30 minutes ago, I went shopping for a new pair of jeans. What made me do that the day after Valentines Day, I have no idea. I have decided that shopping for jeans is a bit of a minefield. If you go shopping for jeans – or anything – when you are feeling badly, you end up feeling REALLY badly. If you are feeling good about the way you look, you run the risk of the jeans reminding you why you sometimes feel bad.

This led me to make a decision. When I feel badly, I will only shop for bras. I love buying bras and frankly, the girls always look great.

2006-02-13T16:24:00.000-05:00

So, it has been a while since I have written. I actually have a job and that job actually demands a lot of my time right now. I think it may be sucking the creativity right out of my soul. All of my energy has been focusing in a certain direction. Yes, feel sorry for me.

Although, I have plenty of self pity at this critical time of year. I have managed to keep the wallowing to a certain level and not go totally off the deep end. Valentines day, I have decided, is like a mild herpes infection. It reoccurs only once a year, and only after you have forgotten that you ever had to go through it at all. In the good years you go through it with someone to talk to. In the bad years, you are alone.

In other more happy social news, I was invited to a very posh party involving a certain broadcasting company and an evil magazine empire*. The party will most likely be populated by people who work harder on their coolness than they do on anything else. I’m not very cool and that’s fine with me. These people generally stop talking to me in short order as I rarely have anything shocking to say and I just can’t gossip about vague, fringe writers and which bar they were seen making out in. I’ve met these people in Toronto and frankly I am not keep to meet their Montreal counterparts. So why am I going? Free booze, free food and a chance to wear a pretty skirt. Simple as that.

I get to bring a date to this little soiree. Should I be excited about this? I just decided to bring an actual date. I’ll bring a guy instead of showing up with my best friend (who is generally better than any date except that she doesn’t put out…well, for me). I’ve decided to bring a boy. Imagine. This is totally out of character. OK, in all honesty, it means that I will call up my ex-bf and get him to go with me as a favour.

Please, I’ll probably chicken out on the phone.

*that statement was made purely out of jealousy. That particular company produces one of the loveliest magazines in country. I would give my eye-teeth to work on it. What does “eye-teeth” mean anyway? In this instance I am trying to convey my extreme desire.

2006-01-30T23:06:00.000-05:00

So, the shit show continues. There has been a glitch in the plan to get myself back to Montreal sometime in 2006. I thought I’d barely survive the harrowing journey of two city transit systems, two flights and a brief affair with the Greyhound people. It turns out that surviving that was the least that would be asked of me today.

I write this blog to you from the fourth city in my journey. After San Francisco, there was Oakland. After Oakland there was New York. We tried to get to Burlington, Vermont. Yes, we tried our best. The cloud cover in the city stopped that plan and here I sat, attached to a Shell jet fuel truck at some random airport in Syracuse New York. I didn’t even know that you could re-fuel a plane with the passengers still on it.

Now the plane is full of some very tired people, we can’t get out and this discount airline carries no food. I am currently trying to keep down a Zone Bar. Make no mistake those things taste like shit. The temperature on the plane is going up and the flight is near sold out. The smell of other’s perfume and cologne is getting to me.

How could it all have gone so wrong so quickly? While we circled Burlington I tried to convince the flight attendant to tell the pilot to land in Montreal. I think the plane could have made it there in about 30 minutes, but, I’m not a pilot nor do I know anything about airspace between Canada and the US. So, my suggestion fell on deaf ears.

Only disco can make me feel better.

2006-01-30T07:15:00.000-05:00

So, it’s 6:27 AM and I am sitting in the wireless hot spot zone in the Jet Blue terminal at JFK airport. I have been here since 5:45AM. I am waiting for a flight to Burlington Vermont. Can someone tell me that why is it that this airport is packed and cell phones have been ringing off the hook since I arrived here? Also, can someone explain why it is that the Jet Blue terminal, which I am sure is above ground, is lit like a sub basement? Where are the windows? My flight leaves in three hours. So I have got three more hours in this cell phone infested sub basement. It is terrible here.

Or perhaps I am in a miserable mood. I am very tired. I think I am loosing an entire day in travel. I don’t know how I will keep my head straight after today. Why? Because my co-worker found the cheapest flight imaginable to San Francisco, $59.00. Seriously, I got to San Francisco for $59.00 US dollars each way. That is practically free. Here’s the rub. The flight leaves from Burlington, Vermont. So we had to get to Burlington to get flights that connect through JFK. Then, at the last minute, my co-worker decided to spend an extra week in Los Angeles. She drove to the airport in Burlington, so I will be taking the bus back to Montreal for two and a half hours. Yes, folks it is a bit of a shit show.

After the trip I had, I just really need to rest. The conference was interesting (see below for a description of what the conference was actually about). But, I think that the members of American media who were there (the vast majority of the attendees) think us Canadians are functional booze-hounds. Especially since some of our publications got a lot of attention at the conference, yet we were always hung-over.

For me, all the damage happened on Friday night. A friend of mine who actually lives in San Francisco took me to a German restaurant where they pour beer down your throat and sit you with people you don’t know. The people we sat with took one look at us and said “Hey, the beer is on us, don’t you worry about a thing.” After dinner, they took us to a bar where they insisted on buying more beer. They went home and we went to another bar where a couple we had met earlier bought us cocktails because what I needed at that point was a drink called “afternoon delight.” I literally fell into my hotel room after 3:00AM.

I was better behaved the last night (which is actually two nights ago as I have been in transit since 9:00PM Sunday night and I haven’t slept so I have had an extra long day. A day that is actually two days), which wasn’t too difficult considering how much I had to drink the night before. I did have enough to drink, but thankfully, I was sober enough to refrain from proposing a perfect storm with the two waiters at the taco restaurant on Polk Street. Next time, boys!

I got back to the hotel at about 12:30AM – very respectable. But, I woke up during what I thought was an earthquake. It was a reasonable thought as I was in San Francisco, and the clock radio was slowly moving across the night table getting dangerously close to the edge. I was wrong, as I soon found out. My neighbours were having a great time and the sheer force of their bed ramming against the hotel wall pulled me out of my slumber and endangered the life of simple hotel electronics.

Speaking of sex, here at JFK airport a lot of people take advantage of the wireless internet. Those of us with a MAC utilize our iTunes while dicking around on the internet to drown out the cell phones and Kenny G collection. So, now, in my shared music there are two collections “Kayla is Hot’ and “Yo Mamma’s Music.” I haven’t looked at Kayla’s selection as yet, but Yo Mamma has a special list just titled “Sex.” Sadly there are only eight songs. Tragically, that short list of songs includes “Heaven in a Place on Earth” and “Danger Zone.” Now that is special.

2006-01-30T06:25:00.000-05:00

So, the other day in my San Francisco hotel room, I sat and watched “The News Hour with Jim Lehrer.” So, yeah, I was watching the “news.” Wrapping up the show was a seven-minute segment on Oprah’s denouncing James Frey, author of “A Million Little Pieces” as a lot of his “memoir” is actually fiction. Seven minutes they dedicated to this. The Bush administration has been illegally wire-tapping it’s own citizens, but I had to watch a seven minute re-cap of an Oprah Winfrey show.

The whole “Million Little Pieces” saga is a hilarious one. Yes, the guy and his publisher sold it as a memoir and it is mostly fiction (mind you I am about 98% sure that his publisher knew it was fiction, but a memoir tugs those heart strings. The book company will get over the rub, as a million more books are flying off the shelves. You should see the stacks of it in the airport stores, which is shocking considering shelf space for books – especially at airports – is precious. The orgy of order fulfillment between the chain owner, store manager, publishing company, wear house and distributor astounds me. All this bad press is great for the bottom line!). Audiences will always want more lies.

I guess it is important that the whole world knew that Oprah is real upset. She doesn’t like being lied to. The woman was mad. So, she dragged this guy on her show again to give him a good talking to in front of the whole nation. I wonder if Oprah has ever considered interviewing politicians. For the sake of Oprah, I am just going to pretend that “truth” really is at the heart of most American media and that most Americans actually rely on the media for it.

I’m just leaving San Francisco tonight after a conference that while interesting was not as relevant to my business as I had hoped. The conference was for the Independent Press. Really, it is best for the American independent press, but there were about 10 Canadians there. Surrounded by a political bunch, I was shocked when most of the attendees asked me to explain how Canadians could possible elect Stephen Harper’s Conservatives. In an effort to console us they said “Don’t worry, we are all accustomed to apologizing for our government. You’ll survive it.”

I was really surprised at the level of interest in this segment of the American media. I was even more surprised to see their obvious disappointment. Then I noticed how political they were. In the United States, the Independent press prefer to be called the “progressive” press, and so they should. Mainstream American media would call them a bunch of ‘liberals’ the way Americans do when describing people who dare not to be socially and politically conservative, but these are especially vocal and active ones.

This conference is exceedingly political, far more political than I could have ever imagined. Political talk dominated almost every session in this convention as the independents…the progressives look to galvanize their movements, voices and messages in an effort to offer Americans an alternative perspective on current events, government, and politics. Small magazines and newspapers from New York City, Austin, Kansas City, Boulder, Chicago, you name the American city, came together to discuss strategy and make plans. How are they going to survive when media ownership is more and more concentrated? To them, this is an emergency.

The conference was really interesting. But, the highlight was a talk by Amy Goodman of Democracynow.org. She is an excellent speaker and has had an amazing career as a journalist. She told a story about witnessing a massacre in East Timor. I can’t even imagine seeing what she has seen. Anyway, that’s all I got right now.

2006-01-24T15:18:00.000-05:00

So, it has been a while since I have posted anything. It’s not that I have been busy. It’s not that I have been so occupied by scandal or sex, drinking or dancing to have written anything. I have just been grown-up busy. I can’t believe I can say it, but as of 10:30 last Monday morning my days have spun completely out of my control. I was lost in a fog of paperwork, budgets, and meetings, and now, that I have been able to zombie-walk my way out of it I wake up this morning to a Conservative minority government. Way to add insult to injury. I think that what’s worse is that I saw it coming since last week – this is a fancy way to say that I have been looking at the polls. At least it is a minority and they will have to keep more centre if they want to do anything, much like the Liberals relying on the NDP. In December Macleans Magazine ran a cover with a profile shot of Jack Layton with the cover line “Who is this man and why is he running the country?” I wonder what that group of Conservative groupies and National Post leftovers will write when Harper has to rely on the Liberals to do anything. I wonder if Macleans can be considered advertorial for the Conservative party of Canada? You know, Like Fox news is for Bush in the US. We’ll see what happens.

In other news, it looks like I will not be committing suicide in February as previously feared. I will be heading to San Francisco on a business trip tomorrow afternoon. VERY excited about this, how can I not be? San Francisco is a great city. After that trip I will be attending a … wait for it … professional development course at a spa. I know what you are thinking, “Professional development, AWESOME. I wish I could go!” I also know that you bitches are sarcastic. The work will NOT be fun, but the seaweed wrap, hot tub and mud baths will be. You know what will make them more fun? Martinis. Lots of them.

2006-01-14T15:51:00.000-05:00

So, I think my ass is my personal trainer’s Sistine Chapel. Yes, it is the culmination of all his talent as a personal trainer, his years of work developing his skill and his desire to sculpt the bodies of every day people into works of art. My behind is a staggering work of his fitness genius. Seriously, I am not exactly what one would call bootylicious (to borrow a term from Destiny’s Child circa 2001). I blame my big Dutch grandmother. I think I have her exact figure. She was all boobs.

Anyway, a few years ago, while emailing about fitness with my friend Alex, I complained about my flat flat ass. I also asked him if there were any exercises I could do to make my tail look more attractive. He said, “Debbie, you can’t build on what’s not there.” After Alex dropped that bomb, I had to work through several emotional stages to get through it. I went from denial, to anger to acceptance.

I thought all was lost and I had resigned myself to a life where people assumed I had really long legs or a really long back depending on their perspective. But, lately I have started to notice that I seem to be building an ass due to the elliptical trainer and the squats I have been doing. Lord, thank Scott the trainer. Everyone said that it couldn’t be done.

I’m not saying that I have suddenly become Quebec’s answer to Beyonce Knowles. Oh no, that would take both a personal trainer and some pretty comprehensive surgery. But the improvement is nothing short of significant.

2006-01-12T11:42:00.000-05:00

So, last night while shopping with a good friend of mine I expressed a desire to have a flash pair of shoes for the spring. You know, the kind of shoes that are so sweet that when you wake up in the morning you say, “I don’t know what I am wearing, but I know I’m wearing those.” I considered getting a pair of gold heels. But that dream was shot when Anne said “honey, by the time Spring rolls around gold will be so played out.” It is totally true. You look around and find left over gold from the fall and it has cropped up all over Zara and other stores. Once it is in Zara, you know it’s singing a swan song. Last stop…Old Navy.

So, as you need to start the shoe shopping early, I put Meredith the Man Magnet on the case. The girl has got style. So, I strolled over to her desk and said, “Meredith,” I had to be serious, “Meredith I got a mission for ya.” My girl was ready to pounce. I told her that I need a flash new pair of shoes for the Spring and as she well knows, gold will be played out by then. Meredith quietly agreed, but then gestured toward the intern’s desk, right beside my own. Draped on her chair was a gold shrug sweater. DAMN! Was I temporarily blinded? What is wrong with me?

Anyway, Meredith is on the case, and I think she will be doing some shoe research for me via internet over the next few weeks. Then, she will present her findings to me in a report by mid March. The report will include a brief fashion history, which years from the 80’s will be considered retro, which vintage styles will be hot as well as a trend prediction in chart form along with a bar graph representing prices. I’ll be well shod.

On to something completely different.

I have been asked, by that bastard True Craig, to participate in a Meme. What is a meme, you ask? It is a blog chain. I have to write five weird things about me and then challenge others to do the same. So, here goes.

1. I am a little bit vain. Surprised? I have to say that I get my vanity from my mother and all her vain vain sisters. My father was also extremely vain. In fact everyone I know from the Guyanese community is vain. Therefore I like to think it is cultural, so you can’t hate me for it.

2. I am extremely flexible. I can still do the splits on demand, bed over backward, get my feet behind my head and do several other slightly gross feats of flexibility. I did do a year or two of ballet as a child and about 5 years of gymnastics, but most girls did. I don’t know why I have maintained my flexibility, I just have. It could be due to my red belt in Taekwon-do, but I only started that sport in my late 20’s and found that my bendy abilities have only slightly deteriorated since my childhood. It must be my fantastic genes.

3. I am very strongly affected by violence and suspense in movies. So much so, that I often have to leave movie theatres and there are a number of very famous films I have never seen, nor will ever see. This may be a symptom of my increased sensitivity. I will probably never see History of Violence, and there are large parts of Boys Don’t Cry that I have not seen. I am avoiding Crash for the same reason. These are just examples. This trait is getting worse as I get older. I am convinced that by the time I hit 45, I will only watch comedies and documentaries.

4. I have a strange fascination for other languages. That was once combined with my extremely approachable nature and bitch for a boss and it put me in a situation where I was taught Tagalog, a language from the Philippines, by my co-workers at a bank (my boss refused to let me sit with people who spoke English because I was “disruptive”). I really took to it and even spent a large part of my weekend taking books out of the library called “Let’s learn Tagalog!” And boy did I! Matututto Rin Ako (I am learning) Maginda hapon, po (good day sir), Calbat, po (Sir, you are a horse!), Mataba (Fat). By the end of the summer I could go a whole workday without speaking English. Boy, was my boss mad. Her next move was to seat me with the women who spoke Cantonese. But, they liked me a lot too. In any case, the events of my life took me away from that office. Imagine what I could have learned!

5. I love to read, and I read all the time. But, I read very slowly. So, it takes me a really long time to finish a book. Unless it is stupid. If a book captures my attention, I will read the lines from different characters in different voices in my head. I have been known to gasp, laugh out loud and cry in public all due to the book I was reading. Also, I often read the first 30 to 50 pages of a book, put it down and then go back to it six months or a year later.

So that’s the weird stuff about me.

www.totolehero007.blogspot.com/, you’re on!

2006-01-11T14:21:00.000-05:00

So, I think I found my first crush of 2006. I mean I liked him before, but after last night, he became a total crush candidate. Last night I spent some quality time at the gym, you know doing the kind of exercise a girl who’s built for comfort does. As I finished my warm-up on my elliptical trainer I heard the quick beep beep beep of the gym’s door alarm. Which, of course, caused me to crane my neck around to see who had walked in. I only caught the back of his head, but I had some idea of who it was. A few minutes later my suspicions were confirmed. YES! It was Potential Perfect Storm Participant, “Guy at the gym.”

As he walked by me I kicked it up a notch in the elliptical – I think I managed to make to 196 strides. I wish I could say that I did it to impress him. But, amazingly, it was my sheer exhilaration that powered my weakened knees, and the joints that connected my then quivering thighs to my desiring hips. Yes folks, I want him pretty bad.

Through my entire work out I knew his exact position in the gym. He does the leg press machine – the one where you lie down, not the other one. He does his warm up on the bike and to my delight he does the same arm weight lifting on the stability ball that I do, although, he does lift A LOT more than me.

I finished up my work out with some ever so graceful hamstring exercises involving me flat on my back and a stability ball, and some really sexy sit ups. This was when he chose to work out beside me, just in time to see the fat on my abdomen bunch up together in the perfect crunch. I don’t know how many sit ups I did, but I do remember that a classic love song was playing in my head “Tonight…I celebrate my love for you…”

Somehow, I don’t think this guy knows I exist. Really, that’s OK with me. Because if he were actually to talk to me I’d probably fall off the elliptical trainer, walk into a stationary bike or bang my head on the weight lifting apparatus known as “the cage.”

2006-01-10T10:32:00.000-05:00

So, I didn’t watch the debate last night. I used to watch them, but then I stopped because they are often little more than grand standing and leaders saying basically what they said throughout the whole campaign. Perhaps I should have watched the debate last night, but to be honest, I wanted to watch the wedding Crashers. However, I think if the Greens were debating I would have tuned in. I find myself in a strange position here in my Montreal riding. I always vote my conscience. I pay attention to what the candidate in my riding is saying. However, the only candidate doing any talking in my riding is the guy running with the Bloc. He was at my metro stop yesterday and gave me a pamphlet. He was also there to talk, however, the bloc is obviously disinterested in voters who do not speak French.

I have seen signs for the Liberal candidate, and one for the NDP and Green. But I have not gotten a thing from either one. It is almost like here, in Quebec, everyone knows that the Bloc will prevail. Honestly, if I were to vote for the candidate who has tried the best to talk to me, I’d vote Bloc even though, I don’t 100% understand what they are saying.

Sadly, the conservatives are doing extremely well in the Polls. I really hope the polls change. I hope Canadians don’t elect one of the most hateful men in Canadian politics. If the current conservative party gets elected, I think it would be a dark day for Canada.

2006-01-07T00:46:00.000-05:00

So, at this very moment I am waiting for a couple people in the office to get themselves together so that we can get to a bar and have a few drinks. Amazingly the managing editor and our copy editor are talking about a staff blog. Ah, the media mediated blog. Do they really fit in the blogasphere? To me, blogs are individual, a lot of fun and most of all it is free. Not free in the sense that it cost nothing to do it. I know there are about a million issues of access. Yes, starving children in Azerbaijan don’t have access to a computer or the internet, so the voices of bloggers belong to those of us lucky enough to have regular access to the technology and the time to put the blog together. Some of us need to have enough access to other popular culture outlets in order to make the blog relevant and readable for today’s tech savvy audience. The blogging community lies between borders defined by time, access and opportunity.

But to have the blog administrated by a media outlet. I don’t know. All the major papers have columnists running blogs. This way the newspapers most loyal readers can get a snapshot of the writer’s personality beyond what they have to write about. I read a blog by a super conservative editor from Macleans. Wow he really shoots from the hip being a little obvious with snappy language and while I am sure he has to be careful with the facts, as he is still writing under Macleans, he makes it sparkle. But it’s a shady business, I think.

Well in terms of the magazine I work for, it is not such a big deal as we don’t cover news or politics or anything. It gives me something to think about. Actually, I guess I have already thought about it and I don’t like the newspaper run blogs.

OK, in all honesty, I am home now. We had drinks hours ago and now I am sitting on the floor in my living room watching Cinderella Man. Yes starring Russell Crowe (Perfect Storm dream participant). It is supposed to be a story about the under dog and hope and bla bla bla. Seabiscuit (a film better knows and the life story of Hillary Swank) was also set during the depression. No matter what these movies have to say about perseverance and the strength of the human spirit (or horse spirit as in the case of Hillary Swank) living through the depression probably really sucked.

2006-01-05T10:37:00.000-05:00

So, last night I went to see Brokeback Mountain. Or, Break My Heart Mountain as I have come to think of it. It’s not that good, but the Heath Ledger character is so sad and lonely. I mean really sad. He is so conflicted over his past and the intensity of his feelings. I really think that the only thing that could make him feel better is a threesome with me and Jake Gyllenhaal.

Such a threesome will now be known as “The Perfect Storm.” I wish I could take credit for that term, but it was all GRC. She came up with it while recording her new year’s resolutions. Other Perfect Storm participants would include, but not limit to, Clive Owen (yes please), Owen Wilson, Luke Wilson, Kal Penn, Tyson the model, Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt, the guy who plays Brad Pitt’s cousin in Troy, Eric Bana, Big Boi from Outkast, Russell Crowe (sorry, but I can’t help myself), Marlin Brando (circa “Streetcar Named Desire”), The guy who wears the sleeveless shirt and cap at my gym, Ian Hanomansing and my ex-boyfriend’s younger brother.

Through the entire film last night I kept thinking that if I were married to Heath Ledger and he had a boyfriend on the side who happened to be Jake Gyllenhaal I would probably do my best to make it work. We could all live together.

There are a few other films I would like to see in the near future, like “Capote”(mainly for the talent of Phillip Seymour Hoffman) and “Memoirs of a Geisha (mainly for the pretty dresses). But I gotta tell you I don’t know that I need to see another movie to keep up with the pop culture machine. I have been getting a lot of mileage out of Brokeback.

I really think that Brokeback is one step away from turning into a Broadway musical. I mean Broadway loves three things, westerns, unrequited love stories, and gay men. Brokeback has got it all! We just need to get Willie Nelson and Neko Case to score the show and you got yourself a run away hit! Imagine all the cowboy love songs that could be sung by the male leads. And the angry or sad wife songs would be great. Man, I am genius!

2006-01-03T19:24:00.000-05:00

So, I have been watching TV almost all day. No complaints. Well, I did walk through today’s blazing sun to make it to the gym. At the gym my personal trainer told me that he thinks I continue to loose weight. I think he is a little off the mark. I mean, for me the positive reinforcement only works if he talks about my power. As I asked GRC, when is he gonna understand that I am built for comfort, not speed? I think I’m gonna have to tell him that tomorrow.

Back to the TV. It seems to be the day of stating the obvious. CBC news ran a story that would probably never get aired on CTV news (mainly because CTV news is brought to us by GM). As it turns out SUVs, due to rollovers, are no safer than regular cars. Now, I know this has been reported on several different news programs, and there are several different reports and several different studies that have all reported the same findings. But, I am sure people are shocked. The next story: Rain is Wet.

Also, I saw an add for a show about the scandal that ROCKED the world of figure skating. That’s right the Salle and Peltier story. You know, the one where the judges vote for the favourites rather than the skater that actually did the best job. Can you believe this happened in figure skating? Can you believe it?

OK, so this blog sucked. I know it. I’ve been sitting on my ass all day as I have been sitting on my ass for a few days now. I believe it is important to have a post holiday break before you head back to the office. While it is great for the soul it is bad for the blog. After new years nothing exciting happened. I mean, all I got is that after I left the gym I went to the smoked meat place and the smoked meat place was closed. Can you believe it?!

In other news, “The Wedding Crashers” came out on DVD yesterday. My video store is supposed to stock it today and they promised to call me when it came in. I think she forgot. DAMN!

2005-12-30T15:30:00.000-05:00

So, it’s been a successful trip home for the holidays. I did plenty of eating, I successfully switched my mother’s home coffee supply from crap to the good stuff and this morning, before I leave my mom will teach me to make bread. Well, she was all keen on it the other day and now she coping and attitude. Suddenly the mother-daughter bonding moment that she was so thrilled about will have to take a back seat to some cheesy drama staring Billy Ray Cyrus as a country doctor now practicing in the big city (at least I think that’s what it’s about). Imagine, she is supposed to teach me her secrets of bread making and I have set the yeast and everything but now she’s all “I’ll be there in a minute” like I am putting her out. When it comes to cooking, my mother is sneaky, the kind of cook who leaves an ingredient out when passing on a recipe. Now I am paranoid and convinced that she is letting the ready to use yeast sit for a reason, but wont tell me what it is.

There is a good chance that mom just wants to get the last few minutes of the Billy Ray Cyrus show in. I can hear it in the other room. After Billy Ray preformed an eye transplant on some patient he coached the guy’s son’s baseball team and taught the kid a lesson about not goofing off in practice (well, I think that’s what it is about, the voice-over and the piano music is confusing me).

Tonight I head back to Montreal for New Years Eve. GRC and a couple other friends are coming with me. Someone should warn the authorities. Hey, if you are out and about in Montreal on New Years Eve and you run into 5 screaming 30-year-old women, that will be me and my friends. I am the quite one.

2005-12-25T02:37:00.000-05:00

So, it’s 2:00Am on Christmas Eve. But I guess that means it is Christmas day. Obviously, I can’t sleep. It’s funny because normally on the night before Christmas my sister gets it into her head that she needs to make part of a gift for every member of the family. Then, she enlists my help with the project that predictably keeps us both up until about 3:30AM armed with paints, or bits of wood or miniature plant pots. It is always a nice idea, but it always gets put into motion way too late. Anyway, this is the first year in a long time when I actually got to bed at a reasonable hour. But, my sister came walking into the room twice. Both times I was at critical points on my journey to dreamland and that last time caused a detour in my route, a little detour called insomnia. It’s unfair. She is sleeping soundly in the other room and I have to power up my laptop to take care of some errant thoughts running through my brain.

I hate not being able to sleep. And I feel betrayed by my body, mainly because, for a good part of the evening I felt as if I could have dropped off to sleep at any given moment. But, I couldn’t because my sister dragged me around this picturesque suburb to run this errand and that. Now that I am in a comfortable bed and ready to fall asleep I have finally attained the level of awakedness necessary to operate heavy machinery, balance a cheque book or perform minor day surgery. How is this fair?

Tomorrow, when I get thrown into the lion’s of noise, I will no doubt want to curl up and sleep but there will be no rest when surrounded by 25 of my closest screaming relatives.

Perhaps my body isn’t betraying me at all. Perhaps that it is used to this once-a-year marathon of semi-consciousness and in an hour (at the 3:30AM mark) I will finally be able to close my eyes and drift soundly. Perhaps not.

Anyway, I think I’m gonna read The new Yorker. I picked it up the other day because I was attracted by the short story by Nabokov in it. I read it yesterday and I almost sent the editor of the magazine an e-mail that goes like this “Fuck, I love Nabokov”, but I suspect he’s hear that before.

2005-12-20T14:22:00.000-05:00

So, I spent the weekend in an extremely sexy outfit. Why, sadly, it was for no good reason. In a short skirt and tank top and a pair of grey work socks (probably the best sock purchase I have ever made. I bought them at Mark’s Work Wearhouse in 1994 before I went of to university residence thinking, for some reason, that the work socks would come in handy in the residence halls come winter, and boy did they, and every winter following. I’ve had these socks longer than I’ve had GRC for a best friend) I cleaned my house from top to bottom. This is an expression of either my connection to my Guyanese tradition (In Guyana, before the New Year, you are to “break up the house”, which isn’t as fun as it sounds. Basically you are to clean like your name is Florence and you’re living with the Jefferson’s), or my sexual frustration. I’ve decided to save face and just go with the tradition angle. So, yeah, I’m keeping it real.

I’m heading home to Toronto on Wednesday morning. I’m getting set for a Christmas full of screaming. Not because my family fights, but because that is just the way we communicate. You just walk into the living room and start yelling at people, in order to start a conversation. That’s just the way it is. We yell at each other and eat. It’s a lot of fun. I am getting ready for a serious dose of yelling and food. Thankfully, they have stopped shooting Gin on Christmas morning. Things were a little crazier then.

Christmas is a smaller holiday for us. Typically, we have dinner for 25 people. That’s nothing compared to the 45 at Thanksgiving and 35 at Easter. I totally understand that 25 at Christmas is a lot for most families. We like to kick it up a notch. It is a lot of fun. When I was a kid I just assumed every family was like this.

A few times Christmas dinner has descended into complete chaos. It has always been a favourite pastime for the older cousins (yours truly) to give too much dinner wine to the younger cousins (children between the ages of six and ten). Back when two of my cousins were in the age group, with the help of my uncle Steve, eight-year-old was drunk enough to make a speech while standing on a dinner chair (OK, she was imitating my mother, who, was also drunk) the other cousin hid under the table during dessert. Those were the days.

It all started in 1982. My aunt Pauline was spending more than a year in Nigeria on a development project with CIDA, I guess. In the tradition of my family, before my aunt got a video camera, we taped our Christmas dinner on a cassette and sent it to my aunt, who was actually miserable in Nigeria. Nothing would make her feel better than an audio-tape of us having dinner at Christmas time, the dinner she missed.

Each relative took the mic (yes, we have microphones) for a few minutes to wish Auntie Pauline a Merry Christmas and a happy new year. When you listen to the tape you can hear my seven-year-old voice saying “Happy Christmas Auntie Pauline. I got a doll, light bright, and a set of drums like Animal in the Muppets.” During my little speech, if you listen closely, you can hear my Aunt Joy saying “Why is Dion drinking so much wine?”

Now, Dion is a little more than two years younger than I am and his birthday is on December 30th. On Christmas day 1982, Dion was actually 4. My sister has the best memories from that day. I was too young to really remember. I think he fell over and then went to bed really early. That wasn’t a result of someone feeding him wine. I think he just found a number of abandoned wine glasses on the table. Anyway, it was pretty funny.

2005-12-15T12:27:00.000-05:00

So, Yesterday I was chatting with one of my co-workers. Her name is Meredith and she is a blast (strangely, I know another Meredith who is equally a blast, but more so as she has the kind of edge you only get after the age of 30 and a failed marriage. Meredith at work is like edgy Meredith’s apprentice). Meredith has a habit of pointing at me and saying, “Over there, is the hot zone. H.O.T.” I of course take this as true because Meredith runs that zone. She welcomes others to that territory.

Well, yesterday we were in the office and working really hard on managing our social lives. We took a bit of a break when Meredith announced that one of the party guests from Tuesday night just sent her an email asking her if she’d like to go for coffee. I happened to know that she was asked on another date on Sunday night. These are just irritating complications to a woman trying to juggle two boyfriends. Times are tough for Meredith.

So, I asked her a question I didn’t really want the answer to. “Meredith”, I said, “Meredith, how many times do you get asked out in a month? Just give me a number” She started to laugh but before she answered and explained that she waitresses as a second job and that she just meets so many people. “Just give me a number.” I repeated myself.

Are you ready for this? In a slow month, she gets asked out six times. When things are busy she gets asked out about fifteen times. I’ve done some math. Assuming the November to March are slow (a total of 30 invitation), October, April and May are moderate (Lets say 10 invitations per month for a total of 30 invitations) and June, July and August are busy (that 15 invitations per month for a total of 45). She gets asked out an average of 8.75 times a month.

This woman is a phenomenon. In fact I think we should all start praying to her.

2005-12-13T14:16:00.000-05:00

So, tragedy struck on the weekend when the under wire in my favourite bar snapped in two rendering the bra almost un-wearable. It was the last thing I needed. This bra is a standard and fits…well it used to fit perfectly. It is plain black satin and I can wear it with anything. It always looked perfect. I haven’t had the time to really survey the damage I just know it is no longer perfect and I have been forced to find a workable solution to this problem.

As a result I have had to force my ample bosoms into another bra, which I had abandoned until now. It’s been a year since I wore this one and as many other women know, breasts change size over the course of a year – over the course of a month - and us well-endowed women can experience significant fluctuations.

But, a good bra is a good bra and I have to say, this old girl is doing a bang up job. As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, today is the big office party and I brought more of a party shirt to change into – read more revealing (I will also be changing my hair, but I bet you already knew that). The one thing I forgot about the bra I am wearing now is that it is very, how should I say, risqué. It could be the mesh, I could be colour, but it is probably the way this particular bar seems to cup my breasts and almost hand them to passers by. Not in the “welcome to my tits’ sort of way a push-up does, but more of a “I know you wanna get in here” kind of way. It is the cut of the bra that makes it look great under a button down shirt but kind of over-the-top in the navy blue turtleneck I am wearing now. The fitting of a bra is both an art and science I always say.

Anyway, I gotta tell the interns to get the mistletoe ready. I plan to be busy tonight!

2005-12-12T12:28:00.000-05:00

So, I sound so sexy today it’s ridiculous! I am at the tail end of yet another cold. It kept me from the gym this weekend, which I am not so broken up about. Body-wise I feel fine, but my voice has taken a beating. Last night I sounded terrible but today I have passed the “your sound terrible” exit on the winter cold superhighway and I am now safely on the sexy bitch off-ramp. I’m telling you, give me a call. You’ll want to touch me. Wait, perhaps that means I should be making the phone calls, as there are a few people who I think should be touching me. “Hello, is this Mr. Clive Owen?”

By tomorrow, the rasp of my voice will loose a bit of it’s edge and it will drop a touch deeper. Just in time for the office holiday party. We are having a shindig and basically everyone is invited. I plan to say some very provocative and complex things to free lance journalists and other Montreal hipsters. I will only open my mouth after calculating how much trouble my tongue can get me into.

Actually, I think my loquacious nature has already done some damage. I got myself into a bit of an office party pickle. Saturday night, while boasting about my sandwich making abilities to a guy who loves a good sandwich, we got into a heated debate about the suitability of sweet potato between the rye. Needless to say I was on the “pro” side and he was arguing against it. I took my argument down the “don’t knock it till you try it” path and bing bam boom, I am supposed to go to the holiday party with a sandwich for this guy. Disaster. I was hoping for a between the bread to between the sheets segue, and it looked like it was going in that direction, but he out played me. I wanted a post party squeeze and instead I got a catering gig.

2005-12-10T14:39:00.000-05:00

So, this is an emergency post.

I just found out, with the help of Wikipedia.org that yesterday Friday December 9th was the 45th anniversary of Coronation Street’s premier on ITV in England. There has been 6180 episodes.

I also learned that while some characters have been on the show for like 30 years, only one has been on since the first episode. Ken Barlow, played by the same guy. Imagine. What a gig! I winder how much money he makes?

All hail The Street

2005-12-09T16:16:00.000-05:00

So, I’ve decided that my personal trainer is indeed the master manipulator I thought he was. Last night we worked out a brand new program for me. You know, we are taking things to the next level. We gotta focus my power and further tone my muscle groups. We’ve worked out a plan of several steps that include some power lifting and time on the stability ball. We aim to further develop my quads and glutes while building more strength in my delts and pecks. We’ve planned for some intense anerobic training. You know, really power up heart and go for a high calorie burn. There will be some special attention paid to my core. At this point you should all realize that I have no idea what I am talking about.

While on the elliptical trainer – also known is the machine of choice for dumped girls the world over – my trainer asked me to pick up the pace to a breakneck speed for the last 15 seconds of every minute. So, I did what he asked. Then he said “Wow, Debbie, you are in great shape. I mean you are super powerful.” I know that he is saying this cause he knows that I respond to positive reinforcement better than most people. I almost broke that elliptical machine.

Then, toward the end of the work out he said “So, how is the eating coming.” So, I said “Great, I am currently packing back about a pint of ice cream a week, but I am falling behind on my cookie and chocolate intake.” He looked at me confused. So I said, “I never said I was on a diet, dumbass.”

I’m getting a cold.

My Year In Review

2005-12-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

So, today is my one year anniversary of my blog.

Happy blog day to me,
Happy blog day to me,
Happy blog day,
Happy blog day.
Happy blog day to me!

Yes, folks it has been a year since I started chronicling the meaningless aspects of my life for all the cyber world to read or ignore. It’s been real fun. I’ve gone through my whole blog, a year’s worth of prattling and I have some comments.

1. I started the blog thinking that it would help me to talk less. OK, in all honestly I started the blog because a cute boy has one so I copied him (We can call him “the Blogfather” - http://www.milkaudio.com/web/blogger/). But, I also thought that by getting the random thoughts out of my brain I wouldn’t talk non-stop about those thoughts.

My assessment: Total failure. I still talk non-stop. Back when I was living with GRC she used to joke about having “Live Streaming Blog” at home. I have come to realize that random thinking is like desire, you can only quench it temporarily, but then it rises up anew. However, GRC still read my blog and listened to me talk. So, now I am under the dangerous impression that I am deadly interesting. Watch out. I will blog with impunity.

2. I have a number of unhealthy obsessions.

In no particular order, they are: coffee, stolen candy, DJs, cute boys of all descriptions, coffee, a book about rats, martinis, Latin American soap operas, Coronation Street, human interference in the mating habits of jungle cats, martinis, bras, panties, my own hair and Patrick Swazey,

3. I have had one passionate blog affair.

Dear Dust,

We met on another blog and then you followed me here.

I just want to thank you. It is a special kind of flattering to have someone chase you, even for fun, attracted by small a glimpse of personality. How did you make a silly blog so exciting? How did I get so caught up? I don’t know the answers to those questions, but I know that I loved it.

You may no longer read my blog, but I used to rush to read your comments on the inane details that make up my days and nights. I liked flirting with you and sometimes I would write a post specifically designed to grab your attention. You probably noticed, I know everyone else did, but I couldn’t help myself. You made me shameless.

When anyone asked me about “That Dust guy” I’d smile. When some other girl responded to your teasing, I was jealous and when you stopped leaving your comments, I didn’t know how to get you back. I missed them, and people continued to ask me what happened to you. I told them you were thrilling someone else.

Alas, you were more complex and sensitive than I gave you credit for and perhaps you took my flippant attitude for a lack of appreciation. It’s my loss, I assure you. Should you come back to me…should you come back. Oh darling, make it happen.

Sincerely,
Debbie

4. My last job was a serious problem in my life. I successfully solved that problem by quitting and moving to Montreal. Among the problems with my last job I list, my bosses, the job tasks, the flood, the stench, the hygiene, the pay and lack of job satisfaction. Good riddance.

I suggest that everyone unhappy with their job quit, just walk away. It’s not worth it. Do it. We are only young once and we are ALWAYS to young to be miserable at work.

5. I have named several syndromes and I should become an editor at the New England Journal of Medicine.

Those syndromes are: CTS (Camel Toe Syndrome), VNS (Visible Nipple Syndrome), MRS (Mall Repulsion Syndrome), FVS (Fat Vagina Syndrome), FVC (Fat Vagina Complex), and BPD (Bottomless Pit Day).

6. Some very interesting people read my blog and have blogs of their own.

They are as follows:
http://www.milkaudio.com/web/blogger/
http://www.totolehero007.blogspot.com/
http://www.truecraig.blogspot.com/
http://www.werewulf.blogspot.com/
http://happyandblue2.blogspot.com/
http://www.crackpotpress.com/
http://www.notstirred.blogspot.com/
http://rubenblack.blogspot.com/
http://internetloves.blogspot.com/

To those I have missed, I apologize.

7. I’d like to thank my contributors. You guys have been great to read.

The regulars are as follows:
GRC, Vijay, Anne, Nadia, Angel, Dave, Notsoweirdguy, Gani (and the times you just wrote ‘g’ and the times you called yourself ‘assman’ but I know it was you), Ruben, Truecraig, Miss Anon, Marta, Erin, Sara, and of course, Dust. If I missed you, I apologize. I also want to thank the people who don’t leave comments but I know are reading. That means you, Sandra and Liz.

I have tried to keep other diaries, but I always think back to that day when I caught my mother reading the diary I wrote in grade seven. Yes, that gave me some deep seeded trust issues, and yes, I felt betrayed, and no, I will never forget it, but perhaps she was on to something. I mean I got in trouble for swearing in it, but look what she created.

You know, a few years ago a good friend and I started a picture book. It became a diary of hand drawn photos. The events of one year as represented in pencil crayon. I loved it, and I still look at. Yes, one drunken night, in a fit of rage, I ripped out the pages with the image of a certain red-headed man and handed them to his girlfriend while saying “I think you need these more than I do.” But, still I think it was a useful and healthy exercise.

Anyway, the internet is much better for this sort of thing. I can’t rip it apart in a drunken stupor and the people reading it can tell me when I’ve gone off the deep end without betraying my trust.

Blog on!

2005-12-05T10:40:00.000-05:00

So, last night I had a conversation with the guy I broke up with about three weeks ago. We were just chatting, we haven’t spoken since that fateful day in November. Anyway, we were talking and laughing on the phone.

I mentioned that I had been spending more time at the gym and getting a lot stronger. You know, three times a week on a program designed by my personal trainer for general fitness and toning. I'm a powerhouse. So, I said to him “You’re missing out because I’m just getting hotter.” He laughed because that’s funny. Then he tells me that he has started boxing and now spends 16 hours a week boxing or training for boxing. In his two-hour-long session at the gym he does 15 push-ups every 3 minutes. He also jumps rope and spars. He has lowered his body fat percentage and has gotten much fitter. He was always muscular, but now, he is finely cut.

I feel like Jennifer Aniston watching Troy.

2005-12-04T13:43:00.000-05:00

So, last night I went out dancing to The Goods at La Sala Rosa. We had a fun time but the real party was at my friend’s place before hand. It was a small group, just us four girls drinking gin and talking about what everyone talks about before they go dancing. Fat Vagina Syndrome (FVS being the clinical term). Due to the side effects of FVS – difficulty shopping for pants, increased instance of camel toe, and the unfortunate social stigma around camel toe, those you have FVS often suffer from Fat Vagina Complex (FVC) the sense that everyone always looking at your pants and thinking, “Oh my god, that girl has a fat vagina.”

Some of you may remember my post about FVS from August 30th. Back then it was just a joke, but now, it has an emotional aspect. I wonder if there is a support group.

2005-12-03T13:47:00.000-05:00

So, this is a follow up post on the new Madonna album as it pertains to my gym. As I’ve stated before, my gym is pretty small and us members kinda have the run of the place in that we can ask to change the music and we can even demand that they take ‘Youngblood’ out of the cheesy movie rotation – which they did.

Every Saturday they drop down to a skeleton staff. And by “skeleton” I mean that there is just this really skinny guy working the desk. Ok, I wish that were actually true for the purposes of this blog, but the guy isn’t that skinny. Anyway, he is always listening to the absolute worst music known to man. Today he was listening to Alanis Morisette. Not only was it Alanis, it was Jagged Little Pill. Not only was it Jagged Little Pill, it was some sort of unplugged slowed down version so you could actually hear what she was saying. You simply can’t run to a slowed down acoustic “You Oughta Know.” It actually makes you uncomfortable and not in a healthy challenged way, but in an embarrassed way.

Taking matters into my own hands I asked the guy if we could hear the new Madonna album. Because, as I said yesterday, Hung Up gets an A and even though the rest of the album gets a C+ it is still better than acoustic Jagged Little Pill, with the exception of Madonna’s I Love New York song, which is possible worse than the black Eyed Peas song I mentioned in my last post. The music at the gym can be a minefield.

Dude at the desk complied and put on the Madonna CD. To my delight when I got to the gym I noticed that the cheesy movie of the day was none other than West Side Story. Oh what a film. I am not even so offended that I think most of the Puerto Ricans in the film were just white people with dark make-up on. I mean it all comes together with that Rita Moreno. The woman was on FIRE.

Here’s where things got strange. The first track on the Madonna album is Hung Up. When the guy put the song on, it was at the start of the scene in West Side Story where the two rival gangs go to the dance. I didn’t remember this but that scene starts with a dark screen and red figures dancing. Like those heat sensing films. I know it sounds crazy, but the beginning of that scene combined with the beginning of Hung Up merged perfectly. Then, when the film when back to a normal shot of the dance, the steps of the dancers looked like they were made for Hung Up. I am not kidding you when I say everyone at the gym – all four of us – stopped our workout just to watch the dancing. You know how they say that Pink Floyd album is meant as an alternate soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz, it had that quality.

The Madonna album lasted the duration of my workout, and as I walked out of the gym I recognized the first few bars of some Alanis Morisette’s classic set to acoustic guitar. Thankfully, I was out of there before she actually started to “sing.”

2005-12-02T10:51:00.000-05:00

So, last night, I spent some quality time at the gym. I was also there on Tuesday. In fact, I kinda over did it as I was working out some frustration I had built up during the day. It was great for the spirit, but bad for the body.

Anyway, I was on the treadmill when that new Madonna song, Hung Up, came pouring out of the gym speakers. Now, the first time I heard the song, I wasn’t that impressed by it. In fact, Madonna started to bore me right after Vogue. So, the chances that she was gonna win me over now, were slim. Add to that, the song was mixed with an Abba song. I have always disliked Abba. In fact, I think that they should be charged for their crimes. They have tortured the western world with Mama Mia.

Perhaps it was the pace of the treadmill or the beating of my heart, but my god did that song take my workout to a whole new level. Now I love it. I’m singing it in my head right now, in fact.

The rest of the album is just ho hum. It doesn’t stand up to Kylie’s “Fever” for pure fun value. Also, I think this album has probably the worst lyrics known to man. Perhaps they have embraced the dance music genre too much. So, “Hung Up” gets an A from me. The rest of the album gets a C+.

I am glad that I warmed up to the song. I can be pretty single minded. I feel the need to say that nothing will warm me up to that moronic song by the Back Eyed Peas. Which moron wrote “What you gonna do with all that ass in your jeans?”

2005-12-01T14:46:00.000-05:00

So, last night, I had several nightmares. I don’t know what sparked them, but it was not pleasant.

Well, perhaps it was March of the Penguins. I watched the English version last night. It is very different from the French version. The English version has only Morgan Freeman narrating and in the French version, there are voices for the male and female penguin and they talk to each other. Also the music is different. In the English version, the music is only instrumental. The French version has a woman singing in English. Weird.

Anyway, after my screening of March of the Penguins (and two glasses of wine) I climbed into bed fully intent on getting a good night’s sleep. I slept well until around 3:00 AM when I woke up for no clear reason, so I decided to go to the bathroom.

Getting back to sleep proved challenging. My brain was hoping from one subject to another and I guess that’s what got me up in the first place and kept me up. Sometimes my brain would rather reel than rest.

I finally got to sleep about two hours later. Well, it felt like two hours later, but then my sleep betrayed me. I had a series of nightmares. Not one, not two, but it was like a Simpson’s Tree House of Horror Halloween Special up in my brain. The first one was when, for some reason, I woke up in my old office in Toronto at the Sherbourne and Queen area. I decided to go walking down the street in my favourite long sleeve t-shirt. But, I wasn’t wearing any pants or panties. I became totally anxious and started frantically looking for the Good Will in the area to get a skirt (even in a dream state, buying under ware from a used clothing store is OUT of the question). It was really hot in my dream and there was not a lot of people on the street, just a lot of huge imposing buildings. I couldn’t find the Good Will and I am not clear on how that ended.

In my second dream, I ended up at a party at a friend’s place. Well, really it was a ‘friend’ I only barely know here in Montreal. For some reason I was totally stranded there and had no way to get to a friend’s place. So, I called Vijay who came to get me, but he was kinda crazy and scary looking. He was all pale and kept picking at his teeth, it creaped me out. Against my better judgment I got into a car with him and he almost drove into various walls or oncoming traffic all the while laughing like a hyena and looking at me like if he didn’t succeed in killing me in the car, he would just finish the job later. The worst thing is that sitting in the car I was stuck. I couldn’t move at all. The car would go careening down some street into a dangerous turn, but I couldn’t react physically. All I could so was watch trapped in the passenger seat.

In the third dream I was just being followed by someone or several people. I hate that. All three of these dreams were so real it was like I was living them, I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me and worse I couldn’t save myself. I was totally out of control and it was terrifying.

My last dream was more like a night terror. I was back in my apartment and in bed. I heard someone running up the stairs in the hall between my apartment and my neighbour’s with boots on were making tons of noise. The lights in the hall were blazing, this person opened my front door and screamed into my apartment “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping.” And then slammed my door repeatedly but didn’t actually come in. In a half-awake state I tried to get up but couldn’t really move. But, then I finally got up and went to the door and tried to close it against a hard wind and streams of light pushing their way into my apartment. I wanted to see who was down there but I was afraid for what would happen to me. It was awful.

Seriously, I woke up exhausted and terrified.

2005-11-29T14:33:00.000-05:00

So, last night, perhaps inspired by my grandmother – I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately – I had a really weird dream. Before I launch into the description I just want to warn you, what follows is not for family reading.

OK, here goes. I had this dream that I for some reason decided to do some extra special muff grooming. So, I pulled out my comb and brushes and hair products and started grooming. The first thing I noticed was that I had several silver hairs. Very silver and they looked pretty nice. This is strange because in the real world, I only have one grey hair on my head.

The other thing I noticed is that I was particularly lush. It was one healthy bush. It looked amazing. I could have been in a magazine for healthy bush maintenance.

Basically, the dream was about me being super pleased that my muff looked so good.

What is going on in my head?

2005-11-29T11:19:00.000-05:00

So, the Liberals fell last night. Is this good or bad, I don’t know? I am pretty confident that we will end up with another Liberal minority government. That kind of annoys me as taxpayers are going to have to pay for an election simply to install the same government we have had for eight years.

At the same time you gotta love that whole non-confidence thing. All this time I thought that our politicians were too polite to actually call for the vote. And for a while they were skittering around actually doing it. But then Stephen Harper decided to put the boots to Parliament. Well, at least that gave him a little personality. Although, any glimmer of personality was totally eroded when he made a speech that consisted of “We are looking forward, bla bla bla, future, bla bla bla, we are not looking to the past.” He made those comments but didn’t bother to mention what he was actually talking about. Good message. Perhaps he hasn’t thought of it yet. I also love that he put young people behind him. He found two visible minorities and put them on stage as well. They just looked out of place.

I also saw Paul Martin’s speech. He looked like he was ready for a fight. He was a bit bigger on the podium. He talked about the Liberal record (other than Gomery). Compared to Harper, Martin has TONS of charisma. Getting right down to mud slinging, Martin called the Conservatives the “Neo-Cons.” Good strategy because every poll indicates that Canadians don’t identify with Harper or trust the Conservatives. He called the Bloc Quebecois the Separatist Bloc, which is smart because there are two politics in Quebec, Separatist and Liberal. Although, I don’t think all Bloc supporters are actually separatists. They are actually very good politicians.

I didn’t see Jack Smooth Operator Layton or Dashing Gilles Duceppe meet reporters. But I think Jack should be worried. I think that they will loose some NDP votes to the Liberals as many Canadians would rather sell their children than let Stephen Harper become Prime Minister.

Here is my prediction for each Party. As with any prediction, I could be wrong. But, keep in mind, I am not saying anything that hasn’t been said before.

Liberal – As stated above, they will form a minority government. Even Ralph Kline thinks this is the case. Belinda Stronach will win Newmarket. But she will have to run a bang-up campaign. But, I’m just talking here.

Conservatives – They will end up with the same amount of members in the house perhaps one more or one less. Stephen Harper will have to step down as leader leaving the Conservatives in a quandary. Who will lead this party? Who are the other high-profile Conservatives? Don’t even say Peter McKay, his opponents will rip him to shreds for lying to Tory supporters. Let’s be honest, Stephen Harper is a disaster as leader. But, who else do they have? Someone please tell me because I have no idea.

NDP – They will loose seats. Jack knows that they will not get more support, so really he is fighting to keep the seats they have now. His campaign will be all about trying to get NDP supports to not switch their vote to the Liberals.

Bloc – They will end up with more members in the house. Gilles will look dashing as always. The silver fox.

On another note, the CBC is doing a study on their listener-ship. It is falling and as they told some people in our office “Only old white people listen to the CBC.”DUH. This morning I listened to Sheila Rogers on the CBC. She interviewed Ken Alexander from The Walrus. The beginning was good, but then they began to bore the snot out of me. Sheila actually said that she thinks The Walrus is very different than Harpers. She must be an idiot. I wonder what they could do to attract new listeners…

2005-11-27T19:07:00.000-05:00

So, I went dancing on Friday night. Everyone loves a dancing girl. It was great. I danced for hours and it was delightful. The one thing that always confuses me on the dance floor is people’s natural instinct to form a circle and dance around an imaginary barrier. It really is strange. On Friday night while the DJ played track after track of danceable soulful music a sizeable circle had formed in the middle of the dance floor, which was small to begin with. For a while people would not cross a barrier defined by what must have been an imaginary hula-hoop. In an attempt to make my friend laugh I placed my half drunk gin and tonic in the middle of the circle and danced around it for a few seconds, a la the purse dancers mentioned two posts ago. This made a few others laugh as well. A group of guys across the dance floor canyon placed a beer bottle in the middle of the circle and then pretended to film the untouched bottle from a couple feet away. No one got into the shot.

It became clear a little later that a couple guys wanted to maintain the circle because they intended to dance in some sort of hybrid break dance style that would take up a lot of room. BORING! Keep in mind, we were NOT at a show. Basically they were good dancers, but they needed an audience.

Why they needed an audience, I’ll never know. It is not like they were expanding the dance genre or capturing the spirit of dance. I say if you need an audience, enroll in some sort of dance school, join a troop and either give performances or go on the road. Do not try to monopolize the dance floor of a Montreal club on Mount Royal. Guess what, we are all there to dance

In any case, people eventually snapped out of their damage and we all had a good time.

Then, at the diner down the street, things got a little crazy. I went out with two Korean women and one Chinese woman. We laughed our way into the diner ready for some very healthy after-bar eats. As we walked through the place this drunk white woman points at my friend as says “Hey!” I figured that she was trashed and that she recognized us from the club. I was only half right.

The drunk chick points at my friends and says in a mimicked Asian accent “Tourist tourist.” She thought it was hilarious. So, I looked at her and said “Asshole asshole.” What is wrong with people? Please spare me the “she was drunk” argument because that doesn’t mean she isn’t indeed an asshole. We were really surprised because that’s just crazy. If you are going to do that wouldn’t it be best to know who you are insulting? You can get yourself in a lot of trouble. I mean that’s why roaming gangs of hateful morons are in gangs. They don’t want to risk a one on one fight. Yes, it made me angry but I wasn’t going to let a moron ruin my night so I took solace in the idea that one day she’ll get beaten to a pulp by an angry Korean with a black belt in Taekwon do.

2005-11-25T14:32:00.000-05:00

So, this blog post is a shout out to Anne Kingston. She wrote a bang up article in the new issue of Report on Business. Frankly this article has National Magazine Award written all over it. I have rarely read such a good piece of writing. It is bursting with information and her prose is engaging. Excellent work. What follows is my open letter to Kingston that details how I feel about her article.

Dear Ms Kingston,

I on a regular basis steal magazines from the café across from the office I work in, on Maisonneuve here in Montreal. This morning, after the cover of the Report on Business caught my eye, I read the first couple paragraphs of your article, “Why Women Can’t Get Ahead.” I was engrossed. Glancing at the distracted café owner I slipped the issue under my arm and made for the door.

Ms Kingston, as a young woman I was NEVER told that I could succeed if I worked hard. The most positive message I have ever gotten is that due to my race and gender I would have to work three times as hard to get whatever I wanted. For some reason, these messages are much easier to believe than the strong black woman who can do ANYTHING as represented by Oprah Winfrey. I can’t deny that I looked at any career I might have as a veritable jungle gym of obstacles, bigotry and problems. Still, trophy wife, bag lady, and unemployed depressive were not options I wanted to capitalize on. So, I worked and I worked hard.

Reading your article I have to say that what I found most interesting is that the male executives you interviewed were only honest about the anti-women bias as long as they didn’t have to be responsible for it. It’s the work world’s worst kept secret yet business still tries to pretend they are running equitable environments (I am sure WWP Group has an employment equity statement, but I wonder if it applies to the woman dressed as a French maid on stage with their Creative director). Meanwhile, it is women alone who have been compelled to change, adapt their lifestyles and fight sexism, while men are left to continue to find new and imaginative ways to exclude women.

You note that women start most small business ventures. Small business may also be a place for women to excel. In my current job, I am responsible for one of the largest parts of this business. I would never have the same power over the product I do here in a large company. Although, small businesses rarely pay what you can make at a large business. But, who knows, I’m getting a raise in December, and I plan to be a bitch about it.

Yours in admiration,

Debbie

Please read the article:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20051121.rmwomen1125/BNStory/specialROBmagazine/

2005-11-24T12:20:00.000-05:00

So, the snow has started and it has started in a big way. I had to wrap my head up in my scarf. The ground is white and this batch looks like it’s going to stick around for a couple days. Last night was FREEZING. I told a friend that it was so cold my legs almost broke off. He said that was OK, as long as I cover my boobs as they are more important. Awesome advice.

I really don’t think I agree with him. As I told him I would rather have my legs than my boobs. I mean, they are fantastic (they really are, men have written testimonials to them), but there are things I like about my legs. They are strong and pretty shapely. But, I find them so useful, mainly for walking but especially for dancing.

I have actually given this a lot of thought. Not boobs Vs legs specifically, but I wonder how I would deal if I lost my legs. See, I love to dance. I can dance all night. After several drinks, I can dance all night and a good portion of the morning. I’m like a dancing machine. I’ve been known to go dancing several nights in a week – OK, I was 20. Also, I am not one of those bar chicks standing beside the dance floor, hand on hip, waiting to be cruised but some bar guy. Nor am I the circle dancer stepping with my friends around the great purse pile. I am also not the starved for attention girl dancing for the guy I have herded into a corner with my flailing limbs.

Madonna said it best, “only when I’m dancing can I feel this free.” Strangely, I am the girl who constantly gets challenged to the impromptu ‘dance off.’ It happens more often than not. I’m dancin’ and dancin’ and suddenly some guy gets in my face – generally this person can dance circles around me – and we dance for all it’s worth. Yes, we throw down.

But, when I think about it, I generally smile while dancing. Also, I have a way of looking at people right in the eye. So, I guess there is a chance that some of the dance offs happen because some guy is walking by me and they happen to catch my eye. And to them, because I’m smiling, I have “Let’s dance!” written all over my face. That could be it too.

Anyway, today I have taken procrastination to an extra special level. Time to actually work at work.

2005-11-23T13:15:00.000-05:00

So, I don’t know if my personal trainer could smell break up on me or if he was just being nice because they lost the cheque I wrote but for some reason, as I was running on the treadmill he said to me “You’re looking really good Debbie, really strong. You may have lost a little weight too.” This guy is a master motivator. After that little exchange, I ran faster, pumped more iron, and kicked ass on the BoSu. I’m like a sarcastic, large breasted, female version of Rocky.

Enough gym talk.

Yesterday I worked from home. I hate it and I love it all at the same time. I like my home to be home, I don’t want to conduct business there. But, I have to say that sometimes it is better just to be at home than at the office. I can be so comfortable at home. Yesterday I had a telephone meeting. I talked circulation with a consultant while wearing nothing but a cap sleeve t-shirt and loose fitting panties. You simply can’t sit around the office like that. I mean for a while the office was sweltering so we worked in various states of undress but we almost always wore pants.

However, by the evening I was climbing up the walls. I had go somewhere or do something. So I went to the Laundromat and the grocery store. What an outing. At least I got some clean clothes and a container of eggnog (which I later mixed with brandy while chatting with my mother on the phone. She asked me not to get drunk, “Please don’t get drunk all by yourself, dear.” I made no promises).

The Laundromat was hilarious in an incredibly irritating sort of way. I love almost all children, I really kinda do. And I have a modicum of respect for some parents in a general sense. And, I often abhor violence in principle. But sometimes I want smack the living daylights out of some parents while shaking their kids until they pass out. Last night, at the Laundromat while trying to read a French décor magazine an irritating little bugger had a fit because his mother wouldn’t give him is can of coke before he ate all his French fries like a good boy.

The kid was screaming like a monkey, throwing himself on the floor and slamming the doors on the dryers. To try to get him to stop, his mother tried to negotiate with the kid – which, I believe, is like complimenting Satan. In the end the kid got his can of coke (because if there is anything this child needed was more sugar, I don’t see why she didn’t set the kid up on an IV drip) and only ate three or four fires. The best part was after the floorshow (which went on for 25 minutes) the kid’s mom tried to give him a “Time Out.” I swear to you, the kid looked at his mother and said “yeah, what ever you say, lady.” Then the woman laughed. If I tried that with my mom, fire would have rained from the sky.

Anyway, I got out of there.

This post isn’t really about anything, is it.

2005-11-21T16:16:00.000-05:00

So, today I find myself seriously wishing romance movies actually had some connection to real life, because folks I do think that they are 100% fantasy. I simply can’t suspend my disbelief. I think the Harry Potter movies are more realistic. I think the chances that hobbits actually exist are better then me keeping a boyfriend.

Oh yeah, my boyfriend and I broke up. Well I guess he is now my ex-boyfriend. Mind you, we weren’t together very long. So, perhaps the X-bf title is a little too much for him. This was a very mature break up. Very adult. I even spent a few days telling myself that ‘yes, this is for the best.’ It is for the best, actually, but I am still sad. I wish things were different.

I have to say if I thought I had the ability to change things I would try. Then he would show up in front of my house in the driving rain, pounding on my door, screaming my name. I’d open the door and we’d kiss. Fade to black.

However, even if my life were like the movies and he did show up on my doorstep in the driving rain, that wouldn’t make me happy. Well, actually it would for the time being, but he’d still be the same person and I would still have the same problems with the relationship. As would he.

So, as I have already told my friends, I am now taking applications from men who may or may not belong to any of the groups below:

Paramedics, firefighters, IT guys, barista boys, personal trainers, construction workers, medical interns, stock boys, bar tenders, small business owners, students, part-time students, Brazilians, chemists, dentists, strategic marketers, business interns, call centre workers, best buy sales staff, movers, ushers, record store clerks, janitors, French teachers, translators, web site designers, patent makers, aerospace engineers, pediatric cardiologists, carpenters, twins, DJs, painters, trench diggers, CBC executives, radio personalities, taxi cab dispatchers, line cooks, bookstore managers, public transit employees, postal workers, client services reps, statisticians, iconoclastic Canadian authors, promoters and others

2005-11-17T12:11:00.000-05:00

So, I have a nervous stomach. Some people get butterflies before they see their cute boy, some get a nerve related need to pee before a performance. Personally, I very nearly vomit before anything big that I have to do. Or sometimes I actually vomit. I also get sick from difficult conversations. It is strange because I am a natural extrovert, and I have always been.

As a kid at Holy Redeemer Catholic School in Pickering, I routinely did well at the annual public speaking contest. And when I say I did well, I always placed second to either Kirsten or Christine, a pair of freckled faced, red headed twins who almost always did a speech about what they would do if elected Prime Minister, why their mom is their hero or, the tried and true, funny things about being a twin. They knew how to cater to a crowd of dim-witted teachers and secretaries. I hated their cute red headed look and freckles. I hated that they dressed the same on speech day. But, mostly, I hated their transparent, yet successful, attempt to romance the judges with inane babble and white ribbons in their hair. I thought they were boring. Holy Redeemer wasn’t ready for my heat; the judges always played it safe. The winner went to the Kawanis festival – the holy grail of public speaking contests – and our school always sent the ‘cute’ speech. There were some that felt my genius. But, I think the sarcasm of a nine-year-old was a bit too abrasive for the chalk and typewriter set.

Starting the speech off with a bang, I held up the compass from my geometry set and said “Our teachers tell us not to run with succors, but then they give us these.” I gave them three solid minutes of brilliance: Why Math is Bad for your Health. I had them rolling in the aisles. It was a great start. I looked the audience members in the eye and played the crowd. God, they were with me every step of the way. I could see the hunger in their eyes for my take on the dangers of a meter stick. They were begging me to kill them with a quip about a protractor. After my speech my schoolmates continued to laugh through the teacher’s introduction of the next competitor.

Kirsten followed my knock-‘m-dead performance. You would think that it would be the prefect position. I had warmed up the crowd. I was actually annoyed because I had to open the show, go in there dry. Even as a nine-year-old I had the instincts to know, I had an uphill battle and they gave Kirsten the sweet spot. She was like the Banyon to my Gerry. Predictably, she managed to kill the mood in the first 30 seconds. A minute into the speech the audience could only manage a chuckle here and there.

I thought I was home free. It was clear – if you were to take audience reaction as a barometer of success – I was the victor. I realize now that the twins had something I didn’t (and it wasn’t talent). They played to the judges. Ignoring the audience, Kirsten looked right at the judges playing with her ribbons at precise moments and then knocking them out with her steel mouthed grin. Obviously Kirsten won first prize that year with a speech about the day she and her sister got braces – fascinating.*

*As a side note to this story, my mother was always appalled by the twin’s domination in public speaking. Mainly because I was MUCH more talented in this realm than they were and she felt I was being discriminated against. She told my teachers as much. If you do wrong by me, or my sister, you will bare my mother’s wrath. My mother also hated the twins because she thinks twins are creepy and she thought this set were particularly ugly. In grade 8 Christine was chosen to give a speech at the 30th anniversary celebration for Holy Redeemer. It was probably the most boring thing I have ever had to sit through mainly because Christine had the presence of a slug. Mom felt the same way, to this day that she thinks I was wronged.

2005-11-16T10:04:00.000-05:00

So, I Last night while waiting to leave for the city I got a call on my cell from someone in Montreal. We chatted for a few minutes and then he asked me if I would be driving back to Montreal. I was taking the train. Then he said, “That’s good, because there is a lot of snow here.” I immediately accused him of lying. Obviously he was making fun of me. He said, no, there was some snow this morning and now there is a lot.

We ended our conversation, no one likes lies like that, and I headed for Union Station. On the train I chatted with my boss and tried to sleep a little. As we pulled into Dorval I saw what was the remnants of snow fighting off the rain in an attempt to cling to the ground. You know that white crusty look that is transparent enough to show the grass below. A sad sight really. As I was looking at it I felt that the snow was following the train, chasing me. You may think that makes me a little paranoid, but still, it was like it was out to get me.

I closed my eyes and decided not to think about it. Mistake. I got home and when I stepped out of the cab, on to what was largely a clean street, there was a small patch of snow right in front of my door. Seriously, the street was bare, just rained on, but a patch of snow managed to hold on. And that patch was right outside my door.

I am telling you, it’s after me. It’s going to get me. It taunts me. It wants me to know it's coming. I feel like winter is a cat and I am the half dead mouse it plays with for pleasure before striking the final blow. And it will strike.

2005-11-13T17:18:00.000-05:00

So, I just got back from my local Winners with about 4 new pairs of tights (a short skirt and tights is all the rage this winter). While I was shopping I noticed the steady stream of Christmas music being blast over the speakers. Here comes Santa Clause, y’all I hope you are ready. He’s on his fucking sleigh and is getting ready to park it at the Canadian Tire. I don’t mean to sound so angry about it (that’s bull shit I totally mean to sound angry) but every year that goes by, the holiday season just gets more and more plastic.

I think for me, the last straw was when various radio stations in Toronto started playing Christmas music 24/7 from the first week in November. I don’t know where this trend started but it inspired various musicians to write all new Christmas carols meat to turn your bowels. Here’s a ditty we can all vomit to! The one that really stands out in my head is a song called “Christmas Shoes” or something like that. The song is about a young boy who was sent to the store on Christmas Eve to buy new Christmas shoes for his hospitalized mother who needs the shoes to wear when she meets baby Jesus (her death was imminent). The kid was only a couple dollars short so he tells the story of his death-doorstep-mother inspiring charity in the person standing behind him in line. No one in the song wondered why an eight-year-old would be sent to the mall alone on Christmas Eve while his mother lay dying in the hospital, but sentimental drivel has no reason.

I heard that Christmas shoes song a couple years ago while at the salon. For some reason Middle aged Caribbean women love that shit. They are all over the Christmas music 24 hours a day – especially if there is a steel drum involved. While getting my haircut I sat beside a family friend who for the purposes of this blog shall be known as Darleen, mainly because that is her name. Darleen sat in the chair talking at length about how much she loved the Christmas music on the radio – The family thinks Darleen is, in the Guyanese parlance, a “schupidy gyirl.” Directly translated, that means Darleen is an idiot. She sat there complaining that while the music was nice they didn’t play enough Johnny Mathis. That’s when the radio DJ dropped Christmas Shoes. Perhaps, inadvisably, I say “Oh Jesus Christ this has got to be the worst song I have ever heard.” Darleen was aghast, “What do you mean? This is a very nice song.” Darleen said looking at me like I was a cold-hearted heathen. How could I not be touched by the story of a young boy about to loose his mother on Christmas? Then Darleen started swaying to and fro to the insipid melody while trying to sing along. Since she didn’t know the words she did her best to anticipate what they might be but mostly just sang along with monosyllables. Great, I had succeeded in making a bad situation worse. I lived the worst year of my life in that three and a half minutes.

Anyway, at the Winners the Christmas music was especially bad. After Shania Twain’s rendition of “White Christmas” (a song that always creeped me out) another song was played that I can only describe as painful. And when I say painful I mean it sounded like the moaning of a French woman in pain, specifically a dull throbbing pain. It had that unmistakable Christmas sound to it, much like the Christmas smell that takes over malls and department stores. I don’t know how this woman got a record deal, but she did and now I am being punished.

At least, since I don’t listen to the radio, I don’t have to worry about being inundated with bad Christmas music. My pre-Christmas resolution is to stay far away from the mall.

2005-11-12T10:56:00.000-05:00

So, last night I stayed home at watched movies. It was pretty relaxing. I rented two, C.R.A.Z.Y. – the Quebec film about a young man coming to terms with his homosexuality in 1970’s Montreal – well, I only assume they were in Montreal. It was very good. I really liked it.

The other movie I saw was Thirteen starring Holly Hunter as the mother of a troubled thirteen-year-old girl. From my vague memory, I think the film was made after interviewing several thirteen-year-old girls. But, I could be making that up.

I have to say that the movie got a lot of praise and I remember people saying that it was ‘disturbing.’ I was prepared for something disturbing, and I think it had the potential to be really effective, but the movie just falls apart for me for one main reason. Well, just let me summarize the plot for you:

After a pretty young white girl from a broken home meets a troubled racially ambiguous girl she spirals downward and ends up making out with young black boys.

You see, I simply can’t help but read this film racially. The American cinema still struggles with race and I think that black men and boys are often used as symbols of a society in crisis, or the ultimate form of trouble. This film is particularly blatant. In Thirteen, the world of drugs and teenage sex is filled with young black boys and the “bad” white girls who throw themselves at them. The safe and healthy world for the main character is filled with white people. Amazingly there are no black women in this film (the girls seem to go to a school where the black population is ONLY male). Well, except for one utterly random scene, two young black girls threaten the main character for reasons that are totally unclear.

I agree that many thirteen-year-old girls are more savvy that I was as a young teenager . Yes some are doing drugs and getting into trouble. However, I think that the only telling thing about Thirteen is that white America is terrified of black people, and somehow I don’t think that was the point the film was trying to make.

2005-11-11T12:02:00.000-05:00

So, last night I was at the gym. As is my routine I spent some time on the treadmill. I think I mentioned before that my gym likes to play cheesy movies and classic movies. I have seen Rocky, and Dances with Wolves. On Tuesday I watched The Great Escape and Youngblood is in high rotation. Last night, it was Labyrinth. Or, more specifically, I watched the Making of Labyrinth. It was pretty captivating, actually. Also, bittersweet as there is a lot of Jim Henson in that movie, and, well, I cried the day he died (I love muppets). The best part was the shots of bowie standing on the edge of the set with a cigarette and a smile watching his stunt double get hung upside down.

Now, I remembered that Jennifer Connolly – pre breast enhancement and subsequent reduction – starred in this film with David Bowie. What I didn’t remember is that there is a scene where Connelly walks toward her bedroom window and there, standing IN her bedroom, is David Bowie – the Goblin King. I don’t understand why she didn’t start screaming, cause I would have.

I also learned an interesting bit of Trivia. As a teenager with no social life I watched a lot of Star trek Next Generation. The first doctor on this new Enterprise was Dr. Beverly Crusher, played by a woman named Gates McFadden. I remember a scene where she danced to “Isn’t it Romantic” with Lt. Data. They also broke out in an energetic tap number. My mom told me that McFadden was actually a dancer before she became an actress.

Last night I learned that she choreographed Labyrinth. And, that her name is actually Cheryl McFadden. Ah the crap you learn.

2005-11-10T12:38:00.000-05:00

So, I am about to make a bold statement. The hipster is dead. I fear the hipster has become too homogeneous to actually be the cutting edge. I ponder this in the open letter below.

Dear Current Hipster,

I know you think you are ever changing, placing yourselves on the edge of the trend constantly refreshing, transforming, renewing. I know in your minds you are resetting the scene. You are the ultimate of what is cool.

Hipster, you took over the 70’s slacker esthetic and refined it to its current state. And for that, I thank you. Boys have mended the holes in the brown sweaters and women are now embracing an image that I can only describe as ‘Velma revisited’. Everyone’s hair is a mess, but thankfully, you all keep it under a touque even while smoking ten thousand cigarettes in a hot crowded bar. The finest part of the uniform is the thick-rimmed glasses. Positively EVERYONE, and I do mean everyone, is wearing them. I didn’t realize, that an entire generation had such bad eyes.

In your desperate collective attempt to reject the mainstream you clamour for the newest music and imitate whichever burgeoning talent best describes the total love you have for the guy living on the third floor of your McGill residence. I know that Joanna Newsome now enjoys fabulous popularity among the 20 year-old-university-girl demographic (I have to say this is reminiscent of the fame Sarah McLachlan had, until we all came to our senses and finally sold Fumbling Toward Ecstasy and Surfacing to any used CD store who would pay 25 cents for it). Yes, Newsome has some success, hell, I even like that ‘Peach, Plum, Pear’ song. However, this does NOT mean the harp is a viable musical instrument for a rock band. Concordia music students frequenting St. Laurent bars from Maisonneuve to Laurier are now putting a harp on stage and attempting to sing in voices that sound a little too close to Lisa Simpson’s. Come on now, please stop it.

Don’t get me wrong, hipster, please don’t stop being your collective selves. On some level, we are all clones of each other. Everyone has their scene and every scene has its common esthetic. But, you seem to have brought homogeneity to a whole new level. You all look exactly the same. Goths do different things with their hair. The Gap set buys jeans with different cuts. Even black club girls (also knows as BET girls) have different coloured weaves. Why be so indistinguishable?

Sincerely,
Debbie

2005-11-09T12:43:00.000-05:00

So, despite the drop in temperature I am feeling GREAT! It’s freezing here right now. It is a special kind of Montreal cold outside, but my office, for some reason, is like 28 degrees. It’s been like this for a week. Everyone comes to the office in layers so we can work in various states of undress and finish the day in a pair of jeans and a tank top. Not even the cold outsides and the uncomfortable office can get me down.

Two days ago I got some fantastic news. My favourite lingerie shop is called Secrets From Your Sister and is located in Toronto. In a desperate search for the brand of bra that I wear I called the store to ask if they knew where said undergarment is distributed in Montreal. See, for a woman like me, a good bra is like gold. I’ll wear a $7.00 t-shirt and a $150.00 bra. I am all about good bras and fun panties. Most people know this about me.

The people at Secrets were happy to hear from me. They asked how Montreal is and told me they missed me. Then they emailed me a list of stores in the Montreal area that carry Freya bras. There are only three. But that isn’t the good news. As it turns out, the Secrets from Your Sister people are opening a store here in Montreal. I am not kidding when I say that I bounced up and down with delight. They are currently just looking at locations but expect to be here sometime in January. I would work there for the bra discounts alone. Things could not be better!

2005-11-08T10:34:00.000-05:00

So, I know what you are thinking, ‘I just can’t get enough Gomery!’ There is an orgy of news. I just want to go on the record saying that I think Jack Layton is posturing. He won’t support the Liberals now because they wont move on health care. If there is a non-confidence vote, he’d vote with the Bloc and the Conservatives. I think he is doing this because he knows that there is no way the NDP will win federally, he wants to punish the Liberals, and, they have to show the requisite rage just in case there is an election and they can sway more Liberal voters for an increased presence in the house. The killer thing is that neither Stephen Harper, nor Gilles Duceppe will actually call for a non-confidence vote. WOW! That’s polite. Stephen Harper commented (and this is the direct translation from his mother tongue, Binary) that he doesn’t trust Layton’s NDP to vote with the Conservatives as he’s been “burned by Layton before.” Burned, out maneuvered, whatever. Honestly, now that Harper won’t force a non-confidence vote, he kinda looks like a pansy. He’s supposed to be a bold new voice. So, now, we will see if a Parliamentary formality will force an election.

The government could still fall, if the money bill isn’t accepted on December 8th. How many of us want an election over the Holidays? Not many. I do have to say that I don’t understand why an election over the holiday season would be so terrible. Yesterday on the CBC they interviewed one woman who said, “I think the politicians should be home with their families.” I’m sorry, that’s just stupid. We shouldn’t have an election regardless of the circumstances because the politicians should be comfortable? Please, get a grip. Other than voter turn out, what is the big deal? We would have to pay attention to politics over the holiday season, God forbid!

If we do have an election, I think it will result in another Liberal minority government. Amazingly, the Liberals are STILL ahead in the polls. This, my friends, is HILARIOUS. Because, I think it is more of an expression of how much Canadians distrust the Conservatives.

Bla bla bla news! I’ll post something else in a little bit.

2005-11-07T11:21:00.000-05:00

So, I just got some mildly upsetting news. I have a meeting in Toronto next Monday and Tuesday. That’s not the upsetting thing. I was excited to head to the big smoke. After the meeting I was planning to heading to one of my favourite spots in the city for two things. Those of you who read this blog regularly know what that means. It was time to go to The Gypsy Co-op, have too many martinis and leave the bar carrying a purse bulging with stolen candy.

While mentioning my plan to a friend of mine he sent this message:

“you will have some trouble stealing candy from gypsy now though... it's all behind the counter. they wised up after checking the video tape. busted!”

I’m stunned. I have a lovely bowl in my apartment over flowing with the sweet, sugary booty of many a night at the Gypsy Co-op. I have everything from Candy rings to candy necklaces. I have Popeye sticks and several packs of nerds. I don’t actually eat the candy, I admire it. It’s a statement.

At Gypsy the candy was displayed on a 100% accessible shelf near the door (hello, it practically begged ‘Steal me!’). The only thing that can make this tragedy better, is if they stocked the now unused shelf with 100% accessible cute boys. Really, it is the only answer. Can I get a witness?

2005-11-04T10:43:00.000-05:00

So, the spider has been removed. I got home, took one look at the window and I knew. I couldn’t spend one more night in my apartment with the treacherous spider plotting my death and imminent world domination from my living room window. No more.

Knocking on Tall Guy Chris’ door I made sure I looked right pitiful. I stood there ringing my hands and biting my lip. I basically had “please help me” written on my forehead. I am being 100% honest when I say the spider grew again. It was certainly bigger than it was in the morning. Seriously, I think it is on steroids. When I drew the curtain back Chris actually took a step back and exclaimed “Oh my god!” “Chris, “I said, “Chris, that spider has got to go.”

Chris took the spider out of my apartment, when he came back he said that he thought the spider was wearing a watch. It was just that big.

As the spider may have a well-developed frontal lobe I worry that it has a memory and a sense of vengeance. If so…that spider may be back.

With the spider gone I could relax and watch some trash TV. For some reason I decided to watch that entertainment show called “Insider.” Well, there was nothing on my few channels and I was waiting for Coronation Street to start (BTW, the Street is KILLER right now. Killer! Katy, in a fit of rage killed her father with a monkey wrench in the Kevin Webster’s garage. Her mom came and found her and took her home. The next day Tyrone and Kevin found him. The police don’t know that Katy killed him. I wonder if they will try to blame Martin, Katy’s old boyfriend, he was angry because Katy’s dad succeeded in breaking up their relationship and Katy just aborted their baby. Kevin is also a suspect because Katy’s dad was telling people that Kevin’s wife, Sally, was having an affair with Martin. Kevin was gonna fire him the morning they found his body. The DRAMA).

Anyway, “Insider” or is it “Hollywood Insider” is ridiculous. First of all, there is little to no actual content in the show. They just keep telling you what they will be reporting on for the first 10 minutes. Then the 20 minutes of actual show they don’t say anything other than what they said when they were telling you what they were going to say.

I am sure I have watched this show before. About 6 months ago. I forget why, but I wondered the same thing then: what is America’s obsession with Carnie Wilson?

2005-11-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

So, there is a massive spider living between the two glass panes in my living room window. When I say it is massive, please know that I am not exaggerating. Dude is large enough to have developed vocal cords. It may start talking to me. I could name it and call it my pet, but as you can probably tell, I am not interested in having a spider as a pet, especially one so large. Generally, I despise the “damsel in distress” routine, but this is an emergency. I called the bf and told him all about the giant spider. My trash talking has come back to haunt me. Apparently, if I’m so tough I can kill the spider myself.

Yesterday, I told my friend about the spider over email. She will, for the purposes of this blog, be known as Evil Pam. Evil Pam suggested, “the spider may work it’s way into your apartment and” … now just imagine … “crawl into bed with you.” Thanks Evil Pam, thanks a lot. I woke up on the hour, every hour and stumbled over to the window to check that the spider was still sealed safely between the two panes. Actually, sometimes all I had to do was sit up in bed and look. The spider was back lit from the street lamp and cast an ominous shadow on the sheer window covering.

This morning, at about 5:00 AM I noticed that my Tony Soprano spider had taken over the territory on the other half of the window. I think it is gonna try to take over my apartment. Also, I think it grew over night. Looking at it before I left for work, I noticed four different shades of brown and … gulp … hair.

Since my first target didn’t respond to my “help me I’m just a girl” routine, I have to see if it works on someone else. I got two people to choose from: Downstairs Dean. He is a large patient man who would help me. If he’s not home, I’ll try Tall Guy Chris, who lives next door. If neither of those guys will help, it’s me. Alone. With the spider. Folks, if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, it will be because the giant spider has wrapped me up in its silken web and is waiting for me to die so it can feed me to it’s young.

Well, the spider probably also has a large brain. He’ll probably dress up in my clothes and come to my office and then attack everyone here. For the love of humanity, this spider must die.

2005-10-31T12:41:00.000-05:00

So, last night I watched the first half of Breaking Point: The 1995 Referendum. The Referendum is one of those moments in Canadian history that you look back on and say “I was at this location doing bla bla bla when the ‘non’ side won.” There are a few other moments like that for me. When Pierre Trudeau died, when Mike Harris was elected for the second time in Ontario (who says you can’t buy votes?), when Mitsu topped the charts with “Bye Bye Mon Cowboy.”

I remember that night of the referendum and the news leading up to it. I was in my second year at university and the film department was playing Babettte’s Feast as part of a festival about food (the same festival featured Delicatessen – excellent film). To be honest, Babette’s Feast bored me to tears. Or, more accurately, it couldn’t hold my attention and I kept slipping out of the cinema to run up to the Grad student’s pub to see what the latest count was from the referendum. Really, I saw more referendum than movie

I remember leaning against the door jam at the entrance of the pub and noticing the TA from the anthropology class I dropped in my first year, Roy. Roy was a rocker extrodinare and he either had several pairs of skin-tight black jeans or he wore the same pair every day. He also wore a Metallica t-shirt, but that could be a figment of my imagination, because, it completes the look far too perfectly.

I really liked Roy. He was hilarious. Even after I dropped my anthropology course, he’d talk to me in the halls. In my second year when I told him that I enrolled in another anthropology course, “Power and Politics” with Malcolm Blinkow, he raised both fists in the air and roared like a rock star before playing some air guitar. Yeah, Roy was a good time.

On the night of the referendum he was particularly engaged with the reporting on the small TV that teetered over the bar beside the pre-packaged snacks. He griped his pool cue and shouted comments in response to Parizeau, Bouchard, or Charest, whoever was giving a speech. He hopped around the pool table playing a few chords of air guitar here and there flicking his long dark hair around pointing at the TV or his imaginary crowd.

No one in the pub believed the vote was going to be as close as it was. No one except Roy it seemed. He faced every result like the count was following the numbers that he had placed his winning bet on (there was a oui/non betting pool at the pub, but I think the participants were being sickly morbid to bet on the break-up of our country). At a table close to the juke box three or four Poly-Sci students, thinking is was their time to shine, pontificated loudly on what a “oui” or “non” would really mean and how the discursive strategy of each side effected the symbolic imaginings of the nation state bla bla bla. I guess everyone deals with a break-up differently.

Finally, everyone held their breath and the final numbers were in. Not even 51% for the “non” side but that was enough. People cheered, but remained uneasy, more nervous that at the start of the night, actually. Pretending to be blown away Roy leaned back. Then bent over the table ready to take a shot. Before he slid the cue through his left hand he popped his head up and said, “It’s a non victory, but it’s no victory.” He missed his shot and for the rest of the time I spent standing in the doorway there was no air guitar no hoots or hollers.

Ah Roy, where are ya now?

2005-10-28T12:07:00.000-04:00

So, last night I was real proud of myself. I managed to crawl into bed at 9:55 PM. Oh I was pleased, under the covers and ready for some sleep. Wednesday night I didn’t sleep at home and didn’t get the best night’s sleep. My left-over tiredness demanded to be remedied. In the bed I went.

You know that moment when you are at sleep’s doorway. You are just about slip right into sleep and it’s gonna be good. That was the moment my phone rang. It was 10:30 and we talked for more than two hours.

It was a friend of mine who lives in Vancouver. He is from the US but was working in BC for the past few years. Now he has to leave as his job is over and he didn’t apply for permanent residency. Silly man. Anyway, for a few minutes I wondered if he was going to ask me to marry him so that he could stay in the country. Like, I wondered if he was going to make it worth my while. And by ‘make it worth my while’ I mean pay me. I wonder if I would seriously consider that. I wonder if I would agree to marry someone, but the only commitment would be a financial one. Please save all the trite arguments about marriage and money, I’ve heard them all. Basically, I’d be doing this guy a favour. I’d be helping him out. I probably wouldn’t tell my family what I had done. But, how long would be have to stay married for? Also, he’d have no marital benefits – know what I’m saying.

I wonder how much it would take, like if he had said “Debbie, I need to stay in Canada because I am committed to Universal Health (whatever, it was the first thing that came to mind) please marry me. Tell you what, I’ll give you $50, 000.” That’s a nice down payment for a Montreal condo. I’d think about it. For $100,000 I’d come to a decision in half the time. Hmmmmm

Perhaps that movie “Pretty Woman” has totally warped my brain. I saw that movie in the theatre when I was about 13 or 14 and I actually thought it was romantic. Upon second viewing – about three weeks ago – it is probably one of the most offensive things I have seen in a long time. I also saw “Can’t Buy Me Love” at a formative age. In that movie the prettiest girl in school dates a guy for a week for $1000 dollars so that she can replace her mother’s sued outfit she spilled red wine on at a party.

Anyway, it’s not like it is a real issue. I’m just talking here.

2005-10-26T10:12:00.000-04:00

So, last night I overcame a strong desire to be lazy, battled the crap weather and made it to the gym up the street from my house for the second day in a row. Look at me go, kids.

I came home and a bit later on a friend came over to hang out with me and watch TV together. After the Amazing Race (they FINALLY left the States) I began thinking about a skirt that I needed to find. It’s that perfect skirt you can’t do without. It’s the perfect length, the perfect size and looks perfect on me, if only I could find the perfect shirt to go with it.

As I went digging through my clothes looking for the skirt (which I eventually found) I uncovered what is probably my largest stash of panties I have every found. For the few minutes I sat hunched over a container of panties of all description, from lace thong to cotton brief, I felt what those Manitoba farmers must have felt when they found oil under their family farmland.

I am fortunate indeed. Not only did I find my skirt – and I am elated that it did not forever vanish into the vortex of clothes that pile up all over my apartment – but I also found a bunch of panties that I didn’t know I had.

My bra and panty obsession is beginning to take over my life.

2005-10-19T15:04:00.000-04:00

So, it is the season for tights now. It really is fall. I bought two pairs to start off with, grey and black. I plan to rock the short skirt and tights look for the winter – well the part of the winter that is amenable to that. And by short skirt, I mean three inches above the knee. As you can tell, the Montreal whoredom has not gotten to me…yet. When it is ridiculously cold, I’ll put the pants on.

In high school I wore tights daily, as is the lot of girls in the Catholic board in winter. Being a late bloomer, I didn’t have, what you’d call, admirers. In fact I am not so sure I actually existed as a girl between the ages of 14 and 18. The incident that defines my high school sexual experience was a strange occurrence on a sunny afternoon in late March in 1992.

For some reason we were all sent back to our homerooms during last period, there was probably an assembly or mass or something. We all went back to our respective homeroom classrooms. I was the first back to the portable that served as my homeroom. Wanting to stand in the sun I stepped outside on the small porch that sat outside the portable door. The field and parking lot was littered with puddles formed by melting snow. The first clear day in weeks, I was looking at the sky. Then I noticed that at the bottom of the four steps in front of me stood Warren Archer.

Now, I don’t care what anyone says, Warren Archer and I had chemistry. He was so nice looking. He was also a little bit bad, skipping school a lot and ignoring what teachers told him. Hmm he was so cute. Perhaps the ‘chemistry’ was the way my heart jumped a little when he made his rare appearance in school. Or the way I’d cling to any word from him that floated in my direction. Or the way I would want to bring my knees to my chin, curling up into a tight ball if he looked in my direction (the clock was on the wall a few feet behind me). He’d sit, aloof and silent clearly disinterested in everything in the aisle beside me, just one desk up. I was the girl who would spin around in my seat whenever the portable door opened to see if Warren would come walking through the threshold. We didn’t have one class together. Homeroom was my only chance.

Anyway, that sexually charged afternoon I stood at the top of the steps looking down at him. And he looked up at me. In one of those teenage spastic moments (I was 16) for some reason, instead of saying “Hey Warren” I swung my right leg out toward him. He stepped up one step and grabbed my ankle. Then he climbed up the last three while sliding his hand along the navy blue tights that covered my calf. When he stopped in front of me he had a firm grasp of my leg, his thumb pointing up my thigh, his fingers on three spots at the back of my bent knee. My whole body heated up as I looked in his face for an eternity in 30 seconds.

He dropped my leg and hopped into the portable. He said nothing to me. I froze there waiting for the room to fill up with more students. I sat at my desk my head stuck on the portable’s porch for the remainder of the afternoon, Warren didn’t look at me once. He just leaned back in his seat, cleared his throat and waited patiently for the bell to signal the end of the day. And with my every breath, I waited with him.

2005-10-18T15:16:00.000-04:00

So, I’m munching on a Cortland apple. Delicious. It may replace the “Royal Gala” as my apple of choice. The gala is sweet to be sure, but the Cortland is a little bit tart, like me. This apple is really pretty too. The skin is red but with yellow and greenish streaks, but the meat of it – the flesh – is paper white. That’s good snacking.

I’ve now been in Montreal for three and a half months. Working in publishing, I always assumed that my career will, at some point, take me home to Toronto. I’ve been here with a self-imposed indefinite deadline. Maybe 1 year, maybe 2, maybe 5. But this morning I was standing in front of the hand drier in one of the dodgy bathrooms that fill up my office building and a thought just leapt into my head. What if I don’t move back home? What if I just decide that this is where I am going to live?

It was a really strange moment. I was looking down at the stainless steel nozzle. I could see my reflection it in. But I was distorted due to the shape of the nozzle, my torso look small, but my breasts looked MASSIVE and my head was also small. I was laughing out loud at the way I looked. I even shook the girls around to see how it would look, yes, it was funny. Then I just stopped laughing, and I thought, ‘This is it. I’ll just live here.’

People make the decision to settle in a particular place all the time. But do they do so while shaking their tits in a public bathroom? Is this a sign that I am loosing my mind? If so, should I trust my instinct to settle in Montreal? Was that last question just a disclaimer to avoid making a definite statement about a decision I may have made with my heart, rather than my head?

These are all good questions.