Talkie talkie

Things I hate hearing people say:

- "Yeah, we were just hanging out, shootin' the shit." It's so vulgar. Plus, I'm not sure where it originated - what does it even mean??
- "Don't worry about it," when I ask a simple question. Ok, listen, I'm NOT worried about it, I just want to know. It makes me sound like I've been up nights obsessing about it. So patronizing.
- "Oh, thanks hon," when said to me by someone female and younger than me. Don't call me 'hon'. I don't like you.
- "Can I see your licence and registration?"
- "What's that?" or "Huh?" when they've probably actually heard what I've asked, but they're so used to being annoying that their knee-jerk response makes it seem like they didn't hear. I usually don't answer, but give their brain time to catch up with their stupid mouth until they realize they did hear me and answer properly.
- "Oh sorry, we're all out of the pie. Hon."

MELEBRATION!!!

Melebration - the best time of the year - has come and gone. Sigh. I'm a person who gets really excited when my birthday comes around. I like everyone to acknowledge it - yes it may be childish, but...nope, nothing to say about that.

My parents got me the two furniture pieces I'd been eyeing - including the one that I missed out on because someone else bought it. I am so thrilled with both of them and I can't wait until they're part of my new home instead of just taking up space in the hallway!

My brother was home from Victoria for a week or so and it was really great to have him around to celebrate our birthdays together.
There comes a time when you realize that your brothers are grown men and people in their own right. We're all adults and it's pretty weird.

The regular crew and I hit up Toronto for Melebration 2009. I've been melebrating with these peeps for several years now and I always feel so lucky to have them part of my life. I have great friends and I appreciate how they always help me ring it in.

We went to the rooftop pool at the Hyatt and despite children and a loud air conditioning fan, it was great.

Dinner at Urban then commando dancing at Brant House followed by...not quite sure, but it involved pizza and elbows in my face.

Even though I try hard not to, I always get emotional on my birthday. Or, not really on my birthday, but any time I have the people I love in the world around me, there for me. More than anything I love reading (as much as hearing, if not more) how people feel about me. So, a simple birthday card can put me over the edge. Yes, I realize it's pathetic and probably seemingly insecure, but...nope, nothing to say about that.

Ok, I will admit that I occasionally listen to 97.3 EZ Rock and in particular Delilah, who I just found out looks like this and it's really freaking me out:

The other night I heard a song I've liked for a while but finally listened to the words. It's the perfect sentiment for a love song. Nothing grand and overblown, nothing fake, just a simple request with no strings attached. Wouldn't it be nice if everything could be this refreshing and easy? No games, no expectations, just this.

Hello, yeah, it's been a while.
Not much, how 'bout you?
I'm not sure why I called,I guess I really just wanted to talk to you.
And I was thinking maybe later on,
We could get together for a while.It's been such a long time,
And I really do miss your smile.

I'm not talking 'bout moving in,
And I don't want to change your life.
But there's a warm wind blowing,
The stars are out, and I'd really love to see you tonight.

We could go walking through a windy park,
Or take a drive along the beach.
Or stay at home and watch t.v.
You see, it really doesn't matter much to me.

I won't ask for promises,
So you won't have to lie.
We've both played that game before,
Say I love you, then say goodbye.

My favourite line is not having to lie. The song is by someone named England Dan and John Ford Coley (meh) and if you don't know the song, you should listen to it.

Massacre of an Innocent Drive

I've been doing a lot of driving this week, as I pick up the most random things for a big TIFF party we're doing. Including:

- 40 pillows (just think about that for a second - try and imagine one person trying to pull this off. It's harder than you think.)

- cow hide rug that smells like....beef

- plexi, so much plexi

- hundreds of feet of white fringe

At a stoplight yesterday I looked over at the bus stopped beside me and saw this painting on the side advertisement:

As I sat at Toronto's longest stoplight, I kept looking at this painting and it's really disturbing. Stabbing, fingernails clawing at a face, stepping on and throwing babies...seriously, is there not a happier painting to put on the side of a bus? It really turned me off my honey cruller. What about this one:

Look how happy everyone looks. Wine, flowered hats, flirting, wife beater tank tops, grapes...

Speed up? Then shut up.

I've been reading about this story of a woman who had her licence revoked and was fined under the new-ish street racing law, since she was doing 50 km over the posted speed limit. For some reason she was on the front of the newspaper and everyone is reporting the grand injustice against her. I think they're even calling it a constitutional rights issue.

They love to mention that she is a 62 year old grandmother (Gasp! Not a grandmother!) and was going that fast because she was "petrified of being in a truck's blind spot." She sped up to get ahead of the truck and avoid certain death, naturally. The picture is of her in front of her Oakville home and the Audi she was driving and she has an indignant, "Can you believe how I'm being treated?" face. Please.

Ok, listen, lady, you were going 50 km over the speed limit, which was 80km/hr. No one cares why. I will admit that I speed my way through life, but when I get a ticket or demerit points, I suck it up. Eventually. Maybe everyone is taking issue because the law is pegged as the "street racing" law, and this lady doesn't look at all like Paul Walker or Vin Diesel. Maybe in the chin a little bit.

Get over it and get a bus pass. Oh, and maybe it's not a great idea for people who become petrified while driving to be on the road.

Change of a Dress

The bridesmaid dress. There are countless tales of horrific taffeta, enormous bows and lace in varying colours of sorbet....rarely good. I have been in two weddings so far (I guess three if I want to count the one when I was 4 - I probably looked the best anyway!) and have lucked out both times. They've both been custom made and I've been able to wear them again - the typically impossible feat attempted by bridesmaids everywhere.

Dress #One: My mother made this dress and I love that I lived in the era where the height of child hair styles included Heidi braids and baby's breath. The flowers I held were fake, but I'm sure my angelic aura was real.

Dress #Two: Very nice dress in a stunning colour. If only I had been able to do something about those tan lines. In November - how is that even possible? And the shellacked hair - proving, even in formal situations, I never know what to do with my hair.

Also, as I walked down the aisle, revelling in my 30 seconds of attention, I was panicking because I had put the rings on my own fingers so I wouldn't lose them, and they were stuck. Even a man's ring was no match for my sausage digits.

Dress #Three:I was given free rein with the design of this dress and it proved to be too much pressure. But I really love the final product. I recently wore it to coordinate a wedding and I love that it doesn't look too "bridesmaid-y".

Again, the hair is huge and full of at least 3/4 of a can of hairspray. What do I tell these stylists? That I will be attending the reception via helicopter or that the head table is placed close to the bar and the wind tunnel?

Don't mind the sour expression - when you see it close up, I'm not a total bitch. Really.

I've worn a lot of beautiful things, but part of me fears I will never love any dress more than I loved this purple confection. Look how happy I look! I felt like a whimsical princess, a vision in lilac. Sigh.

Hair Hell

If you live in Hamilton and want a decent hair cut, there are very few places to go. I have had maybe one good hair cut in my entire life. I've had more mullets than Tears for Fears, several bowls have been used as cutting tools and every time I leave a salon I feel like I was used as a teaching exercise.

This most recent hair cut isn't bad at all, but the experience was. I have gone to Maddison Avenue on Locke Street a couple of times, because, honestly, I just don't know where else to go. If you are a girl from the Hammer, surely you've been there and you might know who Rino is. Or if you don't know who he is, you've certainly seen or heard him be completely obnoxious and irritating.

He thinks he is Italy's gift to women. And men. And hair. He likes to fill his salon with girls like him. We all know these girls - the Salon Girls. I had typed a more harsh word, but am feeling charitable.

These girls, usually under 25, 130lbs and 80 IQ points, are a select breed of annoying. You may be one of them if you:

- are wearing more than 3 bracelets

- are wearing leggings....as pants

- have bleached blond hair that is highly processed and teased so much its feelings have been hurt

- wear size zero jeans...that cost $250

- like to talk solely about the clubs you're going to

- are talking louder than anyone around you

- consider the snobby look-up-and-down to be your best facial expression

- are smacking your gum

- are wearing any of the following with seriousness: leg warmers, suspenders, gothic print or neon

- have put your make-up on with a trowel

- are wearing hoop earrings that a can of hairspray could pass through. And are trying.

- have no sense of humour and joke about "taping your hair back on." What??

When you're in the chair, there is little more to do than watch and listen. Unfortunately, the day I was in there, was the same day an incredibly loud and obnoxious CH television personality was there - please, you all know who she is. When she left, her hair made her 3 inches taller and my IQ had gone down 30 points, just by absorbing what she bellowed at everyone.

Having the convenience of a mirror right in front of me, I am aware of the faces of disgust I was sending out there, but I really couldn't help it. This is my version of hell. Everyone yelling, fighting for attention by being crass and tacky, all heralded by King Shag who dared to tell me that he prefers blondes.

And the whole experience was capped off by the receptionist tapping on the calculator for 10 minutes with her fake nails trying to figure out the sums, then passing it to me so I could, "like, maybe do it yourself. I can't get it."

New Month, New Do

I finally got my hair cut. I asked the stylist to give me whatever seems to be between these two pictures I brought in.

I think she did a great job. Although, now the problem is that she did a great job that I can never duplicate.If I were a millionaire or Ivanka Trump, I would pay to have someone come to my house every morning to wash and blowdry my hair. And add whatever magic pixie dust they have access to. It's completely impossible for me to make it look this good ever again.

Winnie/Melissa

If there is anyone out there that wonders why I named my blog after Winnie Cooper, here is the undeniable evidence. I think we're both 11 here. Oh, and yes, I am wearing a dickie. If you don't know what a dickie is, you're lucky, but your neck was probably cold in 6th grade.

New and Improved Winnie!!!

...now with 50% fewer cavities!!! Finally, after too many months, I visited the dentist and got 2 of my 4 cavities filled. I know, you'd think I brush with that icing that comes in a tube - simple mistake. My health benefits had kicked in (or so I hope) and it was becoming excruciating to eat ice cream - that just couldn't go on.

There are few words that feel worse to say than: "Sorry about the crying."

There are several situations in which one (ok, fine, me/I) might say these words and none of them are good. You've likely just cried in front of someone else who is not crying or at a time and place that should not call for any crying of any kind.

Saying these words to the dental assistant after you've just yelped in pain then full-on cried while the needle is still sticking out of your gums, is the lowest of the low.

I am full-grown and I am too old for this behaviour and yet I knew it would happen. I am not above the pain. I thought reading a Reader's Digest would calm my nerves, but it turns out "Life's Like That" just isn't that funny.

I wonder if my dentist was a young hot guy if I would somehow swallow the tears and act my age. Doubtful, but it would be an enjoyable experiment.

Seriously, people...

Ok, I will freely admit that much of the news information I receive comes from the following sources:
- The Early Show on CBS as I eat my cereal each morning
- whatever Roger, Darren and Marilyn tell me as I commute into work
- the blurbs as I check my email

But from these sources I have pieced together an outrageous news story about Abdel Basset al-Megrahi (the person convicted and jailed for the Lockerbie plane bombing of 1988) being released early from life imprisonment on compassionate grounds. He is dying from cancer and has been allowed to go home to Libya to live out his last days.

The craziest part of this story is the hero's welcome he received when he arrived home. And then there is talk of people doing whatever they can to keep Libya (an oil country) happy, or the idea that al-Megrahi's trial wasn't a clean sweep and perhaps he was falsely convicted.

I don't know very much about this, but what are these people thinking?? What do they think life in prison means? I can't even begin to imagine how the families of the victims feel about this - it's like a slap in the face. The solace they might have received on the day of his verdict has been washed away.

No matter what illness or personal 'tragedy' has befallen him, it is my opinion that there is no justification for his early release. It's not like he's committed a crime where he can be considered for early parole based on good behaviour - he's been convicted of killing 270 people!

Are people mad?!

Summer So Long

Today is the last day of August, and effectively the last day of summer, as I see it. Sure, we may get one or two more scorching days, but each morning from here on out will begin with frosty dew on each car and I fear my swimming days are behind me for another year. I adore an Indian Summer and I hope we get one, but I always enjoy the transition into fall. The colours, the smells (that usually include a pig roasting at the restaurant on the corner), the ability to wear Henleys and wool dresses with bare legs for only a few short weeks....it's all good.

Plus, the pressure of summer is over. Every sunny day of summer has to be THE BEST DAY EVER!!! We don't want to waste any of them. People have every weekend planned to the gills, BBQs are a requirement and there is always something more seasonally appropriate I could be doing. I love summer, but I enjoy the different pace of fall. People are back to work, back from vacation and more open to doing something because they're not exhausted from all the BEST TIMES EVER.

I like to hunker down, hibernate, pull out the wool tights and black patent flats and submit to the crisp bite in the air. I guarantee in about 4 months, I will be bemoaning the temperature and probably commit several posts to winter driving alone, but I hope I remember this feeling as summer tips over to fall. There's nothing like it.

How the French do it...

Last Tango in Paris.

You may have heard of it. It's a 1972 film with Marlon Brando and subtitles. Very French. It's often on many sexiest movie lists. SB couldn't believe I hadn't seen it and insisted I come over in my pyjamas to watch it with her. While I was viewing the movie, she got a front row seat to the explosion of patterns that were my pyjamas.

Pants: poker suits
Tee: Spice Girls concert tee in varying shades of neon
Pillow Accessory: pink paisley
Sweater: blue and brown plaid

While watching this movie, I thought, "Ok, so this isn't really my thing, but I can see how the artsy, obscure French-ness of this would appeal. It's pretty sexy." Then, "Hmm, ok, this girl is a totally insecure idiot and this guy looks like a flasher. It's all highly improbable." And finally, "What the-? Why isn't this over yet? Oh right, because this girl hasn't lost every ounce of self dignity yet. Oh, ok, there it goes."

Luckily I was being plied with fig and olive tapenade and SB gave me the fuzzier blanket, otherwise, well, I would have at least thought about falling asleep. This movie is so ridiculous. Or if it's not ridiculous, it's so infuriating how this guy treats this girl and how the girl continues to take it. Plus, it's really ruined butter, pigs and fingernails for me.

Burger Bust

With a nod to the guy who has called me Stretch (one of my favourite nicknames) from the beginning....

"Whaahoppened??"

Ugh, it's true...

It's official: I no can longer go to clubs.

I always knew this day would come, but never so soon. Ok, maybe I should rephrase, lest I spend my weekends prematurely thrust into The Land of No Dancing:

I can no longer go to clubs favoured by children.

This past Friday, the regulars and myself decided to go OUT. Shari had purchased not one, not two, but three DIY smokey eye makeup kits. Yes, that's right. One in each shade of skank.

Naturally, I was chosen to implement the smokey eye effect which had been guaranteed to lure the men. Or randy raccoons with poor eyesight. Now, I rarely wear eye makeup myself, but was sure it would be a piece of cake. Without poking her in either of her eyes and only veering off course once due to incessant laughter, I pulled it off.

Once she had access to a mirror, she thought differently. Here is how the package suggested her eyes would look. Sexy and bad-ass.

This is how it turned out. Sort of. I couldn't get to a camera fast enough.

Once I came to terms that I may not have a future as a MAC counter girl, and Paul had decided he was drunk enough to try and pull off pearl bracelets.....there are no words..... we went out.

Intended look: Actual look:

Club One: Stayed for about 20 minutes, just enough time to do the following:

- look at (or rather, down at) all the short man-boys
- allow Paul to see inside the club, since the last time he had been there, he was camped out in a head-between-knees position in the car
- have one drink
- realize that everyone in there must be under 22
- walk around in a snobby way
- get checked out, natch

Club Two: Stayed for the rest of the night, probably only because we were too lazy to seek out Club Three. Here we encountered the following:

- the clingy 18 year-old girl who goes to the club wearing Lulu Lemon pants. Yeah.
- the point where Shari's "wicked, awesome, why haven't I been wearing these all summer?" shoes become the "I'll be sitting down over there" shoes
- high school guy who hit on me with the opener, "I'm a professional fighter" and followed up with "I'm 20. Well, 19, almost 20." I followed up with, "Don't follow me."

Seriously, why so young? Why so annoying? Where can one of a...certain age dance it up without fear of munchkins who are out past their curfew?

Facts, Jack and Truth, Ruth

For whatever reason, I'm in a confessional mood and I'm willing to reveal the following:

- Most of the knowledge I have about the Canadian government and how it works I have learned from Rick Mercer

- I strongly dislike mushrooms, tomatoes and onions as much as I did as a child. I should have grown out of this. Interestingly, or maybe not so much, I'm not a picky eater.

- I don't really know what the phrase "in a vacuum " means and and I'm definitely never confident when I use it.

- I am 100% convinced I can launch my car Dukes of Hazard-style over these train tracks near my house. I am 78% sure I will one day attempt it. Maybe in a rental car.

- Just this month, four of the seven demerit points have been removed from my driving record. According to the MTO, I have been a menace to society for the past two years. Mwa-ha-ha.

- I enjoy swimming far more when I am able to wear a scuba mask. That way I am fish-like and don't have to worry about plugging my nose. Any other way, I get water up in my brain.

- I can't dive.

- When I walk to my car at night, I always remember that urban legend about someone who lays under cars and cuts ankles to disarm women. I only remember it for a minute, but usually every time.

- Generally, I think the way I do things is best.

- Lately, everything I do causes me to consider if I could write it in a blog post.

Julie and Julia and Melissa and Katy

I saw "Julie and Julia" last night with Katy. I found it highly entertaining and it's about time there's a chick flick worth seeing this summer. Watching the trailer I thought I wouldn't be able to get past Meryl Streep's annoying, if apparently accurate voice, and Amy Adams' hideous and confusingly not-that-accurate haircut, but I was wrong.


(And apparently I was wrong about these haircuts looking so different. Hmmm. Ok, I take that back.)

It was funny, warm, sweet and I'm a sucker for any movie that mentions my cooking goddess, Barefoot Contessa. To be fair, this was the first movie I heard her mentioned, but I've just given a gem of information to any filmmaker with me as their target market.

The one thing I couldn't get past was Julie's husband's eating. Not so much eating like a regular adult, but more like slurping, chomping, and devouring like a child who was raised by ill-mannered wolves. It was disgusting. Plus, the movie was all about food and they wasted no opportunity to show him chowing down. It reminded me of when I've been sitting in silence with someone and all I can hear is their chewing and swallowing. It's revolting and last night in the theatre, I kept involuntarily wincing.

I more than occasionally put my elbows on tables and sometimes I speak before my mouth is completely empty, but poor table manners are a complete turn-off. Ugh. That's going on the list for sure.

What I learned today....

1) If I snooze, I will lose. That dresser unit I've been coveting had a SOLD sign on it today when I went to buy it. If ever my face was crestfallen, it was today at 5:17pm. Sigh. It really took the wind out of my sales (yes, I did make that typo, but then thought it could work, so I left it). However, I will not make this mistake in the future. The next cool piece of furniture I see, I will not wait several weeks to buy. Three weeks maximum.

2) My friend Naomi, who is a school teacher, is very bored this summer. This is what she took the time to do today. It actually might turn out to be helpful since I'm currently deciding on my new haircut.


3) The cards offered by Hallmark or other companies are completely useless. None of them say what I want to say. I actually sent a birth card to someone that said, about their brand new baby boy, "He's a catch!" Ugh. From now on, only homemade cards. With glitter and macaroni glued on.

Randomness

I went back to the mothership today and picked up a ridiculous number of books. I had requested them (as a dutiful librarian and cheap regular person) and as I cleared out the holds shelf I noticed that someone had requested one of the exact same books as me. What are the chances? Naturally, I checked out the name - Andrew something. I think Andrew and I are going to be very happy together. It's like that Seinfeld episode where Elaine strikes up a blind romance with Vincent, the video store clerk...and he turns out to be 16. Hmmm.
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I have sat down for a manicure approximately 2 times in my entire life on account of my fat man hands. Delicate fingernails refuse to grow on these mitts. For whatever reason, actually I know exactly the reason, I have nails of 8 of my fingers for the first time in years. The last 2 are the stunted and retarded cousins of my finger family.

Of the two manicures I have had, none of them have been at one of those cheap Asian joints that smell of chemicals and boredom. I've heard too many stories about Paula Abdul's fungus and honestly, the people who wear those fake talon-sized nails with designs and rhinestones have a special place on my hate-on list.

However, this week I find myself employed every day - a rare occasion - and I can't indulge in a clean, sterile, serene spa visit. So, I went to some fly-by-night place that was probably called Crystal Nails. It was pretty awful and they actually took an electric sander machine to my cuticles. But it was about 8 bucks and I got to watch a show about a big Leaning Tower of Pisa cake.
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Does anyone else miss the little catch-thing that used to hold the gas nozzle while filling up? I used to be able to go get a chocolate bar, clean out my car, read, eat my taco with two hands - all the things I love. Now, I am chained to the gas pump like a huffer.
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While searching kijiji lately I found that it is possible to purchase oregano or dishwashing detergent.
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I love the accidental happen-upon blast from the past. Almost as much as I love finding out that people read my blog. When they happen together, well, what could be better than that? Clearly, I write this for me (you're lucky there aren't grocery lists or a tally of what I ate today on here) and I can't stomach the technology that allows me to monitor traffic, but knowing that someone, anyone reads, makes me beam. Thanks.

Fingers and Funnels

My Year of Yes brought me to a Finger Eleven concert Friday night. The Festival of Friends was on at Gage Park and normally I only stop by for some deep friend dough. Although the people watching is pretty interesting - all of Hamilton's finest show up in varying forms of beer t-shirts and cut offs, most pushing strollers.

I didn't realize that I was friends with an angsty emo teenager but this one asked me to go since Finger Eleven is "like, one of my top favourite bands...ever". The park was packed and we wriggled our way to the front. I'm sure everyone loves standing behind tall people that have just stepped on their blankets.

Now, I don't know who Finger Eleven is and if I've heard their songs I've most definitely thought it was one of the other bands that sound exactly like them. Nickel Finger Sum Plan Faber 41 11. So, I spent most of the time just trying to look like I fit in. Which I don't.

I have probably been to a dozen concerts, most of which I'm too embarrassed to list here, but at concerts like this I usually end up feeling uncomfortable. I stick way out.

I don't know the words, I don't enjoy thrashing my hair around, I don't smoke, and I can't really make that "Rock Out" hand signal very easily. Friday night was no exception to the odd ball out syndrome. There was an old man beside me who lit up the fattest joint I have ever seen. Along with my angsty emo teenage friend, I think 85% of the people around me were high. And maybe because I had the look of a narc, no one offered me any. I had to settle for the second hand high that followed me into the morning.

I never know what to do with my hands. I wasn't wearing a Ticats jersey or a concert tee or even a baby doll dress. I don't enjoy being hit on by Dude Drinking Budweiser. I kinda wish I was sitting down. I keep feeling for my money in my back pocket, convinced I was going to be robbed. It's so not a good scene for me.

Pop concerts are a totally different story.

To put me back in my element and perhaps as a result of the second hand munchies, I insisted on deep fried funnel cakes. We piled the "fruit" and whipped cream on and binged until the paper plate gave out. Aaah, that's better.