On The 6

I just got back from a mini girlfriend getaway to NYC. I'm not going to write about that, because I haven't fully been able to wrap my brain around it yet. Suffice to say, it was pretty different from the last time I went to NYC. I would say it was equally fun, but I was much younger, more of a risk-taker, and the words "concierge" and "edible gold" were not yet in my vocabulary. Try "hostel" and "leftover cheapest-thing-on-the-menu Chinese food".

My buddy Nat and I went over Spring Break, to escape the suburban mundane. We got a ride from his parents to Montreal and took the train from there, that's how much money we had. We stayed at a hostel in Columbus Circle managed by a Vietnamese man named Lee. He was about 30 years old and 5'0. I want to say he was missing an arm, but I may be making that part up.

One day, after a full day of walking, we were chilling in the common room in the basement. Lee was half-baked and sucking back on a water bong. He glances up lazily in half-hearted acknowledgement.

"I don't have any more weed or I'd offer you some." He says.

"All good, man. We're cool."

He doesn't turn out to be one of those stoners that sits and slowly eats 4 pizzas one after another. He's actually pretty talkative. He reveals that he was born in Vietnam, but travelled to Cambodia on his own when he was about 10 and moved to NY from there.

In my bright-eyed innocence, I squeal with delight. Adventure! "You went to Cambodia by yourself when you were 10?! Man, I want to go to Vietnam and Cambodia; they look amazing. My parents won't even let me leave the city by myself. What fun things are there to do there? How long was the flight in between?"

Lee looks at me with an incredulous look on his face, like he's not sure if I'm kidding. "The fuck you talkin' 'bout, plane? I walked that shit, motherfucker!"

He goes on about refugee life and I feel pretty stupid at this point so I stop talking (Nat probably told me to stop talking. It doesn't sound like something I would do voluntarily). At some time around midnight, he looks over at his empty bag of pot and announces he has to get more. "I'm heading out to the Bronx. China, WhiteBoy, you wanna come?"

I'm so excited about my new gang name I can't even contain myself. The Bronx?!?

I'm not even slightly concerned that a permanently grinning Chinese girl, a 6'5 blond/blue-eyed white boy, and a Vietnamese midget with one arm won't fit in in The Bronx. I've watched enough J-Lo "vids" to feel confident in my abilities to co-mingle with the locals. Look at me! I'm on The 6, too, giiiirrrrlfriend!


YAY ME AND NAT! (That's not Lee.) (But it could be.)

Once we get off the 6, The Bronx doesn't turn out to be like the movies where the girls play double dutch and I throw my head back in a hearty laugh while ruffling the hair of innocent young hoodlums beatboxing on the corner. You lied to me, J-Lo!

It's like a movie, all right, but more like a movie where a high school drop out sells the crack rock and then does hard time for murder in the first and then bounces back to become a functioning and respectable member of society. The beginning part of that movie. A guy tries to sell me one shoe and a 5-month-old issue of YM. No thank you, sir, I already read that one. I become very conscious of my own Nikes.

"Alright, you guys are going to have to stay like 10 steps behind me," Lee says. "I'm going to go into that building for a minute. Don't move." And then, more directly to me, "Stop talking to people."

Apparently, my over-excitement and eagerness to fit in by telling everyone I meet they are amazing is cramping his style. Either that, or my ebonics aren't what they used to be.

Nat and I pretend to be interested in the architectural designs of the 'hood, while Lee heads into an apartment. True to his word, he returns quickly, makes sure we haven't created a spectacle, and ushers us to the nearest subway.

We head back to Columbus Circle. I feel proud, like I've conquered NYC by being in the Bronx for a whole of 7 minutes.

Deep Fried Sunday

You're reading it right; there's no typo there. I don't mean the delicious deep fried scoops of ice cream smothered in corn flakes and chocolate and caramel sauces with various toppings such as crushed pecans and wildly coloured sprinkles (although that would more than make my day complete).








Like seriously, U.S. of A., what is UP?











Equally horrific, I mean this past Sunday, pretty much all I ate was deep fried foods, and now it's Wednesday and I still can't feel my heart pump properly.

Boyfriend and I woke up early as per usual, and decided to get our chores out of the way immediately and head out for brunch afterwards. I hate the breakfast part of brunch. Who wants eggs when you can have a burger? Not me! What is this, salad on my plate?? Fries, my good man, I said FRIIIIIIES!!! (I hope you imagine me roaring this when I write it like that, because that's how I felt.) And the burgers at Brad's (the brunch place. For any Torontonians reading, look no further than 325 Roncesvalles.) are not just any burgers.

They come topped with charred eggplant, avocado, bacon and cheese. Okay. They don't just come like that, Inspector Gadget. You have to ask the server for it. *Guilty silence*



So that brings us to about 11:30 AM. Well, as it was a stunning day out on Sunday, practically the first nice weekend day of the year, we opt to go patio hunting, nice and early so we can get a spot. After shopping around in Kensington Market, we find ourselves a nice little place called Waterfalls, an indian tapas restaurant with a patio perfect for people watching.

A couple of friends show up and before you know it, it's eatin' time again!

POW! Onion bhaji'ed!

BAM! Chicken tikka!

CRUNCH! Caesar salad with tandoori chicken!! (Not so bad, just wanted to post so you can see I am capable of making one healthy decision).


Late afternoon rolls around and friends are not ready to pack it in. It is just beautiful out. Well, why not hit up The Foggy Dew on King St.? No reason, as far as I can see! We make our way over there and secure another great spot on a large patio. Boyfriend is hungry again. He did not partake in our extensive "snacking" at Waterfalls.

He goes back and forth for a little while and then decides on "Chicken Fried Chicken Sliders". I can't even find a good enough picture. They sort of look like this:



Except they don't come with vegetables, there are THREE of them, they come on biscuits instead of buns, and a side of chicken gravy for dipping. Boyfriend immediately tosses the biscuit off of one, puts the fried chicken on another piece of chicken, and makes himself a double decker chicken fried chicken slider. Dipped in chicken gravy.

Side note, Boyfriend has stomach of a 6-year-old girl. So after a couple of bites of his Frankenburger, he invites the rest of us to help ourselves. I politely decline. These are the same people that have seen me demolish the above. But then one of them agrees and takes a bite and starts gushing about how delicious it is!! I can't let this go on. I can't. Must..have..taste.. Must..eat... GAHHHHH!!!! (*eats all the rest of burger. dipped in chicken gravy*).

Mmmmmm... I'm hungry.

Wide Open Spaces

Whenever Marty and I go on long drives, he has to drive because I get bored and fall asleep at the wheel, and this is disrespectful towards other drivers trying to "get there alive".

His only other option is to let me drive after drinking 3 coffees, but since that entails singing Dixie Chicks at the top of my lungs (or rapping) for 5 hours straight, he tends to go with the former. I pretty much know all the words to every top 40 song for the last 15 years. It's a gift (...or is it a curse?) No, it's a gift.

We drove back to Ottawa recently to visit the fam, about a five hour drive.

For the first hour or two I'm pretty chatty, so this distracts from the unavoidable outward-bound traffic from Toronto, on a Friday evening. Then I start dozing off because Marty will only listen to old grendpa music, like Pink Floyd or Tupac. The kind of songs that no one under a 100 years old knows the words to, and when I get bored I sleep to pass the time.

Once I fall asleep, Marty will inevitably do something to wake me up: Indian sunburning (is that racist? Sorry, The Indians. I don’t know any other word for squeezing two hands on someone’s arm and rapidly moving back and forth in opposite directions in a painful manner.) or worse yet, filling his mouth up with one of those disgusting black licorice candies and breathing right in my face.

I. Hate. Black. Licorice.

Won’t let me sleep, ehhhhh? Nobody tells ME what to do! So now my new thing is whenever he pulls up beside a car, I start pretending like I’m running beside them. I’ll share this with you in case you are ever in my predicament. It’s not a happy, fun, “let’s-play-a-game run”. I mean like a balls-out race, pumping my arms as fast as I can and looking over my shoulder to see if they are gaining. Are they? Throw in a menacing look or snarl (but only for a second, keep your eyes on the prize)! Have a bottle of water or other drink handy? Chug it down like you’re dying of thirst (don’t stop pretend running with your other arm. If some rolls down your face, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT, stop and wipe it off. It adds to the intimidation.) Once in a while, make eye contact with your competitor, if you can. The key in Pretend Race is believability.

After two races, Marty will be begging me to go to sleep. But you know what? I’m PUMPED! I see you, The Girl in the Blue Hyundai. It’s on.


P.S. It has occurred to me that I should probably refer to Marty as something else, as he more than likely doesn't want any clients to know about his black licorice breath. Henceforth (don't mind me, I'm reading World Without End by Ken Follett right now, and also my friend is dating a prince, so I'm feeling very "days of yore" recently), Marty shall be known as The Boyfriend.


kthxbye.

Train of Thoughts

People always think I'm either really crazy or really mad about something. Whether alone or not, I am constantly laughing to myself over some hilarious past happening, imagining some alternative reality where life is a musical, or a combination of the two.

If I'm not thinking about these things, then I have a Normal Face, much like yours, Reader. Because my general state-of-face looks like I'm about to barf laughter all over you, when I do have Normal Face, nearly every person I know asks me what's wrong.

How can I answer them? Nothing's wrong, this is just my face!

The worst is when people I don't really know ask me what's so funny when I'm biting my hand to stop laughing to myself.

Obviously, I don't have the time to go into major detail with people I don't know about how my life is littered with so many hilarious anecdotes, I can't even concentrate on any regular task at hand. I think about the most ridiculous things!

For example, this would be a typical train-o'-thoughts:

This morning, I had to walk by a construction site. I put my head phones on so I wouldn't have to deal with the hassles of gross old guys. This hasslin' business is a catch-22, because I shake my head in disdain at them if they do (I'm very fancy), and spend an hour in front of the mirror examining why I'm so hideous if they don't. And then I'll ask Marty like infinity times, which doesn't tend to make for good dinner conversation.

Well, while I was walking, my eyes were tearing up over the beautiful song "Hello", by Lionel Richie, that was playing. Except it was being sung by the Glee Cast, which makes it even more ridiculous, so right away I'm already a gaylord and it's like 8 AM. So then the guys start whistling at me, and my musical brain is like:

"Hello? Is it me you're looking for??

I can see it in your eyes.... I can see it in your smile. You're all I've ever wanted, (and) my arms are OPEN WIIIIDE...."

And then I can't stop thinking about how absurd this entire scenario is so I start cracking up.

And they have no idea! They think I'm giggling and blushing because they're whistling so they're high fiving each other, and I just want to bring my headphones to the tough guy leader so he can see he's not the one that made me laugh. It wasn't you, it was the Glee Cast, fool.

Then I'll imagine Marty singing the boy parts of this duet to me and this makes me laugh even more because Marty is trés serious.

Then this face that Marty makes will pop in out of nowhere. It kind of looks like this:



Which brings me then to the most hilarious skit on snl of all time



Please watch it. I think about this skit often, and make Debbie Downer or better yet, CLIFFORD (!!!!) faces to myself in passing mirrors, windows...anything with a reflective surface, really and that makes me laugh even harder.



Like I just watched those two videos right now and I'm going to pass out from laughing so much.

By this time, I've rolled into work laughing my head off and everyone thinks this is totally normal. It's a good day.

Thar She Blows!

I'm sorry that my small brush with fame had me dreaming about retirement and I didn't bother to write for nearly a week. I actually didn't really move much during this entire weekend.

Then it was brought to my attention that I am fatter than a whale.


There's really nothing I can do about it but complain repeatedly. I tried to diet one time and it lasted for about three days. I'm not even sure if it counts because by the end of Day Three, I ended up eating a Costco-sized box of chocolate bars which, although I'm not a scientist, strikes me as counterintuitive. Also, I'm allergic to chocolate, so not only do I end up with a good "Look mum, I'm four months pregnant!" gag, I also make a good Freddy Kruegar double, and I don't think the point of dieting is to collect Halloween costumes.

So obviously dieting is out.

The next best option would be to "exercise", but exercising is the bane of my existence. It wasn't always this way, comrades. It wasn't always this way...

In my late teens, I made the foolhardy decision to become one of those terrible people that "eats well" and "generally takes good care of themselves".

I did everything right: I bought new kicks, new clothes, the prerequisite headband, and one of those stupid Nalgene bottles that you can boil water in. Exactly WHAT am I going to be boiling water for in a plastic water container I have no idea ("Guys? Guys? Can we take a break here? I just want to cook some spaghetti in this water bottle. Can one of you build a fire?"), but it cost me $20, so you know it works. Oh, and a gym pass, I guess. I looked like the poster child for Lululemon, only more whale-like.

Basically, my experience with the gym cost me about $500 before ever setting foot in one. This is a lot of money for someone who sells coats for a living. Actually, I should say I was supposed to sell coats. In reality, what Maxime and I did as managers at work was lock up, put a "sorry" sign on the front door, put on as many down coats and vests that we could possibly squeeze on until we ran out out sizes, and sumo wrestle. Good times.

So I'm walking into the gym for the first time, whistling Dixie (I have no idea what this means??), and imagining my post whale body. I've chosen 6 o'clock on a weekday, A.K.A Gym Rush Hour, to debut the New Me. Aaahhh The Treadmill. Well, I certainly know how to run, and this machine looks much less intimidating than those wierd ones with all the limb-looking things sticking out of it!

I climb aboard and set foot on a leisurely and relaxed pace. Why, this is downright easy! Then I see that everyone else is working up a sweat at a run. Not to be outdone, I increase my pace to a brisk run, and continue at this rate for approximately 40 minutes. 40 minutes!!

Now, since this was my very first time on a treadmill, I didn't know that you weren't supposed to just stop the machine when you are done with your run, and that you are supposed to ease your way by slowing down and walking first. What happens next is unbelievable.

I stop the machine and immediately trip over my own feet. "WHAAAAAA!!!!" I scream, with my arms flailing about in cartoonish fashion, trying to grab onto something, anything, to break my fall.

You know what breaks my fall? You know what breaks my fall?!! Not my arms, which I could probably do without anyways, but my right shin, which smashes onto the pedal of a nearby rowing machine. I've circled it in red for your perusal.



Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh it right the fuck up. The imagery does not even begin to convey the pain I felt, which I'm permanently scarred from (physically and emotionally) after 10 years. This Google image doesn't show the metal spikes that grow from the rowing machine's pedals at all.

I collapse to the floor and writhe in such a manner that I could probably sue Seth MacFarlane for this and win.

Everyone is crowded around me and my blood-gushing shin within seconds. It's not the way I want to become famous. "Is she okay?" I see them whispering to each other.

I try to laugh it off. "Oh no no I'm fine. Look! haha! I'm fiiiine! This is so embarassing!" I smile and make my way over to the side of the room, out of the spectators' views. I proceed to lay out a mat and pretend to do sit ups, but really I'm crying and thinking of how to sue the gym.

So watch out because I'll sue you, Seth MacFarlane! I'll sue YOU, The Gym!! I'll sue you all!!! I'LL SUE YOU ALL!!!

Oh Em Gee.

BREATHE. BREATHE. BE. COOL.

I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:



I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.

I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.

Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.

I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!

The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.

The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!

My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.

"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.

"I'm allergic to fish."

"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!

"No, like... I'm going to die."

"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.

I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.

Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.

Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?

So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.

So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!




I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.

Highway to the DangerZone

Today I flew a plane. Like a real airplane that goes into the sky and has people in it.

My instructor, David, looks like Jude Law's less balding but more Russian killy-like younger brother. Except I couldn't pinpoint exactly who it was that he resembled, so I spent the entire briefing (which, by the way, was done with a plastic airplane toy and a map. Like.. thanks. No one is safe.) trying to figure it out. When he notices I am not paying attention, he politely stops and stares until I bring myself back. But then he goes on talk about yolks! I haven't eaten one thing today and I'm starving, so now the only thing I can concentrate on is a goat cheese/portobello omelette.

So when he stands up and asks if we are ready, my only two choices are:

1. Reveal that I'm sorry but I've already forgotten every single word that he said and look like an idiot. Is this even an option? Please.

2. Pretend like I just learned how to fly a plane by looking at a plastic toy moving around a map and risk everyone's lives.

Obviously I choose the latter, because it's just me, Marty and Jude Jr. and I don't even know that guy. Plus, I had made arrangements for someone to check on Taiko if we hadn't returned by afternoon. I'm very diligent.

Right away I know I'm in over my head when Jude says, "Okay, here is the fire extinguisher. I'll assume you both know how to use a fire extinguisher and I don't have to go over it with you?" I nod, but the minute he turns around my nod becomes a frantic negative head shake at Marty, who rolls his eyes and says it's fine. I have no idea how to use a fire extinguisher, but if Marty says it's fine than that means he'll save us if there is a fire and there's no need for me to know. LA LA LA LA LA

He asks who wants to go first and although I usually want to go first all the time and bulldoze my way to the front of the line, I beg Marty to go, thinking that maybe I can sneak some peeks and cheat my way through plane flying.

In my fantastical mishmashed cerebellum, I imagine the plane to be extremely spacious, with all of us being able to sit in the cockpit and have drinks, laughing over velocity jokes.

Apparently, I was not very thorough with my researching and this turns out to the plane:

Yeah, there will be no sneak peeking here. I can't even see one thing they're doing from the back seat! Ok, that's a lie. I'm sure I could have seen what Jude Jr. was showing Marty, but we were flying over Lake Ontario and it was so pretty that I forgot that I had to fly in 30 minutes.

Marty got to fly right by the CN Tower! Look how close he is!

When I realize that we are about to land, my sense of dread returns. Like seriously, I have to fly a plane. Imagine you had to fly a plane. That's pretty much what it was like; I'm a very normal person.

When we do land, we get to hang out on land for only 5 minutes! 5 MINUTES before I have to reboard, but this time sit in the front seat and fly this mechanical beast.

The plus side is I get to wear this amazing headset:

But it's also very distracting, because the two things I am thinking now are:

1. I must CONFESS!! That my LONELINESS!! Is killing me NOOOoooOOoooW, don't you know I still believe? That you will be here... and give me a siiiiIIiiiIign. HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!

2. That Marty and Jude can hear me breathing through the headset, so I stop breathing, taking in precious droplets of oxygen only to confirm that yes, Jude, I'm clear on how to fucking take off, okay? (But I'm not at all.) I might actually pass out from lack of air and nerves, but I can't have this stranger thinking I'm a mouth breather.

While my brain is working overtime trying to figure out how I can breathe extra quietly, this is going on in front of me:


BEEP BOP BOOP BLIP BLIP DOOP PAP DING! "Golf, Golf, Poppa, Québec - do you copy?" BEEP BEEP BAP BOOP BIP BOP BAP!





Through strategically-placed furrowed brows and knowing nods, I manage to convince Jude that I know what I'm doing through trickery. He murmurs his approval when I level off, complete my turns and complete the altitude exercises, but I can see he has his white-knuckled hands on the equipment at all times.

By the time we are ready to descend, I'm thinking about how I can casually throw up out the window we are not allowed to open without anyone noticing. I've thrown up casually numerous times before, sometimes in the middle of serious conversations. You just keep on, man, you just keep on.

Jude is trying to get me to land this MoFo and I really have not even the slightest clue as to where to start. I tell him I'm not feeling well. He asks me if I'm sure (it's hard to tell, because I look very beautiful.) He eventually lands the plane because I refuse to touch anything anymore and I'm just staring out the window in response, while our plane plummets towards the airport and we are getting dispatched repeatedly to veer to the left.

All in all, it was a fun day. Marty decided to go forward with his pilot license and I will happily ride as a passenger from now on.

Phrases that are stupid

1. "I wouldn't know him from Adam." Like do you mean "Adam and Eve" Adam? Cause I Googled and this is biblical Adam vs. a normal guy that might be named Adam (although there's like a one in an ultrabillion chance). I don't actually know the guy below, I just found this picture on the internets. I hope you're a good sport if you are reading this, "Normal Looking Guy".

On a side note, how funny would it be if you Googled "Normal Looking Guy" and your face popped up? Or better yet, if this was actually the best and easiest way to show your friends a picture of the guy you're dating?



How can you not know the guy you are looking for from Adam? Try harder.

And if not, then I only know one Adam, who was best friends with my ex, and still owes me $15 from a bet. So if you're talking about that Adam, I'm pretty sure I would be able to tell the difference. I don't think he's particularly good at disguise. That guy's just okay. Adam, stop being so cheap and give me back my $15.

2. "The bee's knees" or, alternatively, "The cat's pyjamas". This is used to describe something very cool, but I think it's stupid because a bee's knees must be very tiny (I didn't even know they had any!), and cats don't even wear pyjamas unless they are very cold...or..cool... OH! I get it now. Okay, the cat's pyjamas makes a bit of sense, I guess. It's still a weakly formulated analogy. (Like I still don't really get it.)

3. "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater." If anyone ever said that to me, I would punch them in the face. Who is going to throw out a perfectly good baby friend?!? They're fucking adorable. I can't wait to have a million babies for two reasons. I bet you're thinking one is "Motherhood" but that's like probably number 8 because that seems pretty hard, and I really only like to try medium hard at anything. The main reason is so I can take those douchebag photos (in black and white for extra elegance) where you're practically naked and you have to look at the camera all determined-like, as if you're thinking, "This moment right here? I was born for this moment." You know which ones I'm talking about. I'm not going to post a picture because I don't want some new mother to see that I posted a picture of her and called it a douchebag photo and come kick my ass with her newfound baby friend strength. I am not a tough girl.

The second reason is so that I can listen to Britney Spears' song that she wrote about Sean Preston, "Someday I Will Understand", on repeat, which I already do, but then I really will understand! It's a very exciting time. Oh my God, the entire video one of the aforementioned photos. In movement. Brava, Miss Britney, Brava.

Obviously, I'm not in any way ready for baby raising (I've actually been described as "dizzy". Recently. Who in the history of mankind has ever been described as "dizzy"?) but a friend couple recently announced their pregnancy and they're not so "mature". Here is an actual excerpt of a conversation I recently had with the male half.

Him: "Sup, shitballsdickface?"

Me: "Oh, hey. You wanna talk to Marty?"

Him: "Men are awesome. You are stupid."

Me: (Pause.) "Yeah. I'm just going to go get Marty for you."


Good luck, little baby friend.

Mongoose to Stink Beetle

Martin, boyfriend/best friend/general partner in crime, signed me up for a flying lesson. Next Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, you might hear a banshee shrieking through the heavens, as my Cessna (that's pilot talk for "small plane") spirals out of control over downtown Toronto.

I can't drive a car very well. I can't even run very fast, or I trip over my own feet. I have literally been in about six car accidents, all my fault but one. The only thing I do worse than take lead on transportation is let someone else do something fun while I wait. Even if it's something that might make me actually shit my pants, I'm pretty much going to be the most annoying, sulky person in the world if you do something fun and I don't.

Marty is totally bad-ass. I know him from high school, but I was a junior back in the day and he was a senior, and a boy three years older than you in high school may as well be your grendpeppy. He came to my high school for final year, with his bleached blonde spiky hair on a shiny new skateboard (prerequisite if you want to survive as a boy in late 90's high school) and slightly grungy plaid. He lived across the street from my best friend, Steph, whose garage was The Place to hang out when we were 14. We had hit The Jackpot. He smoked cigarettes AND drove a beat up Golf... in red, ladies.

I'm just going to take a quick second to tell you about Steph so you can grasp the kind of kids that we were. Both of us were Baby Geniuses and would correct teachers all the time if they made grammatical, spelling, or general historical errors. But we wanted to be awesome and did whatever it took, which in high school, means pretending to not be Baby Geniuses. It meant that whenever we walked to the principal's office for whatever reason, like dropping off the attendance sheet, we would hang our heads down low to look like we were about to get suspended. Or better yet, if we were called to the principal's office (over the entire school intercom!) we would roll our eyes and say "again?!" when really, my mom just wanted to let me know that she just checked the juice boxes and they had expired. OKAY, MOM! GAWD!!! Moving on.

Knowing him now, I feel terrible for Young Martin. He'll do anything for people, even if it makes him look like a total douchebag, which we did (obviously). I would walk the ten minutes over to Steph's house every morning, so we could coerce him to drive us to school together, even though taking the bus would have taken me less than 10 minutes. Strength in numbers! Being far too nice, Young Martin would relent after only making a few excuses (we would need at least 10 before we would even consider stopping our dual "Aw, come on..." harmonization).

Back then, I didn't give a shit. We would get to school and girls would ask us things like, "what's the new guy like?" and we could casually toss our hair back and say," Oh, Martin? He's cool." (Long, dramatic pause to show reluctance about divulging a secret. Lower voice to whisper.) "He's from Germany, you know, so he's just adjusting, meeting cool people. Poor guy, must be hard to leave all your friends like that."

He's not even from Germany!!! He was from like two hours away. But it's not like they were getting rides to school from him so they would never know what was what. Anyways, the year came and left with no major developments, and eventually, Steph and I got into witchcraft (No. Just no. I'm not ready.) and Marty graduated and moved out East.

Fast forward to a number of years later.

In short, I befriended the very friends Marty had back in high school, he moves back, I think his ears are cute, we go out a couple of times, I move indefinitely to Nicaragua, we miss, he shows up in Nicaragua when my indefinite plan becomes a definitely not happening plan, we hang out a bit there, we hitchhike across Costa Rica, the weather sucks, we come back to Ottawa, move to Toronto due to boredom and now here we are. There's a lot more romance and adventure in our relationship but I'll leave it at that. <3

Another cool thing that happened over the weekend was my amazing friend Cat got these passes to a high end makeup convention and got me an entirely new makeup collection. All MAC, thank you very much. Now, when she told me she was going, I put in my order for some beautiful, neutral, societally-acceptable colours. Makeup is extremely exciting to me; the higher end, the moreso. When she gets back with literally thousands of dollars of makeup, we lose our minds together. The fact that they are the discontinued colours, and all in bright pink, greens and reds makes no difference, although it would have been a bit nice to know before I threw out my entire makeup collection in anticipation. I went to Costco on Sunday in complete Clown Whore get-up and didn't even care because I was such a fancy lady with all my new MAC makeup. Like seriously, green liquid liner to pick up bulk paper towels.

Cat is one of Those Girls. Tall, blonde, becomes friends with everybody and gets you the best every single thing. These are the best kind of girls to align yourself with. She is but one of the best friends I have in the Those Girls category.

The first is Lisa. When Lisa met up with me in Amsterdam back in the day, the first thing she said to me, having not seen me for a very long time, was "Dude, what the fuck happened to your face?" I had broken out in a terrible, terrible (MON DIEU, QUE TERRIBLE!!) rash all over my face and nowhere else. It meant she would have to work extra hard, which isn't that hard when you are 6 feet tall and always look like you just stepped off a Parisian runway.

But the real testing starts when I lose my contacts (I lose everything) and I have to wear coke bottle glasses for the duration of our adventure.

And then my sandals snap and I'm stuck limping behind her long and graceful gazelle-like strides like some science experiment gone horrifically wrong. Just picture it, it's awful.

T'were I alone, my experience in Europe would have consisted of a lot of sitting around in hostels, pretending to be interested in futbal and scheming up ways to trick people into hanging out with me. Instead, we got guest list into every club, all sorts of freebies, and I had the best trip ever. Thanks, Lisa <3

I am not a tough girl.

Today, on my way home from work, an enormous whale of a woman nearly knocked me into the subway tracks and destroyed my life. Well, there was no train coming, but you get the idea. I give her this look like, "Excuse my beautiful beauty!?" She looks back but just keeps on walking, like it was my fault I couldn't dodge out of her way fast enough as she bulldozed past the entire walking area. Like I'm the asshole here. Like I forced her mother to mate with an ogre.

This is so unfair! On public transport, I say please and thank you, I give up my seat to old people, and I turn down my ipod to whisper level so no one is disturbed by Lauryn Hill's beautiful rendition of Joyful, Joyful from Sister Act. 2.

And YET. Yet, all the crazy bag ladies, the Googley-eyed, and the ne'er-do-gooders of Toronto seem to gravitate towards me, and always on public transport.

Anyways, I'm embarassed to report that nothing happened past giving Turkey Sub The Look. And let's be honest, it was only to the back of her head. I wish I said something, and in my mind, she got the verbal beatdown of a lifetime, but in real life? Not so much.

I am not a tough girl.

I can attribute my lack of toughness to two historic events that shape who I am today: a complete and utter wuss. Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage... (That's me pulling you to the early 90's.)

When I was about 11, my parents went away, leaving my 15 year old sister, Olivia, in charge of me and my then 7 year old brother. Obviously, she throws a massive party in true Kid n' Play fashion. All the boys are wearing high tops and wildly coloured baggy jeans, and the girls are clad in black, have drawn on their beautiful eyebrows/lip outlines. The smell of hairspray, cigarettes, and Love's Baby Soft is rampant.

I'm allowed to hang out. I'm in Heaven. My brother, unfortunately, is told to stay in the walk in closet in my parents' room for the night. I know that nowadays, this sounds like abuse, but this was the 90's, man. Everybody was rolling down the streets smoking indo, sippin' on gin and juice. Well, not, like everybody; not, like, me. I just sat there and marvelled at my newfound grown-uppityness.

All of a sudden, Hell breaks loose. I don't know why, but for some reason, every single person has to leave the house. There's, like, a fight outside or something. Olivia and her bff, we'll call her Carrie (because that's her name), both the types to not take shit, divide and conquer, my sister emptying the main floor and her friend clearing out the basement. Where I am. I am freaking out, but obviously this has shaped out to be the best day of my life.

I'm following Carrie around because she picks up a BAT, like she's about to throw down some crazy, and I'm petrified. What happens next, when I reminisce now, must absolutely go down as The Most Embarrassing Moment of Carrie's life. She is screaming and threatening fully grown teenage boys in my basement. With a bat. I'm standing beside her in my best Tough Girl impression, and I throw in a "You got that?! Party's OVER, ok? OK?" as if I'm going to do anything about it. I'm 11, my glasses cover 90% of my face, my outfit consists of spandex bedazzlement, and everything I know about Tough Girls I learned from Brenda Walsh. I had purple and green elastics on my braces and a rainbow coloured retainer.

Everyone eventually leaves, but even in my preadolescence, I know as soon as the words leave my mouth that I am a massive Tough Girl failure, and I have to repress this memory (which I have until now).

(Cue Venga Boys)

I'm 16. I'm coming home from ELECTRIC CIRCUS. 'Nuff said? Okay, for those of you not in the know, Electric Circus was a live dance show hosted by MuchMusic from the late 80's to early 2000. A common outfit for a male "EC" dancer might be a blue top hat, no shirt (just yellow glitter), and oversized fleece pants in hot pink.



This is real picture of my friend back in the EC days, although I didn't know her then. I only post this because, for one, I can't find any of myself, and two, as someone who has an exclusively holt renfrew wardrobe now, she is completely unrecognizable. She's wearing a tablecloth here.

On this night, I opted for a more demure look: pigtails (?!), bellbottomed jeans that I made myself by cutting up two perfectly good pairs and sewing them into ONE, and a red sequinned top. Eeyeah. Moving on.

So I get on the bus, and I see this girl who used to go to my high school, Shelley Collins (whose name has only slightly been altered for protective purposes). She was the type that got up in the middle of geography class, hyperventilating, and no one knew why. Geography is not that difficult, Shelley. It's France, it's there, it's not going anywhere. After years of unwarranted hyperventilation and cruel high school torment, Shelley transfers to another high school and no one sees her for years. Until now.

She's beautiful! Shelley is like a character right out of a straight to DVD movie produced by magnanimous forces Aaron Spelling and Jackie Collins combined. Her face is tearstain-free and she's dressed in typical, suburban fare. Not like me. I smile at her in acknowledgement (we weren't friends) and keep walking to the back of the bus. Because I'm so awesome.

About 10 minutes on this bus ride goes by before Shelley comes by and sits beside me, with a smile like she wants to be friends. Now, while she may appear to be sane at that moment, there's no fucking way I'm going to become friends with a potential hyperventilator. Sorry, reasonless hyperventilators of the world.

Anyways, as necessary niceties are exchanged, I can see that this is no ordinary social call, and Shelley's eyes have a bit of the crazy and she's talking really fast about high schools. Oh my god. She wants to fight me. Fight. Me. She thinks I was one of the people that made her crazy, but this is not me!! I took Calculus in high school; I was always friendly with both The Amazing and The Terrible!

I stop the niceties and ask if she is okay, because it is so obvious that something is not that I'm just getting creeped out. She takes a deep breath and says this: "I'm going to beat up your brother."

?!?!??!?!

WHAT?? My brother at the time is 12! He listens to Savage Garden and plays Pretend Butterflies with me when we're bored (I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.) On a side note, I may have slightly miscalculated the activities and dates/ages. Pretend Butterflies is just a game where we tie blankets around our necks like Superman, but instead of playing a socially acceptable game like Pretend Superheroes, we opt to become butterflies. It's weird. I know this now. We may have been 4 and 8 though when we did that, which seems much more appropriate that 12 and 16, so let's go with that. (But it's not true.)

Back to Shelley. After I breathe a sigh of relief that no one can hear but my own blackened selfish heart because I realize that my face is safe for now, I work on convincing her to not beat up my preteen brother. I FAIL. I'm still not even sure why she wanted to, but by the time my stop came and I had to cut her off to go home, she was still dead set on me passing the message that she was coming for him and to watch out.

So yeah, Will, if you see Shelley Collins, watch out. She's going to beat you up. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you for almost 15 years, but she's coming for you, okay?

**********

So now you can clearly see how these near death experiences have scarred me for life. You are probably thinking one of two things:

1. If I stopped dressing like such a dickhead, maybe these things wouldn't happen to me.

2. Why does my brother seem to have a passing role in the events in such a weird way? Being locked in a closet and threatened by a paper bag inhaler??

Well, as for my dress code, these brushes with death still happen to me when I'm wearing my normal clothes, which nowadays do not involve bedazzlement or multiple sewing-togethers.

And for the record, my brother turned out totally normal.



He's nocturnal and about to go on a tour of South East Asia with his punk band Germ Attak. One time, he got locked in the catacombs underneath Paris for 8 hours straight in the pitch dark. That's totally normal, right? Yeah, yeah, it's cool.

First Post!!

So I've been staring at this blank screen for about 45 minutes. I'm trying to impress you with my creative mind flow but I don't really have anything specific to write about these days. My time of shoving microscopic but very absorbant towels and a Swiss Army knife (both of which I've never used in my life... Thanks for the tips, Internets.) into backpacks measured by litres are over. For *why* backpacks are measured in litres doesn't make any sense to me. Who's bringing freely poured juice on their travels?

So here's an intro to me as a person rather than events going on in my life.

These are my parents posing in a glamour shot with a live 8 lb. king crab minutes before eating it.
When I was younger, instead of having an imaginary friend, I had an imaginary camera crew. Every time my parents would put a plate of cold jellyfish, thousand year old eggs, or the part of cow's stomach that kind of sort of looks like seafood (but you know in your heart it's not) in front of me, I would open my eyes wide, raise my eyebrows and slowly turn my head to the left, also known as Camera One, for a direct face shot of my horror. This is long before the days of The Office, or even Home Alone.


I still catch myself doing this sometimes. Trust, you do NOT want your boss catching you making Macauley Culkin faces to your monitor. The rest of the day gets very embarassing.

The funniest part about it is that they would try to convince me to eat these things by telling me the prices of them. For what reason would an in-depth analysis of B.C. abalone stocks peak the interest of a 6 year old child?

This is my dog, Taiko.














Taiko is more like a roommate who doesn't pay rent or clean up after himself, and always eats all the cheese. However, you get invited to all the good parties because he's so cute and everyone wants him around, so you put up with him.

Taiko is a very mild-mannered roommate who spends 90% of his time sleeping or stretching. You'd think that you could let him off his leash and play a nice game of "Let's stop here and sleep/stretch together" but this is not the case. He is a terrible walker. The minute his leash is off, Taiko runs like The Dickens and you're stuck chasing him in your heels as fast as you can, with tears freezing on your face, and asking strangers to please throw themselves down on the street in front of your barreling wolflike dog to stop him for you. Like a crazy person.

On that note, what does "run like The Dickens" even mean? The only Dickens I've ever heard of is Charles Dickens (and since when does anyone call him The Dickens?) and no matter how I try to picture it, no sense can be made. That being said, I have no idea what Charles Dickens looks like, so for all I know, he looks extremely fast.




Okay I just Googled it (my thirst for knowledge is vast, you see) and I only think he looks medium fast. Judge for yourself. I could outrun you, The Dickens.








Anyways, the other day I was walking Taiko at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM, when about 20 feet in front of me is a large grey furry thing. It kind of looks like a rat, but cat sized. Taiko looks pretty mellow, so once it scurries under a car and out of my sight, I proceed. Bad idea. Taiko lunges his face under the car, pulls out a grey furry thing and starts shaking it and slammimg its head into the concrete. I am screaming, like at the top of my lungs, and the sun hasn't even risen yet. When I finally yank him away, the furry thing is lying motionless on the sidewalk and I speedwalk away from the scene of the crime. I know it sounds bad, but what can you do??

On my way back, I'm walking on the other side of the sidewalk and I see a woman about my age crouched over looking at the furry thing.

Because I've caught my breath by now (and I won the Drama Guild Award back in high school for my acting finesse), I casually ask, "what's that?"

The woman looks like she is about to cry. "It's the possum I see every day on my way to the gym."

A POSSUM!?! What am I, living in the Green Forest??

"Oh my god!" I exclaim. "That's awful!" Meanwhile, I am holding Taiko behind me because, as he is the most expressive dog I've ever seen, she will see immediately that he is laughing hysterically at my antics. He did not win the Drama Guild Award back in high school.

At this point, I notice Crazy Woman standing by her door, with her arms folded, looking at me like "Cynthia, you are so fuckin' retarded." probably because it happened right outside her house and she saw the whole thing. She doesn't actually say anything though, to my relief, and just looks like she hates me (obviously I will take her hatred over her blowing my cover and effectively destroying any chance I have of making a new friend. Can you imagine? "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT 'THAT'S AWFUL'?? YOU KILLED IT NOT EVEN 10 MINUTES AGO!! I SAW YOU!" I would die.)

Then I realize she's not looking at me like that because she's in the know. She's looking at me like that because last week I screamed at her and her two small children to jump in front of my rabid looking, unleashed dog and catch him for me.