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.”