Holiday Texts in No Particular Order

1) 

Me: So, once I went out with a dude who all my friends said looked like Tim Allen. I never really saw it, but I'm sitting here with The Santa Clause on, and wow. 

Ben: Haha.

2)

Me: Pick one, no context: Candy Cane, marshmallow, or chai?

Mandy: Marshmelllllooow? I hope you are buying me flavoured condoms. 

Me: It's a surprise. 

3)

Carrie: We built a snowman

Me: Aw!

Carrie: She was confused by the carrot. 

Me: It is objectively very strange.

4)

Mary: It must be hard to wander around knowing you are that stupid. 

Me: Tis the season to help the less fortunate, perhaps we should donate supplies and services to assist her in life... a bag to cover her head? The service of throwing her phone in the river?

He ripped it up in a silent rage.

Some years ago, my dear friend Matthew and I attended double-bill play at the University of New Brunswick. In my memory, the first play was "Doc", thus making this was the same night in which we saw the guy playing Doc's penis by accident on stage. Good times. 

Matthew had a bad habit at the time of leaving his wallet places. Even though I am very forgetful (I left my own wallet at Pizza Twice the other night and made Ben call them to see if it was there), I often feel the need to teach people a lesson about leaving expensive things laying around. One time for example in high school, I convinced friends of mine that they had lost my video camera to prove a point about leaving theft-friendly items unattended in insecure places. They were terrified and I kept a straight face the whole time. 

The night of the play, Matthew got up during intermission, and left his wallet on his seat. I saw it, and felt the appropriate thing to do would be to hold onto it for him in my purse. Without telling him. Partly to assure him that he hadn't actually been robbed, and partly as a sick, sick joke, I removed his library card and placed it on the now empty chair. 

At this point, I got up and joined my companion in the lobby. We only returned to the theatre at the very end of intermission, which is when Matthew noticed the purple and white plastic card placed on his seat. "What's that doing there?"

It took a moment to sink in. There was a single card, yes, but no wallet. He checked his pockets. The lights were dimming, "where's my wallet?"

"What?" I asked, feigning confusion. 

"My wallet is gone!"

"The show is starting, sit down."

Matthew sat. He pawed through every pocket he owned, then whispered sharply in my ear, "My wallet is missing. I only have my library card."

I appeared shocked, confused, concerned. But the show was starting up again, we were in darkness and some student actors demanded our attention. 

Matthew held his library card in his hands. He was shaking. I began to feel perhaps I had made a grave mistake. 

As the play continued, I looked down to Matthew's lap - his hands were white as they twisted the plastic card over itself. His face pointed toward the stage, but I feel as though little of the play made an impact. He was incensed at the very world itself for this injustice - his wallet was gone, and all he was left with was this library card. 

He tore the weakened card in half.  I tried to suppress a nervous laughter. The card was destroyed. He ripped it up in a silent rage. 

The play ended. The cast bowed. The lights came up and we in the audience went to put on our coats.

I reached in my purse and casually handed Matthew his wallet. 

Matthew would like to add: "That was the worst!!!! I was soooo mad! I remember being so pissed that someone would take my wallet and leave the most useless card of them all. It was torture. And it never even crossed my mind that it could have been you.*"

Thank-you, and goodnight.

*Mission accomplished.

Saying Happy Holidays is a nice thing to do.

The season for tis-ing the season is upon is, and a chain status that keeps popping up all over my facebook news-feed sure is in a state about the words we use in December. People are worried, friends, "the man"  - that faceless extremely politically correct and secular faction that controls wreath distribution - wants to take the Christ out of Christmas, and want to force us all (by threat of gunfire, persecution, eggs thrown against houses) to say "Happy Holidays" rather than "Merry Christmas". 

That bastard. 

 How dare society stop us from saying Merry Christmas and thrust Happy Holidays in our faces? Where is our autonomy and freedom of religion?

Well... 

It isn't stopping or thrusting anything of the sort, for one. And everyone's autonomy and freedom of religion is safe and intact, thanks. 

In Canada (and in the US, though you'd never know it to listen to the Republican Primaries) we have a separation of Church and State. What that means is, in very basic terms, public schools are not supposed to be teaching children religious information as fact (just as I don't suspect most Sunday schools have math tests), and government agencies and offices must attempt to be neutral to religion so as to not put the needs of one above the needs of another, making life in our society as fair as possible (this is the theory, I'm not going to examine the practice at such a juncture). 

Rather than ignore the many days of celebration that pop up in December (or there abouts), schools and government offices, which aim to remain neutral, have in recent years started to use the term Holidays more often than Christmas. This isn't to kick Christmas in the balls, it is to be inclusive and welcoming and festive, and if you genuinely have a problem with secular agencies doing so, then I can do nothing but shake my head at you. Canada is a secular nation, it is a little unpatriotic to complain about that. 

Okay fine, perhaps you are willing to concede that government agencies can say Happy Holidays - but what about the world of retail? Stores that are encouraging gift-buying en mass starting immediately after Halloween then have the nerve to leave out the word Christmas in their decorations, promotional materials, and cashier greetings/goodbyes? How dare they! I want to be wished a Merry Freakin' Christmas after I buy my boyfriend a video game!*

It may shock you to learn some of the following: 1) Some retailers are not Christians. 2) Some may celebrate other holidays this time of year. 3) Some may celebrate nothing at all, but still recognize the opportunity for profit. 4) That isn't a bad thing, that is just what Capitalism is. What are you, a communist? 5) If you're a communist, that's cool too. 6) Regardless of religious affiliation/lack-there-of, most retailers want customers of every possible combination of religion, background, culture, age, gender, etc. 7) If they don't, then they are bigots, and we shouldn't buy from bigots. 8) A shit-tonne of holidays are celebrated (roughly) in December, with a shit-tonne of potential customers celebrating them. 9) Ergo, the best way to wish good will and make the largest percentage of your customers feel nice and want to shop with you again is... Happy Holidays! 

 

No one is telling you what you can and cannot celebrate in your own home, place of worship, or on your own lawn. No one is suggesting you have to call the decorated evergreen in your living room a "Holiday Tree". If you want to wish your friends and neighbours and family a Merry Christmas, then please do.

Getting upset over the phrase Happy Holidays is being obtuse. If someone wishes you that, then you should feel nice. Think about it... they want you to have a wonderful time celebrating something (anything! Even if you don't!) during the first really gross month of winter. That's just a lovely thought, embrace it.  

As an aside, I had to fight the urge several times while writing this to write "Merry X-Mas"... I really like word "X-mas"... people complain about that one a lot, too.

*I'm not buying Ben a video game. Sorry babe.

**I want to thank my Facebook friend Ken Spragg for being the first one of my list to be vocal about how absurd the chain status was. Someone defriended him over speaking his mind in a very thoughtful response, which brought up a lot of points that I didn't, mostly about the religious hypocrisy of the issue. 

Revenge.

This is a tale of toddlers and gross things they do.

Cast of Characters:

Me (I'm me.)
Carrie (That's my sister.)
Georgia (That's my niece, she's 2 & 1/2 or so.)
Dad (That's my Dad.)


My sister sent me a picture text of... something.

Carrie: Dad requested that I take a picture*.

Me: What is that?

Carrie: It is a poop. On the coffee table. Where poop goes, silly.

Me: Georgia poop?

Me: Hahahaha, "no, it's not Georgia poop." That would be amazing.

Carrie: Well it's not MY poop.

Me: Ahahahaha, I realized the implications of my question immediately after hitting send.

Carrie: She hurt her ear on the table and I yelled at it, and told it I was very upset with it.

Carrie: And then I went back to reading, and Georgia ran up to me and said "a poop! A poop, a coffee table! A stinky!"

Carrie: So it was revenge.

Me: Justice was served. I'm in tears laughing.

Carrie: Then before I took the picture, she grabbed a piece of papertowel and ran over like she was going to take care of it.

Me: Aw, helpful.

Carrie: She tries.


*My favourite way to make my dad laugh is to mention poop. It's not the only way, of course, but it gets a great reaction.

Post-Halloween Public Service Announcement.

You know who I love?

Joan from Mad Men.

Love her. Wish I had that body, think she's nuanced and layered and capable and just... what a character!

I've seen some pretty good Joan Halloween costumes online over the years. Real fans of hers can pull it off, putting together perfect vintage outfits for curvy figures. They use their natural red hair or natural looking dyes or natural looking wigs. They find little gold pen pendants to wear around their necks. They are meticulous.

Even with all the effort, some people still probably ask them if they are Wilma Flintstone or some kind of  conservative Jessica Rabbit, because people hardly ever get Halloween costumes based on little seen but critically acclaimed AMC shows.

My public service announcement is this: If you have red-red hair (like the colour of a tomato, or a fire truck or a cherry jolly rancher), then you aren't wearing a Joan costume just because you wander around with your usual hair and some clothes. Some clothes do not a Joan costume make.  Nor does that shade of red.

I find Joan (and Christina Hendricks) to be beautiful and admirable, so I find this lazy form of costuming particularly offensive. The principle works for other characters/people too, however. 

I have dark curly hair. Now, let's say I wanted to be April from Parks and Rec for Halloween next year. If I decided, "well, we both have dark hair and are women" does that mean I don't have to do anything else as a costume?! I am allowed to put in no effort to actually costume myself like her?!

Are you just okay with being SOME GUY who is not in a suit (or rather a tuxedo, what are you a farmer?) and just saying "I'm Jack Donaghy. You know... 30 Rock?" Is that a thing we do now as a society?

My friend Jen went out as Baby Spice this year. They are both blond. By the lazy logic I kept seeing this year, I guess she could have just worn a shirt and pants and told people "I'm Baby Spice." That wouldn't have been Baby Spice, that just would have been a blond woman. That would have been Emma Bunting!

If you don't want to wear a costume, then fine.

Halloween didn't want you either!

But don't go out and present such bullshit to the public.

Other people do this, right?

Four Ways In Which I've Hidden From People to Avoid Mild Social Interaction, Lately:

-Darted into bizarre aisles of the grocery store (Dog food! Stationary! Chips!) because I didn't want to have to make this call: do I acknowledge this girl who I totally-know-exactly-who-she-is (because she dated a friend of a friend AND knows my boyfriend) or do I decline to nod because I don't know if she actually knows who I am (we've never spoken!) and that would be weird. 

-Ate a banana in Ben's bedroom because I thought it would be just too strange a sight for his roommate to walk in on me eating fruit alone in their living room at 9:30 in the morning. 

-Wore my sunglasses on the bus on a cloudy day to ensure no-accidental eye-contact with an acquaintance.

-Just this morning, slept in at Ben's after he left for work, and treated leaving the apartment while his roommate was in the shower (thus avoiding conversation of any kind, even though I have conversations with Dave and have no reason to want to avoid one) as a covert operation. Felt very proud of myself for my stealth, even though I left several items of clothing behind, knocked over a large box, and ran into the door. 

Thanks Soundhound! *wink*

In some ways, I would like to blame my lack of knowledge about pop songs on the fact that at 25 years old, I am ancient.


Leave the young people's music to the young people! You should be mortified if over the age of say, twenty years old, you consider yourself a Demi Lovato fan. And if you are afflicted with Bieber-fever over the age of seventeen, then I think you have some other afflictions that perhaps you should address through therapy.


That being said, when I was twenty and when I was seventeen, although I could probably have named the largest pop stars of the day (as I can today, sometimes!), I had a difficulty identifying their songs, and as a general rule of thumb, found most of their music to be just a mush of indistinguishable synth-mush. (Exceptions include... Justin Timberlake... and yeah... Justin Timberlake!)


What I am trying to explain is that I by no means lived under a rock, and I certainly think that I am pretty okay with pop culture, but I never was interested in mainstream pop music, regardless of its age-appropriateness for me. If that makes me sound like a pretentious turd, then there you have it. I didn't like it much, I still don't. When I was ten, I didn't fall in love with Hanson. When I was twelve, I thought the Backstreet Boys were shit. I can't even remember what was popular in my high school (it certainly wasn't me! haha, I'm so funny and self-deprecating!) - but I feel like Vitamin C's Graduation Song had it's moment in the sun and I certainly wasn't putting my ears through that sweet hell.


I think there is talent in the genre (as can be found in every genre!) but I've never had any interest in delving in deep and finding out.


I'm certainly not going to start delving now as an old woman.


I have been able throughout my life to successfully avoid having to listen to Top 40. I don't listen to the radio except in car rides with my father where it is turned firmly to classic rock stations. And I am not comfortable in clubs. So where would I encounter it? They pump in pop at malls, so when I worked in one, I learned how to block most of it out as much as possible. What pop music I couldn't block out, I found very... annoying.


At my current job, I went over a year without having to be constantly annoyed by the music playing. E-Dawg and I found an iTunes radio station called "Radio Vintage" (said in a robotic voice) that was just fine and perfectly retail appropriate until around 12-2pm every day when they start playing Rage Against the Machine and one of us would have to subtly mute the computer lest the invariably elderly person in the store think we wanted to kill in the name of things. It was fine! Then Jess started to work at my store.


I like Jess. She's funny and friendly and good at her job. But Jess loves pop music. Loves it.


I understand that Top 40 crap is supposed to be neutral ground. I get it, and ultimately, I understand. It does make more sense to have a generic radio censored Black Eyed Peas'* song playing quietly at a store than it does to walk in on your sales clerk singing her heart out at Carry on My Wayward Son**. I also don't want to scare off a new co-worker with some sort of "What is this noise-pollution tripe!? Turn it off!" rant, when my tastes are admittedly in the minority.


Now I am stuck daily (at least during the shifts when I'm not working alone) listening to The Hits of Today! And I regularly want to stick pens deep inside my ear drums. The worst thing is that because I a) am over the hill and b) didn't recognize this sort of thing even when I was on the hill - I can't even articulate who it is on the radio that I am so aggravatingly annoyed with.


That's where my Soundhound app on my phone comes in. It's a great little thing that listens to whatever you're listening to and using wizard magic, tells you the name of the song and who it is by. I use it every chance that I get because it's really fun, but also helpful at NAMING NAMES.


Here is what I've forced my phone to listen to against its will (why should I be the only one to suffer, Galaxy S Fascinate?), my Soundhound history:


Neon Trees - Animal
Pitbull - I Like It.
Pitbull - Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor)
Britney Spears - I Wanna Go
Selena Gomez & the Scene - Who Says
Cobra Starship ft. Sabi - You Make Me Feel.
Kelly Rowland ft. Lil' Wayne - Motivation


These are just the songs that were playing on the rare occasions when I could hear the radio and was near my phone in the back room. Out front, I was helpless (lest I awkwardly lean over Jess and look at iTunes on the computer she was using - the one with speakers) to learn who sings that insufferable "Love You Like a Love Song Baby" song.


Since I don't know who else to blame, based on what Soundhound would tell me, I am blaming Pitbull.




*I wrote "Pears" there. 
** What? No, never happened to me. No sir.    

Snot-Face

I saw the video above on Jezebel after work today and watched it about nine times. It's the best. 

It reminded me of an incident that happened to me several years ago. One winter, I began kinda-sorta-dating this terribly sweet guy. At the time, I was not interested in dating terribly sweet guys. Making out with jerks is a phase that some people (men and women, both) never grow out of, but thankfully I have.   

Unrelated directly to this fellow's awesome sweetness of which I scoffed, was the incident at hand. Indirectly, his sweetness did mean that I couldn't say anything to his face lest I make him cry or something, so I just became very awkward. 

We had been out for a romantic(?) winter stroll one night, and it was very, very cold. He walked me back to my place and the moment we stepped into my kitchen, I ran and blew my nose. It always runs like a freakin' tap in the wintertime, and I wanted to nip that in the bud. 

Upon my return, it was time for my date to head on home, so he leaned in and planted a kiss goodnight on my lips. Now, as a huge fan of men with beards, I am understanding of most things that come with the territory of being smacked by whiskers in all sorts of weather - but what I was not expecting at that moment was the transference of mucous from his beard to my face. 

I felt it. 

I knew it was there. 

Some other human being's snot around my mouth. On my face. My face. Their snot. 

He jovially said goodnight, and I, trying not to move my gooey upper lip, made some sort of squeak of farewell. The second he turned to the door, I ran and washed my face. 

Outside, I looked like the little girl in that video. Inside, I was screaming.   

Text to Ben: "Def. don't watch "Whitney" - real bad."

I'm watching the pilot of the new NBC sitcom "Whitney"... right now!

But, you know, a day late and online.

1:04 in and I already can't stand this laugh track.

1:30: Whitney's boyfriend told her she couldn't wear white to a wedding. She'd been wearing a white dress during the whole scene, but somehow he only noticed when she took off a hoodie that wasn't hiding the dress at all.

1:33: Whitney Cummings isn't a very good actress - very middle school theatre.

1:53: Reference to the statistic that half of all marriages fail, which I don't believe is currently accurate.

2:18: She wasn't wearing shoes when she left the apartment.

3:15: Jack Donaghy's assistant is in this.

5:40: All of Whitney's friends are really unpleasant.

6:00: Whitney is too.

9:03: Rape joke! Did you know, a person can't consent to sex if they are passed out? Apparently, the writers of this show think that it's okay if it's your anniversary. Hilarious!

9:49: The laugh track is kiiiiillllllllliiiiinnnnggg meeeeeeeeeeeee! (I don't mind it at all on Miranda! Perhaps when I am actually laughing, I don't notice?)

10:15: Whitney just told her horrible redhead friend "careful with the cleavage" when she had no cleavage showing, but in the universe of the show, apparently there was. Is it so hard to just put your actress in a cleavage top? They might as well be pretending to serve tea out of an empty tea pot... use your imagination! This is a middle school production after all.

11:25: Ugh, this show is tired before it's even finished one episode! References about being single being "like a war-zone" are so now, aren't they? People in relationships just don't know what it's like out there. Amiright?

12:22: A sex shop worker just explained to Whitney what role play was - this seemed like a brand new concept to her. So, not only is this character charmless and annoying (earlier, she fucked up someones wedding by standing in the aisle in front of a bridesmaid, and then ruined their cupcake tower - and not one bit of it was funny) - she also doesn't exist in modern society (you don't have to partake, but surely you know that people do).

12:45: "I'm not Daniel Day Lewis, I just want to get laid."

13:19: She picked a slutty nurse Halloween costume for her role playing surprise for her 3 year anniversary. There are candles in this scene, so I am assuming someone is going to catch on fire.

15:22: I started to think it could get funny when "Nurse" Whitney was making the boyfriend fill out insurance forms, but they gave up on the gag too soon. So, one almost-good bit in 15 minutes, and it was abandoned before it followed through. Fine work!

15:32: Boyfriend fall down.

16:15: Sassy Black Nurse alert! Can't have a sitcom with an almost-exclusively (Jonathan!) Caucasian main and supporting characters without some guest actors of colour!

16:28: That Sassy Black Nurse wouldn't let Whitney into her boyfriend's hospital room because they aren't married. Oh the injustices forced upon heterosexual Americans who have full legal rights to marry if they want to! It is so hard to witness!

17:12: Oh gross, the Mom from Malcolm in the Middle!

19:31: I know he's in the hospital, but Whitney's boyfriend looks like a homeless vampire.

22:21: And it's over. That just... wasn't very good at all.

Shaking my head in Colton's direction.

I've mentioned before how a woman named Brenda used to own my phone number... or, thinks that my number is hers. This particular number has belonged to me for over a year now, and while I don't get as many calls for Brenda as I used to, they do still come a few times a month.

As of Saturday, I have also received a disproportionate amount of calls for a new Brenda! New Brenda's name seems to be Colton - which I didn't realize even was a name, but who am I to argue. 

I have an extensive call-log from Saturday night, all from the same number, all for Colton. I was out at the Frex with Ben, trying to enjoy an overpriced evening of getting sick from rides and looking at farm animals and being won a stuffed fish. The drunk (?) teenage (?) girl on the other end of the line dialed my number six (6!) times. The first time, I answered, told her she must have the wrong number. The second time, I ignored the call, and was left a rambling message about how much she missed me... er, Colton. I've never understood that one, since my voice mail tells you that you've called a squeaky voiced woman named Marg (or Meerg), yet people often just blithely ignore that. After the voice mail, she called again, I ignored... she called again a few minutes later- I answered, shouted "Wrong Number!" and hung up. Two minutes went by - another call! I ignored that, then about twenty minutes later, she tried again. 

Me: You have the wrong number, quit calling me!

Girl: Is Colton there?

Me: No, listen, wrong number. 

Girl: This is Colton's number, I got it from indistinguishable name, so I know it's right. 

Me: But it's not. Don't call it again. 

Luckily, after making that particular oh-my-god-you-are-such-an-idiot-and-you're-ruining-my-life-you-pathetic-person sigh that only teenage girls are capable of making, she stopped calling. Today however, I got two calls from unknown numbers looking for Mr. Popular, Colton!  Both callers sounded like teenage boys.

I imagine that Colton is in fact, pretty popular. His parents wanted desperately for him to be an extra special snowflake, which is why in the mid-nineties they chose to combine the names Colby and Carlton when Christening their bundle of joy. And now he is too busy having arms too long for his body to remember his cellphone number correctly. In this failure, he is ruining the sleepovers of girls a year below him in school where all they really wanted to do was drink the coolers that their older sisters got them and call Colton and ask him if he thinks Madison is cute. 

And he's crushing Brodie's dream that this year, in Grade Ten, they'll finally hangout and with Colton's help, the rest of the wrestling team will stop throwing their jock straps on him. 

They won't stop doing that, not now that Colton has given out the wrong number. There are consequences to your actions, young man.  

Princess Mary's Magic

I wrote Mary a story:

      Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away lived a beautiful curly haired princess named Mary. Mary lived in an elaborate and ornate castle made from huge slabs of pink granite. She spent most of her time in the highest room in the tallest tower in the land (she wasn't trapped there, she just really loved the view). Princess Mary invented a one-person elevator using complicated pulley system, because she is resourceful like that and was tired of using the stairs all the time. She still used them pretty regularly though, to tone her gams and to let the Elevator Butler's have afternoon naps during their breaks.

      Princess Mary was known throughout several (at least six!) kingdoms for her benevolence, her ingenuity, and for her magical blue eyes. I'm not being unduly flattering here, Princess Mary's peepers were legit enchanted - with a flutter of her eyelashes while saying a special incantation, one gaze from her big ol' baby blues could fill an empty goblet, vase, cup, or keg with any libation or elixir of her choice.

      Revelers and celebratory citizens from lands all over came constantly to bequest the Princess' special magic be bestowed upon them. Being a wise magistrate, Princess Mary decreed that she would not have a kingdom full of drunkards, and would only use her powers under very special circumstances, and the occasional personal nightcap. A weekly council was set up in the Pink Granite Castle's Great Pink Hall (sounds a little dirty) where those who thought their cases worthy could come and make appeals to the Princess herself.

      One deary, rainy morning, Princess Mary was bummed out to discover it was one of those such weekly council occasions. Normally, the princess was happy to have people come and make their appeals, but on that morning, she could think of nothing worse. A giant spider had taken up residence in her bathtub, she had been getting incessant messages from a very annoying junior advisor in the court about nothing important at all, and she had seen at least five maidens of the court wearing tights as pants as she peered out her tall tower window. Still, Princess Mary knew her duty, so she descended down the elevator to court.

      Sitting upon her thrown in a bejewelled pair of yellow overalls (she figured she'd help the Royal Painters redecorate the dining hall after court), Princess Mary presided over the full court and was approached by a sobbing young maiden.

      "Your Highness," began the Maiden, "My beloved has absconded with another maiden!"

      "Ah yes," said the Princess, unmoved, "The heart wants what it wants, unfortunately."

      "He made every promise he could to me, but it was all for naught! A knight of your very court, Princess... and he is nothing but a liar and a cad!"

      "This sounds like many a knight I know," said the Princess, "But I could just as well be asked to provide in celebration for he and his new bride, could I not?"

      "Worst of all, your Highness," the Maiden wiped her tears, "He stole my horse!"

      "Your horse?"

       "He stole Cloppers, and left him two kingdoms over, and I'll never get him back!"

      "Gracious Lady of the Court, present your chalice!"

      "Oh thank-you Your Highness!" exclaimed the Maiden as she raised her margarita glass.

      Princess Mary waived a ringed hand over the glass, and began to flutter her eyelashes - she stared intensely and began to chant... "Come on baby, shake your body, do the conga!"

      The margarita glass began to shake in the Maiden's outstretched hand as the Princess continued chanting... "I know you can't control yourself any longer!"

      The glass lifted out of the Maiden's hand - "Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger!"

     Before the court's eyes, the glass seemed instantly chilled with frost, and began to fill from the bottom up with a wild magenta liquid.

      "Don't you fight it til you tried it..."

      The glass descended gently back into the Maiden's hands where she grasped the stem.

      "Do the conga beat!"

      Th entire court erupted in applause as the Maiden sipped from her beverage, "I needed that" she said with relief.

      Princess Mary smiled, knowing that she had been there for her subjects once again as good princesses and friends always are.


Happy Birthday Princess Mary!

People I look like (apparently.)

Flo the Progressive Insurance Girl. (As two customers made a point of animatedly telling me today - one even proposed based on this. Also, fuck off.)

Emily of New Moon. (Obviously.)

Annie Edison. (When Ben is feeling generous)

The A&W Bear. (When Ben isn't*.)

"That girl from that show... you know, Two & a Half Men!" (As yelled at me from across a street in Etobicoke)

"The actress in Definitely, Maybe... not the one he ends up with." (I haven't seen the movie, so I don't know which actress the guy who works for my former landlord was talking about.) 

"My ex-girlfriend... Jackie Kennedy!" (As said to me by an old man in Downtown Toronto.)

So really, any lady with dark hair? Or a bear. 

*Technically he said that my dress was the A&W colours, but I had so much fun running wild with that one.

My guhlasses!

Carrie: So... you know how you were saying that dude sitting motionless in front of the scuba shop was creepy?

Me: Yeah. Is he a mannequin?

Carrie: Sure is!

Me: Ha! I wasn't wearing my glasses!

Carrie: Oh dear, I can't tell the difference between people and inanimate objects without my guhlasses!

Me: I can't!

Carrie: P.S. Why don't you just wear your glasses? You'd save yourself so many one sided conversations with mannequins and arguments with cardboard cutouts. Is it that you're worried your friends will think you look like a nerd? Because let me tell you this: any mannequin that would say that is NOT your real friend.

Matthew is the best

My friend Matthew is the best person to go shopping with. He will be completely honest with you about what you're trying on - unless he thinks it will be hilarious for you to walk around like that.  He will try on things that he knows he will look hilarious in, as well. He will pose for pictures in those things.

He is the best person to eat cookies with. And whole cakes. And you can both announce that you are fatties who need more of both and then you will have some. You will consume hot chocolate too and maybe ice cream, and then more cookies. 

Matthew is the best person to watch movies with. Usually you'll like the same things, and when you don't, you'll both have interesting reasons why and will be able to talk about them. He is very good at knowing who is in what, but he can't spell anyone's name. 

In that same vein, Matthew is the very best for playing games with - like the movie game where knowing who is in what is of vital importance. He is up for a challenge. He thinks up creative variations. He is the best at games. 

Matthew is the best to be in plays with. Even if you both have really small parts, you will have the best time trying to make each other laugh with your characters. He will have the best ideas like suggesting you put booze in your prop-Booster Juice cup. 

He is the best for going on walks with, because he doesn't care if they have a destination, and he never complains that his feet hurt, and he likes discovering farms in the middle of cities. Matthew is the best at having long-walk-conversations with. You laugh a lot during long walks.

He is also the best for dancing around apartments with. You both keep straight faces like a two person dance party isn't the most ridiculous thing ever. He doesn't call you out on the fact that he is a better dancer than you are. He does have a good eye for everyone's signature dance move.

Matthew is the best for being the best even when you're far away from each other. His bestness knows no bounds.

Happy Birthday to the best Matthew that ever was best! All my love and missing-ness!  

Dabble

Mary: Also I applied for a hip hop festival..lol. They didn't hire me!!

Me: What? Idiots!

Mary: I know! I would have been a great token white gurl!

Me: literally the only person more suited for such a position would be me, obviously.

Mary: Well yeah! In the interview they were like.. "I feel that the hip hop scene might be new to you"... My response.. "I dabble!"

Me: hahahahaha Was this a face-to-face interview? In which you said the word "dabble"? About hip hop?

Mary: Yup!

Me: I love you

Mary: lol I was wearing my argyle sweater pencil skirt and pearls... couldn't have looked more politicians wife!

Me: Perfect

Benjamin Button

Marg: I saw a Benjamin Button today!

Ben: Ew. What?

Marg: He was as tall as a 10 year old, dressed about that age, but bald and with old man skin. 

Ben: Weeeeird.

Marg: He was wearing sunglasses and had a Blackberry. I have no idea how old he was. 

Ben: Did he talk?

Marg: Yeah, and it was a strange voice. 

Ben: I guess it would have to be. 

Marg: I'm still very confused,and I'll never get to know the real deal. 

Ben: I hate stuff like that.

Marg: So I'm going with Benjamin Button syndrome. That's a thing, right?

Ben: It is now. You met Benjamin Button. THE Benjamin Button. 

Marg: I should have asked him about all his slowly plotted adventures and similarities to Forrest Gump.

Ben: Well, that's obviously the studio's take on his life. Might not have quite went down that way... as he is still old.

Later, Benjamin Button returned, and Ben passed him, but I was unable to point him out for obvious reasons before Ben left. 

Marg: That was Benjamin Button! Did you notice?

Ben: WHAT! NO! YOU SHOULD HAVE COUGHED "BENJAMIN BUTTON"! Once I got home I somehow knew you'd tell me that's who it was.

Marg: really? I was trying to empart that onto you psychically. He took off his sunglasses, but I am no closer to discovering the truth. 

Ben: Well, clearly you should have asked.

Marg: If only it was acceptable to ask Benjamin Button type people how old they legally are.

Ben: Ha! Maybe some don't mind. 

Marg: And ask them how old they feel, spiritually*.

*I'm like... 4. Or 82.  

Come into my home and judge me!

People are being shown my apartment in less than an hour. I got the note informing me of this at oh, 1:30ish-AM. This afternoon, I've tried to clean up so that these people won't think I'm disgusting*.

Things cleaning my apartment is like:

1) Polishing a turd.

2) Putting lipstick on a pig.

3) Futile.

Ways in which I have "cleaned":

1) Used the delightful painting of 3 raccoons that Ben gave me to hide a pile of clutter hidden behind a chair.**

2) Stuffed all my clothing (normally strewn around my room in a delightful fashion) into my closet. 

3) Placed two clean, neatly folded towels on top of the little shelf in my room that holds miscellanea such as tampons, spare razors, mail, hair products, bras, a broken curling iron, and a spoon - effectively hiding this miscellanea and making it appear as though I store my towels in a neatly fashion albeit in the wrong room. 

4) Artfully arranged my shoes to distract from the box o' mystery in the corner of my living room.

5) Left a box of condoms on my bedside table to shock and intrigue, and hopefully distract from the other clutter there on. 

6) Left the notice to the rentalsman in which my crazy superintendent accused me of all sorts and tried (unsuccessfully!) to get me evicted, on the counter for reading material.

7) Left Ben's hoodie (obviously a man's) on my bed, just to fuck with said superintendent, since she is convinced that he lives here. 

*I'm kind of disgusting. 

** What? You don't display art leaned up against a chair?  

Things I've said to customers today:

"Oh you know, keep your ear to the nose."

"Rice fixes everything... but never for long, never for long."

"I'm not any good at math... that's a better deal right? It is. You should renew your contract."

"Well, do you like your wife, sir?"

"You don't need too much sales experience for a job like this... mostly you just have to be smart and have a good personality!"

You know I'm no good.

On Saturday, I was sitting on a deck in St. Andrews, drinking beer with my brother and Ben. I went to the bathroom and checked my phone on the way out. I wanted up-dates on the horror in Norway. There on my BBC Newsfeed came something unexpected, another deathtoll.


It does not show a lack of empathy, humanity, or awareness to still be affected by the death of one woman, a celebrity, when a major world tragedy occurred on the same day. I've seen too many self-righteous facebook statuses in the last few days to not mention that.


In this space, I am not equipped to write about a terrorist attack. I am barely able to write about the death of Amy Winehouse.


When I emerged out onto the deck again, I told Marty and Ben that she had died. I mentioned, eventually, how I was probably going to write something about her. Ben asked why.
I said "She was important."
"Was she?"
"To women of my generation, she was."




I couldn't articulate it at the time exactly what I meant, and maybe I still can't, but I mean it. For women of my generation, for thinking women, for women who love music and who identify with real emotion in it - Amy Winehouse was really fucking important. She wrote with honesty, with self-deprecation, and with such a precise style. Back to Black was so identifiably, unapologetically Winehouse, you know? And compared to other 2006 albums, it made so much more of an impact (inspiring a soul revival). She was this immense talent, made all the more rare by the fact that we could all see it slipping away from her right before our eyes.
As much we ate up the train-wreck, as much as we stayed glued to every erratic performance, we still thought deep down that someone with that much talent had to pull herself through - at least I did. I kept waiting for that next album. I kept hoping that the next gig would go smoothly.


I guess I kept hoping that our generation could be the one whose addicts survived.

Presumed success as a clothing memoirist...

As previously discussed, I have a shit memory for human beings. I do have an excellent memory however, for what I was wearing. 

What ever does she mean?

I know exactly what I was wearing the first night I met Ben (my Joan Holloway dress). 

I know what shirt I was wearing the first time I saw a dead body (Black, long-sleeved, waffle weaved), even though that was back in Grade 12. 

I know what sweater I wore (and what pair of shorts!) when I camped out at Reads the first day I was back in Fredericton during Christmas break the year I spent in Toronto, waiting for my friend to get off work. 

I know that I wore a tartan skirt to my aunt's funeral when I was ten years old.

I know what bra I was wearing the last time I splashed around in the middle of the night in the Wilmot kiddie pool, two years ago.

I know what ugly sleeveless sweater-tunic monstrosity I wore to my first day of classes at St.Thomas University (it was grey! It had a hood!)

I know exactly which dresses I was wearing both (!!) times that my ex-boyfriend broke up with me - my red "sailing" dress, and my black tea-length dress a year-and-some-months later as I was slipping it over my head.

It's probably normal.*

*It's probably not normal for people to break up with you when you have a dress stuck over your head. 

It Turns Out That It's Not Sexy...

-When you take the cap off your chapstick with your lips, hold it in your mouth while you apply, and then put it back on with your lips again when you're done.*

-If you make eye-contact while eating spaghetti.

-If you try to wear demure underwear because you read somewhere that it will give off a girl-next-door vibe.**

-When you are attempting a come-hither-glance-quickly-look-away-move, and you accidentally stab yourself in the nose with your straw. 

-When I dance.

*Matthew & I discovered that one years ago.

**People will just think you own a lot of ugly underwear.

I'm taking you hostage.

Please tell your family, this is my list of demands:

- A case of Fudgesicles (not chocolate popsicles)

- Altogether more Amanda Fucking Palmer

- A very french striped shirt ala Jean Seberg

- The Freaks & Geeks DVD.

- A red polka-dot dress. 

- Playtime with a cool dog in a park.

- A parrot.

When my demands are met, me & my parrot & you will go watch Freaks and Geeks on DVD and then have a picnic. Your family will be all like "What is this noise? We thought this was a kidnapping!" and you'll say, "Nah, just fuckin' with you." 

Parrots live for like... forever. So, you're probably going to have babysit it sometimes.  

Biting my tongue.

Here are some things I have been too classy a person to say out-loud over the last few days, but which I really really wanted to express*: 

"Put a leash on your dog."**

"Please pull your pants up madam, we've all just seen your ass-crack."

"It is absurd that none of you have ever heard the term "fag-hag" - you shouldn't bandy it about, but you must have at least heard of it before."

"When you call someone an "ignorant female" it makes you sound unbelievably trashy - seems about right." 

"You really need to do something about your lack of eyebrows."

"Suck a cock. Oh wait, no one would let you near one, would they?"

"Clearly, I'm talking to a fucking lunatic. I'm gonna go sit over there." 

And finally, the thing I've wanted to say so often, but haven't: "Fuck off, you doughy faced bitch."

*Not even one of these is to a customer. 
**Yeah, not talking about a canine here.

Presumed failure as a crime scene witness.

I would make the very worst crime scene witness. See, I have a really awful memory for people - routinely forgetting who the hell you are at any given opportunity - it's like I don't fully absorb strangers' faces. This is an annoying trait to have at my job as people will come in multiple times and it's obvious that I helped them before by their demeanor and conversation. As they trill "Durr, I bet you're sick of seeing my face!", I have to fake acknowledgement because really no, I'm not sick of seeing their face, because my brain is telling me in no uncertain terms that I have never seen their face before in my whole life.

It's not exclusively work related of course - I've been introduced to lots of my boyfriend's friends who I really wouldn't be able to pick out of a crowd. Usually, since I'm never quite sure if I've met the person before, if Ben didn't make a point of introducing me during the particular confusion-inducing interaction, then I assume that we have met and afterward ask him "Who was that person and why am I supposed to know who they are?"

When Mary and I lived together in Etobicztan, I was introduced to several of the girls in her Theatre Production program. Even though these young women looked exactly-nothing alike, I could not for the life of me keep any of them straight. She would mention one of her school friends, and I'd ask "Is that the blond one?", exasperated and baffled Mary would have to explain that no, it wasn't the blond one, it was a girl I had met at least 6 times previously. News to me.

So I really would be a terrible crime scene witness. If asked to describe someone I've only seen once and in the lightening fast instance of say, a robbery taking place, I suspect all I'd be able to tell the police would be "Um... it was a dude. About... dude height."  

Lady Website (a website for ladies.)

So, I still read Jezebel most days even though I'm not much of a fan (I really like one of the writers on there, she hardly posts anymore, but I keep looking, hoping that she does) Like most internetty places, they have their strengths and their weaknesses. Most people familiar with the site are either terrified of their commenting community or part of it themselves... or both.

Personally, I lean toward terrified.

A thing I've noticed though is that it's almost like they'd rather you not read any other lady-centric blogs. Or, at least a lot of their commenters (and contributors) really have their noses in the air about other websites. It's like because they've picked Jezebel to be their home-base, that makes other publications unworthy by-default. And they're mean about it!

When Jezebel wrote about the launch of xoJane, the commenters had lots of fun, calling the site "shallow" and "vapid" and making fun of editor Jane Pratt. Nice!

I've enjoyed most of what I've read on xoJane - it's filled with mostly-fun editorials by several writers, including Emily McCombs who used to do the amaze-balls A Woman's Perspective video series. Her post about being friended on Facebook by a man who raped her is, by the way, anything but vapid. And yes, there is a lot of articles on the site about bleaching your eyebrows and peeing while you run, but damn it, those are really fun to read!

People seem to like rolling their eyes at the newly launched Hello Giggles too. Now, nobody is going to be able to say the name of that site with a straight face (The Frisky is also burdened by a We-dare-you-to-be-too-embarrassed-by-our-name-to-read-us situation, and it survives) but some of the content is pretty cute. There is plenty of room on the internet for places that piss you off about the world AND simultaneously, a crafting feature with Zooey Deschanel.  Right?

I guess that's all my point is... there is plenty of room! There should be lots of websites targeted toward women (and men, and trans people, and everyone!), and audiences should be free to visit as many of them as they like, without one of the other sites feeling threatened. I mean, who only looks at one site anyway? The wonders of the internet would be pretty boring if you just went one place and called it a day.

The great thing about all the blogs that I've mentioned is that they are each giving more women writers the opportunity to be published and read. The more sites dedicated to providing content more-or-less specific for women, then the more women's voices get heard. Ladies need the content, ladies make the content - and ladies with lots of different interests (as ladies are prone to have) get lots of different choices to pick from in many domains.  

I'm also going to take this opportunity to link The Hairpin, because it's pretty much my favourite. They've got everything: rotating advice columnists, videos on how to do your hair that I find impossible to follow, terribly funny articles, and just lots of other good stuff. Go there. It can be your one site.

Ben's Dream

Ben: I just remembered I had a dream where I was walking around all night, and I passed a street performer playing the saxophone.

 

Marg: Sexy!*

 

Ben: As I walked by he started to play the Pink Panther theme, so I started "walk-dancing" to the music. I stuck around and did it through the whole song, and when he finished I went to put some money in his saxophone case, but he wouldn't accept it because my dancing was too awesome.

 

Marg: hahahaha. Go Dream You!

 

Ben: Hahah. Yeah. And then it was morning, so I went to a comic store I'd never been to, and the owner immediately recognized me and wanted me to draw comics for him daily for free.

 

Marg: And did you?

 

Ben: No. I told him I'd be too busy to do comics for free these days.

 

Marg: Too busy dancing.

 

Ben: Damn straight.

 

 

*Sexy Sax! 

Fishing for compliments.

I love getting complimented. It's great. I take it exceedingly well.

I'm 100% not the type of person to throw your compliment back in your face either. Some people respond to compliments as though they have just been attacked... "What? No, my hair looks gross today, you're crazy!" "You like this sweater? I think I look so fat in it." Personally, I will probably just beam and thank-you graciously. I do this because when I tell someone something nice about themselves, I always really mean it. "You're just saying that because you're my friend and you have to" is utter bullshit to me, seriously. I don't have to tell you anything. No one is putting a gun to my head and making me tell you that you look nice. It's technically easier to say nothing at all. So, in that regard, I never assume that if you're saying something nice about me that it being said under duress... unless of course I've demanded you list off reasons why you like me*. 

Sometimes I wonder why people choose the compliments that they use, and certainly have taken pause at some word choices in the past. For example, being called a "stone cold fox" is pretty much ah-mah-zing**, but once when referred to non-ironically as someone's "princess", I pretty much barfed. I get it - the intent was to tell me how special I am, but fuck that noise - I may be useless and get myself kidnapped and stuck in towers, but I am not entitled about it! 

The best compliments are the simplest ones, usually. If I think you're terribly clever, I like to let you know "you are terribly clever", I'm probably not going to go over the top and tell you that you're the smartest person on the whole planet unless I am having fun with hyperbole. Which to be fair, I often do.

On the other hand, there are the wildly specific, delightful sorts of compliments that are also just fantastic, "I like your bizarrely expressed confidence" for example, followed by examples of. Or, "your ears are the nicest ears I've ever snuzzled." Perfection!

Compliments from strangers are another ballgame all together, and I don't often shell them out myself. Some people however manage to do it just right... like that time I was being shown an apartment by this French guy. I told him that the fixtures of the place were beautiful to look at, and he said (very frenchily), "If I may say so, you are as well." Said by anyone else, that would have been terrifying! He made it work. 

A good rule of thumb might be that if you are not a bohemian looking French man, perhaps you shouldn't say things like that.

Lots of things seem wonderfully flattering when said by those you know, but just don't work in the context of strangers. If someone you have a longstanding flirtation with sends you a text that says you looked so wonderful that they couldn't keep their eyes off you all night, then you giggle and blush and smile charmingly just in case that's true and they are looking at you this very second. If that text comes from an unknown number, your first instinct should be to reach for your pepper spray.

For those with issues giving compliments, I direct you to this episode of David Mitchell's Soapbox. (Even those without issues shall enjoy). "Anna, you look absolutely radiant. Brenda you're looking perfectly acceptable. Clara, you're also here." 

*Ben is so lucky. 

** Give Happy Endings a chance!