i'll keep mine if you keep yours

1 ) sleep in less.
2) get more sleep.
3) avoid contradictions.
4) make money. and save it.
5) avoid being miserly.
6) take the stairs because it’s good for me, and not cause I’m afraid of the elevator.
7) tuesday matinees on most tuesdays.
8) delay less. now works.
9) consider myself lucky.
10) just. stay. calm.

We'll reconvene before 2K10.

204eva

be-fur and after

As per a previous post, my faux fur has found a new home.

I should have just left it tucked away in the overhead compartment after landing. But, in the spirit of global warming, and a (kinda) collapsing economy, we must reduce, reuse and recycle.

So, instead of throwing it out, I decided to pass it over to a new owner - one who just happens to look adorable in everything.

I, on the other hand, hit the ‘Village’ in search of a new coat. After looking no more than five minutes, Mom and I dug up a new one. It’s real (I swear), so it ran me about twenty dollars more than my phony - for the real deal, that isn't half bad. And, the plus side is that, unlike the last one, this one won't need to be brushed.

(this is how you pose on a fashion blog, right?)

aint nothing silly (puddy) about it

I thought I was sick of electroni-crap club bangers. And, I am. If your name is Gaspard – I do not care for you. However, exceptions can always be made if the time is right. And the time is now.

While I’m sure most people, like me, have grown tired of rhythmically stamping their feet, with one fist pumping in the air, eyes closed and lips pursed, to the sounds of lasers and digitalized children’s laughter, I’d encourage you to hang on just a little while longer.

Better late than never. And in this case, the wait was well worth it.

Zion I is an all-time favourite. Their name in itself incorporates two of my all-time favourite things. This song would be another.

no olives

Once upon a time, in a sizable condo, way above the bright lights of OsbourneTown, apart from the petty hustle-bustle of late night city traffic, and safe from the frosty Manitoban temperatures, a princess finally turned 21.

Since the princess was not able to celebrate her coming of age until she was freed from the wicked studio crit’s dungeon, her celebration was delayed by a week, which felt like an eternity.

Alas, the princess’ royal court assembled at 9:00 (but not promptly) to gift their sovereign with coffee table books and fur accessories.

(The fairy tale theme seemed [somehow] applicable being that Kathleen got her camera stuck on sepia tone all night long; one of the needless albeit amusing options provided on her Cannon Power Shot SD1000. You're obviously jealous. Oh. Just cameraless me? Ok.)

Happy birthday, Madi!

And thank you, Cliffy. Always the host with the most.

home fur the holidays

Just like the book is always better than the movie, the original trumps the remake, and Zeppelin will always trounce Wolfmother, so goes the tenet for faux fur. The copy cat might get to gloat, but the real McCoy will have the glory.

Donning a mock mink undoubtedly has its advantages. For one, make-believe beaver pelts won’t ever break the bank, and if you should find yourself surrounded by a mob of angry granola-dykes and covered in red paint, it’s really no one’s loss. However, there is one unavoidable downfall to wearing a counterfeit coat. And that is, well, it’s just not real.

Fur is a symbol of decadence and wealth. When the coat you tote is a phony, it’s an affront to those merits. Whether it’s directed at your purse, or your watch, or your tits, no one ever wants to be questioned on legitimacy. What’s worse, though, is when you’re not asked, but rather accused, pin pointed or pegged – point blank.

Racing the clock in Toronto Pearson Airport, I tossed my luggage on to the bag scale. Slapping my flight itinerary down in front of the woman at the counter, I heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to miss my flight, after all.

“How many bags will you be checking?”

“Two,” I relplied.

“Did anyone help you pack these bags?” **

“No,” I say. Watching the time, I tap my fingers on the counter top. She peers over her screen to look at my hand, as if the sound of the tapping is somehow stopping her from clicking her own French tips on the keyboard and getting me aboard on time.

“Are you bringing with you any hunting bounty?”

Seriously. She asked me this. Obviously looking puzzled by the novel airport query (and I do believe I’ve heard them all….) she continued.

“Like antlers, hides…anything like that?”

I stared blankly at her, and thought I’d counter her fantastic question with a response of equal or greater fanaticism.

“Well, I did just hunt this one (pointing to my coat) last week in High Park…”

Blatantly displeased, and with the same sordid absence of humour shared by all airport employees, she uncouthly retorted, without looking up:

“That’s clearly not real.”

WHAM! Just like that. Suddenly I felt absolutely exposed. What a wench. Sure, I’m flying economy class, and have a Loblaw’s shopping bag as a carry-on, but who’s to say that I’m not the type to wear the real deal?

The truth is, as my mother explained to me while brushing my phony fur out in the kitchen this morning (yes, I brush it), that I take things too personally, and that the woman didn’t mean it as a slight to me. She meant it to the coat, which according to Ma, looks just about as real as Joan Rivers.

Maybe this means I need a new jacket, but until I either win the lottery, or inherit my mother’s, I’ll wear this fake with pride. Real pride.

Or, I’ll borrow the old lady's, at least until I go back.

** This is a trick question. I have learned this through a few years of independent travel. I used to always nod yes, and explain that my mother helped me pack the night before. This would usually delay my boarding process by about half an hour, and I would be forced to answer a series of interrogation style questions. What does she do for a living? Was she ever alone with the bags? Although I don’t share a last name with my mother, I think it would be a safe bet made by anyone to assume that her’s is not Bin Laden. Nevertheless, I have learned to answer ‘no’ to that question, and now I usually have time to get a pre-departure snack before take off.

www.isdom

Grandparents are most excellent. They feed you. They brag about you. They slip money into your purse when they know you really need it, and you're too ashamed to beg. They're the best friend you didn't have to ask for, and they ask for nothing in return.

And although they may be of the traditional variety, they might wear tracksuits and Reeboks six days a week, drink Metamucil, vote conservative, and think that wiping schmotz off my face with a wet thumb in public is a mitzvah - who says that they're in any way behind the times?

Recently, my grandparents have added a new book to their list of favourites. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, anything in the "Chicken Soup for The Soul" series, and now, Facebook.

Yes, Facebook. And like the hamisha homshey torah, they use Facebook to teach me valuable life lessons. Of course, they have instilled a firm set of principles to which I happily adhere. I don't kill. I don't cheat. I don't covet my neighbour's wife (often). And now, thanks to the Good Book, Facebook, I do not give my number out online. Her answer might seem quick and crass, but that's just her way. That, and it isn't easy to type with long nails and loads of flea market bling.

You might think it odd that my Bubbie has a Facebook account. At first, I would have agreed. No grandmother should ever be privy to pictures of her living legacy lapping up liquor, with one nipple hanging out, a cigarette in the left while playfully giving the finger with the right. Luckily, I don't go to University of Western Ontario – so pictures of that nature won’t ever exist.

Facebook actually comes in quite handy for us as she spends the winter playing mah-jong with the Freemans, Glickmans, Schickmans and Steins in Florida, whilst I freeze said nipples off in Toronto.

You should add her. Seriously. She is presently looking for "random play", and she's just about the best lady I know.

can't hardly weight

To quote a painfully over-quoted John Denver song:
All my bags are packed, and I'm ready to go...

In this case, as in most cases, 'ready' would be the operative word. I have this awful habit certain inclination to constantly be prepared for, well, everything. I won't leave the house without all the necessary house-leaving accoutrements. For most people, this would mean keys, cell phone, wallet, identification and lipstick. For me, this means keys, cell phone, wallet, identification (two kinds), lipstick (two kinds), gum (two kinds), snacks, pens, matches, reading material, day planner, Advil, reading glasses, sunglasses, lip chap, hand cream, perfume sample, Band-Aids (circular blister size), tissue, all of my receipts, tampons (all month-round) and a second pair of mittens. This way, I won't be ill equipped for anything.

In addition to being a notoriously heavy packer [and an inadvertently proud pack-rat] I also pack early. Too early, in fact. Example: I am leaving for a visit home on Wednesday. My bags have been packed since Thursday. Last Thursday. There they sit, next to my dining room table, in all of their neatly stuffed glory, just waiting to be hauled into a cab and then shoved onto a conveyor belt by some WestJet betty named Chelsea-Lynn.

Walking into the kitchen last week, my roommate looked down at the bags (two kinds) on the floor.

"Carli! Look at that. Why, you're all packed," she says.

She sounds impressed. What's not to be impressed about? I'm organized. I'm tidy. I'm methodical in my preparation for departure, as well as for most other things. To make a functional 90's reference, I'm like Monica from Friends - on copious amounts of Dexedrine, and very little sleep.

I suppose I have saved myself some time. Freed up a few hours that I can now spend doing work, and bidding my friends farewell. But while I bask in the vastness of my open schedule, they’re all scrambling to meet deadlines, write papers, and finals, and, of course, pack their own bags to go home.

And the worst part is, while I sit alone and wait for everyone else to finish up, I'm forced to do so wearing the same outfit day-in-and-day-out, until I touchdown in Manitoba, and unpack these bloody, undoubtedly overweight bags.

the cat's pyjamas

Lately? I've been short on zzz's.

Tonight? Something to send me off to la - la - land, with la, la, love.

and it aint no use to sit and wonder why, bape.

I just can't wait to see you.

it can always be worse

With a roommate who spends half of her time uptown, and the other half at work, a boyfriend in another province, and HBO Canada on demand, I spend a lot of my time by my lonesome. Although I do, for the most part, treasure the solitude of an empty condo, a vacant kitchen, and a solo sleeping arrangement, I can’t help but feel lonely every once in a while. We’re talking innocuous isolation, nothing too Howard Hughes-ish, but certain seclusion nonetheless.

I can't afford to 'socialize' every night, and AV & SNP can't be expected to ditch their families and lovers all the time. So, the other night, like many nights, feeling low, and lonely, I propped my laptop on the pillow next to me in bed. I clicked on google videos, and typed ‘documentaries’ into the search bar.

(FUN FACT: I often fall asleep to the sound of a documentary. Something about the pace and the Mr. Movie Phone rhetoric sends me adrift in only a matter of minutes.)

This night, however, I reviewed my options. The Patriotic Doc? No thanks, Michael Moore. The Farce Doc? I watched Colbert already. The Conspiracy Doc? I said no thanks, Michael. Jesus. Doesn’t anyone else want to win an IDA in this lifetime?

But there, three pages in, I found my treasure. It’s called “Guys and Dolls”. I clicked it, and suddenly, my loneliness was pacified, placated and, POOF, gone for good.

Click here to kiss self-pity goodbye, and feel instantly, unequivocally better about being alone.

And if you’re not alone, watch it anyway, and share the absurdity with a friend. It’s that good.

another dawn, another dollar

Over the course of this weekend, I've gained an entirely new respect for hookers, and pushers, and owls, and ER doctors – or any form of nocturnal vocation that I've never seriously considered. Worry not, though. Naturally (and gratefully), my weekend has been consumed by a commission that is socially and morally docile, or at least more so than a few of the aforementioned pursuits. Be it respectable, legal, illicit, or amiss; if you're working overnight, I salute you. Nothing says a 'job well done' better than just barely beating the sun home. And while I'm sure the weekend will catch up with me shortly, I'm happy to forfeit Sunday morning, readjust my clocks, and count out my money.

salon 1504

Yesterday, the great and powerful Nathan Rival visited my apartment again, tools in hand and ready to work. This time, however, his mission wasn't my mane, but rather the lovely locks of my charming friends.

Both Alison Violet and Sarah were in desperate need of a haircut. Alison Violet, in an attempt to grow it long, had left her tresses untouched for over a year. Sarah, who cuts more frequently, required some reshaping – and both of them needed it now.

The girls arrived at two, jumped into my shower, and then, one after the other, sat down with Nathan at my kitchen table. After some chit-chat, and a short but uncomfortable trip down to Russ' for "necessary supplies", the chopping and coloring began.

For Sarah, it just took a few quick clips of the shears.

"Eventually," she said, "I want it to grow out and look like this."

In order to do that, he would have to realign her asymmetrical style, and crop it evenly on both sides. According to him, in just a few more months she should be well on her way to Lanphear-land.

Alison Violet's requisite enterprise, however, wasn't as speedy. In fact, it took quite a while. But, good things come to those who wait, and furthermore, those who wait for Nathan. Known for her lengthy ginger hair, AV wanted to give her colour some much needed consideration. After a quick jaunt to the salon supply shop at Dundas and University, Nathan and AV returned with two tiny boxes that would, somehow, create the perfect colour.

Middle part, side part, middle part and four hours later, AV revealed her nouveau coiffure – in timely accordance with her upcoming birthday, to boot.

(You should give our guy a try.)