Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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.)
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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.
Monday, December 8, 2008
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
You should add her. Seriously. She is presently looking for "random play", and she's just about the best lady I know.
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.