they say vitamin D cures seasonal depression...

I slept in this morning, a whole two hours longer, and didn't feel guilty at all. I made some coffee, and a few phone calls, threw in a load of whites, and went outside in my pyjamas to eat on my balcony. No jacket. No slippers. Just me and Randy Moss enjoying the sunshine on a Friday morning.

Kate left her book on the table by the door. The Bell Jar, which (I know, I know) I have never actually read myself. I took it out to the balcony with my coffee and my bagel and my laptop, and sat down to read. Without page markers. Without highlighters. Without any of the school-reading accoutrements that I have toted around with me since the leaves turned brown. It dawned on me then that it really is summer now. I can read whatever I want, whenever I want, without interrupting the text with quick blocks of neon.

And I have a very tall stack of books collecting dust in my "when-I-have-some-time" book pile. It is next to my box of socks to organize, my stories to (finally) file, and all of my onesies and jellies that have been waiting so patiently to get out.

Uncle Marty, can we go for a boat ride?

my weekly muse-ings

There must be something in the water in Malawi, because this girl can truly do no wrong.

Off work at ten. Pit stop at home. Seven minutes later, this (down, below) is what we get. Every. Single. Time.

Fantastically petite, bite-sized, polly-fucking-pocket perfection. What a bitch.

But do we hate her? Couldn't if we tried.

No doubt her wears have been excavated from deep within a cavernous, heaping laundry hamper, or from off the floor of her shared accommodation. Certainly a shower wasn't viable due to the tick-tock, and a flat iron, blow-dryer or any form of aerosol has been left untouched, unused, unplugged. Prints and plaids and tiny little shoes for her tiny little feet, cat eyes, and big, heavy jewels that could sink her stone.

Mini but mighty, Hannah Sider, with her signature smirk, rocks me, quakes me, and charms me time and time again. The best? She really, honestly, doesn't even try.

[see: those who are "trying-to-not-try-to-look-like-I-tried"]

many happy returns of the day...

Without her, I'd probably starve. And next to her, I look like snow.
The bestest living partner in all of Toronto is one year older today.
Smart, beautiful, and kicks a killa dutty whine on the flow.
If I could upload her theme song, I would.
I love you, Kate. Happy Birthday!

ad-vice

Clichés are so problematic in that they're almost always entirely contradictory. Granted, I use them, though I don't always understand them. For instance, you always hear the age old dictum that there can't ever be too much of a good thing, and in the same breath, that everything is good within moderation.

Then I find myself wondering what defines 'too much' and what exactly is 'moderation'?

How can you tell when you've gone too far, when you've blurred the line between sensible indulgences and major indecencies? How do you decide when to just give something up, put something down, throw something out, or just fucking move on, already?

When one glass of wine turns into an empty bottle in your hands, secured just barley by a weakened grasp, and bison turn into buffalo, turn into bison, turn into happy tears among friends, and torrents of text messages returned or unread, hand crafted with good intentions by the tips of other peoples' fingers.

There are so many things that I should be doing right now – 'right now' of both the literal and elusive variety. I have exams to study for. A trip to plan. A job to secure. And an outfit to find for tonight. Guess which item sits atop my dreaded list of things to do.

Lets just say I'm not working on my resume.

My friends and I have spent a few weeks discussing these conflicting mock-truisms. Are we playing with fire, or are we just getting warmed up. As another cliché would warn, if one plays with fire, then one gets burned. Do you ever get close enough just to feel the heat and retreat to the safe zone, or do the sprinklers go off without warning?

None of us really want to get burned. Maybe just a little bit wet, though.

breaking up the "right way" the wrong way

Sitting in a Tims, knuckles deep in donuts, I spent the better part of an afternoon trying to convince my friend that she hadn't committed any crime.

It's been no real sweat of her perfectly shaped brow, she hasn't lost any sleep or found comforts in too-much-food. She's been going about things as if nothing even happened. None of it. Not just the break-up, but the relationship itself. In light of that, ever since the day she cut him loose, she has been on a 5-star, all expenses paid guilt trip. And for what?

"I just feel like I did it wrong, you know?"
No. I really don't know. There isn't any right way to do it, just like there is never a good time, or a perfect rhetoric to use.
"And I didn't even give him a good reason!"
You didn't have to. It's not a job. He wasn't employed as your boyfriend, he wasn't paid by the hour, nor was he offered a salary. You didn't need to give him two-weeks notice before quitting the relationship, and you also don't need a reason for terminating his contract – because there was none. No contract. Nothing in writing. No possessions to divide. No kids to bribe one way or the other when the house is sold and the lawyers paid.

Move on with your life. He'll move on too. Eat your donuts and drink your coffee and be happy because you did nothing wrong by way of default. There is no "right way" to tell a boy who loves you to ef oh, so by the laws of reason, there is no wrong way either. There isn't. And there is no such thing as a unicorn, or too many tacos, or too few bad decisions to be made when you're young, and impressionable, and single in a big city.

The right way aint real, smurphy. Go out tonight and get on with it, already.

saut!

The clock is tick, tick, ticking.
Only 29 more nights in the city that never seldom sleeps.
Ditching the streetcar for cab-rides, lending out outfits and watching pretty little girls bounce around in them, taking in reality TV and dusting my nose with powdered donuts next to the people I love;
All on account of pleasant moods, all on account of longer days and louder nights, "crab" & "rangoon",
sunshine and vitamin D,
good grades, no money and new plans.
All on account of spring, spring, we're sprung!

*I stole this op from a stranger's blog. Thank you anonymous donor.

memorandum: 04/02/2008

MEMO: to the girl walking down Shuter Street & Victoria at 1:45 p.m on Monday, April 1^st
RE: It's not fucking summer yet

Dear Freezing Cold Idiot Girl,

Returning from a morning jaunt with the ladies during my day-off from classes, I turned down Shuter street to head home and nurse my freshly acquired aesthetic-wounds. To my dismay, after what was starting out to be a glorious day, I was met by you; my biggest pet peeve, my personal bete noire.

Why is it that on the first day that the temperature cracks +5, you feel it appropriate to wear sandals, shorts, skirts or bare legs of any kind?

It's not. I know you're cold. You know you're cold. But for some strange reason, and maybe it's because that hideous pouf you're sporting (you know the one, don't lie) is clipped too tightly, you don't seem to think that I know that you know that you're obviously very, very cold. So cold that your nips are pitching tents inside that air-bra of yours.

Please, don't be ridiculous. It's April. This is Toronto. Unclip your "side-bangs" (which by the way aren't bangs at all, they're just pieces of hair that you've asked to have cut at some silly mid-length because you feel that cutting real bangs might be too bold of a decision, and we all know that hair doesn't grow back, UGG boots are purely for warmth, and your nose job was a medical-must since you have a "deviated septum" from your Jew-school basketball career back in grade 7) and put on a jacket. A light jacket. Even a sweater will do.

What makes you better than me? Why should I still be wrapping scarves and wearing socks, while you're out sauntering through the city streets in next-to-nothing, catching cold and looking stupid?

Since you obviously do not know which items are not acceptable to wear until it's at least warm enough to drink frappuccinos outside comfortably, or double up on your antiperspirant before walking to work, here they are, you asshole:

1. Shorts - I don't care if you're "walking home from the gym". Gyms have locker rooms. Put on some fucking pants
2. Skirts - Pantyhose and tights are not only nice looking, but functional
3. Sandals - See those big wet spots on the pavement? Those are puddles from melting snow. Until those are gone, put your "havaianas" back in the closet
4. Capri-length Spandex - Just don't ever do that

I really hope this helps, for your sake and mine. I'm sure in some other life, some other world, another wardrobe, you and I could have maybe been friends.

Sincerely,
Carli

p.s. I took a picture of you on my phone, and I think you saw me do it. Lucky for you, I hate grainy cell phone pictures and wouldn't taint my blog with such smut.

israeli exports

Bisli, Tzahal T-shirts, Bar Rafaeli.
Question: What more can the U.S.A. (unoriginal states of ameri-can't) steal?
Answer: Yael Naim is now being featured in a Mac Book commercial.
She should have never learned English.

best worn with bible-belt

I truly believe that Chloe Sevigny is the only person in this world who could make polygamy look hip. I would never share my man with her, but I most certainly would share my clothes.

The plans for our trip to the biggest, bestest Apple are well underway. Prick suggested we make a stop by Opening Ceremony, where we will strictly just be "browsing", not touching, buying, wearing, keeping, owning, cherishing, or loving forever and ever. Tear.

The reason, obviously, would be to see Sevigny's line.

Out of all of the celebrity-conceived clothing lines released in the past year or so (not much competition, thank you Lauren Conrad) it's surprisingly the most digestible. Naturally, it's rather Quaker-chic, perhaps she drew inspiration from her Big Love wardrobe, but it's different, and it's creative, all together cohesive, and it looks like she might have actually designed it herself – a fresh idea in the world of celebrity fashion.

Alas, nothing entirely new, and nothing I've never seen or wouldn’t expect to see in H&M, but it sure beats the pants off of Jovovich-Hawk.

It takes a very secure woman to wear taupe and fawn dominated florals and still feel sexy.
Congrats to Chloe, and Bea Arthur.

DIY: professional pencil pushing

It feels as if everyone's a bloody Arthur Baldwin Turnure these days. I say this with the utmost respect, and a pinch of envy. I've been limiting my 'social experience' lately because school has been so demanding. It's hard to get around in heels while your ankle is chained to a lap-top, proverbially speaking, that is.

And I find myself frustrated beyond words, which is troublesome in that words are what I'm banking on, and often find myself looking for ways to cut corners. If actions speak louder than words, and here we are again with a conflict of interest, then perhaps I should be actively pursuing the field, rather than sunning myself on the lawn of academia.

Adrian and Sarah are preparing to launch a magazine. And the plan isn't just a composite of fluffy rhetoric and wishful thinking. They're actually gonna do it, folks! And I attended another magazine launch on Monday, only finding the time today to breeze through the matte pages of the product over caffeine, with the dynamic duo.

If anyone can throw a collection of pseudo-clever observations at a stock pile of graphic art, call it a quarterly and publicly celebrate it – then why can't everyone?

Today we talked about spending time with people who enthuse you, or motivate you, the type "AV's" that make you go home with an empty coffee cup and contemplate your comparatively languid lifestyle. Or at least challenge the prerogative of Conde Nast.

And tomorrow is already Thursday.