this april foolishness

"I'm so bored," she said, her shoes clicking hard on the pavement, heading eastbound in what should have been more of a hurry.

"Bored right this second, or bored with everything?" I asked, partly out of curiosity, and partly because it seemed like the right thing to ask.

"I don't know. Maybe once it gets warmer…" she answered, partly because she meant it, and partly because it seemed like the right thing to answer.

These are the days of our younger lives. Enjoy them while you can, I always tell myself. And while worthy opportunities arise, and the jackets and socks come off to stay off, there is still a sense of static that I cannot seem to shake.

Then, we're sitting in makeup chairs: ultra white lids and red lips to match. The overall ambience is Redbull, and there are clipboards and there is shouting, and there is nothing "good" to read. And I think to myself how lucky I should feel, and should have always felt, to try new things, walk in different shoes, meet new faces and choose whose I'll remember and whose I'll eventually forget.

And I sneeze as I go, and I wonder if people will choose to remember that, too.

What feels like seconds later, the congested setting becomes a darker, comparably empty bar. Sitting together in (what I would define as) a spontaneous gathering of friends, we discus communism, and Kool Moe Dee, and decide which of us looks most Jewish, ex-evangelical company included. I win, but it's a close tie.

"See, this is nice," she turns to me and smiles. "Isn't this fun? Just going out, without a plan, meeting people for a drink on a Tuesday?"

She says without a plan like one might speak to a wayward kid caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar. It's something I vowed to work on. Spontaneity (not eating fewer cookies). She was just reminding me, I guess.

"I'm really glad we got to hang out," the other said, peering through signature specs and sweeping hair. And although I'm not sure I said it back, I felt the same, most genuinely. Chivalrous men are rarely available (to me; or most women), but I'll still take it where I can get it. He closed the cab door behind me, and instructed the driver, through the open windows, to get me home in one piece. I watched his curls get smaller and smaller as we drove, and I couldn't believe how quickly the night passed, or how good it felt to take off my shoes.

Today it's (only) 13 and sunny. I don't have all that much to do, next to study, but somehow I don't feel bored. Not even at all.

"happy mini egg day"

Easter. A time for giving, and caring, and chocolate.

I don’t celebrate Easter. We've been absolved, but it's still not my party.

I've been toting a sizable box of styrofoam flat bread around in my bag for days. I also carry a plastic knife and a jar of peanut butter. Me, my mobile pantry and my hollow stomach are celebrating Passover while everyone else takes the weekend off to hunt for foil covered eggs.

Last night though, in the spirit of giving, and caring, and chocolate, I was invited to an Easter feast. And feast we did. Vegan soup that wets the ap and 'huggs' the soul, a bird, some starches, and a banana cream pie.

I've never understood the relationship between clucking bunnies and resurrections, and I've never appreciated the weekend wine store lockdown, or the redundancy of Easter Sunday re-runs, but I did have a fantastic time with everyone around the table.

lunch bunch

One by one, waiting for our cards to go through at a restaurant that looks like it shouldn’t take cards, the long-haired hostess in the ringer-tee (ugh, I know) surveys the three of us. We're already one short from the original group. She had a meeting. We had nothing else to do but hold the table and get refills.

"So, how do you all know each other?"

An odd question. Do we really look that 'chalk and cheese'? Or better yet, is it any of your business?

"We go to school together," I say, taking the debit receipt from her fingers. Approved.

Thank goodness.

"Oh, really?! Where!?"

We've all paid. The conversation should be spent by now, too.

"Ryerson," Katy says.

"Oh, really, so cool, for what program?"

Today, Tara happens to have really dressed the part. Paper folded beneath trench sleeve, fedora tipped down, piped stockings, shined shoes. So fitting, too fitting, almost costume-like in daytime. Like a method actor, only not acting.

"Journalism," Katy says. The hostess sings a chorus of admiration. We're momentarily made proud, feeling self-satisfied and important. But then we remember what it's really like. We deflate as we walk home, but agree unanimously to go on promoting what is hardly more than a reputation and a heap of student debt. The truth might sting, but it certainly won't hurt us in the long run.

the suspense is killing me…

me, myself, and i.

Keeping busy has been the name of the game. And busy I've been (almost) keeping. Lately, the standard forces of 'busy' have abandoned me as the school year comes to a close, and packing to move is no longer on my list of things to do. My days have been a little bit freer, and just when I need distractions the most. Because of this, I've needed to realign my schedule, pull out all of the coloured pens and scribble colourful plans into all of the empty grey spaces that once were reserved for critical papers and phone calls.

Everyone always talks about girls needing 'me' time. But if you've ever met a 20-something with a vagina and 647 area code, you quickly come to learn that 'me' time is a redundancy. Nevertheless, these past few weeks have been about me, and me alone, and me – alone. By choice or not, I've had to start consciously putting myself first, taking time out, making myself happy, blah blah blah Oprah Winfrey. I got a pedicure. I bought new jeans. I've been to McDonald's (more times than I'll ever admit). I've been doing things because I want to, and not because I have to – but I'm quickly learning that 'me' time comes at a price.

Lunch for two: $20.00
Cab to Doctor: $8.45 + tip (It was pouring and my umbrella wont open, ok?)
Red Wine: $12.95
"You know, Sparkling White Wine": $8.50 (Nothing but the best for my woman.)
Studded leggings: $45.00
Subway: $2.75, or $3 if you don't want to wait for change, and I don't.
Drinks and Motown: $45.00
Cab West: $4.00
Cab East: $10.00
Petit Dejeuner: $15.00
Making some 'Me' Time: I'd say priceless, but that would be both lame, and untrue.

Actually, the truth is that 24 hours later, 'me' is banking a pretty serious fucking tab. I don't know how much longer I can afford to keep the meter running for 'me'. And sure, there are simpler pleasures without pricetags. Say, I could go for a walk with my iPod. But then I would probably need a coffee ($2.00), and when I sit and have my coffee, I'll probably need a magazine ($9.00), and if I'm going to read my magazine, I'm probably going to need a snack, and before you know it, I'm back at McDonalds, counting my change and eating my feelings.

But if the cost of keeping 'me' happy, by keeping 'myself' busy, means 'I' will have to work a few more shifts this week – c'est la vie. Because from now on, it's just you and me, 'me', so we're going to have to learn to get along.

nose(talgic)

After many long months of searching for just the right scent, and going through two bottles of 'doable' perfumes that I love (but can live without if I had to), I feel I've finally found the best very best fragrance (for me). Week after week, I have dragged different friends - a fresh set of nostrils, a new eau de parfum perspective - with me to go sniffing.

There, I line up three or four different options that I've been mulling over, and ask them to smell each one. I'll then encourage them to take a few things into account before making any calls:

1) Summer is within reach, so the scent mustn't be too heavy.

2) It must be unique. I don't want to be stopped on the street by "OH EM GEE! Are you wearing (*insert top categorical high-school sellers here*)!?"

3) And finally, it must be long lasting – both on my skin, and in your memory.

By the end, most of my shopping companions have a headache (from a combination of both too many smells, and too much pressure) and I leave again empty handed. Yesterday, after yet another unsuccessful trip to the store, I ate dinner with a friend. Despite some of the more serous things to discuss, like where I am going to live, and what I am going to do with my life (all hot questions this month), we began to talk toilettes.

"I don't understand why no one can help me make up my mind?"

"Like I've said to you about all choices in your life," she answered in her signature breathy voice, "you need to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks, and do what makes you happy."

What makes me happy. If anyone knew what would make them happy, and I mean really and truly satisfied, then there would be no need to make decisions, no need to bring out the old moral compass, and advice, both given and received, would be a thing of the past. It sounds ridiculous, I know, to compare fragrance shopping to the ultimate arrangement and preparation of my future, present, and past, but it somehow inimitably applies.

"My family makes me happy. My dog. My friends. Uh, Michael Jackson... Seafood...This wine is good... I like to watch Jeopardy…" All of the answers came surprisingly quick, and although playing P.Y.T. at an ungodly decibel won't bring me answers to all of my problems, it's certainly a start.

So today, I went back to the store - alone - in search of a scent that not only smells good, but sparks something (greater than a compliment) within me. I lined up my select favourites and smelled each one again. The first one, Bvalgari Jasmin Noir, smells dark, and warm, and then minutes later, like baby powder and brandy. It reminded me of the types of thick, nearly syrupy scents my mother used to wear when I was young. The ones I used to absolutely hate. The ones I thought smelled like permanent white board markers. The ones that would linger in the house after she'd left with my dad on weekends, while I'd sit, arms crossed, and resent the babysitter.

Then, I smelled Prada Milano. It was light, and fresh and smelled like what you'd imagine a tall pine to smell like… after it took a shower. It reminded me of my summers at camp, and no matter how awful 'free swim' hour was, how the combination of best friendships and the smell of air and grass and trees (cheesy, I know) kept me coming back every single year, until I stopped. Until I grew out of camp, and all of its lightness and freshness (but luckily not friendships).

Finally, I smelled Perles De Lalique, a perfume that I had nearly written off a few weeks ago due to its distinctive, if not odd bouquet. I picked it up and sprayed it on my wrist. It smelled patently like something. It smelled so much like something, and yet I couldn't quite pin what it was. So I stood there, eyes closed, in the middle of Sephora, amidst young girls buying bronzer and liquid eyeliner at forty bucks a pop, and smelled it again.

A cedar closet. My bubbie's cedar closet; filled with her old furs and expensive silk dresses, and lined along the top with sombreros, and other tokens of her travels with my zaida. As a kid, I used to spend hours in there, falling into the side racks and wrapping myself in her aged treasures, fingering the details on every cuff, every hem, every single stitch, dreaming of a day when I'd be big enough to try them all on. I didn’t know then that I would far outgrow my grandmother's 5 foot tall stature, and never be able to dawn a single garment without substantial alterations.

That closet, although containing riches I will never be able to wear myself, was a place where I felt happy, unequivocally. Thinking on it, if I could live in that closet, next to her fragile, material mementos, collapsing in her buttery yellow wedding dress and bristly mink coats, and I would never be plagued with the question of what makes me happy again.

And so, $96.50 (and free gift with purchase) later, my decision had been made.

If only everything were this easy.

the kids are our future

My kid sister (no relation to Melisa Young of Pro-Nail fame) fancies herself a social radical. Ironically, liking the song 'Pro Nails' is just one of the ways she attests to her rejection of common culture. Owning one American Apparel deep-v in every colour, and duplicate pairs of neon Nike high-tops, my tween-aged darling kin secretly believes herself to be God's gift to new rave.

She does get points, however, for denying the standard camel color Ugg boot, and in place choosing the newer, more palatable black leather variation on a confusing classic. But no matter her objectionable footwear, her all-together concept of 'cool' (right now) is as immature and undeveloped as her pimple-faced gym class cronies, dodging balls and hitting their inhalers like crackpipes. Soon, her tastes, like her bra size, will expand. But until then…

Her English teacher recently announced that their year-end assignment, making up the bulk of her grade, would be the production of a zine; an interesting and refreshing take on the customary 600-word ode to Anne Frank.

Each student was required to pick and submit their zine topic, which needed to be narrow and specific. Some of her friends have chosen Blair Waldorf, while others have selected Golden Retrievers. In her tireless quest to standout, Sonny, that's her name (as if that doesn't stand out enough), pitched perhaps one of the broadest topics in zine culture…ever.

Indie Music. And, it was unquestioningly accepted.

As she reported her news to me over the phone, I cringed at the thought of another pompous, indie-centric publication tangibly existing in my universe – even if it is just an assignment for Jew school. Then, she asked me if she could email me her her top ten list to look over. Of course, I agreed, but as I waited by my laptop I prepared myself for disappointment, while simultaneously practicing my "positive feedback".

It popped up in my inbox, and I opened the attachment. As I read my sister's little list, I felt a wash of pride and relief - and I even laughed a bit. It was so cute, and so clever that I just had to share it.

It may be clichéd, and dated in a 'Klosterman already made these jokes way back when people still read Klosterman' kinda way – but considering the fact that the only reading she's ever done is in Tigerbeat, I'd say this is a pretty nifty start to a pretty nifty zine. Don't you think?

How To Take Your Band and Make it "Indie"
'cause what does 'indie' really mean, anyway?

By: Sonny Rothman

1. Every band needs a name. Pick a word, any obscure word, and put “THE” in front of it.
(Eg: The Strokes, The Hives, The Blow)

2. Wear glasses? No? Buy some anyway, the thicker the frames the better.

3. Have a Facebook account? Delete it. Facebook is so yesterday, get a blog.

4. No matter who asks, your music style has been inspired by a mix of Joy Division meets Jeff Tweedy meets MJ (even though they sound nothing alike, and you have never really cared for them as artists).

5. Take all your Coldplay cd’s, and hide them. (Don't get rid of them though, Chris Martin is such an inspiration.)

6. No matter where you’re born, Winnipeg, Fargo, or PEI, adopt just the slightest British accent when you’re being interviewed. You'll sound more legit.

7. Smoke skinny cigarettes, even if you’re asthmatic. You don't need to inhale, they just help your image.

8. Never smile in pictures. 'Happy' is for Josh Groban.

9. Every time you release a single, send a copy to Steve Aoki and let him fully butcher it. Then, it can be played in American Apparel stores around the world. Cha-ching!

10. Under no circumstance do you EVER admit that you make you music for the fans. You’re an “Indie” artist; you make the music for you, and you only. (And then, charge your non-fans, who you don't care about at all, 4.99 per download on iTunes)

big fish; bigger pond

Sarah-Torialist Nicole Prickett

Makin mama proud, even thousdands of miles away.

something for the cheddarless

I suppose we can expect to hear less and less about that bastardly "bathing ape" on Flow 93.5 from now on.

(Not that I listen to Flow. Often. Only when I'm cleaning my apartment. Which I do daily.)

I found these eyesores among the housewares at a Salvation Army. They stood out like, ahem, well, like Bape products in any scenario. Apparently, S.A. hasn't fully developed their 'fresh gear' section yet. It's on their list of things to do after 'organize VHS reserve', and fix the shattered window front.

Too funny.

WARNING: honesty may contain negativity

The worst part about a good thing is that it will eventually end. We've all heard the saying about the glass. Either it's half-full, or it's half-empty. But really, no one is going to just sit and stare at a glass that's half-full anyways. They're going to do what they do with glasses, and that's drink from them. Eventually, the glass will become empty after so many sips. Of course, you could just look at the glass, maintaining it's half-fullness in all of it's half-full glory, and wait for the contents of the glass to either sour, ferment, or go flat, and then throw it all out anyway – but that would be far more wasteful and disheartening than an empty glass to begin with.

We'd be foolish to consider every positive scenario as a glass half-full, because everyone knows that a glass, no mater the volume of its contents, will eventually drain to nothing, evaporate into thin air, or rot. That's the nature of the glass, and the contents. Either we drink it, or we throw it away – nothing can stay "half-full" forever.

Such a stupid saying. And an even sillier concept.

I've had trouble accepting this throughout my life. I've been called pessimistic when challenging permanence. But, seriously, what is permanent? A physical scar? An emotional scar? A tattoo? Maybe I should get the image of a half-full glass tattooed to my ass to remind me, every time I get naked in front of a mirror, that I'm a cynical, naked, 20-something. Then maybe I'll understand, but not likely.

It's a skill to be able to live in the moment. To be able to take time and smell the flowers, and just for a second stop focusing on the fact that they were sent from a boyfriend exactly 2,229 kilometres away - someone that I can't ever see, or touch, or hear unless filtered through phone lines and long-distance charges.

My mother and sister came to visit for the weekend. Despite the dinners, and the movies, and the shopping, there is always this little voice in the background saying "only 4 more days…only 3 more days…only 2 more days." Of course, that voice, in this case, really did belong to my 14 year old sister who, despite the fun we were having, could not wait to get back home (to find out who-held-hands-with-whom while she was away). But, even if she wasn't here to mark the days as they passed, my own reasoning would be doing the same, focusing on how much time had gone, rather than how much time was left.

Now, they've left, too. I walked them to their cab just about an hour ago. I promised my mother, who could see the dark cloud rolling in, that I would go buy milk and get busy with my list of things to do. But I haven’t. My condo is quiet. Like, dead quiet. Pin-drop quiet. The bed is unmade, and the list of things that need to be done is by my kitchen sink. There is laundry to do, groceries to buy, one essay, two articles, and a midterm on Monday – but all I really want to do right now is pour myself a glass of wine and sulk. A full glass.