DailyLost.com

DailyLost.com

Check it out. They have a pretty fantastic new editor.

I officially have the quirkiest jobs ever: subtitler, trivia writer, blogger. Not one was ever suggested by a high-school guidance counselor.


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Lost is Coming!

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It looks like I’ll soon be paid to blog. I’ll update everyone once it gets set up. I hope you’re all into Lost. That’s all I have to say. (Ooh, cliffhanger. How appropriate).

P.S. Watch TV on Thursday. You know all the cool kids will be doing it.

P.P.S. I guess I’ll have to actually learn how to use a computer properly. Thanks, Sarah, for teaching me about labels. HTML, here I come!

P.P.P.S. And in honor of the coworkers who now know about this little blog of mine, a little something (not Lost-related, but still awesome) to make them feel at home:

Odes to the Inner Nerd

I like music. But a song about Scrabulous? And Facebook? Geek-chic-awesomeness overload. I should go watch sci-fi while planning some sort of virtual networking strategy now. And knit. And name my first child after George Lucas.

Scrabulous song

Facebook Song
(I owe all Rhett and Link happiness to Beth, for introducing us)

P.S. Scrabble powers that be, please don’t take Scrabulous away from me.

P.S.S. Facebook is unhealthy. I’m not sure if I want to know that all my friends are married with kids and buying houses. It’s giving me a complex. Perhaps I’ll just start lying on Facebook….

Accepting fake Facebook-husband applications. Preference will go to those who can buy me a house.

Give Life a Chance

I know this story is a little tragic, but it’s so inspiring to me. When I was little, I stood on Yonge St. with a sign that read “Abortion Kills Children,” watching strangers give me the finger, and not understanding why anyone would be angry that I wanted babies to live.

In high school, I wrote an essay about abortion that ended up changing my law teacher’s perspective on the whole issue. I didn’t know this at the time; a friend who was in his class the next semester heard all about my paper’s influence in his life. It was the most humbling and proud moment of my adolescent career.

And then came Juno with its rather precious way of dealing with the to-abort-or-not debate (“All babies want to get borned”).

But honestly, as much as I can preach a pro-life talk, I’m careful to spew out anything that A, would hurt someone who’s been through an abortion (pro-life to me assumes that I value the life of everyone, not just the unborn) or, B, would put me in a cocky “this is what I would do” position. Because I’ve never been there. Just as I’ve never had a gun to my face while being told to renounce my faith. I’d like to think I wouldn’t do it, but I’m human. It would be unwise to throw around the self-righteous babble.

A woman was told she had cancer. She needed treatment. But she was pregnant. Treatment would kill the child; postponing the treatment would kill her. She chose the life of the unborn over her own. I only pray I'd have the courage to do the same.

Act Your Age

I was channel surfing yesterday afternoon while writing countless trivia questions about the deaths of pop-culture icons, when the teenybopper in me reared its awkward head. Ellen was showcasing the Jonas Brothers. Why do I occasionally forget that I am no longer 14?

(They’re like Hanson for the next generation. Except waaaayyyy richer. And they’re Christians, wearing purity rings. Which means, again, if I were 14, I would be IN LOVE).

A couple days ago, I was chatting with a friend about growing up and how startling it is to be part 45 and part 15 at the same time. It’s a rather eerie phenomenon, realizing you’re thinking like your grade-9 self around certain men when you generally operate in a much more mature and adult-like manner. But it happens to the best of us. Deep down, I’m still waiting for the cute boy in OAC to notice me. And yet, in my day-to-day life, I’m closer to old woman than I am to Hannah Montana (I even once announced that I was going to adopt Miss Marple's style as my signature look. LOVE the carpet bag).

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The New Kids On The Block are rumored to be reuniting. The most shocking part about it is that they called it quits in 1994. I am way too young to have been a fan of a band that hasn’t made music in 14 years (although People claims it’s been 18). Of course, I don’t actually own any of their stuff. I remember wanting a cassette in the second grade, but my dad told me I would regret it (the same reasoning for why I shouldn’t own anything by Billy Ray Cyrus). So instead, I would stare at my friends’ posters, deciding that Joey was more my type and toying with the idea of undoing one of the straps on my overalls too.

I think I should go read classic literature, sip tea and listen to Mozart now. Just to move the aging process along....

Happy Filler

There’s a lot to blog about. But I’m tired and not very articulate this evening. And so, as a refreshing aside from the rather tragic posts of late, I’ll leave you with the sweetest thing EVER. And I’ll hit you with some blog awesomeness shortly. Scout’s honor.

Remember Lukas Haas? He was the cute Amish kid in Witness. Anywho, he wrote a song for Tobey Maguire’s daughter, Ruby Sweetheart.

Heart officially melted.

sweetheart

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Again.

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In my high school yearbook, I wrote that my future aspiration was "to hang with Christian and Heath."

"Heath Ledger found dead."

I'm numb. In shock. So much brokenness.

Source.

Smarties Hero

Thanks, Sam, for sending me this.
Everyone needs a vice or two.
Mine are multicolored milk-chocolate treasures.

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"Rest in Peace" Doesn't Mean Much.

When an actor dies, I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because while the person was a complete stranger, something he or she did while on this planet resonated with me. I aspired to a little piece of who they were. And while I get to keep waking and sleeping and dreaming big dreams, that person now only exists on DVD.

He was only 25. In my head, he was still the 12-year-old boy holding his own in The Client. Or the kid who made me cry in The Cure. He was the Huck to Jonathan Taylor Thomas’ Tom.

“Found dead.” Such a strange phrase. As if dead is a state of being. No, the headlines should read “Lost.” There’s something just so hopeless about it all. Just a whole lot of nothingness. Like when Jonathan Brandis killed himself a few years ago. These are guys with careers I wanted, with smiles I swooned over. But they were broken. And when you’re broken, none of that really matters anymore.

Sometimes I get a little delusional and wish for the “good ol’ days” that never existed, where death was for old people who lived long and full lives.

Brad Renfro. I wish I knew you. Maybe I would have lent you my hope until you found some of your own.

"Found dead." Gone.

The Red Carpet. In My Head.

Let’s say I’m famous. I’m part Cate, part Kate, and part, well, part Katie (Blanchett, Winslet and Holmes). And I need to spin a little on a red carpet (that’s actually magenta) while making small talk with Ryan Seacrest, who, appropriately, is a small man. I tower over him in my heels. Which are not comfortable.

What to wear? Such a dilemma. I wouldn’t have a stylist. Because all the stylists in town would be scared of me. I would not be fun to style. I have decisiveness issues. It's also far more impressive if you look good independent of a fashion "expert." So I would phone up a couple designer friends and dress myself.

This would be my short list:

Elie Saab

Temperley

Monique Lhuillier

The goal is best-dressed in every magazine, from the legitimate publications to the trashy tabloids. This is an important victory, as I’ll probably lose the actual award to someone who played a dying transgendered German-Chinese country singer in some epic Scorsese film.

See what happens when the red carpet doesn't happen? I end up amusing myself while hopped up on dark chocolate and Earl Grey. Here's hoping the Oscars go on. For all your sakes.

Make the Writers Happy. Please.

The Golden Globes are barely happening. Some sources are considering them cancelled. For an award-show junkie like me, this is rather upsetting. Borderline devastating. I mean, sure, awards will still be handed out (winners will be announced at a press conference), but without a televised ceremony and nosy-reporter-filled red carpet, it’s just not the same. (Yes, Dad, I know these awards are political. That is why clothing is so important. If you can't win deservingly, at least you can be best-dressed).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely siding with the writers here. I understand their need to strike. And if I were a phenomenally talented actor, I wouldn’t cross a picket line either. But I’d still be bummed that I don’t get to wear something pretty and hobnob with Gosling, Blanchett and Depp. And no offense to the writers out there, but award-show banter has long been grimace-inducing. Hopefully you’ll all make a wickedly witty comeback when contracts are renegotiated and make those monologues slightly more bearable.

So I will watch the press conference. And maybe simultaneously surf Style.com, ogling the couture gowns without the nominees inside them.

If I were a betting woman (which I am, but only for the Oscars), my money would be on Daniel Day Lewis, Julie Christie, Ryan Gosling and Ellen Page, Juno and There Will Be Blood. In case you were wondering.

Dream House

Abandoned houses. I love them. My dream home is the old boarded-up mansion in It's a Wonderful Life. I can't explain it, but there's something both sad and promising about the derelict. I want to renovate. Rejuvenate. I want to put the charm and character and life back into places that once meant something.

I love this story. A neglected (but not abandoned) mansion in the Bronx is getting some love.

Oh, how I would love you too, you big beautiful masterpiece.

One Post, Many Thoughts

Write Me a Song

She said write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry

I’ve had two lines of Edwin McCain’s “Write Me a Song” looping through my head all day. It’s a pretty heartbreaking song, actually. But the chorus captures one those vulnerable moments we girls can’t admit to too often. Too often might equal pathetic. Or sappy. Or desperate. *Sigh*

The chorus in its entirety:

She said write me a song
Fill it all up with words
Like brilliant and heavenly
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time I love you was heard

And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon
At the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly

Atonement

“Come back to me.”

I saw Atonement. Honestly, I was disappointed with the last 10 minutes of the film. Up until then, I was pretty sure it was the most amazing movie ever. And then I sort of lost interest. The ending just didn’t work. I mean, plot-wise, the ending was genius. But the director seemed to drop the ball. Or the screenwriter. Something that should have been powerful and heart-wrenching was too tacked-on. Maybe it’s just me and my heart of stone. It almost makes me want to see it again and give it another chance.

I was on edge the entire time. It’s not the typical period-piece experience for me, but that magical score had me anticipating absolute devastation from the opening scene. I don’t even know how to explain the plot to you. False accusations. Betrayal. Lust. Pain.

Back to the score. Watch the trailer. Listen carefully. It weaves in and out of the scenes as though the characters were creating their own soundtrack. The typewriter becomes the percussion. Brilliant.

And I heart James McAvoy.

P.S. Stay away if you can’t handle a pretty intense love scene. Or if you are offended by Keira’s boniness. She needs a hamburger.

Same Blog, New Name

Thanks to a blog-title generator, On Her Toes should be renamed:

Idle Observations of an Insatiable Code Monkey

Hmm.

The Wisdom of Dr. Phil

“If this dog laid on his back and peed on his face, he wouldn’t know where it was coming from.”

Kate the Great

Katie Holmes is gorgeous. She has incredible style. I want her hair. But there’s something about the way she speaks that has me thinking her auditing sessions with the Church of Scientology went horribly awry. (Seriously. Google “Scientology + aliens”).

Her toddler is what?

"She's a very strong woman."

I was 20 months old once. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t very strong. Or a woman.

"She's very smart and strong," Holmes concluded. "And really magical."

Nor was I magical. Yet.

Some Thoughts on a Mild Monday Evening

Juno

"That ain't no Etch-a-Sketch. This is one doodle that can't be un-did, homeskillet." -- Rainn Wilson as Rollo

The must-see indie of the year. We're talking Little Miss Sunshine good here. But with hilariously witty/sketchy dialogue punctuating every single scene. Seriously, people, Diablo Cody's script intimidates me. And without an ounce of preachiness, it attacks some pretty heavy subject matter. It’s fresh. It’s genuine. It has heart. Love Ellen Page. Canadian, quirky, super-smart. I hereby predict It-Girl status. I laughed out loud. And then it made me cry. But a good cry. Not to be confused with a happy cry, though. Not that I wasn't happy....

Awesome soundtrack gets its own set of upturned thumbs. That's right, folks.

Juno: I think I'm, like, in love with you.

Bleeker: You mean as friends?

Juno: No, I mean, like, for real. 'Cause you're, like, the coolest person I've ever met, and you don't even have to try, you know.

Bleeker: I try really hard, actually.

Massage

I had my first massage today. At work. Since my office doesn't really do the Christmas-bonus thing, my boss decided to draw names for free massages. It was a little awkward being told to take my shirt off in the conference room; at least my boss covered the windows with movie posters before the massage therapist arrived.

Let me tell you, I could have stayed on that table forever. So good. I've been stiff since the summer before university (that would be 2001, for those of you trying to do quick math in your head). The RMT even commented on how tight I was. I'll probably be super-sore tomorrow. But I can live with that. I used to think that little would change in my life if I came into a financial windfall. Not completely true. I would have regular massages. Regular looong massages. But I would tip well.

The Quote Wall

I once lived in a little basement apartment with two rather remarkable and inspiring women. And when any sort of brilliance spewed out of a mouth (be it one of ours or someone else's - we didn't discriminate against sources of brilliance), we would transcribe the nugget of gold on a Post-It and stick it to the wall by the fridge. Behold, a sampling of my Guelph days, in literary form:

I wouldn’t want to get sucked into living in Bermuda. I mean, they don’t even have a university. – Wendy

I take it back. I no longer have a heterosexual “man-crush” on Colin Firth. – Seth Myers (SNL)

The TV show The Bachelor is like youth group. – Margie

Matthew Broderick has something very Zack Morris about him. – Nadine

Yuck! Tom Cruise is like the cocky guy in gym class. – Margie

I know it’s sick, but I have a little soft spot for farmers. – Wendy

If you tell him, I will smack you like a bad, bad donkey. – Pepe (Muppets from Space)

Director's Note

Dear Nadine,

Thank you so much for your courage, hard work, and commitment to the truth. You are a beautiful actor and being and it has been a pleasure and an honor working with you. Keep tapping those K-27 acupressure points and all will be well. Thanx again.

I found this note as I was sorting through the endless piles of *crap*/beloved articles I've accumulated over the past few years. It was a little jarring at first, as I was startled into desperately wanting to be on stage. It touched me. Then it made me laugh. And confused me. I had no idea acupressure points were such contributing factors to my performance. Too bad I forget which points boost energy and which points calm. I could end up a little schizo.

Trivia Queen

I have way too much random (and often pointless) information floating in my brain. I’m always up for a game of Trivial Pursuit. I care that Matt Damon was an extra in Field of Dreams. And that Sid Vicious used to hail taxicabs with his middle finger. So it should come as no surprise that the first freelance writing contract I sign is to write questions for a trivia game. That’s right. It’s only a few days in 2008 and I’m already semi-moving forward in my writing career. Or maybe sideways. Should look good on a resumé, if nothing else. Of course, I fully intend to buy the game and then kill in that category. Yep, kill. Slaughter my trivia competition. “You think you know trivia? Yeah, well, I am the CREATOR of trivia.”

The Bucket List

Thanks to Morgan Freeman, the List of Things to Do before I Die has been renamed. It’s now my Bucket List.

And this Christmas break, I stuffed a turkey. And crossed off #13.

I’m not big on touching raw meat. And sticking my hand up a turkey’s butt is really not all that appealing to me. But if I’m going to be the ultimate domestic diva, it’s something I’m going to have to get over. I mean, I’m sure Martha Stewart stuffed her own turkey before she had assistants do it for her. Now that I’ve done it, I’d be very willing to do it again. If “the first cut is the deepest”, the first stuff is the grossest. And yes, I think I should write a song about it. If I record it, I’ll be crossing off #40.

So this New Year’s, instead of a list of resolutions, I’m just going to attack my bucket list. I’ll keep you posted on my adventures.