Adventures in Awkward Fiction

I attempted to write fiction yesterday. "Attempted" is the key word in the previous sentence. The opening went something like this:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

...a dead chicken.

Yes, that's where my head went. And no, it wasn't autobiographical. But thanks for asking. Surprisingly, numerous pages of awkwardness followed such a poetic introduction.

An epic novel in the making, I tell you.

Geek Chic

I've been thinking about new glasses. And I'm inexplicably drawn the geekiness of Leanne Marshall's* clunky pair. And her bangs. I think I want bangs. Again, I'm not sure why.

A recent trip to the optical store had a friend and I concluding that I can, in fact, pull off grandpa frames. Which is appropriate, as I've recently been craving a wardrobe of cardigans, leather satchels, plaid shirts and boots.

I'm not sure if I want to look like a nerd, an old man, or a hipster.

*For those not in the know, Leanne's the latest winner of Project Runway. Maybe I really just want to be able to make gowns out of old tires....

A Real Apple Pie

pastry + 45-watt carbon-dioxide laser = genius

I am currently craving edible technology.

Apple apple pie from Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories. 

Table for One

When you live alone, you end up eating strange combinations of food. Mostly because no one expects your meals to look appetizing. Or to make sense. This usually suits me just fine, but sometimes being the sole consumer of refrigerator contents becomes a burden. Especially when I impulse-shop at the grocery store and end up with enough produce to feed a family of 8. A family of 8 that really loves vegetables. 

So after a week of edible-plant-stuffed whole-wheat pitas (accessorized with alfalfa sprouts), I was at a loss as to how I was going to eat the rest of my perishables before their short lives came to an end. I do not let food go bad. That's my rule for living.

Folks, I should have my own cooking show. Tonight, I sauteed mushrooms with broccoli sprouts, wilted some arugula, then poured two beaten eggs (seasoned with chili powder and black pepper) over the greens. I grated some old cheddar, blessed my veggie concoction with cheesy goodness, and ate like a queen.

So good. Ugly, but good.

And the vegetation-overload situation is now under control. I won't have to eat arugula for breakfast out of about-to-wilt guilt.

*I don't particularly like the peppery bitterness of arugula. Or the texture of broccoli sprouts. But they're healthy. And apparently much more appetizing when cooked and covered in full-fat dairy products. 

Australia: No Wrinkles In Time

I have a problem. (Okay, I have many problems. But I can only write about one at a time.) I want to see Australia. Both the actual country and the movie of the same name. I've heard that even the most expensive movie tickets are significantly cheaper than a one-way ticket to Oz, so I think I'll start with Baz Luhrmann and see where I go from there. I'm well aware that some critics are calling the film a sweeping epic, others are calling it a belaboured clunker, and a select few have written it off as strictly painful. And I'm okay with that. I have a high pain tolerance. I just want to check out the panoramic views, period costumes and the wombats. Please let there be wombats.

Here's the problem: I'm afraid that during the film's most intense moments, those brief slivers of excruciating human experience that should rattle me, I won't be able to look Nicole Kidman in the eye. Instead, I'll be distracted, staring at the thinly stretched skin just above her eyebrows. See, I'm obsessed with her forehead.

I happen to find Kidman's Hitchcockian beauty stunning. In theory. But when the cool blondes who came before her (think Grace Kelly) laughed, they threw their heads back slightly and lifted their eyebrows in delight. Foreheads moved. Faces had signs of life. Nicole's face has signs of injectable toxins.

Nicole used to have life in her face. (Watch Dead Calm if you must. Or just take my word for it.) Now she's a vacant porcelain doll that blankly stares at you, tears welling up out of nowhere, without the slightest squint or nose wrinkle, completely unconvincing as a woman who's lived a hard life. Or as a woman who's ever seen the sun. Or as a woman who's ever been in love. From what I know of the opposite sex, men like faces that move. Even if just enough to laugh at their almost-funny jokes.

So the question remains: How do I reconcile my love of Baz Luhrmann and my discomfort with Mrs. Keith Urban's visage? (And how on earth did she nab Urban? Someone, tell me. Oh, how I love his hair. And guitar. Not in that order.) And how do I get past the fact that Wolverine is riding through the outback on horseback?

Aside: How did People Magazine determine that Hugh Jackman is the sexiest man alive? Last time I checked, there were A LOT of men alive. A lot.

This promotional shot is pure perfection. That landscape. That rugged Australian hero. His hand tugging at her hairline, trying to force some expression into the face of the woman he loves. Marvelling at her tight pale skin, her deer-in-the-headlights gaze that tries so desperately to return his affections. Moments after this shot, he whispers tenderly in her ear, "Furrow your brow. Just for me, darling."


Ah, cinematic romance at its best.

YouTube Tuesday: Hugh Grant

There is no rhyme or reason. So don't expect one. It's Tuesday. And I like Hugh Grant, both with floppy hair and without.

Let's begin with something inspirational. Seriously, folks, About a Boy is probably the best film about redemption that stars Hugh Grant ever.

(In Vancouver, we did karaoke to this song. The on-screen lyrics were "Strumming my face with his finger." If anyone ever strums my face, he will be asked to leave.)



Because dancing is awesome. Especially when you think no one is watching.



And I heart the '80s. Especially the fake '80s.



Okay, that's it for me. I'm off to bed.

P.S. If you rent Music and Lyrics, turn on the English subtitles. And know that those commas were typed with love.

Silly Songs with Family

I have some wonderful cousins (Hello, if you're reading this!) who sang this song quite heartily over dinner yesterday, despite not knowing the lyrics nearly as well as they thought. (I can't believe you forgot the "And I've come to step on your chickens" part!)

This is for them.

Best Christmas song involving a bank robber, a viking and the IRS ever.




(Dad, your comment in the last post also inspired this. My family has an animated-vegetables problem.)

Adventures in Photo Booth

Today I discovered Photo Booth, aka TimeWaster Version 1.0.

I did not, however, discover a hair brush.

Annand Christmas [Pt. 3]

When I was little, all the first cousins were herded into some sort of close grouping, youngest ones piled on the laps of the older, for photographic immortalization. We'd giggle and whine and fidget. Rarely would we all look at the camera at the same time. But photos were taken, often to be plastered on Grandma's fridge for years to come.

But there's a generation of first cousins that came before us. And their last group photo was taken some 25 years ago. That is, until yesterday. All of them came. One from the States. One from PEI. From them came 23 children, most of whom were also there, amused at the effort involved in getting adults to stand still for a moment. Because cousins are cousins, no matter the age.

Behold, the originals.

This is me in thirty years.

Annand Christmas [Pt. 2]

I really like food. Especially at Christmas.

Which means that I was born into the right family.

There are no photos of dessert.
Because both my hands were full.
But it was good. Trust me.

Annand Christmas [Pt. 1]

Me: I only blog the good things about our family. I don't write about the times Joel threatens to kill me.
Joel: And how often is that?
Me: All the time.

I was temporarily concerned today about the way I represent my family on this blog. We're by no means perfect. Or consistently hilarious. So, just for the record, we do occasionally throw things at each other. And pick each other up by the elbows. And sing songs we don't know the lyrics for. And berate each other for not being quite gluttonous enough. And lose toy guns. And cheat at basketball. And pout over the absence of Christmas carols. And serve peanut butter in no-peanut zones. And try to re-create photos taken 25 years ago. And talk loudly in layers of unfollowable conversation.

And sometimes we try to style hair.

Joel.

Yes, that is a ball of tissue paper he's holding. Let the war begin.

A Christmas and a Funeral

This is my first blog post from the MacBook. I'm typing by the glow of twinkle lights and the glorious backlit keys my brother convinced me to splurge on. Thank you, Joel.

Christmas treats are cooling in the fridge. Bing Crosby is serenading me with seasonal nostalgia. Two small trees illuminate my small apartment.

Tomorrow is Christmas for my extended family.

Monday is a funeral.

I've always loved Christmas. Any hint of city girl in me vanishes at this time of year, and I revert to the traditional small-town girl with a love of gingerbread, fireplaces and carols. I watch George Bailey want to live again. And then I watch him again, just to make sure he's okay. He usually is.

When I was young, the extended family on my mother's side (the same group that meets tomorrow) would gather in a church basement and exchange gifts. This was before our numbers grew to a more outrageous number and we had to scale back on the gift-giving.  And one year, Santa showed up. Unexpectedly. To this day, it is the only time in my short life I can recall meeting the jolly old fellow. Or at least meeting one who brought gifts specifically for me. Who called me by name without prompting.

Not for a minute of my childhood did I believe in Santa. Yet the surprise visit was still magical. Sure, his chuckle was remarkably identical to that of my Uncle Jack's, but I didn't care. Sometimes childhood delight trumps all.

Last night, my dear Santa died.

Tomorrow, as we gather to feast, there will be two empty chairs at the table. Two laughs not heard. Two hugs desperately missed. My grandma will not be there. We were already anticipating the sadness of our first Christmas without her.  But neither will her sister's husband. And in our holiday joy, we will grieve.

Since saying goodbye to my grandmother, my life has changed. There is no fear. When you look death in the eye, you can't help but anticipate something greater. So when I shed tears on Monday, they will be for my lovely great aunt. For those left behind. And for the memory of Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas, all.

You've Got Mail

I took a mail day today. This is similar to the common sick day, however no illness is involved. It is a day in which you stay at home and wait for the mailman. I even did this honestly, calling my workplace late last night and explaining my FedEx dilemma, having already missed the first delivery attempt of the piece of technology that would forever change my life. Oddly, my anguish was understood. And so I spent the majority of my day in my tiny abode, awaiting my Knight in Vehicular Armor.

The doorbell doesn't work at my place. I've lived here for over three years and have only heard it ring once. And when it did, I just stared at the door in amazement, ignoring the poor soul who actually wanted to come in. Because of the lack of chime, people must knock. FedEx men, charming as they are, have not figured this out.

I was typing away by the front window, the blinds up so that I could see strangers coming and going, when I noticed a man with a package stepping off the front porch. I must have been so caught up in the Tuscan-inspired resort wedding I was describing (I'm running out of inspiring nuptial adjectives, folks) that I didn't hear the doorbell that DOESN'T WORK. And there was no knock. He just walked away.

I have no pride when it comes to mailmen. In Vancouver, when the long-awaited Purolator man returned my camera to me, I greeted him in a rather scandalous tank top with wet hair dripping down my back, a hoodie half on (only because I was trying to dress as I ran for the door). So the fact that I was in old slippers and baggy sweatpants did not deter me from running out my door and across the front yard to fetch him. (Yes, I just used the word "fetch." But not in a Mean Girls way. Or in a "You look rather fetching this evening" sort of way either. But I digress.) I was that crazy woman waving her arms and shouting, the one you probably intentionally don't look in the eye when you meet her on the street. The one with the fashion sense of a toddler, the grace and poise of a fourth-grade boy in dance class, and the speech patterns of Tarzan.

But he stopped. He turned. He didn't even ask me my name. He just handed me my future in a box. I thanked him profusely, signed his high-tech thingamabob/freeze ray, and waved goodbye to my hero of the day.

Fast-forward a few hours.

The MacBook sits on my table, partially opened. While it whispers to me, I ignore it. Because as much as I want to play with it, I must resist the temptation to spend the rest of my evening (and into the wee hours of the morning) with a piece of aluminum when I must first fire off invoices created on a clunky PC that deserves a noble retirement. Oddly, now that the laptop's here, the eagerness has settled into simple comfort. There is no rush. We have forever to get to know one another.



Hmm. Maybe this is what it's like to be a boy. To be excited by the chase. To be more concerned with the acquisition than with the relationship. To profess love for something not there, and then to back off a little once it's sitting in the kitchen. Not that girls sit in kitchens.... Oh, wait. No. Never mind. I take back the entire analogy.

Guest Blogger: Jane Austen

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them - by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

~Mr. Bingley, Pride and Prejudice

A Tale of Two Andrews

Andrew Shue and Andrew Keegan are the same person, separated by one generation in the world of heartthrobs.

• They are both Andrew.
• They both have that hair.
• They both exude that vacant-behind-the-eyes broodiness that only blond costars love.
• They both subscribe to the school of cardboard acting. (I was going to call it "wooden," but that's not fair to Keanu, master of such stiffness.)

It all comes down to Melrose Place vs. 7th Heaven.

To be fair, Shue went on to play soccer professionally. Very cool.
And Keegan modeled socks in 10 Things I Hate About You: "So I've got the Sears catalog thing going. And the tube sock gig. That is gonna be huge."

Too close to call, folks. I love to hate 'em both.

How to Have a Good Sunday

1. Go to church.

Today was about all things heaven. I love it when things I've already been mulling over on my own are echoed from the pulpit/stage/screen. And when authors I respect are quoted by other authors I respect, all the while reaffirming things I know to be true.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that much of my dissatisfaction with my earthly experience is a consequence of living in a broken world. To a degree, there will always be desire without fulfillment while I walk the dusty roads of life. Because I was made for something more. The Journey of Desire hit home for me years ago, just as Bruxy's sermon did today.

“We are homesick for Eden. We’re nostalgic for what is implanted in our hearts…We long for what the first man and woman once enjoyed- a perfect and beautiful Earth with free and untainted relationships with God…Every attempt at human progress has been an attempt to overcome what was lost in the Fall.”

- Randy Alcorn

2. Eat lunch.

I met two friends for lunch. The food was great, the service awkward and unspectacular, and the phrase "Oh, swell!" was blurted at the most appropriate time. Ah, dessert. Friends and food go together like Batman and Robin. (Except that no one is going to sue me for my dessert-with-girlfriends habit. Seriously, who would sue Batman?!)

3. Walk by the parade. Do not stop.

It was cold and blustery. So we did not slow down as we walked by the masses awaiting Santa Claus' float. I've decided that when I have children (assuming I do), I'll make a very big deal out of watching the parade on television. I'll even throw candy at them in the living room if it means I don't have to stand out in the snow.

4. Check out some art.



The AGO was free this weekend, as it was the grand reopening after the big Frank Gehry renovation. Honestly, part of my reason for going was just to be able to type that I've been in a Frank Gehry building. My aspirations in life are mind-blowing, are they not? Unfortunately, the showstopping spiral staircase was still under renovation. And I desperately wanted to walk it. But I play by the rules. Always. So I took the less impressive stairs. I navigated its massively impressive-yet-confusing-for-the-directionally-challenged layout with friends (three new ones, two old), a little intimidated by the Monets, Van Goghs, Warhols and Picassos. And the Peter Paul Rubens masterpiece The Massacre of the Innocents. Which was THE BIG DEAL of the gallery. Understandably.


I'm by no means an art connoisseur. But something sort of clicked while starring at all that genius. When you're 12 inches from a Renoir, you almost hear it daring you to do something of significance. To leave a legacy. And to make it beautiful.

J'aime Capucine

I stole this from my friend Andrew's Facebook wall. Because I'm a thief. But at least I admit it. Because I'm not a liar.

When I grow up, I want to be a cute little French girl with amazing hair. I'm not kidding. Watch. And fall in love with Capucine.

A breathtaking story by Capucine. Starring baby monkeys lost in frightening trees, a witch, crocodiles, a tiger, a "popotamus" and a lion, and even a "tremendously very bad mammoth." There are also magic powers and an orange ring, but sometimes, "something goes amiss."

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

"You decided to be dead in heaven." Ahh. I love her.

source

I knew I was tired...

...but not THAT tired.

I should have suspected that I was suffering from some sort of severe exhaustion yesterday when...

• I didn't feel the effects of six caffeinated beverages.
• I went to the grocery store to buy eggs and grapes. My fridge was already stocked with eggs and grapes.
  
• My brain cycled through highly unusual and insanely ridiculous thoughts. ("I hope it's not a date. Why do I assume it is? I'm way too charming. I should look into an arranged marriage....")
• I couldn't focus on anything. At all.
• I ate my way through an entire bag of chocolate macaroons without noticing. Until I felt nauseous.
• I took three hours to write the equivalent of a half hour's work.

I woke up this morning to discover that my light was still on. I passed out at some point during my getting-ready-for-bed routine last night. And didn't move for eight hours.

Today was better. Less caffeine, more productivity. I made $68 more writing at home than I would have had I showed up at the office. And I squeezed in three loads of laundry between projects. (I try to avoid the domestic multitasking when working from home, but I couldn't resist.)

It's raining. I'm not at tonight's Sam Roberts show. (All three shows this weekend are sold out. Not impressed.) But Don Draper made me smile, my sheets are clean, and I have no early morning plans tomorrow. Sleep is so good. I think I should embrace it more often.

And so I shall. Starting...uh, soon.

Once I Go Mac...

...I won't go back. Or so I've heard.


This evening, I ordered the MacBook of my [freelancing] dreams. It won't be long before I'm typing away on the beach. Or in a castle. Or on a mountainside.

Or in a coffee shop. A nice one.

Perhaps I should name it Toby. Because...

Toby Mac, and the Mac is back no slack....

Expect novels to start spewing from my fingertips. At rapid speed. Projectile word vomit.



For those of you who don't get the Toby Mac reference, see below (at 0:55). And pretend it's 1994. Yes, soon I will be THAT cool.



Or I could go with Bernie Mac.
Or Big Mac.
Or Joey (McIntyre).

I should go to bed now.

Oh, wait. MacGyver!!!

YouTube Tuesday: Remembrance Day Edition

Lest we forget.

"A Pittance of Time"


"Letters from War"

[Don't] Call Me

Because girls are confusing.

I’ve never wanted the phone to not ring as much as I do right now. I’m concentrating all of my block-the-airwaves energy toward that annoying piece of metal and plastic on my kitchen table, willing it to remain silent. Lulling it into a coma. I could just turn it off, but then I risk the dreaded voicemail message and subsequent responsibility of returning the phone call. Which I do not want to do.

Maybe I should call someone. Anyone but him. And then he’ll get a busy signal. A hint that I have a life outside of him. That I’m not even thinking of him. Even though, of course, the entire phone-occupying conversation will exist because of him. Because I do not want to hear his voice.

~Nadine, running away, even older journal

Call Me

Once upon a time....

She’s tired. She spends her evenings staring at the ceiling. Part of her wants to sleep. The other part, the part that is winning this battle, just wants him to call. And even though every logical fiber within her knows that he would never call in the middle of the night, she still stares straight ahead, wondering what it will be like when he finally does.

And miles away, he sleeps soundly.

~Nadine, writing in third person, old journal

He Said WHAT?!

He was bound to slip up one day. But no one knew it would happen so soon....

"Come on. Let's go, Leafs."

~ My dad, temporarily forgetting that he cheers for the Habs. Always. Unconditionally. And especially when playing the Leafs. It was pretty much Dad-profanity.

Late-Night Trivial Pursuit Insanity

If you were at my parents' place last night, you may have heard the following:


-I'm going to vomit out of my eyeballs.
-I'd like to see that.


-What do you call a group of kittens?
-Dinner.


"Barbara Hutton and the 21st Amendment should be a movie."


"If five people sign a piece of paper, the largest signature must belong to a blind man."


"Pretend to sit like a normal person."


"I want my hair to be reasonable."


"Three little kittens, they lost their mittens
Eating their curds and whey
Worst poem ever."


Oh, and if Joel were to write a sample blog post on OnHerToes, this is what it would say:

"Did you hear about the thing with the thing? Yeah, me neither."

~Joel.

Kiss a Wookie, Kick a Droid

Um, so this guy's probably my hero of the day. For making me temporarily forget that I washed my hair with ice-cold water in a basement laundry tub at 5:15 this morning.

A Star Wars a cappella tribute to John Williams.

The lyrics are here. Read them. Laugh. Or sing along. Be a nerd. Like me.

I Would Walk 500 Miles

I walked home from work today. After three years at the same office (conveniently located at the corner of pizza and crack), I had not once made the 10.4 km trek home on foot. And this little fact was starting to disturb me.

When I left work this afternoon, I knew today was my chance. It was mild. It was still quasi-daylight. And I was wearing practical shoes.

So I set out. And walked the ugly route. Past the flirtatious homeless men, the drug-dealers mid-deal, the mangy dogs. But even in the bleakness, there were little pockets of children playing, friends laughing, cafés buzzing with activity. I felt like part of my city, both the observer and the insider.

It was refreshing, head-clearing and invigorating. I plowed into a massive tuna salad and started mapping out a productive evening upon returning home. And then things came crashing down.

The hot-water tank burst in the basement. And because of the leaky situation, even the cold water must remain off until mid-morning tomorrow. I happen to leave for work well before mid-morning.

I have no water. None. Apparently I can use the laundry tub in the basement to collect some cold water, as it has a direct hookup. But that's it.

It's odd how paralyzing the lack of tap action can be. I actually don't know what to do with myself. Nor do I have an early-morning strategy. Other than discomfort.

Note to self: Do not go for a long power-walk across a smog-filled city if there is no possibility of a shower in the near future. Oh, and be psychic.

Off to fetch a pail of water....

His & Hers

I was going to post the most ridiculously amazing YouTube party here. But then my head got overwhelmed with things that actually matter. You know, the things of man, the mystery of God, the messiness of life. Home church has been really good for me. Scary, too, as these people I'm now trudging through life with don't really know me. I hear myself processing things aloud, repeating myself for fear that I'm not understood. And in hearing the stories of others, my little problems dissolve. I was instantly humbled just looking one woman in the eye.

It was a little bittersweet to wrap up the His & Hers series at The Meeting House. It was full of painful and enlightening "aha" moments that I will probably have to revisit to process properly. The series was also frustrating, as I'm only one half of every guy-meets-girl relationship I'm in. And none of the other halves with there. I would sit there, silently screaming, "Yes! That's me! Why isn't [some guy I know] here? Why can't I articulate this on my own?" Sigh.

I've also been revisiting some old John Eldredge stuff recently. I'll post again when I'm thinking more clearly. Sometimes the snob in me writes off some of the generalizations in his prose as a defense mechanism. Would I easily admit to you that "Am I lovely?" is one of the key questions I, as a woman, struggle with answering daily? No. But is it? Uh, yeah.

(Seriously though, if little girls in tutus are supposed to end up with bloody William Wallaces, clearly there's some hard work in store.)

But I think I like this thing called diversity. And the idea that abolishing gender roles doesn't necessitate that we ignore gender. I need to be more intentional about learning from the gender I'm not. Because I really do want to live a life that doesn't ghettoize. I don't want to only gravitate toward sameness, whether that's gender, race, socioeconomic status or age. (So I suppose I should befriend a rich old sultan....) Sure, male/female friendships can get complicated. But an absence of them creates another whole series of problems.

Oh, and tonight, I may have accused Jesus of "having a blast" with his resurrection. And I stand by it. I'll explain later.

And I'll share the YouTube awesomeness tomorrow. Probably.

Seacrest out.

P.S. Who wouldn't want to end up with a bloody William Wallace? I mean, minus the face paint, bad accent, historical inaccuracy and missing intestines....

Honest to Blog

Sometimes I forget that this is a blog, not a personal journal. So I'll begin to type something a little too personal. And then I won't post it. Because in the end, self-censorship always wins.

I was skimming through drafts of things not published, and found this. It's not really a post. It's more of a quick email I sent to myself one day over a year ago when I couldn't focus, write coherently, or articulate the chaos in my head.

Do I still remember the context of the melodrama? In the words of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, "You betcha." Will I elaborate? Maybe in my memoir.

I am slowly going crazy. For a different reason than usual. For a rather fun reason, but maddening all the same. And I can't blog about it. So I won't. It's not that I've sworn to secrecy. There is no threat of harm to myself or any other. But I still can't. You would understand if you were me. And if you were me, you'd also be going mad.

And will I ever tell you? Maybe. But don't hold your breath.

Oh, the secrets we keep.

[Insert self-incriminating material]

And later....

I suppose any detective worth his salt could figure out what I'm not blogging about through the things that I am. The art of omission or something. I'm so stupidly open book. Sheesh. I feel like I give myself away too easily. Not enough mystery. I shall try to be more elusive. Maybe I'll start wearing a veil. And get a cigarette holder.

And now that I've planted bizarre clues of nothingness in your brains, you may speculate to your hearts' delights as to what my head is going through. And you will be wrong.

The madness continues. Although in one small moment, my descent into insanity took a strange twist, and I am now pulled in two different directions. Straitjacket or padded walls?

~ October 17th, 2007

No wonder girls are accused of being confusing. I confuse myself.

Welcome to Math

Most ridiculously famous movie star ever + guitar + singing

should = awesomeness + weakened knees

in reality = um.... next year's Halloween costume?

I've been a momma, momma, momma's boy
Since daddy got the electric chair

Longest Election Campaign Ever

I'd vote for Al Gore. Because I think of him every time I turn off the tap. Or sit in the dark rather than waste energy. And when the heating gets out of control in my apartment, I hear him crying.

But I suppose that would require some citizenship-altering/time-machine intervention.... Seriously, what the world needs now is Marty McFly.

According to Natalie Portman, the choice is clear:

See more Natalie Portman videos at Funny or Die

Vote well, my American friends. Vote early, vote often.

I was going to post this video the other day. But Beth did it for me. Because she's the cooler West-coast version of me.

Random Stuff. Mostly Boy-Related.

Lady in Red

According to a new study, I'm totally irresistible to the opposite sex on weekends. And on Fridays. Because when I'm at home, typing away, I wear read sweats. And red = men love me. It's science. I suppose I would have to leave my apartment in my state of redness for this to be more effective. Details, details.

Unfortunately, redness only affects attractiveness. Not likability. So when I'm in red, you might think I'm hot without actually liking me. But really, who doesn't find over-sized red sweatpants sexy?

Can you imagine the damage a little red dress could do? I won't even go there.

[Don't] Kiss Me, I'm Irish

For a brief moment this week, I wanted to dress like Colin Farrell. Maybe it's because we have the same hair. But really, if I were a boy, I would wear fedoras. And vests.

I used to find Colin a little gross. Not so much anymore. Maybe I'm just getting older and learning to appreciate disheveled European men. Or maybe he now showers a little more frequently. Hmm.

"I Don't"

I think about weddings a lot. Because I'm paid to write about them. I don't plan my own nuptials in my head, however, I just admire others'. I'm not really an insert-groom-here kind of gal. The only detail I insist on is that a pretty fantastic guy be waiting to meet me when I walk down the aisle. That's all.

If my future husband reads this (super-weird thought), please don't include the word "psych" in your proposal.

Nadine the Numbat


When I was in public school, every time we played the name game, I had to introduce myself as "Nadine the Numbat." Because I could never think of another N animal. (No, I didn't think of narwhal or nightingale.) This week, I learned that numbats are actually rather cool-looking marsupials that eat termites. So I should have been prouder of the name. I think I'll add "see numbat" to the list of things to do before I die. Right beside "see wombat." Since they're neighbors.

Once Upon a Dream

I had a dream this week that was thematically linked to a dream I had in high school. Sort of. Only this one had a new cast of characters. But it was equally traumatic.

I'm at a café near my house. In the parking lot, actually. And his closest friends are there, rather dapper in tuxedos and suits. Waiting. They start to holler and cheer as a car drives by, decked out in streamers.

He got married today. No one told me.

Exactly nine days after our last date.

Apparently, my dreams have a sense of time. And history. I don't know why I knew it was nine days. But I woke up in a burdened daze. It was so real, so awkward, so confusing.

It's probably a good thing I have no idea what such a dream means. Thankfully, I did not have a date nine days ago. That would just be painful.

(The high-school dream involved a cute boy from youth group marrying Amy from the book Little Women. Instead of me. And no one told me until I accidentally arrived at the ceremony.)

The Duggars

I'm going to have to blog about this family at a later date. I caught the episode of their show 17 Kids and Counting in which their eldest proposed to the girl he wasn't dating. (She didn't want to court until she turned 20. So he proposed on her 20th birthday.) And I surprised myself by my strong reaction. Yes, I think it's totally cool and honorable to not kiss until your wedding day. Drawing names as to which little sibling will chaperon your dinner date is pushing it, though. Constant policing DOES NOT EQUAL SELF-CONTROL. Sheesh. And if you didn't date before you got engaged, and can't spend time alone together after you get engaged, marriage might be a little weird. You know, 'cause all of a sudden you have to hang out with your spouse.

Two Minutes

I'm busy. But I might have time for a two-minute date. See below. And yes, it's in real time. Seriously, How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite sitcom (that isn't The Office. Or 30 Rock).