NadineBells.com

From now on, I'll be blogging at NadineBells.com. I'm not coordinated enough to maintain two personal blogs. It's not good for the narcissism either.

A boy once ended a quasi-date (one of those weird evenings that starts off as a nondate and ends up as a definite date) with, "Are you going to blog about this?" I responded, "Only if I can fit this into my 'Elegant Hairstyles for Every Bride' article."

I never saw him again. For non-writing-related reasons. And until this moment, over a year later, I did not blog about that night. Or about him. At all.

I scribbled in my journal. I spent midnights at the piano. And you had no idea. Because I was busy posting YouTube videos here.

It's a shame, really, that I'm at the mercy of such self-censorship. There are a lot of fun and crazy and frustrating moments that would make great online stories. But I want to be trustworthy. I want to maintain healthy relationships. As a general rule, I don't want to scare you away by making you paranoid that you're my next blog post. Unless you want to be. In which case, let me know. And I'll tell cyberspace exactly what I think of you.

I'll continue to tell stories. Maybe I'll tell even more than usual. A fractured memoir, if you will. You can blame Donald Miller for the life-chronicling. But I won't give all my secrets away. I'll leave that to OneRepublic.

I missed YouTube Tuesday yesterday. Appropriately enough, I can't embed this video from YouTube. I kind of love the first verse.

I need another story
Something to get off my chest
My life gets kinda boring
Need something that I can confess
'Til all my sleeves are stained red
From all the truth that I've said
Come by it honestly, I swear
Thought you saw me wink, no
I've been on the brink, so

Tell me what you want to hear
Something that were like those years
Sick of all the insincere
So I'm gonna give all my secrets away
This time, don't need another perfect line
Don't care if critics never jump in line
I'm gonna give all my secrets away

Dead Man's Bones: Proof

See? I told you. A ghost sang "Like a Virgin."

And then Ryan Gosling sang that his body is a zombie for me. Z-O-M-B-I-E.

From Tuesday's show:

It's an acquired taste. Mostly brilliant. And slightly strange.

Don't diss Gosling's crooning. The man can do pop if he so chooses. But he turned down a spot in *NSYNC for an acting career. Wisest choice ever.

See more from the show over at NadineBells.com. Yes, folks. I'm moving onwards and upwards. Start updating your feeds/readers/bookmarks.

It Happened Tonight: Dead Man's Bones

Yes, those are X's on my hands. Apparently the lady in line thought I said I was under 19. I ACTUALLY said that I probably wouldn't be drinking tonight. She grabbed her permanent marker and made the decision for me.

Straight edge for life, yo.

(Do kids say "yo" anymore? Did I just prove that I'm old by saying "kids"?)

It's flattering, having someone assume I'm 18. Because recently someone else asked me if I'd ever been married. Meaning I look like a divorcee?! Sigh.

You should also note that I brought out the plaid shirt. Just for Mr. Gosling. In return, he wore a three-piece suit. Have you ever heard girls scream because someone took off his suit jacket? I have.

I was wedged at the front between two strangers. On my left, the girl texted her friend: "This show is f@#$ed." On my right, the girl whispered, "Could there be a more beautiful man?" It was appropriate that I stood in the middle. Because I didn't find it insane, nor did I have any intentions of drooling. Although these particular well-suited musicians were quite attractive. Not gonna lie.

I'll post pictures soon. The show was sort of like Nuit Blanche packed into two hours on a single stage. A ghost sang "Like a Virgin." A guy bent a spoon with his mind. A woman jump-roped with a poodle. And a choir of child-sized ghosts sang backup.

And it sort of all made sense. Even when they shot a little girl, who then resurrected in silhouette, singing Nancy Sinatra's "Bang Bang" while Gosling whispered the lyrics in her ear.

Maybe you had to be there.

Sometimes it's inspiring to experience something so completely new and unusual. Something you can't box in or define. It was a collaborative, interactive, slightly rough-around-the-edges performance, with no room for big stars and egos. If the women didn't squeal, you'd have no idea that Gosling was an anybody.

P.S. His band mate is actually prettier than he is. But less accomplished musically. And less interesting. I can't explain it, but I'm not very intrigued by walking Ken dolls.

YouTube Tuesday: Gosling Tonight

I'm in a rush. I can't be late for my date with Ryan.

I know I've posted this before, but I can't help myself. So endearing. So charming. So hilarious.

This is my evening, folks. Sixteen years later.

I Know I'm Sick When...

• I wake up at 10:30 and think it's only 7:00.
• Food tastes like chunky air. And requires way too much effort.
  
• Horribly horrible movies like "Must Love Dogs" distract me.
• My only writing idea is stolen directly from a movie.
• I operate in a zombie state, disinterested in both sleep and consciousness.
• Information refuses to stay in my head.
• I fantasize about breathing.
• Tissues (of all brands) are my bestest friends in the whole world.
• I justify this sort of nothingness as a blog post.

Goodnight, Moon.

Say Yes to the Dress

I've had this conversation with two people now. So I might as well extend it to the blogosphere. It's about contentment. And settling. And tulle.

There's a recent phenomenon in wedding-gown shopping in which a bride ends up buying multiple dresses. She tries on a beautiful dress, thinks it's the one, and buys it. But then she finds another dress, the one she knows is the one. So then she's stuck trying to sell the first one. She suffers a financial loss, but it's worth it because she gets to walk down the aisle in sartorial perfection.

Some brides buy three or four gowns before the big day. Bridal consultants rejoice.

Such a shopping trend makes me uncomfortable.

Firstly, if you're not sure in the first place, why are you buying? Why are you settling? Why are you spending thousands on one deemed not good enough? Is it the panic that there just might not be anything better out there? Are you purchasing out of fear? Desperation?

Secondly, why are you still looking? If you think you've found the one, made the down payment, started the alteration process, what on earth are you doing trying on other dresses? And does this thought pattern carry over into other areas of your life? Will you keep looking at men after you've committed to the one you think is "the one"? Can you be content with your choice, even though it won't necessarily line up with the picture of magical perfection that floats in your head?

I will not settle. I will choose wisely. And then I will stand by my decision. This applies both to the dress I'll buy one day and to the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I'll be picky before I buy, not after.

P.S. I should be a wedding planner. And/or premarital counselor.

A Life in Paper

I was completely uninspired to pursue job leads today. Sure, I applied for a job and posted a quick Gather.com item or two, but I had little desire to send out application upon application for gigs that barely pay and inspire even less.

It was time to purge.

When my space is cluttered, I can't focus. I feel defeated. So I spent my afternoon surrounded by stacks of paper, sorting through the paper trail created by four years of Toronto living. Oddly, I found things from 15 years ago. Paper must follow me.

My life in paper reads as half-fiction. Partly because I remember nothing, and partly because people send me lies.

P.S. I miss acting.

Things I found:

• Wrapping paper that says "hottie holidays." It's covered in the floating heads of Joshua Jackson, Will Smith, James Van Der Beek, Matt Damon, Nick Carter, Usher, Leo DiCaprio and Andrew Keegan.
• A program from Stratford with the lead actor's phone number scrawled across his bio.
• A postcard of a cartoon Toby Penner. Oh, Jake.
• The script from Oliver! I was Nancy in the SIXTH GRADE. And yes, it's the original copy.
• Monologues I wrote in university. Including the children's story about suicide.
• A napkin from East Side Mario's. I outlined the plot of a play on it.
• Two fake love letters. I don't remember ever receiving them. But they're clearly written by a girlfriend, pretending to be the man we quasi-stalked one summer. He's now married. And on TV. I'm neither.
• A letter that was probably supposed to be a love letter. But I was pretty stupid and didn't notice at the time. Boys, don't be subtle. We'll miss the awesomeness.
• A clipping from the school newspaper that favourably reviewed a performance of mine. The "cancer baby" play.
• A note from a woman at my parents' old church, strategically written to introduce me to her nephew. Hilarious. (Yep, I emailed him. And yep, we're still friends.)
• A lot of thank-you notes. Apparently I used to do a lot of kind stuff. Huh.
• A card that commented on my flirting skills. It took me almost 5 minutes to realize it was referencing a jazz opera I was in. I didn't recognize a single signature. Quiet panic.
• Floppy disks.
• The headshot of a middle-aged Kitchener-based actor I once worked with.
• My Exer-Clean Launderers contract. Yes, I have proof that I once did laundry for a living.

YouTube Tuesday: Next Tuesday

Is it weird that I needed a YouTube video to tell me that the venue of next week's concert is different than the one printed on my ticket?

Thank you, Ryan, for keeping me posted on the location change. I'm not in the mood for a tragedy. And I doubt you are either. It's about time we hang out in the same building, no?

The Bowl Master

Thanksgiving is a big deal in my family. We all crash my aunt and uncle's place in Parry Sound. If you've never had a twenty-person sleepover, you're missing out. Big time.

I was playing Scrabble this morning. Probably the first word game played before noon in the history of our family. Six of us played. In teams. From the living room, music started playing. Piano. Guitar. Voices chimed in. Suddenly, my family was belting out Elton John's "Your Song." Everyone should sing while pondering a triple word score.

There was a toy gun at the board-game table. This has yet to be explained. I'd also like to know why the game Clue has so many bludgeoning weapons and no cyanide.

This was the first year for "Things in a Box." We used a bowl instead of a box, and dubbed the reader the "bowl master." It was a cousins-only game, with a 17-year range between the oldest and youngest. And the reader had to create the category. The results? The usual hilarity. See below.

If you become the most famous person EVER, it will be because:

• I ate a Jonas Brother.
• I'm a brail rapper.
• I own the world's largest bee farm.
• of science.

We also dubbed night "the dark time," asserted that "tuck yourself in" is an insult, and marvelled at how quickly time passes. I had no clue I was almost 30. But apparently I am. And will most likely remain single until then if I keep mentioning trailer parks to the eligible bachelors I meet under awkward circumstances. (More on that later.)

I'm thankful. For family and laughter and advice from the young. For support systems and black coffee and bunk beds. For pumpkin pies and pianos and hoodies. For godly wisdom and hugs and overlapping conversations. For joining fake bands. For plotting sleigh rides. For calling each cousin a favourite. For not wanting to say goodbye.

I am full. I am content. I am exhausted. I am thankful.

And I am too old to play midnight soccer.

Quote This!

There has been too much brilliance uttered in the past two days to quote here. My brain can't contain it all. If any of you ever get the chance to hang out at my parents' house, bring a pen. Take notes.

"I'd like to see a live-action Care Bears movie. Sort of like Homeward Bound. With lasers coming out of their stomachs."

--------------------

"I won't marry you. Or a dead girl. Those are the two things crossed off my list."

--------------------

1: Those are your non-alcoholic options.

2: What are the alcoholic ones?

1: We don't have any.

--------------------

"I want a Serta chair. With memory foam. Then I can get rid of my bed."

--------------------

1: Ooh, look at me. I'm a fancy lady.

2: I didn't say that.

1: I know. That's why I'm mocking you, not impersonating you.

--------------------

1: You should make a hat like that.

2: Or I could buy a hat and glue yarn to it.

--------------------

"You just made two-thirds of the pizzas accommodate the pickiness of one-fifth of the people. You will never win the Nobel Peace Prize."

--------------------

1: You shouldn't have kids for 24 years.

2: So I shouldn't have kids until last April?

3: I think she means 24 MORE years.

Subway Cooties

A few days ago, I saw the strangest and most uncomfortable form of physical affection on the subway. I can't get it out of my mind. So I'll share it with you.

Really, I should draw pictures. But I won't.

She was leaning against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. His arm was around her.

Sweet.

His arm reached over her shoulder, his hand touching her face. Prodding it. Playing with it, as though her skin were made of soft clay. He pinched her cheeks. He pulled at her lower lip, then her upper lip. He stuck his fingers in her mouth. For a moment, I thought he was going to knead her face into a new one.

Not once did he turn to face her. He just stared straight ahead, rearranging her features with his public-transit-infected fingertips, while she quietly stirred against him.

This continued for the entire duration of my ride. I'm assuming he's still tugging at her flesh somewhere.

Moral of the story: sometimes love is gross.

My Story

I'm starting a new journal. Not because I feel the need to start over fresh, escaping themes and preoccupations plaguing the present one, but because said present one is full. Cover to cover. It's a remarkable tome of two very eventful years. And not just hormone-induced "oh, she's a girl" eventful. There's some heavy stuff in there. Fear, death, heartache, anxiety. With joy, risk-taking, fearlessness, infatuation and optimism rounding it out. Some of it almost reads as fiction. I am not the Nadine of 2007. For this, I am thankful. I am moving forward.

Maybe I'll quote from it one day. In short cryptic doses.

I'm hesitant to write the first entry in the new one. I don't know what to say. I feel as though there should be something significant going on in my life or my head before I start to scribble. I don't want the first page to be boring.

I don't want my life to be boring.

I recently discovered Donald Miller. I know, I'm a little slow. And I think I love him. I want to hike up a mountain with him and tell him all my secrets. And then we can sip wine and talk about story and why I desire an epic tale of my own. I crave memorable scenes. Strong characters. I want to be able to define what I want and then pursue it passionately. I want to sacrifice. I want my story to make me a stronger woman in the end. I want my life to read as a redemptive and meaningful narrative.

And as Don and I walk down the mountain, he'll tell me how to get a book deal.

YouTube Tuesday Bonus: Breaker High Theme Song

I feel like I should apologize to Ryan Gosling for excluding this little ditty of brilliance from the previous post.

Breaker High forever.

YouTube Tuesday: Nostalgic TV Theme Songs

Dawson's Creek

Confession: I'd still choose Dawson, the over-analytical, too-wordy-for-his-own-good, slightly self-absorbed filmmaker teeming with endearing optimism and impossible dreams. Don't balk. This lets you have Pacey. Everyone wins.

And the theme song still rings true.

Arthur

I grew up without cable. So after-school TV options were limited. I watched Arthur. Yes, while I was in high school. It was educational, okay? Better than a drug habit.

And sometimes I still get the theme song stuck in my head.



The Beverly Hillbillies

So....a few weeks ago, I mentioned that I watched a lot of retro TV growing up. Someone asked me if I knew the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies. I said yes. He asked me to sing it. Did I mention were in a cute little cafe? Surrounded by strangers?

So I sang it. In the cafe. Yes, I did. I have no pride.



Bonus: Chip 'n Dale: Rescue Rangers

If you're a musician and choose to cover this song, I might love you forever. You have been warned.

P.S. I was a Chip gal. Because he was practically Indiana Jones.

Permission to Just Be

I will not apologize for taking it easy this weekend.

But I was very thankful for a vacant schedule. An impromptu pizza party was just what a friendship needed. Because this morning's sermon was written for both of us. And sometimes I just need a face-to-face heart-to-heart over a slice of pepperoni. (No offence to the Fido and Google Chat folks who also contribute to the health of our relationship.)

In some ways, we find ourselves at identical crossroads. In others, we're in opposite worlds. It's what makes us work. And we're comfy. The sort of friends who can hang out in slippers. Who can doze while watching a movie. Who can be real and say embarrassing things and be shockingly honest about the desires of our hearts. Non-bloggable stuff.

Not long after I left her place, my friend's life changed with one phone call from Italy. And I was so glad I was there this afternoon. Because we knew this day was coming. Not necessarily this soon, but it was inevitable. Life is short, no matter how long and full it may seem. And saying goodbye is never easy. But somehow the grief face-plant is softened knowing that there are folks taking ownership of your pain. We're all in this together.

I wish I could turn a blog entry into a hug. Because I would.

Frail: One Year Later

Sometimes it's hard to blog about life. I don't always know where to draw the line. Or when it's too soon. That's why I talk about guys hypothetically and tell fun life tales as memoir chapters rather than tell them as they're happening. Sometimes I need to know the ending before I start typing the beginning.

So when I was posting silly YouTube videos here, I was writing about ultrasounds and blood tests in my journal.

And when I told awkward tales of trying to become a jogger, I excluded the part about my new-found obsession with weight-bearing activity. That I think about my spine when I run.

It's time to talk about my skeleton.

I'm not ashamed of my bones. I marvel at the intricacies of human design. Doctors don't understand my situation. I'm one of those medical mysteries, I suppose. No rhyme or reason. Or when they do find an almost-reason, that reason doesn't have a reason. And while I'm not ecstatic about the diagnosis, I'm at peace. I'm a broken human in a broken world. I don't deserve special treatment. Some children are born with cancer. I cannot complain.

This past week, I visited my endocrinologist to review my bone-density-scan results from earlier in the summer. It was scary. It was that moment of truth: Was I getting worse? Were my bones thinning at a terrifying rate? Would I need to take drugs intended for postmenopausal women? Was I going to become Samuel L. Jackson in Unbreakable?

She looked at the chart and made a few notes. She frowned. But that's what she does. She even frowns while humming happy tunes.

"Oh!"

It was a happy "oh." I leaned over her desk to see what she was looking at.

"You have osteopenia."

This is bad news if you thought you had healthy bones. This is incredibly good news if you thought you had osteoporosis just seconds earlier. Osteopenia indicates that you're at risk for developing osteoporosis. For me, it means that my adventures in calcium, vitamin D, greens+ supplements, birth-control pills and weight-bearing exercise have paid off considerably. My bones are stronger. Denser. I'm moving backwards. A very good direction.

As my brother Nathan encouraged me, I can finally start pursuing my lifelong dream of playing professional football.

So there. I will be conscious of my bone health for the rest of my life. But so should everyone.

I look forward to my future with this body. I think it suits me.

Frail

I received good news yesterday. But the good news makes no sense without last summer's bad news. So here you go. Another chapter for the memoir.

INT. ENDOCRINOLOGIST'S OFFICE - AUGUST 2008

She was frowning. Skimming over the files in front of her, she didn’t bother to look up to ask her question.

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty-five.”

She grunted and continued her reading. Her frown intensified. I braced myself for a lecture. For the accusation that I was an over-Googler, a hypochondriac whose self-diagnosis had just abused an all-too-generous medical plan.

I could take her ridicule. Even her rhythmic grunting didn’t intimidate me. I knew she would roll her eyes, but I didn’t care. For the sake of my own (questionable) sanity, I had to know. I telepathically dared her to admit that, yes, I had reason for concern, but, no, a 25-year-old has no business fretting over an old woman’s disease.

She stopped reading. Her face was now twitching, the corners of her mouth so severely down-turned that I feared her face might invert itself. She kept her finger on a list of three digits and shook her head.

She finally looked me in the eye.

“You have osteoporosis.”

Too Lazy For Pie?!

The most disturbing verse in the Bible:

Some people dig a fork into the pie
but are too lazy to raise it to their mouth.

Proverbs 19:24 (The Message)

YouTube Tuesday: Auditions

I love audition tapes. But not bad American Idol auditions. Acting auditions. Maybe it's the former drama student in me, but I love figuring out what it is that gives one actor the edge over an other. I want to know why Jessica Biel didn't get the Agent 99 role in Get Smart. (Okay, that's easy. Because she can't act. And isn't funny. And can't act. And isn't Anne Hathaway. And can't act....)

Evangeline Lilly auditions for Lost:

What I love most about this? She's mourning Jack's death. Yes, folks, he was originally going to die in the pilot.

Crazy that this was her first audition, huh? Love her.

Oh, and Matthew Fox auditioned for Sawyer!



Hugh Laurie auditions for House:

I firmly believe the show could not exist without him.



Zachary Levi auditions for Chuck:

Can you imagine being sent the script for Chuck? How could you not audition? And if you didn't get the part? An eternity spent in tears.

Zac had nothin' to worry about. It's him.

P.S. He's been cast as the "dashing bandit" in the new Disney musical, Rapunzel. Chuck sings! And the songs will be written by Alan Menken (Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast, Newsies). I will watch.



Rachel McAdams auditions for The Notebook:

I would love to be a casting director, discovering brilliant talent and giving young actors their breakout roles. I heart McAdams. She doesn't reek of fakeness. Just loveliness. (Yes, I just coined the phrase "reeking of loveliness.")

Note that both women featured in this post are Canadian. Not intentional, but fun.

Monday's On My Mind

Stuff I'm thinking. On a superficial level. That's as deep as my brain goes this evening. It's a little sore.

• Dancing with the Stars has lost its novelty. I don't care enough to accidentally watch it.
• I suddenly like Castle. I think I'm obsessed with anything writer-related.
• Paul Gross on Eastwick = poor man's version of Jack Nicholson. Too bad. I once loved Paul.
• I need to learn css and html and everything code- and design-related. My ideas cannot magically appear without knowledge. And so I shall learn.
• I will not write a 650-word article for $4. Now you know.
• I took Tylenol tonight. I haven't had a headache in months. It's been so long, I'm not even complaining about this one. I figure it's time.
• Coffee will be waiting for me in the morning. Yes, folks, I have an official writing-related reason to leave my apartment.
• I need new shoes. But writers don't need shoes. We just need slippers. Shopping trip averted.
• The new "cocktail lounge" across the street is actually a sports bar. I am so confused. If I need to hang out with questionable characters late at night, I'll stick with the pub next door. It has karaoke.

Sunday Afternoons No Longer Incude Naps

I'm pretty exhausted. It's a happy exhaustion, the kind that comes after a long, full day. And because I'm overwhelmed at the thought of writing anything creative and quirky and inspiring this evening, I'll recap my day for you. And then I'll go to bed. Deal?

Prologue: Last Night

Last night was a late one. By choice. I hung out with Nathan and Sam (my brother and his girlfriend) at Sam's new place, eating pizza, watching State of Play (highly recommended, especially to writers and Rachel McAdams fans), and speculating as to what some people might assume "my type" is. I'd love to know. What sort of fella do people think I'd want to spend ridiculous amounts of time with? If you say "nice boy," I might vomit.

As I was leaving, I met a group of tall, handsome, drunk gentlemen in the elevator. They invited me to go out with them. I declined. I'm starting to develop a complex; I attract crazy strangers. (Hint: "drunk" is not my type.)

The bus was late. I was home by 12:50. I was in bed by 1:30.

Today

This morning, I chased the bus and made it to church early so I could dedicate my morning to adorableness in the nursery. Twin toddlers, both extremely blond (one with curls and one without) teetered around in their matching BabyGap hoodies. My heart melted. And then I tried to teach them about the Ark of the Covenant. Epic fail.

I went out for Thai food with Nathan and Sam and friends (a fantastic married couple) from church. I really like peanut sauce. And mangoes. And fun people. So lunch was a super-success. (Using the taps in the restaurant's washroom was not a success. Apparently you need an engineering degree to wash your hands.)

We headed to Word on the Street, a book and magazine festival celebrating its 20th year. The books were not free. Nor were the magazines. But someone did give me a mini chocolate bar. While at the festival, I met up with a friend from college and a friend from university. Delightful. I like watching my worlds collide. As an added bonus, I also saw Polkaroo. And Margaret Atwood.

Post-books, we headed over to Kensington Market to buy tea. After much searching, we found my favorite tea place. It was closed. While disappointing, it prevented unjustifiable splurging. Had I brought my camera with me, I would have snapped a pic of the larger-than-life Scrabble game that took up the middle of the car-free street. But I didn't.

And after five-and-a-half hours on our feet, we called it a day. As we made our way to the subway, we ran into another friend and her boyfriend on Yonge Street. Because I know everyone who lives in Toronto.

So now I'm sitting at my desk, thankful for ice-cream trucks, old friends and new, frittata leftovers, and the promise of fast-approaching sleep.

Next weekend is Nuit Blanche. I don't know if I'll survive.

Back to Marshmallows

I'm pretty good at being poor.

When I was in university, I had no money. I was a scholarship kid, letting random organizations financially reward me for being smart. My first year ended up costing me a total of $63. This included my phone bill. I've never been handed fistfuls of dollars by mommy and daddy or trust funds when times got tough.

(I'll never let my mom live down the summer she sent me $20 when I had a mere $13 left in my bank account. On the bright side, I lost 5 pounds.)

When I was in my third year, I was broke. Really broke. No one knew, because there was no need to stress people out when I wasn't stressed out. God provided. I didn't starve. And I graduated. Happy ending. The only notable moment of poverty-induced unhappiness was a trip to my local grocery store. I was craving sugar. Desperately. It was nonnegotiable: I needed my fix. And I wanted a lot of it.

Sugar is expensive and unnecessary. It's the first thing I'm cutting out of my current shrinking budget. And I understood that then, too. But I needed that quick high. Must have been essay-writing time.

So I bought the largest bag of no-name marshmallows I could find. Pure sugary goodness.

Watch these kids. I understand their pain. Sometimes you just need a marshmallow.

Oh, The Temptation from Steve V on Vimeo.

Another Chapter for the Memoir

The end. Also known as "the beginning."

A few months ago, I quit my subtitling job of four years for a slightly more lucrative position at an online mall. "Editorial Assistant" was good for the ego, and granted me the financial security that allowed Fridays off for writing projects. Some of you envied me. Others applauded the move; I was finally moving up in the big bad workplace world.

But something was off. I was going through the motions, dragging myself to work every day. My daily routine felt destructive to my spirit. I operated in a state of defeat, mourning stunted creativity and envious of those who thrived at their day jobs. I just wanted to write.

Fast-forward to last Wednesday.

When I left the office on September 16th, I left it for good. I said goodbye to my "grass is greener" gig with no backup plan. I am free-falling career-wise, and I'm excited to see where I land. But maybe insanity does that to a person.

I've known this for a long time: None of my dreams line up with conventional 9-to-5-ness. And at 26, I'm already weary. I'm tired of having those dreams nag at me. Of having tiny regrets start to creep into my daily life. I don't want to sit back in 20 years and ask myself why I didn't just quit my job and go for it.

So I quit my job. And I'm going for it.

I'm a writer. The kind who likes to see "By Nadine Bells" printed alongside her words. I have a unique voice, but I never market myself. I'm not sure why. I'm about to find out. And I have a million little ideas swirling around in my head that I've never pursued, mostly for a lack of available time. Well, I have time now. No money, but time. And time IS money. So really, I'm set. And I'm already comfortable with the idea that most of you won't understand this life upheaval. That's okay. To the few who do, I love you. Honestly. I could hug and kiss you all. Right. Now. (Or maybe give you an awkward high-five. Whatever.)

This is also my opportunity for that life makeover that everyone secretly wants. No more excuses. My schedule is what I make it. Already I'm penciling in regular exercise, time with God, healthy-meal prep time, piano breaks and jaunts to my local library.

I'm starting to feel alive again. And that's priceless.

My name is Nadine and I'm a freelance writer.

P.S. Will write for rent money.

My Life as a Movie: One Week Ago

I survived the beginning. The middle. And last Wednesday, I left Meryl Streep sitting in the back of the limo and walked away from it all.

Welcome to the big beautiful question mark that is my life. Details will follow.

[image source]

YouTube Wednesday: Sam Tsui

I know it's not Tuesday. I make my own rules. And then I break them.

This kid is my hero of the day. Or heroes. Seriously, watch these. And then pick your jaw up off the floor. Whew.

(Don't tell anymore I spent most of my afternoon watching this guy's YouTube channel. Sigh.)

Don't Stop Believing

Have you seen Glee yet? No? WHY NOT?! The musical is back, folks.



Michael Jackson Medley



Can I Have This Dance? (High School Musical 3)

Poor Zac and Vanessa can't compete. And it's their song.

The 2009 Primetime Emmys

Emmy-viewing stream of consciousness. From Orillia.

• I heart Neil Patrick Harris. So much. Opening number = success.
  
• Tina Fey looks abso-freaking-lutely amazing. Better every year.
  
• Neil said "dagnabbit." Officially my favorite person EVER. For now.
  
• "Here's hoping Kanye West likes 30 Rock."
• Tina Fey and Jon Hamm. Together. The way things should be.
• "Comedy is just drama with less smoking."
• All the Supporting Actress nominees are wearing hilarious eyewear. I don't know why. But I like it. (Amy Poehler's idea, apparently.)
  
• Kristin Chenoweth is adorable! "I'm unemployed now, so I'd like to be on Mad Men. I also like The Office and 24." I think we'd be friends.
• Comedy writing....30 Rock. I weep for Flight of the Conchords. But I'm still happy. Happy weeping.
• Jon Cryer wins?! Oh, Duckie.
• Justin Timberlake should quit music and become a regular SNL member. Just sayin'.
• Toni Collette: "This is insanely confronting." WHAT?! But okay.
• Blake and Leighton cannot dress themselves. They're better in fiction.
• Rob Lowe. Turned down Grey's Anatomy for Dr. Vegas. Ha!
• I love Steve Carell.
  
• Alec Baldwin?! Again?! I still love Steve Carell. And Jemaine Clement.
• Reality TV. Hmm. Jeff Probst. I approve. Sort of.
• Jeff just told me to do what I'm doing. The whole "go for your dream" thing. Thanks, Jeff.
  
• The Amazing Race. I can live with that. (Anyone wanna be my partner for next season's race? I'm good with heights if you agree to eat the weird-animal testicles.)
• Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick. Sigh. If I ever end up married to someone I need to walk a red carpet with, I hope we're like them.
  
• I want to watch Grey Gardens. Let's have a Little Edie party, shall we?
• Dr. Horrible and Captain Hammer make an appearance. I heart everyone.
• Jessica Lange. I still want to see Grey Gardens.
• I've never understood the Kiefer Sutherland appeal. Maybe I should watch more 24.
• Grey Gardens. Okay, okay, I get it. I'll watch it.
• I should probably watch Little Dorritt too.
• Jon Stewart's writers win. As they should.
  
• The Oscars' opening number just won an Emmy. "This is ridiculous." I'm still impressed with Hugh Jackman's song-and-dance skills.
• Ricky Gervais. He should host the Academy Awards. Or anything. Maybe just host a dinner party and invite me.
• Yay for The Daily Show. Jon Stewart can join Ricky and I for dinner.
• MICHAEL EMERSON!!!!!! Please watch Lost, folks. Please. One season left.
  
• Cherry Jones. Supertalent.
• In Memoriam. Sarah McLachlin is exquisite. And there are too many deaths. I don't like it. Stop the dying, folks. (RIP Michael Crichton. Patrick Swayze. David Carradine. Natasha Richardson. Paul Newman. Ed McMahon. Farrah Fawcett. Bea Arthur. Walter Cronkite. Michael Jackson....)
• The Mad Men writers win. I would toast them, but my Diet Coke is empty. As is my ice-cream bowl. Someone, get me more ice cream!
• Glenn Close is a glorious example of how to age. I'd be happy to look that elegant...tomorrow.
• Glasses. Everyone is wearing them. EVERYONE. So I'm halfway to an Emmy already.
• Bryan Cranston. Two years in a row. For a show I've never seen. "I feel like Cinderfella."
• Bob Newhart = wonderful.
• Best Comedy: 30 Rock. Tina Fey forever. I want her dress. And her career.
• Sigourney. I like that she wore red with red hair. (So did Debra Messing. Also gorgeous.) Two thumbs up.
• Best Drama: Mad Men. Cheers.

The end. You have no idea what just happened. So let me sum up:

• Neil Patrick Harris makes me want to hug the world.
• Writers who win awards make me want to write and win awards. Or write and win paychecks.

It Happened Last Night: U2

When the stage starts smoking, you know something awesome is about to happen. And it did.

I highly recommend spending a Thursday evening with 60,000 strangers. Preferably ones who freak out with united enthusiasm for "Mysterious Ways." (Oh, and make sure that you spend that same incredible evening with your dad.)

Seeing U2 play live has been on the bucket list since the list's first day of existence. And now I can die happy. As if Bono knew the importance of such an event, he sang my dream set list.

The acoustic rendition of "Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of" was breathtaking. I'm still intimidated by last night's flawlessness. It was seamless, passionate and straight-up rock 'n' roll. Both spectacular and intimate.

An open roof. A packed Rogers Centre. One thunderous voice singing "Amazing Grace." A cappella. Followed by "Where the Streets Have No Name." Chills.

P.S. The Edge wore plaid. Sigh.

YouTube Tuesday: Swayze

Yesterday was a sad day. Patrick Swayze died. And while I've never been a real Swayze-swooner, I will always have a soft spot for Johnny Castle.

(He was married to his wife Lisa for 34 years. He was only 57. That's some crazy/awesome life math. Here's the couple dancing together. Sexy.)

The Dirty Dancing soundtrack is a classic. Did you know that Swayze WROTE "She's Like the Wind"? Take it away, Pat....

Somewhat related: I don't understand why weddings seem to dictate the playing of "(I've Had) The Time of My Life." It sounds more like an anniversary song to me.

I'd rather play Dirty Dancing's "Yes" at my wedding. Lyrically it seems far more appropriate. Even though such appropriateness might be slightly inappropriate. But not really. Because I know what you'll all be thinking. Creepy friends. Stop thinking about my wedding night.

Monitor This: Flame-Broiled Blogging

Has your monitor ever rebelled against you by bursting into flame? Mine has. This evening. And now my apartment smells like burnt wires and dead computer.

Toby MacBook sits back and laughs. Stupid PC.

image source

Best Sandwich Ever

[via Funky Lunch]

This is suddenly a food blog. I apologize. Unless you like food. In which case, you're welcome.

Tomorrow's Haircut

The Sienna Miller look. No hairbrush required.

Earlier this week, a phone conversation with my mom:

ME: I'm getting my hair cut on Friday. To look good for Bono.

MOM: I'm pretty sure he won't see you way up there.

ME: Sigh. I know.

MOM: He's a married man. He shouldn't be noticing.

ME: You're right. I should wear a ponytail so I don't distract him.

Journals: 1999 - 2001

It had been a good long while since I'd cracked open an old journal. But now that I'm back in writing mode, I'm suddenly inspired by the frustrations and infatuations of the teenage me. Yep, I'm my own research.

For the sake of my own dignity (and the privacy of the unaware), I won't publish the journal entries about the "perfect" young man who knew how to iron and who hated processed cheese. My standards were hilarious when I was 16.

I could so easily write a book on how the lives of teenagers are not unseen episodes of Saved By the Bell.

~ June 4, 1999

Most awkward sentence ever:

I should probably be feeling violated or something, but I feel pretty.

~June 4, 2001

I could have been a rock star at 18. But I said no.

Not many people are stopped in a RadioShack and asked to record with a bunch of strangers. Yep, God has the most awesome plan for my life. It felt like tonight he confirmed that.

~June 15, 2001

Brains are still sexy.

He creeps me out. He's all muscles. (I mean, instead of having a brain.)

~June 24, 2001

YouTube Tuesday: Randomness

Next Time I Fall

This song popped into my head the other day. I don't know why.

When I was little, Peter Cetera creeped me out. Mostly because you can see saliva spewing from his mouth when he enunciates in the official music video for this song. And when you're 10, that's the grossest thing EVER.

(YouTube must think so, too. That video is suspiciously MIA.)

Like a Donut

This is pure genius. If you didn't have my childhood, I ache for you. Watch at 2:10.

I may have gone to a Donut Man concert when I was 13. By choice. Without parents. That's right. No one dragged me.

Would You Rather: Gaga vs. Bolton

Lady Gaga wrote a song for Michael Bolton. My brain just imploded. I. Don't. Understand. Is this a career-killer-comeback song in one?

"Murder My Heart"?! Sheesh. Give me a midnight and a piano and I'll give Bolton something to cry about. Uh, maybe.

P.S. Best Michael Bolton moment: the opening of The Crying Game. "When a Man Loves a Woman" plays over the credits. This is brilliant by the end. Trust me.

Cupcake of the Day

[via Nick^D's flickr]

Mmm. Yes, please.

Maybe I should host a Cookie Monster Party. B.Y.O.M.*

*Bring your own milk.

"That Girl"

Last night, I wasted a good hour just waiting for the phone to ring.

I'm that girl. The one mocked in romantic comedies. The lonely girl on a Friday night, anticipating a call that doesn't come.

I wasn't expecting a call from a boy. That would be too much. Just a girlfriend who said she'd call back. And didn't.

Sigh.

P.S. Someone told me that I remind them of Gossip Girl's Blake Lively. I'll assume that's a compliment and not a jab at my character.

Home Office Inspiration

[via white trash beautiful]

This weekend, I will be at home. This is by choice. I refuse to let you feel sorry for me. Music will blare. Dark chocolate will vanish. Decisions will be made.

Some of those decisions will have to do with creating a workspace that's both lovely and functional. Others will have to do with purging my darling apartment of unnecessary clutter. This includes the closets. The sheet music. The stacks of unsorted paperwork.

Believe me, you don't want to be here for the chaos.

Today is the Day

This song was my pep talk today.

I was having a "reevaluate everything" moment a few days ago. I thought about the people I admire most: the dreamers, the risk-takers, the God-trusters. Conversations in the past month or so have been reinforcing my desire to fearlessly embrace life's great adventures. And while it's easier to say than translate into reality, I really do having nothing to lose. If there's ever a time when I can throw myself headfirst into the great unknown and madly pursue whatever it is that makes me tick, it's now.

Today is the day, indeed.

I putting my fears aside
I'm leaving my doubts behind
I'm giving my hopes and dreams to You
Jesus

I'm reaching my hands to Yours
Believing there's so much more
Knowing that all You have in store for me is good
Is good

Call Me Lucy

My life is still like a movie. Assume away.

P.S. I don't own a pink dress.
P.P.S. Nor do I frequently hang out in closets with pants-less men.
P.P.P.S. My FAVORITE Sandra Bullock "Lucy" is in While You Were Sleeping. I'm pretty much her. Minus the coma guy.

YouTube Tuesday: (500) Days of Awesome

I stole this from Beth. Because I have no original ideas today. And it's Tuesday, thus requiring some sort of YouTube element here.

This is the best scene of the summer. (Not taking District 9 into account. That movie just kind of hovers above the rest.) I find it hilariously appropriate, as I'm about to turn off my computer and curl up with Sex God. I highly recommend chapter six to all of my girlfriends. And to my future husband. Just sayin'.

P.S. Go watch (500) Days of Summer. Or don't. I'm not the boss of you. But if I were.... I'd make you see it. Twice.

Almost Jerry Maguire

I think I'm going to start blogging cryptically, using screen shots from popular movies instead of filling this space with words. This way, you can come to your own creative conclusions, assuming that my life is far more sensational than it actually is. Everyone wins. I think.

Deal? Deal.

P.S. I miss the pre-crazy Tom Cruise. He was pretty awesome, wasn't he?

Sunday Stuff: The Sequel

Just some really fantastic randomness that's stuck in my brain, begging to be released. And so I release it.

• I need a shoe rack. It will probably have to be custom-made. I am debating between starting a handy-gal blog to chronicle my attempt at such a creation and the easier option of asking someone who knows what he's doing. Yeah, I said "he." Don't shoot me, girls. ("She's so hot she's making me sexist" just popped into my head. Go watch Flight of the Conchords. Now.)

• I spent a lovely day with a newly engaged friend yesterday. They have a great proposal story. But not quite as extreme as these. (Number 5 is pretty awesome.)

• Mail Goggles is pure genius. And is the perfect follow-up to a recent conversation I had with a friend about drunk-dialing. Personally, I'm more terrified of exhaustion. I have plenty of email drafts that will never be sent thanks to some remarkable post-midnight self-control. (Quite appropriately, I believe I was introduced to this Gmail Labs feature in the wee hours of the morning.)

• One day my email drafts will be compiled into a book. Or a one-woman play.

• Addictive vs. addicting. The grammar mystery has been solved. I actually once rewrote a sentence to avoid having to use either word.

• I'm a writer. Just thought I'd throw that out there. You know, in case you were wondering.

• Toby MacBook has a very boring laptop sleeve to hang out in when we travel places together. This would make him more fun. And give him a little more personality. (Barry's Farm, as a general rule, makes me want to spend money on things that protect gadgets I don't even own yet.)

• Sometimes conversation with kids is awkward. Me: "Are you from Toronto?" Her: "No, I'm from Canada." Me: "Where in Canada do you live?" Her: "Far away from Myrtle Beach."

• My favorite Natasha Bedingfield song EVER is "Stumble." Probably because she mentions spelling. Among other things.

• I need to buy a real domain name and go pro with this whole personal-blogging business. This is really just a "note to self." Feel free to ignore.

This upcoming week is going to be a tough one. I can already tell. But a good tough. The kind that will make me reevaluate my time, my priorities, my day-to-day non-negotiables. Career and ministry updates will follow shortly. There will be more weddings, folks. Because I'm an expert.

Sigh of Relief: I'm Not Special

(This is a follow-up to this post.)

It's been confirmed: I'm not special. Pavel the Lover loves everyone.

The Torontoist has been tracking his "career." He's the protege of the infamous Dmitri the Lover, the scum bag whose answering-machine message brought him international attention of the most unflattering nature.

Pavel has a new email address. A new card. But it's the same story. I'm just thankful Pavel didn't whip out his phone, as he is prone to do. Violence would have ensued. And I'm not sure if I'm cut out for prison life.

I should write a "what not to do" guide for guys. Business cards offering sexual satisfaction would be mentioned in chapter six. Passive-aggressive defensiveness would be listed in chapter four. Assessing a girl's singleness by randomly asking, "So how's it going with that guy?" would be in chapter two. The silent treatment would be a blank chapter in the middle. Asking a stranger if she has a boyfriend in the loudest possible voice on the bus would be in the introduction. Running across the street to declare your baby-making intentions would be the final chapter. And arbitrarily accusing an old friend of having a George Clooney obsession would make for a lovely epilogue.

Sigh. I guess I just need to accept my irresistibleness.

Tales from the Inbox: Sentence Structure

Up until this week, the shortest email I'd ever received was:

great

But then someone sent me this:

T

Seriously, folks, send me sentences. You're killing me here. (Or start with words. Whatever you can handle.)

Rescue Me

Song of the day. For 5.87 reasons.

One of those reasons is Fontella's suit. Another is that Beth came to the rescue. Again.

Fake Boyfriend, Real Concert

Ryan Gosling and I have been a fake item for quite some time. Probably since the days of Breaker High. He and Christian Bale were the under-the-radar actors I swooned over while everyone else pined for DiCaprio and Pitt.

Bale got married and became Batman.

Gosling stayed single and started a band.

And now Gosling's band, Dead Man's Bones, is going on tour. And when they come to Toronto in October, children's choir in tow, I will probably be there. Not to faint or squeal or send telepathic love notes, but to support a local boy with an original sound.

It's hard to explain to some people that I wouldn't actually date Gosling. Ever. I know enough to say no. I'd hate to have to break his heart.

So I'll watch The Notebook and cry. I'll recommend Lars and the Real Girl to everyone I meet. I'll support his music. But I won't go home with him. Sorry, folks. This is one anticlimactic fake love story.

P.S. Listen to the single "My Body's a Zombie For You." Kind of amazing.

P.P.S. Let me know if you want to go. While I'm usually cool with going places solo, I feel as though I need to assert my non-romantic interest in Gosling by bringing a date.

P.P.P.S. Tickets go on sale tomorrow.

YouTube Tuesday: Baby Got Back

Caitlin Crosby is pretty darn swell.



And for those of you who don't like butt references, here's a Bible song.

An Explosion of Adorable

I heart Zooey.

Take her band, She and Him, add her (500) Days of Summer costar, Joseph Gorden-Levitt, throw in some fancy footwork, and you get a delightful dose of cinematic happiness.

Tales from the Inbox: Spell Ya Later

A few years ago, I was sent this short message from a guy I hadn't seen since the fifth grade. I'm afraid I didn't respond too eagerly.

Yah long time for swure. what part of toornto do you live in? maybe you would like to hookup sometime? :)

Funny, I don't remember telling him I lived in "toornto."

I try not to be a writing snob. But I have to draw the line somewhere. That line is "swure."

The Other Blog: Pop Culture, Anyone?

Amy Adams bringing my life to the big screen in Julie & Julia.

Most of you know that I write. All the time. And everywhere. What you probably don't know is that I have another blog of pop-culture goodness that you should be reading. And maybe even commenting on.

Read Canada Pop Culture Blog. Join the discussion. Don't agree with my sometimes-snarky angle on celebrity gossip? Then call me on my crap in the comments. Hang out with me at work, folks. My blog needs more friends.

If you read now, I'll be kind when you're famous. Promise.

Sunday Stuff

Another "stuff" post. 'Cause I like stuff.

• This article makes me giddy. If you haven't seen Julie & Julia, I highly recommend it. Not only will it desensitize you to the boiling of live lobsters, it will inspire your inner blogger. Book deal, here I come!
• Liv Tyler and I could be twins. I pretty much wear this exact outfit every week. Minus the sunglasses.
• Read Sex God. I'm serious. I keep trying to quote from it, but I can't. Because I end up wanting to transcribe the entire thing. It is a little awkward to bring up in conversation, though. "So I was reading Sex God last night...."
• I received a sad email recently, one that hinted at a young marriage in significant trouble. Maybe they need to kiss more. Or better. (The Onion rocks.)
• Why is everyone talking about the darkness and goriness of District 9? I thought it was excellent storytelling, evenly paced with solid action sequences and heartbreaking character development. I wasn't even slightly disturbed. Which now disturbs me. Quick, someone reassure me that it's completely normal to not freak out over exploding humans.

District 9

Best movie of the summer.* I'd go again. And I don't double-view very often.

Sharlto Copley is phenomenal. Both insufferable and heartbreaking. More people should name their sons Wikus.

*Followed by (500) Days of Summer, Star Trek and UP.

Creepy

Edward Cullen Life Size Twilight Silhouette Vinyl Wall Decal.

From vinylfruit's Etsy shop.

It's SOLD OUT.

Why would anyone want a silhouette of a vampire in their bedroom? And doesn't a wall-decal boyfriend significantly hurt your chances of finding a real one?

Kids these days. Sheesh.

I miss Jonathan Taylor Thomas.