Not Everyone Watches Football

source: xkcd

Desmond Hume Will Be My Constant

If you're a Lost fan but missed last night's episode, please walk away from your computer. I couldn't bear being responsible for spoiling last night's awesomeness for you. Catch up, then come back.

There's this unspoken rule that if the episode is Desmond-centric, it will be amazing. Last night did not disappoint. On top of the genius storytelling, he wore a scarf. A great one. We're bonded for life.

ASIDE: I brought seven scarves to my parents' house last Christmas. I will never live that down.

Read more of my super-deep thoughts over at dailyLOST.

Every time Des and Penny argue, I get nervous. I want them to make it. They must be the love-conquers-all/redemption-is-possible couple in the series finale. Or I will cry. Or throw things.

ASIDE: I have been known to throw pillows at the TV on occasion. Like when Romeo and Juliet kill themselves. Stupid adolescent angst.

One of the downsides to blogging about my favorite show EVER is that I end up reading a lot of spoilers, casting news and production scoop. This means that certain mind-blowing reveals are softened and I miss the full impact. I read last week that Charlie would be mentioned by name in last night's episode (and that it would make me cry). Therefore, I completely predicted the adorable child's name in the first two minutes of the episode and subsequently needed zero tissues. Very disappointing. Sometimes a girl just wants to cry, you know?

ASIDE: Same thing happened with the Des/Penny kiss last season. A producer said that there would be an off-island kiss of fantastic proportions. Again, my prediction-smarts ruined the moment. Not that it wasn't amazing....

We need a Lost costume party, folks. I'm assuming no one will dress like Charlotte. Because I'm pretty sure she's ceasing to exist. Literally. And unless the new gal, Theresa, recovers from her "time-travel STD," she might be a pretty boring party guest too.

Sigh. I want Desmond's scarf.

Locker Room Nutrition

A young mom offers her little boy a post-swim snack.

MOM: I brought your favorite fish crackers.
BOY: Are they whole grain?
MOM: No, they're cheese-flavored.
BOY: Oh.

And for a moment, he looks disappointed.

YouTube Tuesday: The Actor/Musician

I won't post anything with Ryan Gosling, because you already know all about Dead Man's Bones and are probably sick of my mentioning him. And I've already posted about Jeff Daniels too.

Fascinating, but maybe not amazing:

Did you know that Weezer once opened for Keanu Reeves' band Dogstar?!

And 30 Seconds to Mars creeps me out a little. Just 'cause Jared Leto and I probably wouldn't be friends. Unless it was still the '90s.

If your gag reflux isn't too sensitive, check out the uber-cheese that is Bill Paxton's short-lived band, Martini Ranch, from 1988. There are no words.

Okay, the good stuff....

Jason Schwartzman:

If you haven't seen a Wes Anderson film, get thee to your neighborhood Blockbuster. Stat.

I love Coconut Records. For reals, yo. Regardless of Jason's acting genius. This is standalone good.



Zooey Deschanel:

She & Him. Who doesn't want to be Zooey? Be honest. You know you do.



Hugh Laurie:

Yeah, he wrote a book. And wrote a song. And is generally brilliant at everything. If I can't be Zooey, I want to be Hugh.



BONUS: The cast of Duets.

Okay, this is rated on a fun scale, not on the "will change the world with their mind-blowing musical perfection" scale.

I need a karaoke night. Desperately. And if Huey Lewis wants to show up, I'll sing a duet with him. You have my word.



And Paul Giamatti makes me happy.

Church With Jake Gyllenhaal

It's no secret that I love my church. Which is a very exciting thing to type, as I spent my first year or so in this city wandering aimlessly between churches, often preferring to sleep in and watch Charles Price on TV rather than trek to a building of awkward mediocrity. Please, pastors of the world, stop trying to be Dr. Phil. And maybe test-drive your analogies with a trusted loved one. So many attempts = FAIL. (Just ask my brother Joel. There will be eye-rolling....)

Back to The Meeting House.

We've been talking about the early church. About community. And about how non-creepy real fellowship is, in stark contrast with the most brilliant clip below.

There is no better sermon lead-in than 3 minutes with Jake. This even beats the Shawn of the Dead Sunday....

(Watch 3:50 to 7:09)



There's a huge difference between authentic community and "bright and shiny." One is real and life-changing. The other is hilarious. From a distance.

Cyclical Fashion?

Oh, no.


American Apparel is responsible for one of my favorite shirts. And now they're also responsible for trying to revive my least favorite hair trend ever.

Don't do it, folks. Please. Thwart the trend-dictating elves' evil schemes.

Finally

I officially have boots that don't look like they were chewed up by a lawnmower and then vomited onto an ashy pile of soot and dog poo.

And when given the choice between my true love (brown) and the ever-practical (black), I followed my heart. Because the Geox folks call the shade "coffee." And I can't turn that down.

Locker Room Mysteries

I didn't have any writing assignments today, so after helping out with the Yonge Street Mission clothing drive this morning, I went to the gym. The change room was packed with old ladies (not just "older," but gals who probably once swooned over a young Laurence Olivier). They were all in various states of undress, moving at a ridiculously slow pace, chatting about nothing in particular.

One woman was clearly upset, looking for her glasses. A second woman, ready for AquaFit in her saggy floral swimsuit, tried to help her find them.

WOMAN 1: Do you always wear your glasses in the pool?
WOMAN 2: Oh, yes. Always.
WOMAN 1: Did someone steal them off your face?

Someone needs to watch more Murder, She Wrote.

I Heart Polaroids

I think I have a crush on a photograph.

"Love Letter" ~ Alicia Bock Photography

Oscar Watch

The Academy Award nominations were announced today. Here's the list. You'll notice that The Dark Knight was not nominated for Best Picture. Nor was Wall-E. Bruce Springsteen was not nominated for Best Original Song. Clint Eastwood was not nominated for Best Actor. Sally Hawkins was not nominated for Best Actress.

But Slumdog Millionaire grabbed a pile of nods, so I'm quite content. Not as many as Benjamin Button, though....

One year ago today, Heath Ledger died. On the anniversary of his death, he's nominated for an Oscar. Life is weird.

Aside: The Dark Knight is coming back to the IMAX near me. Should I go? Should you go with me?

For those of you who haven't seen The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (I actually quite enjoyed it, although the surreal concept makes it pretty impossible to relate to on a gut level. And I like to be sucker-punched at the movies), watch this. If you've seen Forrest Gump, you've seen Benjamin Button.

Yes, there are spoilers. You are warned.

The Curious Case of Forrest Gump - watch more funny videos

I Watched TV Last Night...

...which is why I didn't post here.

I did post my rambling thoughts over at dailyLOST.com, though. So you can read what my brain was thinking while I wasn't blogging here.

(Death-by-dishwasher is my new favorite way to die, by the way.)

The whole episode was full of the most amazing dialogue. Super-quotable. For those of you who don't watch, Hurley's confession to his mother essentially recaps the first four seasons. It made my night.

See, we did crash, but it was on this crazy island. And we waited for rescue, and there wasn't any rescue. And there was a smoke monster. And then there were other people on the island. We called them the Others, and they started attacking us. And we found some hatches, and there was a button you had to push every 108 minutes or... Well, I was never really clear on that. But... the Others didn't have anything to do with the hatches. That was the Dharma Initiative. But they were all dead. The Others killed them, and now they're trying to kill us. And then we teamed up with the Others because some worse people were coming on a freighter. Desmond's girlfriend's father sent them to kill us. So we stole their helicopter and we flew it to their freighter, but it blew up. And we couldn't go back to the island, because it disappeared, so then we crashed into the ocean, and we floated there for a while until a boat came and picked us up. And by then, there were six of us. That part was true. But the... But the rest of the people who were on the plane? They're still on that island.

~Hurley

Love it.

Please tell me you were watching.

Do You Like Waffles?

I do.

And tonight is waffle night at home church. I'm pretty sure Jesus likes waffles too.

Almost Lost

Let's say that my name is Penny. And my TV's name is Desmond.* For some time now, our relationship has been distant. I have been waiting. And I have a feeling our love affair is going to heat up tomorrow.

There is one redeeming thing about January. That thing is Lost.

Doesn't everyone's TV have a Scottish accent?

P.S. Please give Henry Ian Cusick an Emmy. I mean, the guy was JESUS. (So was Christian Bale. All the great ones are at some point.)


*I'm aware that my attempt at Analogies 101 is a total FAIL. I almost don't care. At all.

Locker Room Woes

A little boy reluctantly follows his mother and sister into the women's change room.

BOY: When can I use the men's room?
MOTHER: When you're 47.
BOY: Please say 8.

Eavesdropping is better than television.

Afflictions Eclipsed By Glory

I am not alone.

I fumbled through a conversation today, completely inarticulate and awkward, breaking eye contact as I searched for the right words that just wouldn't come.

But I told her that I don't believe that all I've got is me. I'm not the only one I can count on in this world of heartache. It's freeing, knowing my life is in the hands of Someone Greater. I'm free to love big. To risk brokenness. To know that if I fall to my knees, it's probably better that way.

And then I went to a worship service and sang my face off.

We are His portion and He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking
So Heaven meets Earth like a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don’t have time to maintain these regrets
When I think about the way…

He loves us

Hey, Mickey!

Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler

It's the year of the comeback. In one corner, we have Robert Downey Jr., everyone's favorite ex-convict. It's almost unfair how fantastic he looks after years of abusing his body with poison. In another corner, Britney is poised for a worldwide tour, abs back in look-at-me form. And then there's Mickey.

Mickey Rourke was pretty much unemployable for years. Over a decade, actually. He was a liability. He may still be. He screwed up his body with drugs, his face with boxing and surgery, his relationships with unpredictable and volatile behavior. And then someone risked a professional career and fought for him. One role later, and he's in line (and maybe even the favorite) for the Oscar. What a year, indeed.

He scares me a little. Mostly because, unlike Downey, this man is an island. He doesn't have heroes to thank at award shows, he has his dogs. And his role in The Wrestler might be more a testament to supplementation and the hard life of a has-been than of remarkable acting talent. Maybe it's just a little too real.

And while his burned bridges may be all that stands in his way of a little gold man, he has far greater obstacles ahead of him. Will one performance be redemption in a town that wrote him off long ago? Will a gentler Mickey emerge from the land of critical acclaim? Or will a self-dependent man only crumble further under the weight of a lonely life?

What happens if he can't live up to the expectations of "comeback"? Or if the insecurity-fueled ego continues to trip him up?

Note to self: It's okay to live alone, but don't live life alone.

Journals: The Disclaimers

Multiple journals. Few themes. Many acknowledgments of phantom readers.

July 31, 2001

I know I'm beginning to sound over-dramatic and superficial, but....


Sept 26, 2001

I know I must be sounding redundant....


Oct 14. 2001

Okay, if anyone ever reads this, I'm apologizing now for the complete infatuative babble that is going to occur on the next pages. Very sorry.


Dec 29, 2001

Alright, so on reading through this journal, I've noticed, quite embarrassingly, that....


Nov 2, 2002

I've decided to return to this journal because I think the frustrating confusion I am experiencing right now links to many of the pages in this book. Thematic organization, I suppose.


Apr 4, 2003

I feel as though I need to begin a new journal.

The word "infatuative" should catch on any day now.

Star Wars. Minus the Movie.

"Chewy's, like, a deformed Ewok or something."

Star Wars. As told by someone who hasn't seen it.


Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it) from Joe Nicolosi on Vimeo.

Marry Me

Adorable.

And pretty much my childhood.



The sandbox. The bike. The jump. The little boy with bad hair....

Yeah, my first marriage ended in the second grade.

Golden Globes: The Commentary

The Golden Globe Awards aired on Sunday. I was watching. The winners list is here.

Below is my brain's running commentary. It might not make sense. In chronological order, this is what was spinning through my head as I tried to will a statue into Jon Hamm's hands.

(I linked to some pics of the night so you have visuals if you need them. And so that you can make a photo of Mickey Rourke on the red carpet your new desktop wallpaper. I'll try not to judge.)

• Kate Winslet won. I love her. I could watch her eat cereal for two hours. Remind me to write that movie. Costarring Cate Blanchett. Also eating cereal.
  
• Bruce Springsteen won. Because he's the Boss. He dictates such things.
  
• Why is Mickey Rourke wearing sunglasses indoors? Doesn't he know that he has a lousy reputation in town? Cocky styling isn't going to help.
• Rumer Willis is talented. Apparently. No comment.
• I love Neil Patrick Harris. But in an unrequited-love sort of way. He doesn't win, but he'll do fine without it. Trust me.
• Laura Dern was Miss Golden Globe in 1982. I bet she's Rumer Willis' idol.
• Colin Farrell cut his hair. We are no longer twins.
• Don Cheadle is super-bald. Bald must be in. There were so many shiny heads at church today.
• Please let Jon Hamm win. Please. (Or Hugh Laurie.)
• GABRIEL BYRNE?! Zac Efron accepts on his behalf. So at least one person is happy. His name is Zac. This may be his only chance to accept such an award.
  
• Thank you, Sally Field, for not abusing Botox.
• January Jones looks, uh, non-'60s-housewife. I don't like change. Or coral lipstick.
  
• Anna Paquin?! I will never be a betting woman. The 26-year-old now has an Oscar AND a Golden Globe. She was in She's All That. My brain hurts.
  
• Ricky Gervais is smarter than 98% of the room.
• The Jonas Brothers: "It is so cool to be here. Invited." Yes, boys, be thankful for the random invite.
• Wall-E wins. First "duh" of the night. That movie is a darling little genius of a flick. Stop reading this and go watch it.
• Johnny Depp does not age. I do not understand.
• Sally Hawkins wins for Happy-Go-Lucky. Johnny mouths "Wow." Major underdog. She just beat Meryl Streep and Emma Thompson. Her arms are too skinny. My own arms are experiencing sympathy pains. EAT, girl. Please. Meryl eats.
• Who doesn't love Jake Gyllenhaal? If you don't, don't tell me.
• P. Diddy is not Sidney Poitier. Someone should tell him that.
• Demi just told her daughter not to slouch. On stage. There will be words at home tonight. "Mom, how could you?!"
  
• Whatever Tom Cruise has been eating, he should continue to do so. He's pulling a Benjamin Button and looks very Jerry Maguire.
• Heath wins.
• Heath was brilliant.
• I'd stand too.
• I need to watch Frost/Nixen. And Milk. And The Wrestler.
• Oh, Colin. You're chewing gum. While presenting. You're lucky your accent covers a multitude of sins. All of them, actually.
  
• Cameron Diaz needs to make a date with her colorist. And her shampoo bottle.
• Aaron Eckhart will be A-list one day. That's my prediction of the night.
  
• Laura Linney is gorgeous. She finally gets it right fashion-wise. It's so sad to see brilliant people in awkward clothing.
• Should I get glasses like Paul Giamatti? Can I pull off uber-nerd?
• I don't understand Gerard Butler's appeal. Is it because I haven't seen 300?
• Seth Rogen is skinny. And not very funny.
• Best Screenplay: Slumdog Millionaire. Have you seen it yet?
• So far, zero of the dresses I thought I'd see have shown up. Never pay me to be your psychic.
• Alec Baldwin. Of course. "I remember when I used to bring Rumer Willis a juice box on the set of the movie." Um, hilarious and not funny at the same time.
• Renee's face. Her hair. Why?! She's suddenly a granny with a chemical peel.
• Megan Fox should not be there. But she is.
• Paul Giamatti wins. He's a living cartoon character. So awkward and bumbling and awesome.
• Glenn Close has the same hair as Renee Zellweger. Her shiny pants are making me uncomfortable.
• 30 Rock. Tina Fey forever. Tracy Morgan gives the best speech of the night. Which shocks me. We're not usually friends.
• Slumdog Millionaire has an amazing soundtrack. The Hollywood Foreign Press agrees. Now go see it.
• Every time someone says Danny Boyle, I think they're thanking Danny Boy. And it temporarily confuses me.
• Ugly Betty is one of the room's most gorgeous. I should have lunch with her makeup artist.
• Tina Fey! "As a kid, I had all the Hollywood Foreign Press action figures."
  
• Steven Spielberg is receiving the Cecil B. DeMille Award. I guess I assumed that he already had every possible fancy honorary award. Guess not.
• I would fetch coffee for that man FOR FREE just to hang out on one of his sets. Maybe I'll catch the magic by osmosis.
• I've never seen The Color Purple.
• But I have seen Empire of the Sun.
• Schindler's List is perfect. So's Tiny Toons.
• Scorsese is crying. People are standing. I swear that everyone in the room has been in a Spielberg flick. Drew, Tom (Cruise and Hanks), Leo, Ralph....
• Steven has a staccato rhythm to his speech I've never noticed before. Nerves? I think he's trying to be inspiring. I'm lost. I have ADD tonight.
• Maybe I should pack my lunch for tomorrow.
• Done and done.
• When there's no host and no banter, an awards show can actually end before midnight. *Fingers crossed.*
• Danny Boyle!!!! It's the little movie that could.
• I should watch Trainspotting. I think I can handle it.
• Sigourney is wearing a gown I picked for Meryl! I win. As does Donna Karan.
• Everyone tells me not to watch Revolutionary Road. I'm a rebel. This makes me want to see it more.
• Sandra Bullock = ridiculously good-looking. I want to be 44. In Dior.
• COLIN FARRELL!!!!! It's because of the haircut. Good on ya, mate. Now I should probably watch In Brudges too. I can't keep up.
• I don't get the Sasha Baron Cohen appeal. At all. But who am I, really?
• A Woody Allen picture just won. Is this what the '70s felt like? And where is Woody?
• Remind me not to name my first son Woody. Or second.
• Freida Pinto is stunning. American girls can't begin to compare. Not that I'm comparing.
• Best Actress. I'm calling Anne Hathaway.
• And the Golden Globe goes to... KATE WINSLET!
• Remember that cereal thing? Apparently everyone would watch her eat breakfast.
• "I'm so sorry." Don't be.
• Actresses, this is your lesson of the evening: If you eat, refuse Botox and are brilliant, you will win awards.
• Angelina's ticked. Pretty transparently.
• "I've loved you for 13 years." Yeah, we've all loved Leo for 13 years. Well, maybe we took a bit of a break somewhere in there.
• Her husband directed that performance. Crazy.
• "Hello. We're TV actors." Rainn Wilson should host the Oscars.
• Mad Men. Oh, Mad Men. How you make me happy.
• Did you know that Josh Groban used to date January Jones? Now you do.
• Best-looking cast on TV. With the exception of Lost.
• Mickey Rourke wins. Despite the sunglasses and sequins. I'm a little scared of him. Okay, a lot.
• He just thanked his dogs. Because he's alone and that's all he's got. Sadness.
• Does it count if I thought Angelina would wear a different Versace? Same designer. Half point for me.
• The commercials for the Olympics make me want to go. Or compete.
• Slumdog takes it. It's officially the front-runner in the Oscar race. I'm so proud. I want to be at the after-party. (It hasn't even opened in India yet! Can you imagine?)
• The producer dropped an F-bomb and magically escaped the censors' wrath in the process. Maybe it's because I'm watching CTV, not NBC. Those Americans can't handle it.
• Miley Cyrus just stuck out her tongue at the camera. Classy girl.
• The end.

Doogie Howser Forever

I'm not sure exactly when Neil Patrick Harris became the definition of awesome, but I've very glad he did.

He's legen-- Wait for it. --dary.

Heston & Bogie

Two young guys on the bus. One, maybe both, still in high school. But instead of sporting mega-sized hoodies and expensive kicks, these two are dressed like mini-men. Respectable.

They passionately discuss their favorite Charlton Heston films. One defends his love of the Biblical epics, claiming they have little to do with Jesus and more to do with the particular moment in history. Something about Heston and period pieces. The other agrees that Michael Moore's take on the man was unfair. There's more to the man.

Then they move on to other classics.

"It's hard to find a girl in high school who really appreciates Casablanca."

High school's rough, boys. I know.


I hope people write down the awesome things I say in public.

Nadine Is a French Name

Doesn't everyone have wigs stashed under the bed?

I need to act again. I miss costumes.

Dangerous Doesn't Scare Me

Mack was getting frustrated. He spoke louder, "But, don't I have the right to..."

"To complete a sentence without being interrupted? No, you don't. But as long as you think you do, you will surely get ticked off when someone cuts you off, even if it is God."

~The Shack

I started reading The Shack over the holidays. I haven't finished, so I won't post any sort of conclusive opinion yet. 

I've heard people call this book dangerous. Then again, I've also heard people call Brian McLaren dangerous.

So far, I would not be scared to meet this novel in a dark alley. Just as I would not run screaming from Brian. But maybe that's just me. I am fearless. 

And I'm a mess.

"This mess is you! Together, you and I, we have been working with a purpose in your heart. And it is wild and beautiful and perfectly in process. To you it seems like a mess, but to me, I see a perfect pattern emerging and growing and alive -- a living fractal."

~The Shack

An Open Letter to Jessica Alba

Dear Jessica,

I have an apology to make. For years now, I have made the rather harsh statement that I despise films starring Jessicas. Alba, Simpson and Biel are all surnames that keep me away from my local cinema. I'm not completely recounting this, but I do acknowledge that my wording has been, at times, inappropriately cruel. For this, I am sorry. I would never say this to your face, so saying it in your absence is not acceptable. You are cast in movies and I am not. Maybe I'm envious. 

While I still cannot bring myself praise your acting abilities, I will applaud your decision to cut your hair.

Jessica Alba, the new length looks lovely. And I want your scarf.

Have a wonderful weekend with your family. And, as your new friend, I'm begging you: Please stop wearing bikinis in your movies and then bemoaning your sex-kitten status. And never make another movie with Dane Cook or Mike Myers. Ever. Just sayin'. Girlfriends should have each other's backs.

Never Been Kissed was a good movie. You were in it. If you string those two things together, maybe you'll come up with a compliment.

Taking your photo to my hair stylist,

Nadine

Nadine vs. the Buff Ones

I went to the gym yesterday. In the middle of the afternoon. No one else had the same idea, so it was pretty empty. Note to self: Quit day job and go to gym midday all the time.

So I'll rewind a few days....

I'm waiting for my orientation. Already in gym clothes, I'm trying not to pace or look awkward as I stand by the double-door entrance. I feel dumb. I read and then reread the rules on the wall. And fidget.

A guy walks by me, the sort of fellow who is very proud of the bulging muscles on his otherwise scrawny frame. He asks me if I work there. I say no. Five minutes later, he asks again. It's either the weakest pick-up attempt in history, or he's suffering from muscles-trump-brain syndrome. I smile and say no. Again.

I'm still waiting. Apparently showing up 10 minutes early for an appointment here is not a good idea. Someone else is now waiting with me. He's easily 300 pounds, dressed in a full suit, a black trench coat dramatically draped over his shoulders. We're suddenly chatting about casinos in Vegas. I've never been to Vegas. A few exchanges in, I realize I'm being too charming again. Shoot. I try to be slightly less interested. Or at least like an interested-but-not-available girl. I hate the word "available."

I haven't worked out with men since.... ever. I don't count public school. High school gym class wasn't coed, I went to Exclusively Women's (four times in one year!) at Guelph, and most exercise since has been on my own, jogging down the street or doing Winsor Pilates on my living room floor. (Who wouldn't want a body like Danny Glover's? Infomercials are amazing.)

So I'm intimidated. There are a lot of grunting sweaty guys at this place. I don't grunt. Nor am I super-comfortable around people I assume are, A, extremely fit and judgmental of those who aren't, and, B, threatening to watch me work out. Or look at me in general when I'm wearing yoga pants. So yes, I'm judgmental too. It's Pride and Prejudice in sneakers.

There's a guy finishing up his workout. Let's call him Stults. Mostly because he looks like the shaggy-haired long-lost brother of these two:

Geoff and George Stults.

Brothers in real life and on 7th Heaven.

I'm tempted to avoid him, mostly because I don't know how to cope with his coolness. Apparently going to a coed gym by myself brings out my inner insecure 16-year-old. Who knew there were men in my neighborhood outside of the old-Greek-man demographic?! He's more intimidating than the typical beefhead, as I can tell he knows how to form a complete sentence. And he probably wouldn't need to be told twice that I'm not a gym employee.

He heads in my direction. He says hello. He asks me who I'm waiting for, engages in small talk and wishes me luck. Sigh. Maybe I'll love this gym after all. The orientation jock (I'll call him OJ) shows up and Stults waves goodbye as he heads for the change room. (Lesson: Buff does not equal snob. Who knew?)

So I get my tour, mostly a quick rundown of the rules of the place. OJ assumes that I know what I'm doing here. Maybe showing up in New Balances is duping everyone into thinking I'm some super-athlete just changing gyms. I mention that I want to train for a 5k (the more I say it, the more real it will have to become). He looks at me. And then he really looks at me, that up-and-down weirdness last used by drunk men at the Benicio Del Toro party. And then he says, "You'll probably be running 10 to 20k by the summer."

Here's a quick lesson for my male readers:

I understand that you're visual. I won't hold this against you. Women are visual too, but we have superior peripheral vision, so we don't get caught as often. So I'll ignore the whole checked-out discomfort and move on (for now)....

Looks can be deceiving. Just because I'm not a 300+ pounder in a suit doesn't mean I'm physically fit. My broad shoulders are my skeleton, not my muscles. My thinness is both genetic and diet-related (although thanks to the Thanksgiving-through-Christmas bingeing, it's not as thin as it once was. And I'm a little insecure about it. So don't stare, okay?) and not indicative of my personal fitness level. So when I ask you to help me figure out some of the machines, it won't be a sad flirtation strategy. It will be because I'm clueless. Understood? If you're going to look, please don't make conclusions based on what you see. And I won't do it to you.

Twenty minutes later, I'm running on the treadmill, motivated by the woman running beside me. And I can run longer and harder than my outdoor-pre-cold-weather attempts. Apparently treadmills are more comfortable on the joints than sidewalks and parked-car-cluttered streets.

Maybe I will make that 10k after all....

Glamorous Blogging

The Golden Globes are this weekend. Because of this, I spent the last three hours checking out couture gowns for a red-carpet-fashion-predictions article over at Woman.ca (not yet posted).

I have very little reason to dress up. I type all day. I go to church in a movie theater. I went to one wedding last year. It was in February and I wore pants. I suppose my hobnobbing at the film festival was my sole flirtation with glamour in 2008. That and a couple of funerals. (Hey, I was cute, okay? I come from a family that respects the pretty. Grandma would have smiled.)

Maybe one day I'll nab a ticket to an awards show. Or be the date of a nominee. Or crash an after-party.

Or get nominated.

Yes, even better.

And I'll wear something like this. Sigh.

Versace* - Spring 2009

Purple is the new brown.

(But never fear, brown is the new black. I would never abandon the hue of champions.)

*A girl in my ninth grade French class announced that she wanted to go into fashion. More specifically, she wanted to meet her idol, designer Gianni Versace. I had to break it to her that he had been murdered months earlier. I'm pretty sure I'd be aware if my idol had been gunned down on his doorstep in Miami, making international headlines. But maybe she was illiterate/TV-less/dumb. Poor girl. She now spends a lot of time naked. Maybe that's how she dealt with her fashion grief. It's probably my fault.

Treadmill Tales

This gym thing is brilliant. I will have stories. So many stories. As I was running on the treadmill this evening, all I could think of were great little anecdotes from my first fifteen minutes there.

Before I tell you about the people, I will tell you about the treadmill.

It faces a window. And my reflection at night is considerably less scary than a mirrored-wall alternative. This does mean, however, that as I look out on the street below, drivers and pedestrians alike can watch me work out. This also means that all the weight machines are lined up directly behind my butt.

I suppose it's incentive. I want the people on the street to think I'm an athlete, so I'll make every effort to look non-pathetic. And I want the people behind me to appreciate my new-found athleticism, so I'll throw a few squats into my get-fit routine. Or tie a shirt around my waist.

Oh, and apparently men like to go to the gym. Who knew? More on that later....

YouTube Tuesday: I'd Rather Be With You

• This is the first song in my 2009 soundtrack.
• I am craving a sunshine-drenched road trip. Right now. Preferably with a fella who writes songs like this and plays them on the beach.
• Because the snow is coming tonight. Again.
  
• Zach Braff directed this video. The man has amazing taste in music.
• Every year needs a Josh. Last year, it was Josh Ritter. This year, it's Joshua Radin.
• Lyrics are both lovely and real. On that level, I suppose it's my new "Chasing Pavements." Hold the angst. With extra happy on the side.
• Okay, so it's nothing like Adele. But I love them both. For reasons that change by the day.
  
• Seriously, I need to learn to play the guitar. And to write ditties like this:
  

"I'd Rather Be With You" Official Video


I think I'm getting sick. So I'm going to make some tea, read a book, and get ready for bed at an insanely early hour. I secretly love my plans for the evening.

Fine, I'll admit it. I typed this in my bathrobe. At 7 p.m. I should probably post an ode to The Golden Girls or something. But I won't. Because my tea's getting cold.....


P.S. I lied. It's not really YouTube Tuesday. I used a MySpace video. My apologies to the 2% of you who noticed.

In Anticipation of Pain

I stood in line at my local community centre today. I let the lady take a hideously unflattering picture of me. And then I gave her a lot of money.

I now have a gym membership. 2009 is the year of physical fitness. Of consistently healthy living. At least in my world. I understand that today is statistically the day resolutions start failing. For me, they're just beginning.

I'll try not to bore you with my progress, but I'm sure my attempts at shaping up will be documented here. The goal is to run 5k without dying. For starters.

And to feel strong. And maybe even be strong.

I can't wait.

Sing Us a Song, You're the Piano [Wo]Man

I woke up late this morning. Actually, to be more honest, I woke up on time, hit the snooze button and then hit it again. And again. For two hours. I missed church.

ASIDE: Mom and Dad, I love the new pillow. I blame you for my inability to get out of bed.

I also woke up on the lazy side of the bed (which is a better side of the bed than the homicidal side. Believe me, you did not want to be around me on Friday. I was in the mood to murder). My to-do list is check-mark-less. I essentially cleaned out my cupboards of junk food (by ingesting it. I couldn't throw it out. But I didn't want it around either. I want to start 2009 on a semi-healthy note. Starting tomorrow. Yeah, I probably need therapy) and played the piano. All day. Sugar and music. Repeat.

Even as I type this, I'm craving those fake-ivory keys. It's not that I have something super-impressive to play. I just want to make music. Right now.

I wonder what the Boy Behind the Wall thinks. Perhaps he's blogging about the annoying Girl Behind the Wall who favors certain chords a little too much.

I should probably learn how to hook up the keyboard to my Mac. With a little GarageBand magic, I could have this tiny place rockin'....

Resolving

When I was in public school, probably the fourth or fifth grade, I posted my New Year's resolutions on my bedroom wall. I liked the look of an extensive list of honorable intentions hanging above my bed, the two-page manifesto pasted on balloon-shaped construction paper that coordinated with the pretty blue and pink hearts on the wallpaper.

I wish I could remember them all.

I can't recall if it was the innocence and optimism of youth or the pride of sounding mature that had me committing to praying for missionaries, putting others first and sharing Jesus with my friends so publicly. I don't have the courage to be so bold now. Maybe I fear failure. Or the lure of the unrealistic. I don't know. But my attempts to define any sort of resolutions this year have thus far been in vain.

Two or three years ago, I wrote a list of things I wanted to do within the year. The goals were superficial. They were written by an insecure little girl masquerading as a woman. And when the year-end came, very little was checked off.

I am determined to come up with something this year. Something challenging. Something that will have me literally sweating (I bought gym clothes over the holidays) and figuratively growing (creatively). So maybe that's two things. Or more. And I want them measurable. Too vague and I'll find a witty way to excuse myself into false accomplishment.

Maybe I'll post them here. For accountability. And then maybe I'll delete them. For fun.

And at 25, spiritual growth isn't really a construction-paper check-marked goal anymore. It's a day-to-day adventure. I'd rather live it than scrawl it on my wall.

Perhaps I should dust off the old Bucket List....

2008 Recap

I turned 25. I watched my grandma die. I survived a few life roller coasters, both fun and frustrating. I stood on the same patio as Benicio Del Toro at a party, went on a hilariously awkward date with an actor I almost met in a bar, saw Christopher Plummer be brilliant, stalked Brooke Fraser, fell for Bret and Jemaine, said goodbye to Larry Norman, started blogging professionally, went partially freelance, pretended to jog, stuffed overnight guests into my apartment, flew in a plane for the first time (it only took me 24.5 years) and discovered coffee. I also fell for Mad Men's Don Draper and Lost's Desmond ("The Constant" was the greatest moment in my short television-viewing life), read Watchmen, got swept up in Michael Phelps mania, heard Shane Claiborne speak, became obsessed with Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, saw the Batmobile, voted, was picked up by my elbows, hung out in doctors' offices, rediscovered my love of music, made ridiculous plans then talked myself out of them, walked the 10+ km route home from work, sat on my glasses, connected with a home church, indulged in high tea, was water-less in my apartment, and ate a lot of vegetables. I also leapt into a whole new technological era with my first-ever digital camera (which I abandoned in Banff and had returned to me in Vancouver), iPod nano (aka Charleston "Baby" Blue), and MacBook. Laptops are going to take off. Trust me.