My Life as a Chair

source:
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Dating Thoughts From 11-Year-Old Me

I used to write every journal entry as a letter to God. And apparently, at 11, I spent considerable amounts of time trying to make sense of romance.

And yes, I set my own dating rules. I actually remember telling my parents I didn't want to date until I was 16. I think something was wrong with me.

I was the oldest 11-year-old EVER.

God,

You know about everything in my life at home and at school. You've also seen what the Gr. 7 girls do all recess. Hug their "so-called" boyfriends. I think it's awful. They don't even know the guy very much, but if they think he's cute and he likes her, SNAP, they're so close you have to pry them away from each other.

I'm not even going to think about dating before I'm sixteen. I want to have a longer childhood, stay away from the pressures of being a virgin, and when I start dating, I'm sure I'll be ready for the pressures and stand strong because I have you. Please help me stay away from the world's view of dating and sex.

~Journal: Nadine, 11 years old

I love that I wrote "SNAP." I was cooler than I thought.

If I ever have a daughter, I hope she's a bit like the young me: a thoughtful, nerdy, boy-free journaler. (But I hope she doesn't wear tapered royal-blue corduroy pants with a pink-and-purple Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. Or threaten to divorce her brothers.)

YouTube Tuesday: 17 Again

No, I haven't seen 17 Again. But I do know that if a movie were to be made about a 17-year-old me, the following songs would be on the soundtrack. Especially the youth-group montage. This YouTube party excludes the genius of BBMak, the catchiness of "Bye Bye Bye," and the music-life-changing album, All That You Can't Leave Behind. Once Bono showed up, the boy bands started to fade away...

To most of you, I apologize.

To the exceptions, you're welcome.

And yes, it's an eclectic mix. Sort of. That's how I rolled. And continue to roll.

The Supertones: "Unite"

From their greatest album, Supertones Strike Back. When they lost the tenor sax player, they lost me.

Plus One: "Written On My Heart"

There were three pastors' sons in this group. And they danced while harmonizing. And I was 17. Enough said.

The W's: "The Devil is Bad"

Swing was so cool. And so was I.

Lifehouse: "Hanging By a Moment"

It's really too bad that this song was played to death. Because the album remains pretty incredible. And I still love this song. Too much.

And saving the best for last...

Jake: "Waiting"

I'm pretty sure I would have married Toby if he had asked me. It's probably best he didn't. But he did help me get 100% on an OAC creative-writing project. And I'm now a writer. Hmm.

P.S. There was also the now-painful (Marilyn Manson Ate) My Girlfriend. But even Relient K is too embarrassed to ever play that song again. EVER. Far, far cooler was this Hocus Pick classic. Yes, I'm so happy, feeling snappy.

Long Time, No Blog

I gave myself a five-day weekend. It was wonderful. For some reason, I chose to take an unpaid five-day weekend. Not so wonderful. But the government will soon send me a cheque that covers the lost income over my lovely time away from the computer. Tax season is sometimes okay. Like this year. In so many ways.

Let me catch you up [Tues-Sun]:

• Brothers (+ girlfriend of Brother 2) arrive by Greyhound
• We eat Easter chocolate
• And blow up the air mattress
  
• We go to dinner
• We see Eugene Mirman at the mall
  
• We see Flight of the Conchords
• We laugh
  
• I wear plaid
  
• We visit a 24-hour grocery store and buy frozen pizza and chocolate milk
• Midnight pizza at my place
• Indoor camping at my place
• The next morning is Brother 1's birthday, so we go out for breakfast
• Breakfast is across the street, beside the under-construction cocktail lounge
• We head to the bus station and say goodbye to Bro 2 + girlfriend
• Bro 1 and I meet up with Vancouver friend and old Guelph friend
• Bro 1 gets on the bus
• He should have boarded a train
• Vancouver friend and I end up in a coffee shop
• We chat, just like old times - but better
  
• We part ways
• I go home and write and write and write
• I sleep
• I go to the gym
• I think about skill sets and career goals
• And ponder the great unknown
  
• And then I try to tell a stranger about said skills and goals
  
• I embed a YouTube video and subsequently embark on a new adventure -- maybe
  
• I fire off invoices
• I do laundry
• I write about Salma Hayek
  
• I wake up super-early
• I read The Great Gatsby on the subway
• I read The Great Gatsby in Tim Hortons
• The parents arrive
• I get in the van, and later notice it's a new van
• It's moving day at Emmanuel Bible College
• I carry Bro 2's CD racks and shoes and watch everyone else move him out
  
• Lunch with grandparents in Kitchener
• So we order pizza
• And eat chocolate cake
• Happy 55th anniversary, Grandma and Grandpa
• Happy birthday, Dad
• We play games
• We watch the sky darken
• And watch the thunderstorm
• I'm dropped off in Toronto
• I prepare for KidMax
• I wake up early
• I go to church in the rain
• I teach kids about the Great Commission
• And build microphones out of cardboard and tinfoil
• Microphones double as weapons
• I go home and nap for two hours
• I make Monday's breakfast and lunch
• I catch up on emails
• I go to 4worship in Newmarket
  
• And sing
• And sing
• And sing
• Jack Astor's for salad and conversation
• Finally home, with this perfect song in my head:

Brooke Fraser is tied with the Conchord boys for favorite New Zealander. But this song doesn't need her. It stands alone.

I feel like I'm forgetting something. But I've been writing all evening and nothing makes sense anymore. I need sleep. So good night.


P.S. Dev Patel and Freida Pinto are dating. So are a lot of other people, I'm sure. But I can only write about one couple at a time. Sheesh.

It Happened Wednesday Night: Flight of the Conchords

I smuggled in my camera. Rules don't apply to me.

They played "Sellotape."
And "Albi the Racist Dragon."
And paused the show until some guy in the front came back from the washroom.
And I laughed. Very, very hard.

Note to self: Laugh out loud every day.
Other note to self: Apartment officially sleeps four. Almost comfortably.
Final note to self: Next time you see Eugene Mirman walking around the Eaton Centre, talk to him. Ignoring quasi-famous funny men is so last year.

YouTube Tuesday: Conchords Countdown

This is my desktop wallpaper at work:


It captures, A, how I feel most mornings, and, B, my love for all things Flight of the Conchords. Tomorrow evening, I will I see them live. (Sans Rhys, but still....) After that, all joy in my life will merely be icing on the cake.

Once upon a late sleepless night (Boy Behind the Wall was hosting an eclectic listening party of sorts), I was sent this via the wonderful world wide web:


Rhys is a new favorite. And at the top of my list of fantasy-dinner-party-invitees. Hilarious.

Some highlights:



Many thanks, Adam! We'll have to compare concert notes.

Sellotape (Pencils in the Wind)

Why does this song not get the love it deserves? It's not on their EP or CD. Tragic.



Rags to Rags....

You've probably seen this. Most of my Conchords friends have posted this on their blogs. Because it's brilliant.




P.S. This guy is opening for Flight of the Conchords. "Canada is what happens what love falls in love." So true. I think.

Diary of a Wombat

Add this one to the reading list. Preferably the boxed set.

An excerpt:

Saturday

Morning: Moved into new hole.

Afternoon: Rained.

New hole filled up with water.
Moved back into old hole.

And the greatest stuffed animal ever:

From Echidnas On the Loose.
This one is also quite amazing.

Thank you, Stickers and Donuts, for the wombat fun. I'm in love.

For the Love of Plaid: Street Style

Too lazy to write tonight. So while I curl up on my bed with a book about vampires, here's some plaid inspiration for you all. Liv, Michelle and Katie know how to dress. Yes, they do.

And so does Ryan.

(And no, there is no Bells tartan that I know of. There's probably a Kennedy one. And an Annand one. But I feel like I'm cheating by using maiden names that aren't my own. And I'm not a Bell. I'm plural.)

For the Love of Plaid: Prologue

I know I promised a post that would explain my love for plaid. This is the post to acknowledge that a post is coming. It won't live up to the hype, but it's coming nonetheless.

My dear friend Julia explained to her mother last weekend that plaid's my favorite pattern. (Probably followed by nautical stripes, gingham and pinstripes. In case you were wondering.)

Oddly, despite my waxing poetic on the subject, I don't own a lot of plaid. A couple of scarves, a Value Village skirt from a costume party years ago, a pair of wool trousers that will fit again once my runner's body decides to lean out a little more, and a purse.

And as of yesterday, I own this:

It makes me feel like a hip, preppy cowgirl. As someone who once defined her style as "Audrey Hepburn goes to camp," it seems appropriate. It also might be just the thing to wear in the presence of these guys next week:


I'll expand later. On the topic of tartan and checked fabrics. And then I'll chat about Bret and Jemaine. Because next Wednesday will be quite the adventure in Toronto.

P.S. I'm pretty sure my crush on plaid has a lot to do with Clueless. Or The Beverly Hillbillies.

Sylvia Understands

(photo by mkendall)

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.

~Sylvia Plath, Unabridged Journals

(via this is my heart. it is a good heart.)

YouTube Tuesday: Smile

Just a handful of super-random videos that make me smile. Happy Tuesday, everyone!

With a random Michael Scott quote to start us off: "Call me ASAP as possible."

Followed by Robin on last night's How I Met Your Mother: "A hot guy telling you when you can and can't pee? That's the dream."

Let the party begin!

Hootie & the Blowfish: Hold My Hand



Doctor Who

In honor of my hair, aka Mufasa.



Glasses

I heart Jake and Amir. And spectacles.



The Voca People

Uh, crazy/wow. With a hint of Nirvana. Remind me to blog about Kurt Cobain. Soon.


(Stolen from my dad's blog.)

OK, It's Alright With Me

I've mentioned this before. But I don't mind repeating myself.

I love Eric Hutchinson.

See here. (Oh, the plaid.)

And here. (Oh, the tragedy.)

And here. (Yep, it's true love.)

I'm not sure if I want to be him or marry him, but we're certainly going pretty strong. Actually, I think I just want to hang out on his tour bus and have him teach me the guitar between gigs. And maybe collaborate on quirky lyrics. And play late-night Scrabble.

He's coming to Toronto. With Sugarland. And since I also want to be Jennifer Nettles, I just might have to show up. Which means I'm looking for a concert date, folks. So if you're around in early June, let me know!

Here's his latest video. With the piano this time. Of course. Sigh.



Everyone needs someone like Eric in their lives. Makes the treadmill fun. (Shocking, I know.) And inspires many, many late nights at the piano. He makes me wanna play.


P.S. Thanks for the video heads up, Christianne. Too bad we can't make that concert weekend work. If I go, I'll reenact the whole thing for you. Both Hutchinson and Sugarland.

Easter Parade

A little boy, let's call him Billy, bounces into church. Instead of his usual flashing-light sneakers, he's wearing black polished shoes. His mom pulls me aside, warning me that his Easter footwear is a little small and he may want to take them off. And then she leaves us to play and talk about Jesus.

At one point in the morning, he makes me imaginary garlic-bread pancakes. Delicious.

Nearing the end of our time together, he decides that he's tired of the other children and sits out of the games. I join him, and we chat about his parents (who he thinks are probably homesick, sitting in the service without him) and Easter festivities.

He swings his feet as he talks. So I acknowledge his fancy kicks.

Me: I like your shoes, Billy.
Billy: I know you do.

Oh, to get away with receiving compliments like that. So unfiltered and unaffected.

I love kids.

(Another little girl took over story time, claiming that the story of Jesus was based on a movie about a lion. Except that Jesus isn't a boy or a girl. Just sort of, but with really bright skin.)

Objectionable Content

I understand that sites such as PluggedInOnline are meant for parents who want to know every possible objectionable word/sight gag/implication in the media their children are absorbing. I watch a lot of TV in my day job, and often catch myself concluding that my kids will not be watching, uh, anything. Ever.

But I'm also pretty sure, that as PG as my life is, this blog would receive plenty of warnings. Because I own sexy boots. And this is a problem for some.

The most recent U2 review:

Album closer "Cedars of Lebanon" includes the disc's sole profanity, an s-word. "No Line on the Horizon" includes a mildly sensual couplet ("Time is irrelevant, it's not linear/Then she put her tongue in my ear"). "Get on Your Boots" repeatedly describes the aforementioned footwear as "sexy" ("Hey, sexy boots/Get on your boots").

Most boggling is that they praise the theme of Keith Urban's "Kiss a Girl" (Um, it's about kissing...and making "a little magic in the moonlight") and then criticize the lyrics "kissing on the porch swing" in another of his songs. I can't keep up. Or figure out which kind of kissing is appropriate.

Focus On the Family and I have been done for some time. It was a break that dissolved into nothingness. Sorry, Dobson and friends, but I need a little more cultural relevancy. And grace. (Actually, when you dissed Mel Gibson, I walked away. Braveheart forever. The truth comes out.)

But thanks for the Ted Bundy interview. It changed my life as an 11-year-old. Porn creates serial killers.

Good Friday Flashback: Carman

Every Easter, I get weird Carman flashbacks. If you were a Christian kid in the '80s or '90s, you understand. If you weren't, you have no idea what you've missed. No idea.

(I also have an awkward memory of my babysitter crushing on him. Really? To each her own, I guess.)

Sunday's On the Way

The Champion

Best lyric ever:

"God said, "Shut your face. I wrote the book."

It Didn't Happen Last Night: Bowling

The plan was to go bowling.

But the place was tiny. And packed. And smelled like Value Village. Which is fine if the establishment is Value Village. But it was not. It was league night, filled with the amusing sort of characters often relegated to hick towns and low-budget indie films. Where they came from, I have no clue. But I like mysteries.

We were turned away.

I will return one day, notebook in hand, and write my great Canadian novel at the shoe counter. I won't bring the MacBook. Too glaringly out of place.

The bowling night quickly transformed into mutual-fund talk over a glass of merlot at a rather upscale pub nearby. I jump economic classes quite easily.

I want to bowl with Lars. He's even wearing plaid.* Which I love. I will plug this film until the end of time.

Lars and the Real Girl



*On Sunday, a guy I'd never met before sat a few seats down from me. I felt my friend's elbow nudge me: "He's wearing plaid. Your favorite." Yep, the whole world knows I'm dreaming of plaid. It's becoming a problem. A few minutes later I hear her whisper, "I just heard him say he's 22. Never mind."

Um....

Just sharing the magic, folks. That's what I'm here for.

"Isn't your life worth more than a burger and fries?"

Everything is terrible. Or so I've heard.

Gym Buddies

Me: I was running 6 miles an hour today.
Julia: You're like a lawnmower.

Yes. Yes, I am.

Locker Room Encouragement

A mother is helping her young daughter dry off after a swimming lesson.

MOM: That was an awesome lesson.
DAUGHTER: Thank you for telling me that.

Sometimes the Truth Doesn't Hurt

I have no one to drunk-dial.

~me, completely not drunk

Rachel drunk-dialed Ross. And they were a mess for ten years. I'm not drunk, nor do I dial. And life is not complicated. Well, not really.

Welcome to Math. Weather Math.

My umbrella broke on Friday. Total and complete destruction. So I threw it out.

It was pouring this morning. I dug the twisted nylon mess out of the trash and embraced the hobo-chic look for approximately 30 minutes. And then threw it out. Again.

The man in the convenience store beside my work sold me an umbrella for $3.99. I anticipated it surviving for 2 days. Hope set high.

It died. Already. See, I work in a wind tunnel. It didn't have a chance. One gust and the nylon was yanked violently from the frame. I am not meant to remain dry.

Off to secretly plot my move to Arizona. And/or design an indestructible handbag-sized umbrella of greatness. That also happens to be on the cutting edge of fashion.



P.S. Check out More New Math. Time-waster par excellence. Life is math. (Thanks, Sarah, for the link!)

P.P.S. Did you any of you read the book Has Anybody Seen My Umbrella? It's fascinating. Prince Charming can't read, so when he finds Cinderella's glass slipper, he misreads the name (yes, like a good-- and organized-- heroine, she labeled her shoes) and then walks around town, looking for Umbrella. Taught me to appreciate literacy, umbrellas and fairy tales. In that order.

P.P.P.S. I've posted about my umbrella issues before. I explain my umbrella pain here. And then mourn the theft of one here. And my stolen umbrella returned here. And then there was the great tragedy of losing Bert the umbrella. Maybe I'm still not over him. And this umbrella love story. Oh, and I named one umbrella Ebeneezer.

And sadly, this was streamlining the umbrella posts. I didn't want to overwhelm you. If you're a piece of nylon sheltering me from the rain, even for just a day, you will be blogged about.

I'm a Book. Judge My Cover.

Ever have one of those headachy days where you just don't like people? Yeah, that's my Sunday.

But if I were really a book, I'd be the one below. A cow befriends a rock that's really an egg. It's practically Shakespeare. And it's on my bookshelf.

I Actually Do Love This. I Think.

Do you ever question your own musical tastes? Your motives behind new musical discoveries?

Many, many moons ago, I was smitten with a gentleman who loved U2. And so I embraced the band wholeheartedly, hoping to understand my crush better. Of course, the infatuation quickly fizzled. But I owe him a lot. Because Bono and I have stood the test of time.

But sometimes I look at my music collection and can't decide if I like it all. Some of it was purchased for reasons other than ear candy. But maybe that's what makes music so personal; I may not crave that particular sound or artist, but I can relive my life through it.

I've decided that I do like Dead Man's Bones. And not just because of Ryan Gosling. But I've also decided that it's okay to like the band because of him just as it's okay to like the band despite him.

It's the use of choir. Slays me every time.

Flutter

The next big thing. If you can call nanoblogging big.

The "After" Photo

There. A little less Brad Pitt-y. More layers, less pouf.

And oddly, my hair looks longer. Especially in the back. Maybe when you fork over a day's paycheck for the sake of vanity, God feels sorry for you and gives you free extensions. Yep, that'll teach me.

Oh, and for those of you who happen to live nowhere near me and are not blessed with the opportunity to stare at my face daily (Hello, family...and most of you), these are my new glasses. The glare makes it look like there's a white stripe. There is not. They're amber and black and acetate and handmade and expensive. I should have bought them with euros. Because they're French. I know this because they taunt me late at night in their native tongue. "Pauvre fille. Vous avez des factures à payer."

I hate money.

But I like my sight. Vision wins. Again.

And I would revert to the good ol' days' chicken-for-firewood trading, but I have no chickens. Or firewood. So my situation would, in fact, be far worse.

P.S. The lighting in my apartment is not conducive to amazing PhotoBooth photography. My skin isn't actually green. Or pink. I don't think.

The "Before" Photo

I'm spending some much-needed time with my hair stylist tomorrow. Because I'm starting to feel like the '80s Bon Jovi.* And I want to look like the '90s Bon Jovi. Less lion. Straighter layers.

But the scarves will remain. Always.

*Okay, okay, my hair isn't that bad. It's more like I'm channeling Brad Pitt circa 1994. Not unbearable, but a bit of a safety hazard. One gust of wind and I have no idea where I am.

"Tristan with bangs, please. Pre-tragedy and sans facial hair."

I wonder how often my stylist gets handed photos of male heartthrobs from previous decades by her female clients. I should be the first.