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.

Step Away From My Coffee

I was in line at Starbucks. The man ahead of me ordered a venti coffee. While he sorted through his change, the barrista poured my grande and placed it on the counter beside his.

He paid. And then he took both coffees.

"That's her grande, sir."

He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. He didn't make excuses. He just handed me my caffeine and carried on with his day.

Some people really need their java in the morning. And will stoop to strange lows to double their dosage.

J Corridor

Not long ago, a friend of mine posted some of her gorgeous photography on Facebook. The photos were of an engagement shoot. As I admired her lovely work, I realized that I recognized the man in each shot. Vaguely. Then I saw his name.

I had the same locker throughout my entire high-school career. It was on J corridor, the perfect location for sprawling out on the floor and doing homework, and for hanging out with friends during lunch hour. It was a central location so loved by my friends that three of us ended up sharing my locker, leaving notes on my locker door about the genius of Heath Ledger and the swoon-worthiness of certain never-to-be-mentioned church boys.

The boy with the locker beside mine was quiet. Timid. At least around me. I always felt guilty, the way my social circle would take over the space in front of his locker. Almost every day I'd have to move just to give him access to his belongings. He never once complained. He didn't even make a face.

I liked him. Not a "like" like. Just a quiet respect for a quiet guy I knew absolutely nothing about.

But thanks to Facebook and my online stalking skills, I now know that he's getting married. And that his boyish grin matured into an unexpected handsomeness. And I'm oddly excited for him. For somehow rising above the adolescent shyness and becoming an almost-husband.

Congrats, my J corridor friend. I apologize for the four years of inconvenience. And for the show tunes I'd sing at lunch. I hope you at least appreciated my cockney accent.

Honey, Let Me Sing You a Song

(This is instead of YouTube Tuesday. Apparently with age comes a lack of blogging.)

Remember this guy? From the Brooke Fraser concert? (The concert I went to alone, even though I was with friends? I don't think I told that part of the story. Oh, well. I'll save that one for the memoir.) Well, he's still rocking the fedora.

(Matt Hires has since opened for Eric Hutchinson, too. And since he opens for ridiculously amazing folks, I have no choice but to dig the guy.)

I'm not going to pretend that he's the next big thing. But the chorus of his signature song still resonates with me a year later. So for this, I'll keep tabs on his career. His album just hit iTunes. Good on ya, Matt.

The 27 Club: One Year Left

Today I turned 26. I always feel so productive on my birthday, accomplishing that seemingly impossible task of transitioning into an entirely different age. It takes so much out of me that I won't attempt such a miraculous feat for another year. So in 365 days, I'll feel productive again as I turn 27.

If I happen to embrace rock-stardom this year, the great age shift of 2010 could mean trouble.

Because 27-year-old rock stars die.

So let's assume I have one year left. Because I'm practically Bon Jovi, remember? And considering I'll be a rock star for my final year, picture me as the image of pure awesomeness. But probably without tattoos. I'm too practical and indecisive. Even with the knowledge that I won't have to worry about wrinkly ink.

This is what I've gotta do before I join the 27 Club:

• Finish a screenplay. Preferably the one I just started. (I'm a writerly rock star.)
• Meet the Boy Behind the Wall. And neglect to tell him about this blog. When I'm gone, this url will be sent to him. It's in my will.
• Uh, create will.
• Get an agent. A literary one.
• Travel somewhere I haven't been. Maybe get a stamp on my passport.
• Play the piano. And sing. Because that's what rock stars like me do. And maybe pick up a guitar and pretend to be cooler than I am.
• Find a romantic lead for my biography. Tearfully confess that I can't marry him, as I'm about to die and have no interest in leaving the man I love a widower. He should marry someone who survives her twenties. Unless he's anticipating joining the same tragic club.
• Run a 5k for real. Just to prove that I can be a sexy, fit writer. And maybe to outrun impending death.
• Read a novel in French. I want to die a little more bilingual than I am today.
• Send fan mail. To everyone. And respond to all of mine.
• Take more photographs.
• Leave a fantastic pile of journals, notebooks and email drafts for someone to compile into the above-mentioned touching, hilarious, and exasperating biography. Scribbled hints at a life well-lived.
• Enter Club 27 with no regrets. No "what ifs." No hesitant tiptoeing where Nancy Sinatra-esque stomping should be.
• Be up for the adventure. Laugh a lot. Love without abandon. Take risks. Write it down.
• "Well done." That's all.

Twenty-six is going to be good, folks. It has to be. It might be all I've got.

The Perfect Man

[via .Fleur d'eclectisme]

How to Pick Up Girls

I was walking down the street. In a dress. A man approached me. An older, slightly scruffy gentleman with a European accent. Because I was listening to my iPod, he had to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention.

"Excuse me. You have no idea how elegant you are. Here's my email. I want to show you how desirable you are, too."

With that, he handed me his card.

Make your next sexual experience a sensual adventure.

PaveltheLover@*****.com

I smiled, took the card and thanked him. Because I could think of no other appropriate response. I don't hit strangers. Unfortunately for him, I rarely email them either.

Oh, Pavel the Lover, thanks for giving me a great story to tell. Good luck with the ladies.*

*Withdrawn.

Annie Leibovitz Does "Mad Men"

Don and Betty's Paradise Lost. Sigh.

I live in a world of Robert Pattinsons.

I'd rather live in a world of Jon Hamms.

We Are Golden

This song is stuck in my head. Yes, the video is bizarre. But doesn't everyone dance in their underwear when they're alone? No?

Saturday Stuff

This is sort of my Friday, as yesterday was filled with the sorts of fun distractions usually reserved for the weekend. So I'm writing. And planning. And attempting to be productive.

So here's some random stuff to keep you occupied while I pretend to be a writer:

Yes, there's an animated bird on his hand.

And people are dancing in the street.

I'm still obsessed with this movie.

• I hope I'd be this strong: Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear
• I'm a nerd: 73 Ways to Become a Better Writer
• I know these chords. I'm practically a rock star.
• I should probably own this shirt. Because it's kind of true.
• Touching Strangers. Photographs of strangers posing together. Genius concept.
• Every once in a while, I get the brilliant idea that I should be a house-sitter. I could live overseas, water some gardens and walk some dogs in exchange for free lodging, and write a novel.

Say It Loud

"I'm single, okay?" I shouted, emphatically quoting myself in a hypothetical conversation. Sometimes you need to make a point, even when the situation's fiction.

"Uh, Nadine, would you like to say that louder? Maybe stand on a soapbox?"

I was so caught up in the girl-talk-while-walking that I hadn't paid much attention to my surroundings. It was dark. The neighborhood was sketchy. Men stood in small packs outside poorly maintained bar patios. And I was stating, essentially, that I was available. To them.

Shoot.

So I shut up and went inside. And played Rock Band.

P.S. Beth's post resonates with me tonight. I'm tired of being "great, but...."

P.P.S. Totally unrelated, this post almost made me cry today. John Hughes was a great man.

In Love with "Summer" and "Adam"

I saw (500) Days of Summer. Now it's your turn. Go. Now. It's wonderful and heartbreaking and hilarious and awkward and optimistic and....

And I think I love this movie. In advance.

This Evening

[via let's run away forever]

I know it breaks all of those "the bedroom is only for sleeping" rules, but I'm a rebel. Tonight I'm writing from my bed. And it's fantastic. So there.

Cottage Gal

Every once in a while, I grow concerned that my city-girlness is reaching the point of no return. I worry that I'm climbing the ladder of higher and higher maintenance, and that one day I'll be incapable of functioning without eyeliner, hairspray and laptops. But all it takes is a weekend away to reassure myself that I can still wash off the makeup, jump into a lake late at night, burn to a crisp while writing by hand on a quiet dock, and share my heart at 2 a.m while mosquitos suck my blood. I can swap out the aspartame habit for a cold beer in the hot sun. I can consume my body weight in potato chips. I can play rowdy games, lip-synch to Bon Jovi (Nadine's hair + lake water = Bon Jovi's mane), make faces at a cute vomiting baby, and eat that smore that fell on the ground. With no hesitation.

You can take the girl out of the city AND you can take the city out of the girl. So good to know.

Dear Julia's cottage, I think I love you.

And because it's YouTube Tuesday, here's Bon Jovi at his best. We're practically twins.

P.S. I caught a fish. And put him back. Then caught another....