Monday

• Chuck just broke up with his fake girlfriend. Love that show. Speaking of fake relationships…
• Ryan Gosling turned 27 today. Numerous coworkers pointed this out to me. It’s getting a little out of hand. Yet still quite amusing.
• I think I should join a gym. My hour-long walks are already being compromised by inclement weather. And it will only get worse. I’m torn between Extreme Fitness and a local community centre.
• I’m becoming a Wes Anderson fan. Go see The Darjeeling Limited.
• The writers are on strike. Which means there will be more reality television. Which means I’ll be watching less TV.
• A guy on the subway in New York saw the girl of his dreams. So he created a Web page to help find her. And it worked. The hopeless romantic in me is charmed.
• Thanks, Michael, for pointing me to a study that has forever challenged my work ethic. An excerpt:

  A similar study conducted at Harvard University over a period of three years attempted to determine conclusively whether working was more productive than various different subsets of not working. The results showed across the board that working is 100 percent more productive than listening to music and checking e-mails, 100 percent more productive than meandering around the office socializing with coworkers, 100 percent more productive than playing online Sudoku, 100 percent more productive than watching YouTube videos of nostalgic childhood television programming, 100 percent more productive than reading celebrity-gossip blogs while chatting with friends on Instant Messenger, 100 percent more productive than napping, and 98.2 percent more productive than not showing up to work.

• I chose to come straight home after work rather than run errands in the rain. The main reason? I have yet to replace Bert the Umbrella. It’s just too soon to move on.
• Christmas starts for my family this Saturday. Which means Christmas baking starts in my apartment this week. So much fun.
• Kendall Payne’s new album, Paper Skin, is hauntingly gorgeous. So vulnerable. CDBaby.com is where it’s at.
  
• My sponsored child does not go to school. He dropped out after Grade 2 because of a distance issue. He's only 10. So sad.

Tragic & Lovely

"Nadine's crazier than Joel." Yes, I was recently introduced this way. And my brother Joel can be pretty fantastically crazy.

My theme song of late has been "I Am Slowly Going Crazy." For various reasons. And of varying degrees of madness. But I figured out a rather pretty chord progression for my version of the song, so I suppose it's worth it. And crazy can be fun. Or so I've heard.

A week or so ago, I sat on my bed and thought, "Is this my life?" It wasn't a complaint; I was merely trying to process the rather significant changes and events going on around me. "Tragic and lovely" is how I summed up my recent preoccupations to a friend. I've been both blessed beyond measure and quietly broken (well, the "quiet" part is probably quite subjective). Either is far better than feeling numb.

I was sitting in a cafe recently, chatting with an old friend. We were talking about nothing of major significance, yet the conversation felt hardly trivial. And I caught myself experiencing a new freedom. It was the oddest thing, being so aware of myself without the burden of self-consciousness. And for that brief moment, I wanted to stop time and just sit there forever, completely content with the woman I've become. And this friend is a rather spectacular individual; logic would dictate increased insecurity around such a soul. But no. "Maybe this is what it's like to feel beautiful," I thought, before slipping back into present space and time, and stepping out into the evening air.

Work.

It’s easy to complain about work. Or threaten to look for another job. And I’d be lying if I tried to pass off my work environment as a positive and supportive space 100% of the time. Because of this, it’s also easy to overlook the fun times. And so, in an attempt to be Little Miss Giggles, I shall share with you the recent fun times in the world of subtitling.

• A coworker gave me a book: Geeky Girl: The Straight Scoop on the Well-Rounded Square. Thus far, I have learned that I need to know more about Star Trek, feminism, computer technology and knitting.
• Post-Halloween candy run. We were too late, but Shoppers got our money anyhow.
• Running into George Stroumboulopoulos at The Healthy Butcher. And totally ignoring him.
• A closed-captioning friend Photoshopped my head onto Rachel McAdams' body so that Ryan Gosling’s arm was around me and not her (this was post-breakup news. Clearly, I was the reason for the demise of their relationship).
• Playing Scrabulous.
• Looking at bridal gowns online. A coworker’s sister is getting married and is welcoming feedback as she narrows down her choices.
• Countless emails that evolve from serious grammar questions to giggly girl talk.
• Sharing hair stylists and dentists.
• Researching Cobb salads and discovering that the ingredients in the one someone bought for lunch are wrong.
• Changing the Wikipedia definition of chickpeas to include being poisonous.
• The invention of a Walker, Texas Ranger drinking game. And no, people don’t generally drink while on the job. But it’s fun to speculate. The rules below are copied from a long email thread going around yesterday. You have to take a drink every time:
• Walker comforts a child by saying, "When I was your age, my father told me a story about a young Indian boy..."
• Walker punches someone (not dropkicks).
• Walker uses his magical Walker-sense to "feel" something out.
• Walker acts like an asshole [not my choice of language – don’t judge] to Trivette, who laughs it off as if they were best friends.
• The Cherokee are shown to have magical powers.
• Drink two if it's a different "mystical" culture, like the re-incarnated Buddhist lama who can cause plants to grow and heal his wounds.
• Walker visits the state prison, and it's suggested out loud and in the prisoners' reactions that Walker has put every single one of them in there.
• Walker goes undercover.
• Two if it's as a different ethnic race.
• When a major backstory is introduced in Walker's life, like, five seasons into the show, and it just has never come up before. Ex. that he was engaged to be married, and she was assassinated.
• When we meet a character we've never heard of before, but who Walker is BFF with.
• Two if the character dies before the opening credits.
• C.D. tells someone not to worry about Walker, who has gone missing.
• C.D. tells someone not to worry about Walker who is undercover doing a strange job because it just so happens Walker has work experience doing the very same task.
• Two if it was "just after he got out of the Army."
• Walker must jump out of a closed window and yet somehow doesn't have a scratch or cut on him when he's done.
• Two if it's any storey above the first.
• Three if there's also a fireball following him.

I love those days when work doesn’t feel like work.

More Life

She’s still alive.

I have a new friend.

She now knows Jesus.

And miracles are happening.

Scary Mary

It's Halloween. And this is scary. Enjoy.

Thanks, Dad, for introducing me to such cinematic brilliance quite some time ago. I'll never look at the classics the same way again.

Goodbye, Bert.

I didn’t see it coming. For 10 months, I believed we were happy. He was there on the dreariest of mornings, on the blusteriest of afternoons. He was my protector, my shelter.

And this weekend, without warning of any kind, Bert the Umbrella decided he’d had enough. Giving me no chance to repair whatever strain he was under, he abandoned our relationship and gave himself up to the wind and the rain.

Perhaps I’m not meant for long-term relationships. I was so desperately hoping to celebrate our one-year anniversary this coming December. Instead, I shall wallow in my sogginess, alone.

Upon recovering from the dissolution of what was once so beautiful, I will host a screening of Singin’ in the Rain in his honour. Nothing heals a damp soul like a serenade from a dead boyfriend.

Thank you, Bert, for 10 months of meteorological adventures. I will never forget you, my first yellow umbrella.

Life [Continued]

She is still alive.

She knows she’s loved.

God is in control.

Life

We had lunch last month.

We went to the same high school.
We went to the same church.
We went to the same youth group.

We were never really friends.
We just didn’t connect.
We lived in different worlds.

There was a message on my phone this evening.

She lost the baby.
She has full-blown AIDS.
She has three days to live.

I don’t know what to feel.

Grammar Woes

The above video is a snapshot of my daily life. Seriously.

The Games Children Play

I’ve had this song in my head for two days now. I’m not sure why, seeing as I don’t own any Edwin McCain music nor is he getting much radio play these days. But it’s there. I sat down at my piano this evening, only to end up playing the chorus. Yeah, I’m an Edwin-channeler.

I will admit that I happen to find his voice rather perfect. More so even than Bebo’s. Yeah, it’s probably a good thing I don’t know the guy, as I’d probably have to marry him if I did. And all he’d have to do is sing “Make me bacon” and I’d do it. And if he sang it while playing his guitar, I would kill the pig myself.

Anywho, at times like these, when a song is endlessly looping in my brain, I play the game my young cousins taught me.

This is how you play:

When you have a song stuck in your head, sing or hum it aloud. Preferably around numerous people. You get a point every time you hear someone else sing or hum it. Essentially, the whole object is to spread the song. That’s it. Super simple. And no one else needs to know you’re playing. It’s a sneaky game.

To warn you, it’s a slightly boring game when you live alone.

"Punched Before Eating"

I like food. And up until today, I was unaware of a certain hazard to eating.

One Bus Ride

The following is an account of one bus ride from Toronto to Kitchener. Armed with old CDs and a notebook, I spent my Friday afternoon squished in a packed bus, scribbling down the trivial thoughts that rattle around in my head.

Here we go.

• There’s a guy sitting across the aisle and one row in front of me. The brim of his hat is curled upward; his hair is a mop of unruly spirals. He opens his laptop, flashing his Christopher Lee-as-Dracula wallpaper. Then he turns on Goonies. I’m distracted, even though the film is silent.
• The woman next to me is sleeping, so I don’t have to feel guilty for ignoring her.
• I have a soft spot for Corey Feldman. Thanks to A&E.
• I start playing Twenty, a Reunion Records 20^th anniversary compilation CD I haven’t listened to in years. It’s really too bad that the band Daily Planet didn’t have any longevity.
• The Goonies guy is silently laughing.
• Everyone around me is reading, but I can’t make out a single title. I’m always looking for a kindred spirit in literary tastes.
• Rich Mullins. So sad. I miss him. (Always wear your seatbelts, kids).
• Josh Brolin is snarling in his red bandana. I’m distracted again. And Sean Astin: Goonies + Rudy + LOTR = perfect career.
• Why do I always expect Jerry O’Connell to be in Goonies? Sheesh. It’s not Stand By Me.
• “The passion that ignites us all.” I see this on a Maple Leafs banner. I agree with it. A passion for or against. Bring up the Leafs and you’ll get a passionate response on way or another (or a passionate “I hate hockey.”)
• Why isn’t he watching with the subtitles on? This is a time when my work would seem meaningful and important.
• “Consuming Fire.” Isn’t that the music video with Third Day playing their electric guitars in a large body of water? They should have called in “Consuming Electrocution.” I love Max Powell’s voice. Some don’t, but those people aren’t my friends.
• What would happen if I started lip-syncing on the bus? Or rocking out on air guitar?
• A baby is crying. Note to self: When you have a baby, buy a car. Oh, but he’s so cute. And now smiling. The baby is in front of the Goonies guy. Not I’m doubly distracted.
• I skip Kathy Troccoli. Too pageanty. I feel like I should wear a tiara and spin around slowly.
• Wes King’s more like it. I can play “I Believe” on the piano. Three chords. Four for the chorus. I feel old. I loved this song when I was 11.
• We pass Ikea. The toy store for grownups. I still need shelves. And a house to go with them.
• Clay Crosse. I used to think he was cute (again, when I was 11). “Comes down to a man dying on a cross saving the world.” I need to host a mid-‘90s CCM dance party.
• We pass the building for LavaLife.com. Hmm…No freaking way.
• There’s a cute guy beside the Goonies guy. He just put his book away. Now he’s watching something on his laptop. Stupid glare. I can’t see what he’s watching.
• All Star United. I now feel 12, rather than 11.
• The new objective of this ride is to figure out what the guy besides Goonies guy is watching.
• Gary Chapman. I own a cheesy Amy Grant Christmas special on VHS that he costars in. I saw him open for her in 1995. I still strongly identify him with his ex, which weirds me out a little. Maybe I’ll skip this too.
• Jake. I was going to marry Toby. I’m only half joking. “Believer” is the song playing in the bathroom in Left Behind during Kirk Cameron’s conversion. Still a soft spot (for the band, not the bathroom).
• Pipes are bursting (Goonies).
• I switch the CD to Bebo Norman. Love him (not in a Jake way, though). Lyrically gorgeous. So honest and uncontrived. Kind of folksy rock, I guess. I could listen to him forever. So I probably will.
• The guy beside the Goonies guy put his computer away. I’ll never know what he was watching. I guess I’ll never be a private investigator.
• Traffic has slowed. You’d think it was a Friday during rush hour or something.
• I believe the Goonies may have discovered some treasure.
• “Great Light of the World.” I want to curl up on my bed and listen in the dark. But I’m on a bus.
• The Baby Ruth subplot (Goonies). Doesn’t it always come down to chocolate?
• “I would give my soul just to look at you…. If you found my heart, would you run it dry? Break it all apart just to run and hide?” Again, he’s too honest for standard lighting. The CD needs a good candle.
• Now it’s “Long Way Home.” No kidding.
• I see NDP signs. Um, they better collect those pronto. I believe there are laws that dictate how long they can stay up after an election. And I’m pretty sure their time is running out.
• The baby is crying again. I understand.
• Now they’ve found the real treasure.
• We’ve stopped in Cambridge. Which would be awesome if my parents lived in Cambridge. They don’t. I stay on the bus.
• “So Afraid.” A.K.A. Nadine’s theme song. Perfect. I’m too lazy to write out the lyrics. Maybe one day….
• We pass the Canadian Honey Ham Factory. I am learning so much today. I now know where to get honey ham.
• A coworker visited St. Jacobs a while ago. She was weirded out by the open green spaces. I was weirded out by her.
• We pass Wal-Mart. I think of Nathan. Which is like seeing a McDonald’s and thinking of vegans. Which I do.
• Goonies make-out session. No wonder my parents were careful about what I watched. I could be a tramp right now had they not shielded my eyes from such vulgarity.
• I really should adapt Trixie Belden books into movies. Like Goonies for girls. Not really.
• Bebo: “You came sailing back to me.” I’d like to go sailing. And maybe I’ll come sailing back to someone. Although I’d rather go sailing with someone instead.
• A Kitchener water tower.
• CD switch again. Smitty (Michael W. Smith to those who don’t know him as well as I do). I’m having a nostalgic ride, listening to stuff I haven’t played in ages.
• “You’re my best invention.” There ARE subtitles in Goonies. Well, the translated stuff, anyway.
• Another Goonies make-out session. Sure, they survived. Not worth kissing Josh Brolin over. (I jest. She was probably paid a lot for the movie. I’d kiss him if Spielberg told me to).
• Best Smitty lyric: “But I could never live in a yurt on a diet of Mongolian barbecue.”
• I trip from Toronto to Kitchener = one viewing of Goonies. Exactly.
• Is it wrong that I know the three-part harmonies to “Love Me Good”?
• I’m here!

Catching Up.

Since the last blog, I...

• Slept on an air mattress. With a hole in it.
• Ate a generous amount of pumpkin pie. A real lady would never reveal how much exactly.
• Finished a Scrabble game quite spectacularly. And people were around to stroke my ego.
• Explained the High School Musical nude-photo scandal to my younger cousins (They brought it up, I swear).
  
• Learned that Andrew Shue of Melrose Place fame went on to play professional soccer.
• Called my dinner at the Korean BBQ with coworkers "my hot date with raw meat." Someone thought that "raw meat" was what I call my boyfriend. Not to self: Be more selective with word choices.
• Consumed massive quantities of meat (mentioned above).
• Voted. In the rain.
• Did laundry. In the rain.
• Made a rather fantastic roast beef, cheddar and spinach sandwich. On a dark rye bun.
• Learned that Dane Cook made $9 million last year. For being unfunny. I made significantly less. For being hilarious.
• Considered buying Kelsey Grammer's house. Check out that library. How I pine.
  
• Wore a spring outfit on a cold fall day. And froze.
• Was told I should work for Harlequin. I would consider it if they'd let me get rid of the Fabio-esque covers. And the majority of the content within those covers.
  
• Decided that the following spontaneous poem (from Waitress) would probably not woo me successfully. Especially the odor part: "If I had a penny for everything I liked about you, I would have many pennies. A penny for your teeth, a penny for your nose, a penny for your eyes, a penny for your hair, your navel. A penny for your odor. A dollar for your heart."

My dad blogged about Thanksgiving. I'll let him tell you about it instead of rewriting the same stuff.

Thoughts Before Thanksgiving (aka A Slow Workday)

• Ryan Gosling slays me. The guy has been showing up at premieres of Lars and the Real Girl in the tackiest/most awesome grey suits ever. With a scruffy beard and some extra weight to enhance his dapperness. He's playing the father of a teenager in his next film, which probably explains why he doesn't want to be all lanky and teenybopper hot. I would watch his movies if he grew an arm out of his chin, that's how brilliant the man is.

(All pics per teamsugar gallery)

• Anyone catch the pilot of Pushing Daisies? It's kind of like watching Tim Burton's Big Fish in episodic form. But maybe more charming. And so innocent and chaste (For good reason. Touch the cute guy and you're dead. That's reason enough to hold my own hand instead of his). Pure delight. Essentially, Ned, a pie baker, has the gift/curse of being able to bring dead things/people back to life with one touch. If he touches them again, they're dead forever. And if he lets them live for more than a minute, someone else will drop dead to balance things out. And naturally, he just raised his childhood sweetheart from the dead. So he can never touch her. Ever. Brilliant. And Anna Friel is sooo the British Zooey Deschanel. With an American accent, ala House. Her name is Chuck, which officially makes Chuck the name of the year. Watch it. It's the best new show of the season. Even better than Chuck. And ceramic monkeys are involved, so you really can't go wrong.

source

• I had the opportunity to use the phrase "fecoventilatory collision" in an email at work today. Oh, how I amuse myself.

• I am no longer capable of making decisions. I was at the dentist's yesterday, and was given the choice between two different night guards (I'm a clencher, as I've already established). I couldn't choose. I was near tears. So I went with her recommendation, paid about a weeks' salary, and left with major buyer's remorse. And I don't even get the thing until next week. Seriously, people. I was near panic attack. And they say stress is the trigger for clenching in the first place. Maybe I should quit my job and become a shepherd. My parents would approve. My dad likes sheep.

• John Steinberg likes my new haircut. And John Steinberg happens to be one of Toronto’s top hair stylists. This is a very big deal. To me, anyway. I also believe that every workday should end with a scalp massage.

• I am not an impulse shopper. In fact, I’m so good at not shopping, that I can talk myself out of buying things that I need. But today was different. I was browsing in Chapters when I noticed the display wall. “What’s this? A new Douglas Coupland? Why have I not heard of it?” Naturally, I checked it out. The Gum Thief. Very exciting. What makes it even more exciting is that it was 30% off. And it was autographed. That’s right, folks. Try to contain your jealousy.

The Stuff of Life

• This is Vegetarian Awareness Month. Now that I am aware of vegetarians, I think I need to go eat bacon. Wrapped around chicken. (Sam, if you're reading this, I kid. You're my favourite vegetarian. For you, I would make fake bacon).

• Do you dream? In colour? Do you remember your dreams? If so, you're more likely to clench your jaw when you sleep. So never stick your finger in my mouth when I'm sleeping. I will clamp down and never let go. And then I will judge you harshly for being the kind of creep who sticks fingers into peoples' mouth. What is wrong with you? And how did you get into my apartment?

• I'm not sure if it's an inheritance or a hand-me-down, but I am now the proud possessor of my grandma's evening bag collection. Including a fuchsia satin clutch with matching gloves. And a glittery silver clutch not unlike ones featured in InStyle magazine. And a black suede handbag. And a sequined one. Someone invite me to a gala. Please.

• Chuck is still my boyfriend. It’s been two weeks, and we’re still going strong.

• I arrived at work this morning slightly damp and chilled. And then I froze. Some really smart and handsome person (sarcasm on both notes, as no handsome person would do such a thing) on the night shift cranked the air conditioning to 17 Celsius. "That's it, I quit," I thought to myself. But unemployment does not pay the bills. And then I would be cold all the time.

• I went to the mall yesterday to buy a jacket, but came home with sponges and Febreze. The last time I went shopping for jeans, I bought frying pans. A disturbing trend is beginning to emerge. Soon, I will be wearing rags in my clean and domestically fabulous apartment.

• It had been quite some time since having a decent conversation with a stranger at the bus stop. This morning, I met a photographer who used to live in Berlin. His girlfriend speaks five languages. He has a dog. He's lived all over the country, and has great ideas about improving public transit. And he thinks I have a great job.

Roses, Copyright Infringement and June Cleaver.

Who needs the Eiffel Tower when you’ve got the TTC?

There was a man at the top of the escalator in the subway. He was alone, waiting for someone. He held a single red rose.

My imagination went into full-on epic-romance mode, casting Richard Gere and Debra Winger in the story of this man’s life. Was there about to be a passionate reunion? Would he scoop her up and carry her out of the station? Or was he waiting for a mysterious stranger? Was it a Sleepless in Seattle moment, two people in love who are about to meet face-to-face for the first time? Or maybe it’s more You’ve Got Mail. Note to self: Fire Richard Gere and call Tom Hanks.

Later, as I sat on the subway, I saw a woman sitting by herself. She was carrying a white rose.

I’d like to retire. Tomorrow.

I gave myself a five-day weekend (which helps to explain my absence from this blog and all things technological). It was much needed. I needed a break from my life. At one point on Thursday, I was lamenting that I’m full of concepts, but lacking in plot details. I have so many openings for novels and screenplays in my head, but I have no idea how to develop them.

Fortunately, I have a brother with a ridiculous brain full of random stories, culinary innovations (none of which he would actually be able to produce -- or choose to consume), inventions and new words. So he took one of my ideas and ran with it. And kept running. Somehow a small drama about my favorite mystery neighbor (“Boy Behind the Wall” to those who love him) became Die Hard 5. I kid you not.

Later this weekend, I was at my grandma’s, chatting with my 12-year-old cousin who wants to be a writer. And I told her about my idea. And she stole it. She thinks we’re in some sort of race to write the same story. I have a feeling hers will have aliens and dragons in it. All the same, I hope hers falls flat. I wouldn’t want to have to sue a 12-year-old over the rights to my story. It might make Thanksgiving a little awkward.

There’s a cow in my sugar.

I have now contributed to the steaming of one fabulous Christmas pudding. For those of you who don’t enjoy ingredient spoilers, stop reading now. For the rest of you, prepare yourselves. There are potatoes and beef suet in Christmas pudding. Yes, the very pudding that’s full of figs and raisins and candied fruit peel has major animal fat in it. I felt like I was in a Friends episode, channeling Rachel, accidentally layering beef and peas into my trifle. But I shall eat it anyway. And enjoy it immensely. And tell all my little cousins how gross it is so I can have more. And eventually, I’ll take over this part of my family’s Christmas tradition, slightly obsessing over the Leave it to Beaver Christmas I shall impose on the ones I love.

Speaking of food, I should go make tomorrow’s lunch. Shoot. Now I’m signing off as if this is an email, not a blog. I suppose I could go further and treat this as a phone conversation with family.

I love you. Good night.

I Heart...

3:10 to Yuma

*as recommended by the formidable Michael Lewis

Two thumbs up. Two awesome actors equally matched. A shoot-‘em-up Western with character development. Here’s to the beginning of an exciting movie season. Cheers.

Chuck

So quotable. “Pedal safe.” So adorkable. Major heart. And Zac Levi (above) hearts Jesus.

Sunshine

I’ve been walking everywhere. More than an hour a day. Late September is amazing.

Dark Chocolate

My recent drug of choice. It gets me through the day. And keeps my heart healthy.

Christmas pudding

This may seem a little out of season, but I’m going to learn to make Christmas pudding at my grandma’s this coming weekend. You have no idea how thrilling this is. I will be the next Martha Stewart. Promise.

Blog Titles Are Tricky Things

September.

As I was walking home a couple of days ago, I passed a little boy with his father. Clearly coming from school, the boy was rattling on about duotangs. Instantly, I was overwhelmed with a strange nostalgia. I miss the duotang. I miss calling the duotang a "cahier" in French class. I miss the math set. I miss the canvas pencil case my friends would sign every year. I’ve always liked back-to-school season, and it’s a little sad that the next time I enjoy it will be when I’m ushering my kids off to kindergarten. Sure, I could take a couple classes myself, but will anyone appreciate that I’m wearing brand-new corduroy overalls?

Vote for Pedro.

When I left for work this morning, an NDP sign was proudly planted in my front yard. When I came home this evening, a Conservative sign was there instead. Where do these signs come from? Are my landlords trying to influence my vote? And why do the NDP have such a painful color scheme? I’m not a fan of the neon. I think I will vote for the party with the prettiest signs.

And on a semi-related political note, at work I decided that Stephen Harper could play J.R. Ewing in the new Dallas movie.

What took me so long?

I had my very first Iced Cappuccino today. My life will never be the same. Unfortunately, I forgot that coffee drinks have caffeine. So I will not sleep tonight.

Maybe I wasn’t there either.

I saw I’m Not There. Christian Bale did not show up at the screening. We have yet to cross paths. A very bizarre movie experience. Cate Blanchett will win massive awards for her performance. Brilliant. Christian Bale was spot-on (as per usual). I’m still not sure how a black 12-year-old kid represents Bob Dylan. Nor am I sure how Richard Gere (as Billy the Kid) living in an old Western town obsessed with Halloween represents Bob Dylan. In fact, I left the theatre with the realization that I know absolutely nothing about Dylan. Except that he’s not one for enunciation.

My Book Club

I don’t have a book club.

I’m currently reading four books (and my Bible), but no one comes to my house for baked goodies and discussion. And it’s just as well. Instead of my usual biographies, novels and random personal-interest material, I’m diving into some pretty awesome God stuff. And then I talk to God about it. And eat the odd sugary snack by myself.

All thumbs up (thus far) for:

• SoulSalsa by Leonard Sweet
• Prayer by Richard Foster
• Blessing Your Spirit by Sylvia Gunter & Arthur Burk

With all three of these books, I’ve been catching myself doing the read-and-nod. And the read-and-nod-and-cry. And the read-and-nod-and-smile. Not only am I agreeing with what I’m reading, I’m also slightly suspicious that these were written specifically for me. As if God inspired these writers merely to encourage his daughter in Toronto. Hmm. Sneaky God.

While not a book, an honorable mention goes out to Relient K’s latest, Five Score and Seven Years Ago. As I type this, it’s playing in the background. I used to have a bit of a crush on the Relient boys. I think it was because I was envious of their goofiness. Their uninhibited sense of fun. I was the uptight one, wishing I could let my hair down and kick a can of beans in the middle of the street. Or throw Skittles at someone. But no, that would be a waste. Irresponsible. Immature. I was a middle-aged woman at 14. They seemed both spiritually mature (the later albums, anyway) and childlike. And I wanted that.

Maybe one day I’ll have a book club in my living room. When I have a couch that fits more than two skinny people. And we’ll eat brownies and discuss mind-blowing literature. And then play Kick the Can in the street.

Guess who's on IMDb?

A while ago, I sat down with a notebook and started writing down a list of things I want to accomplish in my life. A "100 things to do before I die" list, if you will. Nothing is ridiculously impossible (I will not climb Mt. Everest, so I'm not going to list it), and I'm trying to avoid listing things that are dependent on financial and relationship status. I also want it to keep evolving, with the list being added to every time something is crossed off. So even though I won’t do it all, I may end up doing more than 100 things that are story-worthy. I haven't figured out all 100 yet (plus, I think some of the things currently on the list are a little sketchy/superficial and need revising), but since I started working on it, one has been fabulously crossed off....

I have an IMDb credit.

Yeah, my career goals have been met.

Blogging Isn't Dead. Neither Am I.

I have not forgotten about blogging.

Nor have I been on vacation.

I have not been exceptionally busy.

Nor have I had nothing to say.

The past couple of weeks have been strange, painful, gut-wrenching and oddly beautiful. So I’ve journaled, I’ve cried, I’ve prayed, and I’ve stayed away from my computer. As open-book as I usually am, some things are not meant for cyberspace. And spiritual growing pains and intimate times with God are two of those things. So I apologize for the lack of amusing thoughts and quirky stories, but I haven’t been much in the mood to discuss how desperately I want to see a live wombat in my lifetime, or how someone in college thought my voice was identical to Alyson Hannigan’s from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

There will be more updates. I promise.

This weekend.

My mom came to visit. It was one of those weekends where everything went so perfectly that God’s fingerprints were pretty identifiable throughout it. I was just so blessed to have her come and encourage me. And let me finally beat her at Scrabble (with 304 points. Same score two games in a row. Yeah, I should go pro).

We spent Saturday exploring the Distillery District. I’m a sucker for old buildings, specifically once-abandoned-but-now-restored buildings, so it was my kind of place. Plus, it’s where so many films are made (I could pretty much see Cinderella Man playing out before me), so I got a little sucked into the magic of the architecture. Vintage sports cars lined the cobblestone, I had the greatest crepes ever, and I started to get excited about being creative. While my job sounds fun for those who don’t do it, lately I’ve found myself dissatisfied with who I’ve become. I’ve stopped exploring creative outlets; I’ve stopped investing in relationships the way I once did. And I've stopped dreaming the way I did when I was a kid. But seeing handbags made out of book covers and photography of abandoned pay phones actually sparked something in me.

We also stumbled upon Douglas Coupland’s latest art exhibit!!!! You have no idea how thrilled I was. You all know that he’s my literary crush (Yes, I identify strongly with a middle-aged gay man from Vancouver who writes about girlfriends in comas and such), but he’s also a visual artist. His current exhibit is all about the written word, with mixed-media single-word messages pasted on Penguin book covers. And it was free. So I smiled.

We spent the evening at my place, making homemade mini pizzas, going for a walk around my neighbourhood (making plans to eat at the nearby Greek bakery the next time she’s in town), and then doing the Scrabble-and-ice-cream thing.

This morning, we headed to The Meeting House. The entire service was dedicated to the ministries, organizations and missionaries they partner with; I was challenged to start thinking about how I want to serve in my community. And I know that I need to get hooked up with a home church (small group). I’m completely over the idea of being Miss Independent in the city. I need fellowship.

We went to Montana for lunch. We thought it was a Montana’s, but that’s a very different restaurant. Montana’s is a country-themed restaurant with a moose head on the wall; Montana is an upscale downtown restaurant with glossy floors and chrome accents. But the food was good.

The rest of our time together was spent walking around the Eaton’s Centre, snacking at Mrs. Field’s (so fantastic), and heading to the bus station. It was a little weird seeing her off; I’m used to being the one leaving my parents’ place, not them leaving me. It’s a little lonely here now, but I’m also excited to starting diving into a new book and scribbling in my new journal. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of being inside of a time of growth and complete dependency on God; so often, hindsight is how I identify God working in me. Not this time.

So that’s a weekend update tacked onto a vague lack-of-blogging update. And now I shall go do the dishes and talk to Jesus (both in that order and at the same time).

Oh, and I have tickets for I’m Not There at the Toronto Film Festival this Friday. I believe someone pointed out at work that both my boyfriends are in the city this week (Christian Bale and Ryan Gosling). Knowing my luck, I’ll just run into Zack, the Canadian Idol judge. Again. He stalks me. I’ll give you my review next week.

My Hero

It wasn't quite the exoneration I was hoping for, but it's still worth smiling about.

Steven Truscott was acquitted today. And I did my happy dance.

For those new to the blog, I mentioned my respect for the man over a year ago. You can read it here.

The Dream

I hadn’t had a dream in a while. At least not one that stayed with me the following day. And then last night happened.

I wake up in my apartment, which is apparently now part of a duplex. I’m heading out the door. It’s a Sunday morning. I start to get into the back of a large van when I notice that the home across the street has burned down. Then I notice that the street is lined with emergency vehicles. It takes me a moment to realize that the other half of my duplex is also quite charred. No one thought to wake me or evacuate me, I suppose.

I am now standing up in the van; a firefighter approaches. He’s a sort of plump, jovial young guy. He tells me that houses are burning down. And then he asks for my number. Naturally, I tell him that I don’t typically give out my number to strangers. So he calls over the fire chief as a character reference. Seriously. I don’t know what to do, so I agree to give him my digits. As I fumble around for a piece of paper, he bends down and starts to draw shoes on my bare feet with a Sharpie. It hurts, but I ignore him and scribble my number on a scrap of paper. By the time I’m done, he’s wiped off the marker shoes completely.

Cut to hours later.

I’m back at home. No smoke damage in my half of the building. I get a phone call. It’s the firefighter, who asks me about my morning. I tell him about church, which almost instantly kills the conversation. All of a sudden, another voice is on the line; this time, it’s a guy asking me about Koinonia. I tell him I don’t go there very often.

The end.

Yep. That’s about it. Any Daniels or Josephs out there who want to do some interpretation, go right ahead. I think it’s pretty clear that A, I sleep through anything, including my street being engulfed in flames, and B, I’m not afraid to use church as a way to repel guys. Oh, and C, Sharpie shoes fit better than real shoes.

Things you may not know.

IMDb birthdays

Today is Gene Kelly’s birthday. Oh, Gene, if only you weren’t so old, womanizing and…dead.

To work at SDI, you must check the IMDb birthdays when you log on in the morning. No, this is not in the manual, but you will never rise above “menial spotter” without a quick browsing of celebrity birthdays. Nor will you be able to participate in heated office debates about the aging process of certain public figures. And if you do rise above your menial station without doing so, I will shun you.

Walker

We’re done. We’re like Ross and Rachel; we’re “on a break.” Except we won’t get back together, nor will I have his child. I’m just nervous that our break won’t be long enough. We only just finished the third season. There are so many more….

Spelling

My brain is melting. Today, I tried to spell exhilarating. I spelled it “exhillerating.” The shame.

Accents

If you have a British accent, you are automatically far more brilliant than the general population. Watch the Harry Potter kids in interviews. They speak in complete sentences. Then watch American brats. Case closed.

Literally

I think there should be a ban on the word “literally” until people learn how to use it. Today, I had to subtitle this sentence:

My heart was literally jumping out of my body.

This is a lie. A coworker led me to this site. The blogger tracks the abuse of the word “literally” in various publications. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.

Wallpaper

This is my wallpaper at work (below). Seeing Dawson crying/constipated every morning makes me smile.

That is all. Carry on.

Short stories. And even shorter almost-stories.

A Facebook Update

Upon rereading my last blog (does that make me sad, reading my own stuff?), I realized that a little bitterness can be interpreted if one so chooses. Don’t. I felt blessed on my birthday, I really did. And Facebook has reconnected me to a few long-lost friends. So while I’m not taking back the whole “it’s strange to be inundated with massive one-sentence birthday wishes,” I’m certainly not grumpy about it. Miss Giggles, that’s me. But the status thing still weirds me out a little….

The BBMW (The Boy Behind My Wall)

I will write a movie about him one day. Or a novel. The genre is yet to be determined.

Late at night, he plays his guitar. He tries to sing along, often just a little too loudly. And if I’m tired enough, I’ll contemplate sitting at my piano, joining him in a midnight duet. Perhaps we’re soul mates, separated by drywall.

Months ago, for a 48-hour stretch, hard rock blared from his apartment. I heard no signs of life apart from the wailing guitars. So I came to the logical conclusion that the music was his alarm clock. And he did not wake up. Or he was bleeding to death and was using his music as a cry for help; He turned up his stereo with his last ounce of strength, hoping someone would hear and come to his rescue. And no one would. His corpse would not be discovered for days. I would sleep with ear plugs in until the stench led me to complain to my landlords.

I am not the only one who thinks about the BBMW.

I came home from church yesterday to find a note slipped under my door. It read:

Hey Nadine,

It’s **** from upstairs. I tried knocking on your door but there was no answer. The reason I went down was to know if you heard the loud banging that persisted from 5:15 till 6ish in the “singing guy’s” apt.

I’m not complaining, just worried. It sounded like someone was trying to break in. What are your thoughts?

Call me.

###-###-####

I don’t live in fear, so I often find it difficult to relate to people who feed their worry or thrive on paranoia. But the BBTW scenarios highly amuse me, and I secretly hope that the girl upstairs continues to fear for him. Maybe the Greek mafia showed up to collect…uh, something.

A Little Bling

This morning, a coworker gave me the most gorgeous necklace for my birthday. She knew I wanted something turquoise (Girls talk about these things on lunch breaks. I would suck at being a boy. I’m not sure I’d have much to contribute to a-- Oh, yeah. Guys don’t talk while they eat), so she made me a rather exquisite piece of jewelry. Which means that if I’m ever famous, I will endorse her line of jewelry. Proudly.

Bourne

I love him. And I want to be him.

I was almost late for a cheap matinee today, so I thought to myself, “WWJBD?” And the answer? RUN.

So I ran to the movies. I zigzagged through pedestrians, jumped over strollers, hailed a cab only to use its hood as a springboard for some pretty fantastic gymnastics, and made it to the wicket chic without a moment to spare. Not a drop of sweat. And no recollection of my day.

Best movie of the summer.

Bob Dylan

I’m Not There. It’s gonna be crazy. Hopefully crazy-good. Seven actors each embody a different aspect of Bob Dylan’s life and career. And Dylan himself has given this project the go-ahead.

Some pics have been released. I’m sucked in. My faves? Cate Blanchett and (big surprise) Christian Bale. I can feel award season coming….

Grandma

My grandma called me this evening to wish me a belated birthday. While saying our goodbyes, we each said, “I love you.”

I don’t say “I love you” enough. And I only say it to the same few people, even though I happen to love significantly more.

Walker (it always comes back to Walker) is on the phone with a Russian cop. The cop is going undercover. He might not make it out alive. Walker mutters a few important instructions. The Russians signs off with, “Okay. Love you.”

If he can say it, so shall I.

I love you.

A Facebook Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday. It also happened to be my first birthday since I’ve been on Facebook. Which means that everyone I once hung out with at recess messaged me with one-sentence birthday wishes. No updates on their life. No real interest in mine. They just followed the Facebook etiquette of acknowledging the birthday update. (This is a bit of an exaggeration, as some people who messaged me are actual friends. Or family. Or friends of the family). One friend tried to send me a “Very Naughty Gift.” I’m assuming it’s not a toddler drawing on my wall with markers. So I don’t think I’ll accept it. I can see how she’s think I’d appreciate the risqué; I exude burlesque-dancer-in-training.

I have coworkers on Facebook. Because of this, four people wished me a happy birthday before 8:30 a.m. And I was given a rather fabulous Rolo chocolate cone as a gift. So I really can’t complain.

I’m still not sure what to think about Facebook. I think it knows too much. And as I’ve claimed that blogging kills conversation, in a fun twist, I will blog about a Facebook conversation I had last night. So if you were hanging out with me yesterday, you’ll find this redundant. You may read, just don’t expect any brilliant epiphanies.

I’m listed as “single.” This is a very true fact. And it’s not a fact I’m necessarily embarrassed by or feel the need to defend. I’m not going to go on some rant about how I’m just not looking for a relationship right now or any of that semi-untrue babble most of us have been guilty of spewing out as excuses for such a status. In some ways, the single status prevents friends I haven’t seen in eons from asking about my love life. At the same time, it makes me feel as though I’m one step away from online dating, with a profile that promotes me as single rather than just keeping people up to date on my life. The real problem is that I can never remove my status. People will ask questions. Every friend I have will see the notice that “Nadine Bells is no longer listed as single.” Which clearly means that they need to message me publicly and ask me about my new guy. And then I’ll have to respond that there is no one. As per usual. And that, my friends, is more embarrassing than being listed as single.

And why is there an “It’s complicated” status? Why would I tell you? Isn’t life always slightly complicated? Does it mean that I’m in love and he doesn’t know I exist? Does it mean that he forgot our anniversary and I’m just a little moody? Did he Facebook my high-school rival? Does it mean that he thinks we’re married and I’m pretty sure we’ve never been on a date? (Okay, so I know this last one to be true in the case of a lovely friend of mine, but even with her, the amusing status is lost on most of her friends who now probably just assume she’s fighting with a boyfriend she doesn’t have).

So I think I’ll stick with “single.” Unless I stop getting messages on my wall. And because I look to Facebook for validation, I’ll change my status to “engaged” (or “married,” for more of a shock) just to receive an onslaught of hilariously nosey messages. But I don’t want to give my parents, who are my Facebook friends, heart attacks. So then I’d have to warn my parents about the lie I’m about to announce to the world, and I’m not sure how well that would go over. So maybe I should just get married for real. At least I won’t be a liar (which is probably worse than being a wife. But I guess it depends on who you ask).

Oh, and in case you were wondering, you can get married in Colorado without an officiant or a witness. So technically you don’t even need vows, as no one’s there to hear them. So be careful if you’re signing any paperwork down there. You might think you’re signing a lease when you’re actually committing yourself to that person for life.

(This information comes courtesy of Beth, the all-knowing Vancouverite whose very presence at my birthday dinner last night was a gift in itself. Love.)

But I digress. Back to Facebook.

It’s easier to snoop on Facebook than it is on MySpace (which apparently continues to appeal to the working class, while Facebook has us “strivers” abandoning MySpace in droves. Yes, I read MSNBC.com) or in the blogging world. If my Friend A and Friend B are friends with each other, with one clever click, I can read their conversations. I can find out what they’re doing, where they’re going, how much fun they’re having in a world that doesn’t include me. This morning I realized that my messages to friends regarding my birthday could be quite isolating to other friends who interpret talk of birthday fun as disregard for their party-craving feelings. I suppose photo albums can do the same thing. But this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop posting. I’m just going to become less sensitive and try to offend my friends equally. So if I diss you on a friend’s wall, it’s just because I believe in equality.

Things to take away:

• If I don’t post on your wall, I don’t mean to offend you. Posts aren’t necessarily a gauge by which you can measure my affection for you.
• If I do post on your wall, I love you more than everyone else.
• Just because my birthday is over doesn’t mean that I can’t go out for dinner with people. Or see movies. Or just party it up like it’s 1999. Which was a pretty crazy year for parties, I hear.
• I live in Toronto. Come visit me. Consider this an open invitation.
• I appreciate a “Happy Birthday,” but would appreciate actual conversation more. A combination of the two would be stellar.
• Don’t forget me until next year.
• Don’t send me naughty gifts. I will judge you :)
• My mom once told me, “Don’t believe anything you read and only half of what you see.” This applies to relationship statuses on Facebook. Just ignore them. Unless I’m engaged. Then I expect gifts. Real ones, not the Facebook ones.
• My dad posted this today. I believe it captures the spirit of Facebook.
• Facebook promotes ADHD. I am losing more of my attention span each day.

Singin' in the Rain

This isn't the best song of the movie. Nor is it the best dance. But for the sake of the few friends out there who have yet to meet my dead boyfriend, Gene Kelly, this is the classic scene you have to know.

There will be a "Singin' in the Rain" party at my place in the near future. Maybe there will be umbrellas in the drinks. Too bad I know nothing about drinks....

P.S. The rain in this scene is milk. Water doesn't show up as well on camera.

Aardvarks Are Hip

Coolest guest-star news ever: Matt Damon is going to be on Arthur.
Man, I wish I was Bourne so I could be on Arthur.

How to break up with me. Amazingly.

I laughed out loud. Many times. If you can't handle a little language, steer clear of this one.

Best breakup line ever:
"You make me touch your hands for stupid reasons."

Breakup letter. The dramatic reading.

(You have to have the sound on, people).

These phenomenal grammar skills would certainly soften the blow of being dumped....

Long Weekend. Version 2.0

I gave myself a second long weekend. I’ve decided that I like 3-day workweeks, and now I need to find a company that will indulge my brilliant work ethic.

I’m tired. I find that weekends often require some sort of recovery, which defeats any relaxation purpose of time off work. But I don’t mind. It’s a good tired.

Friday

Friday was an 18-hour day. My mom and I arrived in St. Thomas quite early, spent a few minutes with the family doctor (yes, I think I need to find a Toronto-based one. It’s getting ridiculous, this distance thing), and then visited a couple of my mom’s friends. I really like her friends. I believe I once told her I like her friends better than mine. Not a completely untrue statement. These women are so down to earth and transparent; I could trust my life with them. One of the women we visited had recently been gifted with a baby grand piano, giving me the opportunity to unleash a little musical creativity while she and my mom chatted on the deck. I still can’t wrap my brain around being given a piano by a husband who thinks you might enjoy playing it once in a while. Maybe because I’d be quite happy with considerably less right now (and no, I will not list romantic gestures on a blog. It makes the job too easy for potential suitors who blogstalk before they initiate). Not that I’d reject my dream instrument….

Our day continued with a quick jaunt into Aylmer, which no longer feels like home. It’s an odd feeling, driving through, seeing familiar places and older versions of familiar faces but knowing you don’t belong there anymore. My mom did the Curves thing, while I did the read-a-magazine thing. I’ll probably end up in a Curves one day, swapping recipes, keeping abreast (I hate that word) of local happenings and toning up to a poppy Newsboys remix. But not yet. I think I have to be a suburban mom or something first.

We ended up in Stratford. My dream town. I would almost consider quitting my job just to pump gas there. That’s how much I love it. After window shopping and dinner at a local favorite, Tango, we ate ice cream cones as the sun set, and then changed into slightly more formal attire in a Tim Horton’s bathroom. I’m not sure how many restaurant restrooms I’ve changed in in my life, but there have been quite a few. Superman had a phone booth, I have a stall.

We saw The Merchant of Venice at the Festival Theatre. I need not tell you that I have a crush on Shakespeare. The show was pretty great, Graham Greene was quite impressive (he’s the Academy Award-winning actor from Dances with Wolves, for those of you who only watch movies), and the costumes still don’t make sense to me. The eras and styles and textures were all so confused, it was like watching a schizophrenic textile theme unfold beneath the play’s already multiple themes and plot lines. But I loved it. Because I love theatre. And because I not-so-secretly wish I was on that stage, spewing off iambic pentameter into the darkened theatre.

Saturday

Saturday was a low-key day with a walk to the grocery store, a little baking and salad-dressing making, reading on the front porch, and planning for today. My mom and I went for a long walk in the evening. Every time I go for a walk on a beautiful summer evening, I am only reassured that I don’t really want a license. I just want my legs to keep working.

Sunday

I didn’t go to church. Don’t tell anyone :). We packed up mid-morning and headed to my aunt and uncle’s place to celebrate my grandma’s 79^th birthday. As my own birthday is approaching (no hint of any kind intended), a few gifts for me were passed around, including a gift bag with an earwig in it. Such are the joys of country living, I suppose. My coworkers think I have an idyllic 1950s-sitcom-esque family, and I can’t completely disagree. I mean, we do go on hayrides at Thanksgiving, celebrate birthdays multiple times a year, sing Christmas carols and play party games at Christmas, and talk on top of each other enthusiastically and passionately, clearly enjoying each other’s company. We’re the poster family for anti-dysfunction.

I chatted with my 12-year-old cousin for a while today. She wants to be a novelist. Her wide-eyed and innocent enthusiasm for her future quite inspired me. And made me slightly nostalgic for the days when I felt the same. Now I’m trying to prevent the “pre-nostalgia” (Douglas Coupland is responsible for the term) that comes with knowing that I may one day be nostalgic for the endless possibilities that the life I’m currently leading still holds.

I also spent a considerable amount of time with my cousin who’s a married mom of two in Calgary. Coincidentally, she was at the exact same church service as I was like weekend (at MBC), but we completely missed each other. Her children are precious. And while I won’t quite admit to an “itching womb” (as one coworker would call it), a baby smiling at you is a pretty powerful thing. As is a child’s grip on your necklace.

So now I’m tired and slightly dreading my 6 a.m. wake-up call tomorrow, but still refreshed from spending time with family and inspired by both Shakespeare and a little girl’s dream to be a writer.

Chuck Norris is breaking up with me.

I’m at work right now, trying to concern myself with accurate transcription and comma placement (like any responsible subtitler), but my video has mysteriously disconnected, making the task impossible. Unless I choose to randomly invent what happens next. Which could be quite entertaining. At least to me.

Moments before our media crash, I was watching Walker hurl a knife into a man's midsection. Asked how he distinguished the man from a crowd of illusions, he coolly responded, "Illusion doesn't sweat." His deadpan could give Horatio Caine a run for his syndication money. (I also converted a file in which Trivette is reading one of Chuck Norris' books. And naturally, Walker has never heard of Chuck Norris. Oh, how the inside jokes slay me. My profs would have called the episode's writing "masturbatory," but my virgin fingers are not suited to type such vocabulary).

And so I will quasi-blog (typing now, posting later).

As a side note (you probably hate these, but too bad), for the bloggers out there, do you ever skim over your past blogs and feel as though they're not a very accurate representation of your life? I have no idea how a complete stranger would read this. Do I come across as a rather superficial, self-absorbed spinster or as a quirky observer with far too much pop-culture trivia infecting my brain? Are my umbrella issues charming or downright disturbing?

Now to the real thing.

Cottage-y Goodness.

Sometimes a weekend away inspires a detailed transcription of oddball conversations and a chronological timeline of events. Not this time. In fact, I had such a great weekend at Tim's cottage that I don't really feel like trying to capture much with words. Listing off my reading choices and corn-on-the-cob consumption just doesn’t seem to do justice to the experience. And since I don't have a digital camera, there's nothing to show you by way of images either.

It's easy to forget how isolated I can be in Toronto. I have some great friends and coworkers here, but there's certainly a kind of fellowship that falls victim to Nadine's single-in-the-city adventures. I can go out for dinner or watch a movie with you, but there are very few opportunities where I feel it's absolutely safe to be me. Where I can drop the independent-woman act and just be real. Both in a vulnerable, pour-out-my-heart kind of way and in a Nadine-is-going-to-be-stupid-today kind of way. And the cottage let me pour out my heart stupidly :)

Hanging out with single people who think about one day being not single, and are actually honest enough to admit it, is refreshing. Conversations that flow from the status of today's church to strategic tattoo placement actually inspire me (not to get a tattoo, mind you. It is much less permanent to just admire them on other people and grow up to be a grandma with unmarked shoulder blades). I felt like I genuinely got to know people better (or for the first time), and will hopefully not have to wait until next year's cottage adventure for the sequel to my weekend. Oh, and I think I should write more.

This just in:

A note from my administrator: Walker has been canceled for the time being. I am seriously questioning my purpose in life. I'm also wondering why I never participate in the midday stretch at the opposite end of the office. A daily side bend might do me wonders.

Back to those compound modifiers….