Dear God

Kids pray the darndest things.
For more, read here.

My Funny Valentine

'Tis the season for wonderful mushiness. Especially if you're not me. But I'm not bitter, as even single people can benefit from discounted pink-and-red candy at Shopper's. Ha. Could you imagine being asked for "proof of relationship"? That would be so hilarious, I almost wouldn't care that I'd be refused the chocolate. Almost.

Singleness aside, I wouldn't mind receiving one of these gems this year. Just in case you were wondering, you completely secret secret admirer....




source

Pancake Tuesday

It's Pancake Tuesday. I had spinach salad for dinner. Clearly, something went awry in my meal planning. So in honor of the day, a cinematic ode to my syrup absorber of choice.

Best pancakes in movie history:



I miss John Candy.
I miss Macaulay Culkin's cuteness.
Perhaps I miss 1989.

Eating Groundhogs

Maybe next year.

Recipe

Apartment Love

My apartment has had quite the weekend. As have I. Friday night was a late one, as I hung out with my friend and her husband in my tiny abode until 3:30 or so before converting my living room into the guest suite. It’s official: my floor space is the exact shape and size of a queen-sized air mattress.

Saturday morning came far too soon. Post-breakfast, we went separate ways; they to a wedding, I to a family get-together.

My family doesn’t need a Family Day to find a reason to pile into someone’s home for a potluck meal and gift-opening. So every January or February, my mom’s side celebrates all the post-Christmas, pre-Easter birthdays. Mm, birthday cake.

Instead of just dropping me off last night, my mom decided to stay over. My Bed & Breakfast had its most successful weekend yet. Of course, it was another late evening, so while I loved my time with friends, family and Mom, I’m a little spacey at the moment. I’m anticipating a Super Bowl party to start blaring from behind my bedroom wall at any moment. Perhaps I, too, will sleep in the living room of luxury tonight.

Happy February

February isn’t off to the most promising of starts. My annual review, scheduled for today, fell victim to inclement weather and had to be postponed. Out of sheer boredom and snowstorm-related depression, I consumed copious amounts of caffeine throughout the day and will probably not sleep until March. And my dinner guests are now going to be midnight-snack guests, as they’re still on the highway and it’s after 11pm.

Someone at work mentioned that February must be especially depressing for single orphans as they are forced to endure the double hit of loneliness that comes with Valentine’s Day and Family Day. Since I still feel too young to go to singles’ events (I was invited to one, but I have a secret fear of divorced middle-aged men on the prowl, Christian or not), I figure I can’t quite justify crying into my Haagen-Dazs yet. Not that I won’t be eating Haagen-Dazs. Maybe the tears will come next year. The big 2-5. And I have a pretty cool family. I’m more concerned with avoiding depression the other 27 days of the month.

So in an effort to stay upbeat and focused on the light at the end of the tunnel that is spring, I’m going to intentionally seek out happy posts this month. February will be dedicated to all people/places/things that make me smile.

Ooh, they’re here! Yay for sleepovers in ultra-tiny apartments. Things are looking up already.

And I shall leave you with January's musical discovery. If there are any Josh Ritter fans out there, he’s coming to Toronto in early March. I may be looking for a date. Just to warn you.

*Yes, I'm aware he sings, "I love the way she looks in her underwear." I'm just thankful she's wearing some.

DailyLost.com

DailyLost.com

Check it out. They have a pretty fantastic new editor.

I officially have the quirkiest jobs ever: subtitler, trivia writer, blogger. Not one was ever suggested by a high-school guidance counselor.


image source

Lost is Coming!

source

It looks like I’ll soon be paid to blog. I’ll update everyone once it gets set up. I hope you’re all into Lost. That’s all I have to say. (Ooh, cliffhanger. How appropriate).

P.S. Watch TV on Thursday. You know all the cool kids will be doing it.

P.P.S. I guess I’ll have to actually learn how to use a computer properly. Thanks, Sarah, for teaching me about labels. HTML, here I come!

P.P.P.S. And in honor of the coworkers who now know about this little blog of mine, a little something (not Lost-related, but still awesome) to make them feel at home:

Odes to the Inner Nerd

I like music. But a song about Scrabulous? And Facebook? Geek-chic-awesomeness overload. I should go watch sci-fi while planning some sort of virtual networking strategy now. And knit. And name my first child after George Lucas.

Scrabulous song

Facebook Song
(I owe all Rhett and Link happiness to Beth, for introducing us)

P.S. Scrabble powers that be, please don’t take Scrabulous away from me.

P.S.S. Facebook is unhealthy. I’m not sure if I want to know that all my friends are married with kids and buying houses. It’s giving me a complex. Perhaps I’ll just start lying on Facebook….

Accepting fake Facebook-husband applications. Preference will go to those who can buy me a house.

Give Life a Chance

I know this story is a little tragic, but it’s so inspiring to me. When I was little, I stood on Yonge St. with a sign that read “Abortion Kills Children,” watching strangers give me the finger, and not understanding why anyone would be angry that I wanted babies to live.

In high school, I wrote an essay about abortion that ended up changing my law teacher’s perspective on the whole issue. I didn’t know this at the time; a friend who was in his class the next semester heard all about my paper’s influence in his life. It was the most humbling and proud moment of my adolescent career.

And then came Juno with its rather precious way of dealing with the to-abort-or-not debate (“All babies want to get borned”).

But honestly, as much as I can preach a pro-life talk, I’m careful to spew out anything that A, would hurt someone who’s been through an abortion (pro-life to me assumes that I value the life of everyone, not just the unborn) or, B, would put me in a cocky “this is what I would do” position. Because I’ve never been there. Just as I’ve never had a gun to my face while being told to renounce my faith. I’d like to think I wouldn’t do it, but I’m human. It would be unwise to throw around the self-righteous babble.

A woman was told she had cancer. She needed treatment. But she was pregnant. Treatment would kill the child; postponing the treatment would kill her. She chose the life of the unborn over her own. I only pray I'd have the courage to do the same.

Act Your Age

I was channel surfing yesterday afternoon while writing countless trivia questions about the deaths of pop-culture icons, when the teenybopper in me reared its awkward head. Ellen was showcasing the Jonas Brothers. Why do I occasionally forget that I am no longer 14?

(They’re like Hanson for the next generation. Except waaaayyyy richer. And they’re Christians, wearing purity rings. Which means, again, if I were 14, I would be IN LOVE).

A couple days ago, I was chatting with a friend about growing up and how startling it is to be part 45 and part 15 at the same time. It’s a rather eerie phenomenon, realizing you’re thinking like your grade-9 self around certain men when you generally operate in a much more mature and adult-like manner. But it happens to the best of us. Deep down, I’m still waiting for the cute boy in OAC to notice me. And yet, in my day-to-day life, I’m closer to old woman than I am to Hannah Montana (I even once announced that I was going to adopt Miss Marple's style as my signature look. LOVE the carpet bag).

Source

The New Kids On The Block are rumored to be reuniting. The most shocking part about it is that they called it quits in 1994. I am way too young to have been a fan of a band that hasn’t made music in 14 years (although People claims it’s been 18). Of course, I don’t actually own any of their stuff. I remember wanting a cassette in the second grade, but my dad told me I would regret it (the same reasoning for why I shouldn’t own anything by Billy Ray Cyrus). So instead, I would stare at my friends’ posters, deciding that Joey was more my type and toying with the idea of undoing one of the straps on my overalls too.

I think I should go read classic literature, sip tea and listen to Mozart now. Just to move the aging process along....

Happy Filler

There’s a lot to blog about. But I’m tired and not very articulate this evening. And so, as a refreshing aside from the rather tragic posts of late, I’ll leave you with the sweetest thing EVER. And I’ll hit you with some blog awesomeness shortly. Scout’s honor.

Remember Lukas Haas? He was the cute Amish kid in Witness. Anywho, he wrote a song for Tobey Maguire’s daughter, Ruby Sweetheart.

Heart officially melted.

sweetheart

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Again.

Image

In my high school yearbook, I wrote that my future aspiration was "to hang with Christian and Heath."

"Heath Ledger found dead."

I'm numb. In shock. So much brokenness.

Source.

Smarties Hero

Thanks, Sam, for sending me this.
Everyone needs a vice or two.
Mine are multicolored milk-chocolate treasures.

Source

"Rest in Peace" Doesn't Mean Much.

When an actor dies, I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because while the person was a complete stranger, something he or she did while on this planet resonated with me. I aspired to a little piece of who they were. And while I get to keep waking and sleeping and dreaming big dreams, that person now only exists on DVD.

He was only 25. In my head, he was still the 12-year-old boy holding his own in The Client. Or the kid who made me cry in The Cure. He was the Huck to Jonathan Taylor Thomas’ Tom.

“Found dead.” Such a strange phrase. As if dead is a state of being. No, the headlines should read “Lost.” There’s something just so hopeless about it all. Just a whole lot of nothingness. Like when Jonathan Brandis killed himself a few years ago. These are guys with careers I wanted, with smiles I swooned over. But they were broken. And when you’re broken, none of that really matters anymore.

Sometimes I get a little delusional and wish for the “good ol’ days” that never existed, where death was for old people who lived long and full lives.

Brad Renfro. I wish I knew you. Maybe I would have lent you my hope until you found some of your own.

"Found dead." Gone.

The Red Carpet. In My Head.

Let’s say I’m famous. I’m part Cate, part Kate, and part, well, part Katie (Blanchett, Winslet and Holmes). And I need to spin a little on a red carpet (that’s actually magenta) while making small talk with Ryan Seacrest, who, appropriately, is a small man. I tower over him in my heels. Which are not comfortable.

What to wear? Such a dilemma. I wouldn’t have a stylist. Because all the stylists in town would be scared of me. I would not be fun to style. I have decisiveness issues. It's also far more impressive if you look good independent of a fashion "expert." So I would phone up a couple designer friends and dress myself.

This would be my short list:

Elie Saab

Temperley

Monique Lhuillier

The goal is best-dressed in every magazine, from the legitimate publications to the trashy tabloids. This is an important victory, as I’ll probably lose the actual award to someone who played a dying transgendered German-Chinese country singer in some epic Scorsese film.

See what happens when the red carpet doesn't happen? I end up amusing myself while hopped up on dark chocolate and Earl Grey. Here's hoping the Oscars go on. For all your sakes.

Make the Writers Happy. Please.

The Golden Globes are barely happening. Some sources are considering them cancelled. For an award-show junkie like me, this is rather upsetting. Borderline devastating. I mean, sure, awards will still be handed out (winners will be announced at a press conference), but without a televised ceremony and nosy-reporter-filled red carpet, it’s just not the same. (Yes, Dad, I know these awards are political. That is why clothing is so important. If you can't win deservingly, at least you can be best-dressed).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely siding with the writers here. I understand their need to strike. And if I were a phenomenally talented actor, I wouldn’t cross a picket line either. But I’d still be bummed that I don’t get to wear something pretty and hobnob with Gosling, Blanchett and Depp. And no offense to the writers out there, but award-show banter has long been grimace-inducing. Hopefully you’ll all make a wickedly witty comeback when contracts are renegotiated and make those monologues slightly more bearable.

So I will watch the press conference. And maybe simultaneously surf Style.com, ogling the couture gowns without the nominees inside them.

If I were a betting woman (which I am, but only for the Oscars), my money would be on Daniel Day Lewis, Julie Christie, Ryan Gosling and Ellen Page, Juno and There Will Be Blood. In case you were wondering.

Dream House

Abandoned houses. I love them. My dream home is the old boarded-up mansion in It's a Wonderful Life. I can't explain it, but there's something both sad and promising about the derelict. I want to renovate. Rejuvenate. I want to put the charm and character and life back into places that once meant something.

I love this story. A neglected (but not abandoned) mansion in the Bronx is getting some love.

Oh, how I would love you too, you big beautiful masterpiece.

One Post, Many Thoughts

Write Me a Song

She said write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry

I’ve had two lines of Edwin McCain’s “Write Me a Song” looping through my head all day. It’s a pretty heartbreaking song, actually. But the chorus captures one those vulnerable moments we girls can’t admit to too often. Too often might equal pathetic. Or sappy. Or desperate. *Sigh*

The chorus in its entirety:

She said write me a song
Fill it all up with words
Like brilliant and heavenly
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time I love you was heard

And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon
At the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly

Atonement

“Come back to me.”

I saw Atonement. Honestly, I was disappointed with the last 10 minutes of the film. Up until then, I was pretty sure it was the most amazing movie ever. And then I sort of lost interest. The ending just didn’t work. I mean, plot-wise, the ending was genius. But the director seemed to drop the ball. Or the screenwriter. Something that should have been powerful and heart-wrenching was too tacked-on. Maybe it’s just me and my heart of stone. It almost makes me want to see it again and give it another chance.

I was on edge the entire time. It’s not the typical period-piece experience for me, but that magical score had me anticipating absolute devastation from the opening scene. I don’t even know how to explain the plot to you. False accusations. Betrayal. Lust. Pain.

Back to the score. Watch the trailer. Listen carefully. It weaves in and out of the scenes as though the characters were creating their own soundtrack. The typewriter becomes the percussion. Brilliant.

And I heart James McAvoy.

P.S. Stay away if you can’t handle a pretty intense love scene. Or if you are offended by Keira’s boniness. She needs a hamburger.

Same Blog, New Name

Thanks to a blog-title generator, On Her Toes should be renamed:

Idle Observations of an Insatiable Code Monkey

Hmm.

The Wisdom of Dr. Phil

“If this dog laid on his back and peed on his face, he wouldn’t know where it was coming from.”

Kate the Great

Katie Holmes is gorgeous. She has incredible style. I want her hair. But there’s something about the way she speaks that has me thinking her auditing sessions with the Church of Scientology went horribly awry. (Seriously. Google “Scientology + aliens”).

Her toddler is what?

"She's a very strong woman."

I was 20 months old once. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t very strong. Or a woman.

"She's very smart and strong," Holmes concluded. "And really magical."

Nor was I magical. Yet.

Some Thoughts on a Mild Monday Evening

Juno

"That ain't no Etch-a-Sketch. This is one doodle that can't be un-did, homeskillet." -- Rainn Wilson as Rollo

The must-see indie of the year. We're talking Little Miss Sunshine good here. But with hilariously witty/sketchy dialogue punctuating every single scene. Seriously, people, Diablo Cody's script intimidates me. And without an ounce of preachiness, it attacks some pretty heavy subject matter. It’s fresh. It’s genuine. It has heart. Love Ellen Page. Canadian, quirky, super-smart. I hereby predict It-Girl status. I laughed out loud. And then it made me cry. But a good cry. Not to be confused with a happy cry, though. Not that I wasn't happy....

Awesome soundtrack gets its own set of upturned thumbs. That's right, folks.

Juno: I think I'm, like, in love with you.

Bleeker: You mean as friends?

Juno: No, I mean, like, for real. 'Cause you're, like, the coolest person I've ever met, and you don't even have to try, you know.

Bleeker: I try really hard, actually.

Massage

I had my first massage today. At work. Since my office doesn't really do the Christmas-bonus thing, my boss decided to draw names for free massages. It was a little awkward being told to take my shirt off in the conference room; at least my boss covered the windows with movie posters before the massage therapist arrived.

Let me tell you, I could have stayed on that table forever. So good. I've been stiff since the summer before university (that would be 2001, for those of you trying to do quick math in your head). The RMT even commented on how tight I was. I'll probably be super-sore tomorrow. But I can live with that. I used to think that little would change in my life if I came into a financial windfall. Not completely true. I would have regular massages. Regular looong massages. But I would tip well.

The Quote Wall

I once lived in a little basement apartment with two rather remarkable and inspiring women. And when any sort of brilliance spewed out of a mouth (be it one of ours or someone else's - we didn't discriminate against sources of brilliance), we would transcribe the nugget of gold on a Post-It and stick it to the wall by the fridge. Behold, a sampling of my Guelph days, in literary form:

I wouldn’t want to get sucked into living in Bermuda. I mean, they don’t even have a university. – Wendy

I take it back. I no longer have a heterosexual “man-crush” on Colin Firth. – Seth Myers (SNL)

The TV show The Bachelor is like youth group. – Margie

Matthew Broderick has something very Zack Morris about him. – Nadine

Yuck! Tom Cruise is like the cocky guy in gym class. – Margie

I know it’s sick, but I have a little soft spot for farmers. – Wendy

If you tell him, I will smack you like a bad, bad donkey. – Pepe (Muppets from Space)

Director's Note

Dear Nadine,

Thank you so much for your courage, hard work, and commitment to the truth. You are a beautiful actor and being and it has been a pleasure and an honor working with you. Keep tapping those K-27 acupressure points and all will be well. Thanx again.

I found this note as I was sorting through the endless piles of *crap*/beloved articles I've accumulated over the past few years. It was a little jarring at first, as I was startled into desperately wanting to be on stage. It touched me. Then it made me laugh. And confused me. I had no idea acupressure points were such contributing factors to my performance. Too bad I forget which points boost energy and which points calm. I could end up a little schizo.

Trivia Queen

I have way too much random (and often pointless) information floating in my brain. I’m always up for a game of Trivial Pursuit. I care that Matt Damon was an extra in Field of Dreams. And that Sid Vicious used to hail taxicabs with his middle finger. So it should come as no surprise that the first freelance writing contract I sign is to write questions for a trivia game. That’s right. It’s only a few days in 2008 and I’m already semi-moving forward in my writing career. Or maybe sideways. Should look good on a resumé, if nothing else. Of course, I fully intend to buy the game and then kill in that category. Yep, kill. Slaughter my trivia competition. “You think you know trivia? Yeah, well, I am the CREATOR of trivia.”

The Bucket List

Thanks to Morgan Freeman, the List of Things to Do before I Die has been renamed. It’s now my Bucket List.

And this Christmas break, I stuffed a turkey. And crossed off #13.

I’m not big on touching raw meat. And sticking my hand up a turkey’s butt is really not all that appealing to me. But if I’m going to be the ultimate domestic diva, it’s something I’m going to have to get over. I mean, I’m sure Martha Stewart stuffed her own turkey before she had assistants do it for her. Now that I’ve done it, I’d be very willing to do it again. If “the first cut is the deepest”, the first stuff is the grossest. And yes, I think I should write a song about it. If I record it, I’ll be crossing off #40.

So this New Year’s, instead of a list of resolutions, I’m just going to attack my bucket list. I’ll keep you posted on my adventures.

Twelve Days of Christmas.

I was in the mall today, inching my way through the chaotic masses, listening to the PA lady remind me over and over that there are seven shopping days left. Somehow, I just don't believe that "The Twelve Days of Christmas" was originally intended to be a shopping countdown.

My bank account is now at rest. I'm done.

This is more like it. Thanks, Dad, for the link.

For the Love of Mitch

I love Mitch Hedberg. I could read/listen to his stuff all day. Too bad he's dead. It dampens the hilarity a bit.

I saw a commercial on late night TV. It said, "Forget everything you know about slipcovers." So I did. And it was a load off my mind. Then the commercial tried to sell me slipcovers, and I didn't know what the hell they were.

A lollipop is a cross between hard candy and garbage.

I saw a lady on TV, she was born without arms. That's sad, but then they said, "Lola does not know the meaning of the word 'can't'." That, to me, is even worse in a way. Not only is she missing arms, but she doesn't understand simple contractions. It's easy, Lola - you just take two words, put them together, take out the middle letters, put in a comma, and you raise it up!

I think foosball is a combination of soccer and shish kabobs. Foosball screwed up my perception of soccer. I thought you had to kick the ball and then spin round and round. I can't do a back flip, much less several, simultaneously with two other guys who look just like me.

I like rice. Rice is great when you're hungry and you want 2,000 of something.

A Winter’s Tale

Friday

I had an epiphany on Thursday afternoon: I didn’t want to work on Friday. I asked my boss for the day off. It was a risky thing to do, considering there was work to do and I was taking a significant chunk of time off over Christmas, but I did it. And surprisingly, he gave the okay. So I woke up early Friday morning and caught the 7:30 bus to Kitchener. I like to think of my weekend as “Home for the Holidays Part 1.”

Friday afternoon, I spent four hours making gingerbread cookies with my brother Joel. It was quite the hilarious adventure with a surprisingly stellar outcome, save for one burnt batch. We discovered that if you flip a burnt cookie upside down and thickly coat the burnt side with icing, the sugar counteracts the burnt taste. Joel is the sprinkle king. And he was right; Mom uses the icing recipe in the little pamphlet. I assumed she had a magic one stored in her head. I’ll never live that one down. One day we’ll host a cooking show. With a witty title like How to Bake Gingerbread Cookies In Under Two Hours From Pre-Made Dough.

That evening, we watched Sons of Mistletoe. I don’t care how uncool this makes me, but I love made-for-TV Christmas movies. And Sons of Mistletoe became a favorite when it first aired in 2001. I’ve been waiting for it to air again ever since. I’m serious. I’ve Googled the thing many a time. Warm, gooey, heartwarming Christmasy goodness. ‘Tis the season for orphans and romance. George Newbern is one of those everyman charmers whom I absolutely adore. Plus, he makes my Jesus radar go off. It’s a gift, identifying Christians in Hollywood.

Saturday

I woke up early. Up until Saturday, I had only purchased one Christmas gift. So Mom and I headed out into the shopping madness and I gave up my debit card to the Ghost of Christmas Presents. We shared New York fries, ran into an old friend (he’s not old; it’s just been a long time. Just to clarify, in case he ever reads this), I discovered a love of the Skinny Vanilla Bean Latte, and had a pretty productive and stress-free day. I’m now almost done my shopping. And because most of my family is literate, I will not elaborate further. No one wants to learn what they’re getting for Christmas from a blog.

We got back in time to make pizza for dinner. So good. And then two games of Scrabble. With three tiles (one of them a blank), I scored 78 points. I wonder if Scrabble pride is a subset of the pride listed in the seven deadly sins.

And it started snowing.

Sunday

Winter wonderland. My church in Toronto cancelled its service. As did many churches in the Kitchener-Waterloo area. But not my parents’ church. In fact, we went super-early. No weather would stop the Christmas play from premiering. After a continental breakfast (iced cinnamon cookies. Yum), we watched a rather delightful play starring my father (or semi-starring him. I’m pretty sure he had the most lines. Or pretty close). And since the play centered on people getting snowed in, the whole “weather outside is frightful” was actually quite appropriate.

I didn’t mind the snow today. It was beautiful. It felt like Christmas. I was nostalgic for an era before my time. I wanted to go for a sleigh ride. But the thought of busing it back to Toronto was a little daunting. I seriously considered staying in Waterloo until tomorrow morning. But I didn’t want to get on a 5 a.m. bus and lug my heavy bag to work with me.

At the bus station, I asked the woman how the weather was affecting the bus schedule. She said she didn’t know. She hadn’t been outside since earlier that morning. I love it when people don’t understand what I’m asking. Someone else told me that everything was delayed by an hour. But since the bus ran hourly, I caught the 1:30 bus at 2:30 instead of catching the 2:30 bus. No real delay for me, then. The Toronto-bound bus arrived. My brother Nathan got off it. He was coming home for Christmas from Peterborough, and I was heading back to Toronto. The people in line looked at me strangely as I hugged the guy getting off the bus, phoned my parents to tell them to pick him up, and then boarded that very same bus.

The guy beside me on the bus was reading Douglas Coupland. The girl ahead of me leaned back and squashed my legs. I slept. I started reading The Lovely Bones. It almost made me cry. Twice. Go read it.

Post-bus ride, I lopsidedly trekked through some deep snow on unshoveled sidewalks, lugging a massive bag, suffering through knee-high drifts behind my place. My soaked jeans are hanging in my shower.

I’m unpacked. I’m warm. I’m ready for bed.

It was a good weekend. I drank coffee three times. That’s a record for me. And I think I can handle another short week now.

The Envelope, Please

Award season is upon us. I don’t feel much like listing all of the nominations for every award show going, but since the Golden Globe nominations were announced this morning, I will draw your attention to some of the noteworthy nods (at least in my world).

Of course, I will have to first point out that Lost was, once again, snubbed. Quite painful, really, as it’s the best show on TV. At least Heroes was also snubbed. Not sure why Grey’s Anatomy keeps getting nominated. Blech. And where was the Christian Bale nod for his work in Rescue Dawn/3:10 to Yuma/I’m Not There? Sheesh, people.

But Cate Blanchett was recognized for I’m Not There. She was brilliant and, thus, most likely unbeatable in her category. I haven’t seen most of the films yet, so I can’t start making predictions, but I was pleased to see Hairspray, Amy Ryan (of Gone Baby Gone), and TV faves Hugh Laurie and Patricia Arquette on the list.

Reasons for my early morning happy dance:

Pushing the Love

Pushing Daisies was nominated for BEST MUSICAL OR COMEDY SERIES.

Lee Pace (Love him. Second only to Zac Levi when it comes to TV boyfriends).

BEST ACTOR IN A MUSICAL OR COMEDY TV SERIES

Source

Anna Friel

BEST ACTRESS IN A MUSICAL OR COMEDY TV SERIES

Canadian Love

(Bolded text indicates the Canadian, whether it be the actor, the director, or the production itself).

Eastern Promises (Dir. David Cronenberg)

BEST MOTION PICTURE DRAMA
BEST ACTOR IN A MOTION PICTURE DRAMA
BEST SCORE

Juno (Dir. Jason Reitman)

BEST MOTION PICTURE MUSICAL OR COMEDY

Julie Christie

BEST ACTRESS IN A MOTION PICTURE DRAMA

Away From Her (Dir. Sarah Polley)

*RYAN GOSLING*

BEST ACTOR IN A MOTION PICTURE MUSICAL OR COMEDY

Lars and the Real Girl

Ellen Page

BEST ACTRESS IN A MOTION PICTURE MUSICAL OR COMEDY

Juno

William Shatner

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR IN A SERIES, MINISERIES, OR TV MOVIE

Boston Legal

Donald Sutherland

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR IN A SERIES, MINISERIES, OR TV MOVIE

Dirty Sexy Money

Anna Paquin

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS IN A SERIES, MINISERIES, OR TV MOVIE

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

BEST MINISERIES OR TV MOVIE

Adam Beach

BEST ACTOR IN A MINISERIES OR TV MOVIE

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

Now, there is still no knowing if the Golden Globes will even air. With no end to the writers' strike in sight, there's talk of the event being picketed. Most actors wouldn't dare cross that line. So maybe this year it really will have to be just an honor to be nominated.

It's in the bag.

source

I carry an unusually large bag. Sure, it may be a trendy thing to do, but I'm not really that hung up on looking like Jessica Simpson when I leave my apartment at 7:10 every morning. The trend just happens to coincide with my habit of lugging everything I own with me everywhere.

But lately, it's been almost too full. Too heavy. So I thought I'd take an inventory of what's inside.

Things in my bag today, not counting the pockets stuffed with coupons, a dryer sheet (for those static days), keys and unmentionables:

• Nalgene (750 mL)
• Lunch (sandwich container, 2 smaller ones for grapes and almonds)
• 75% dark chocolate bar
• Weekly planner
• SpongeBob notebook (filled with scribbles about end credits and grocery lists)
• Mere Christianity
• Wallet
• Checkbook
  
• Pens
• Cell phone
• Tylenol
• Lozenges
• Glasses case
• Snow White clutch filled with lip gloss
• Kleenex
• Indoor scarf (since I wanted to wear a winter scarf with my coat and didn't want to double-up)
• Freebie newspaper
• Gum
• Toothbrush and paste
• Deodorant
• Band-Aids

In case of any emergency, I'm ready. I'm the office pharmacy. I don't have to swing by my place after work if I decide to go somewhere in the evening. And on rainy days, I manage to stuff Bert the Umbrella in there too.

For Your Reading and Viewing Pleasure

I’m lazy, so it’s link time.

Losing It

Johnny Depp and Tim Burton are being interviewed together when a reporter makes the ridiculous statement that they’ve been working together for ten decades. The reaction is adorable.

Freeloaders

A coworker sent this article to me today, which is hilariously appropriate seeing as my dad’s crashing my place in a couple days. It’s quite a phenomenon, the freeloading parents (Dad, you’re more than welcome. Just don’t smoke up while you’re here).

Roommate Wanted

I’m a pretty picky person when it comes to living with people. Which is why I live alone. Apparently, this guy’s pickier.

My favorite excerpt:

You must be ok with my upholstery hobby. On every third Tuesday of the month I request that you vacate the house between the hours of 4 pm - 11:45pm while I upholster various pieces of antique furniture. I am a perfectionist and require complete silence in the house. I've tried this with housemates who've promised to stay in their rooms, but this proved impossible as bathroom habits demand a regular schedule that interrupts my artisan work. That said, I will give you a small stipend on these days if it will assist you in finding something to do with that block of time.

No newspapers or magazines. The ink gets everywhere and the gloss irritates my eyes. Sorry! You are free to read them on the front porch, but they must be stored outside of the house (perhaps in your car?)

This is not to sound discriminating, but, if you speak either French, Urdu, or Afrikaans, I kindly request that you not speak them in my vicinity as the cadences used in these languages are grating to the ears and nerves, for me.

Geeky Kind of Love

Best wedding cake for nerds ever:

Source

Talking to Telemarkers 101

I was once a telemarketer. A woman gave me a rhubarb pie recipe over the phone. And a man warned me that we shouldn’t talk about the government, or they’d put bags over our heads and ship us off to Cuba. But no one did this to me. (Warning: It’s a little PG-13).

Jimmy & I

Klara: I really wouldn't care to scratch your surface, Mr. Kralik, because I know exactly what I'd find. Instead of a heart, a handbag. Instead of a soul, a suitcase. And instead of an intellect, a cigarette lighter which doesn't work.

Alfred: That's very nicely put. Yes. Comparing my intellect with a cigarette lighter that doesn't work. Yeah, that's a very interesting mixture of poetry and meanness.

‘Tis the season to spend quality time with my second dead boyfriend (#1 being Gene Kelly). There’s something about snow that makes me want to dedicate an evening or two to Jimmy Stewart (always credited as James, by the way). And after reading biographies on both men, Jimmy is really more my type, what with being faithful to his wife and all.

So this past weekend, I was quite delighted to find that The Shop Around the Corner was airing on TCM. I have a soft spot for TCM, partly because it plays the classics and partly because I have a credit on its website.

The film is an adaptation of the Hungarian play Parfumerie and inspired the Judy Garland musical In the Good Old Summertime, the Broadway musical She Loves Me, and, much later, You’ve Got Mail. Since Tom Hanks is the modern-day Stewart, it makes sense. It's the Everyman charm.

Loved it. Love him. I can feel It’s a Wonderful Life calling me....

Alfred: I think people who like to smoke candy and listen to cigarettes will love it.

Santa

My brother Joel drew this for me a few years ago. Brilliant.
Click on image for full size. You must read it to understand.

Right Now

There are clean sheets on my bed. Still warm.

There are sweet-potato fries in the oven.

My apartment is lit by two miniature Christmas trees.

I am home.

I spent last night in Parry Sound, Ontario’s winter wonderland. While I often complain about the cold in Toronto, it’s a different kind of cold there. It’s a crisp, picturesque, storybook cold with over a foot of pure white snow blanketing everything. For a brief moment, I wanted to be Rosemary Clooney, all decked out in a fur-trimmed red velvet cape, singing alongside Bing Crosby.

I went to cheer on my cousins who were starring in their high school’s production of High School Musical. I have yet to be a parent, so I can only imagine the pride that comes with seeing your child sparkle in the spotlight. Even still, watching the girl I once tried to teach to walk gorgeously singing and dancing on stage was pretty mind-blowing.

They were fabulous. So proud.

Lars and the Real Girl

"The search for real love begins outside the box."

Sweet. It was the word that immediately popped into my head as the end credits started to roll. Not the colloquial "sweet" used by adolescent boys, but the pleasing, satisfying, endearing and thoughtful sort of sweet you might find in a dictionary. Without all the sugar allusions. Because while it was a sweet film, it wasn't nauseatingly so; it had the perfect balance of reality and bittersweetness to even things out. It was moving. I laughed out loud.

Ryan Gosling deserves another Oscar nomination, if only for the way he blinked. Some actors dye their hair for a movie; Gosling transformed every little mannerism. The blinking, the squinting, the posture. There was something so unselfconscious about the performance, something so honest and awkward and gentle. The entire audience fell for the man-child named Lars.

And not since Wilson the volleyball has there been such a beautiful on-screen relationship with an inanimate object.

Go see it.

From Tuesday to Tuesday

I feel stupid. And sick. Nauseated and silly and immature and impatient and horrible. Unattractive and undesirable and lonely.

How was your Tuesday?

One week is a long time in the scheme of my emotional landscape. I was cleaning out email drafts this evening when I came across this half-written email, apparently never intended to be sent. Written to no one in particular.

Today was a good day. I worked for nine hours, had a decent lunch (see previous post), snacked on dark chocolate, made plans to meet a friend for a movie tomorrow evening, and came home to a little Pilates and leftover artichoke-and-mushroom oven omelet. And now I'm in cozy pajamas, half-watching Top Chef. I'm glad I didn't stay in last Tuesday.

Turkey Madness Version 2.0

It's lunchtime. Determined to redeem yesterday's turkey disaster, I venture into a small artist-run café called Artistic Grounds. It's a cash-only, super-tiny place, decorated with artwork by local artists (all of which is for sale).

I see a turkey sandwich behind glass. I order it. And then the magic happens. She opens the premade sandwich and starts to add whatever I want. For no additional charge. Havarti cheese, tomato, spicy Dijon mustard, a squirt of mayo. So good.

They have homemade chocolate chip cookies. I can't resist. And then I grab a bottle of water.

Now, keep in mind that such a lunch at yesterday's location would have come to at least $10. No exaggeration needed. So you can imagine my elation when she charges me $5.40 for my entire lunch. I want to hug her. And later, when I eat my awesome turkey sandwich, I want to hug her again. And that chocolate chip cookie? It's one of those melt-in-your-mouth, made-by-Grandma cookies. My happy radar is beeping.

If you're ever at Queen and Bathurst, go to Artistic Grounds. Support local artists and eat turkey that's not ham. Everyone wins.

Turkey Madness

All I want is a turkey sandwich. So I order one. On toasted whole grain bread.

The sandwich guy puts the meat on first. I stop him. What about the mayo? He was going to put it on after, he tells me. On top of the meat. I shake my head. I want it on the bread. He obliges, but he's clearly unimpressed with me.

He puts the meat on again. I stop him. I asked for turkey, but this is obviously ham. No, he tells me, he's made sandwiches before. Ham is more red. Well, this turkey is way too pink to be turkey. He assures me it's turkey and keeps making my sandwich.

I ask for mustard. He squirts some on the turkey/ham and then proceeds to thickly paint the other slice of bread bright yellow.

He asks if I want orange or white cheese. I feel like I'm 5 years old again. I say white. Yep, I am 5.

He puts one leaf of lettuce on it and asks if that's enough. I say no. Once again, he's not impressed. He sighs loudly as he adds another leaf.

When I go up to pay, I tell the lady that I'm not sure if it's a turkey or a ham sandwich. She looks at me as if I'm stupid.

As I leave, I hear a woman order peanut butter on white. He asks if she'd like that on whole wheat.

I go back to work and eat my ham sandwich. It tastes like mustard. I pretend it's turkey.

"Assume" makes a WHAT out of "u" and "me"?!

For someone who is quite indecisive (and still can't decide if she likes the jeans she bought weeks ago) and likes to carefully think out decisions and plan ahead for everything, it may be a little surprising that I jump to conclusions quite quickly.

For example, I sliced my thumb open in the fifth grade. I told the doctor to amputate my hand as I'd never play the piano again. I'm glad he didn't listen.

I once told my Sunday School class not to listen to Amy Grant after I saw a 10-minute clip of her on TV singing love songs to a man (shocking, I know). I assumed she switched her affections from the Almighty to the flesh (or something like that). I later recanted this, and Amy is once again near and dear to my heart. But still, my childlike rash judgment has stuck with me a bit.

I wasn't even really aware of this until the other day when an email conversation with a friend ended rather awkwardly. The first place my head went was, "I've overstepped some kind of invisible bounds. I've broken some sort of unspoken rule of friendship. It's over." Is it really? Probably not. Maybe. But jumping to a conclusion isn't going to help the situation. And rereading the text won't help either.

I'm starting to dislike the written word when it comes to conversation. I don't mind blogging, journaling, or creative writing, but typing in an attempt to get to know someone is painful. My quirky babbling doesn't mesh with everyone, and neither is my sense of humor apparent to those who skim read. And my paragraph-long answers to a two-word question could be a little overwhelming, just as I interpret a one-sentence reply as a brush-off.

Moral of my story: I'm glad I still have my hand. Amy Grant remains a nostalgic favorite. And it's time to start talking face to face a little more.

Nostalgia

A couple weeks ago, I was almost asleep when my high-school locker combination popped into my head. Then, as I was packing up some Christmas baking last weekend, I found the sticker from my lock (combination faded but still there) on the bottom of a tin I used to display in my room when I was a teenager. Weird.

Those of you who knew me between the ages of 16 and 19 know that at such a point in my life I was quite attached to a certain band. Or at least a certain lead singer of a certain band. Now, you must understand, I did not put up posters of Jonathan Taylor Thomas in my bedroom when my peers did. I did not hold hands with immature cootie-carriers in junior high. I was the mature one with the ridiculous standards. And then I met Toby Penner, the older, fantastically gifted and completely-oblivious-to-me musician. And he rocked my world. So while my friends were trying to find prom dates, I just lip-synched to Jake in my bedroom, fully planning to marry the guy one day.

Yeah. Times change.

I’m older. So is he. And Jake CDs are now merely nostalgia hugs on rainy days. But Toby has a YouTube channel, so I can continue to stalk him. In a less creepy way that I would have if such technology were around five years ago. With age comes wisdom. I now understand that he wasn’t really my Prince Charming; Reunion Records just made me believe he was. But his very existence helped protect me from the adolescent broken heart; he inspired me to spend late nights at my piano, figuring out simple chord progressions to journal entries that barely made sense; he furthered my belief that I would never have to settle for less than God’s best for me. And for that, I’ll always have a soft spot for Mr. Penner.

I also blame him for my orange pants. But no one’s perfect. Hey, love can make you dress like a pylon :)

So here’s Toby, reminiscing over the same days I now type of, sheepishly admitting to the very bubblegum pop that defined my seventeenth year.

"High School Musical 2" vs. "Newsies"

High School Musical 2 is on right now. I’m totally sucked in. I won’t even pretend to be watching it for mere “cultural research.” It’s just pure sugary fun. I liken it to Newsies for the next generation, most likely because Kenny Ortega directed both of them (although no one actually watched Newsies until years after it was made. It’s more of a VHS/DVD phenomenon).

I completely get the Zac Efron thing. If I was 16, he’d be on my wall. Okay, probably not my wall, but I’d probably have a couple Seventeen magazines hiding in my room somewhere while I lip-synced to the soundtrack in front of my mirror. I only wish I was kidding.

A Tale of 2 Ortega Movies.	High School Musical 2	Newsies
The Star	Zac Efron. Perfect Aldo hair. Rather sensational in Hairspray. Shot to stardom way too quickly. Pray for him.	Christian Bale. Arguably the Internet’s first star. Before major fan sites were old hat, he was bigger than the A-listers. A cult fave since the mid-'90s. And now Batman.
The Music	Catchy bubblegum pop. The soundtrack has been HUGE. And award-winning.	Rousing Disneyfied pop. The re-released soundtrack was selling more than Britney Spears on Amazon (when Spears was in her prime and it meant something).
The Fan Base	Smash hit. Even my brother could correct me on my “did they kiss or didn’t they?” trivia last weekend. Set viewing records on cable.	Cult hit. A guilty pleasure for my generation. And the one to follow. Not popular until VHS and DVD. Bombed at the box office.
That Solo	“Bet On It.” Zac gets to be all angsty and manly and dance by himself on a golf course. A departure from bouncy pop.	“Santa Fe.” Christian gets to be all angsty and manly and dance by himself in a cowboy hat. A departure from bouncy pop.
The Kiss	Saved for the end. With music swelling, sprinklers going off, fireworks.	Saved for the end. He comes back for her. And the masses rejoice.

And now, for a visual comparison:
Zac in action:


Christian doing his thing:


Love live the Disney musical machine.

"Whatever Happened to Predictability?"

A couple of Entertainment Weekly “reporters” were given the challenge of watching the entire series (that’s eight seasons) of Full House in one sitting.

Here are excerpts from their Uncle Jesse marathon.

*I thought the pic was appropriate, as I've already had one Christmas dinner.
And I have two Christmas trees in my apartment. And I'm cold.

Question of the day: How do I get their job?

It's time to move on.

A cute boy smiled at me today. Was it because I was super-cute and fetching? I wish. It was because I can't let go of my dysfunctional relationship with Bert (yellow umbrella). In the pouring rain, a twisted mass of canary-colored nylon sheltered half of me. Any smiles garnered from strangers were stifled laughs.

Fast forward to thirty minutes later.

I'm almost home. It's still pouring. A car swerves, hitting a deep puddle with remarkable precision. I am drenched. My new coat has a pretty fantastic dirty water pattern splashed across it. My jeans are now hanging to dry. And Bert, even more ravaged than before, is recovering in my bathtub.

I think it's time to start seeing other umbrellas.

Blog Outtakes.

I think about blogging quite often. In fact, I’ve started numerous blog entries that I’ve never bothered to post. My computer has saved drafts of both nonsensical babble and censored-by-me journal entries. The former I am sparing you from; the latter I am sparing myself from.

I will, however, share snippets of thoughts I’ve never posted. In no particular order.

Reading Into Things.

I've heard guys complain (numerous times) about girls reading into everything. Some are hesitant to compliment, go out for coffee, or even chat for very long for fear the girl will be planning their wedding in her head as they do so. Or interpreting "Wanna catch a movie?" as "I love you." And they do have a point. We're good at that.

But I think there's a much bigger problem (and I know I'm not alone on this one).

I read into me. Yep, that's right. When you say you like my haircut, I'm more likely to worry about how you might interpret my response to such a comment. At the end of a conversation, I'm replaying my own stupid answers or body language that might have misrepresented who I am. I regret sending emails, for fear that they're too business-like, too flirtatious, too all-round stupid. And this isn't just with guys I'm interested in. It's a guys-in-general thing.

Facebook Friends.

I haven't seen him since high school. Apart from the world of facebook/myspace, we are now strangers. I was 13, standing in his garage, listening to his band play. Now he owns his own production studio. And home. And makes hauntingly beautiful music. And we remain strangers.

In my head, she's still a rebellious teenager in a Nirvana shirt. In reality, she's a happy newlywed. I wish my head would catch up sometimes.

He came to my birthday party the summer before 2^nd grade. I moved away at the end of 5^th grade and haven’t seen him since. And now he works a block away from my office. I’m not sure how to catch up. Fourteen years is a long time.

She cried through drama class, bemoaning her PMS-induced hatred of high school. She was going to be a star. Today, she’s a burlesque dancer* in an open marriage.

*updated.

A Lie for a Life?

She was hiding Jews behind her wall. When Corrie Ten Boom looked that soldier in the eye and said, "I don't know what you're talking about," was the lie a sin? And was it better to sin than to offer up the innocent to evil? Wouldn't the truth have been the greater evil? Perhaps she should have remained silent.

Legacy.

A few weeks ago, I was looked in the eye and thanked for my legacy. Pretty humbling. And empowering. I didn't know I had one.

I’m scary.

I terrified the girl upstairs. To the point of giving her a completely sleepless night. All I had to do was open the front door.

Just a Thought.

Sometimes an excellent first date can set the bar too high for the next guy.

Oozing Coolness.

I sewed a button on my coat while on the bus a while ago. I am officially the coolest person ever.

Meet the Blog.

At what point in a new friendship does one introduce the blog? Over time, I’ve become more hesitant to share this with non-bloggers, as it can contribute to rather lopsided relationships. I blog about me, my friend reads about me, I learn nothing about them. I have a non-blogging friend who doesn’t read blogs. She’d rather hear the story in person than intrude on the written thoughts of others. Or something like that.

More of the List.

I’d like to learn to play the guitar. It’s #52 on my list of things to do.

You’ve Got Nothing.

I check my email too often. Facebook only further aggravates my problem. And the high of receiving a message fades all too quickly, leaving me wanting more and more.

Quote of the Day.

C.J., a contestant on season three of Top Chef, is bewildered by women, particularly their love of a certain thin pancake.

“Girl power. If there was another Spice Girl, there’d be Crêpe Spice.”

So true.