You learn something new every day. Apparently. This is what I learned yesterday:
“Then, in 1228, a law was passed in Scotland, giving women the legal right to propose to an unmarried man (on a leap day). Should he refuse, legally, she could claim a new gown or a pair of gloves in addition to a cash payment of one pound — and one pound in those days was a lot of money.” source
I had no idea that this Friday I have a free pass to propose to someone. An unmarried someone (which means I have to eliminate married men from my list of possibilities). Typically, I wouldn't consider it (I'm from the John Eldridge school of dangerous men rescuing princesses), but since a rejection would equal fashion AND money, it might be worth the awkwardness. Of course, for those who've never gone shopping with me, I will warn you: finding a gown that rocks my world will be tricky. You may decide to marry me after all. Which would make it win-win. I win (I'm not rejected) and you win (you don't have to dress shop).
I was pleasantly surprised today to find the entertainment industry acknowledging Larry's legacy.
Over at Entertainment Weekly, there's a rather personal reflection on the man who subverted expectations.
I remember looking over and watching the grin on the youth leader’s face turn into a puzzled grimace as Norman sang lines like “Pardon me, kissing you like I'm afraid/But I feel I'm being played…/Close your eyes, and pretend that you are me/See how empty it can be/Making love if love's not really there/Watch me go, watch me walk away alone/As your clothing comes undone/And you pull the ribbon from your hair.” Of course, I got a big smile on my face as the youth pastor’s disappeared, because, as a rock kid, I lived for status quo-breaking moments like that one, when a "Christian concert" could turn into something altogether less predictable. He didn’t always follow through on his early promise, but that’s the Larry Norman I’ll remember — the maverick who never deviated from his chosen mission in search of any big brass ring, but who didn’t give many second thoughts to subverting the expectations of fellow believers, either.
I didn't win the Oscar pool at work. Which is probably a good thing, so that I won't take up gambling as a hobby. I did tie for second.
My thoughts:
George Clooney is dating a cocktail waitress. I wonder who wants to date a subtitler.
If I was 15, I'd be jealous of Miley Cyrus.
Gary Busey scares me.
Jennifer Garner is my pick for best-dressed. Gorgeous. And Keri Russell. If you were on Felicity, you have style. Almost everyone looks awesome.
My fashion predictions are pretty accurate, with the exception of an absent Angelina. But she was at the Independent Spirit Awards the night before, sporting a very obvious baby bump. So the pregnancy prediction was right on the money.
Red is the color of the night. I would have been in brown. Or bronze (which is fancy, shiny brown). Love Heidi Klum. Best red of the night. Stunning.
"Does this town need a hug?" I heart Jon Stewart. "Thank God for teen pregnancy."
Most honest joke of the night, regarding Norbit's nom: "Too often the Academy ignores movies that aren't good."
I'm shocked that Atonement didn't win Best Costume. The buzz around Keira's green gown has been ridiculous (see above). It's sparking fashion trends, people.
Showing a clip of Cuba Gooding Jr. win his Oscar is almost cruel. That was his career peak. And he has long past it.
Casey Affleck is finally looking like a man.
Yay for Javier Bardem.
Oscar's salute to binoculars and periscopes. Cracks. Me. Up.
The 11-year-old singing "Raise It Up" does a far better job than Beyoncé did at the Oscars a couple years ago.
Why does John Travolta spray on his hair? Does he think we can't tell he has paint on his head?!
TILDA SWINTON?! Fun upset of the night. Cate Blanchett will be fine without it. Trust me.
It's official. I heart James McAvoy.
"And the baby goes to... Angelina Jolie." I will defend Stewart as host to the ends of the blog.
Colin Farrell's scruff is actually appealing and non-scuzzy this evening. Maybe I'm just in a good mood.
The clips are done for widescreens. The Ben-Hur clip reads as N-HUR. The year? 19.
Bourne is winning. A lot. Instead of Transformers. I'm okay with that.
Nicole Kidman looks more human than usual. Maybe pregnancy = less Botox.
If I win an honorary Oscar, I'm going to thank Hitchcock too.
Atonement wins for Original Score. Best part of the movie, people. It's awesome.
Diablo Cody wins!!! I want to win for my first screenplay :)
There are a lot of men in the audience wearing glasses. Women? Not so much. They will sacrifice sight for vanity.
There is no Brad Renfro in the "In Memoriam" montage. I don't understand how they choose who to include.
DANIEL DAY-GENIUS. Love him. Great speech. He's perfection: "My deepest thanks to the members of the Academy for whacking me with the handsomest bludgeon in town. I'm looking at this gorgeous thing you've given me and I'm thinking back to the first devilish whisper of an idea that came to him and everything since and it seems to me that this sprang like a golden sapling out of the mad, beautiful head of Paul Thomas Anderson...."
The Coens each take home three awards. And that, my friends, is why you write, direct and produce.
The pioneer of Christian rock died yesterday. Before heading home, he dictated this letter:
I feel like a prize in a box of cracker jacks with God's hand reaching down to pick me up. I have been under medical care for months. My wounds are getting bigger. I have trouble breathing. I am ready to fly home.
My brother Charles is right, I won't be here much longer. I can't do anything about it. My heart is too weak. I want to say goodbye to everyone. In the past you have generously supported me with prayer and finance and we will probably still need financial help.
My plan is to be buried in a simple pine box with some flowers inside. But still it will be costly because of funeral arrangement, transportation to the gravesite, entombment, coordination, legal papers etc. However money is not really what I need, I want to say I love you.
I'd like to push back the darkness with my bravest effort. There will be a funeral posted here on the website, in case some of you want to attend. We are not sure of the date when I will die. Goodbye, farewell, we will meet again.
Goodbye, farewell, we'll meet again Somewhere beyond the sky. I pray that you will stay with God Goodbye, my friends, goodbye.
I was blog-stalking this afternoon, catching up on posts at Hostess with the Mostess. The featured recipe was for treats super-similar to what I made (and posted about) for the potluck at work.
Instead of Hugs and M&Ms, they used Rolo candies and toasted nuts. Hmm. I need another occasion to make people food. Because I will eat it all myself otherwise.
I should open a B&B. That also serves dessert and coffee in the evening. That way I can make my artichoke-and-roasted-red-pepper frittatas and still experiment with chocolate.
At this very moment, my apartment smells like pot. The vents are covered and still it seeps in. I suppose it's better than the smell of chicken manure. Or decaying corpses.
Last night, my place smelled significantly more lovely. It smelled of happy and pudgy. Sugar is dangerous to those who live alone. I think I need to take up running. I say that every year. I think I almost mean it this time.
We had a potluck at work today. Almost all of us brought dessert. And I think I tried everything. At least once. So now I need to detox.
This was my contribution:
I make these every year over the holidays. One of my signature goodies. This batch was made with Hugs. And with all the M&M colors, as this wasn't a Christmas offering. And on round pretzels, not square. Like my mother, I don't actually follow recipes to a T.
I heard two girls in the kitchen talking about them:
My father is a wise man. Over the years, he has imparted ridiculous amounts of insight and knowledge, including the following treasures:
The WWF is scripted.
Gneiss is a rock. Pronounced “nice.” Which makes it frustrating when you’re a little kid and you want your one-time-geologist father to tell you what kind of rock you’re holding. “That’s nice, Nadine” is all you hear.
Hitchhiking through Morocco solo is totally safe.
The Academy Awards are political.
I kept this last point in mind as I filled out my ballot at work. Of course, I also chose to take some risks (somewhat calculated) in the more technical categories, knowing that if there are any upsets and I’m right, I could be raking in the dough. Plus, what’s the point if you’re not having fun? Not that I don’t want to win. I still have my handbag named Oscar from two years ago. He would like a new friend.
*crossing fingers for surprise Transformers victories*
My predictions:
Best Motion Picture
No Country for Old Men
Actor
Daniel Day-Lewis
Actress
Julie Christie
Supporting Actor
Javier Bardem
Supporting Actress
Cate Blanchett
Director
Ethan Coen, Joel Coen (No Country for Old Men)
Original Screenplay
Juno
Adapted Screenplay
No Country for Old Men
Cinematography
No Country for Old Men
Editing
No Country for Old Men
Art Direction
There Will Be Blood
Costume Design
Atonement
Makeup
La Môme (La Vie En Rose)
Original Score
Atonement
Original Song
“Falling Slowly” - Once
Sound Mixing
Transformers
Sound Editing
Transformers
Visual Effects
Transformers
Animated Feature
Ratatouille
Foreign Language Film
Fälscher, Die
Documentary, Feature
No End in Sight
Documentary, Short
Sari’s Mother
Short Film, Animated
I Met the Walrus
Short Film, Live Action
Tanghi argentini
Really, it's all about the fashion. Perhaps the predictions should be best-dressed related:
Daniel Day-Lewis will be quirky/European handsome. Longish gelled hair.
Johnny Depp will be quirky to an even greater degree. Hobo-Euro-chic.
Cate Blanchett will make everyone want to be pregnant. And she'll be in couture.
Ellen Page will probably be in black. A little edgy. Young. Very ingenue.
Angelina Jolie will wear something loose, sparking more rumors of pregnancy.
George Clooney will keep channeling Cary Grant.
Julie Christie will be in pants. Or Diane Keaton-ish. Nothing frilly.
Despite my trek in the painful blistery snow yesterday evening into a lonely warehouse district (perfect area to be murdered, actually) to pick up my new camera, upon arriving at work this morning, I was forced to take pictures with my cell phone. Had I known that the fire was so close, I would have thrown the Canon in my bag.
Many of you will have heard that Toronto's downtown core was hit with a six-alarm fire this morning. It was thisclose to where I work. My intersection. I had to take a strange route to get there, as my street and those surrounding it were closed. There was no power for the first hour and a half of my shift. And all day, I fought a smoke-inhalation headache. But I'm a subtitling trouper. I did not go home.
This was my view from work:
The fire was one street north of me, just beyond the homes in the pictures. I walked by those shops every day. There's nothing there anymore.
According to some news reports, my street was evacuated. Not quite accurate. I've never spent so much time glued to the window, watching my neighborhood collapse.
A section of downtown Toronto's historic Queen Street West neighbourhood was destroyed Wednesday morning as an intense blaze gutted several buildings, tearing through businesses and leaving dozens without shelter.
The fire remained a six-alarm blaze for hours but was eventually downgraded to a five-alarm incident by the late afternoon.
At its height, 150 firefighters and 56 fire trucks were on the scene battling the blaze as it burned out of control in frigid temperatures that hovered at about -20C with the wind chill.
Three addresses on Queen, just east of Bathurst Street, have collapsed, Toronto Fire Services spokesperson Capt. Adrian Ratushniak told CTV.ca. The area is a popular shopping district.
I spent this past weekend with family. I figured that the premier might be disappointed with me if I did otherwise.
So whether you care or not, here's a quick recap of my happy little excursion into the country.
Saturday
I wake up early and do laundry. My apartment is hot, so I escape to the library and grocery store. Open returning, I mumble to myself, "If I had known it was this hot inside, I would have washed my jeans." Only people who air-dry their clothing would understand such a thought process.
I get a phone call from Nathan. So good to catch up with my little-but-way-taller brother. In his honor, the greatest dance move in recent memory:
Mom and Dad pick me up in the early evening and we head to Grandma's. I don't believe anything super-amusing happened. Oh, other than I told my mom that IMDb lists Bono as 5'6 1/2" and she responded with, "He's too old for you." Um, and apparently too married, too father-of-four-ish and too short. Thanks, Mom, for looking out for me.
Sunday
I get up way too early. We head to Orillia. For those not up on the Bells' family adventures of late, my dad's update is here. I think the longer I stay in the city, the more country I become.
Country Style has its own crappy version of Roll Up the Rim. I win $5 off a $50 purchase at the Source. I scoff and throw out the cup.
Church is warm and welcoming. And worship is led by some rather attractive Tyndale guys, which makes me reconsider my past education choices :) And for the first time in a very long while, the song "Every Day" is grammatically correct on the PowerPoint. It's "every day," not "everyday." Yes, these things drive me slightly crazy. Silly grammar job.
A couple invites us over for lunch. And by "lunch," I mean "extravagant turkey dinner." I have never seen such impressive turkey carving. Ever. I think I miss the genuineness of people. In Toronto, people don't let their guards down as easily as our hosts and other dinner guests seemed to. Authenticity and apple pie is a great combination.
A sampling of conversation topics:
Sears catalogue addictions.
Tragic birth stories. Stillborns and preemies.
Because of above topic, my own little movie came up. I'm so famous, it's ridiculous.
Rather graphic dog-mating stories. We're talking positions, people.
(It might sound odd to say that I was inspired by their stories of divorce, depression and poverty, but I was just so encouraged by the way these people rallied around each other. No one suffered alone.)
A few hours later (still stuffed), we head to Beaverton for a "Welcome to Canada" party for a friend's husband. He's been living in the Middle East while she's been in Ontario. I think I'd like to live in the same country as my husband. But that's just me. As I walk in the door, the hostess yells out, "And here's the celebrity!" I am introduced to a Phys. Ed. teacher who shows the video of my birth twice a year. It's probably weirder for him than me that he's seeing that baby all grown up. No one ever thinks about the baby as an actual person. I secretly love it.
An old friend is there. I haven't seen her since I was 11 and she was 12. She's been married for seven years. She has a 6-year-old. I can't quite wrap my brain around it.
I also experience a bit of house envy. The place is quaint and charming. It's little but very livable. I momentarily consider relocating to Beaverton just for the more reasonable housing prices. Not that I can quite afford "reasonable" yet. I'm still in "dirt cheap" mode. I tell myself that I can write anywhere, so why not?
Awesome cake. And it's my first experience with boxed wine. When I first heard of such a thing, my only mental picture was of a drink box. With a straw jutting out the top. I've never seen anyone sip wine from a straw. Hmm. We toast and people cry. I don't, because I don't know people quite well enough for tears. (I don't cry; I do toast. Just to clarify).
The rain is threatening to freeze, so we head out before it gets dark. After swinging by my grandma's, we head next door to my aunt and uncle's farm.
I check out my aunt's luggage and decide to borrow it. I'm heading west in March (flights are booked!) and need something with wheels. I'm a little intimidated by the idea of packing for 10 days, as I usually lug a massive bag home with me just for one weekend. I'll just have to be organized and creative. While I'm there, my cousin in Calgary calls, and we chat about next month. I'm so excited. Cue the Pointer Sisters.
Monday
I sleep in. My exhaustion probably contributes to two rather intensely ridiculous dreams. One involved Daniel Bedingfield dancing in the Guelph cafeteria (and my wallet ending up in the pocket of a man's trousers at a dry cleaners, found by the police), and another had me encountering a Candy Nazi at a movie theatre, eventually seeing me banned from the place. I also partially blame the weirdness on the Honey Nut Cheerios I ate as a bedtime snack.
I play my grandma's out-of-tune piano. I eat homemade chili. I inherit an old beaded necklace of my great-grandmother's. Not surprisingly, the question "Does Nadine have a boyfriend?" is asked right in front of me. This launches into a "I think Nadine will be the first to know" and "If I do, I don't know about it" conversation that really doesn't go anywhere but is slightly more amusing that the straight answer. And then we head out, Grandma's chocolate chip cookies as traveling food :)
Back in Toronto, I'm unpacked and in sweats, thankful that I only have four days of subtitling ahead of me this week. I have an email waiting for me from my eBay seller, telling me that my camera has been ready for pickup for days. Apparently the Purolator people stopped by and left a notice but I never got it. So I call Purolator and beg them to hold it a few days longer as I map out a rather long and awkward route to the warehouse where it's currently sitting. It will all be worth it. That's my reluctant mantra of the day.
Now I shall curl up on my couch and make that impossible decision: Project Runway or Medium? I'd usually watch Runway on YouTube, but it's not loading properly. Stupid illegal videos :)
Happy What's Remaining of Family Day!
Oh, and hi, Joel. You're also family. I just noticed you went unmentioned in the above. Maybe you should do the Puppet Master. Just so you feel more included. I'll see you in two weeks. Go crazy.
I will show you love like you’ve never loved before I will go the distance and back for more if you just say the word
You will come alive again and call the trying times your friend The pain that you have suffered through will never get the best of you You will hope in something real that won’t depend on how you feel When you call my name then I will answer, answer
I am on your side though the wind and waves beat against your faith You were on my mind when the world was made Trust in me my child, Trust in me my child
Walk out on the water where you have no control So scared to death of failure you sacrifice your soul, please let that go
You have climbed an uphill road, You have worn a heavy load You have cried through endless nights and nearly given up the fight Watched your dreams like falling stars the heartaches made you who you are Now looking back you see that I have always been there
Where you gonna hide? Where you gonna hide from Me? Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go that I can’t see?
I have heard you cry and it breaks my heart for I love you so I would never lie, this is not the end there is still a hope ~Kendall Payne, Paper Skin Listen
I got caught in a painful bluster of snow on my way home today. I couldn't see where I was going. My face ached. I thought I turned down my street. I did not. I was still three streets away.
I'm safe inside now. And dry. And fed. My first-ever eBay bid was successful and a digital camera is on its way. I think this thing called "online shopping" might take off :)
I'm in a February frame of mind. Which means I'm partially frozen, dreaming of hibernation, and slightly craving pink things.
Ridiculous pink idea of the day: I should buy Betsey Johnson's place in New York (Can't be that hard to secure a $3.6 million loan). I may be at the only time and place in my life where I can justify über-girlie decorating. Because there's a semi-decent chance that I won't live alone forever (Please, God. Hint, hint). And I wretch at the idea of feminine, floral master bedrooms. If a guy lives there, it should look like it (and not just evidenced by his dirty socks on the floor).
Check out the pinkness:
I bet I could write a pretty great chick-lit novel in that place. Curled up on my sofa in monogrammed velour lounge wear, I'd be scribbling down witticisms and typing the winter blues away. And I would host legendary Valentine's Day bashes. I would probably buy a kitten and name it Meg Ryan. No, I'd buy two: Harry and Sally. And I'd start getting weekly manicures. I might even wear heels on the subway.
P.S. For those new to the world of Nadine, don't worry. Or vomit. I'm more of a farmhouse girl. Or country cottage. I don't do pink carpet. With or without a man, I'd probably spend my $3 million elsewhere.
The last couple of days have been spent in sweats, gorging on comfort foods and guilty-pleasure TV. After a few days of surviving on extra-strength Tylenol and black coffee at work, I took Friday off and allowed myself to indulge in sleep, sugar and red sweatpants. The red pants are legendary; they’re my “I’m not leaving this apartment” stop sign. Ahh. But as much as I love a weekend of cozy nothingness, by last night, upon realizing that Scott Baio telling his life coach, “I’m afraid of dying alone” was actually moving me, I knew I had to escape my little Batcave.
It was hard to get out of bed this morning. My left eyelid was partially swollen shut. The right side of my face had broken out. But I refused to be a victim of vanity and headed off to church, puffy face and all.
After church, I stuck around for the IMAX matinee of U23D. It. Blew. My. Mind. It’s a little awkward to admit that the best concert I’ve ever been to was on a movie screen, but it’s true. I can’t even really process it all. Just straight-up awesome.
Unos, dos, tres….catorce!
(Yes, I know he says, “One, two, three….fourteen!” It’s the brilliance of songwriting.)
I got chills. Multiple times. There’s something about a crowd of thousands shouting the word “love” over and over that makes me a little shaky. And thanks to the power of 3D, when Bono sings the “wipe your tears away” line from “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” I actually thought he was going to do just that. Seriously, his hand was thisclose to my face.
Beyond the many goose-bump moments, the film further solidified my U2 love (yes, apparently, it was possible). I can’t remember ever really appreciating the Edge, Adam and Larry so specifically as individuals. But now I’m officially the president of each of their fan clubs. You’d have to see it to understand, but it was refreshingly not just the Bono show. And the Edge plays the piano. Which means I’m in “music love.” Oh, and those men totally love each other. It’s actually slightly adorable. In a very manly rock-‘n’-roll way, naturally.
Sure, there were the typical Bono theatrics. Taking place over seven shows in South America, it was über-activism focused, with Bono “detonating” his mike stand, wearing his Coexist headband (at one point as a blindfold), and a united crowd (cell-phone lights ablazing) rocking out with an almost revolutionary fervor.
“Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own” was breathtaking. How many grown men write love songs about their fathers? There was a chilling moment (whether you think it’s a moment of staged cheese, I don’t care) when Bono reached out for a hug, clinging to the empty air as if it were his dad. It almost brought me to tears.
If I lived my day-to-day life with one-tenth the passion and conviction those men channel into a single song, things would be significantly different. Probably in a good way.
'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....
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.
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.
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.
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