Say Yes to the Dress

I've had this conversation with two people now. So I might as well extend it to the blogosphere. It's about contentment. And settling. And tulle.

There's a recent phenomenon in wedding-gown shopping in which a bride ends up buying multiple dresses. She tries on a beautiful dress, thinks it's the one, and buys it. But then she finds another dress, the one she knows is the one. So then she's stuck trying to sell the first one. She suffers a financial loss, but it's worth it because she gets to walk down the aisle in sartorial perfection.

Some brides buy three or four gowns before the big day. Bridal consultants rejoice.

Such a shopping trend makes me uncomfortable.

Firstly, if you're not sure in the first place, why are you buying? Why are you settling? Why are you spending thousands on one deemed not good enough? Is it the panic that there just might not be anything better out there? Are you purchasing out of fear? Desperation?

Secondly, why are you still looking? If you think you've found the one, made the down payment, started the alteration process, what on earth are you doing trying on other dresses? And does this thought pattern carry over into other areas of your life? Will you keep looking at men after you've committed to the one you think is "the one"? Can you be content with your choice, even though it won't necessarily line up with the picture of magical perfection that floats in your head?

I will not settle. I will choose wisely. And then I will stand by my decision. This applies both to the dress I'll buy one day and to the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I'll be picky before I buy, not after.

P.S. I should be a wedding planner. And/or premarital counselor.

You've Got Mail

A few evenings ago, as I was typing away (a habit of mine), I noticed that a new message was awaiting me in Gmail. And then another. So exciting.

Unfortunately, when I ventured over to my email account, the anticipation of a friendly hello or witty commentary came to a pathetic halt. My inbox was merely filling up with emails I had CCed myself on, sent from another account.

I email myself. So sad. So very sad. And then I forget about it. Also sad.

But the CCing was me being efficient and productive and professional. It's a lose-lose-win.

My memoirs are going to be fascinating. [Insert momentary sarcasm.]

Team Betty

Archie and Betty were made for each other. Or at least I thought they were. Maybe Archie doesn't deserve her. The jerk.

Betty, I weep with you.

Issue #600 is not going to be a pretty one.

But whether you're in Betty or Veronica's corner – and let's face it, most of us have a gut response – Archie's choice of life-partner urges us to look inward. What does the couple we root for say about us?

Perhaps more than we realize, relationships expert Marion Goertz says.

“People who vote for Veronica-Archie are the idealists, the people who say, ‘I'm voting for the glitz, the glamour, the high energy, the sexiness, the ideal [and] they might not even care so much that it'll only last five years,'” says the Toronto-based registered family, marriage and sex therapist.

Those who yearn to see Archie and Betty get hitched take a more realistic, traditional view, she says. They're more grounded, are thinking long term and have more of a sense of “for always and forever.”

source: Globe and Mail

Yep. I'm grounded and thinking long-term. I'm traditional. I'm Betty.

After playing games with their hearts for 67 YEARS, he ditches the heart of gold for the vixen. My money's on a broken engagement.

Betty, get yourself a real man. Don't let Archie Andrews come crawling back.

Okay, I'm done now. And determined to never date a fictional redhead.

A Disney Love Life: Cinderella + Aladdin

Last night. Dinner party with the girls. There were six of us. Three of whom I didn't know. I was the youngest. The oldest was 61. All of us single. It didn't take long before we were swapping hilariously awkward tales of infatuation, biological clocks and "platonic" male roommates.

As I finished off the crackers and triple-cream cheese, I dropped a bombshell. I believe in blurting out shocking statements when among strangers.

"Unemployment is not a deal-breaker."

Yep, I said it. And I almost meant it.

One of the women had been ranting about how both artsy men and "church men" seem to lack career ambition. That musicians and Christians rank among the worst husband material as they can't provide stability or security. So according to her, I have disastrous taste in men. At least there's no competition. (I'm still confused by that conversation. Some of the most ambitious men I've ever met happen to fit both categories. But I guess we travel in different circles.)

I'm not scared of poverty. And as I make decisions about my own career and future, I try to prioritize creative fulfillment over security. Passion over fear. Not that I'm being irresponsible with my finances, but I'm not going to approach my life from a "but will I retire comfortably?" perspective. So why would I expect that of someone else? Why would I shift from trusting God to provide to expecting a man to provide? I'm pretty sure God can provide for two. I don't need a superhero. Or a knight. Just a partner in crime.

Maybe it's because once upon a time, in a land not that far away, I had a crush on Aladdin, not Prince Charming.

Disney's Prince Charming was rich, reserved and without personality. He was handsome but rarely spoke. There was no banter, no spark, no charm (ironic, no?). He didn't even pursue Cinderella at midnight; he sent someone else to run after her. He merely turned a lovely girl into a lovely princess. Sure, I wanted to be Cinderella, but I wanted to be the poor version of her: the gal in a brown dress with the ribbon in her hair. I wanted to sing while scrubbing floors. I wanted to wear a dress made by mice. The poufy ballgown? The lifeless waltz with royalty? Um, pass.

And any guy who'd marry someone for her shoe size has issues.

But Aladdin was different. He was passionate about life. He had a pet monkey. He was a complicated mix of trustworthy soul and wanted criminal. He had wits, street smarts, agility, fearlessness. He shared his loot with the even-less-fortunate. (Sure, he struggled with pride and insecurity, that need to prove himself worthy, even though Jasmine was smitten with him regardless of status or title. Sigh.) He didn't need to be a prince; love and the adventure of survival was enough.

I may not be swooning over the guys who sleep all day and play Guitar Hero in their parents' basements all night, but I also don't want to be lumped in with the generation of girls who still count on Prince Charming to heroically rescue them from every financial concern and non-glamorous circumstance. I'd rather tackle life together. Living-room picnics over four-star restaurants any day.

Smell You Later

I went for a run outside today. This was not the plan. Fortunately, the weather was gorgeous and totally suited for a jog around the neighbourhood. If it hadn't been, I would have had to forfeit my 5k training for the sake of my lovely nose.

It was supposed to be an afternoon of intervals on the treadmill. But when Julia and I got to the gym, the cardio machines were full. So we signed up for the next time slot and headed to the mats to stretch and do ab work. And then lifted weights. When it came time to run, he got in the way.

"He" is a man who does not wash his gym clothes. Ever. He was running, in slip-on loafers, on Treadmill 1. I was signed up to run beside him on Treadmill 2. But I couldn't do it. In fact, I had a hard time doing bicep curls a good ten feet behind him because of the stench. And it kept spreading, wafting through the poorly ventilated space. I couldn't get away from the rotten odor of what I consider to be decades of layered perspiration.

I ran beside him once. I wasn't sure if I was going to throw up or pass out, but I was quite certain that I wouldn't survive my 20 minutes. My iPod doesn't have a smell filter.

So today we went outside. Where I could breathe. And made plans for both outdoor training and early-morning runs. And fantasized about doing a stranger's laundry.

He needs a buddy to teach him the ways of the gym. And of life. And I need to carefully map out a treadmill schedule that doesn't overlap with his.

There was a study recently about women and men and perspiration. Apparently, as a woman, I'm capable of discerning between workout sweat and he-likes-me sweat. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. I'm also pretty sure that if a guy wants to impress, he dons a clean T-shirt at least once a week. With him, I'd settle for once a month.

Objectionable Content

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

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

The most recent U2 review:

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

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

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

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

Stand By Your Man

Okay, okay, I'll cave. (As in Batcave.) I'll chat about Mr. Bale.

But first, let's get a non-maniacal image in our heads, shall we?

This is the face of someone about to begin major damage control.

I heart Laurie.

Christian Bale swears a lot in a loud voice and everyone looks at me. As if it's shocking that I would spend so much quality time with such a volatile personality. Or as if I might crumble upon hearing the news of his non-warm-and-fuzziness. (This is where your mom explains the difference between being a fan and actually having a relationship with someone.)

My heart is not broken over Christian Bale's rant. I'm not going to suddenly boycott his movies or burn my VHS of Swing Kids (the horror). Honestly, I'm really not shocked by it. At all. News broke of this verbal assault when it happened LAST YEAR (around the same time as his infamous family blowup). And he has long had a bit of a perfectionist-on-the-verge-of-a-tantrum reputation. So much so that they called him Tandy on the set of Metroland. Yes, before he was Batman. Or even the American Psycho.

Yes, folks, I do my research.

ASIDE: It's beat-up-famous-people week. Now people are questioning whether Michael Phelps should compete in 2012. What?! I don't have crazy medical/marijuana knowledge, but I'm pretty sure that it leaves your system after four years. I think it's time America took its chill pills.

Jerry Maguire says we live in a cynical world. I believe him. But I recently realized that I'm also very generous with giving people the benefit of the doubt. And that my cynicism is often just me taking the easy way out. If I'm hurt, it's so easy to write someone off as a jerk, even though he/she had no cruel intentions whatsoever. It's a defense mechanism. So I don't have to deal with the me side of the equation.

Who am I to sit down and assess whether a stranger's behaviour is justified? The "journalism" covering this is ridiculous. Both sides.

I'm not going to defend Bale's moment of rage. But I'm not going to define him by it either. More than anything, I'm creeped out that the tape was leaked in the first place. Not cool.

Let's just remember that Bale and Kermit the Frog have much in common. That he was a Newsie. That he has the cutest daughter ever. That he's brilliant at his craft. And that he's JUST A MAN.

I'm on Team Bale. Because everyone needs someone on their team, even when they're in the wrong. Maybe especially when they're in the wrong.

P.S. I still love Mel Gibson post-drunken tirade. I forgive all.
P.P.S. If you want to be really scared of Bale, watch Harsh Times. I had to turn away.
P.P.P.S No, I'm not going to link to the rant. You can Google it if you can't stand being the one person on the planet who hasn't heard it. I recommend listening to a remix of it. Or the one with Bill O'Reilly. But not if you're under 14. Kids, just say no to profanity. Keep those ears lovely.

An Open Letter to Jessica Alba

Dear Jessica,

I have an apology to make. For years now, I have made the rather harsh statement that I despise films starring Jessicas. Alba, Simpson and Biel are all surnames that keep me away from my local cinema. I'm not completely recounting this, but I do acknowledge that my wording has been, at times, inappropriately cruel. For this, I am sorry. I would never say this to your face, so saying it in your absence is not acceptable. You are cast in movies and I am not. Maybe I'm envious. 

While I still cannot bring myself praise your acting abilities, I will applaud your decision to cut your hair.

Jessica Alba, the new length looks lovely. And I want your scarf.

Have a wonderful weekend with your family. And, as your new friend, I'm begging you: Please stop wearing bikinis in your movies and then bemoaning your sex-kitten status. And never make another movie with Dane Cook or Mike Myers. Ever. Just sayin'. Girlfriends should have each other's backs.

Never Been Kissed was a good movie. You were in it. If you string those two things together, maybe you'll come up with a compliment.

Taking your photo to my hair stylist,

Nadine

My Most Fascinating People

This evening, Barbara Walters unveils her "Most Fascinating People" on prime-time television. Nine of the ten names have already been released. Just for me to scoff at, naturally. Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against these people as people. Just as fascinating people. So I've rewritten her list. Just a little.

I decided not to go crazy and start listing foreigners or scientists or anyone with a name that's hard to pronounce. I wanted to keep the list as appealing to the MiniVan Majority* as possible. I just wanted to prove that it could still be slightly relevant even when adjusted to satisfy the lowest common denominator.

It is for this reason that Usain Bolt is not on the list. I wanted him there, but knew that the Americans were too focused on swimming this summer to notice him.

Nadine's Most Fascinating People
(When Channeling Barbara Walters)
Maybe I'll come up with a real list later. One I completely believe in.

It's expected that her #1 will be Barack Obama. I won't argue here. Fascinating, sure. For this year, anyway.

Others I'll leave on the list:

Palin, love her or hate her, was fascinating. No doubt about it. Fey, my career crush, was just a superstar in every possible way. And Phelps was everyone's fake boyfriend for the summer. I still want to bottle his scream of elation. So safe choices, but totally acceptable.

The swaps:

Rush Limbaugh? Really? I'd say the greatest political commentary of the year came from the Indecision '08 team. Hands down. I'd vote for Stewart/Colbert.

The pregnant man? I swear Walters is just the old white version of Oprah. Call my cynical and cold, but I don't consider a man who was born with a uterus to be super-compelling. Show me a family raising twins and sextuplets, and I'm riveted. Both had artifical insemination. But it's Jon & Kate Plus 8 who I'd want to spend Thanksgiving dinner with.

Um, Frank Langella? Barbara is jumping the gun, assuming that he's finally going to get some sort of Oscar recognition for his work in the yet-to-be-released Frost/Nixon. I'd say the Oscar story should go to Heath Ledger. Performance of the year and tragedy of the year rolled into one.

Miley Cyrus is not fascinating. She's rich. And inexplicably popular. But if you're going to feature someone representing the teenybopper set, go with the High School Musical 3 clan for their record-breaking year. Or the Jonas Brothers who just scored a Grammy nod. Or even better, pick Robert Pattinson, the Twilight star who immediately rose to ridiculous fame in recent months. And yes, he's from the UK. But American-girl friendly.

Tom Cruise? Will Smith? I quit life.

Tom is crazy. Crazy isn't fascinating, it's crazy. Suri, however, has rather phemonenal style for a toddler and would better represent the Cruise family on this list. If not her, why not John Hamm? He's the star of the hour and every bit deserving of any sort of recognition he can get. And instead of Smith, who makes a lot of money by starring in July movies (Look at the big explosion! Watch him run really fast!), what about Robert Downey Jr.? He had the comeback of the year, starring in one of the best movies of the year, and didn't once mention Scientology or market his offspring. Gold stars for Tony Stark.

Okay, I'm done now.

Just to keep things interactive (what a novel idea), who would you have on the list?


*I stole the term "MiniVan Majority" from Lainey. Stealing is the new original.

Australia: No Wrinkles In Time

I have a problem. (Okay, I have many problems. But I can only write about one at a time.) I want to see Australia. Both the actual country and the movie of the same name. I've heard that even the most expensive movie tickets are significantly cheaper than a one-way ticket to Oz, so I think I'll start with Baz Luhrmann and see where I go from there. I'm well aware that some critics are calling the film a sweeping epic, others are calling it a belaboured clunker, and a select few have written it off as strictly painful. And I'm okay with that. I have a high pain tolerance. I just want to check out the panoramic views, period costumes and the wombats. Please let there be wombats.

Here's the problem: I'm afraid that during the film's most intense moments, those brief slivers of excruciating human experience that should rattle me, I won't be able to look Nicole Kidman in the eye. Instead, I'll be distracted, staring at the thinly stretched skin just above her eyebrows. See, I'm obsessed with her forehead.

I happen to find Kidman's Hitchcockian beauty stunning. In theory. But when the cool blondes who came before her (think Grace Kelly) laughed, they threw their heads back slightly and lifted their eyebrows in delight. Foreheads moved. Faces had signs of life. Nicole's face has signs of injectable toxins.

Nicole used to have life in her face. (Watch Dead Calm if you must. Or just take my word for it.) Now she's a vacant porcelain doll that blankly stares at you, tears welling up out of nowhere, without the slightest squint or nose wrinkle, completely unconvincing as a woman who's lived a hard life. Or as a woman who's ever seen the sun. Or as a woman who's ever been in love. From what I know of the opposite sex, men like faces that move. Even if just enough to laugh at their almost-funny jokes.

So the question remains: How do I reconcile my love of Baz Luhrmann and my discomfort with Mrs. Keith Urban's visage? (And how on earth did she nab Urban? Someone, tell me. Oh, how I love his hair. And guitar. Not in that order.) And how do I get past the fact that Wolverine is riding through the outback on horseback?

Aside: How did People Magazine determine that Hugh Jackman is the sexiest man alive? Last time I checked, there were A LOT of men alive. A lot.

This promotional shot is pure perfection. That landscape. That rugged Australian hero. His hand tugging at her hairline, trying to force some expression into the face of the woman he loves. Marvelling at her tight pale skin, her deer-in-the-headlights gaze that tries so desperately to return his affections. Moments after this shot, he whispers tenderly in her ear, "Furrow your brow. Just for me, darling."


Ah, cinematic romance at its best.

Failure to Swoon

I have to get something off my chest. It's something rarely spoken of, but it's about time. Let's be real here, folks, and address the elephant in the room that is Tinseltown.

Richard Gere.

Partying like it's 1999

Who finds Richard Gere swoon-worthy? Anyone? I can't remember ever sighing at the end of one of his movies, my heart aflutter, bemoaning the fact that I had yet to find "My Richard Gere."

Maybe he's too feminine-looking? Too peace-loving? Too "I can't tap-dance but hope Chicago audiences won't notice"? Maybe I just don't want to be kissed by someone who looks constipated every time he wants to express his inner thoughts.

I don't think he'd appreciate a good hike. Unless the end destination was the Dali Lama. Or Julia Roberts. And I'm scared that he would break into an awkward English accent if I dragged him to Stratford with me. (I'm ignoring the fact that he's older than my father, mostly because my knees don't exactly buckle at his early flicks either.)

Sigh. I just don't get it.

I didn't know I had a type until today. My type is "Not Richard Gere."

But I do love Joel McHale. And Nicholas Sparks (when Ryan Gosling's involved).

"This movie is literally making me go through menopause...."

I'll concede and admit he's sort of pretty. And I'm thankful that he hasn't injected poison into his face. But that's as far as I go.

Lancelot is no William Wallace.

P.S. Primal Fear is an amazing movie. Gere is given a free pass to be awesome in that one.

Laundry: A Sad Tale

I had a brilliant idea. I was going to be super-efficient and do laundry while cleaning my apartment so that by the time I started writing later this evening, my place would be sparkling and my to-do list would be significantly shorter.

No one told the dryer about my plans.

The machine ate my money. And didn't start. It let me choose my settings, the light turned on, but the start button was a dud. I pushed. I jiggled. I jostled. I may have prayed over it. I fed it more loonies. Nothing.

My sheets are hanging to dry in the shower. My socks are draped everywhere. My drying rack is overloaded by the weight of two full loads of wet clothing.

And I was so distracted by such a disruption that my casa-cleaning came to a halt halfway through. And the writing was mediocre at best. (Although I was quite smitten with the images of a Napa Valley affair and was temporarily distracted by researching a wine-country wedding at sunset. I have a lovely job.)

The laundromat down the street went out of business last month. My landlord is at the cottage. My decorating style is now "wet-laundry chic."

One day I will build a house. With my dream laundry room. That's all I want. I don't need a walk-in closet or a bathroom with a fireplace. Just laundry, glorious laundry.

Sigh.

I'm putting off going to bed because I don't want to trudge through the mess of damp fabric in my room. Nor do I want to wear wet pajamas.

Time to rewrite a lyric or two. Cue Bob Saget and friends running around San Francisco.

Whatever happened to predictability?
The milkman, the paperboy, evening laundry?

Is it pathetic fallacy when your wardrobe and the weather are in cahoots?

images source

Choose Brandon

I wasn't allowed to watch Beverly Hills, 90210 when I was young. Now I understand why. Because it was stupid.

Sometimes fiction makes me go mad.

Case in point: Kelly Taylor.

One guy gives her an engagement ring.
One guy gives her a trip around the world.
And she doesn't know who to choose.

In reality, a girl knows. I've yet to meet someone who genuinely can't pick between two guys. (I mean, is Luke Perry seriously in the running?)

Of course, in reality, it would also be preferred that the ring and the trip be part of the same package. Much neater.

"I've made my choice and I choose me."

WHAT?!

Girls are dumb.

S-s-s-s-smokin'

I don't smoke. Except when I'm on fire. Which is rare. Because I'm like Mitch Hedberg:

I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

But Matthew Broderick smokes. Which saddens me, as I don't really want to think about Ferris Bueller's lungs looking all sad and black and non-cool. And even worse, he recently revealed that he and his wife, the always fashionably quirky Sarah Jessica Parker, may be raising a little smoker. Stop it, Ferris. Stop it.

I rant a little on this parenting disaster over at MovieZen.

And for those who adore Ferris as much as I do, here's a little tribute. Very Requiem for a Dream.

Scary. Just like smoking.

Beauty Is Overrated

What do the following gentlemen have in common?

Christian Bale
Ryan Gosling
Zachary Levi
Jake Weber
Lee Pace
James McAvoy
Matt Damon
Denzel Washington
Matthew Fox
Casey Affleck
Hugh Laurie
George Newbern
David Krumholtz
Josh Holloway
Joshua Jackson
Jake Gyllenhaal
Henry Ian Cusick

Okay, so I cheated. They all have TWO things in common.

1. They each fall into a "fake boyfriend" or "favorite character" or "will watch anything he's in" category. Yes, at some point in my short little life, I've probably said "I love" before each one of their names.
2. Most shockingly, NOT ONE made it onto People Magazine's "100 Most Beautiful People" list. I'm personally offended. Apparently, I'm not into beauty. And they even expanded the list from 50 to 100.
   

And then there are the gorgeous women. Again, most of my favorites were absent:

No Natalie Portman. No Evengeline Lilly. No Julia Roberts. No Helen Mirren. No Cate Blanchett. No Keri Russell. No Michelle Williams. No Rachel McAdams. No Sandra Bullock.

The list just confused me. I don't understand how the casts of Gossip Girls and The Hills define beauty. Probably because I don't equate "vacant physical attractiveness" with "beautiful." I like substance. Instead of silently fuming over the ridiculousness of arbitrary "pretty" lists, I blogged about it over at MovieZen. So go check it out. Because you love me, whether I'm on some list or not.

P.S. You're all on my list. Blog readers are gorgeous.

O Canada, Our Home and Ill-Dressed Land

Every once in a while, I convince myself that I'm going to get in shape. Of course (perhaps conveniently?), last week I managed to get blisters on the heels and little toes of both feet, considerably delaying my dream of becoming a runner. Or jogger. Or speed-walker. One day I will run a 5k. Or at least walk to work (just short of 10k). I actually enjoy walking everywhere. The trick is to convince my feet and footwear to play nice together. So I did sit-ups while watching American Idol instead.

Watching a professional athlete in his/her element inspires me. I want that discipline. I want that adrenaline. (And to be completely honest, I want that physique.) Which means I find the Olympics quite fascinating and motivational.

Secret of the day: When I was little, I wanted to become a figure skater and then convince Kurt Browning to be my partner. I still can't spin on ice. Or stop. When he fell during his short program in '94, I almost cried. I remember playing a really angry song at the piano that evening....

Today, the Canadian Olympic outfits were revealed. They do not inspire me to any sort of athleticism. In fact, it's the exact opposite. I think I might sit on my couch all weekend just to make sure that I don't become an athlete and accidentally end up at the Olympics, representing my country in red, white and GREEN?!



Remember when Roots designed the Canadian gear? We were the envy of nations. In 1998, the "Canada Poorboy" hat was seen on both Puff Daddy (his name at the time) and Prince Charles. International buyers were just scooping it up. Kids on the schoolyards exaggerated their saunters as they showed off their Olympic wear. Not this year. We will be laughed at. Canadian athletes will be blinded by the dizzying patterns they don. Or just confused as to whether they're in "uniform" or pajamas. The above red-and-white suit would be great loungewear in Miami.

Why? Oh, Hudson's Bay Company, you make striped blankets well. Stick to that.

The Poorboy on Canada's own "poor boy," Ross Rebagliati.
Say no to drugs, kids.

P.S. After staring at these outfits for a while, they're now almost non-nauseating. You know how you smell manure when you first visit a farm but eventually adjust and stop noticing? I'm slowly acclimating to the bizarreness.

source

Monday

"Now, our people know you. Noble and common, they respect you. And if you would just lead them to salads, they'd follow you. And so would I."
~ Nadine, as William Wallace, to Food Basics.

The grocery store was out of green peppers. And red peppers.
The grocery store had lettuce. It was brown.

I picked up a head of wilting iceberg.
I seriously contemplated hurling it across the store.
A fight to the death. Or to better produce.
"Every man dies; not every man really eats fresh veggies."
And then I put it back. With a little more force than was necessary.

Healthy eating is stressful.