I was walking down King Street with my mom. I was in a sundress, on my way to be charmed by the von Trapp family, and in a very good mood. A stranger, not watching where he was going, ran into me.
GUY: Sorry. I love you.
I smiled. And kept walking. And when he was out of earshot, I told him I loved him, too. Just not that way.
This weekend was a wonderful one, filled with laughter and heart-to-hearts and mini-adventures and challenging late-night conversation. Douglas Coupland's exhibit was involved. As was Scrabble. And new friends. And old friends. And YouTube. And lipgloss. And sunshine. And long walks. And streetcar rides. And patios. And plenty of coffee.
And everything kept coming back to love. Not necessarily that of the romantic variety (although it certainly came up), but love nevertheless. Friendships and why they grow stagnant. Needy individuals and why we're scared to invest in them. Failure to trust God with life and love and every tiny desire of the heart.
"Love takes the initiative." Church was so good today. So aligned with everything in my heart and head right now. The importance of the pursuit of God above every other pursuit. Stepping away from the bubble of self and choosing to actively love the outsider. Over lunch with my mom and two new friends, I saw the teaching come to life. It's not about me. That's not why I'm here, to just sit around and think about what I want and need and don't have.
I've always loved the story of Ruth. But now I think I love the woman Ruth too.
(If you've got 50 minutes to spare, listen to "The Odd Couple." All thumbs up. Not that I critique my Sunday mornings. For discerning sci-fi fans, Bruxy may have opened with, "On the eighth day, God created Battlestar Galactica.")
I'm not exactly bored, but I'm certainly distracted. I blame this on a lack of sleep. And on an eight-day social binge that has left me both financially wounded and girl-talked out. I miss my couch. And yet I feel as though I may have to retrain myself to live alone. It's suddenly odd that my living room isn't taken over by an air mattress.
Essentially, I feel like I've been living inside of a run-on sentence. This is that sentence:
My delightful cousin Grace arrived at my doorstep on Sunday and we went for a long walk to and from Lick's before staying up way too late chatting about life, which was probably not the best preparation for a nine-hour workday the next day that left me exhausted and not at all in the mood to pack for three days in Stratford, where I ate too much and got my annual fix of theatrical inspiration (while my cousins - yep, Martha showed up too - hung out my place in Toronto), and concluded with a text from another friend notifying me of Michael Jackson's death and asking to crash at my place on Sunday, an exciting request I couldn't refuse even though my Saturday was booked with all-day plans of concerts-at-Wonderland greatness that ended with a short collapse onto my bed after midnight only to be followed by a morning of church and lunch with friends before exploring the city and shopping for hats and old-school Our Lady Peace with friend-from-Vancouver Beth, who also happens to enjoy sweet-potato fries and chocolate cake as much as I do.
And now I'm going through withdrawal.
Highlights:
It's so much fun to be frends with your family. I highly recommend it. (And I also love it when age gaps disappear and everyone's just straight-up cool.)
I have a growing book and music list. I like recommendations. The filtering work is done for me.
On Friday, Grace and I had a YouTube party that happened to include Audio Adrenaline's Never Gonna Be As Big As Jesus. We laughed. And then we heard it played live the next day. Sometimes I love life.
I'm pretty sure my twin lives in Vancouver. We have the same hat.
I saw "that actor." On stage. He doesn't hang out in bars on Tuesdays like I do. Whew.
I wore a necklace from North Africa today. It was fabulous. It made up for the earring I lost this week.
I ate at a restaurant once frequented by Kevin Spacey. And discovered I like cornish hens, chickpea frites, goat cheese tarts and Pinot Grigio. Almost as much as I love garlic fries after midnight.
I don't have much money. And don't particularly aim to spend all of it. But once you start to splurge, it's tough to rein it in.
Ever hang out a merch table only to realize that the guy selling the T-shirts is the son of your old Sunday School teacher? My life is amazing.
I have had the same song stuck in my head all week. I blame Grace. But because she first heard the song at my place, I suppose it's my fault. So I blame myself.
I bought an assortment of dark chocolates in Stratford. Rheo Thompson. Practically legendary. But with exhaustion comes lack of self-control. And it is all gone. I'm sure an object lesson can be found in this.
Apparently I need a new wingman. I like friends who are super-curious on my behalf. Competitively so.
When I'm famous, I will endorse Neutrogena sunscreen. I'm still sunburn free.
I'm taking next weekend off from all social insanity. So if you need me, you'll find me in sweats. Lazing around. Maybe finally writing. And not eating Stratford chocolate. Sigh.
I really like happy people. Laughter has been in abundance this week. So addictive.
I'm spending the next few days in my favorite town in the whole entire world. This is no exaggeration. I love Stratford in a way that should probably be reserved for my firstborn. But since my firstborn isn't here to complain, I shall yammer away....
I'm celebrating my 6th anniversary of Stratford summers with my friend Jen. Our trips are those of legend, filled with crazy adventures that always involve garlic fries, actors, cheap accommodations and dreams of theatrical greatness. And maybe pints of ice cream on park benches at 2 in the morning. I can assure you that I will return with the determination to be a playwright/actor. I'm more than okay with that.
But something's different this year. Shakespeare's missing. Unless you count West Side Story, which I don't. Sure, you've got a plot ripped from the bard, but the language just isn't there.
The itinerary:
Cyrano de Bergerac
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
The Importance of Being Earnest
Bartholomew Fair (You have no idea how exciting it will be to see Jonathan Goad on stage again. You also have no idea who Jonathan Goad is. Sorry.)
West Side Story
I'm so excited. Cue the Pointer Sisters.
I'm also crossing my fingers that I don't run into a certain once-upon-a-coffee-date actor. Because I don't do well with awkwardness. And there will be plenty of it. And contrary to a tongue-in-cheek suggestion, no one will throw a Shirley Temple in anyone's face. Although it would be a fun story....
I'm too charming. That's my problem. My ONLY problem.
When I was quite young, in the first or second grade, I often went home for lunch. But on those days when I chose to stay at school, my mom would put a little note in my lunch bag. It would tell me that she loved me. And so did Jesus. And sometimes a fun sticker accompanied said encouragement.
In university, I worked this little anecdote into a monologue. My prof, an award-winning playwright who shall remain nameless, was quite moved by this. A mother of five, she wished she had done the same. Probably without the Jesus part.
A year or so later, I attended her newest play in Toronto. The lead actress stood on the open stage and told a story about her mother leaving notes in her lunchbox, reminding her that God loved her.
My brother told me to sue. Instead, I chose to be flattered. And greatly amused.
There's a father who takes personalized lunches up a notch or two. He designs a new lunch bag for his kids EVERY DAY. And they're amazing.
P.S. I miss my Pound Puppies lunchbox. The one with the gimp strand tied to the handle.
Whatever happened to my Whatever happened to my Whatever happened to my lunchbox? When came the day that it got thrown away And don't you think I should have had some say in that decision?
I was standing in line at the Alumni Theatre last night when I heard the girl behind me start bragging about her boyfriend's job in Stratford. She was clearly an actress-wannabe, flighty and melodramatic, very aware that everyone around her was listening in. Her speech patterns weren't natural. She was reciting the brilliant speech she'd so often practiced in her head. I've been there. I've performed instead of conversed. It's embarrassing, but it's part of growing up in dreamland.
It would have been easy to just let her be, excusing her ditsy hair-flipping as she waxed poetic about her amazing man. But I couldn't. Because she didn't know what she was talking about.
"I mean, it's not that bad. Actually, it's awesome, hanging out with Graham and Jonathan Goad."
Graham Abbey hasn't been in Stratford for a couple of years now. Anyone with Google knows this. As does anyone who actually hangs out in Stratford. Or who watches TV. And both he and Goad recently married their former Stratford costars. They don't hang out with shallow young women. I know this much is true.
Her Stratford bragging is straight out of the summer of 2003, back when the two mentioned men were the theatre's headlining heartthrobs. A prof of mine once told me that Graham was the one parents wanted their daughters to date, while Jonathan was the one daughters actually wanted to date. I begged to differ. But I go against the grain.
I understand the appeal of the name-drop. And I also understand the thrill of sounding important and theatre-savvy. But this young actress needs to learn to use a search engine before she starts to gush about her fantasy life. And for the sake of her boyfriend, maybe she should lay off the handsome-actor references. She should be excited that HE is in Stratford. And that Shakespeare is forever awesome.
Confession: On weekends when I have no social engagements lined up that require me to look presentable, I channel my inner super-low-maintenance gal and end up dressing like the "before" women on What Not to Wear. Or like my brothers.
Exhibit A: Today, I was wearing old red sweatpants that are too short and too wide, paired with a ratty Nike tee that has a hole in the back. Nathan, thanks for your castaways. (And no, he didn't give me a T-shirt with a hole in it. I did that myself. Somehow.)
Exhibit B: When I needed to head out into the cold (at least there was sunshine), I swapped out the sweats for jeans and threw on an oversized hoodie once belonging to Joel. Because it's warm and awesome.
No makeup, no hair-brushing (ponytails are wondrous things), no jewelry. Backpack instead of a purse. It's freeing, just letting go. But not every day. That would be depressing.
Tomorrow I will be pretty. And hang out with 3-to-5-year-olds at church. I'm sure they appreciate my eyeshadow and ensemble coordination.
Dance Like It's 1963
Doesn't actress Ashley Leggat* look so much like Baby? We had a different Johnny. A better one.
Dirty Dancing was fantastic. It was the movie come to life, with the most adorably impressive Baby convincing me that I'm missing out by not spending time on the stage anymore. Oh, and Johnny Castle. All the girls swooned. Because he was channeling Patrick Swayze. Which is weird; I don't generally spend much time swooning over the actor. At all.
Awkward comment of the night: "Too bad Patrick Swayze's gonna die soon."
If you don't like the movie, you won't like the stage show. There were word-for-word, move-for-move nostalgic hugs on that stage. And they were counting on the audience being cult fans. "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" received cheers and wild applause. I may have been part of such rowdiness.
The set design is what won me over. It was simple and effortless and still a little dazzling. And the costumes made me happy. I think I have new fashion muses. Yep, I'm going good girl circa 1963.
I want to dance.
*Ashely Leggat was in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. Back when she was blond. So was Megan Fox (Transformers). And Alison Pill (Milk). It seems that Lindsay Lohan walks away from that one with the least promising career. Funny how life works.
Roll Up What Rim?
Caffeine-free update: It's my fourth day without a coffee or Diet Coke. And I have exhibited zero signs of withdrawal. I am super-relieved to know that my appreciation for said drinks is not linked to an addiction. Jitter- and headache-free.
I Am Woman
I've been both lazy and motivated in my writing life lately. I'm afraid I've mastered this uncomfortable balance. For those of you who want to cyber-stalk my writing elsewhere, I'm now a columnist over at Woman.ca.
And thank you, dearest Dad, for coming up with my column's name: Pop Goes the Culture. I'll mention you in the acknowledgments of my first novel. And then I'll thank you at the Oscars. And when I'm super-rich, I'll buy you something ridiculously cool. Like a pottery wheel.
Shampoo in a Box
I received a box of shampoo in the mail this week. A box of bottles of shampoo, to be more specific. Because I'm such a trendsetter/icon in the blogosphere, I'm going to be testing the entire new Herbal Essences Hydralicious collection and giving my feedback. If you live near me and want free shampoo, I have coupons! Let's all have sexy hair, folks.
Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy
You've probably seen this. It's everywhere. But I'm posting this in case you haven't. Best Conan interview ever. The greatest comedy is based in truth.
P.S. If you're ever asked to choose between Leno and Letterman, the correct answer is ALWAYS Conan. Even once Fallon enters the ring.
I'm passing the bar, on my way back from the washroom, when I notice him smiling at me. So I smile back. And keep walking.
I return to my little tucked-away booth where I resume the random conversations between two friends who don't see each other nearly enough. Hours later, after a heart-to-heart accompanied with massive water (and minimal white-wine) consumption, I head back to the washroom. Which I swear was renovated since last year's excursion. My friend disagrees. Yes, these are the important matters worth debating.
While I'm away, he approaches my friend. He asks her if I'm single. She doesn't lie. He tells her he thinks I'm cute. And then he walks away.
I'm not long in the ladies' room (no need to freshen up when you're not trying to impress anyone), but when I return, he's gone. He doesn't quite understand the bathroom strategy. Essentially, you want to intercept someone returning from the washroom. You don't actually miss them and use the facilities yourself. The strategy has served me well in Stratford. But that's another blog entry.
Back at our table, my friend tells me everything. Because that's what friends do. It's surprisingly exciting. Mostly because such attention is a rare thing. And it's nice to feel like a woman sometimes. I mean, I WAS wearing a dress. It's lovely to be noticed.
I'm not facing the bar, but she is. She tells me when he's back.
Secret of the day: I don't know how to play the game. I don't flirt. I send mixed messages, not "come hither" ones. I don't know if I should wait three days for a call, or if you not responding to an email means something or not. And you telling my friend that you think I'm cute is not enough. If you want to talk to me, TALK TO ME. Because I'm a clueless mess.
He doesn't come over.
A few minutes later (and long after last call), we get up. We slowly walk past where he's standing. I smile at him again, this time self-conscious and slightly awkward. He smiles back.
I half expect a Hollywood ending, with him running after me as I step into the cool air. The town is asleep, the traffic lights flashing. Very Notebook-like. We could lie in the intersection and talk about painting. But I don't paint.
He doesn't follow me.
The next night, I'm watching the closing performance of All's Well That Ends Well. He's there. Pacing on the open stage.
He can perform for thousands, but cannot approach the cute stranger. Oddly, I understand, but wish he had the guts to say hello. Because it would have made a more interesting story. And because Stratford is the only town where these things happen. Now I must wait an entire year before another evening of garlic fries and handsome actors who don't speak to me.
I just finished eating the most decadent chocolates from Rheo Thompson. I can't come up with an appropriate description of the creamy, semi-sweet richness. You know those Aero commercials with women moaning ridiculously over vending-machine chocolate? Yeah, well, if the ads were about the few morsels I just ate, they would be about a very real slice-of-life moment. Just one bite makes me speak in iambic pentameter: "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
I spent the weekend in Stratford. Three plays in two days. I've gone every summer for the past five years now. And every summer it's the same: I go with my dear friend whom I met in Stratford when we were students of Shakespeare. We eat garlic fries. We stay at our favorite bar until last call. We shop for chocolate.
We've established a tradition that will have us returning annually until we're little old ladies, sitting on Balzac's patio, sipping lattes and discussing the new crop of talent's interpretations of Shakespeare.
As we were leaving today, we saw a super-slender women in a tailored dress walking past the shops wearing the most extravagant hat. It had some sort of ornamental flourish. Either flowers or feathers. It was hard to tell from where we were. She had this classy French air about her. This year, I wore dresses in Stratford. Perhaps I'll wear hats next year. I need to embrace a little more Europe in my personal style.
French Women Don't Get Fat is being adapted into a film. Yes, it's a diet book. Or lifestyle tome, if you want to be specific. There is no plot. But because I admire looking at croissants and stylish French women, I won't completely write off the Hilary Swank vehicle just yet. Mean Girls was based on a work of non-fiction. And it was brilliant. Head on over to MovieZen for more.
I doubt they have a Marble Slab in France. If they did, French women would get fat. And get happy. Double dark chocolate, peanut butter, cherries. In a Butterfinger waffle cone. I would do the Parisian wine-and-cheese thing as long as there was room for homemade ice cream.
P.S. Audrey Tatou is my favorite French woman. She is welcome to go hat-shopping with me in Stratford next summer.
I saw Christopher Plummer. He did not sing "Edelweiss."
There was something so light about his performance, so effortless and generous and soft. And yet, he was so strong and energetic and commanding. Essentially, he stood on an open stage and proved that he was more than deserving of any hype surrounding his name. That any diva or perfectionist reputation was justifiable. That women sigh because he's still all passion and presence. He won everyone over. Best Caesar ever.
He first stood on the Stratford stage at the age of 26. At 78, the standing ovation was only for him. That's how I want to grow old: pursuing the things that inspire me, with no intentions of just sitting back and fading away.
"I love my work," he says, nodding. "I'm not going to do anything stupid like retire. I promise you that. I'm going to drop dead on the stage."
My prediction is that the show will end up in New York. Because the leads were brilliant, the pacing was melodic, and the jokes played perfectly. Apparently Caesar* is a funny guy. Who knew?
*Caesar from Shaw's Caesar and Cleopatra. This was not Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Nor was it Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. The world of theater can be confusing.
I have a crush on Shakespeare. And I love Jesus. So you'd think Hamlet 2 would be right up my alley, no? I mean, it's the Bard meets Sexy Jesus...
Uh, yeah.
I have lived the high-school-drama-class experience that deserves both your mockery and pity. As I'm sure I will blog one day soon, my years with a possibly-inebriated and certainly insane drama teacher provide rather fertile ground for angsty storytelling. So the idea of a teacher, after failing in his stage adaptation of Erin Brockovich, writing the sequel to Hamlet to save the drama program is perfectly feasible. Believe me.
(And if you haven't read Hamlet, just know that a sequel is pretty much not possible. At all. Now go read Hamlet. Seriously, why haven't you? You're making Kenneth Branagh cry.)
Enter a time machine. Hamlet meets Jesus. Again, if you think this doesn't make sense, clearly you've never been to high school.
And as a Christian, I can take a hit or two. I won't boycott the movie. But I'd rather you take the jab at me, not at Jesus. Just like Saved. There was a lot of truth in that film. Uncomfortable truth. And like most comedies of this genre, I know that it will make fun of everyone. Not that this lessens the blow for some; but it does spread it out. (Hey, I know folks who didn't like The Passion's Jesus. And Jesus Christ Superstar was once scandalous. You can't win.)
Back to Shakespeare (perhaps the ultimate dead boyfriend).
Joel and I were talking about Romeo and Juliet the other day. About how we'd like to see a teenybopper adaptation that's all pink, happy, mildly woe-is-me and Amanda Bynes-ish and then-- BAM! It ends the way Shakespeare intended. Why haven't we seen this yet? I'm sick of "star-crossed lovers" that don't have their stars crossed.
I want to be Idina Menzel. Not because she's married to Taye Diggs. But because she was Elphaba, the woman who would be the Wicked Witch of the West. And in case you have forgotten, I consider Wicked to be a perfect slice of Broadway genius. I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat. Especially the above song. And it still makes me feel like a 9-year-old. In a really good way.
And now there are rumors, not surprisingly, of a film adaptation. Because everything gets adapted. You'll probably see On Her Toes hitting cinemas in the next decade.
I'm a little torn about the idea. I'm all up for spreading the "Defying Gravity" love, but I don't want studio execs screwing it up, casting Miley Cyrus et al to appeal to a younger crowd. Check out my MovieZen post for my thoughts.
P.S. Do you not absolutely adore Kristin Chenoweth? She completely deserved her Emmy nomination for Pushing Daisies.
P.P.S. I miss acting. And tonight, I'm almost craving the stage.
Last weekend, I saw a play. I love live theater. It inspires and energizes me. But the thing I walked away with most wasn't from the show itself; rather, I was completely amused by a poster on display in the theater's lobby. My comment on it even made it to a friend's Facebook wall:
"I guess you don't age if you never move your face." -- Nadine Bells on Keanu Reeves
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