You've Got Mail

I took a mail day today. This is similar to the common sick day, however no illness is involved. It is a day in which you stay at home and wait for the mailman. I even did this honestly, calling my workplace late last night and explaining my FedEx dilemma, having already missed the first delivery attempt of the piece of technology that would forever change my life. Oddly, my anguish was understood. And so I spent the majority of my day in my tiny abode, awaiting my Knight in Vehicular Armor.

The doorbell doesn't work at my place. I've lived here for over three years and have only heard it ring once. And when it did, I just stared at the door in amazement, ignoring the poor soul who actually wanted to come in. Because of the lack of chime, people must knock. FedEx men, charming as they are, have not figured this out.

I was typing away by the front window, the blinds up so that I could see strangers coming and going, when I noticed a man with a package stepping off the front porch. I must have been so caught up in the Tuscan-inspired resort wedding I was describing (I'm running out of inspiring nuptial adjectives, folks) that I didn't hear the doorbell that DOESN'T WORK. And there was no knock. He just walked away.

I have no pride when it comes to mailmen. In Vancouver, when the long-awaited Purolator man returned my camera to me, I greeted him in a rather scandalous tank top with wet hair dripping down my back, a hoodie half on (only because I was trying to dress as I ran for the door). So the fact that I was in old slippers and baggy sweatpants did not deter me from running out my door and across the front yard to fetch him. (Yes, I just used the word "fetch." But not in a Mean Girls way. Or in a "You look rather fetching this evening" sort of way either. But I digress.) I was that crazy woman waving her arms and shouting, the one you probably intentionally don't look in the eye when you meet her on the street. The one with the fashion sense of a toddler, the grace and poise of a fourth-grade boy in dance class, and the speech patterns of Tarzan.

But he stopped. He turned. He didn't even ask me my name. He just handed me my future in a box. I thanked him profusely, signed his high-tech thingamabob/freeze ray, and waved goodbye to my hero of the day.

Fast-forward a few hours.

The MacBook sits on my table, partially opened. While it whispers to me, I ignore it. Because as much as I want to play with it, I must resist the temptation to spend the rest of my evening (and into the wee hours of the morning) with a piece of aluminum when I must first fire off invoices created on a clunky PC that deserves a noble retirement. Oddly, now that the laptop's here, the eagerness has settled into simple comfort. There is no rush. We have forever to get to know one another.



Hmm. Maybe this is what it's like to be a boy. To be excited by the chase. To be more concerned with the acquisition than with the relationship. To profess love for something not there, and then to back off a little once it's sitting in the kitchen. Not that girls sit in kitchens.... Oh, wait. No. Never mind. I take back the entire analogy.

Guest Blogger: Jane Austen

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them - by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

~Mr. Bingley, Pride and Prejudice

A Tale of Two Andrews

Andrew Shue and Andrew Keegan are the same person, separated by one generation in the world of heartthrobs.

• They are both Andrew.
• They both have that hair.
• They both exude that vacant-behind-the-eyes broodiness that only blond costars love.
• They both subscribe to the school of cardboard acting. (I was going to call it "wooden," but that's not fair to Keanu, master of such stiffness.)

It all comes down to Melrose Place vs. 7th Heaven.

To be fair, Shue went on to play soccer professionally. Very cool.
And Keegan modeled socks in 10 Things I Hate About You: "So I've got the Sears catalog thing going. And the tube sock gig. That is gonna be huge."

Too close to call, folks. I love to hate 'em both.

How to Have a Good Sunday

1. Go to church.

Today was about all things heaven. I love it when things I've already been mulling over on my own are echoed from the pulpit/stage/screen. And when authors I respect are quoted by other authors I respect, all the while reaffirming things I know to be true.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that much of my dissatisfaction with my earthly experience is a consequence of living in a broken world. To a degree, there will always be desire without fulfillment while I walk the dusty roads of life. Because I was made for something more. The Journey of Desire hit home for me years ago, just as Bruxy's sermon did today.

“We are homesick for Eden. We’re nostalgic for what is implanted in our hearts…We long for what the first man and woman once enjoyed- a perfect and beautiful Earth with free and untainted relationships with God…Every attempt at human progress has been an attempt to overcome what was lost in the Fall.”

- Randy Alcorn

2. Eat lunch.

I met two friends for lunch. The food was great, the service awkward and unspectacular, and the phrase "Oh, swell!" was blurted at the most appropriate time. Ah, dessert. Friends and food go together like Batman and Robin. (Except that no one is going to sue me for my dessert-with-girlfriends habit. Seriously, who would sue Batman?!)

3. Walk by the parade. Do not stop.

It was cold and blustery. So we did not slow down as we walked by the masses awaiting Santa Claus' float. I've decided that when I have children (assuming I do), I'll make a very big deal out of watching the parade on television. I'll even throw candy at them in the living room if it means I don't have to stand out in the snow.

4. Check out some art.



The AGO was free this weekend, as it was the grand reopening after the big Frank Gehry renovation. Honestly, part of my reason for going was just to be able to type that I've been in a Frank Gehry building. My aspirations in life are mind-blowing, are they not? Unfortunately, the showstopping spiral staircase was still under renovation. And I desperately wanted to walk it. But I play by the rules. Always. So I took the less impressive stairs. I navigated its massively impressive-yet-confusing-for-the-directionally-challenged layout with friends (three new ones, two old), a little intimidated by the Monets, Van Goghs, Warhols and Picassos. And the Peter Paul Rubens masterpiece The Massacre of the Innocents. Which was THE BIG DEAL of the gallery. Understandably.


I'm by no means an art connoisseur. But something sort of clicked while starring at all that genius. When you're 12 inches from a Renoir, you almost hear it daring you to do something of significance. To leave a legacy. And to make it beautiful.

J'aime Capucine

I stole this from my friend Andrew's Facebook wall. Because I'm a thief. But at least I admit it. Because I'm not a liar.

When I grow up, I want to be a cute little French girl with amazing hair. I'm not kidding. Watch. And fall in love with Capucine.

A breathtaking story by Capucine. Starring baby monkeys lost in frightening trees, a witch, crocodiles, a tiger, a "popotamus" and a lion, and even a "tremendously very bad mammoth." There are also magic powers and an orange ring, but sometimes, "something goes amiss."

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

"You decided to be dead in heaven." Ahh. I love her.

source

I knew I was tired...

...but not THAT tired.

I should have suspected that I was suffering from some sort of severe exhaustion yesterday when...

• I didn't feel the effects of six caffeinated beverages.
• I went to the grocery store to buy eggs and grapes. My fridge was already stocked with eggs and grapes.
  
• My brain cycled through highly unusual and insanely ridiculous thoughts. ("I hope it's not a date. Why do I assume it is? I'm way too charming. I should look into an arranged marriage....")
• I couldn't focus on anything. At all.
• I ate my way through an entire bag of chocolate macaroons without noticing. Until I felt nauseous.
• I took three hours to write the equivalent of a half hour's work.

I woke up this morning to discover that my light was still on. I passed out at some point during my getting-ready-for-bed routine last night. And didn't move for eight hours.

Today was better. Less caffeine, more productivity. I made $68 more writing at home than I would have had I showed up at the office. And I squeezed in three loads of laundry between projects. (I try to avoid the domestic multitasking when working from home, but I couldn't resist.)

It's raining. I'm not at tonight's Sam Roberts show. (All three shows this weekend are sold out. Not impressed.) But Don Draper made me smile, my sheets are clean, and I have no early morning plans tomorrow. Sleep is so good. I think I should embrace it more often.

And so I shall. Starting...uh, soon.

Once I Go Mac...

...I won't go back. Or so I've heard.


This evening, I ordered the MacBook of my [freelancing] dreams. It won't be long before I'm typing away on the beach. Or in a castle. Or on a mountainside.

Or in a coffee shop. A nice one.

Perhaps I should name it Toby. Because...

Toby Mac, and the Mac is back no slack....

Expect novels to start spewing from my fingertips. At rapid speed. Projectile word vomit.



For those of you who don't get the Toby Mac reference, see below (at 0:55). And pretend it's 1994. Yes, soon I will be THAT cool.



Or I could go with Bernie Mac.
Or Big Mac.
Or Joey (McIntyre).

I should go to bed now.

Oh, wait. MacGyver!!!

YouTube Tuesday: Remembrance Day Edition

Lest we forget.

"A Pittance of Time"


"Letters from War"

[Don't] Call Me

Because girls are confusing.

I’ve never wanted the phone to not ring as much as I do right now. I’m concentrating all of my block-the-airwaves energy toward that annoying piece of metal and plastic on my kitchen table, willing it to remain silent. Lulling it into a coma. I could just turn it off, but then I risk the dreaded voicemail message and subsequent responsibility of returning the phone call. Which I do not want to do.

Maybe I should call someone. Anyone but him. And then he’ll get a busy signal. A hint that I have a life outside of him. That I’m not even thinking of him. Even though, of course, the entire phone-occupying conversation will exist because of him. Because I do not want to hear his voice.

~Nadine, running away, even older journal

Call Me

Once upon a time....

She’s tired. She spends her evenings staring at the ceiling. Part of her wants to sleep. The other part, the part that is winning this battle, just wants him to call. And even though every logical fiber within her knows that he would never call in the middle of the night, she still stares straight ahead, wondering what it will be like when he finally does.

And miles away, he sleeps soundly.

~Nadine, writing in third person, old journal

He Said WHAT?!

He was bound to slip up one day. But no one knew it would happen so soon....

"Come on. Let's go, Leafs."

~ My dad, temporarily forgetting that he cheers for the Habs. Always. Unconditionally. And especially when playing the Leafs. It was pretty much Dad-profanity.

Late-Night Trivial Pursuit Insanity

If you were at my parents' place last night, you may have heard the following:


-I'm going to vomit out of my eyeballs.
-I'd like to see that.


-What do you call a group of kittens?
-Dinner.


"Barbara Hutton and the 21st Amendment should be a movie."


"If five people sign a piece of paper, the largest signature must belong to a blind man."


"Pretend to sit like a normal person."


"I want my hair to be reasonable."


"Three little kittens, they lost their mittens
Eating their curds and whey
Worst poem ever."


Oh, and if Joel were to write a sample blog post on OnHerToes, this is what it would say:

"Did you hear about the thing with the thing? Yeah, me neither."

~Joel.

Kiss a Wookie, Kick a Droid

Um, so this guy's probably my hero of the day. For making me temporarily forget that I washed my hair with ice-cold water in a basement laundry tub at 5:15 this morning.

A Star Wars a cappella tribute to John Williams.

The lyrics are here. Read them. Laugh. Or sing along. Be a nerd. Like me.

I Would Walk 500 Miles

I walked home from work today. After three years at the same office (conveniently located at the corner of pizza and crack), I had not once made the 10.4 km trek home on foot. And this little fact was starting to disturb me.

When I left work this afternoon, I knew today was my chance. It was mild. It was still quasi-daylight. And I was wearing practical shoes.

So I set out. And walked the ugly route. Past the flirtatious homeless men, the drug-dealers mid-deal, the mangy dogs. But even in the bleakness, there were little pockets of children playing, friends laughing, cafés buzzing with activity. I felt like part of my city, both the observer and the insider.

It was refreshing, head-clearing and invigorating. I plowed into a massive tuna salad and started mapping out a productive evening upon returning home. And then things came crashing down.

The hot-water tank burst in the basement. And because of the leaky situation, even the cold water must remain off until mid-morning tomorrow. I happen to leave for work well before mid-morning.

I have no water. None. Apparently I can use the laundry tub in the basement to collect some cold water, as it has a direct hookup. But that's it.

It's odd how paralyzing the lack of tap action can be. I actually don't know what to do with myself. Nor do I have an early-morning strategy. Other than discomfort.

Note to self: Do not go for a long power-walk across a smog-filled city if there is no possibility of a shower in the near future. Oh, and be psychic.

Off to fetch a pail of water....

His & Hers

I was going to post the most ridiculously amazing YouTube party here. But then my head got overwhelmed with things that actually matter. You know, the things of man, the mystery of God, the messiness of life. Home church has been really good for me. Scary, too, as these people I'm now trudging through life with don't really know me. I hear myself processing things aloud, repeating myself for fear that I'm not understood. And in hearing the stories of others, my little problems dissolve. I was instantly humbled just looking one woman in the eye.

It was a little bittersweet to wrap up the His & Hers series at The Meeting House. It was full of painful and enlightening "aha" moments that I will probably have to revisit to process properly. The series was also frustrating, as I'm only one half of every guy-meets-girl relationship I'm in. And none of the other halves with there. I would sit there, silently screaming, "Yes! That's me! Why isn't [some guy I know] here? Why can't I articulate this on my own?" Sigh.

I've also been revisiting some old John Eldredge stuff recently. I'll post again when I'm thinking more clearly. Sometimes the snob in me writes off some of the generalizations in his prose as a defense mechanism. Would I easily admit to you that "Am I lovely?" is one of the key questions I, as a woman, struggle with answering daily? No. But is it? Uh, yeah.

(Seriously though, if little girls in tutus are supposed to end up with bloody William Wallaces, clearly there's some hard work in store.)

But I think I like this thing called diversity. And the idea that abolishing gender roles doesn't necessitate that we ignore gender. I need to be more intentional about learning from the gender I'm not. Because I really do want to live a life that doesn't ghettoize. I don't want to only gravitate toward sameness, whether that's gender, race, socioeconomic status or age. (So I suppose I should befriend a rich old sultan....) Sure, male/female friendships can get complicated. But an absence of them creates another whole series of problems.

Oh, and tonight, I may have accused Jesus of "having a blast" with his resurrection. And I stand by it. I'll explain later.

And I'll share the YouTube awesomeness tomorrow. Probably.

Seacrest out.

P.S. Who wouldn't want to end up with a bloody William Wallace? I mean, minus the face paint, bad accent, historical inaccuracy and missing intestines....

Honest to Blog

Sometimes I forget that this is a blog, not a personal journal. So I'll begin to type something a little too personal. And then I won't post it. Because in the end, self-censorship always wins.

I was skimming through drafts of things not published, and found this. It's not really a post. It's more of a quick email I sent to myself one day over a year ago when I couldn't focus, write coherently, or articulate the chaos in my head.

Do I still remember the context of the melodrama? In the words of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, "You betcha." Will I elaborate? Maybe in my memoir.

I am slowly going crazy. For a different reason than usual. For a rather fun reason, but maddening all the same. And I can't blog about it. So I won't. It's not that I've sworn to secrecy. There is no threat of harm to myself or any other. But I still can't. You would understand if you were me. And if you were me, you'd also be going mad.

And will I ever tell you? Maybe. But don't hold your breath.

Oh, the secrets we keep.

[Insert self-incriminating material]

And later....

I suppose any detective worth his salt could figure out what I'm not blogging about through the things that I am. The art of omission or something. I'm so stupidly open book. Sheesh. I feel like I give myself away too easily. Not enough mystery. I shall try to be more elusive. Maybe I'll start wearing a veil. And get a cigarette holder.

And now that I've planted bizarre clues of nothingness in your brains, you may speculate to your hearts' delights as to what my head is going through. And you will be wrong.

The madness continues. Although in one small moment, my descent into insanity took a strange twist, and I am now pulled in two different directions. Straitjacket or padded walls?

~ October 17th, 2007

No wonder girls are accused of being confusing. I confuse myself.

Welcome to Math

Most ridiculously famous movie star ever + guitar + singing

should = awesomeness + weakened knees

in reality = um.... next year's Halloween costume?

I've been a momma, momma, momma's boy
Since daddy got the electric chair

Longest Election Campaign Ever

I'd vote for Al Gore. Because I think of him every time I turn off the tap. Or sit in the dark rather than waste energy. And when the heating gets out of control in my apartment, I hear him crying.

But I suppose that would require some citizenship-altering/time-machine intervention.... Seriously, what the world needs now is Marty McFly.

According to Natalie Portman, the choice is clear:

See more Natalie Portman videos at Funny or Die

Vote well, my American friends. Vote early, vote often.

I was going to post this video the other day. But Beth did it for me. Because she's the cooler West-coast version of me.

Random Stuff. Mostly Boy-Related.

Lady in Red

According to a new study, I'm totally irresistible to the opposite sex on weekends. And on Fridays. Because when I'm at home, typing away, I wear read sweats. And red = men love me. It's science. I suppose I would have to leave my apartment in my state of redness for this to be more effective. Details, details.

Unfortunately, redness only affects attractiveness. Not likability. So when I'm in red, you might think I'm hot without actually liking me. But really, who doesn't find over-sized red sweatpants sexy?

Can you imagine the damage a little red dress could do? I won't even go there.

[Don't] Kiss Me, I'm Irish

For a brief moment this week, I wanted to dress like Colin Farrell. Maybe it's because we have the same hair. But really, if I were a boy, I would wear fedoras. And vests.

I used to find Colin a little gross. Not so much anymore. Maybe I'm just getting older and learning to appreciate disheveled European men. Or maybe he now showers a little more frequently. Hmm.

"I Don't"

I think about weddings a lot. Because I'm paid to write about them. I don't plan my own nuptials in my head, however, I just admire others'. I'm not really an insert-groom-here kind of gal. The only detail I insist on is that a pretty fantastic guy be waiting to meet me when I walk down the aisle. That's all.

If my future husband reads this (super-weird thought), please don't include the word "psych" in your proposal.

Nadine the Numbat


When I was in public school, every time we played the name game, I had to introduce myself as "Nadine the Numbat." Because I could never think of another N animal. (No, I didn't think of narwhal or nightingale.) This week, I learned that numbats are actually rather cool-looking marsupials that eat termites. So I should have been prouder of the name. I think I'll add "see numbat" to the list of things to do before I die. Right beside "see wombat." Since they're neighbors.

Once Upon a Dream

I had a dream this week that was thematically linked to a dream I had in high school. Sort of. Only this one had a new cast of characters. But it was equally traumatic.

I'm at a café near my house. In the parking lot, actually. And his closest friends are there, rather dapper in tuxedos and suits. Waiting. They start to holler and cheer as a car drives by, decked out in streamers.

He got married today. No one told me.

Exactly nine days after our last date.

Apparently, my dreams have a sense of time. And history. I don't know why I knew it was nine days. But I woke up in a burdened daze. It was so real, so awkward, so confusing.

It's probably a good thing I have no idea what such a dream means. Thankfully, I did not have a date nine days ago. That would just be painful.

(The high-school dream involved a cute boy from youth group marrying Amy from the book Little Women. Instead of me. And no one told me until I accidentally arrived at the ceremony.)

The Duggars

I'm going to have to blog about this family at a later date. I caught the episode of their show 17 Kids and Counting in which their eldest proposed to the girl he wasn't dating. (She didn't want to court until she turned 20. So he proposed on her 20th birthday.) And I surprised myself by my strong reaction. Yes, I think it's totally cool and honorable to not kiss until your wedding day. Drawing names as to which little sibling will chaperon your dinner date is pushing it, though. Constant policing DOES NOT EQUAL SELF-CONTROL. Sheesh. And if you didn't date before you got engaged, and can't spend time alone together after you get engaged, marriage might be a little weird. You know, 'cause all of a sudden you have to hang out with your spouse.

Two Minutes

I'm busy. But I might have time for a two-minute date. See below. And yes, it's in real time. Seriously, How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite sitcom (that isn't The Office. Or 30 Rock).

How to Seduce Women

Yes, that will work.

A Halloween Outsider

In public school, no one knew what to do with me this time of the year.

Halloween is a sticky subject for a lot of Christian families. My parents weren't the sort of sheltering overprotectors who refused to let me exist in the culture around me, but they also were wary of letting me participate in fun little games that seemed to glorify darkness. So on Halloween they often pulled me from school so I could avoid the whole witches-and-ghosts brouhaha. My lunches would still be packed with bite-sized candy. They found ways for me to prance around in costumes. I just escaped a lot of the scary stuff until I was old enough to make my own discerning decisions about trick-or-treating.

Of course, just skipping one day didn't mean that I avoided all things Halloween. Elementary schools thrive on holiday prep, so the week or so approaching the day would be filled with crafts and songs and stories related to black cats and broomsticks. If you had been in my class, you may have not even noticed my clever exits and alternative activities. But I knew I was different. And it was awkward.

Sometimes the teacher would assign me extra work. While the class was laughing and building costumes with Elmer's glue and yarn, I'd be in the library, writing a book report about something non-evil.

Or while the teacher instructed everyone to cut out silhouettes of cats from black construction paper, she would hand me a sheet in brown. "There's nothing wrong with a brown cat, Nadine." My cat was the only one that wasn't bad luck.

Perhaps most uncomfortable was the Halloween assembly in the first grade. My teacher realized that I wouldn't want to participate in my class' Halloween play. Instead of just letting me sit it out (or write yet another book report), I was sent to the special-ed classroom. For a student who ended up spending her entire educational career near or at the top of her class, this was a bit of a blow. But it was probably good for me. What was almost traumatizing, however, was that I had to perform with this small group of students at the assembly. Yes, it was a Halloween song. But my line was changed from "there are witches in the air" to "there are bats in the air." The teacher repeated pointed out that bats are real animals and not necessarily Halloween-specific. Yes, the lazy teacher found a loophole in my Halloween-avoidance request.

So I stood up with a class of emotionally disturbed and developmentally challenged students and sang about bats. There were only six of us. And I'm still not completely sure what the point was. Nor have I made any conclusions as to how I'll address Halloween when I have children of my own. Maybe there's a compromise between the extremes of zombie worship and isolation.

But maybe being set apart is important. Going with the flow wasn't a lesson I needed to learn. And perhaps it's better to be an outsider when you're young. It keeps you thinking for yourself and making decisions apart from the influence of the mindless masses. Maybe my escape from adolescent idiocy can be linked to my Halloweens in the library.

Happy Halloween, all. Save some Smarties for me.

[Dis]belief

Sometimes I have a hard time believing the things people say. I feel like a disillusioned cynic. And I don't like it. But I'm now sure how to remedy this either.

There are some individuals on this planet who could tell me they're related to Kermit the Frog and I would believe them with every fiber of my being. I'd be excited for them. And maybe even brag about their awesome puppet ancestry on their behalf. There are others who could tell me that they had Cheerios for breakfast and I'd walk away mumbling something like, "I bet she doesn't even eat breakfast."

Maybe some people cry wolf too many times. Maybe I've grown weary of the runaround and the partial truth. Or maybe I just have a BS radar.

(BS = bogus stuff. Obviously. Because children might be reading this.)

When I was little (6 or so), I didn't like my best friend's dad. There was no reason for this outside of a child's intuition. BOY and I would be playing in the living room when MAN would walk through the door. In that very instant, I'd become uncomfortable. And I didn't know why.

And then one morning, MAN woke up and told his wife that he no longer loved her. That he wanted to live with her as a roommate, but see other women.

Somehow I knew all along. He creeped me out because he had creep in him. I sniffed out his inner bad guy.

Some time later, my mother told me that BOY frequently cried himself to sleep. That was so foreign to me. I'd never been devastated to the point of being inconsolable.

Tonight, I heard some devastating news. And I didn't believe a word of it. I don't know if I'm honing in on my inner-child radar of innocence, or if I'm channeling my inner bitter old lady who doesn't trust anyone anymore.

Sigh.


FYI: MAN was kicked out. Because his wife didn't want him dating other women. Understandably. Last I heard, he's still with wife #3. But that was years ago.

I have no idea what happened to BOY either. I hope he recovered from his cooties.

Costume Inspiration of the Day: Robin Sparkles

A fictional Canadian '80s pop princess? BRILLIANCE.

Really, would you expect anything less from a show that stars the king of awesomeness himself, Neil Patrick Harris? I didn't think so.

Speaking of NPH....

This song has been in my head all afternoon. A rather spectacular friend called me her hero. And to this I say, "Everyone's a hero in their own way."

("Especially that guy, he smells like poo")

The Bus Stop

I have a bus-stop friend.

We met about three years ago, back when our schedules coordinated and we took the same bus every morning. I don't remember who initiated conversation; considering I often give off an unapproachable vibe, the fact that I collect random public-transit friends is mind-boggling. But somehow, despite the 7 a.m. exhaustion, we connected. In fact, she once told me, after a chance meeting on a sunny Saturday afternoon, that she thought of me as a daughter. Which I found touching and slightly haunting, as she's easily old enough to be my mother, yet has no children of her own. But then she got ill and went on sick leave. And stopped taking the bus. So our hellos became far less frequent. At one point, I was sure she moved away.

But then I'd see her across the street, waving at me. On those rare occasions when we would run into each other, we'd hug each other like long lost family. And we'd talk about career, health, menstrual cycles. Yes, you have no idea. And then we'd go our separate ways, wishing each other days of unmeasurable fantasticness.

I saw her today. She has a new job. One that will have her taking the bus with me every morning.

I don't know her last name.

Meeting Don Draper

My signature dish just came out of the oven. So my little apartment is filled with the perfect aroma of artichoke chicken. I think I need to host a dinner party. Preferably one with an early '60s theme.


I'm usually on top of all things critically acclaimed (in the TV world, anyway). But somehow I missed the initial Mad Men bandwagon. So I'm desperately scampering to catch up.

Last night's SNL won me over. I am officially charmed by Don Draper. See below and you shall understand. Unless you're under 14. Then please go outside and play.



I was watching episodes online this afternoon between invoicing a wedding-etiquette article and figuring out my writing rates when I came to a shocking realization. Remember my slightly insane non-adventure with an actor this summer (the coffee date that resulted in an awkward de-friending/Facebook BLOCKING)? Well, said actor was about the same age as Jon Hamm. I'm not sure how to process this information. Because there's something very "older man" about Hamm. If you told me he was dating a 25-year-old, I'd roll my eyes and dramatically fake-vomit.

I know age is just a number. But a worldly 12-year gap seems a little much. Still, I suppose it's a fun little moment in the history of me. Because I don't get to drop jaws very often.

(And please tell me you saw the Jon Hamm's "John Ham" sketch: "Don't find yourself on the toilet craving high-quality ham slices...." I may have laughed out loud. Yes, the Boy Behind the Wall probably thinks I'm insane.)

Costume party, anyone? Time to make smoking trendy again, folks....

Freelancing Friday Vs. BBTW

I was a writer yesterday. Sure, I've been a writer for a while (the Film Fest introductions happily confirmed this for me), but yesterday I was writing, at home, on a weekday, making money from the written word. And what a beautiful day it was.

I probably have a lot to learn when it comes to productivity, time-management and discipline. I did make myself shower and wear non-pajamas, though. That was a start. And I set mini-goals, most of which were reached. I even made about $10 more than if I were subtitling. So this writing thing might actually be worth it. Once the laptop is part of my life (the Macbook is coming, I promise), I may have to write in coffee shops and libraries instead of in my little abode. Because there's that overwhelming urge to get up and do laundry in the middle of the day. Or watch television. Or do laps in front of the fridge....

It's also hard to distinguish between the workday and the post-workday. How do I walk away and not continue staring at my computer, wasting hours reading blogs and Twittering? And then there are the freelancing issues like invoicing, receipt-collecting and budgeting. Yes, I can write off part of my Internet bill. And the purchase of bridal magazines. The thought of getting organized financially is a little overwhelming.

My writing day did eventually come to an end, and after an evening of laundry and bathtub-scrubbing, I tried to go to bed. But BBTW (Boy Behind the Wall) decided to have a party. At midnight. One that included the blaring of techno music and the shouting of the odd profane phrase. The walls are thin here, and the head of my bed rests against his wall. So I know the details of his life (as I'm sure he knows mine) via auditory experience. Let's just say I am very aware of when he and his girlfriend are getting along marvelously.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't in the mood to be angry at him either. I briefly considered throwing on a cute dress and crashing his shindig. But I am not a party-crasher. At all. Nor do I want to participate in something that too closely resembles fraternity living.

Instead, I lit a candle, turned on some Baroque music, and read the first twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice by lamplight.

Ahh, how I heart Mr. Darcy.

I wonder if BBTW knows that his partying brought out the content old lady in me. Or that his adventures provide the writer next door with plenty of amusing material.

At Least I Was Honest

Another old journal entry, another melodramatic moment in the history of Nadine.

I wish I could redo today. I wish I wasn't in the position to wish. I wish I cared more about the world around me, about the friends who are suffering, dying.

But I don't. Today, I just care about my hair and how it makes my face look fat.

~Nadine. Old Journal. Bad Day.

(I'm not sure what "the position to wish" means. But it sounds intense.)

Writing Under the Influence. Of Exhaustion.

When I was 12 or 13, I tried to write a letter to a friend. I had stayed up the entire night before and was completely distracted and exhausted as I scrawled what I thought were complete sentences across the page. Fortunately I had enough sense to read what I had written before sending it.

My school and church activities have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.

Yes. I wrote that. (The latter half is a segment of a memorized Bible verse.)

I didn't send it. I have no idea who I was writing to, but if you're out there, still awaiting my correspondence, know that I tried. But the words stopped making sense. And I couldn't remedy the situation with anything but sleep.

I did it again tonight. Not in a letter, but in some quickly jotted research notes.

With a hint of Australia.

It should have said "hint of raspberry."

If I ever send you something written in a state of exhaustion, don't get too attached to those words. I may be unintentionally quoting you a movie line or government statistic. Or telling you what I had for dinner when I really mean I love you. Or, more likely, vice versa.

Almost Political

Okay, so I'm not American.
I think Tina Fey should run for office.
And I would probably vote for Pedro.

But because I've been writing about weddings for the last three hours, I'm not really inspired to think up an earth-shattering blog post. So I'll cheat and post the YouTube video that some of my favorite 9-to-5ers introduced me to today.

(The Wes Anderson clip is brilliant. If you love Wes. And I do.)



There was another video making the rounds. Starring a crazy lady who likes McCain's faith in God but not Obama's. But she scares me. I won't share my blog with her.

Linktastic: Young Hollywood Edition

Chuck Nostalgia

Did you watch Chuck last night? If you were following me on Twitter (which you should seriously consider doing), you would know that I was essentially squealing out of nostalgic bliss. Ben Savage! "MmmBop"! Dawson's Creek theme song! The '90s references just made me happy. In the same way that George Michael's "Faith" made me start dancing in my room as I was getting ready for work yesterday.

I suppose I engaged more fully in the pop culture of my day than I realized. Why do I know Backstreet Boy lyrics? Oh, I remember. Because in order to transition from public school to paying the rent, I had to first be a teenager.

I'm 25. Sometimes going on 65. And still....

HSM3

I will watch High School Musical 3. And I will only be slightly apologetic about it. I will follow up the viewing with a glass of wine, some classical music and a French novel. To prove to myself that I'm not 15.

Jonas Brothers

I love this video. Because I might actually be 15 after all. "Modesty is just so hard to find...." Seriously. Where were these boys when I was in high school? (Don't answer "preschool.") A cute boy I was obsessed with accused me of being Amish once. And it sort of devastated me. For, like, five minutes. Better "Amish" than "skank," I suppose.



(Waltzing) Matilda

And while I'm indulging in the obsessions of youth, I might as well go all the way. I want Matilda Ledger's wardrobe. You heard me. I want to dress like a toddler. (I also love Michelle Williams' style. So it evens things out. A bit.)


The Youngest of Them All

Gillian Anderson had a baby. She named him Felix. I like the name Felix. I approve. BUT she also has a toddler. Named Oscar.

Oscar and Felix? Seriously? Does she think that none of us have seen The Odd Couple?

OnHerToes on Problogger!

It's no secret that Problogger is my favorite blog about blogging. I own the book. I talk about Darren like he's my mentor. I send people links from the job board.

Yeah, I'm obsessed.

And if you head over to this post (Why Do We Blog?), and you scroll down quite a bit, you shall see this:

And it's true. Sometimes I forget to live in the moment and I miss what's going on around me. Forcing myself to write about life reminds me that I actually have one. And by intentionally looking at life as an adventure, it sort of becomes one.

Sometimes the adventure is obvious. As of this week, I work 4-day workweeks at my subtitling job so I can further pursue my freelance-writing career. Scary and exciting times, friends....

Party at my computer every Friday morning.

The Gender I'm Not

Church continues to rock my little world. In fact today's sermon influenced my internal dialogue when I was hit on by yet another man at the subway station. It's official: I'm irresistible to men who take public transit.

HIM: You are so beautiful.

ME: [in my head] I bet you think monogamy is something furniture is made of.

And then I smiled. To myself. And he probably thought I was basking in his wonderful compliment. Seriously, gentlemen, "beautiful" is a powerful word. But it has to come from the right guy. Preferably someone who knows my name. And who doesn't scare me.



(For those of you who sermon-stalk, today was Sermon #3 in the "His & Hers" series. It was not G-rated. Which I highly appreciated. Because I'm not 12.)

The Bridge

I saw a man die today.

I was smart. I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed." What the f*** happened?!!

~a suicide note, "The Bridge"

I don't know how I feel about this documentary.

Probably because I struggle with empathizing with hopelessness. Because my lowest low has never taken me there.

More people have chosen to end their lives at the Golden Gate Bridge than anywhere else in the world.

It's fascinating, looking at that line between standing on the bridge and jumping off it. Or choosing between looking at life through a lens and putting the camera down to pull a stranger back to life.

I can't imagine...

• ...realizing I don't want to die after taking that step off the ledge.
• ...being so disillusioned after looking for love in every place but the right one that I just give up on love altogether.
• ...finding a miracle in a shattered body rather than a lifeless one.
• ...seeing no other option.
• ...getting that phone call.
• ...watching the fall.
• ...choosing the fall.
  

I don't think suicide's an unforgivable sin. I think it's a tragedy. And that God's heart breaks for those who don't trust Him to pull them through. But God is bigger than life. He's not limited by one painful choice. Nor can human despair severe something God put in place. No, it's not His will. But condemning those who struggle with depression isn't His will either.

Why do we never talk about mental illness until it's too late? And why do we choose to ignore the cries for help?

"I will never again not intrude. I won't respect their privacy. And I will not ever again not do something because I'm afraid they might be embarrassed."

And what would I do if I saw you on that precipice?

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.

Thankful

I have one of those families that doesn't make sense in the real world. We're like a modern-day Leave It to Beaver gang, hosting twenty-person sleepovers and carrying on layers of conversation that build in volume and intensity as the day goes on. If I were to try to capture our interactions in writing, no one would believe me that we're real. But we are.

A look at my weekend:

• I get the tour of my parents' new place in Orillia. Including the backyard where I could apparently host the wedding I'm not currently planning. Sometimes conversations get hilariously and/or awkwardly out of hand.
• They live near the water. Which means their place is my new fake cottage. Gorgeousness.
• I try to play Mario Kart. Oddly, the more we play, the worse I get. This is followed up by a viewing of "The Office" which makes everything all better. Jim is my hero.
  
• I play the piano at my parents' church. My brother's on drums. My uncle leads with guitar. My aunt sings.
• Fourteen people eat sandwiches and talk at the same time. Then off to Parry Sound.
• I heart Parry Sound.
• We go on long walks as one huge group. There are no egos. If you're 12, you can hang out with a 21-year-old. In fact, it would be weird if you didn't.
• Photography lessons. My camera is full of pictures of leaves. Often of the same leaves from slightly different angles.
• Crokinole is exciting. As is cousins spontaneously breaking out into song. I'm serious. We're the Partridge Family.
• Pumpkin pie and birthday cake ensure that we have a balanced meal.
• Some play midnight soccer on the beach. The rest stay behind to play Scrabble and swap prison stories. Yes, REAL prison stories.
• Sleepover. Four girls share a room. I'm the oldest girl there by seven years. But don't feel old.
• Pancakes after very little sleep somehow cancels the sleepiness. Carbs > exhaustion. And coffee is my favorite beverage innovation in the history of the world.
• Another walk. To a lookout tower. So I can look out and wonder why I live in the city. I need fresh air more often.
• The weather is perfect. I want to live in last weekend all year round.
• We hug goodbye because we actually love each other. Not just because we should.
• The first of our Christmases is in six weeks. The turkey coma (it was a 30-lb bird!) will have subsided by then. I believe in pacing myself when it comes to gluttony.
  

Autumn

Confession: I am not 100% city girl. I would give up the hustle and bustle for a quiet cottage, a wooded trail and a deck chair. In a heartbeat.

Speak For Me

I will blog about my fantastic weekend tomorrow. In the meantime, know that the above photo pretty much sums it up: perfect. (And yes, I took the picture. I'm working on my photography skills).

A few months ago, I started writing a blog post about the word "safe." About how I wanted to be safe without playing it safe. But I managed to lose any skill for articulateness. And so it remained unpublished. And then today, I came across the blog entry I wish I wrote. So please read about "safe" over at This Is REVERB. My head, his words.

Speaking of other people speaking for me....

Bruxy (my pastor) was awesome again this week. And totally identified a conversation I had a few weeks ago. He was talking about how men and women communicate differently, about how men carefully select their words and care about the definitions of the those words. And how for women, verbal precision is less important than the process.

This was the conversation:

ME: Blah, blah, blah, heart-on-sleeve, blah, blah, big sweeping statement, blah, blah, too much information, blah, blah, everything in my head....

HIM: This. Is. Exactly. What. I. Want. You. To. Understand.

I walk away, thinking we've had a heart-to-heart. Days later, I get an email from HIM: "I've been thinking about what you said...."

Exactly as Bruxy described, the words and their definitions mattered to HIM. For ME, the processing aloud was the point, not the specific sentences.

Church is relevant. Who woulda thunk it?

Townsend's Battle

I have a soft spot for Stuart Townsend. Mostly because I hate rejection and I can't imagine what it would be like to be fired from Lord of the Rings. Yes, he was the original Aragorn. Pre-Viggo's brilliance. That is your random trivia for the day.

Townsend was recently in Toronto, showing off his passion project, Battle in Seattle, a film he wrote and directed about the World Trade Organization protest in 1999. You know the one. If you had a TV (or access to a newspaper) that year, you heard all about it. Tens of thousands of demonstrators took to Seattle streets, so it was pretty hard to ignore. But Townsend's approach isn't strictly a documentary on the five-day protest. He instead took the event and chose to tell stories. About individual protesters. The mayor. The cops and their families. And then added Charlize Theron, his pretty spectacular girlfriend, into the mix. He didn't bow to hobbits, but got a gorgeous Oscar winner to love him. So it all works out.

His fictional narrative combined with real footage from the protest tell a tale of ordinary folks driven by a desire to be heard. It's a political David-and-Goliath story, with Ray Liotta as mayor, Vancouver as Seattle and history as the backdrop. Sure, you could probably Google the ending in eight seconds. Or you could head to the movies and support Townsend's cinematic baby. Which is what I intend on doing.

The little guy wins in fiction. But when it comes to reality (and confronting the proverbial "man"), does he have a chance?

Finally, the fall movie season is picking up.

The Hard Way

Sometimes I speak the truth without thinking things through. I say a little too much. But because it's the truth, I can't take it back. And when my words come back to haunt me, I have to stand by them. I just wish they were never heard in the first place.

Maybe I'm still trying to find that line between openness and honesty. Or maybe I'm just disappointed when openness doesn't lead to a reciprocal heart-on-sleeve moment. Or maybe, just maybe, I only want to hear one thing. And think that opening a vein will somehow evoke an identical expression in the listener.

But I cannot will a person to respond according to my scripted version of life.

I'm trying to live a little more fearlessly. Maybe some things need to be said no matter what the outcome. And maybe I need to just let go of what I think that outcome should be.

And maybe I should never speak after midnight.

Sigh. Some people have to learn the hard way. Cue old-school DC Talk.

And yes, for someone who speaks too directly at times, I quite enjoy the word "maybe." Because sometimes the truth is that I just don't know anything.

What I'm Looking For

I've previously waxed poetic about my love of the knock-your-socks-off gospel choir. And my affection for a rock star named Bono is no secret.

Combine them, and I'm pretty much a puddle on the floor.

I was 5 years old when "Rattle and Hum" made its musical splash. When Marty McFly comes to take me back in time, I am going back to this moment. And then I'll lie down in the aisle and die happy. Or I'll just forget to blink and lose all sense of rhythm and make a fool of myself as an awkward outsider from the future. I'm cool either way.

Bad Joke of the Day

q: Why do girls wear makeup and perfume?
a: Because they're ugly and they stink.

Seriously, I need to go to bed. Now.

'Night, all.

An "Achtung Baby" Day

I went for a jog yesterday after work. Because that is what I now do. I don't know exactly when the proverbial switch flipped, but my body is going to thank my overworked brain one day for seeking therapy on the pavement.

And instead of the usual happy fun stuff, I went to the man I trust with the intimate stuff of life. I turned to Bono.

Now, as a relatively new athlete, I tend to do the walk/jog interval thing. With the jogging being in small spurts. But not yesterday. When "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?" started playing, I just flew around the block. And did not stop.

It was Monday's perfect song. Every day should have its own. And somehow, I'm both Bono and the girl he's singing to. Without singing to myself. I'm not completely schizophrenic. That would complicate things even further.



You're dangerous, 'cos you're honest.
You're dangerous, you don't know what you want.
Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot
For any spirit to haunt.

You're an accident waiting to happen
You're a piece of glass left there on a beach.
Well you tell me things
I know you're not supposed to
Then you leave me just out of reach.

Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna drown in your blue sea?
Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee?

Well you stole it 'cos I needed the cash
And you killed it 'cos I needed revenge.
Well you lied to me 'cos I asked you to.
Baby, can we still be friends?

Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna drown in your blue sea?
Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee?

Ah, the deeper I spin
Ah, the hunter will sin for your ivory skin.
Took a drive in the dirty rain
To a place where the wind calls your name
Under the trees, the river laughing at you and me.
Hallelujah! Heaven's white rose
The doors you open I just can't close.

Don't turn around, don't turn around again.
Don't turn around your gypsy heart.
Don't turn around, don't turn around again.
Don't turn around, and don't look back.
Come on now love, don't you look back.

Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna drown in your blue sea?
Who's gonna taste your saltwater kisses?
Who's gonna take the place of me?
Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
Who's gonna tame the heart of thee?

lyrics source

"Achtung Baby" is practically perfect in every way. Like Mary Poppins.

More Nuit Blanche

"Dancing in the streets..."

Yoko Ono's "Imagine Peace."

My favorite mascot. Ever.

I love scarves. Maybe one day I'll share mine too....

"Words, words, words."
~Hamlet

My First Fake ID

Only at Nuit Blanche is this considered a completely acceptable way to spend your post-midnight weekend hours.

My Therapist's Name is New Balance

About a year ago, I was stretching on my yoga mat. Not doing yoga. And I started to cry. There I was, all alone, a weeping mess on my living-room floor. The tears had absolutely nothing to do with my hamstrings; rather, in that moment of quiet, my life just ran over me. And I couldn't articulate it enough to share with anyone. I was insecure, terrified of the unknown. And everything was unknown.

Fast-forward to today.

I went for a jog. And I started laughing. I was huffing and puffing and beaming from ear to ear like a little kid with a head full of secrets and a stomach full of candy. But I don't eat candy before physical exertion. I'm not a fan of pain.

I was trying to write earlier in the day, but only half-sentences made it onto the page. I was scattered, distracted and exhausted. So I laced up my cross-trainers and headed out the door. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or the music. Or the quiet residential streets. But suddenly my head was clear. I ran longer, faster and farther than I have since high school, practically skipping at times, totally free.

The odd thing is that so little has changed since last year's meltdown. Almost every area of my life has a large question mark floating over it. But today I was reassured of something I've been suspecting for some time: I am no longer afraid.

Sound Bytes and Twitter

1. The other night, I had a strange little unbloggable conversation. It was completely made up of sound bytes. Unintentionally. But if I were to transcribe it, it would read as a slick movie script. Almost unbelievable. You'd shake your head with cynicism, claiming that real people don't speak that way. But they do. Unless I'm not real. Which is a very real possibility.

2. I am now on Twitter. Follow me.

3. A Flight of the Conchords song keeps looping in my head. And it's not "Albi the Racist Dragon." Although I wish it was.

When Tolkien Does the Blogging

I came across this quote today. At first, it didn't make sense. And then I realized that maybe speed-reading when I'm sleep-deprived is unwise. I was pretty much only absorbing every other word.

Here's what fascinates me. Tolkien wrote this to his son. Do fathers and sons really correspond this way? Do you? Please, gentlemen, enlighten me. Do you have heart-to-hearts with your dads about "guiding stars"?

If not, perhaps you should.

How quickly an intelligent woman can be taught, grasp his ideas, see his point — and how (with rare exceptions) they can go no further, when they leave his hand, or when they cease to take a personal interest in him. But this is their natural avenue to love. Before the young woman knows where she is (and while the young man, when he exists, is still sighing) she may actually 'fall in love'. Which for her, an unspoiled natural young woman, means that she wants to become the mother of the young man's children, even if that desire is by no means clear to her or explicit. And then things are going to happen: and they may be very painful and harmful, if things go wrong. Particularly if the young man only wanted a temporary guiding star and divinity (until he hitches his wagon to a brighter one), and was merely enjoying the flattery of sympathy nicely seasoned with the titillation of sex — all quite innocent, of course, and worlds away from 'seduction'.

....Don't be misled by the fact [women] are more 'sentimental' in words — freer with 'darling', and all that. They don't want a guiding star. They may idealize a plain young man into a hero; but they don't really need any such glamour either to fall in love or to remain in it.

~From a letter to his son, Michael Tolkien 6-8 March 1941, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

Freer with the world "darling"? Hmm. Perhaps I should update my vocabulary choices to make Tolkien more accurate.

"What the world needs now...

...is blog, sweet blog."

Okay, so my blogging has been a little sporadic and random as of late. But I'm not sure how to catch up (or if I should even try). Life is busy and good and sometimes a little overwhelming. The end. Actually, no. Not the end. That would be sad.

So I'll just continue with the randomness. But a little more personal and less Paul Newman-y. Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Debate

I watched tonight's debate while doing Pilates on my living-room floor. I figured that this would guarantee that the time invested would be worthwhile. Even if the platforms aren't solid, my abs will be. Ha.

And no, I didn't flip to Palin. I figure the highlights will be all over YouTube in the morning. By "highlights," I mean "hilarity."

Sleep

Apparently, despite 25 years of sleeping experience, I still don't know how to successfully get some comfortable shuteye. I woke up with an almost crippling neck pain today. I think I pulled a muscle in my sleep. Is this possible?

I need a roommate. One who happens to be a masseuse.


Journals

I have a stack of old journals sitting on my must-be-in-love-to-squeeze-onto-it couch (it's super-tiny). I often quote them here. Because my younger self fascinates me.

There are a few things quite hilarious/tragic/telling in them:

• Certain events inspire journaling. So all entries are tied thematically. In fact, if you didn't notice that entries are often months apart, you'd think that I spend all day, every day, feeling the same thing, obsessing about the same situation. Or one of three recurring situations.
  
• I am loyal. Ridiculously so. It appears that one crush lasted three years. Probably not healthy. But I was young. And it kept me out of trouble.
• I apologize in them. As if my entries are actually being written to someone. There are disclaimers, justifications, excuses and such.
  
• Melodrama, folks. I could adapt them into a teen series for the WB network.
• I had opinions about sex when I was 11. Yes, 11.
  
• Eventually, journal entries turned into prayers. Or at least conversation with God. But it would take six pages of babbling before I let myself recognize that He's reading.
• I wish I could talk to my 16-year-old self. I would tell her she's beautiful. I don't know if she'd listen.
• Some childhood dreams were not left behind with childhood.
• I didn't always tell the whole truth. Some things I just couldn't let myself put on paper. Because then they'd be true. Or I'd be held accountable to my words.

My Apologies

On Tuesday night, I apologized for not being a smoker and for not being a lesbian. Which is perhaps better than the time I walked by the homeless man and said, "Thank you."


Lucky

I've never had lucky socks. Or lucky underwear. Or a rabbit's foot hanging off my backpack. But I think I have a lucky shirt. Actually, it may be a little early to dub it as such, as I've only worn it three times. But those three times resulted in three fabulous evenings. Two involving music. All involving fantastic people (of varying degrees of fantasticness). Maybe it's not the shirt that's wonderful, but the fact that I wasn't spending my evening in front of a computer screen. Hmm. Tough call. But I'm not sure if I want to risk ruining my little happy streak by doing a grocery run on a rainy Saturday morning in it, you know? Unless that grocery store is a really sensational one. And grapes are on sale.

(As an awkward aside, I kind of love "Lucy Got Lucky." Guilty pleasure. Maybe because I went school with the girl who plays Lucy in the video. Or maybe because "So another Molly Ringwald, well, she finds her Judd" makes me smile.)

Spilling Secrets

You're probably wondering, "Hmm. What are seven things I don't know about Nadine?"

Fortunately for you, I was tagged.

I think I'm too open-book. I'm having a hard time coming up with things you don't know that you don't not know because I don't want you to know. You know?

Huh.

one
I've probably written close to 50 songs in my lifetime. Maybe more. You will probably never hear any of them. My favorite place to write was the dark soundproof music room in the basement of my university dorm. At midnight.

two
I wrote a rap once. A preppy rap. It can also be sung to the tune of the verse of Britney Spears' "Crazy." This was intentional. Unfortunately, for various reasons, it was never performed.

Yo, I'm hip with it and I'm far from frumpy
My perm grew out and my mascara's not clumpy
I walk to school on the driver's day off
I dance the dance, I talk the talk
I don't give a beep if I break a nail
My duds are the kind you won't find on sale
If it doesn't say Gap, it's not on my bod
'Cause I'm from the country club and Gap is God

I miss my perm.

I also now shop at the Gap. Because my perm grew out, I suppose.

three
I refused to put posters of heartthrobs on my wall when I was a teenager. This wasn't because I was particularly more mature than my peers; I was exercising caution in case Freddie Prinze Jr. stopped by. I didn't want to creep him out.

four
It's common knowledge that I don't have a license. What most don't know is that I don't know how to drive. At all. It's not just a lack of license, it's a lack of knowledge/skill. Perhaps my failure at "Mario Kart" has influenced my vehicular disinterest. (I was once called, quite eloquently, "the worst video-game player in the history of the world.") I've never ridden a riding lawn mower either. In case you were wondering.

And oddly enough, because I can't drive, I'm the most peaceful and trusting passenger ever.

five
I was offered beer when I was 5 years old. I was so appalled at the stupidity of the adult that I still don't drink it. Maybe I'll have a pint in Dublin one day. With Bono.

six
Every morning, I drink a "greens" drink that's absolutely disgusting. But it's good for my bones. So I do it. There's a slightly longer story here. But that's for a separate entry, not a list. Oh, and I love the taste of All Bran.

seven
I want to live in a trailer park. Actually, I want to own a trailer park. And make it cool. It would be a condo alternative for my generation. And I'd build a mini-golf course that doubles as a night club: The Golf Club. With crazy lighting and local bands playing. Maybe I'll serve mar-tee-nis. And you'll all want your own trailers. Trust me. And I'll be living the life in my double-wide with plantation shutters and hardwood floors. Writing my novel about twenty-somethings who live in a trailer park.

I tag everyone who reads this. Seriously. You're it.