Walk On

An aside: In June, on her toes hit the 300-posts mark. It took over two years to get there. This is post 405. I guess I've picked up the pace a little, no?

I walked home from church today. According to Google Maps, the most brilliant post-sliced-bread invention ever, my little walk was 9.5 kilometers (after adjusting the map to match my route. I could have shaved .8 km off my walk had I cared about efficiency).

Nine and a half kilometers. In sandals.

And I didn't die.

Nor did I experience pain.

In fact, I felt rather upbeat and alive. I think this thing called "exercise" might catch on.

And save for a quick jaunt into a shopping mall where the bathroom was free and the dollar store offered cheap hydration, I happily soaked up the steady stream of sunshine and fresh air. I think air conditioning is slowly killing me. Maybe I'm an anti-gargolye, desperate for the sun.

I've also decided that walking with a good friend is a fabulous distraction technique. When you're talking about pre-nups, Movie Jesus, buffet strategies and California, the kilometers just effortlessly blend into one another. And because we're economically minded friends, our afternoon together concluded at Food Basics, where we each stocked up on skim milk. Calcium on sale makes me happy.

Now that I've conquered Toronto, I believe a walking tour of Europe is an order.



Music Corner:
If Bono tells me to walk on, I shall.
Maybe for 500 miles.
And you can't really walk without Walker. I'm pretty sure Chuck Norris invented walking.

"Everybody's Tad Hamilton to Somebody...."

Embarrassing blog post alert: The following entry may be about a film targeted at adolescent girls who swoon over the mere concept of winning a date with their movie-star crush of choice. When I'm finished, I'll seek out some quality time with Scorsese (or any director with an award on his mantle, really) to confirm that I am, in fact, an adult.

Win a Date with Tad Hamilton! was on TV the other night. I won't pretend to have paid it no attention, although I wasn't exactly fixated on the screen either. It was just a quasi-viewing while typing away at my computer, trying to caption strangers' wedding photos.

Anywho, this little conversation made me smile. Because there's truth in it. And because I often say things that aren't completely true even though I think they are.

Angelica: You got to win her back.
Pete: Angelica, trust me, I have tried everything.
Angelica: What did she say when you told her that you love her?
Pete: Well, actually, maybe not everything, but....
Angelica: What did she say when you kissed her?
Pete: Okay, maybe it's more like two things I haven't tried.
Angelica: Well, what have you tried?
Pete: I have very unsubtly implied how I feel about her.

Just to be completely honest (as opposed to selective honesty, which my parents once explained to me was actually deception and not something to be all that proud of), I have seen the film in its entirety. Years ago. Post-teenybopper but pre-real-world. And I would have chosen Topher Grace too. Because his name is Topher. Clearly. And I love a man in uniform (see photo).*

Shoot. Did I just spoil the movie for the masses? Many apologies. Although I won't delete anything. So maybe I'm not really sorry. This post is apparently becoming about ethics.

And why is there an exclamation mark in the title?!

*Yes, he's a manager at Piggly Wiggly's. You know how I feel about groceries.

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

Boy Doesn't Quite Meet Girl

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.

Day Camp Flashback

I was sitting at a table outside the gymnasium, waiting for parents to come and claim their children.

A little boy, probably 7 or 8 years old, came running out of the gym, a broken hockey helmet in his hand.

"Do you have any tape?"

"Sorry, I don't think I have anything strong enough to fix that."

He looked past me and scanned the surface of my makeshift workspace.

"What about that?" He pointed at the Scotch tape.

I looked at the helmet and frowned. "I don't think that will hold."

He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked me in the eye.

"Have I ever let you down before?"

I gave him the tape. It held.

For Michael and Joanne

In honor of your wedding last weekend. In Vegas. I hope you danced to Tom Jones.

Thanks to you, Michael, I can dance to him anytime I want. And I dance like this:

Workaholic

I subtitled for 11 and a half hours today. With no break, save for the odd trip to the kitchen for tea and a quick jaunt next door for a calcium fix.

I'm lucky I made it out alive. I hear your brain explodes at the 12-hour mark.

Four Dollars Can Change Your Life

Or at least buy you some symmetry.

I was walking by an upscale eyewear shop today. I was struck by a remarkable moment of clarity. The angel of self-respect on my shoulder whispered in my ear, "Go inside."

So I did.

And for four dollars, the kind woman with magical hands straightened the arm of my sat-upon glasses.

My face no longer looks neglected. Or in recovery from a lovely evening of fisticuffs. Nor is my head cocked to the side to compensate for skewed angles.

Moral of the story:

Joni Mitchell is always right. You don't know what you got 'til it's gone.
And money does buy happiness.

Waltzing Matilda

Last night, A Knight's Tale was on. I didn't let myself watch it. Instead, I went to bed at 9:30 and still barely made it out of bed this morning.

I find Heath's movies a little awkward to watch. There's something too compelling about them. Every whispered declaration of love burdens me. Every death scene chills me. And yet I find it so hard to turn away. Maybe I'm fascinated by what we leave behind. Or mourning for things that will never be.

There are photos floating around cyberspace of Heath hanging from a noose. They're stills from his final film. The film he was shooting at the time of his death. I feel as though the images are too personal for me to look at.


When I heard that Jude Law, Johnny Depp and Colin Farrell were all donating their paychecks from The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus to Matilda Ledger, my heart melted a little. Okay, it went to mush.

She's the most adorable little mini-Heath. And she doesn't get to grow up with a daddy. She wasn't even in his will. But the three men stepping into his unfinished role knew Ledger's heart and took care of her on his behalf.

Read more at MovieZen.

Christopher Plummer is in Heath's last film. Which is another reason to see it. If you weren't already sold on the idea.

Maybe I should have a will. Who wants this blog?


image source

Unspectacular Spectacles

"I had some eyeglasses. I was walking down the street when suddenly the prescription ran out."

~Stephen Wright

Once upon a time, back in the days of Guelph and postsecondary learning, I snapped my tortoise-shell eyeglasses in half. My contacts were causing major irritation, so I ended up spending a few days channeling the classic nerd. I taped the bridge together with masking tape. But it wouldn't hold. So I moved on to duct tape. It still didn't stick. So I used layers of clear packing tape, the edges of the adhesive scratching my face.

I may have skipped a few classes for the sake of vanity.

My glasses were replaced with metal frames. The brittleness of plastic still haunted me.

Fast-forward to Friday night.

It was well after 2. The general rule is that normal sleep and nutritional math do not apply when in Stratford.

I threw my glasses on the bed, washed my face, changed into p.j.'s, and collapsed onto the outdated comforter. Onto my glasses.

If you see me tilting my head to the side, it's merely a vain attempt at making my frames appear straight.

Maybe I should get LASIK.

Stratford Indulgences

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.

An Evening with Christopher Plummer

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."

source

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.

Fun Times with XKCD.com

(click on comics for larger images)






For these and more: XKCD.com
I wasted far too much time on that site today. Amusing time, but far too much of it.

Best Sandals Ever

I wore new sandals today. I am in love. I even pegged my jeans to evoke a little Katie Holmes vibe. Sans crazy Cruise. Because cool sandals make me aspire to hipness.

Footwear-shopping is generally a frustrating experience for me, as my arches would better suit a ballerina than a blogger. I prefer to just admire from a safe distance. But last weekend, I broke my personal-best footwear record. I bought two pairs of sandals. Quickly and effortlessly.

So far, so good. Scratch that. So far, so fabulous.

If I were a real celebrity (and not just one in my head), I would pursue the endorsement deal for these.


You can buy them here. But I got a crazy good deal. 'Cause I'm a super-shopper now.

Google Me

"The problem is, after a week of intense Googling, we've started to burn out on knowing the answer to everything. God must feel that way all the time. I think people in the year 2020 are going to be nostalgic for the sensation of feeling clueless."

~JPod, Douglas Coupland

Shortly before I began blogging, I Googled myself. I was curious to know if there was a "Nadine Bells" cult out there. Or if someone had started a hate site, dedicated to some heart-crushing anguish that I obliviously inflicted. But alas, there were only three results. And they were all me. And rather boring.

Now that I have a cute little freelancing career, my web presence has increased dramatically. But because this site has very few references to my last name, it rarely pops up in search engines. If you're looking for me, that is. If it's content you're after, you'll find it. I think I was being cautious when I first began blogging; I wasn't sure if I wanted people to know my full name. But I blog under the real thing elsewhere, so I've given up any dreams of anonymity.

Besides, the blog name gives it away:

Rings on her fingers and Bells on her toes

Today, there are 1020 Google results. I'm practically famous. And you know what famous people have? They have fancy little biographical blurbs.

I have one.


P.S. I secretly love that, to my knowledge, I'm the only Nadine Bells on the planet.

On Their Toes

Distillery District ~ August 17th, 2008

Dynamic Duos

My brain is a little fried today. I haven't been sleeping well, and I have way too much on my mind (although I don't think the lack of sleep is related to the brain activity, oddly enough). I highly recommend the playing-piano-after-midnight solution to insomnia. No, it doesn't put you to sleep, but there's a rawer form of creativity spilling from your fingertips when there's no alertness barrier.

So the piano and a late night is my new favorite duo. The sum is greater than its parts. Although the parts are pretty darn fantastic on their own.

Kind of like Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams.

Don't roll your eyes. I know, I know, Ryan is supposed to be my fake boyfriend. But he and Rachel were meant to be together. I'm totally on Team McGosling.

But when it comes to power couples, Leonardo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese take the cake. I don't remember really caring for either until they started working together.

I posted about some great actor/director pairings over at MovieZen. And yes, Bale made the cut. As did a shout-out to my dead boyfriend Jimmy. 'Cause a favorite is a favorite. And I'm comfortably transparent about such things.

Once

I highly recommend Once. Highly.

It's such a simple lovely little film. The music is gorgeous. The story is poignant. The characters are like paintings, impressions of life. And in an odd way, I can relate to a woman dragging a Hoover vacuum into a music store, banging away on a piano she can't afford, accompanying a lonely stranger with a broken heart.

I would play his song in a heartbeat.

The Academy Award-winning song is below. So very deserved.

Twenty-Five

It's Gene Kelly day on TCM. Of course it is. It's my birthday. And my dead boyfriend wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm 25. Finally. In some ways, I've been almost 25 since I was 16. And yet, this morning, as I was staring at a pimple that screamed 15-year-old, not 25-year-old, I felt a slight heaviness settling in my chest. There is no more novelty in my age. I am no longer that spring chicken, that 18-year-old academic prodigy, that 21-year-old head trainer at work. Nope. I'm just one of those twenty-somethings wandering about, trying to scrape some dreams together and figure out this thing called life.

I've decided that 25 will be an adventure, not a crisis. It's going to be exciting. Because while no longer 18, I still have nothing to lose. I can still dream big, risk big, love big and fail big. And I'm not going to break if I fall. Maybe bruise a little. But a little heartache and disappointment can provide some great writing material....

This year, I'm going to write. A lot. I want to chronicle what it is to embrace the quarter-life. And I don't want to forget 25, messiness and all.


Happy birthday to Robert De Niro, Sean Penn and Donnie Wahlberg. We should have a joint party next year.

My New Diet: Eating Like a Champion

Because Michael Phelps is my new hero....

Phelps lends a new spin to the phrase "Breakfast of Champions" by starting off his day by eating three fried-egg sandwiches loaded with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise.

He follows that up with two cups of coffee, a five-egg omelet, a bowl of grits, three slices of French toast topped with powdered sugar and three chocolate-chip pancakes.

At lunch, Phelps gobbles up a pound of enriched pasta and two large ham and cheese sandwiches slathered with mayo on white bread - capping off the meal by chugging about 1,000 calories worth of energy drinks.

For dinner, Phelps really loads up on the carbs - what he needs to give him plenty of energy for his five-hours-a-day, six-days-a-week regimen - with a pound of pasta and an entire pizza.

He washes all that down with another 1,000 calories worth of energy drinks.

source

Best. Breakfast. Ever.
If I can't compete like an Olympian, I might as well eat like one.

P.S. For those of you who like math, he eats 12,000 calories a day.