Dead Man's Bones

Look, everybody! My fake boyfriend's band is serenading us into the new year.

I heart Ryan Gosling.

In The Room Where You Sleep (live video version)

Dead Man's Bones influences: Disney Haunted Mansion, doo wop and '60s girl groups. Amazing.

Put Me In the Car is my favorite Ryan song. Even though it's a little old now. Just 'cause.

Remind me to blog about other awesome actors with legitimate musical talent. Like Jason Schwartzman. And Zooey.

Sunday Afternoon

My mom is napping upstairs.

My brother is napping on the couch in the living room.

His girlfriend is napping on the love seat across from him.

My dad is napping on the couch in the family room.

I am not napping. I feel like a failure.

Brothers Vs. Gingerbread

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve with Sally Ann

I went to a candlelit Christmas Eve service at the Salvation Army tonight. I half expected the uniformed woman to break out into a number from "Guys and Dolls." She didn't. She did say, however, that the screen would tell us whether to "stand, sit or whatever." I still don't know what "whatever" means. I suppose we could have somersaulted in the aisles.

The service was a lovely timeless one, filled with traditional carols, baritone solos and elderly folks in their best holiday sweaters.

In front of me sat three teenage girls, loudly pondering the mysteries of life.

"Did you know that your hand is the same size as your boob?"

I wanted to whisper, "Yes. It's also the same size as your knee. And any another body part you can grab." Oh, to have the insight of a teenager again.

I was mildly annoyed by the young whisperers until I was hit with a rather simple thought: God created 15-year-old girls. Hands and boobs included. He understands. Like, totally.

Christmas: The Musical

Merry Christmas from Orillia!

I want to be Zooey.



And sometimes Lindsay's wonderful.



You can't go wrong with Bert and Ernie. I called them Bernie and Ert this morning. 'Cause my brain doesn't work anymore.

Stuffing the Joy

Main Course

Dessert

Ninja Santa

I stayed up until 2 last night, talking about awkward weddings and the political and social implications of burkas. And about the day my brother apparently died after being thrown from a vehicle. When really, he was at home napping. I guess you had to be there.

This is my parents' Christmas tree. Pay close attention to the ornament just below the star.

Meet Ninja Santa. He is an institution in our family. Joel made him in the fourth grade. I believe he was initially supposed look like the traditional Father Christmas. But ninjas are cooler. Everyone knows this. Therefore, he takes a more prominent position on the tree every year. The year he fails to make it into the decor will be the saddest Christmas ever.

Not Today

I took this picture last weekend.

I won't lie. Today was gorgeous. And it felt like the winters I used to know. Sometimes I miss tobogganing at recess. And building snow forts with complicated floor plans. And waddling around in purple snow pants.

If you're gonna have winter, might as well go big. Or go south.

Lenny & Squiggy

"I once was the jolliest fat man...."

This is why I didn't believe in Santa. It's just one big sad story.

One of life's greatest mysteries: Who buys these DVD box sets? And of the few who do, how many turn on the subtitles? 

Bueller? Bueller?

And why is everything on YouTube? I could probably find a video of me walking to the bus stop if I searched hard enough. But ignorance is probably bliss in that case. Me being born, however....

500

This is the 500th post at OnHerToes! I'm not sure what that means. I'm going to pretend that it's an impressive feat. And will celebrate with a picture of sparkly shoes.

Image from The Cherry Blossom Girl. The most delightful and inspirational fashion blog. Out of Paris. Everyone should read at least one bilingual blog. 

500 posts. Whew. It actually scares me a little, as a simple Googling of my name can result in hours of getting-to-know-Nadine reading. But if I Google you, I will not be so lucky. I'm starting to believe that everyone should blog. To keep things less one-sided. Please, spill your secrets.

Oh, and I don't blog everything. In case you thought this was my entire life. It's not. At all. Sorry if that disappoints you. About 63.5% of my life doesn't make it to the blog. Maybe it will someday. Maybe not.

Looking Back

Me: I've been feeling less fearless.

Her: You mean "more fearless."

Me: No, I mean "more fearful." Wait. That's not right. Shoot. Uh, no fear. Yes. Fearless.

A couple weeks ago, I caught up with a friend. (I also caught up with two friends last night. 'Tis the season to reconnect.) It was a good chat, but because we had a lot of ground to cover, I ended up reliving moments that don't even feel like my life anymore. At one point, I felt like I was gossiping about myself. Nadine2007 was a different woman. In fact, even NadineSummer2008 and NadineWinter2008 have pretty different stories to tell.

I ended up scribbling in a journal late into the night, rehashing things best laid to rest. For me, once I open the vein, I need to just let it bleed out. If I don't sit and let that stream of consciousness make its way to the page, I'll just be preoccupied by memory's fogginess and end up sacrificing my mental health. So it's better to lose an hour of sleep.

There are a handful of people in this world with whom I will share anything. Not because I set out to bare my soul, but because I can't help it. I try to be composed and discretionary, and I end up assaulting them with heart diarrhea.

They're my truth serum.

And in looking back over 2008, I think I've learned to accept that. To take a few risks and speak from a place that isn't always safe and cozy. To not fear that someone will look at me with dagger-eyes after figuring out that I'm insecure, unsure, over-analytic, idealistic or downright insane. And if they do, at least they've made their judgment call based on something a little more real. Because regret is soooo last year.

It's been a good year, all. A very good year.

Rereading

Before writing this entry, I reread my 300th post:

But there I was, treating my life as a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tale, wishing I could flip back a few pages to try for a more satisfying outcome.

And I laughed at myself. This "Regret" section no longer applies. My life actually did become a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tale. And I chose another option. Only to discover that life is messy and fun and I think way too much. I need to invent actual chill pills. And then take them daily.

I think that's why I like blogging. I get to look back and remind myself that my life does, in fact, take twists and turns and generally move in a forward direction. It's easy to miss the adventure sometimes. I need the written word to confirm that I have a life. A lovely one.

Here's to another 500....

(I'll do a 2008 recap shortly. It will be amazing. I hope.)

My Weekend [In Context]

I shall now clarify some of my weekend's craziness. "Some" is the word of the day.

And hello to the lovely ladies mentioned in the following. I trust you're all literate.

Saturday

I met a good friend for lunch. A random non-school, non-work, non-friend-of-the-family friend. She's doing her masters in Edmonton, so time together is rare. But it's always fun and inspiring as we fire off our crazy dreams for the future. My circle of theater friends has dwindled significantly since university, so it's great to spend time with someone actively pursuing a future in that field. Oh, and we have the same brain when it comes to the things of life and love. And adventure. She gives advice like, "Maybe you'll fall in love. Or your heart will break. Or it will just be a complete disaster. Either way, great writing material." I love that girl.

Oh, and she discovered Brooke Fraser's brilliance while living in New Zealand. Which makes her exponentially cooler than I'll ever be. I've accepted that.

Post-lunch, we wandered around downtown, Christmas shopping. And then we hugged and parted ways, planning to reunite this coming summer either in Calgary (Stampede greatness) or in Stratford (MacBeth awesomeness). Or both.

Saturday Evening

Another friend was having a birthday dinner at a local pub. A pub no one could remember the name of. Thanks to the waiter's sketchy behavior the last time she visited, we all called the joint "Perv Place." And while our service was perfectly civil this time (almost disappointing), the name will probably stick for a while. This friend is a friend from my post-grad days. She, too, is awesome. Awesome enough to invite a complete stranger to her birthday.

The stranger came. Immediately she became a friend. On a working holiday from Australia, she came looking for a traditional Canadian Christmas. So I invited her to spend Boxing Day with my family. 'Cause that's what we do. We like people. And she's pretty great people.

Oh, and we chatted about how 7th Heaven is not my life. Because we had a homeless man in our basement and his pregnant ex-prostitute girlfriend in the guest room. She had machetes. He had nunchucks. We were one big happy family. And my mom took me to jail. That was the starting point of the conversation, I believe. And oddly, people were envious of my life. Maybe I tell stories too well.

Sunday

A new friend from my home church picked up me, my birthday friend and my Aussie friend (yes, we adopt people quickly). We went to church. We heard this:

You cannot buy your own happiness, but you can buy someone else's.*

*Money has been proven to improve a person's happiness in only two cases: the person is very poor or very sick. Since I am healthy and not destitute, money won't do anything for me happiness-wise, but I'm in a position to help the down-and-out. Essentially, I can buy someone's happiness. Which makes me happy.

And then we went to lunch. And drew on paper tablecloths with crayons while gabbing at light speed. As four random new friends, it didn't take long before we were planning road trips and coordinating gym schedules.

Sundays are my days for adventure. I try to steer clear of the temptation to sit at a computer and type the day away. And so I stay out of my apartment, exploring the city. This past Sunday was no exception. Three of us (one had other equally exciting plans) headed to the Science Center. For a cold blustery day, it was the perfect outing. Free passes also contributed to its perfection. Our friend from Oz got a real Canadian schoolgirl field-trip experience.

Here's where some of those odd comments from the previous post fit in:

I have an unbelievably fast karate chop: 71 km/hr.

In the sports area, you can measure the speed of your karate chop. And so I did. I saw a cushion and hit it as quickly as I could, not sure how the whole sensor thing worked. My first chop was the fastest,** intimidating the little boy behind me who couldn't come close. Don't feel sorry for him. He whipped my butt in a rowing race. My rower was broken and said I was moving at 0 km/hr.

**The screen actually told me it was "unbelievably fast." In this case, I will not argue with technology.

Hugh Jackman is a better person than I am.

The three of us tried to do a personality assessment together. It said to pick a person you know and then answer a list of questions about their personality. Well, the three of us know Hugh. Besides, Australia was the theme of the weekend. We were kind to Hugh and gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he's the loveliest man on the planet. We didn't realize that we were then to answer the same questions about ourselves. It was supposed to reveal how we judge others and/or compare others to ourselves. We were a little more realistic about our own shortcomings. We were too lazy to actually read the whole explanation as to why we made him look better than us; we just accepted that neither of us three women in the Science Centre on a Sunday afternoon will never be the Sexiest Man Alive.*** Ever.

***This isn't my personal option. This is fact. According to that beacon of journalism, People Magazine, Hugh trumps all. He's even sexier than [gasp] Batman.

Flirting calms me down.

File this one under: Most ridiculous test ever.

I put my hand on a screen. It took my skin's temperature. It was colder than the test was prepared for. As per usual. I'm the ice queen. Then I held a handlebar and let it measure my heart rate. Next, I chose someone to flirt with. Seriously. My options were, A, a generic decent-looking young man, and, B, a generic decent-looking young woman. Shockingly, I picked the man. Not really my type, but more so than the alternative. There was no sound, so I had to read his pick-up line on the screen. I then chose a flirtatious line to spew back at him. And he reciprocated with something horribly unsexy. I was so bored during our digital exchange that I started skimming through his words and selecting responses without even thinking. The end of the test didn't come soon enough. When it was finally over, the computer took my skin temperature and heart rate again. I was still cold. My heart rate had DECREASED. Apparently this means that flirting calms me down. I like to think it means that I will never date a computer.

Early evening, we hopped on a bus and returned to our separate worlds.

Whew. I did some other stuff too. But my fingers are tired. So the typing stops...now.

My Only Wish

I'm going to expand on my cryptic weekend adventures soon. But in the meantime, here's my favorite Britney Spears song. Because it's Christmas.

If her new album sounded like this, I would own it. Multiple copies, even. Maybe.

To fully appreciate this, imagine a 19-year-old, 6-foot-something undergrad. He is standing on a couch. And doing a choreographed dance routine. To Britney Spears. Now imagine a broken couch.

My life is fascinating. Always.

There's no video, just audio. Consider it a Christmas blessing.



Okay, I'm off to eat sugar. Sugar that looks like this [see image at left].

Everyone needs a signature treat. I have two. And this is one of them. I have made many a friend with these.

Seriously, my social life is accelerating at a rather ridiculous pace. If it slows down a little, I'll tell you all about it.

P.S. I miss sleep.

My Weekend [Out of Context]

I'll expand later. Maybe.

• I want to spend a summer at the Artists' Colony in Banff. Or just head west for the Stampede. I'm a repressed cowgirl.
  
• I need to meet the newest member of the theatre company that does not yet exist.
  
• If I had to be stuck on a supernatural island with someone, I would pick Desmond. Everyone else would pick Sayid.
• Chilean wine does not make your hands turn blue. Unwashed denim does.
• Inviting a stranger you meet on the street to come to a birthday dinner is brilliant.
• Even more brilliant? She shows up and becomes a friend.
  
• I have an unbelievably fast karate chop. 71 km/hr.
• Hugh Jackman is a better person than I am.
• I like kids. Even kids who scream in dark tunnels.
• According to science, flirting calms me down.
  
• Islands do move.
• My childhood was not like 7th Heaven. The cops found weapons in my house.
  
• I think I have plans for March 2010. In Adelaide, Australia.
• I need more road trips in my life. Step one: Make friends with awesome person with car. Check.
  
• 2009 is the year of my first 5k. Promise.

My Storybook Life

Yes, I own the screenplays to Notting Hill and Hamlet. Because I think movies should be read. And I own the ProBlogger book. Because I'm borderline pro.

Paint is amazing, by the way. Now I'm going to have to find something Macbook-compatible. Wasting time is underrated.



If you're bored and/or new to this blog, I wrote about the day I purchased the blogging book of greatness. Archives rock.

O Christmas Tree

The small tree. The one in my bedroom. I have two. This one cost $2. The $4 tree is in the living room. I'm a big spender. I stop using overhead lighting in December. Twinkle lights are the new sunshine.

My Kid-Friendly Living Room

I don't usually adorn my cozy apartment with stuffed animals. But somehow I've acquired quite the holiday collection....

I met a Kerby once.
He had long hair and drove a purple car.
And was old.
He married someone else.
This one loves me. And has since I was a toddler.

Peace on Earth.
An Earth that remembers the USSR.

Because I Don't Pick Favorites

This is a follow-up post to this one. 

Check out this commercial at 0:35. The doll with the hat.

Her name is Cynthia.*

And that magic heart? It took a lot more than a warm fingerprint. You had to rub it and breathe on it for a good minute. But it was worth it.

I'll grow up tomorrow. Pinky swear.

*Official name: So Innocent Cynthia. She has fans.

Notice how these commercials are a minute long? Kids used to have attention spans. 

Kissing is Dangerous. And Other Tales.

Kiss of Deaf

(This was already discussed at work. So if you work with me, this may seem repetitive. And, yes, you deserve all the credit for the link, Kathleen.)

I used to call my mom's best friend Aunt Mom's-Best-Friend. Okay, so she had a real name that followed "aunt," but this blog is about me, not her. Anywho, Aunt MBF is married to Uncle MBFH (Mom's-Best-Friend's-Husband), a man she didn't marry until she was in her 40s. So clearly he was amazing. And worth the wait.

Uncle MBFH has a way with kids. He asks the right questions, engaging you as if he's genuinely interested in your life. But he also knows how to embarrass you. With two carefully chosen words.

I showed up for dinner one year with curly hair (I told you I wanted to be Amy Grant). His response?

"You know what causes curly hair, right?"

"Uh, no." (Thinking: Perm solution.)

"Excessive kissing."

I turn bright red. As per usual.

This is his explanation for everything. If you do well in school, dye your hair, break a limb, exhibit some sort of quirky behavior, it's a consequence of excessive kissing. It's a foolproof way to make a kid/teenager/me squirm. Because you really don't want your parents' friends speculating about such things. Whether the accusation is true or so far from reality (the wise assumption in my case), it doesn't matter. It's just plain awkward. And hilarious.

Well, excessive kissing was in the news this week. Apparently you have to worry about more than your hair going curly.

A young Chinese woman was left partially deaf following a passionate kiss from her boyfriend.

The 20-something from Zhuhai in Guangdong province arrived at hospital having completely lost the hearing in her left ear, said local reports.

The incident prompted a series of articles in the local media warning of the dangers of excessive kissing.

"While kissing is normally very safe, doctors advise people to proceed with caution," wrote the China Daily.

source

Um, not to judge (okay, I'm totally judging), but I don't think it was the excessiveness. I think it was his technique. Maybe he should pull a Judy Blume and practice on his pillow.

P.S. She'll regain total hearing in a couple of months. And then she'll become a nun.

"Girls"

A 9-year-old is hanging out on the playground. He notices that his friends are having trouble with the ladies. So he writes a 46-page pamphlet entitled "Girls" filled with relationship advice and sells it at his school's book fair.

He gets a book deal. And then sells the movie rights.

I kid you not. [Insert envy here.]

A sample of his brilliance:

Comb your hair and don't wear sweat pants.


Control your hyperness (cut down on sugar if necessary).


A crush is like a love disease that can drive you mad.


It is easy to spot pretty girls because they have big earrings, fancy dresses and all the jewelry, but they are like cars that need a lot of oil.

Read this excerpt. You will laugh. And identify. 'Cause you were 9 once.

Adorable. I just hope he doesn't grow up to be an annoying know-it-all. Of course, I read Life On the Edge when I was 11, making decisions about what I wanted in a husband before cooties were completely eradicated from my peer group. I'm pretty sure sweat pants and sugar consumption were not deal-breakers. But I was 11, not 9. Going on 45. And was probably a bit of a self-appointed know-it-all too.

Playing For Change

This song gave me chills today. Happy chills. Musicians from all over the world layered their parts to a traveling recording of "Stand By Me." 

I'm having a Miss America moment. World peace is where it's at.

Watch until the end. It gets pretty crazy/beautiful.

YouTube Tuesday: Ghosts of Christmases Past

Just to warn you, this isn't a nod to the classics in the Bing sense of classic. This is my childhood. The '80s. I dare you to handle it. And no, I'm not posting any sort of Charlie Brown greatness. Too easy.

There is a '90s video at the end. A video that's pretty gosh darn neat. There, I've dangled a carrot. May the YouTube Party begin....

Amy Grant

Just as Whitney will always love you (and Kevin Costner), so will I always love Amy. That hair. That sweater. The way it perfectly matches those amazing pants. She's timeless.

Plus, she has friends like Art Garkunfel. And Art reads books. A lot of them. He's indexed every book he's read in the last 40 years. Be intimidated.



And if you want to watch the entire Amy special, just ask. The VHS is sitting on the shelf behind me. There's a 0% chance I'm kidding.

Evie

Not her signature "Come On Rings Those Bells," but equally nostalgic. This was what my childhood sounded like, folks. Although I don't remember Dutch subtitles.

And yes, I'm very aware that Boney M. monopolizes this song. Whatev.*

*ALERT: That was the first time I've ever typed "whatev." I don't think I like it.



Jon Anderson

I don't remember the intro, but the rest I do. That voice. That arrangement. No one else should ever sing this song. And I should have asked for a synthesizer for Christmas.



Um, Dad, it was Jon Anderson you used to play in the old gray car, right? Or am I just completely insane, adopting someone else's nostalgia as my own?

Nostalgic Honorable Mention: Michael W. Smith

Yes, I get my '80s piano noodling* style from this man. Blame Smitty for my awesomeness. I believe we have the same vocal range too.

This is just an audio file. But a good one. If you can't handle staring at a non-video video, dance around the room or something. I won't tell.

*noodle is in the dictionary as a verb. I love that. And yes, I used it correctly. I love it when the English language follows my lead.



Muppets. Singing about Michael Caine.

"Even the vegetables don't like him."

If you've made it this far, I applaud you. And reward you. It isn't Christmas without Michael Caine and singing puppets. I have this song on my iPod. Because it's amazing. And because I have a crush on Rizzo the Rat.



Gonzo = Christmas cheer.