Flashdance

Oh yeah, I went by myself to dance class tonight. I was terrified. But it was (and continues to be) a wonderful experience. Tonight, the teacher, Helen, involked Martha Graham, "Ms. Graham", she said, as we did contractions and high releases on the floor. My hip is still totally stiff but I am exhilerated by the end of the 90 minutes.

It makes me want more, more, more. And I don't think it's a bad thing.

Other milestones reached? I read 2 books (updates to come), finished the first draft of one of my abridged books and took the last of the prednisone for the foreseeable future.

I am exhausted but elated all in the same breath.

He's Got My Vote

Of course he does. Rock on Mayor Miller, rock on! He likes reading AND he likes beer. Isn't that all you need in a politician?

Now, Here's A Sentence...

...I never thought I would write. My RRHB is obsessed, OBSESSED, with So You Think You Can Dance. It's on his Faux-Vo list of shows he absolutely must watch. In fact, at this very moment, he's watching the top 20 contestants compete in pairs (he's still on the season currently airing on MuchMusic, I think it's Season 2). We almost missed the beginning of The Wire last night because he wanted to see Stanislav finish his ballroom dance.

October Reading Challenge

Okay, so I read somewhere that one of the challenges floating around is to read 4 scary books before Hallowe'en. Now this is a challenge I might be able to finish. I'm totally including The Ruins on my list because, well, I am. And then I'm reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (totally creepy), The Children of Men (I am half-way through and am totally enjoying it—it's leftover summer reading), and one more mystery, probably The Thirteenth Tale, because I've already started it three times (gave one copy away, left another on a plane, have a third at home) and think that it's about time I finished it.

Like Sassymonkey, I can not go a month without a challenge. And since I failed so miserably at my Summer Reading challenge, I thought I'd make this one easy.

Bleary-Eyed And Tired

I have been abridging since eleven AM. I am on a roll but also have turned bleary-eyed. My fingers are aching. My wrists are on fire, like the poor woman in the commercial. And, I must confess, I'm a little smelly because I haven't had a shower. But it's one big push today and I'm trying to get as much done as I possibly can. Tomorrow, it's back to work. And then I have all of next week off to finish everything up. It seems that time will fly by, which is exactly what I do not want.

Falling Behind

I have fallen behind in just about everything this fall: my abridgings, my own writing, my reading, and I just don't know where the time goes. Except I do, kind of, television, working, doing stuff, trips, anything but sitting on my ass and doing the stuff I'm supposed to be doing. But now that it's getting colder, I'm hoping that things calm down a little.

The other thing I'm missing? My annual sojourn of the band widow. For the first time in about 6 years my RRHB is actually home in the fall. He's never home in the fall. I'm missing the few weeks I have to myself in this season to regroup, figure myself out and get organized for the winter. Hell, I haven't made a meal plan all summer. What's wrong with me? AND, I can't even blame it on my health, because I truly am feeling much better and far, far less diseased.

#57 - Lullabies For Little Criminals

A friend gave me this book while we were in Winnipeg because I left my copy of The Thirteenth Tale on the plane (yet another in a long line of problems plaguing our otherwise totally awesome trip). Now, I never leave home without more than one book, like, never. I hate being stuck reading something that I might not like and not having any options. Generally, this means I have books stashed all over the place: in suitcases, carry-ons, purses, RRHB's backpack, you name it, I'll put a book in there. Of course, this time, the only time I leave the house with one book, is the moment I choose to leave my book on the airplane from hell. Whatever. I was stranded with nothing to read. It's like being left out from your favourite party, not having a book, and I really hate that.

Annnwwaaay. Instead of going to a bookstore, said friend loaned me Heather O'Neill's first novel, Lullabies for Little Criminals. Set in Montreal, I'm thinking in either the late 1970s or early 1980s, the novel tells the story of Baby, a girl who turns 13 over the course of the story. But this is no average bildungsroman, as Baby's journey takes her as far away from the normal kid on a bike, Hollywood troubled teen, as you can possibly imagine. Her father, Jules, who was only 15 when she was born, is a heroin addict; totally incapable of parenting, even after he gets out of rehab, Baby is forced to grow up on her own, painfully noting time and time again, about what not having a mother means to a girl that age. Her own mother, who we hear very little about in a concrete way until the end of the book, died when she was a baby.

The novel falls into the cracks and crevices of the seedy Montreal streets as Baby and Jules move from one rundown apartment to the next. Constantly in and out of social service situations (group home, neighbour's house, juvie), Baby has no one to guide her, and making her own way truly isn't making anything better, as she falls into a terribly destructive relationship with a pimp named Alphonse. And every time Baby makes a bad decision, your heart breaks just a little; she's smart, she's beautiful, but she has no chance or opportunity to take a different path.

O'Neill's writing tumbles down into simile upon simile, which sometimes had my head spinning, but it's so lovely and absolutely engaging that it didn't matter to me that it might be a little bit too much. The story rushes along, sometimes breaking back into Baby's memories, and almost crashes into the redemptive ending, like the end to a really good rock song. Of the 50-odd books I've read this year, this one got caught in my throat (all motherless daughter stories do, dammit!) and I related to it on many levels, not because I had anything in common with the protagonist, but because O'Neill does such a good job of creating her world that you immediately empathize with Baby, all you want is for her to succeed. I'm not going to spoil the ending, in fact, I'm not going to say much more at all, except for a first-time novel, it's pretty damn outstanding.

TRH Movie: An Unfinished Life, Pride & Prejudice Redux

Okay, I'm not feeling too well, as you've probably gathered from the lack of posts and the, ahem, too many trips to the ladies, so last night as my RRHB went out for his usual Wednesday night drinks, I stayed home supposedly to "work." I wrote one sentence, quite a good sentence I thought, a metaphor about how this man (who knows what man or what character) is slow to love like a car that takes time to start (okay it sounds cheesy when I write it here) and then put the pen down, gathered up the cat and watched two girlie movies in a row—on a school night, gasp.

The first An Unfinished Life has been on the Faux-Vo for a while gathering dust (along with Water, Wallace and Gromit and a few others) and after the stern talking to I got from said RRHB about allowing said films to gather said dust, I decided to watch it, J-Lo be damned. And it was meh. But I have to say, I enjoy Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman, and I'd watch them in just about anything. You can tell this was adapted from a slow, writerly novel, one that I have not read so I can't comment on the page-to-movie translation, because the film is slow yet precise, just like good literature. It's a bit too over-told, especially the bad boyfriend "girl doesn't deserve better" storyline that J-Lo seems utterly drawn to (how many movies has she been in where her fellow knocks her about, seriously? enough already, we don't believe it, you could kick their asses with your bitchy looks anyway and no one believe your "acting"). Also, the overwhelmingly obvious bear as symbol (yawn, and didn't Brad Pitt kill that thing, like, years ago?) of Robert Redford's past locked up and needing to be set free was tiresome, but I got a bit teary at the end.

Then I became an absolute mess; the weeping and gasping for breath kind of puddle as I watched Pride and Prejudice for the, um, third time. I can't help it—that film is like girlie crack, it's a sugar high when I'm off the sweets, and I bawled like a baby in between pausing for the aforementioned visits to the bathroom (is that TMI?). Annnywaaay. I erased it just so I wouldn't sit down and watch it a half-dozen more times and therefore get absolutely no abridging work done this week, which honestly is so hard-going that I'm getting quite disheartened about the fact that I'll probably miss my deadlines.

I picked hard books this time around. Dummy.

#56 - The Friends Of Meager Fortune

I am completely fascinated by the subject matter of The Friends of Meager Fortune, David Adams Richards's latest novel. It's about New Brunswick loggers right before their industry evolves from man to machine powered. The story revolves around Jameson family, who own one of the three logging companies in town, the two sons, Will and Owen, are being raised by their widowed mother Mary. Early on in the story, great tragedy that happens is foretold by a prophecy Mary receives that the Jameson dynasty would be destroyed by the rash actions of the second son (Owen) despite the great reputation of the first (Will).

The story of Will's life and subsequent death, along with how his brother Owen, who is ill-fit to run the business but has good intentions, makes up the bulk of the first part of the story. Backdrop to this is the cut itself, the time that teams of honest, hard working spend atop Good Friday Mountain, the most dangerous cut in the in the history of area's logging. Then, there's a love triangle between Reggie, Will's best friend and the company's Push (a sort of camp manager for the loggers), his wife Camellia and Owen that comprises the impetus for a lot of what propels people into action within the story.

There are problems with the novel though. And despite how much I wanted to like it, and how much I did like it, I found it slightly verbose. There's an element of foretelling that starts to get frustrating after a while, when you've heard the same details about the same characters repeated ad nasueum, which serves no purpose to the underlying story. The telling and re-telling has an almost magical element, kind of like how great stories develop in terms of an oral tradition. But it just didn't quite work for me.

The story itself is epic and tragic, the stuff of great literature, and it's a tale that deserves to be told. I'm fascinated by the idea of lumberjacks, especially those on the verge of extinction and what that does, by its nature, to the idea of a story. But on the whole, this novel is too dense for its own good, and could use a bit of lightening up to get it moving faster because it's a great tale.

After I finished reading the book, I spent a night out with my father-in-law, who was a lumberjack in New Brunswick just as industrialization was changing the industry forever. I liked reading it for this personal aspect; it gave me a level of understanding about what his life might have been like. He was just fourteen when he went into the bush and when he came out, just like the characters in the novel, the entire world had changed.

A Wedding In Winnipeg

Despite the difficulty in getting to Winnipeg, we really did have a grand old time at the wedding on Saturday. And one of the best reasons? My super-fly tragic hip turned two over the weekend—which is a milestone in terms of my health.

Then, it all came crashing down as I caught the mortal illness from my RRHB. Sunday night, as we were watching The Wire at a friend's house, I became very, very ill. And there's nothing worse than having the runs at someone else's house; I'm mortally embarrassed by bowel movements as it is, lord, I can't even bear typing it.

Anyway, the same crap happened on our return flight where, because I didn't pre-buy the seat selection, we were going to get bumped. I started to cry. The gate attendant took pity and bumped us up to Executive Class. I shivered and huddled my way through the flight and crept into bed the minute we got home.

My body still isn't right, which means I'll miss dance class.

#2 Reason I Make A Terrible Housewife

I totally miss the fine print and don't pay the extra $25 for confirmed seats. We get bumped. That in itself isn't so bad, we got a voucher and had to waste 3 hours at the airport, which is annoying but not brutal...except for the fact that my RRHB is deathly ill. He woke up this morning throwing up and feverish so waiting around the airport was not something he wanted to do. He was so ill that he slept on the floor the whole time. He couldn't even sit in the chair.

Now we're cloistered in our hotel room and have just had some room service. I've been making up my bad wife-ed-ness all day. It's hard to watch someone you love suffer.

Wha?

Can someone explain to me why this Canadian Encyclopedia entry (the only one of its kind I might add) about Calgary doesn't really tell me anything other than the musical history of the city?

Had I wanted to know the history of music in Calgary, I would have searched for said topic. But truly, who cares? Shut up Canadian Encyclopedia. You suck.

TRH TV - Totally Out Of Control

Last night's episode of Rescue Me on Showcase was so overwhelming that I'm not sure I can accurately reflect my thoughts, but I'll try anyway. For months, I'd unwittingly read the spoilers about how Tommy rapes his wife during a particularly heated moment.

But knowing it's coming and seeing it on the television are two totally different things. My RRHB likes Rescue Me a great deal, if only because, as he says, it reminds him of my family (personally, I don't see the resemblance, but whatever); and I like it too. I mean, it's right up there with Brotherhood, another show that hits me in the guts and pulls tight, especially this week's episode, and The Wire as my one of my current favourites, but it's a show that I find deeply conflicted.

Any maybe that's what fuels the fire in terms of keeping the show current and in the public eye, this sense of pushing the boundaries in terms of a true 'bad' boy, one that you love to hate, in the Tommy character, but it always makes me question the idea of representing such violence against women (and he's a violent person, don't get me wrong, so you kind of expect it, but still...) on television.

Mainly, did he have to walk out of the house with a smirk on his face? What did that mean? How am I supposed to interpret that? And Janet sort of brushing the whole thing off as she holds her shirt together after seemingly enjoying it after Tommy got himself going, what does that mean? She actually liked being beaten up and the forced to have sex with her ex-husband? All in all I kind of think it went a bit too far but maybe I'm just being a prude.

But I think if you're going to represent men in that way, in that stereotypical way, where they overpower the women in their lives with violence after they do something you don't agree with, or sleep with someone you don't want them to sleep with, you should at least pull together some sense of understanding on the part of the audience. Then again, maybe we're not supposed to sympathize with Tommy at all, with his "crazy chick" ranting and wife-beating ways. I'll still watch the show and perhaps in the end that's all that matters.

Oh, and I'm loving The Wire. Aren't you?

Right now my Faux-Vo is totally packed to the gills with TV I need to watch: the WB sign off, new Law and Orders, Men in Trees (I know, but it's a girlie show, I kind of like it, even if I know it's totally trite and manipulative), and too much more to mention. AND, a lot of the new shows haven't even started yet.

I did, however, manage to watch Studio 60 and felt kind of meh about it. I adored Matthew Perry though. He rocked the small screen every moment he was there and you can't deny Sorkin writes good, if a bit hefty, dialogue. But I was never a West Wing fan so I'm not sure how long I'll hang on to that one.

So with all the TV, the two abridgings I have due, my page a day challenge that I'm keeping up and all the reading, not to mention dance class, my eyes are blurry and bloodshot on a good day.

Plus, I'm feeling totally discombobulated because usually the RRHB is away this time of year and I settle in for a good dose of band widowdom before the winter sets in. Does someone want to book them some gigs so I can catch up on all the TV I need to watch?

#55 - The Custodian of Paradise

I read The Custodian of Paradise, Wayne Johnston's companion novel to The Colony of Unrequited Dreams, in a flash this weekend for an interview I did at work this week (today, in fact). The novel tells the story of Sheilagh Fielding, the larger than life, both figuratively and literally (as she stands six-foot-three) character from Johnston's Colony, as she tells her side of the story, the side we didn't read in the aforementioned novel.

Wayne Johnston is a favourite of mine. The fall where I read the paperback copy of Colony was the first year that my RRHB and I were living together. It was a tough year, not because of that, but because of all the stuff we waded through, much of our own making, to get into our apartment (feuding friends, feuding ex-partners, crazy fall-out from the last time the disease flared, etc) and the book was a breath of fresh air; Joey Smallwood doing for me at that moment what Owen Meany had done for me in Banff, lifted me up and out of my doldrums and pushed me right back in my imagination.

The Custodian of Paradise, while not a broad, sweeping historical novel, sort of did the same thing. Although I don't recommend reading it like I did, pushing it down in a timeframe because you want to prepare for your interview, but rather savouring it like a good bottle of wine you're drinking as the sun sets at the cottage. It's an interior story, Sheilagh's story, told mainly through her own writing, her newspaper articles, her journals, her letters, which makes it thoroughly intense in terms of emotional investment.

And it's a sad story, but triumphant in that Sheilagh's a survivor: she rides the wave of her mother's abandonment, triumphs against her father's dismissal of her (he refuses to believe that he's hers), suffers a truly heartbreaking heartbreak, and is forced to give up her children. But through it all, you can see Sheilagh's delicate nature balanced with her skillful wit and her sharp tongue. It's this contrast that makes the book so engaging; and it's a rare accomplishment for a man (and I know, I'm sorry for the gender bias) to write a female protagonist where, not once, I questioned her own innate feminity and/or characterization (see Updike for any proof of how to get this wrong, wrong).

All in all, it's my favourite to win the Giller this year, but I'm not taking any bets as to what'll actually happen.

Number One Reason...

Why I would make a terrible housewife:

1. I never check the pockets, of ANYTHING, hence as I just threw my RRHB's work clothes into the washing machine, I also washed his totally expensive phone. Yes, it went in the wash. Do you think it'll survive after it dries? I don't.

Bad, bad wife.

Top 10 Reasons Why I Know I Am Now Old

When I was at the kidney doctor's the other day, when he said, "How do you feel?" I replied that I felt great, except for feeling old. He was very serious for a minute and wanted to know if I felt old because I was unwell or if I was half-joking. Of course, I'm half-joking, but I do honestly feel super old these days. On the streetcar ride home I tried to think of all the reasons why I feel so old, particularly this year:

1. Because I've had the disease for over 15 years. That's almost 20 years of going through medical problems. 20 years is a long, long time.

2. I can no longer listen to pop radio. Now, I listen to the CBC in the car. Oddly, when growing up, as other parents listened to the CBC in their cars, mine always listened to pop radio. I am convinced it's because my parents were still so young when they had me. They didn't have the chance to grow out of it, to some extent.

3. I have no idea who the majority of the people are who won MTV Video Awards. No clue.

4. I bought a dress from Anne Klein to wear to a wedding.

5. I carry a purse. All. The. Time. I don't even own a non-work related knapsack.

6. My hair is grey, very, very grey.

7. I have very little patience for public transit despite being incredibly concerned about climate change.

8. Speaking of which, I found myself having a crush, for a nano-second, on Peter MacKay. And then I saw the pictures of him with Condoleeza Rice and decided that it was very, very wrong to have a crush on Peter MacKay.

9. When I meet new people they are always very shocked when they hear my age and almost always say, "You don't look [insert your age here]." My tried and true response is always, "But I sure feel it."

10. I have almost decided I will no longer wear my rock and roll t-shirts. Almost. But that begs the question, what will I wear instead? I have very few (read: none), non rock and roll t-shirts.

See, OLD.

Good Grief

This frightens me. Who buys a Nickelback album, truly? Who walks in to the store, slams it down on the counter and says to themselves, "I just bought a classic in the making"? It's been on the charts in the top 10 in the States for a year. That's 365 days people. And I can understand the inability to get away from them in Canada because every single bloody radio station other than the CBC plays them at least 4 times an hour, but in the States they have a choice. There's no CanCon. There's nothing forcing anyone to actually listen to Chad Kroger's absolutely banal lyrics. Why? Why? Why?

Audience Participation

So, I've been writing my pages (I'm up to 173) and feeling sorry for myself, which means I listen to sad songs over and over again.

Right now, "Wide Turn" by Greg MacPherson, before, "Hope There's Someone" by Antony and the Johnsons, before that, "Wild and Tangled" by Oh Susanna.

Now you.

The Tragic Left And Right Kidneys

Now that it's almost been two years since I had my right hip replaced, I can't really claim that it's so tragic any longer. It feels good, getting stronger every day, and it's the best decision I ever made (not having pain is such a revelation). So, last night, I took a dance class, and even if I was the elephant in the room, literally, it felt great to race across the room doing that modern jaunt I spent years in high school doing. The body has memory, of this I am convinced. Certain moves, Martha Graham-styles, have stuck with me, even if my mind finds triplets totally and utterly impossible to comprehend.

But what I liked most about the class was the inclusivity. It's a wide open space where you are there moving around as far or as close as you want your body to go. It's a kind of freedom I haven't felt in a long time, an exhilarating kind of joy that's been lost in the pain of my chronic hip failure for far too long, and one that, despite the stiffness in my back today, I'll be happy to continue.

But then my high came crashing down ever-so slightly after my visit with the nephrologist today. The good news? He's convinced that with my creatinine levels coming back down to 80% of normal (115) that the disease is almost in remission. The bad news? The damage the disease caused all those months is causing my kidney filters to leak too much protein through and into my organ. That means I might, depending on the results of yet another 24-hour urine test, have to take medicine for the REST OF MY LIFE.

And I cried. A lot. Because I don't want to take medicine for the rest of my life, not when everything I'm doing is to get better, and no matter what I do, I can't control what the disease has done to my body. And that's the worst thing about life, I think, in general, feeling that no matter what you do, some things will never change. I will always be diseased regardless of how hard I work to feel better.

My body is a bleak house today. Tomorrow, I'm sure, will be a better day.

The Giller Longlist

They announced the Giller longlist yesterday. I've only read two of the books (Friends of Meager Fortune and Jpod), which leaves me hoping they are at least both on the shortlist so I don't have that much catching up to do this fall.

TRH TV - The Wire

Our Faux-Vo will be working overtime in a couple of weeks, which is why I'm glad my all-time favourite show of all-time started last night on TMI, The Wire. It's such a smart, searing look at life in a major US city, in this case, Baltimore, with each season having a different focus of the wire taps (those of the shows title). This year, their focus is on the kids, the drug runners, the clean-up artists (the chilling opening has a young teenager buying a nail gun, paying for it in cash, and speaking a language I had to rewind three times just to make sure I sort of understood), and the corner rats.

It's up and down of society, from the higher echelons of politics (and not unlike Brotherhood in that respect) to the politics of the modern drug wars, it's shaping up to be quite a season. I've been saying it for a while, but to borrow a phrase from EW, it's the best show you're not watching.

Okay back to abridging. But blogging is just so much more fun.

RRHB On The Big Screen

If anyone's going to see the Douglas Coupland penned Everything's Gone Green at the Film Fest this weekend, keep an ear peeled for my RRHB's "Small Town Murder Scene," a part of the soundtrack.

Fun, eh?

#54 - A Spot Of Bother

Mark Haddon's latest novel caught me off guard. Of course, the expectation that it would be good was off the charts, especially after the success of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, but if I was pushed, I might admit that I liked A Spot of Bother even better.

It's a more ambitious novel, as it attempts to tell the story of the Hall family, in the weeks leading up to daughter Katie's wedding. The patriarch of the family, George, is having a hard time coming to terms with life in its latter stages as his obsessive fear of dying moves from a quirky hypochondria to a full-blown manic attack. George's wife, Jean, has some troubles of her own, namely, an ex-coworker of her husband's named David. George and Jean have two kids: Katie, the aforementioned daughter (who has a son of her own), and Jamie, who has been involved for the last while with Tony, a man he somewhat refuses to admit he loves. No one likes Katie's fiance, Ray, well, maybe it's more that no one truly understands why they're getting married. The stories of all of these characters are interwoven as the meat of the plot revolves around the will they or won't they nuptials.

That doesn't mean A Spot of Bother is Katie's story, far from it, in fact. The book finds a delicate balance between each of the characters, allowing their own dramas, and their own daily lives, to find a way into the novel. It's a truthful, honest and biting look at family life, from a truly honest point of view. Not unlike Black Swan Green, Haddon has a way of creating characters, while defined somewhat by the plot of the novel, are also clearly drawn and intriguing. A delicate balance of Haddon's brisk prose and impressive characterizations means that A Spot of Bother is funny, intelligent and moving all at the same time. I'd highly recommend it for a Sunday afternoon read, for those hours when the house is clean, the shopping is done, dinner is planned and you have an entire afternoon to yourself to enjoy the simple bliss of wickedly written words on the page.

The Lululemon Plunge

I swore I would never do it. I would never walk into that pretty pink and blue storefront and buy ridiculously expensive, let's be honest, pajamas disguised as workout gear. And yet, today, I found myself biking down Bloor Street wondering where on Earth I was going to find some dance pants. Yes, you read that correctly. Ragdoll v. 2.0, tragic right hip-styles, is stepping back on to the sprung floor for the first time in well over fifteen years. So I broke down and bought some stuff from the dreaded Lululemon, who kindly gave me 50 cents off for not taking a bag. And I admit it, I was wrong about them. The pants I bought are super comfortable as is the dance top so, bloody hell, I hate it when the hippies are right.

All through high school and up until my second year of university when my hip first started to truly degenerated, I danced. Like so many girls I know, we ate far too little, wore ugly black leotards with pink tights, and plied with our turnouts stretched to the limits. And yet, as much as I enjoyed it, I wasn't meant for it, and my body quit on me quite early. I could blame the disease, which was a big reason why I stopped dancing. When you're taking prednisone, they don't like you do high-impact exercise because the drug is so hard on your bones (hence the tragic hip), but since then, I've never really had any form of what you would call regular exercise.

That's years, people.

Oh sure, I've spent many a summer biking all over the city, and we do walk a fair amount being urban dwellers, but the more my hip melted in my body, the less I could do. And then I got sick. And then sicker. And now almost two years of the magical hip have passed and I still haven't found any sense of regular, healthy exercise. Too afraid, with my "prednisone 25" to put on a bathing suit and jump in a pool, and with the ragdoll aerobics seriously unstructured, I need something that gets me moving, and something that carries on into the winter when it's too cold to ride my bike.

Hence, Technique I at the school at the Toronto Dance Theatre. A girlfriend of mine suggested it and we're going to go together, which makes me happy, considering we danced together all through high school. Anyway, if I'm totally crippled and exhausted on Wednesday morning when I go see the kidney doctor for yet another disease check up, at least it'll be a happy kind of tired, one that might help me finally lose some weight.

Speaking of which, I've started my annual no sugar, no wheat (where I can) and no dairy (except yoghurt) diet. Last year I failed miserably and think I lasted about two weeks. I'm already well into week one (pathetic, I know) but haven't totally cracked. I had some nachos at my first Writer's Group meeting on Wednesday and a burrito last night when I had dinner with my cousins, but have had absolutely no sugar (fruit yes, sugar, no).

If I put it all together, maybe the goal of being truly, truly healthy this year will actually be achieved. And how nice would it be to cross that mother farker off the list.

#53 - The Ruins

Okay, I was so afraid while reading Scott Smith's The Ruins that I went ahead while only halfway through and read the bloody ending. I couldn't take it anymore. I was that scared. While I'm technically not quite finished (I have about 10 pages in between where I am and the ending I already read), I feel quite confident I can blog about it because I'm going to finish it this afternoon while waiting at the hospital for bloodletting.

So, the novel takes place in Mexico and the main characters are all, of course, on a lovely sunny vacation. Four Americans, Jeff and Amy, Eric and Stacy, are on one last hurrah after finishing university (or, I guess, college as they say in the States). When Mathius, a young German man, asks them to accompany him to find his missing brother who disappeared while chasing a girl in the title's ruins, they set off on what they hope will be a day-long adventure.

Armed with no other information except a crudely drawn map, the five of them, along with a Greek friend (who doesn't speak their language) they call Pablo, leave the resort early one morning after a heavy night of drinking. Nothing goes right, of course: they're dropped off in the wrong place; the taxi charges them too much money; they run into a decidedly unfriendly Mayan village, and soon they've moved past what I'd like to call the point of no return.

I don't want to give even a hint of what happens away because it would deter you from actually reading the book and being as bone-chilled scared as I was—I read the majority of the novel up at the cottage last weekend and was literally shaking in bed. Never a fan of horror movies or even scary books (mysteries, yes, but Stephen King-type novels, not so much), The Ruins is so well written and so literary that it's more of a character study in a truly horrific situation than a run of the mill blood, guts and gore book.

Oh, and there are no chapters, so you are sucked right in and carted along without even being able to take a breath. And the sun is hot, very, very, very hot.

Which Greek God Are You Like?

While looking around the internet for litblogs to work with, I stumbled across the Greek Mythology Personality Test (high kicks to Bookworm for the link). So, turns out I'm most like Orpheus. It's good to know that the quiz has picked up on how sissy and sensitive I actually am. Sigh. Oh, and watch out Icarus, you'd better stay out of my way and not the other way around.

Orpheus
0% Extroversion, 80% Intuition, 100% Emotiveness, 57% Perceptiveness
You are an artist, an aesthete, a sensitive, and someone who has never really let go of that childlike innocence. To you, all of life has a sense of wonder in it, and the story of Orpheus was written about someone just like you.

When the Argo passed the island of the Sirens, Orpheus played a song more beautiful than the Sirens to prevent the crew from becoming enticed. When his wife died, he ventured into the underworld to charm Hades but, in his naivete, he looked back becoming trapped there.

You can capture your unique world view and relate it to others with the skill of a master storyteller. Your sensitivity and creativity make you a treasure to the human race, but your thin-skinned nature and innocence can cause you a lot of disenchantment and pain. What's doubly unfortunate is that, if you try to lose those traits, you never will, and everyone will be able to tell that you're putting up an artificial shell to prevent yourself from being hurt.

Famous people like you: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Mr. Rogers, Melville, Nick Tosches
Stay clear of: Icarus, Hermes, Atlas

An Old Fashioned Weekend

With the fact that my RRHB will soon be so self-employed that he'll be working just on our house, we've come to the conclusion that we'll have to make the majority of our Christmas presents this year.

Making Christmas presents has been on the backburner for a while now. For years I've wanted to get out my sewing machine, actually learn how to use it, and make pretty things; I'd love to knit fast enough that I can get presents done quicker, and in some sense just contribute in a very old fashioned way to the gift giving season this winter.

Well, we started up north this weekend. We made grape jelly, spaghetti sauce and home-made ketchup, all of which are actually super-tasty. It's hard work but feels good like I am using the products in my backyard to give life to the people I love. I know it's corny. But I felt kind of proud of ourselves none the less.

So, this year everyone is getting home-made gifts from our Brockton Berries canning company. Heh.

TRH Movie - Paul Schneider = Hot. Always.

Last year, I went to go see Elizabethtown, which is an entirely mediocre movie, as I've said in these very pages. I've been rewatching it tonight in bits and pieces. But you know even if the movie is a total mess and the script kind of mundane, there's a bare twinkle of a heart there. It's faint goodness, like an almost half-dead star, comes from Paul Schneider, whom I adore. ADORE. Like want to run him up here to Canada and give him a big arty hug.

Because when he says, "This loss with be greeted with a hurricane of love." I've spent every minute since replaying that line in my head, so much so that it's all over my thoughts for the (I'm hesitating) "novel" I'm working on right now. It's about death, for sure, but it's also about mothers who should have never had kids, about a time where it was very rough, and about how the place defines you.

Annwaayyy. Elizabethtown was better the second time around, it became slightly more nuances, due, entirely to the main two male leads. But especially with Paul Schneider. Because damn, if he ain't the hottest thing in the movie, well, I might have to light fire to a giant freebird myself.

Aw, So Funny

Despite how funny this post is from Torontoist, still, under no circumstances, not even if Entertainment Weekly asked me to review it, would I go see Bon Cop, Bad Cop.

100 Mile Diet

I am absolutely fascinated by the 100 Mile Diet. Especially with the stat that "when the average North American sits down to eat, each ingredient has typically travelled at least 1500 miles from farm to plate."

Imagine all that gas, all those trucks, all that industry, that's just gone in to my eating a potato with my frozen (but now cooked, obviously) tuna burger. I wouldn't even know where to start. In my pale "environmentalism," I carefully check the labels so that I'm buying Canadian produce, but that doesn't mean that it still hasn't travelled hours and hours and kilometres and kilometres to get to the grocery store.

The Cold Grabbed My Brain And Wouldn't Let Go

So, I slept until 1 PM this afternoon. Truly, I haven't done that since my mid-twenties. Then, yesterday I shaved one of my legs in the shower and, well, not the other.

Today I spent much of it doing research for the Western. I am 171 pages in and trying to figure out where to do some workshopping. One friend suggested Humber College - but it's $2500 - which is a heck of a lot.

But it might be totally worth it and I know the writer I want to work with would be excellent.

Anyway. I am reading too, but most of the books I can't talk about for a few weeks.

Anyone out there taken a good writing seminar? Any suggestions?

Crap.

I have a cold. Sniff. And I feel very sorry for Pluto (link via Idiosyncratic Mind). Is it wrong to apply totally random human emotions on a ball of floating gassy ice (if that's even what it's made out of)?

TRH TV - Total Guilty Pleasure

So the impending fall season, of course, sends me off into never-ending fits of glee, and it also makes it somewhat tolerable to watch whatever crap is being peddled this time of year. I, ahem, watched half an episode of Windfall (Ew. Very, very bad). I got totally hooked on Showtime's Brotherhood, which is kind of like a combination of The Wire my all-time favourite television show, and The Sopranos, only they're Irish and live in Rhode Island. So all in all, it's been a passable summer, especially with Jeremy Piven to watch on Entourage.

But my new guilty pleasure? Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List. It's okay, you can be embarrassed for me. I know it's not high-brow entertainment, but it's just such a likeable show, mainly because Griffin is so up front about her fame (or lack thereof), her life (or lack thereof) and her comedy that I can't stop watching it.

I'd have to admit that I don't watch a lot of reality television, the odd episode of Jackass when it was still on, one or two episodes of the Nick and Jessica debacle, the first season of Survivor and the one season of The Amazing Race that Amber and Rob were on, and that's about it. Oh, and my RRHB forces me to watch American Idol, but only the auditions, because he enjoys them so much. And yet, once I watched half an episode of MLOTDL, I was hooked. I have it programmed into the Faux-Vo permanently and scheduled the episodes not to erase in case I decide to go back and watch them again.

When Is Too Much Too Much?

Part of my fancy-ass job is to take people out to lunch. Today I went to Wish, on Charles Street E., downtown. We ordered a basic lunch but the bill was giant. "Why?", you ask? Because we paid $17.00 FOR WATER. Once we found out that the water cost $8.50 a bottle, WITHOUT TAX, we drank every last drop.

Sigh.

TRH Movie - The Illusionist & Snakes On A Plane

Well, I don't think there's two different movies I could have seen this past weekend. On Friday night, the RRHB and I went to see The Illusionist. He had heard Jesse Wente on Metro Morning raving about it and wanted to see it. I had read about it in EW (of course) and also heard the CBC report, so I went along with it.

Anyway. I quite liked it: it's very stylized, has a good script, Paul Giamatti is excellent and I heart Ed Norton when he's actually acting (unlike Down in the Valley where he simply channeled) in a project that I can respect.

However, I would have enjoyed it more if they didn't digitally enhance the magic and/or illusions, but maybe represented them historically as they were, but again, I'm not sure if the tricks he did even existed or not when the film is set. And, I don't mean to be all, "I saw the twist coming," but honestly, I totally did—I mean the film is called The Illusionist so you sort of figure he's going to do one giant, ahem, act by the end.

The RRHB didn't like it as much but I think that had more to do with his movie going experience than anything else. The only theatre in town the film was playing at was the Cumberland where the seats are shitty, the air terrible (as it it doesn't exist) and we sat way to one end, which means you feel totally claustrophobic. So when he's grumpy in a movie he talks through it, moves around a lot and asks me repeatedly if we want to leave. Heh.

And then on Sunday afternoon I went to see Snakes on a Plane. Holy crap, it's so funny, but so bad, but I guess that's truly the point. And when Samuel L. Jackson does the whole "motherf*^king snakes on the motherf*^king plane" line that's all over the interweb, the whole audience hooted and clapped. Hilarious and awesome at the same time. I haven't had such a fun movie experience since Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. Cuba!

Oh, but one tiny criticism: instead of "fancy snake doctor" someone, somewhere working on the damn film, especially the FBI guy, whose job it is to, oh, I don't know, be smart or something, should have called him a herpetologist, because that's what they ARE. Has no one watched National Geographic?

Deer Lake, 2006

In a desperate bid for comments, any comments, any one out there? I'm giving you a new poem, "Deer Lake, 2006," and I swear to God that the inspiration for this poem came from a very "infamous" person they played on the radio up north. And then turned ugly when it obviously became about something else—wanna guess what's the inspiration behind the poem? And then feel free to trash it or not, but likely yah...I know it kind of sucks, but I can feel Ken Babstock saying to me, "Just put a little pressure on it."

Deer Lake, Summer 2006

The odd contrast of barge on a small body of water,
his sound carries, like helicopters in the night.
Noise of beer and pine needles, stripped now of the
intensity of the 1970s, it sounds oddly theatrical.
Soundstages and Broadway, all things misplaced on this lake,
here where loons call deep into the night
and the water always seems warmer when you're in it.

And you want him like you want another beer,
knowing that it's better not to imbibe too much too soon,
or your secrets come bawling out in the spider-infested outhouse,
where the sound is undeniably the best.

First kisses and lost nights to poker, pinochle and Moscow mules,
nothing changes except you, you who tells nothing of us to them,
taking the words right out of my mouth, just as I inch towards singing them:
out loud, not forgotten, this place, our place, your choice,
you took the words out, which meant you took me out, leaving me, there
beside the dock, watching for the sound to carry.

To Chick Lit Or Not To Chick Lit

Ever since Bridget Jones tottered in on her spiky shoes ten years ago, the merits of chick lit have been argued and debated among women writers on this here interweb. Oddly, I've never seen a debate over "serious" writers like Cormac McCarthy and, just for the hell of it, John Grisham, regarding the "merits" of law fluff and all its implications on contemporary literature. I mean that doesn't get people all in a flurry. Where are the blogosphere debates about why one sells so much less than the other and who out there is complaining about the lack of literary merit in "male"-centric popular fiction?

And yet, we (the royal we, the "women" we) seem to be unable, as a group to just let each other write whatever the hell we feel needs to be written. It's like taking the school yard chatter of the popular girls (the non-chick lit writers) and consistently forcing the less-than-popular girls (the chick lit writers) to eat at the table next to the cafeteria while pointing and laughing at them. Is a chick lit author any less of a writer because her cover is pink and maybe features shoes in a stunningly sexy way? I don't think so...oh, and isn't that baby pink lettering I spy on the cover of This Is Not Chick Lit? To me, it all just sounds like people are upset more about how popular chick lit has become more than anything: the whole idea that if everyone in middle Canada or America is reading The Devil Wears Prada that must mean the book is crap, because the masses are always wrong with a capital "W" when it comes to culture.

Yet, I think that championing women writers, of all kinds, is important, especially in the day and age where less books are being read by less people, and it becomes harder and harder to find good fiction no matter what side of the debate you end up on. I'll read Jennifer Weiner in an afternoon and cry my eyes out, and then pick up something heftier the next day and have an equally enjoyable experience. There's room in my cafeteria for all kinds of writing and I don't see why one has to make the very important point of crying in all caps that you are, by definition, not a chick lit anthology helps matters any. Seems to me that the editor is simply trying to draw attention to herself by abusing the very thing she purports not to be, and that's the worst kind of attention. How to make yourself feel better by putting other people down, now, isn't that first sign of not having enough self-confidence? How very Mean Girls of her.

In short, me thinks the pink doth protest too much. Proclaiming to be the "best" of anything makes me cringe, I mean, not even Google lets you use that word in an ad because nowadays it means absolutely nothing.

#52.5 - The Last Juror

Again, The Last Juror by John Grisham isn't really the book I'd read anywhere other than maybe, and let's just say maybe, on a beach in Mexico because I'd finished all of my other books and it's the only thing left lying around the room. That said, it makes a truly engaging audio book, and I thoroughly enjoyed listening to it.

All tolled, it took most of my time in the car for the last week to get through it, but as it finally ended, I sat in the car for about five minutes listening to the end before going in to the office.

The sprawling story of Willie Traynor, a small-town newspaper owner who befriends Miss Callie, the matron of a large black family in Mississippi, The Last Juror opens with a violent murder, one that has the entire community of Clanton up in arms. As the next ten years unfold, the story of the paper, and of its owner, Traynor, comes to life beside the story of Miss Callie and her incredible family. The trial of the murderer, Danny Padgitt, becomes the focal point for the meat and potatoes of the book. The story sprawls like an old plantation porch, filling in the lively details of country, small-town life, and I suppose it'll be made into a movie at some point (isn't that a Grisham pre-requisite?).

And I'd give it one and a half solid thumbs up in terms of keeping you awake on a long drive. One thing's for certain, you'll be drawling in your sleep and longing for a cup of sweet tea before the book's finished.

Kick It!

So even though my Summer Reading challenge has catapulted into a steaming pile of nothingness, my Page A Day has carried on quite well. Here are the stats:

Word count: 36,431
Page count: 162

Not so bad even if much of the story is filler until I can do some much-needed research. I'm going to try to finish a draft that I think will come in around 225 pages and then start editing and re-writing.

Whee!

#52 - Veronica

Mary Gaitskill's Veronica (yes, yes, I KNOW, not on my Summer Reading list, let's just give up the ghost now on that, ahem, agenda) came highly recommended by Crabby Kate, who enjoyed it a great deal. I read this book on Friday, after a particularly gruelling few days of writing myself, where I added about fifty-odd pages to my latest story. The point? That my mind wandered a lot during the tale, which probably has more to do with my own state of mind than in Gaitskill's storytelling.

Veronica follows the life of Alison, a once young and beautiful model whose life and career is left in ruins after an accident. During the almost-height of her success, she befriends an office worker/"fag hag" whose tempestuous relationship has left her with AIDS and a broken heart. The novel tracks the peaks and valleys of their odd friendship as it develops Alison's story, from high school dropout to Parisian runway model, from New York fashion model to West Coast victim, as she comes to terms with her own illness, hepatitis C. The novel has no conventional storyline, no true narrative held together by the constraints of time, but it seems to work as a series of memories that serve to take the reader from one page to the next.

The discombobulated state of the narrative obviously echoes Alison's own fragile psyche, and being a girl with a disease herself, I identified with the "sick" part of the book: Veronica's slowly decaying body, Alison's tattered wreck of an arm from a car crash, both of their diseases a result of choices they made, but not necessarily on their own—more a sign of how desperately unhappy they both were, that unhappiness somewhat tying them together in the end.

It's a terribly melancholy novel, but I didn't really mind that considering I watched Before Sunset and Shakespeare in Love to balance out the feeling of wanting to dive off the dock and never surface in the evening after I finished the book ("Oh, baby, you're going to miss that plane!", LOVE IT), all in all I think it truly deserves the kudos its received (National Book Award nomination, etc.). Not as fascinated by the life of an ex-model, or by modelling in general, that whole "Gia-on-paper" bit is a tad overplayed, the book is a consistent example of creative writing at its novelistic best.

Deja Vu

My week up at the cottage has been super productive. I have written 156 pages on my story, made a very small start on my next abridged novel and have gone swimming every day. My crackberry works in some places enough to text my RRHB, which is cool and I've watched a few of my favourite movies.

Today I am sitting in The Windmills Cafe in Kingston. I haven't been back here since I graduated from university 10 years ago. Funny thing too, the last time I ate here, I had food poisoning. And when Hannah went back to complain for me as I threw up for two days, the fellow TOOK A BITE and said, "Seems fine to me."

Ah, Kingston.

Procrastination Eventually Becomes Productivity

Oh so I'd like to think. So far, my goal of writing a Page A Day has been going okay, even though I can't remember now where I started, but I'm at 91 pages and have over 20,000 words. That's the longest I've consecutively written in my life. Generally I write series and series of short stories that never link together into anything remotely resembling a longer piece. Anyway, the longer I sit here, the more that I seem to write, even if it feels like I've wasted an already gone day.

Keep Feeling Procrastination

I should be packing. I should be pulling the weeds out of our massively overgrown vegetable garden. I should be reading or working on my pages or starting my two new books or redeeming my iTunes gift certificate Zesty gave me for my birthday.

What am I doing instead? Reading spoilers for Gilmore Girls next season, catching up on bad celebrity gossip and reading way, way too much into my horoscope for this month.

And yet, I feel so guilty for doing, well nothing, even though we've been so bloody busy so far this summer and haven't really stopped to well, even grocery shop (which, when I told my RRMIL [rock and roll mother-in-law] that we hadn't bought groceries in close to a month, she gasped, audibly), that I should be catching up on something—and yet I can't pull myself out of this chair to even wash my face or brush my teeth.

Now aren't you embarrassed for me?

#51 - Literacy And Longing In L.A.

Yes, I know this book isn't on my Summer Reading list, but I've been so brain dead I wanted some chicklit. It's the story of Dora, a 35-year-old, almost-twice divorced woman who lives in a book-induced stupor and, for many reasons, this novel doesn't ever really get off the ground for me. In fact, I have precious little to say except I quite agree with John Allemang's Book A Day review.

I'm heading up to the cottage tomorrow for a week and a bit—fingers crossed I get some real reading done up there.

Stating The Obvious 101

So, the headline for this article in the Canoe books section is: "Reference books offer useful info."

Huh. You'd think that was, well, the point or something? I mean OF COURSE they do they are REFERENCE books. That's the only reason THEY EXIST. Sigh.

TRH Movie - Clerks II

Aw, you have to be a true Kevin Smith fan to love this movie, which I am, which I did. And it's nice to be pleasantly surprised by it...I didn't laugh so hard I peed my pants like when I saw Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, but I did find myself giggling like a silly fool and gasping at a couple of the truly shocking moments. And it's nice to see Jason Mewes so tanned, fit and healthy-looking.

Clerks II has an indie feel to it, lots of cameos, not much of a storyline (Dante and Randal BFF, they break up, they're BFF, there's a love triangle, we see Kevin Smith's wife's boobs, Jay dances), but it was sweet, and even kind of generous in a strange sort of way. And you know, not to spoil it, but doesn't every movie need a good throw down over the counter of a Mooby's with Wanda Sykes? Oh yes, I think it does.

If I have one small criticism is that I'm getting a little tired of the boy-who-refuses-to-grow-up storylines that seem to be dominating so many of the men in my age group on screen. I think EW had something about that in the magazine this week. Especially after seeing the atrocious You, Me and Dupree, if I ever hear, "30 is the new 20," or "40 is the new 30," one more time, I will not be responsible for the hair I might rip out. What's wrong with acting your age, which isn't the message of this movie (rather, be who you are and be happy that you can, well, be happy), but I mean really how many aging playboy/partyboys can there be in the current mainstream?

But I guess that's sort of what this movie has in common, to some extent, with The Break-Up, which was kind of Vince Vaughn's character's evolution out of that whole man-boy trap. Because in the end, it's nice to see how the ten years have actually changed the men in this movie, beyond the (slightly) thinner hair, beginning wrinkles around the eyes and world-wearied expressions.

Małe kobietki

Do you know what that means? Well, neither did I until yesterday when a Polish edition of my abridged version of Little Women showed up in the mail. How awesome is that?

Can I now refer to myself as "Ragdoll, Blogger and International Author"? Or is that just a tad too pretentious?

Oh, No, You Didn't

Okay, remember when I said that having ecoli in my pee was the grossest medical thing that ever happened to me? Yeah, well, not even two weeks later, let me tell you—something even grosser.

I threw up IN MY SLEEP the other night.

And I woke up feeling totally off centre and right disgusted. And it wasn't a dream because, well, it wasn't (and that's all I'm going to say about that).

#50.5 Girl, (Nearly) 16: Absolute Torture

Now, I'm calling this #50.5 because I didn't actually read the book but rather listened to it on CD. Sue Limb's cute YA novel about Jess, a totally overly dramatic, dark-haired pixie of a girl with self-described 'podge,' is forced to go on a vacation with her librarian of a mother just as her relationship with her boyfriend Fred heats up, could be described as "ultimate" girlie fiction. It's got a cute, Gilmore Girls-like tone, tells the story of British Jess with panache and humour, and actually made me laugh out loud a couple of times. The story, while predictable, was still somewhat fresh, and I liked listening to it.

It's taken a bit of time to get used to the idea of audio books, but now that I've started, I'm totally addicted. I listened to half of The Husband by Dean Koontz (I KNOW!) and it was awesome and now I'm on to John Grisham's The Last Juror. It's funny how fiction I would never, ever in my life admit to reading, I'm more than happy to pop into the CD player in the car. It's the auditory equivalent of watching Law & Order or some other cop drama, or what that stands for in my life, something passable to make the time fly by as I'm getting from one place to the other (usually from being awake to being asleep).

Anyway. Do audio books even count toward my final reading goals? I don't know and don't much care, for now, I'm always going to count them as point fives.

Things That You Think About On A Long Drive

Or so I thought on our way home yesterday:

1. That I probably shouldn't have had that one last glass of wine at the awesomely cool Tribeca Grand hotel bar because it made me very cranky.

2. Why do many people no longer use the passing lane as, well, a passing lane and insist upon driving in it therefore slowing traffic down to a halt?

3. New York City is so large that it's even hard to imagine when you've driven pretty much from one end to the other. And you can walk for hours and still be in a part that's considered downtown. And there's so much to see and to do that even though you've walked through Soho, the East Village, Greenwich Village, the Upper East Side, Alphabet City, a small part of Brooklyn, and the Financial District, you've barely scratched the surface.

4. Silence is good. As well as the "mix tapes" from a friend in Ireland. How fun is music by people you've never heard of?

5. You should really be driving a hybrid car but that doesn't stop you from giving obnoxious Hummers the finger—even if your mother did teach you to be polite.

6. Running around Brooklyn in high heels, playing "find the person" and sliding down a slide really seemed like a good idea at the time. Honestly, it did.

7. The border people are much nicer on the Canadian side.

8. Travelling truly messes up your sense of days. We got home on Sunday night and watched our usual shows but we both had to keep reminding ourselves that it was Entourage night and not Brotherhood night.

9. I wish I had a camera for all of the cool things I saw on the side of the road.

10. There is a limit to the amount of junk food one can eat.

NYC - Day 4

The wedding was phenomenal. The weather—still hot—the city—still looming—Brooklyn, absolutely smashing, and I cannot believe I am still awake.

The giant blister on my foot atests to what a great f*cking day it's been.

Day 2 - NYC

There is no relief from the unrelenting heat in NYC. We drip the moment we step outside and smog-filled humidity has a hard time pumping oxygen into my scarred lungs.

Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side tenement museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.

Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.

We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.

But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).

And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.

Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?

Day 2 - New York Hotties

There is no relief from the unrelenting heat in NYC. We drip the moment we step outside and smog-filled humidity has a hard time pumping oxygen into my scarred lungs.

Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side Tenement Museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.

Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.

We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.

But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).

And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.

Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?

Perhaps they can swap some furniture as their next heist and donate it to the ragdoll needs to renovate her house and will make mad deals with any one willing to capitolize on her mad skills.

HA!

Kick it! We saw "a" Paul's Boutique today as well.

Okay off to bed. Must rest my 30 - 40 blocks walking legs.

On The Road And In The City

We ate breakfast in Scranton. Can you believe it? I was this-close to my dream of eventually being on "The Office."

The giant map of NYC sucked us in and we got wicked lost. The best part? It didn't end up a full-on fight.

Our hotel is steps away from Ground Zero. We walked by and I can help but think of it as grave yard to some extent.

Then we spent 4 hours walking around. We had dinner at the mac & cheese place I read about on Tara's site (holler! Taraariano.com).

This city is amazing. It's sweltering. You sweat just by stepping one beat down the road.

I love that we drove though. I thought a lot about Kerouac and the long trips they made. Damn I love a good road trip. Last night we stayed in rub-down motel off hiway 81 - there was a bug in the bed.

Heh.

I Was Born Today

It's such a strange thought to think of my mother in labour, pressing me out into the world, as if she or I had any choice in the matter. Birthdays generally make me more sad than jubilant, for the most part because they make me think of losing my mother, and now as this year I pass the her fatal age (last year I turned the age she was when she had the accident), it's kind of hard to even think about getting older.

I think there's some psychological breakdown when you lose a parent at a youngish age (I was 14). They become suspended in time for you, of course, but you also have a hard time imagining yourself getting past that age. You simply assume your life is going to end somewhere around that time too. It's not logical and maybe it's a product of a sort of grief. Who knows.

But I've had a lovely birthday so far (starting yesterday): my work colleagues got me a gorgeous cake and a cute little present, I got a nice card from my father and stepmother, I'm having brunch with my friend Tina and tonight we're going to NYC.

And now the year starts again—a kind of new year revolution for me: what do I want to accomplish this year? A first draft of one of my novels, finish the house, be an extra in a movie, read lots, write more, and most of all, be healthy.

#50 - I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors

Bernice Eisenstein's book is important, there's no doubt about that, and it's got that charming, graphic novel style that reads more like a series of memories than a pure narrative. Her illustrations are charming and I liked learning more about life in Toronto for her Jewish immigrant parents. Especially reading about Kensington Market thirty or forty years ago.

But, and isn't there always a but, I wasn't blown away by it as I probably should have been, and I might put that down to the fact that I'm not entirely convinced I like graphic novels.

But perhaps I'm just reading the wrong ones?

And, well, I might as well give up my Summer Reading challenge—it's totally gone to pot. And Page A Day? Well, I'm doing a bit better—I'm at 82 (double spaced) and am hoping to break a hundred by mid-August. Now that's not too bad!

Blackberry Birthday

It's now moments from birthday and I have now discovered how to use my new Blackberry to blog. I just finished watching Underwold: Evolution, and am blissfully on the couch in the company of John Cusack & Diane Lane.

Only hours to NYC.

Oh, and the grossest health-related crap yet: I have ecoli in my pee.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Sigh.

The Green Butt Is Best

I'd really like to buy a pair of Del Forte Denim jeans, especially after reading this interview where owner/designer Tierra Del Forte explains that it takes two-thirds of a pound of pesticides to make one pair of jeans. But I doubt they'd have sizes that would fit my rather ample behind...

The Office & The Work Boyfriend

I've been obsessed, ob-sessed, with NBC's The Office. I've been Faux-voing all of the episodes each week, as well, I've been watching the webisodes (brilliant I say, brilliant) and have re-played, analyzed and re-watched the Pam and Jim kiss about a million times (well, three). And I'm wondering why I'm so overwhelmingly enthralled by the show? I know it's because the environment is just so much like my day-to-day job (not the people, just the idea of the job) that I find so much humour in how ridiculous life can be at Dunder-Mifflin.

And then at the cottage this weekend, I kept referencing The Office wherever I possibly could. We were sitting around at the dinner table talking about movies and I mentioned Desert Island (My five movies? It's so hard to choose because it's not only movies that you like but movies you can watch over and over again. I picked The Godfather II, Badlands, Tully, Underworld [I know!] and Unforgiven). In the end, that sort of spiraled into a discussion of other movies, but no one at the table got how funny it was that Jim's girlfriend picked Legally Blonde as her first movie (and not a bad choice by my estimation, but still...).

Absolutely stunned by the BBC version and delighted by the Christmas episodes, the American show resonates perhaps more because I relate so much to the Pam/Jim storyline. Long before my present job, before I went to graduate school and found a love for all things online, I worked as a receptionist at a big financial company here in Toronto. It was my first job out of university. It was awful. But I had a work boyfriend, not unlike Jim, and he was awesome—the very first instance of my abuse of work email, and most certainly not the real boyfriend I had at the time (who, by chance, also worked there). And I miss him to this day.

It was that stereotypical best-friend, eat lunch together every day, know more about them than you do most of your girlfriends that kept me going through that awful job where everyone got my name wrong, commented on my girlie voice and basically hit on me non-stop from nine-to-five. And then when I went to the big fancy media company, I brought the idea of the work boyfriend with me, and wanted that same experience. Alas, there were fun work boyfriends at the new place but no one that actually grabbed my heart and made me wish for things I had no right to think about.

But it kept me going: I had crushes, I mean, as a girl obsessed with chicklit and happy endings, of course I had crushes. And as the job got worse, and as unhappy as I was, it kept me going. If Trip Fontaine (the nickname for one of the massive crushes), talked to me, well, I glowed. If the other boy I fancied dropped by my office and chatted for a minute, I blushed for hours. And lately, I've been mulling over a chicklit story in my head and have kept coming back to the idea of how work boyfriends came into existence and how to spin it into a story that someone other than me would like to read.

For the majority of my adult life, from my mid-twenties to my now-married state, I've been involved with my RRHB. Now, let's take for granted the fact that I love him dearly, or else I wouldn't have married him. Still eight, nine years is a long, long time to be with someone and there are only so many Ethan Hawke movies one can watch before her eyes start to wander and her heart aches just to prove she's still, well, a girl.

So, I crave the quasi excitement of a crush, of something that makes me feel attractive no matter how bad I look or how much weight I've gained or how bad my skin is from the meds. Oddly enough, there are no suitable work boyfriends where I am currently, but that's okay because I'm still going on the old ones, thinking of how nice it would be to run into them again or wondering what they're doing. But without that daily dose of work boyfriend-ness, I find that maybe I've grown out of the work boyfriend stage? I mean, I've entered non-stop adulthood at this new job. I mean the signs are everywhere: I listen to CBC in the morning, I find myself craving good literature online (what?) and I forget everything if it's not written down. Should I mourn the passing and just accept that real life means growing out of my adolescent style crushes?

But I'll forever miss the work boyfriend drive-by, the butterflies from when he stops by your office (now cubicle, sniff), the fun, flirty emails—it all just makes the time go by so much faster at work. Hence, The Office, and why it's the epitome of my life these days, and why I'll obsessively wait to see what happens to Pam and Jim, perhaps mistaking them, ever so slightly for real people, ones that I see everyday.

Okay so 'fess up? What are your desert island movies?

Ever Have One Of Those Days?

Where everything seems to go wrong? I called Sears today to see about the whole brand-new washer that doesn't work issue—and they were rude and completely and utterly unhelpful. Quite possibly the worst customer service experience I've ever had. So not only do we have to pay to fix the lemon of a washer, we might not even be able to return now—even if it doesn't WORK.

Yesterday, I put some cranberry juice in a glass and carried it, with my dinner, into the TV room to watch Coronation Street. The bottom fell out of the glass. Cranberry juice all over the floor. Forty minutes later of mopping up, mopping down and wiping up, my feet were still sticky. And the reason for the cranberry juice? I'm pretty sure I have a UTI from either the meds or the disease, but that will be confirmed today by the super-fancy disease doctor (I hope).

Today, I found out that a package I was sending to the US via FedEx couldn't go because I needed to fill out different paperwork. That package? Has now disappeared into the ether—no one knows where it is. Apparently, a driver picked it up and brought it to Customer Service. Which is where? Well, that's anyone's guess. I've been on the phone all morning with FedEx and Kinkos, where I dropped it off, and no one can find it.

And today I have to go see the super-fancy disease doctor, I'm hoping all of the crappy-ass crazy things that are happening don't translate to my visit with him because it could take hours anyway as he'll be so behind by the time I get there at 4 PM.

What do you guys to do cheer yourself up when the entire day seems to be working against you?

EDITED TO ADD: I just checked my bank statement and noticed that I've got a whopping $0.44 to my name until payday? How did that get so out of control on top of everything else?

EDITED TO ADD TO ADD: That I've just found out that my RRHB has to work on the eve of my birthday. So instead of working during the day, he's got to work at night, which means no birthday dinner for me.

Now, I'm just trying not to cry because it's been kind of an annoying day and I can't even see the humour in it. Oh wait.

No, still not funny.

Now?

No.

Sniff.

EDITED TO ADD TO ADD TO ADD: That my own personal suffering and utter sense of being totally self-involved today does nothing to downplay how serious and troubling the events are in the Middle East.

Okay, I'm now going to end the longest blog post ever and stop feeling sorry for myself.

The Good, The Bad, The Totally Frustrating

Another busy weekend, well, Sunday anyway, I spent much of yesterday just reading and trying not to fall totally asleep because of the heat. At least I finished Until I Find You and have now started Of Human Bondage. As well as trying to get started on my two new abridgments.

Annnywaaay. So my lovely and generous aunt and uncle had bought us a brand new washer and dryer a while back, when we first bought the house. They've essentially been in storage because we didn't want to hook them up in the gross old basement but now that it'll be a lot longer until our main floor is renovated, I was very tired of spending two hours waiting for the old dryer to finish. Today, my RRHB hooked them all up, after spending yesterday and today re-wiring and re-tubing the basement. My father-in-law came to help him cart around the appliances, which was very sweet of him. They're shiny. They're brand new. All good, right?

Wrong.

The washer doesn't work. We keep getting some sort of electrical error F11, and I should have known anything called Elite would have problems. So, it's brand new, the box has never been opened, but it's been in storage for the past 18 months. What does that mean? Oh, the warranty has expired (of course) and we have to pay to get it fixed. Isn't that awesome?

Oh, and we can't return it either, because it's been too long, so no matter what we do, we're screwed.

And I'm so tired of annoying "customer service" people who are so condescending and absolutely assholey saying things like, "That's a lesson learned the hard way."

Really? Really farkwit? And you think that's helping me?

Sears sucks ass.

Urban Wildlife

When we got home later on Friday night after seeing Pirates, my RRHB was outside in the backyard for a minute, when he shouted, "Come here and look at this! It's an animal with a long, thin tail!"

I told him it was probably a small raccoon and to leave the damn thing alone. But ever-curious, he snapped open his tool case, found his mega-flashlight, and went back outside to shine a light on our grape vine. What did we find? A Virginia Opossum. They are North America's only marsupial. Also, they like to eat fruit and berries, hence the grape vine, and I certainly hope he feasted well that night, because I have no idea what we're going to do with the wealth of grapes we've got this season.

Much, much more exciting than a raccoon!

TRH Movie - Pirates of the Caribbean 2

Whee pirates! Whee Jack Sparrow! Whee big stunts! Whee silly ending! Whee fun summer movie. But the biggest opening of all time? Really?

#49 - Until I Find You

After almost three weeks of reading (among other things), I've finally finished John Irving's latest novel, Until I Find You. It's quite a tome, not only in length but in scope as well, as it tells the life story of Jack Burns, a successful actor and rather unhappy person, from age of about four until he's in his late 30s.

Much of the story of Jack's life is defined by what's missing, namely, his father, and the first half of the book roughly deals with this absence from his mother's point of view. But once Alice, a tattoo artist, dies, Jack goes about finding the truth about his life and his father, and not suprisingly, it's quite different from the tales she told him when he was small.

I'm not ashamed to admit how much I adore John Irving's writing. I count The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany among my all-time favourite novels. I've had more than one drunken bar argument over the fact that I believe that Irving might just be one of the greatest American writers alive. That's a lot of expectations to bring to his books, for sure. Of the latest novels, A Widow for One Year and The Fourth Hand, I wasn't as impressed, likening them to more the idea of midlife crisis on the page rather than the great books I know Irving is capable of writing. But in finding them weak, maybe, like so many books, it just wasn't the right time to read them. Who knows. And so when it came to read the over 800 pages of Until I Find You, I almost couldn't do it. What if it was more of the Fourth Hand Irving vs. the Owen Meany Irving?

Granted, it's the longest book I've read in forever, Until I Find You, pretty much held my interest to the end. I know Irving went on ad nauseam about how autobiographical the novel was, about how he plumed the depths of his own life in the writing of this book, and that turned some people off. But I find that was where the novel was excruciatingly human because Jack Burns, while preternaturally gorgeous, excessively talented, and utterly miserable, he's always a man searching for that essence of himself, that little bit of something that's going to explain why he's here or what he's supposed to be doing. And even though the novel could have been shorter, I didn't begrudge him the length, and I didn't even mind that he told and retold the same stories (each with differing perspectives because of Jack's age).

And not unlike Joan Clark's An Audience of Chairs, I found the ending so utterly satisfying that it was worth the weeks upon weeks of reading to get to. All in all, I think Irving absolutely deserves drunken defenses and consistent recommendations, and judging by what little I heard of his next novel last year at Harbourfront, I'm glad to see him find a bit more comfort with his words, because I, for one, couldn't tell that he'd written the last sentence first.

#48 - What Was She Thinking (Notes On A Scandal)

Zoë Heller's totally engrossing novel about a teacher who has an illicit affair with a student and then ends up living with a spinster friend of hers (who narrates/writes the story) was a perfect summer read. I know, again, it's not on my Summer Reading challenge, but it was given to me by a friend and I wanted to finish it so I could give it back. And just to update, my own Summer Reading has stalled at page 593 of Until I Find You (not that I'm not enjoying it but, please, it's 820 pages long, I've got hundreds and hundreds still to go).

Annnywaaay. What Was She Thinking. I love how Heller choose to tell the story—it's kind of an old-school narrative in the sense that Sheba's (said teacher having the affair) life story is told entirely by Barbara, the aging spinster who has saved her from utter desolation. I wish I could remember the name of the narrative convention, but suffice it to say, I found it fascinating that Barbara's own relationship (read: obsession) with Sheba somewhat echoes the younger woman's own illicit affair (read: obsession) with 16-year-old Steven. And what's even more smart, is how echoes of Barbara's own instability creep into what she feels is the "true" account of Sheba's actions.

One of my favourite passages, in which Barbara tries to psychoanalyze a fellow teacher, reads:

There are certain people in whom you can detect the seeds of madness—seeds that have remained dormant only because the people in question have lived relatively comfortable, middle-class lives. They function perfectly well in the world, but you can imagine, given a nasty parent, or a prolonged bout of unemployment, how their potential for craziness might have been realised—how their seeds might have sprouted little green shoots of weirdness, or even, with the right sort of antinurture, blossomed into full-blown lunacy.

Barbara might just as well be describing herself, her own quiet, staid middle-class life as a teacher challenged by the unconvincingly, beautiful and deeply troubled Sheba, whose friendship has allowed her own seeds to sprout into a strange kind of voyeur who brings us this story.

Of course, it doesn't end well, affairs between teachers and students rarely do (unless you're Pacey), but what's great about What Was She Thinking is that you never, ever truly know what Sheba was thinking, you only get Barbara's interpretation of her actions, her words and her affair. All in all, it's a quick, yet still absolutely satisfying read. Oh, and I think the casting for the movie is totally spot on.

TRH Movie - You, Me and Dupree

So I went to a screening of You, Me and Dupree last night. Coasting off the glow of The Break-up and wondering how The Lake House even got made, I thought maybe, just maybe, this film might be a bit of funbadness. Boy, was I wrong. And, I should have known better.

First off, not a single person I knew wanted to go with me. Not one. And the one person I did find to go had to bail at the last minute because she had too much work to do—work was a better option than this movie. After seeing it, I can wholeheartedly agree.

I'm going to try not to include any spoilers, not that there's anything to spoil in this damn film anyway, you can pretty much judge what's going to happen from the trailer, but there are a couple of 'twists' on the genre that they attempt, which fall flat no matter how you look at it.

So, Molly (Kate Hudson) and Carl (Matt Dillon) are getting married in Hawaii. Oh, they are frolicking the beach. They are making gushy lovey faces at each other in the hotel room. They're annoyed that a super-awesome Seth Rogan interrupts them to declare a "Dupree (Owen Wilson) emergency." Apparently, the affable, lovable lunkhead landed on the wrong island. Oops. Yawn.

As Dupree sees that his best buddy, well into his thirties, I'll add, has made the move from eternal fret boy to responsible adult, he kind of mourns the end to their freewheeling days of bachelorhood. This mode, quasi-hippie, no job, just 'liven' life' is Dupree's standard of living, which shortly gets on the stereotypical Molly's nerves. Never in my life am I so disappointed in Hollywood as when it portrays marriage in the staid terms that it does: Molly gets upset at a boy's night of them watching sports (whatever); Annie (Seth Rogan's character's wife) refuses to let him stay out past 9 PM; in fact, not a single woman in this film is something other than a 'type'. Double yawn.

After the usual antics (Dupree has sex in their living room with a Mormon librarian, just him, an expensive leather couch and some butter, and then sets the house afire), the tables turn and it's Molly who wants duper around. Of course, Carl gets jealous, and assumes that Dupree's after his wife. This is the plot people. In the end, the grand blessing of dipper's giant heart ends up making everyone happy. Triple yawn.

Everyone else in the theatre laughed. And granted, I cracked a smile a couple of Owen Wilson's prat falls, but the spice of a movie like Wedding Crashers just isn't here because there's nothing new. And despite my old-man crush on Michael Douglas (love him for some reason, I can't explain it), I feel bad that he's relegated to these silly roles. In the end, I'm still dying to see a good, no, make that great, summer movie, and Superman Returns sure as hell wasn't it either.

#47 - I Capture The Castle

Dodie Smith's I Capture the Castle, originally published in 1948, tells the story of Cassandra Mortmain, whose very eccentric family lives in a rundown castle (of the book's title) in rural England. Now, I know this book isn't on my summer reading challenge, and I read it for different reasons which I'll explain once the plans are fully set in motion (new project, very much fun), suffice it to say that I enjoyed this book immensely. I think it's because Cassandra, who is the book's narrator and main character, tells the story with such an immediacy (oh, how she swoons) that I got sucked right in and, despite the fact that it took me so long to finish, enjoyed every word.

Oh, and I watched the movie a while back when I was recovering from my hip surgery. It was on TMN and I have to say that I also enjoyed it a great deal (although I didn't remember that I had seen the movie until I was halfway through the book...). Mainly, the movie will have a soft spot in my heart because of Romola Garai, who will forever be Katey Miller from Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, quite possibly the best fun-bad movie I've seen in ages. Cuba!

Too Fast...

Things have been moving at a breakneck speed:

1. I got two more book contracts from Sterling. Am very excited to be starting.

2. Have seen a lot of movies (Superman Returns, You, Me and Dupree, (oh boy), as well as a host of others)

3. Have finished one book and am in the process of being almost-finished Until I Find You—my thoughts on both are not complete (are they ever)

4. Am seeing the Super-Fancy Disease doctor on Tuesday. Fingers crossed.

5. I bought a red dress for a wedding we're going to at the end of the month. The size that usually fits? It's too big! And even though I haven't lost an ounce with my 'ragdoll aerobics', I'm feeling great and am up to 37 minutes of exercise at least 3 times a week. Oh, and I sweat, a lot. Isn't that fun? I forgot how much fun that is...

/quick update. Am too tired not to use pretentious internet conventions.

I Saw The Signs

But I didn't necessarily open up my eyes, hence the three signs I really should have stayed in bed today:

1. I broke my office chair. That's right. I sat down too hard on my chair this morning and snapped off one of the roller balls. Yet another sign that I need to kick the exercise routine up a notch.

2. I dropped my favourite chicken soup bowl on the kitchen floor. Magically, it's fine. My toes however...

3. Are another story as it landed on them and I tripped more than once today going up the stairs.

Oh and just when we were so pleased that we'll be out of town for the final World Cup game, the Grand Prix started in the city today. I can hear the cars whizzing around the track from my house. So much for peace and quiet.

Shhhhh....

There's a very good reason why my neighbourhood is quiet tonight. And I'm listening to Edith Piaf to celebrate. Vive le France!

The Drug That Keeps On Giving

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I don't want to complain too much about how awful it is to have to take prednisone, considering that it's probably saved my life (in combination with the other disease meds) at least three times in the last (has it really been that long?) fifteen years. But I'm very frustrated with taking only 5 mgs of the damn drug and still having these side effects: pimples, lots of pimples; huge (and I mean huuugggeee) appetite, and not for good foods, but for bad thinks like chips and candy and muffins and donuts and anything else that contains terrible ingredients like sugar, white flour and oil; and "water" weight to the tune of about fifteen pounds (I'm just sayin' it's water to make myself feel better).

But, on the plus side, I've got so much more energy now that I don't even feel like the same person I was even three months ago. I can now go all day long and do a whole bunch of things, include my "exercises," and not want to collapse on the bed in total and utter exhaustion by the end of the day.

So I'm blessed that drugs even exist because they save me from the Wegener's every day. But I'm also cursed because the treatments are always so much harder than the disease. I can see the fat, cottage cheese on my legs; I can hear my inner voice telling me not to eat that last Timbit; and I can see the roll of chubb on my hips that makes all my clothes look that little bit more awkward than they did with my usual roll of chubb.

And in 3 solid weeks of exercise, I've lost and gained the same 2-5 pounds. However, I'm still 3 solid weeks away from my 6 week goal of trying to get in some sort of shape, so I'm ever-hopeful that in two weeks, the super-fancy disease doctor will kindly let me stop taking the prednisone, so I can at least make some sort of attempt to curb my diet along with my good choices of making my body move every day.

It's all a battle, isn't it?

Oh, and I've decided my song for this summer is "I'm Always In Love" by Wilco. It's the perfect summer song. Now you? What's your perfect summer song?

Rush

Rush home. Rush to the cottage. Clean 10 years of mouse poop up. Throw out years of crap. Rush into town. Buy eggs at a roadside stand in Mamora. Eat a dripping ice cream cone. Rush back to the cottage. Clean up more mouse poop. Discover my grandfather's Second World War helmet. Rescue it from the dust-ridden closet. Rush the vacuum around. Rush it around again. Throw out more furniture. Toss out some really old bathroom products. Jump in the lake. Play cards. Drink a beer. Rush back to the city (no traffic!). See Superman Returns (eh, more on that later). Rush to the hairdresser. Now to the hospital for bloodletting. Then back home to clean the house, after leaving a spotless cottage. At some point, will it start feeling like a vacation?

Got only 150 pages read of Until I Find You. Am very, very behind in my summer reading.