1) You spill coffee all over your cute yellow sundress and the inside of your car.

2) You don’t have the usual stack of DQ napkins in your glove box because you’ve been on the healthy train so you will look adorable in your cute yellow sundress.

3) While rummaging through the back seat looking for something absorbent, you hit your head really, really hard on the car door frame. (All the while still covered in the coffee you just spilled all over your cute yellow sundress.)

4) You go to the washroom to make sure your head isn’t bleeding and to mop up the coffee off your cute yellow sundress. While you are answering nature’s call you discover that your underwear has hole the size of Texas in it and may not last the rest of the day. You wonder how you didn’t notice this gigantic hole when you put the panties on and decide that you are a bit of a twit.

5) At lunch you go the nearest shopping centre and buy yourself some new underwear just in case you lose the ones you have on. Your head is pounding and your cute yellow sundress has a big brown stain on it.

Awesome.

Throughout my life I have been described by many people as ‘easy-going’ and ‘laid back’. This, my friends, is not entirely true. I know it’s shocking, right? ;) I do have a healthy grasp on what is truly important (i.e. worth getting upset or angry about) and what is not. But I also have a tendency to worry, overanalyze, worry, over think, worry, obsess, and oh let’s not forget worry. I worry about how well I’d fare in a natural disaster or if Zombies attacked. I worry about what kind of parent I might be and how I might screw up any potential offspring I may have. I worry about getting older. I also worry about my health a lot. I’m not sickly but I’m convinced that every ache, pain, spot, bruise, and twitch is some kind of terminal disease. (I really need to not consult the internet to diagnose my symptoms.)

But here’s a particularly nutty example of the sorts of things that worry me. I am always anxious when I’m about to leave the house for the day/weekend and extra anxious if I am the last to leave. The fear is that the house will burn down and it will be because of something I have left plugged in or unattended. Sometimes it’s the stove or the iron, often it is my hair styling devices. I am constantly leaving the house only to return moments later to recheck something that I have already checked a hundred times. I have called my roommates on SEVERAL occasions to check on things for me. Last weekend, as I was leaving for the cottage, I noticed a pile of weeds on the patio that had become quite dry and brittle from the sun. As I was driving away I decided that the hot sun was going to ignite the dried weeds on the patio and burn the house down and it would be my fault because while this thought had crossed my mind I didn’t scoop up the weeds and put them in the garbage. I explained this fear to my very logical and pragmatic travelling companion on the way. He chuckled at me, shook his head a little and said: “You know that can’t happen, right?” I replied, “Well, I’m sure it HAS happened to someone somewhere!” He conceded that yes there have been a handful of documented cases of spontaneous combustion throughout history so it is technically possible. But the odds of all factors that would have to be in place for this to happen would be a bazillion to one . And besides, the weeds were resting on my brick patio and brick, I was informed, does not burn well.

During the ride I left my roommate a voicemail asking him to please dispose of the weeds in the backyard so that I wouldn’t have to spend the weekend worrying about them bursting into flames in the backyard. He replied by sending me a text that said: You. Are. Crazy. Lol…

I logged into my Myspace account for the first time in a while and much to my surprise I found a plethora of new emails from random men wanting to chat. I am not going to respond to any of these emails for reasons that will become clear as you read along; However, these examples will illustrate the variety of approaches a person can take when “cold calling” a random stranger on a social networking site.

Let’s start with the right approach (if there is such a thing), shall we?

From a 29 year old man who lives in my area:
Hey there, Nice profile and pics :)

How are you?


This is a pretty good tactic: Friendly, short, and sweet. He is about my age (ahem, no heckling) and he is local (i.e. not looking for a mail order bride). He did not say anything offensive and/or offer up reasons why I should let him into my pants. He just thought I was cute and tried to make a connection. If I was looking to date someone new (and if I wasn’t terrified of online dating) perhaps I would write back. However, this person’s photos are all of him in various stages of shirtlessness so that’s a big strike against. He’s not unattractive, but those of you who know me personally will know that this kind of machismo is not really my thing. But that aside, this one is probably the best example (at least in my inbox) of how to approach women online.

Here is the runner up:

From a 45 year old, who is also local:
i think ur very pretty ,im wondering if we could chat sometimes. thanx

Again, the message was sort of sweet and mostly inoffensive if you don’t count the hideous grammar, typos, and text message jargon. It’s a bit more suggestive than the first example which is why I’d be less likely to respond. And I suppose for some women my age 45 is within their dating range but he’s a little too senior for me (if he really IS 45 and not 55 which I suspect, from his picture, is the case). Although, Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp are both 45 and I don’t think I would refuse a dinner invitation from either one of them. Hm. Maybe the point is if you look like Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp then you can hit on anyone. Sigh…what was i…talking…about? OH right.

And here are 2 examples of ways to crash and burn.

From a shirtless 43 year old man (who should really put on a shirt) in the US:
Subject Line: hellloooooooo???????????

helloo---i am writing to ask you to write and try to be friendsi am going to be in that area this week from the uninted states and i need a friend. have a drink, see a movie or something fun---maybe shoot some pool--whatevercould i get you interested????? please maybe just set and talk--------

YIKES! I don’t even know where to begin. 'Hello' has one 'o' and should be capitalized if it’s at the beginning of a sentence. I’ve never heard of the "uninted states" and it’s not my fault that you need a friend, loser! No, you could not get me interested even if you say please and use an inappropriate amount of question marks! Set and talk? Set what? The table? A volleyball?
The timer on my self destruct device?
ARGH!
No, No, No! The tone of desperation and the incomprehensibility of this message is enough to send any single gal worth her salt running for the hills.

And now, drum roll please…

This one is from someone who claims to be 22 (yeah right) from the US:
Hey pretty,I saw your pick on your page and i must confess that you look real pretty.I am from ____________ am single and 47 years willing to settle down with an honest and God fearing woman..anway would you mind introducing yourself to me becos i really want to know you, pls accept me my invitation of been that man you have always expect to have in your life...Love to be more than just a friend.
This one is kind of my favourite for so many reasons! First of all, his picture looks like it was taken at a Sears portrait studio and might appear on his RE/Max business card. Second, there is NO WAY this man is 22 unless he his real name is Benjamin Button. (mmm...Brad Pitt...)

Third, if I have always expected this man to be in my life, then my first call should be to a counsellor who specializes in boosting self esteem. I also love that he is willing to settle down as though he’d be doing some honest and God-fearing woman a favour. Puh-leeze.

I’m not trying to sound like a cold-hearted person here. I’m trying to do a favour for anyone who is considering using Facebook/Twitter/Myspace/whathaveyou as a dating pool. It may not be the best place to troll for chicks/dudes for the simple fact that this is not its intended purpose. But if you are going to try, then be smart about it.

Here are some Dos and Don’ts:
Don’t:
Act desperate. Refrain from words like pleeeeeaaaaase and phrases like “I’m lonely and sad I really think we could be great companions.” This is one of THE best ways to stay single (and celibate) forever.

Be Aggressive. Don’t come on too strong. And for the love of Gouda refrain from any and all sexual over/undertones.

Address the girl as sexy, pretty, baby, beautiful, etc in your email. It’s presumptuous and weird.

Be a stalker. If the person you contact does not reply, take that as a rejection and walk away. Take your fingers off the keyboard and shut ‘er down. Period.

Be longwinded. No one needs your life story in a "pick up"email. That’s what your profile is for.

Cast a wide net. There was a guy on myspace who sent these kinds of emails to almost every girl I knew on that site. Girls talk. If you are going to cut and paste the same lame email and send it to different girls, make sure they are not virtual friends.

Send unsolicited emails to girls who haven’t indicated in some way that they are single and looking for an online love connection. Just don’t. It is unwelcome.


Do:

Use proper grammar and full sentences. It’s not a text message or a telegram. You aren’t paying by the character. Put in a little effort.

Be polite.

Keep it friendly and brief.


I really hope that helps! I'm here to help. If I can help just one person out there, then my work here is done.
Until next time...

I’m feeling a bit anxious and weepy today for no particular reason. Perhaps it’s all the rainy weather we’ve been having. Perhaps it’s a ‘girl’ thing. Perhaps it’s because it is Monday after a particularly full weekend. Maybe there is no real reason. It happens sometimes. So I figured I would make a list of gratitude to try to get me out of this funk:

I am grateful that the weather is cooperating today! Aside from the increased Vitamin D that I am no doubt getting, it also means that Annabelle won’t be at home having a complete meltdown and I won’t worry about her all day.

I am very happy to have Toula back in the office after 3 weeks of vacation. Clearly this is selfish of me, but she’s one of the funniest people on the planet and I’m quite tickled to have her back!

I’m thankful that I spent the night dreaming about George Stroumboulopoulos. In my dream he was trying to woo me and persuade me to go on a date with him. I of course played hard to get.

I cut my finger slicing a honeydew melon today. It wasn’t a big cut but it bled. Shudder.
But it reminded me of other times that I have cut myself and I thought I would share one particular story with you today.

When I was about 13 or 14, there were 2 all ages dance clubs in Burlington. They were called Stars (now The Kingdom) and Club 404 (now defunct AND de-funked). When you live in the ‘burbs your social activities can be limited to house parties, bush parties, and standing in front of convenience stores waiting for something cool to happen. So having a dance club to go to was super cool.

I am not now, nor have I ever been much of a dancer. I’m clumsy and about as graceful as my bulldog Peaches (Note: Peaches sometimes walks into things and has rolled off the bed more than once.) But still, it was the place to be. The place where you could wear your Stephanie Kay-esque outfits that you bought at Le Chateau and your frosted pink lipstick. So I was very excited to go to this club when tragedy struck.

I was sneaking myself a slice of apple pie. For some reason, overzealousness perhaps, I had grabbed the knife (a Wilshire ‘Stay Sharp’ knife, thank you very much) before I had taken the pie out of the cupboard. And for another unknown reason I had the non knife-wielding hand resting against the cupboard door. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to open the cupboard door with my knife-wielding hand and ended up slicing the knuckle of the other hand. Not only was my stealth pie-stealing mission thwarted, I was now bleeding like a stuck pig–something I try to avoid.

I was trying to a) keep the panic to a minimum and b)covertly clean myself up before I got in trouble for stealing pie (as junk food was strictly rationed) when my mom came in a saw the mess. I needed stitches for sure but I wouldn’t hear of it. I had been stitched two other times and both were highly traumatic for me. But more to the point, I feared that a long wait in the ER would prevent me from going to the dance club. Mom and I had quite a row about it. Her logic was that I wouldn’t be able to go dancing with a gaping, bloody wound anyhow so I may as well suck it up and get it stitched. No frahkin’ way, I said. So I spent the next few hours crying and holding my finger above my heart to stop the bleeding.

Eventually it stopped and I did get to go to the club. But the funny thing is I don’t remember a single thing about going dancing that night.

And there you have it.

I’ve decided that I must must MUST learn to get up in the morning. And by up I mean vertical. Up and at ‘em. Rising AND shining. Every weekday morning the alarm goes off at the time that I want to get up, and every morning I slam my hand down on the snooze button, sometimes 3 or 4 times. What is my problem!?! When I set the alarm at night I fully intend to get out of bed at the chosen time. But somehow, the 6 to 8 hours that pass during sleep all get together and commandeer my good intentions and turn me into a Grumpy Greta. How does this happen? I always have lofty plans for the morning. I’d like to go for a walk, do a little puttering, enjoy an hour of ‘me’ time before anyone else rises, make a proper breakfast, answer some emails, pack a decent lunch etc. But when the radio turns on at 6ish all I can think is how cozy my bed is and how I would give one meeeellion dollars (pinky finger is poised at bottom lip) to just stay in it for 2 more hours. I read an article on msn yesterday called How to Wake Up Early and Feel Good. Apparently the keys to success are going to bed early, drinking water (but not so much that you have to pee all night), getting up and staying up, and establishing a routine. It’s the getting up and staying up part that always trips me up. How do I resist the siren song that the bed inevitably sings to me within those first few minutes?

Deep inside a warmth that lies on a bed, She's calling to you...


Anyway, this morning I failed in my intial attempts to get out of bed at the first alarm call. But I only hit snooze once. Baby steps are better than no steps I suppose.

Gadzooks! I haven't blogged a thing since April!? How can this be? Let's see...where to start...

Here's a little recap of the last few months:

Vet visits: 1 (Peaches had an ear infection)

Wedding showers: 2 (1 for the Lovely Miss Deana, 1 for a coworker/friend )

New Roommates: 1 (The Prince-a-tolla: Goddess of the Beach, Dogwalker extraordinaire)
Trips to Target: 1 (got m'self some new unmentionables, I did)

Spectacular tumbles: 1.5 (more on that later)

NKOTB concerts attended: 1

Number of times I've met Donnie Wahlberg: 0 (I am not in the photograph above)

Number of times Jenn has met Donnie Wahlberg: 1

Number of times Donnie Wahlberg waved to me: 1 (Thanks Jenn!)

Note: In this photo Jenn is holding a picture of the two of us, when we were about 12, donned head to toe in NKOTB swag.

Exciting, right?

That's it for now. More to come later!

I’m sure the name of pop’s most loved and equally hated boy band may invoke both shrieks and groans…ok it would if anyone was actually reading this blog. I had 3 followers but now I have 2. Hi Jenn. Hi Cupcake. Oh well, that’s what I get for my blatant neglect and lack of marketing.

Anyhoo…I want to say something about New Kids on the Block. I love them with a capital L. And I’m not ashamed to admit that. Since the new school reunion tour began I have been to 2 concerts and will be attending at least one more in June and I couldn’t be more delighted! I am thoroughly enjoying the new album and find myself chair dancing while driving home from work almost daily to ‘She’s da-da dirty dancing, dirty dancing….on me!’

I’m 33. I have a degree in Philosophy and Comparative Literature. I’m an Editor for a leading educational publishing company. I read the news. I pay my rent on time. I recycle, pay taxes, cook healthy meals and provide care and nurturing to two living creatures. And I get positively GIDDY over “Five bad brothers from the Bean Town land.”

I recently asked a well-connected acquaintance of mine if he could swing some floor seats for the Toronto concert in June. He agreed (though I haven’t seen any tix or visa charges yet so I’m getting a bit concerned). This friend is a die-hard metal head so I was expecting at least a snide remark if not a full on verbal assault about my musical tastes. But it never came. I asked him how he could show so much restraint and he said that it really wasn’t funny. He told me that every woman that he knows has an affinity for the boy band of their time. For some it’s The Beatles or Duran Duran. For others it’s NKOTB, Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Jonas Brothers… the list goes on. It’s just how it is.
I never thought about it before, but he is SO right!

Way back in 88-89 I was 12-13. I was THE target market for New Kids. I was a naïve, pubescent girl with a body full of raging and directionless hormones who navigated their way towards the handsome pop stars of the time. And friendships were born and built on our common obsessions—friendships that are still going strong today! We squealed over music videos, traded pictures and posters of our favourite “Kid”, went to concerts together, shared daydreams and fantasies about meeting the band and decided that they would all fall head over heals for each of us when the day finally came. Or at least think that we were pretty cool.

Those conversations led to other, more meaningful exchanges about our more personal whims and concerns: Body issues, unrequited crushes, family and friend drama, schoolwork problems, personal goals, big decisions, etc.

The time quickly came to replace my NKOTB posters with ones of Jane’s Addiction and Nine Inch Nails. This was right around the time that the CD replaced the cassette. I never replaced my New Kids tapes with CDs. The Boston boys faded away from my consciousness as my life got exceedingly more complicated. By 1992 I was dabbling in fairly standard teenage sin: going to rock festivals, reading Sylvia Plath, fronting a rock band, smoking, and dating guys that actually existed in my real life. However, most of the friendships that flourished with the rise of New Kids remained in tact. And some are even going strong now, 20 years later.

And now that I’m officially an adult (with no posters whatsoever on my bedroom wall), who comes back around? My childhood crushes: Donnie, Danny, Jon, Jordan and Joe.
I get to relive that precious time of adolescence with the same amazing ladies that were there with me all those years ago! How awesome is that? So people can roll their eyes and tease me if they like, but I am SOOO ready for round 2 or New Kids mania. Now let’s see if I can still do the choreography for The Right Stuff without pulling something…

Hello, hello!
Last night I went to my first writer's meetup group! I joined this group a long, long time ago but I could never summon the courage to actually attend a meeting. The group meets monthly and everyone reads a piece (500 words max) that they wrote based on that month's theme.


It's weird, I have performed on many stages in my lifetime so you wouldn't think that I would be nervous reading 500 words to 8 random strangers. But OH. MY. GOD. I was seriously trying to catch my breath and keep the paper from shaking while I read. The theme was 'A Valentine's Day Hate Story' (a tale of woe). Here's what I wrote. (Note: This story is mostly true; however, some creative license was taken to up the drama quotient.) Enjoy!


Many high schools celebrate the holidays with ‘grams of some kind. Santa-grams, turkey-grams, bunny-grams—you name the occasion and I’ll bet there is a corresponding ‘gram. The idea is, you buy a holiday gram, usually some kind of candy or baked good, and then the treat is delivered to the recipient during class. For some it’s a coronation or affirmation of their teenage royalty. For others, it is an exercise in shame.

In 1991, on Valentine’s day, the candy-gram committee turned up in my history class to deliver confections to a handful of lucky (and mostly popular) people. Much to my surprise, there was also one for me. Cautiously, I went to the front of the room where someone dressed as cupid handed me a heart-shaped sucker. I looked at the little card attached and read the name—my name. The spelling was slightly off but people have always had trouble with that. And next to the word from were the words your secret admirer. I froze. Could this be? Was it possible? Someone admired me secretly!

I gathered my girlfriends to show them. We giggled, we speculated, and we went to our next classes. I spent the better part of the day sighing wistfully and wondering who my unnamed suitor was. I considered who I would ask to be my maid of honour and wondered what my new last name might be. Floating from class to class, I glowed at the thought of someone finding me special enough to send me a secret ‘gram.

My last class of the day was typing. I liked this class because my friend Abbey and I would type each other notes instead of doing the practice exercises. It was far more enthralling than typing “See the quick red fox jump over the lazy tan dog” over and over.

About halfway through the class Abbey dropped a note next to my typewriter. It said.

I hate to tell you this but the candy gram was not for you. It was for the other Jacqui. Sorry lady.

It could have been the clickety clack of 25 of my peers typing away but I swear I heard the sound of both my heart and my pride shatter into infinite pieces and scatter across the classroom floor. At some point during the day, while I was gliding through the hallways basking in love’s glow, the secret admirer had approached his potential Valentine to reveal himself. Jacqui without an ‘e’ had not received the candy-gram that was now mocking me from the corner of my desk. It didn’t take long for the sender to deduce that I had ended up with the heart-shaped treat and Abbey was elected to break the news.

After class I went to Jacqui’s locker and gave her the candy-gram. She laughed warmly and thanked me. She was a lovely and sweet girl and it made perfect sense that she would have a secret admirer. We made small talk about how funny this little mix up was how we shared a name save for one letter. But I would have given all of the letters of the alphabet to have been in her shoes that day.

I had a dream last night that I was in love. I know that sounds like a horrible start to a saccharine poem you might write in your adolescence but it’s not. It’s completely true. I also dreamed that I was on American Idol (too much tv) and that I made the cut! WOOT! After Simon told me I was through to the next round he said I could go pick up my food rations at the food station. So I did and I was handed a small zip lock bag full of raw broccoli with my name written on the bag. WTF? LOL…

So the guy that I was falling for was the legally blind, piano playing guy Scott McIntyre. You know, the one that Seacrest tried to high-five after he came out of the audition room (see photo).
I tell ya, you wouldn’t catch Dick Clark pulling that crap.

It’s a bit odd because while I think Scott is an awesome musician and quite inspiring for all that he has done in his life, I don’t really fancy him. But in my dream we were totally smitten with each other and the sight of him just made me light up. I woke up around 3:30 am feeling that feeling in my belly. That tingly, butterflies kind of feeling…and it was WONDERFUL! Sigh…

I know what you’re thinking. You think it was a sexy kind of dream. Well get your mind right—it wasn’t at all! It was just like watching a movie montage of a couple in love who are laughing and flirting, walking hand in hand down the street, unaware that anyone else in the world exists--and one half of the couple was yours truly! I hope I have that dream again tonight. But I hope my brain casts Benicio del Toro or Paul Rudd as the male love interest this time. No offense.

I really really REALLY wish people would not brush their teeth in public (or office) restrooms. I have, and always had, a profound aversion to watching someone brush their teeth or having a spectator present while I brush mine. I know some people think this is just plain odd but there are others who share my distaste. You know who you are. ;)

There was a woman at my last place of employment who used to brush her teeth after lunch every day. And hey, I get it. Oral hygiene is good. Healthy teeth and gums are essential for your overall wellbeing. And no one wants halitosis! But for some reason my bladder and her brushing schedule started to synchronize and every day I would walk into the washroom to see her bent over the sink, vigorously brushing her chompers. I don’t know what it is exactly. It could be the frothing or the spitting or the unmistakable sound the toothbrush makes as it scrapes back and forth along a person’s teeth…but I’m shuddering right now just picturing it! I would spot her and break into a speed walk toward the stalls, which always seemed miles away at that point.

Once I went to the washroom after lunch, thinking I was in the clear because the lone brusher was not in her usual position. But when I came out of the stall, there she was – hunched over the sink, bent arm moving furiously up and down, side to side as the room filled with that awful and inimitable ch-ch-ch-ch-ch sound.

PANIC! What do I do? I had to wash my hands but how to do this without losing my lunch?!?! I made the snap decision to go to the sink furthest from the nausea-inducing brushing and wash my hands as fast as humanly possible. But my colleague turned her head (yikes!) and spotted me. I pretended not to notice her so she said “Ay Gaggie!”

NO NO NO! Even worse than brushing near me is trying to speak to me when your mouth is full of minty froth. (Note: This could also be the reason I hate mint. It reminds me of toothpaste which reminds me feeling nauseated.) In my near panic I said ‘oh hey’ and walked out the door without properly rinsing or drying my hands. That’s what pants are for, right? Right.

It’s come to the point where I’m not only grossed out but also borderline offended when people brush in a public loo. My phobia is a bit weird, I know. But that aside, I just feel that this is a personal grooming routine which should only be done in the privacy of one’s own bathroom. For me it falls in the same category as shaving or nail clipping. These are things you do (or should do) in the sanctity of your own home. Call me crazy…

Over the holidays I was washing dishes with my Mom and we started talking about Christmas movies we liked. Our favourites were Black Christmas (the original with Margot Kidder) and The Muppet Christmas Carol. Last year she bought the Little House on the Prairie Christmas special on DVD but hadn’t watched it until just recently. I was skeptical. I really loved this show as a child but as an adult I think all the overt Christian morality lessons might make me nauseated.

The story of Christmas at Plum Creek is this. Laura has a pony that she loves dearly—a pony that is coveted by the repugnant Nelly Oleson. Now Nelly Oleson still evokes the same disdain in me now as she did when I was 8. Just the thought of her precious blonde ringlets makes me want to bitchslap someone. But I digress…

I’m not sure how Laura even possesses something that Nelly doesn’t have yet (least of all a pony!) but whatever. Nels (Nelly’s slender father and proprietor of Oleson’s Mercantile) of course wants to indulge his spoiled daughter’s every whim and approaches Pa (Charles Ingalls) about the pony. He offers to buy the pony but Pa says no dice.

Meanwhile, back in Walnut Grove, the plucky and observant little half pint notices Ma (Caroline Ingalls) drooling over a stove for sale at Oleson’s Mercantile. A plan begins to form in our heroine’s head:

If I sell my pony to Nelly, I can buy Ma the stove for Christmas. God bless us. Every one.

So Laura sells the pony and gets the stove. The unfortunate part, and the part where my sweetheart of a mother started to weep, was that Pa had been slaving away making Laura a new saddle for her pony. So come Christmas, Caroline gets the stove and Laura gets the homemade saddle for the pony that she sacrificed for the family’s greater good. Of course the secret plan gets revealed to all the Ingalls clan and they revel in Laura’s selfless nature and the magic of Christmas etc., etc., etc. I bet Pa even breaks out the fiddle to celebrate.

Stunned, I asked my mom, “Does Laura get her pony back?”

“Well no, they just all enjoy the Christmas feast together. And then…then it ends.”

Seriously!? I get that it’s a Christmas special and it’s all about giving and family and good Christian values and blah blah blah… but come on! The Ingalls just keep getting shafted! Think about it…Mary goes blind, Albert gets addicted to morphine, Laura loses a baby, the school for the blind that Mary and her husband open burns to the ground…it never ends! But hey, they still have each other, right? Bah.

Fucking Nelly Oleson.