I hereby claim this pun...

While waiting in line at Subway (cheese and veggie sub on Italian herb and cheese bread, no lettuce but plenty of green pepper and pickles, please) on this lousy blustery day, I could have sworn I heard the radio announcer say, "And that was Cyndi Lauper and 'Girls Just Want To Have Flan'..."

Isn't that the best title for a baking and dessert cookbook ever? Oh, c'mon. You know it is. Admit it.

You heard it here first. You may buy it from me, if you wish.

I may gripe about the weather, but every town south west of here got a dumping of snow (several feet in some areas!) yesterday.

Yet there was nary a snowflake east of the Don Valley Parkway.

Yarmouth Bound

So tomorrow I return to la Nouvelle Ecosse. Nova Scotia.

I'll be gone for two weeks.

Normally, a two-week vacation would mean no updates, but since I will be in a tiny little town on the southern-most tip of the province, I feel confident that -- until me seven-year-old nephew shows up, anyway -- that I shall have a nice surplus of time.

Expect a bit of whinging over the temperature change. While we here in Toronto have been enjoying 35 to 36-degree weather (plus humidity), Yarmouth tends to hover in the 20-degree state.

A cruel curse, seeing as Nova Scotia offers some of the cleanest, emptiest, prettiest beaches I've been to. Minus the whole fog bank issue.

Acadien? Oui, ca c'est moi -- pour deux semaines.

Morrissey punishes his Canadian fans

In protest of Canada's seal hunt, Morrissey has elected to not tour in Canada and is calling for a boycott of Canadian products.

And while I support his reasoning, I will confess to feeling a little fucking miffed.

1) Most Canadians don't support the seal hunt. That includes Morrissey fans. The people who have the power to change this short of shit are unlikely to be swayed by artists, celebrities or even common folks such as myself.

2) Protests over any supposed industry -- however horrifying -- means nothing a government who rule based on the bottom line of dollars and cents.

3) The US is not exactly the kindest country to animals -- what about their hunting and trapping of animals? What about the monstrosity of McDonalds being responsible for, uh, how many millions of cows?

4) I have a secret theory that Morrissey wasn't planning on doing shows in Canada anyway. I checked his tour roster ages ago -- he's been planning this. Is it the seals? Or are the seals just a carefully placed veil over something else?


And sure, I'd love to sign a petition. I have two choices -- PETA's ("Oooh, killing baby seals is so mean" -- not exactly articulate and intelligent-sounding) and IFAW's ("We object to Danny Williams' statements on Larry King -- oh, and killing seals is bad").

So no Morrissey. And dead baby seals. Hurr-fucking-ay.

How to look like a lunatic in public...

...in one easy step.

Have been loaned a Creative Zen digital player (30 GB) -- for review purposes -- that can play video. Naturally, have downloaded the first two seasons of Black Books for my enjoyment while on public transit for extended periods of time.

But while wildly entertaining, it has the unfortunate effect of making me laugh while I watch. Usually on the streetcar.

During the cold weather last week, I was able to duck my head into my scarf to hide my giggles. Now I am exposed. Although it does have the bonus of making me appear unbalanced, which means no unwanted conversations or seat partners.

Tai chi kicked my ass tonight. There's a few moves (something about "foiling the monkeys" or somesuch). The assistant instructor pulled me aside for some extra work (I missed the original class on these forms) and told me firmly that in my case, the monkeys were winning.

It's the story of my life. But I didn't tell her that.

Weighing in on Big Love...

I'm proctrastinating only the littlest, tiniest bit. The gothic-style porn book cover blurb I'm working on (it truly sounds more fun than it is to read) can wait for the five-odd minutes it takes me to do this.

Are you familiar with Big Love?

It's a new HBO show about a polygamous family -- a man (Bill Paxton), three wives (one played by Chloe Sevigny), three houses and a pile of kids.

The show is interesting on a number of levels, though is not exactly what most would consider a high-tension offering.

My thoughts on polygamy are simple -- it should be illegals in a situation when the wives and families are unaware of each other. However, in a situation where it's an arrangement that works and is agreed upon by everyone involved... well, then, I don't see what the big effing deal is.

Of course, no one ever said they had to marry, either.

There's a lot of things in the world to be concerned about. Multiple spouses seems -- to me, anyway -- to be pretty fucking low on the list.

Now THAT'S dedication to the holidays...

Leaving my friend's house earlier this evening, we paused in her doorway chatting.

"Look, across the street," she said with a grin. "They still have their Christmas tree."

And they did. It was clearly in the window.

Unwilling to believe, I protested. "It might just be tree-shaped art."

But in my secret heart of hearts (blackened and hole-ridden though it be), I know it's a tree. There's something about this neighbourhood that makes it cling to the vestiges of Christmases past. Decorations are still everywhere. Lights. Santas.

And only last week, I walked by a house with a brown, deader-than-dead tree lying on a front lawn for the garbage pick-up... with traces of tinsel still clinging for dear life to its rusty, shedding branches.

Yet the plants are starting to bud, then sun shines and the birds are all a-chatter.

Am I in Xmas Never-Neverland?

Even the cosmos are plotting against me

The heavens (via astrology) are trying to instill me with a forgiving, benevolent heart.

"After doing your best to hold a grudge -- something you've never been any good at (note from me: it's true... I run out of steam after about a month or two) -- the peaceful mood the heavens are in will talk you out of it, even if a friend did something that feels like absolute treason to you. You'll wake up feeling compassionate, and ready, finally, perhaps, to accept the apology. Still, while forgiving is a good idea, don't feel bad if you're not quite able to forget. It's called wisdom, and it comes with experience. Sorry if this wasn't a pleasant one, but learn from it."

In keeping with this spirit, I've removed the filters preventing a small number of people from reaching me. For now, anyway.

I already feel saturated with the spirit of forgiveness.

Of course, why should I expect anyone to really give a shit? I burn bridges knowing full well what I do as I pour the gasoline.

O, ye signs of spring

A damp, drizzly evening -- perfect for a walk.

And I wasn't the only one with such inclinations. While raccoons running though the streets is normal, I wasn't expecting to see a rabbit bounding drunkenly through the Ashbridges Bay park.

Not to mention being dogged by two separate skunks. One in the park (who required some finesse as it was insistent on maintaining a certain distance in front of me and my chum) and one on my street who was merrily trotting beside me until it suddenly ducked between two houses.

And the boardwalk was a busy place tonight, filled with lots of people who decided a late, drizzly walk after 1 am seemed an attractive option for them as well.

So spring must be on its way after all.

Finally.

Although I fully expect at least one unexpected and unwelcome dumping of snow. Bloody Canadian weather.

Ow. That was my eye.

Oh, christ, I'm so exhausted right now.

Common sense says, "Go to bed." But for some reason, the last 30 hours have just been so tiring. I look at my face in the mirror and I just feel old. Used. Done.

Not that I am, of course. But there's a point where you realize that things are hitting you and taking direct aim at things you thought long since healed. Wounds that are still tender. Sensitivities that you thought you had built enough walls around. And they're never enough.

Everything always comes back.

Tonight was fun, but drained the world from me. Went to some weird little dive basement club in the Market with some friends, had a fantastic time... until I was suddenly so tired I could barely stand.

During the evening -- during an not-so-unexpected bout of horseplay (over money -- I was trying to pay for drinks and a certain friend was having none of it), my friend jabbed me in the eye. (She claims she was aiming for my hat. Ha.)

Instinct prevailed and suddenly I was standing in the middle of the club, my eye tearing and throbbing. My contact resting precariously in my hand, when it should have been safely in my eye.

Fortunately, my first thought was to fix my vision, instead of my usual response of "Inflict pain. Immediately. Make sure it is expontentially more painful than what you experienced."

Now my eye is lightly throbbing. Contact returned (though painfully -- seems water is not an acceptable replacement for saline solution).

The moral of the story -- if someone really wants to pay for the round of drinks... well, hell. Just let them.

African Violets

When I was younger, my grandparents -- who I loved visiting -- had a small pot of African Violets sitting in the middle of their kitchen table. It was a bright, sunny room that always smelled of brewing coffee, dishwasher soap and chlorine (up until they moved into a condo years later, my grandfather owned a tiny swimming pool supply shop during his retirement).

But the violets never bloomed. It was happy, healthy little plant... but refused to hatch any pretty purple little flowers. Vexed, my grandmother attached a faux african violet flower to the plant.

Suddenly the shrinking violet bloomed. It was like the little fake flower had eased off the pressure, and the plant suddenly relaxed. And things began happening. Flowers began popping up all over.

I'm not sure what reminded me of this... but I feel certain there's a lesson in it for me somewhere.

Worse than death...?

Am having a low-key day. My head feels like someone inflated it with too much air, and have been feeling kinda groggy and non-energetic for most of the day.

So I figured, "Fuck it. I'm watching bad movies on the couch today."

Just watched The Notebook (amusingly, James Marsden much more likeable when he's not Cyclops in X-men). I read the book years and years ago, so long and mostly unmemorable that I had nearly forgotten about it.

What I found most entertaining was in the middle of this very touching story of love, true love and choices (in the real world, the girl would have gone with the money and security. That's what people do these days. God, I'm such a cynic), was this sinister message:

Dementia is worse than death itself.

Losing your mental faculties is the most terrifying thing that could happen to you during the aging process. It destroys not only you (not that you notice) but everyone around you.

Think I'm going to go do a crossword puzzle now.

Beards are in!

Oh yes, they are.

Start cultivating bushy facial hair, my male friends -- the beard is the new black.

Although I don't think anyone could use the word "hipster" to describe my dad.


Link: Paul Bunyan, Modern Day Sex Symbol

The psychic lady said it...

My favourite little coffee houe (the Tango Palace on Queen East) has a psychic come in once a week on Wednesdays. Last week, my friend and I vowed that we would return to have our fortunes told by Lorraine. Tarot (round, colbalt blue cards) and tea leaves.

What did she tell me? Oh, a number of things.

The cards I drew were Withdrawal (coincidence?), Strength and Surrender.

The gist is that not only will I write great thick books, but I will be a successful author (OK -- so the last four reading from psychics over the last two years have all said the same thing. I generally assume they're all blowing smoke up my ass).

She said I need to find a focal point, and create a character I can be excited about, suggesting that I look at historical figures as possible inspiration. To stop thinking so hard. To let it come to me.

She also said I needed to see dentist soon (not that it's news to me, but an interesting thing from a psychic), that there's going to be an "angel" who's going to financially assist me with my writing, and there were a couple of kids coming coming down the pipe at some point. Twins were mentioned... much to my horror (there are twins on my mother's side, though fortunately none on Chris').

Uhhh, what else? She told me that everything was in place, and I was doing exactly what needs to be done. There would be success, and possibly in TV/film if I wanted it.

I think that's it. I'm sure there was more, but damned if I can remember it much.

I'm looking forward to the money part, though. Being po' is ass.

Because you know I love the Moz...

Dear fellow Morrissey fans,

Ringleader Of The Tormentors is available to listen online.

Hurrah!

Though am mildly vexed that the player doesn't allow you to skip through songs. Which is just plain mean.

Why do I find this so damn funny?

OK -- it's hilarious, mortifying and terrifying all the same time. It looks like a comedy skit gone horribly wrong.

But here's Celine Dion doing her best impression of Madonna. Oh shit, I'm starting to giggle again.

Papa Don't Preach To Celine, but her old-ass hubby will.