Haven't you always wanted a monkey?

I just spent the evening in an infomercial.

You know the ones...where someone is playing the "host," and all of their "friends" just "happen" to be sitting around an abnormally large breakfast bar in the kitchen while they accidentally show them how AMAZING this new kitchen gadget is.

The only thing is, I'm not entirely sure what the infomercial was for.

Landlady invited me to a "Ladies' Night" tonight. The invitation was via e-mail, very wine and cheese casual. So I figure, what the hell, I'll go up when I get home from work, have a couple of glasses of wine and maybe meet some interesting people. Say what you will about my landlord, but no one would ever call her boring, so I'm anticipating meeting some entertaining friends of hers.

Now, usually when I get a "come over for a Ladies' Night" invitation, it's because whoever is doing the inviting is doing one of those in-home sales things where they try to peddle baskets or candles or melon ballers or sex toys on you. Yes, that last one is for real. Unfortunately I only get invited to the basket/candle/melon baller variety of in-home sales party - my friends are not bold enough to try to sell me sex toys, although I have to say I would find THAT sort of party FAR more interesting than some aromatherapy or a chafing dish. This one didn't specify an ulterior motive. I think that's because Landlady was peddling something a little more abstract than kitchen gadgets or home decor.

It all kicked off with the woman next to me asking how Landlady had "lost her weight."

Landlady has been doing a "cleanse." Two of the other guests also use/sell this "cleansing" program. Okay, this really isn't all that surprising - I had gotten an e-mail from Landlady a couple of weeks ago about how much she loves this stuff and includes a link which tells me she is clearly going to start selling it. What IS surprising to me is how much the other ladies in the room are eating this up. They're dying to hear about it. The sound like those people who say things like, "well sure, it can darn your socks, but can it make a good guacamole?"

"YOU BET IT CAN, KEVIN!"

So there are a few testimonials being bantered about at this point. I roll my eyes and sip my wine politely, keeping my mouth shut. Then Landlady gets everyone's attention because there are things she wants to say.

So begins an impassioned speech about the power and glory of women, and the amazing assortment of women in the room, and proceeds to go into detail about every amazing woman there and how she knows them and what makes them amazingly amazing.

Present company included - she said some very nice things about me. But seeing as how I know PLENTY of women who have accomplished EXACTLY as much as I and usually done it better, I am fairly unimpressed with myself. But when she tells everyone about my education and the fact that I "teach", everyone oohs and aahs appreciatively.

OVER THE 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN LIVING IN HER BASEMENT.

Now, don't get me wrong - there are some very accomplished and fascinating women up there. One was a coach for Canada's national tennis program...one provides wigs and other aesthetic services for women undergoing various medical treatments and has started what is essentially the Canadian equivalent of Locks of Love for kids...these are some pretty neat chicks. But there's also the girl who she knows because she was a regular at the family souvlaki joint while working at the Shoppers Drug Mart across the street. Yeah, said girl worked to put herself through school and wants to be a lawyer - admirable goals to be sure, but hardly remarkable.

And thus I was almost with her on the Girl Power bandwagon until she started talking about how she "changes lives" by...

...selling insurance.

Buying insurance is a smart thing to do. It is sensible, and responsible, and something you do to protect the people you love. IT IS NOT A LIFE-CHANGING EXPERIENCE.

And I'm sitting there feeling like a horrible person because while everyone is nodding along at the amazing speech and "ooh"ing and "aah"ing...I am rolling my eyes and thinking "come ON!" Is it wrong that I think we should have higher standards for ourselves? That we should surround ourselves with incredible people and expect ourselves to live up to, and then exceed our own expectations? I don't need to brag about myself or my friends - I prefer to expend my energy on moving forward and what comes next, rather than on congratulating myself or patting myself on the back for what I've already done.

Then they start talking about the cleanse again. Because the last two women she introduces to the group are, of course, her fellow Cleanse Pushers. She's been SAVING them! So I hear the spiel all over again (apparently we're now past the first commercial break so they have to repeat everything verbatim)...one CP is a nurse, and is really into nutrition, and she works with athletes, and she dropped 7 1/2 lbs, and it's the EXACT OPPOSITE of a diet because you drop fat and build muscle. I'd like to know what fucking piece of shit diet this woman has been doing that causes her to LOSE muscle and BUILD fat.

I stopped counting cliches pretty early on in the evening because I knew I wouldn't have enough fingers by the end. But one woman actually used the phrase "I'm always on the go." IN A NON-IRONIC FASHION.

WHO DOES THAT???

Okay, so the conversation slowly drifts back to normality. Then it becomes a whole diatribe on how some oncologist said that the biggest problem with women today is that they're under too much stress and that's what's giving all of us the cancer and the strokes and the heart disease. No shit, Sherlock. Newsflash: stress makes you sick. This is why some of us drink. Here's my miracle cure: not sleeping well? no energy? not losing weight? TRY EXERCISE, YOU FAT ASS! There was not a SINGLE effect of this "cleanse" that wasn't something I associate with the way I feel when I am eating nutritious food and exercising vigorously. 30 minutes of wandering around the city window shopping is not exercise. If you do something that is hard for your heart and lungs to do for 30 minutes, your blood will start flowing. And you know what that blood does? It CLEANSES you. THAT IS WHAT IT'S THERE FOR.

Thus is the natural rhythm of the infomercial - the conversation would drift onto normal topics, and then someone would say, "hey (Landlady), I wanna hear more about your thing!"

WHO DOES THAT???

I kept waiting for her to say, "How much would YOU pay? If you call within the NEXT 10 MINUTES..."

My favorite part was when the alpha-CP was talking about cortisol, and everyone starts murmuring about "belly fat" and "stress hormone" and all sorts of other ancient secret wisdom that you, too, would have if you spent one weekend watching infomercials from 3-5am. If ONE PERSON had contributed something to the "cleanse" conversation that I hadn't already heard a million times before from sources far less educated than myself, I might have been impressed. But none of these amazing women had anything intelligent to offer.

The funny thing is I'm still not entirely sure if she was trying to sell vitamins...

...or insurance.

I believe your exact words were: "Hey Spacey, pay it forward."

Aww...it's Baby's First Meme!

Okay, I got this from Mup's blog, who got it from someone, who...you know the drill. Now, unlike Mup, I actually HATED the movie Pay it Forward. But I do think it's a nice concept, and for the first time in, oh, ever, I'm actually experiencing the thrill of doing my Christmas shopping without worrying about how much I'm spending. It's amazing what a giving mood that puts one in. So, I figure, what the hell. Here's the deal:

I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days. That is my promise. The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.

Now, I reserve the right to make the gift a surprise, and whatever it actually turns out to be will probably depend on who, if anyone, responds. But I guarantee it will amuse me, and really, isn't that why you all tune in on a semi-regular basis? To see me amuse myself? C'mon, do your part...we all know I thrive on audience participation.

Thank You, Disillusionment.

You know, sometimes I don't know why I even bother.

Today was lovely. I was having a very domestic day - I got up, started my laundry, made breakfast, and started preparing a Big Dinner. I should say here that one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend day is preparing a big dinner, and I decided that I was going to make myself Thanksgiving dinner today (since I was too busy working/pouting on the ACTUAL Thanksgiving Day). I made pie crust...ran to the grocery store...started working my way through the various chores required to make dinner. Dishes were done...a little vacuuming...a little more cooking. Seriously, if I'd been wearing a frilly apron and heels, you'd think I was a housewife from the 50's.

Now, the great thing about spending a major holiday alone is that you're allowed to put any spin you want on the traditional favorites. My menu:

Roasted duck leg quarters
Bourbon Butternut Squash Risotto with Shiitake Mushrooms (oh, and I threw in some wild rice for the hell of it)
Maple Cranberry Sauce (which I adapted to include kumquats and some pomegranate. Probably mostly because I really like to SAY kumquats and pomegranate, but regardless, it was fuckin' tasty as hell)
Green beans sauteed in olive oil with some garlic and a little lemon juice
Caramel Pumpkin Pie

So I was feelin' a little fancy this year. Freakin' FANTASTIC dinner, if I do say so myself. In fact, one of my best efforts to date. Very happy Wahooty, even if I am largely indebted to the whipped cream. (Note to self: Whip cream at least once every day. Eat with spoon. Repeat until fat and happy. I think the words you're looking for here are OH DEAR GOD.)

Now, the thing that sucks about spending a major holiday alone is that you are entirely responsible, not just for the eating, but for the preparation AND THE CLEANUP. The work is one thing, but the cook/cleanerupper easily consumes THREE TIMES the amount of calories that the average diner does, all via tasting for seasoning and snitching in the packing up of leftovers. And I am a particularly bad offender where this is concerned. So this evening, after going back for alternating spoonfuls of risotto and whipped cream (shut up, you're not the boss of me), I finally resigned myself to packing up what's left. And as I open the refrigerator door to put the whipped cream away...I manage to knock over a bottle of fish sauce.

I watch it fall. In slow motion. Onto the floor.

The hard, ceramic-tiled floor.

Did I mention that this was a GLASS bottle?

And that said (750-mL) bottle was nearly full?

Now, for those of you who do not do any Thai or Vietnamese cooking, let me explain what fish sauce is. It is...well, pretty much exactly what it sounds like. They pack fish in salt and let it ferment. The juice that runs out over time becomes fish sauce.

This is some pungent shit. The only sensory comparison I can come up with is that it smells disconcertingly like my grandfather's dog kennels used to. Quite delightful in moderation and diluted by food. But maybe not so much in 750-mL quantities. On ceramic tile. Which my apartment now smells like. As do my feet. Which means it follows me. I'm being stalked by a condiment.

You know what's more fun than spilling a bottle of fish sauce all over your kitchen floor? Breaking your mop. Seriously, Fairprice, where, exactly, is my $3.98 going??? Certainly not towards quality control.

And you know what's more fun than mopping up fish sauce with a sponge? Mopping up tiny glass shards.

Nothing says "good fun happy time" like tiny, SALTY glass shards. That smell like fermented fish. When your hands are dried out and eczema-ridden and your feet are bare.

Once I got the puddle contained, I looked up and took a deep breath, only to realize that despite all of my domestic efforts...despite the fact that I went the entire day (and menu) without using any utensil, pot, or bowl less than twice...

...it looks like Thanksgiving exploded all over my kitchen.

Wait, no. Unless Thanksgiving smells like fish sauce.

Don't Go Thinking I'm Not Thankful

So I spent yesterday pretending it didn't bother me to be working on Thanksgiving.

Now, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Self, I seem to remember that this is not Wahooty's first Thanksgiving away from home." And yes, Self, you would be correct. In fact, I haven't been Home for Thanksgiving since 1999. That was a whole 'nother millennium, in fact.

Not spending Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, and Brother is something I'm used to. I spent 6 of 7 grad-school Thanksgivings (yes, it took me 7 years to get through grad school, thanks for noticing) in Chicago at my aunt's house. They were, quite frankly, the best ones in memory. Not because my brother always fights with my dad or some such stupidity, but because they were the only Big Thanksgivings I ever had. Growing up, Thanksgiving was always just about the four of us. My parents picked up and moved from Illinois to Virginia before I was born because Dad had a good job opportunity. When he got the offer, he came home and asked what Mom thought about Washington.

She lit up, and asked, "Washington state???"

His response: "No. Washington, DC."

Her answer: "Oh. What's there?"

We moved to a Virginia suburb because it was close enough to commute, but far and unfashionable enough to be cheap. We were a one-income, one-child family with another (that would be ME!!!) on the way, after all.

Sacrifices were made - my dad gave up stars, and wide open spaces, and weather, while my mom gave up Chicago - but my parents quickly fell in love with Virginia and I managed to grow up thinking it was the greatest place on earth, even though it wasn't my parents' homeland. But one of the sacrifices they rarely talk about is that of family - I happen to believe because it was the hardest one to make, and one that they often wondered whether it was worth what they got in return. Growing up, we didn't take family vacations to the Grand Canyon or whatever - our big family vacation was a 2-week period every summer, where we spent one week on the farm in Illinois with Dad's parents, and one week on the lake in Wisconsin with Mom's. It was the only time of the year we saw them. Now that I'm an adult, with a little more perspective on parenting (and, thus, grandparenting), I realize how incredibly difficult that must have been on both sets of grandparents, especially considering that they saw most of their other grandchildren at least a couple of times a year. But, you do what you gotta do. Virginia's my home, and I am so grateful to my parents for finding it for me.

When I went to grad school, and people found out where I was from, many people asked, "Why did you come here?" Not because they knew how fantastic Virginia is, but because they couldn't understand why anyone would make a conscious decision to move to Indiana.

Fair enough.

But as soon as I explained that my parents are both from Illinois, so I had tons of extended family within a couple of hours' drive, it made total sense to them. If that didn't work, it always helped that Purdue has a fantastic reputation in my field, but that's a lot harder to explain to non-chemists. :) But anyway, I always had lots of available places to spend any major holiday when I couldn't afford to go home. Generally, I spent these with Mom's sister in Chicago. Not because I loved her more than anyone else, but rather because she was usually the only true invitation. Sure, I could call up any number of people and say, "Hey, I don't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving/Easter/Kwanzaa...can I come over?" But you always feel more welcome and wanted when someone takes the time to invite you. And just between us, given the option, I will almost always spend a holiday alone rather than invite myself over to someone else's celebration. That's just how this bitch rolls.

The group in Chicago varied from year to year. Certain people were staples: my aunt and uncle (obviously), the single cousins who didn't have in-laws battling it out for our time, and our Uncle Snort who (bless his heart) always has been and always will be single. Out of the three children of the aunt in question, the single one would always be there, his twin brother would be there roughly every other year (but when he was there he brought a wife and kids, which doubled the pleasure so you know...law of averages), and every once in a while his younger brother from Far-Off-Place would make it up. Being Perpetually Uncommitted, I was always there, as was Baby Cousin (the youngest of the 11 cousins and also PU). Baby Cousin's dad sometimes came. Baby Cousin's older brother always came with Girlfriend-Then-Wife in tow for dessert. Well before they got married, they established a tradition of dinner with Her family, then dessert and boardgames with ours. She once told me that, upon getting into the car to leave Her parents' house, she said to Him, "Thank God we're going to hang out with your family so I can be myself."

Regardless of who exactly showed up, it was always a Big Thanksgiving. In our house growing up, the maximum number of family was 4. We never had more, because there were no trips to Grandma's house or family coming over with pies in hand. We spent a couple of years sharing Thanksgiving dinner with a family of close friends, which I remember quite fondly, but never the busy household of guests coming and going and flurry of cooking activity. It was always a warm, but well-organized and low-key holiday, whereas those Chicago Thanksgivings were events...there were things to help with, and wines to bring, and sitting around the kitchen table on Wednesday night tearing up bread so it could dry out for the stuffing and the parade on in the background the next morning while we sent my uncle out for last-minute groceries which would take an hour to get even though the grocery store was only 5 minutes away but dammit, we just don't have enough poultry seasoning and wait, Aunt HAS to see the Rockettes perform, it's the only reason she even watches the parade anymore...

I think, at this point, we have ventured into the aspect of the holiday that Canadians just don't get.

They have Thanksgiving. It happened over a month ago. They eat turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes. All of those things that are associated with the autumn harvest in North America, just like we do. But I get the distinct impression that it just isn't as much of an Event as it is for us. Part of it has to do with the timing - for Americans, Thanksgiving pretty much means fall is over, and it's now Christmas time. That is pretty momentous. Also, the fact that it's a Monday for them and a Thursday for us makes a difference. They will have Thanksgiving dinner at some point during a 3-day weekend. Thanksgiving Day is immediately followed by a workday, so people do dinner when they can get everyone together, yadda yadda. Our Thanksgiving Day is the START of, not a 3-day, but a 4-day weekend. We get all of the work done the first day, then have 3 days of turkey sandwich coma, vegetative states, and football ahead of us. It is a wonderful time of relaxation and family and (if you're so inclined) early Christmas shopping at unbelievably low prices. Just about anyone can find something to love about that 4-day period.

Canadians also don't have the Friday After Thanksgiving Phenomenon, or FATPh. The FATPh is, as follows:
1. You have slept off the turkey coma.
2. You now have a full day ahead of you that you would normally have to spend working.
3. You spend this day either sleeping off the tryptophan or attending doorbuster sales.
The sun sets.
5. You have a ridiculous amount of energy due to excessive amounts of poultry-induced slumber or heady sudden-cash-expenditure rush, respectively.
6. All of your old high school friends are in town because of big family holiday.
7. Clearly, there is no better time for getting shitfaced.

My cousins and I planned 7 years' worth of fantastic group vacations via drunken FATP outings. I still remember how the first one went. It was my second year of grad school. None of my cousins had spent much time together since we were kids. We had always enjoyed hanging out growing up, but when you see people once every 2-3 years growing up, you don't have a lot to base an adult friendship on. The first year I went to Chicago, we had Thanksgiving dinner. It was nice...generally polite and a little distant. We were hanging out that night, and my two single boy cousins had been chatting, and one says, "hey, you wanna come out downtown with us tomorrow night?" This is the cousin who is a year younger than I, so he was 22 and in his first-year-out-of-college-in-the-big-city phase.

The following night was the single best bonding experience I think I have ever had with anyone. The three of us are still kind of the core of all of the cousins' goings-on. We fuckin' rule. And all thanks to a few hours in downtown Chicago on the Friday After Thanksgiving.

A sample of how these things go:

7:00 pm: Order pizza. Mantra of young boys who actually live downtown: "Where are we going tonight? Dude. We're NOT going to Beaumont's. No matter what. That place...dude, we're NOT going to Beaumont's."
10:00 pm: Go to nice bar. Good beer, bar full of baby yuppies and their high school friends. Have good time until nice bar closes at 2.
1:55 am: "Dude, what are we doing now?" "WE'RE GOIN' TO BEAUMONT'S!!!"

The following year, my cousin's (now) wife said, "Not only did we GO to Beaumon'ts...we actually CLOSED Beaumont's..."

And you know the best part? YOU DON'T HAVE TO DRIVE BACK HOME THE NEXT DAY. You have a FULL Saturday to nurse your hangover before you drive home on Sunday!!!! It is the ONLY night of the year that you have that kind of freedom unless you're on vacation, and ALL of your friends have it with you!

All of this is what makes Thanksgiving for me. The big family gathering, the comings and goings, the turkey coma, the getting shitfaced the next night, the hungover, worthless Saturday, the always gracious and delicate extraction of myself for the drive home on Sunday with Christmas music in my CD player while stuck in traffic. These are the things that I was missing while I watched the snow fall from my window at work yesterday. It was the first snow of the season, and all I could think of was that it would have been so nice to be watching that snow fall from my cozy little apartment, with warm cooking smells and the parade on the TV in the background. That's simply how it's supposed to be.

I think next year, I'm taking the day off.

Like Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine, and Jack.

Well, tonight is officially the last night of my 20's. And while I would like to spout some "age ain't nuttin' but a number" bullshit, I have to admit that yes, it bothers me. I'm hardly the first of my friends to celebrate this particular birthday this year, and I've thought quite a bit about the inevitable mopey, self-indulgent blog post that I would eventually write about how I am very happy with where I am in life, but I'm still in debt, I'm still single and living in a basement, I worry about never finding someone who will love me and have my babies, blah blah blah.

But if there's one thing this blog doesn't need, it's mopey self-indulgence.

So instead, I am taking a birthday poll.

A friend of mine (who may or may not read this blog) sent me flowers at work yesterday. They caused quite a stir on the 4th floor. Damn near made Labmate's head explode.

Wait, I should back up - I was in a meeting with Fearless Leader when they arrived, and a technician from one of the other groups on our floor accepted the delivery. He brought them to Labmate, with the intent that she would make sure I got them, but Labmate just sees someone coming at her with a bouquet. Her thought process was as follows (and I swear I am not making this up - this is straight from the horse's mouth):

"Oh my gosh!!! Who could they be from???
I know they're not from Boyfriend, because he would never send me flowers!!!
MAYBE THEY'RE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER!!!
Oh... they're for Beth.
Now I REALLY need to know who they're from!!!"

Excessive punctuation has been added to reflect the psychotic glint present in Labmate's eyes when I came back from my meeting.

Meanwhile, I exit Fearless Leader's office, and the guy who sits at the desk directly facing mine is sitting out there, and asks some random question about the length of my meeting, then mumbles something about there being something on my desk. Ever the eloquent and sparkling conversationalist, I say:

"Huh?"

Guy #1: Nothing...

I walk around to put my laptop back in the hallway so that I can get back to work, and there's another guy from another neighboring group out there.

Guy #2: Your labmates are looking for you. There's, like, something wrong...with one of your experiments...or something.

Nice try. I haven't RUN any experiments today. Okay fine, I'll bite. I enter the lab. Am greeted by the aforementioned Labmate with the psychotic Need to Know. So I see the flowers, and figure out immediately who they are from, based purely on the location indicated on the delivery slip. So I'm trying to dig the card out of the bouquet without messing too much with the wrappings, because I'll need those relatively intact in order to get the flowers home safely.

I am apparently taking too long to do this. Apparently.

Labmate is now vibrating.

I open the card, and it confirms my suspicions.
Me: Aww...yep, that's what I thought.

Labmate: WHO ARE THEY FROM????

Me: They're from (name of friend who may or may not read this blog).

Labmate: Oh.

Still vibrating. Seriously, never seen this girl so excited about anything in the year I have known her. And she is a highly excitable individual.

I should add here that every pair of eyes in the surrounding area is currently focused on me. Including people who I have never seen before in my life, who I am convinced are only pretending to work at instruments so they can find out who the flower girl is and why. The flowers get put in a huge graduated cylinder because it's the only thing around with a big enough opening to hold them (vases are surprisingly hard to come by in a laboratory environment, but glassware is plentiful) and I go back out into the hall so I can work on my design in peace.

Sort of.

Chatty Nasal Girl from one of the other groups comes along and asks me about the flowers. Why they came...who they came from...I explain that they are from a friend. Just a friend. And yet, somehow I get the feeling she doesn't believe me. Maybe because she says so.

Now, as I'm trying to explain that yes, it is in fact possible for a friend to send me flowers just because it's my birthday, the VGLM happens to wander by. So I pose the question to him, for a male perspective:

Me: Hey! (VGLM)! What do you think? Is it possible for a guy to send a girl flowers without some sort of romantic motive?
VGLM: (thinking almost as hard about this as he did about whether or not he wanted to see Evil Dead: The Musical...which, contrary to what you may be thinking, is some serious contemplation indeed) ...It's...possible. But I wouldn't say likely.
Me: Kinda like a UFO. Or a yeti.
VGLM: Yes!

I find this whole thing fascinating. And so, I pose the question to you, my handful of beloved readers. You may answer as many times as you like. Feel free to expound in the comments, anonymously or otherwise. You will need a #2 pencil and a calculator.


And now, for the self-indulgent portion of the program: When I really think about it, the last decade of my life has encompassed higher highs and lower lows than I ever could have known were possible. Mistakes have definitely been made, but I think I can honestly say that I regret nothing. Okay, except maybe the unfortunate spending habits. And I can only hope that 10 years from now I can say the same, except with a big, fat retirement account and a good credit rating. Some of you have known me since I was a teenager, and I thank you for sticking with me this long. If you're still here, I guess that means you're stuck with me. Others have only known me a short while, or maybe even not at all, but who knows where we'll be in the next decade.

And to all those here, there, or somewhere in between, I say:

Salut!
Nosdrovya!
Cheers.
Here's to our Roaring 30's.
(clink)

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

Continuing on with the general happiness theme, I present a few of my favorite things, as of this evening:

Victoria Beckham.

I started to rethink my stance on Posh a few months ago, but then the new Spice Girls single had pretty much killed that. Until I found out that she is doing a guest spot on Ugly Betty. Now she is getting dangerously close to can-do-no-wrong territory. I can almost forgive her for "2 Become 1." I hate myself a little for even typing that.

Reaper.

Seriously, kids. LOVE this show. Watch it. Kind of want to marry the lead character. Plus, Curtis Armstrong did a guest spot tonight. Anything that means Curtis Armstrong is employed is tops in my book. Oh, and Ray Wise is freakin' genius as the Devil.

A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.

Oh. My. God. Y'all know how much I love the trashy reality TV shows. And this is my new favorite. It took me until the third episode to write about it, but in all fairness, I started writing with the first one and my first attempt was lost when the power flashed out the other night. For those of you not familiar, Tila Tequila's primary (arguably, sole) claim to fame is that she has over two million friends on MySpace:

ok what the hell man? I know I have lots of friends on here but it's not like I can help it ok? I didn't join this thing thinking, "OMG I SOOOO HAVE TO GET A MILLION FRIENDS ON HERE!" Yea right! It was more like someone invited me to join and I was like k wutever....another stupid lame online community. Who would've known that my profile would turn into some kind of weird "Tila Phenomenon!" hahaha! What I'm trying to say is.....just because I have lots of friends on here and blah blah blah...that doesn't mean that I'm not a normal girl who wants to meet normal and down to earth people....BECAUSE I AM AND DO! So don't be afraid to write me...I will read them all, HOWEVER I may not write back to everyone because I honestly get a billion notes a day. If you are just writing to say..."ohohohoh fuck me you're hot!" I won't be able to write back ok? And don't get all bitter if I can't write you back....I'm not mad at your nor do I hate you ok?? All I'm asking is for some understanding...that's all....ummm what else?? OH YEA....AND PLEASE....I AM NOT SOME KIND OF ADVERTISING TOOL! DON'T FUCKEN TRY TO USE ME OK? Like I always have people writing me asking me to post up advertising bulletins for them since I can reach lots of people....dude...fuck off! I feel so fucken used! Also people keep asking me how to put music on their page, if they can use my server to put music up and blah blah blah....you know what?? I AM NOT A WEBMASTER NOR IS MY OFFICIAL WEBSITE A HOST FOR YOUR MUSIC FOR ONLINE COMMUNITIES! *breaths* Jesus....I think that is all for now...other than that...I love you guys. You gimme something to do when I am bored at 4 in the morning.....no seriously....you guys totally rock....just stop using me for stuff ok? Thanks...xoxoxoxox

And that, friends, is exactly why one of the rooms in my personal hell is simply labeled, "MySpace."
So, without further ado, I present my thoughts:

Bitch, you ain't bisexual. You are simply an attention whore. Exhibit A: In the first episode, the standings were as follows:

Boys you made out with: 1
Girls you made out with: 2

This, taken alone, does not seem like very definitive evidence. Until I add the fact that you met with the guys one-on-one. You did no such thing with the women. When you made out with a girl, it was with another girl sitting RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. Oh, and you have said, on more than one occasion, "I usually only date lipstick lesbians." That ain't bisexuality, that's exhibitionism.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #1:

Number of boys who claim they are virgins: 1
Number of girls who claim they are virgins: 1

Your response to both, "You're lying!" Okay, fair enough. However, you eventually used the virginity argument against the boy and eliminated him, even though he was adorable and sweet. You even denied him the chance to kiss you. As far as the girl is concerned? "All my dreams just came true." WTF???

Okay, Momma's boy: Seriously, you can stop reminding us that you live on your mom's couch. In this episode alone, I felt the need to start a tally. Number of times MB has mentioned sleeping on his mom's couch/working at a pizza parlor/riding to work on a bike instead of in a car: 4. That would be totally rad if you were, like, 12. I mean, for the love of God, man, when you got to the house and saw that everyone would be sharing one huge bed, your response was, "I'm not used to having a bed, so..." SERIOUSLY??? MY mama would've taught me not to publicly declare my losertude so much. In fact, she did. This is why I'm so vastly superior to you. I may be a tool, but at least I don't advertise.

Tila, honey. I'm already over your raspy giggle. It's the same EVERY FREAKING TIME. Dear God, make it stop. Get some Fisherman's Friend up in this joint. Repeat after me: Ahem.

Okay, now we come to the point I have been wanting to make for years. Ever since the advent of these Competitive Dating Shows, there has been a reason that they are not done in same-sex environs. And that reason is not, contrary to popular belief, homophobia. I mean, let's face it, this is TV. People will watch all sorts of shit that they don't feel comfortable with in real life as long as they can put a series of vacuum tubes between them and the thing they secretly can't look away from. This is the fundamental principle that keeps Jerry Springer on the air. The reason, dear friends, is that the gays ain't stupid. If you put them on Boy Meets Boy/Next/DisMissed/ElimiDate (not that I have ever watched any of these), they are not obtuse enough to ignore the laws of probability. They KNOW they have a better chance of hooking up with one of their "competitors" than they ever do of hooking up with the officially sanctioned object of their affection. And there is absolutely no reason, short of contractual obligation, not to do so! So does it really come as a surprise to anyone when the criminally narcissistic "target" on Next ends up alone while all the cuties are making out blissfully on the bus without him? I can respect anyone who has a logical grasp on statistics.

So, ever since I first saw a promo for this show, I have been wondering how long it would take before SOMEONE would hook up in the house.

Okay, so Tila's not a Complete Moron (tm). (For anyone keeping track, however, she IS still an Attention Whore (tm)). When the group moved in, she clearly stated the house rules. Of which there are apparently a sum total of one, which would be that there is to be no hooking up in the house.

That lasted all of 1/4 of one episode. I say that, because apparently that rule only holds in the house, and seriously, God only knows what kind of shit went on at whatever hotel they were putting the contestants up in before they moved in, because apparently the cameras were not allowed. Apparently. You KNOW there was MAD hooking up going on. I mean, everyone loves hotel sex. Especially when it's anonymous reality tv hotel sex. Not that I've ever had hotel sex. I'm just sayin'. It sounds like sexy. Not that I would know.

Number of people who have pronounced it "supposably": 2

Number of people wearing a t-shirt that says, "Vagitarian": 1. Unfortunately, yes, it was a boy. Unforgivable.

Tila sets up a "Country Fair" to entertain everyone. A direct quote from the boy from West Virginia:

"I used to love going to the state fair. I used to spray the poop off of the elephants - the carnies used to get me to do it."

Dude. You are SINGLEHANDEDLY JUSTIFYING EVERY WEST VIRGINIAN JOKE EVER TOLD.

Okay, so during the fair, the Vagitarian TOTALLY rats out the people who were doing...questionable? (bitch, this shit is on TAPE!) things under the covers in the Big Bed. Guy in question comes up to defend himself. Vag says, "I didn't say any name, right? So why is he here for?" (Vag is Italian, so the questionable English is excusable. In fact, he is referred to as "Little Italy" by some of his compatriots, which almost makes up for the fact that I must, henceforth, refer to him as Vag.) DUDE TOTALLY JUST SOLD HIMSELF OUT. FUCKIN' AWESOME.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #2:
Put everyone into one HUGE bed, and tell them NOT to hook up. Oh, and throw in a game of Spin the Bottle, a stripper pole, and LOTS of liquor. Like THAT'S gonna happen. You know, nothing says "trustworthy" like the words "club promoter." That's all I'm sayin'. The man has my utmost confidence.

Seriously, MTV, how am I supposed to blog with a straight face when you keep putting up that "The following program contains mature subject matter" disclaimer after every commercial break? This subject matter couldn't be less mature if it were Spongebob. My Super Sweet 16 is of a more mature nature than this piece of crap. Not that I've ever watched that. (I am, of course, referring to My Super Sweet 16. I TOTALLY watch Spongebob.)

So back to the big scandal. Tila says something to the group about how someone has broken the rules. So Rebecca says, "Well, yeah, I kissed Brandi, but..."

And Tila says, "That's not what they were talking about."
"Oh."

OOOOHHHHH! BUSTED!!! You did THAT in TILA'S HOUSE???

Wait, bitch, that ain't your house. It's whatever house MTV rented for this awful, AWFUL show. I should know. I saw that episode of My Super Sweet 16 where the girl throwing the party demonstrated how rich her family was by saying that VH1 rented their house to film I Love New York.

Um...not that I...oh, hell. I give up.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #3:
You claim to be bisexual, yet you expect all of your candidates to be either straight men, or full-on lesbian women. You're totally that girl who is going to convince someone you want to be monogamous, but insists it's not fair for them to expect you to be faithful, because you're attracted to both sexes. Honey, I'm attracted to a LOT of men. That doesn't mean that I get to DO all of them.

Mmmkay. So the competition for Alone Time (tm) in this episode was...
wait for it....
A pie-eating contest.
I swear to God I am not making this up.
Wanna bet who won?
The one butch girl left.
Of course she did.

The elimination ceremony:
Tila, I can totally see your nipples through that dress. Which is impressive, since it's not at all form-fitting. Mad props.
Mmmmkay. So, lemme get this straight (no pun intended). You kept the boy who did (questionable?) things under the covers with the (alleged) lesbian. You kept the girl who kissed the (alleged) lesbian. You dumped the (alleged) lesbian. YOU DUMPED THE (not just alleged) LESBIAN KRYSTAL???? YOU DUMPED TWO HOT BOYS BUT KEPT MOMMA'S BOY (hey, at least I can keep the tally going)???? YOU DUMPED THE BOY WHO WAS TEARING UP BUT KEPT THE VAG????

Bless me, reader, for I have SINNED. Hate the sinner, love the sin. Wait...

"You know why super villains are so unhappy, Arthur? They don't treasure the little things."

There is an Oscar Levant quote that goes, "Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember." I guess I'm an oddity then, because I am often well aware that I am experiencing happiness. As in, I will be walking down the street, or eating a meal, and thinking to myself, "Damn, this is making me happy right now!" And then I'll say something to that effect to whoever happens to be with me, and it's generally greeted with the old Smile&Nod (tm) treatment. And occasionally a pat on the head.

Today is one of those positively asstastic fall days. It's been gloomy and overcast all day....damp and chilly...the wind is picking up and apparently bringing rain and/or snow with it over the next 48 hrs or so...basically, a typical November day in Toronto. The kind that makes it easy for me to forget that fall is supposed to be my favorite season. So, in an attempt to brighten my own spirits (and avoid getting back to work on that AutoCAD drawing I'm supposed to be working on), I decided while I was walking back from lunch to make a list of things that have made me happy today.

(Regular readers of this blog should be well aware that it really takes very little. So I hope you're not expecting much.)

1. Wearing my new hat. It's goofy, and a wee bit ridiculous, but I do love it so and happen to find myself most adorable in it. Secretly, I'm a little bit happy about the chill and rain, because it allows me to walk around and have strangers look at me and think, "she looks sullen, yet I have this strange feeling she knows the way to the nearest haberdashery."

1 1/2. Using the word "haberdashery."

2. Dogs that walk themselves. As I left for lunch, I saw a guy walking a little white shaggy terrier kind of dog, and sort of teasing it with the leash. The dog caught the leash in his mouth, and happily trotted along, walking himself. I've known other dogs that do this, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets any less adorable. It's sort of the canine equivalent of holding your hand.

3. A Parking Enforcement officer....parking poorly. I mean, REALLY poorly. Seems like those responsible for enforcing good parking practices ought to lead by example.

4. There is nothing happy about the number 4. Or rather, there wouldn't be, if it existed.

5. Making "there is no #4" jokes.

6. Halloween in the Gay Village. Okay, now I'm cheating, and telling you about things that made me happy last week. All in all, it was a low-key evening on our end - we just wandered down to check out some of the costumes and take some pictures. My favorites: two guys dressed as the Yip Yips from Sesame Street. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to grow up with Sesame Street:

Totally made my whole night. Close second: a group of 5 or 6 guys dressed as sperm. White turtlenecks, white tights, bathing caps and goggles, and little curly white tails. The reason I enjoyed them so much was that they really committed to the character - they were SO EXCITED to have their pictures taken that they could barely stop milling around each other long enough to pose. Until, of course, another group of 5 or 6 guys came along dressed as Hooters girls. One of the sperm kept butting his head up against one of the "girls." Seriously adorable.
BTW, my friends and I have decided to do it properly next year by going in costume ourselves. Again, those who know me well know that I have, on occasion, taken up to a full year to plan a Halloween costume. So I am officially opening the floor for suggestions for next year's costume. Previous costumes have included Mr. Hat (the hand puppet from South Park), Thing (from the Addams Family), Smurfette, and a pimp. I told you Halloween makes me happy.

7. Ah hell, since I'm already cheating...Wine, cheese, and the Pontiac Quarterly, which also happened last week. Oh, and wearing my LOUD PANTS. The evening ran more than a little bit late by the time it was over, but I wholeheartedly enjoyed myself. One guy did an entirely deadpan lesson on the history and development of meat maps. I shit you not. I must thank Ian for allowing me to drag him to it, even though I was REALLY late for dinner. The LOUD PANTS really needed an evening out.

8. Steve Wilson. He is a local artist/illustrator whose work #1 and I discovered about a year ago when he had a piece on display at the Steam Whistle brewery. About a month or so ago I happened to run across one of his pieces again, figure out who he was, and find that he had just started a blog. He and another guy illustrate the Pontiac, live, and that's how I found out about it in the first place. Now I just need to get a loft with huge walls so I can buy one of the illustrations sometime.

So suck on it, Mr. Levant.

The Terrible Trivium

Your Random Act of Trivia (tm) of the day, courtesy of mental_floss:

Q: What classic rock hit was inspired by a scene in the Mel Brooks film Young Frankenstein?

A: Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” Steven Tyler revealed that the band saw the film late one evening after a recording session for the Toys in the Attic album. He was inspired by a gag scene where Igor prompts Dr. Frankenstein to “walk this way” and then shuffles along (which the doctor mimics). Tyler liked the phrase, and he and Joe Perry used it as the title of what became one of the band’s best-known songs.

That is just bloody well brilliant. If you haven't seen Young Frankenstein, I'm not sure I can talk to you anymore.

This makes me happier than it has any right to.

I'm too old for this shit.

How old do I have to get before I no longer have to deal with people who can't hold their liquor?

I got roped into going to a pub night tonight. Last year, I went to this event, and at some point, Labmate disappeared into the bathroom for an extended period of time. Guess who was sent to check on her? Repeatedly?

I believe the people who make good drunk-sitters are those who have needed a drunk-sitter of their own. Those of us who know how to drink have a very low tolerance for such things. For the record, I have drunk to the point of hurling exactly once in my life. I was seventeen. That SO doesn't count. And I didn't need anyone to take care of me. It has never happened since because a) I have a strong stomach and b) I have the good sense to listen to my body when it tells me it's time to slow down.

Those that know me know that I don't deal with vomit well, but, I am not a she-beast, so when someone needs a friend to knock on the door of the stall and make sure they're still conscious...and to walk them home to make sure they don't pass out in the gutter...I will step up. And last year, Labmate only had to stop twice to upchuck en route from McCaul to Yonge.

This year, Labmate's boyfriend was there. He took her home before the chucking of up began, but I have a hunch that it did, in fact, commence at some point. But, not my problem this year. Thank God for boyfriends.

However, there was another labmate present who turned out to be. She had been weirdly all over me all night (but hey, she's a weird girl) and actually announced that she was going to the bathroom to "puke and poop." We caught a glimpse of her washing her hands at the sink when someone else left the bathroom, but she didn't come out. So guess who was sent to check on her?

She was responsive, and she eventually emerged without assistance. But she had to go back in one more time before we left. They almost tried to make me check on her again. She came out, and claimed she was okay.

When I left her, she was puking on the platform in the subway station.

Oh, don't look at me like that - her boyfriend was there to make sure she got home okay.

And while I feel like a bit of a shit for hopping on the train, I keep reminding myself that I was actually getting dangerously close to missing the last bus home. Oh, and I have to give a talk to my entire building in 12 hours.

And did I mention that I'm almost FUCKING THIRTY???

Seriously, just how old do I have to be before I can retire from the drunk-sitting business???

And this is the last time BNL EVER talks me into going to anything. Even if I did get to see the Boss drunk.

Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. And the commemorative coin set.

Things you have to have done in order to truly understand the Wahooty:

1. Smelled your dental floss. Hey, it's the only way you know your teeth are truly clean.

2. Done dishes that have been sitting in the sink so long that they smell EXACTLY like your dental floss on one of those not-so-fresh days.

3. Done dishes while rather intoxicated.

Remembered that there is no #4.

5. Been appalled by your own filth, and deathly afraid that someone will find out.

6. Planned a perfectly lovely evening, and had it turn out just exactly as lovely (if not more so) than you had planned.

7. Planned a perfectly boring evening, and had it turn out far lovelier than you expected it to.

8. Made the perfect dinner.

9. And drunk at least half a bottle of the perfect wine.

10. Oh hell...drunk the whole fucking bottle.

11. Worn heels and an evening gown around your apartment for no reason other than that they made you happy.

12. Watched many, MANY hours of Sex and the City. Often, while wearing heels. And maybe an evening gown. Or two.

13. Put on music for the sole purpose of dancing and/or singing around your apartment. Possibly put on shoes for that very purpose. Hey, the tap shoes get lonely. As do the jazz shoes. Shut up, you're not the boss of me.

14. Curled up in an armchair with a couple of furry things and watched a football game. Preferably with at least one of the furry things falling asleep. Snoring is a bonus.

15. Watched the sunrise over a mountain and a pasture full of cows.

16. Received cow kisses.

17. Had a mint julep.

18. Gone wine tasting and loved it. Even at a shitty winery.

19. Been to Virginia in the fall.

20. Had REAL BBQ. And sweet tea. And realized that one does not exist without the other.

21. Watched a TV show with someone several hundred miles away. And across an international border.

22. Wandered around alone at night and never once had it occur to you to be frightened. In fact, wandered. Just for the sake of wandering.

23. Loved MTV more than anyone has a right to. Even in Canada.

24. Left your home behind, only to find a new one.

25. Diagnosed your own health problems, and found the right medication.

26. And been right.

27. Seen how fucking cool it is to mix chemicals and create light.

28. Been in front of a captive, and captivated, audience.

29. Walked the Lawn at UVA. With and without clothing.

30. Been hooded at a graduation, while your parents kissed in the audience.

Rejoiced in finishing a list on a nice, round number.

Oh, there are more. Many more. But these are all I thought of tonight.

Chop Suey

Tonight I decided that I needed to go out to eat. All by myself, like a big girl. I just didn't feel like sitting at home all by my lonesome, so I might as well take my lonesome out on the town.

So I headed to a nearby pub. But when I got there, it was fairly full, with a crowd much older than I, and it just wasn't the atmosphere I was looking for. Plus, I had realized by that time that what I really wanted was fish & chips, so I headed to the bus stop so that I could relocate to my fish & chips shop a few blocks away.

I got there at 8:05.

They closed at 8.

D'OH!

Okay, so moving on to Plan C: catch another bus back home, and finally try the Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood that I have heard is actually quite good. The "Chinese Beef Lamb House" always looks and smells quite tasty whenever I walk by, and I've been wanting to try it, but am always hesitant to try Chinese places without the buffer provided by one of my Chinese friends. And tonight I was reminded why.

Once I was seated, they brought me a plate...napkin...

...and a fork.

They didn't even give me the OPTION of chopsticks. And yeah, I could have asked, but I figured it wasn't worth flagging down the waitress again.

Now, I'm no hero. I am not very good with chopsticks, because they are not standard issue in most of the Asian restaurants in the Virginia and Indiana towns in which I have lived. (The glaring exception being sushi restaurants, which I find funny because sushi is actually supposed to be eaten with the fingers as far as I know.) But I am a firm believer in the whole "when in Rome..." attitude, and I like to eat my Chinese/Korean/Japanese/Vietnamese/etc. food with the proper utensils. It is, quite frankly, part of the reason I go out for that sort of thing, because I can make Asian foods at home, but I don't have chopsticks (yet), and it's just more fun to eat the food the way it's meant to be eaten. And the only way I will ever get good at using them is to ACTUALLY USE THEM. It may take me a while to eat my bowl of pho, but dammit, I do it, and I've improved a lot in the last year. I wouldn't have been offended had they brought me a fork WITH my chopsticks, but they never even gave me a chance. C'mon, throw the white girl a bone!

So anyway, I eat my dinner with my stupid fork, and it's very, very tasty. But I find myself wondering if it's the real thing. Chinese restaurants are notorious for having two versions of everything - the real one, and the one they serve the white people.

I lived in Indiana for seven years. I've had enough greasy, bland, Westernized Chinese food to last me many lifetimes. Toronto is known for having fantastic Chinese food, and when I go to a Chinese restaurant, I want the same food that the Chinese patrons eat. If I'm smart enough to eat at a restaurant in which I am the sole white person, I don't want to be treated like someone who doesn't really want authentic food. Even my Canadian-born Chinese friends tend to be surprised when I like things that are very traditionally Chinese and very different from Western food.

Dude, I like food. I ain't fussy.

So I guess I'll never know if my cumin lamb was the real thing unless I take one of my Chinese friends with me and have them order it. But oooh, even if it was toned down, it was fabulous.

I almost asked for the check in Chinese, just to salvage a little pride, but I only know how to say it in Cantonese, and I'm pretty sure this is a Mandarin-speaking joint, so I would have just looked even more hopelessly Anglo. And if there's anything I hate more than being subtly patronized, it's the blatant patronization you get for doing things like that.

And dammit, I still want some fish & chips.

J-J-Jaded

My horoscope for today was:

You may sense a current of feeling that runs deeper than what you've been recently experiencing. On one hand, this can be quite exciting, for you are attracted to the intensity and may believe that you are getting closer to something very significant. On the other hand, you are fearful of losing yourself into this powerful flow. Discuss it with a close friend to get a healthier perspective before proceeding.

I've come to a realization slowly over the last 6 months or so. No matter how much I try to deny it, I have to admit that I've become pretty severely jaded. I'm not talking about that pouty, "I'm bitter!" veneer that so many single girls put up when what they're really thinking is, "I know he's out there...why won't he just get here already?" After several years of long periods alone, only interrupted by a series of unrequited crushes and an occasional relationship with an emotionally unavailable man (some of whom had very good reasons for being emotionally unavailable...others...well, just went ahead and hurt me without ever bothering to even attempt to explain themselves), I find myself in a rather unattractive frame of mind. Not only do I not want to get emotionally invested in anyone, but I find myself continually surprised to find evidence that men actually do have feelings.

That sounds really awful, but it's true.

Any time I'm watching some stupid reality show, and there's some will-they-or-won't-they romantic plotline during which they show the guy talking to some buddy about the girl and expressing a sentiment even the slightest bit deeper than, "yeah, she's pretty hot," I am actually taken aback. The thought of a guy actually caring about and having real emotions for a girl is genuinely foreign to me at this point.

It has been about 7 years since I exchanged "I love you"s with someone who wasn't a blood relative or one of my best girlfriends.

Sort of a Seven-Year-Retch, if you will.

During that period, any time I've been on the phone with my parents and told them I'm dating someone new, it has been immediately followed by, "there's no future in it, but at least it's nice to have some companionship." I can spend a surprising amount of time in a relationship that never had any hope of a future.

It's easy to believe men don't have deep feelings when you've had so little evidence to the contrary. Oh sure, I've been out on dates where I could tell I was charming the pants off of the guy, but those never went far enough to turn into genuine affection, and I'm sure they have long since forgotten about me. And yeah, there were one or two guys who kind of turned into stalkers, but I don't flatter myself - I know those had a great deal more to do with the mental instability of those particular chaps than with any attraction towards me. I catch myself thinking the same sorts of things I used to when I was in middle school (where you think the boy that likes you is just gross and the boy you like thinks the same about you in turn): what are the odds that some guy I like would end up liking me? That just seems impossible!

I don't like this about myself, but I also know that it's not something I can fix on my own. No matter how much my friends give me the speeches about how amazing I am and how some great guy is going to come to his senses and figure that out, the only thing that will ever convince me is when some guy does. I'm a woman of faith in many things, but this just ain't one of 'em. Here, I am a woman of science - I'll believe it when I see it.

Which brings me back to my horoscope and my new crush. Yeah, you read that right, I have promoted him to actual, full-blown crush status. We hung out last night, and spent about 4 hours just talking. He has far guiltier pleasures than I do, but he doesn't seem to feel the least bit guilty about them, which is refreshing. My current impression is that he's confident and self-assured, but with a healthy dose of humility. He likes to talk, and is incredibly honest and forthright, but he also listens very intently when I talk. The one thing I'm still trying to figure out is how attracted to him I am, but that won't be fully resolved until I've at least had a snuggle. And while I can usually tell when a guy is charmed or smitten with me, I'm not picking up any of that with him. He clearly enjoys spending time with me, because he has always been eager to make plans, but about the only tangible sign I've had of interest was when I was leaving last night, and thanked him for having me over, even though he had a bad cold, and he said, "No, thanks for coming over. I've been looking forward to this since we first talked about doing it last week."

That caught me a little off-guard. I mean, I know I had been looking forward to it, but he was too? I mean, he actually had stuff to DO all week. I was partly looking forward to it because it was the only thing on my social calendar. So now I've been thinking about him a lot (again, mostly because it's more fun than doing chores or working on the paper that I'm supposed to send to my boss by tomorrow night), and all day I've been having these fleeting flashes of...something. It could be that there's more than just crush potential there, but it could also just be that long-dead part of me trying to resurface. That occasional flutter in my stomach might just be that part of me that's sick of being alone, trying to take over and make more of this than it really is. I don't have the energy to analyze, and it wouldn't do any good anyway, so I'm just letting it percolate for now to see if it resolves itself. But this has been one of those weeks where my horoscope is pretty much dead on, and it says to discuss it with a close friend for perspective, and you guys are my close friends.

So go ahead, discuss.

Irony is the hygiene of the mind.

The U of T, in its infinte wisdom, has been inundating my building (or at least my floor) with posters lately. One surfaced in the washroom, explaining the fundamentals of hand-washing. Because I guess if you've managed to make it to the upper echelon of academia without ever learning to wash your hands after you pee, the only logical explanation is that you've never had a proper visual aide. Around the same time, they installed Purell dispensers just outside the washroom doors, and a day or two later a helpful poster appeared to explain, basically, that germs are icky (complete with a cartoon germ that has legs, antennae and, yes, WINGS. Must be one of them there airborne illnesses I've heard so much about).

I will save my anti-Purell tirades for another day, but I encourage you to read that last part again, keeping in mind that my building is officially named the Center for Cellular and Biomolecular Research.

Thank God for those posters - otherwise, the people in this building might never have figured out how to kill germs.

This week, a new set appeared. Four beautiful posters, all about efforts we can make to help the University be Green - reducing greenhouse gas emissions, using sustainable resources, recycling, and...

...going paperless.

Yin and Yang

This evening, I had two dueling streams of thought. So I present them as follows. I have done you all the courtesy of separating the streams into their respective topics, as I thought writing the whole thought process verbatim would have been completely incomprehensible. As it is, it is merely a complete waste of your time. You have been duly warned.

YIN:

I present my stream of consciousness while intermittently watching the MTV Video Music Awards:

Why is John Norris blonde?

AND WEARING EYELINER????

Why is NELLY fuckin FURTADO blonde? And apparently drunk. Apparently.

And what the fuck happened to Alicia Keys? Where did you leave the rest of your nose, sista friend?

Paris Hilton, you look ridiculous, you self-important bitch.

Britney!
Could you be more obviously lip-synching?
You look good for a mom of 2, but you are not in your fighting form. Seriously...I hear Weight Watchers is some good shit.
WOW with the uncomfortable/bored/pitying looks from the audience.
When FUCKING RIHANNA is laughing at you for not being able to sing, you know you've got problems.
You're a much better dancer than this, Brit.
That was, quite possibly, the LAMEST OPENING NUMBER THE VMAS HAVE EVER HAD.
Almost, but not quite, as lame as one would expect when they're having the fucking thing IN A CASINO.
What next - Atlantic City???

It should be noted that there is a gap of about one hour here while I was...um...indisposed. (read: talking to a boy)

Oh...OH....how I do love Justin Timberlake. But who knew he had balls? He just accepted his award from the cast of The Hills, then pleaded with MTV in his speech to "play some videos." And made some snide comment about reality tv. LOVE him. But also love The Hills. Such is the neverending paradox of self-hatred for every pop-culture junkie.

Mmm...I do enjoy the LeBoeuf.

But I don't enjoy the LeMoustache.

Any day now, Kanye West is going to be completely indistinguishable from Flavor Flav. And God help me, I love him for it.

Oh...OH...nobody told me he name-checks SNAKES ON A PLANE!!! Why, exactly, have I not bought this album yet???

Aside from JT, have NO IDEA WHATSOEVER who has actually won the awards.

Megan Fox, you look like a blowup doll. Seriously, it's distracting. I keep looking for the valve on her back.

Rihanna, SHAME ON YOU for laughing at Britney. You sound like ass. You are not dancing enough to justify that backing track.

Alicia Keys, your biceps and thighs frighten me. Sir yes SIR!
Ooh, but you are covering George Michael's "Freedom '90." That makes me happier than it has any right to.

How can you be nominated for "best new artist" when it's your THIRD ALBUM??? How's that rehab workin' out for you now, Amy?

Nelly Furtado has now officially morphed into Madonna circa "Lucky Star."

Oh, but I am having many impure thoughts about Justin Timberlake right now. Damn, if you boys only knew what good dance moves can do to a woman.

Still have no idea who won anything. But who really gives a shit anyway?

YANG:

I need help. I realized earlier today that I was nervous about an IM date.

Wait...I need to backtrack.
So I have previously alluded to a new friend who may or may not be a candidate for my new crush. We have tons in common - he is a teacher and a theater person and seems fairly passionate about both. Which is good, seeing as how these are two of my big passions in life. He is also close to his extended family and that's a very big deal for me as well, so it's nice to talk to someone i have that in common with.

Well, he asked me to go see a movie with him on Wednesday night. The movie? Superbad. Something I've been dying to see, and indicates we should have compatible senses of humor...isn't a damned date movie, which is good, because as a general rule, I HATE date movies. And we've kind of made a pact to keep things low-key and friendly to start off, so a date movie would have been weird anyway.

Now, up until this point, I have been feeling that on paper we are quite compatible, but I wasn't sure about in person. We'd only had one lunch together, which didn't exactly blow me away, but it took me by surprise just how much I found myself thinking about him afterwards. So I was excited and a little nervous about the movie - about what one should be in the early stages of crush development. And he showed up looking...well...adorable. He looked casual, but like he had Put Together an Outfit...all clean, and pressed, and good-smelling. And wearing his glasses, which made him look kind of like Ted Allen from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (who I have always enjoyed in a love that dare not speak its name kind of way). Of course, it was a movie, which doesn't lend itself to lots of getting-to-know you conversation, but we both enjoyed the movie...established we're dog people...a mutual love of Arrested Development...he gave me a ride home, and that was it. Once again, I was left wanting more, which is a good thing. At this point, I am thinking, yeah, this guy has some actual crush potential. So I send him a little "hey, thanks again for the movie" e-mail when I got home.

Spent Thursday obsessing over why he hadn't written me back yet, or called to ask if maybe I wanted to have lunch or something this weekend.

Friday morning, I get an e-mail back from him, saying, "Sorry it took me so long to get back to you..."

He seems to know exactly how long to go without responding in order to allow me to start obsessing over why he hasn't responded. I don't even think he does it on purpose, and luckily, I don't think he has any idea how dangerously effective it is in terms of piquing my interest.

So I get a little bored Friday night, and add him to my IM contact list.

Saturday afternoon, he signs on and notices this, and we chat. Blah blah blah...he's busy...film festival...gala premieres..etc...will I be around Sunday night? We can chat and maybe make plans for our next get-together? Sure!

So this afternoon rolls around, and I realize I am exceedingly nervous about talking to him tonight.

I PICKED OUT AN OUTFIT.

In case you missed it, this was an outfit for an ONLINE CONVERSATION. WITH NO VIDEO. I just wanted to feel all cute and confident. I also happened to want a mint julep. Luckily, alcohol seems to work in my favor when it comes to being charming, so it made for what I think was some rather witty repartee on my end. As usual, however, I feel as though I did more of the talking than I probably needed to. We talked for about two hours, during which I learned that he has a cat (who bears an eerie resemblance to Mup's evil cat), shares some of my evil fast-food weaknesses but maybe not my general foodie nature, and is WAY more tidy than I will ever be. This could prove to be a problem - I can deal with evil felines and fast-food addiction, but ain't no way in hell I will ever be tidy. Clean, sure. Lacking in parasites, absolutely. I could make my personal slogan "Wahooty - regularly shampooed and officially vermin-free since 1977!" But tidy? Yeah, not so much.

So we'll see. We discussed plans for a night in with a DVD on Friday. We have plans to reconvene online on Wednesday to discuss the details.

Yeah, he is definitely too organized. This can go one of two ways: I am too odd for him, or he is way too normal for me. Either way, it will only end in tears.

I'll keep you kids posted.

Martha Stewart is my hero.

Okay, the many joys of working at home are as follows:

1) A bottomless cup of coffee, made exactly the way you like it and very reasonably priced. Served in a handmade ceramic mug, no less (or maybe just if you're working in MY home).

2) Being able to run your Saturday errands on Friday, saving much line-waiting, crowd-navigating time.

3) Working in your PJ's.

3.2) Not having to put on makeup or do your hair, thus ensuring you can give Matt Lauer your full attention while he is interviewing (EXCLUSIVEly!) the girl who was kicked off of her flight for wearing a slutty skirt. (FYI, the skirt was quite slutty, but she had the legs to pull it off and I don't think it quite warranted being ejected from a plane.)

5) Getting to watch Martha Stewart. Now, I have always been a Martha fan. I'm sure that all of the stories about her being a raging beotch in real life are absolutely true. But I was raised by a mother who sewed, crafted, installed appliances, built decks, and put a home-cooked dinner on the table every night, and I happen to think that these are becoming lost skills. I am a big fan of anyone who encourages the homemade and teaches people how to do the things that their mothers might not have been able to teach them. When Martha went to jail, I wished I had money to invest in some of her stock while it was cheap, because I KNEW she would come back strong. And her current show is awesome - you gotta love that they gave a live talk show to someone who is a truly awful extemporaneous speaker. She is a LOUSY interviewer, and watching her cook or craft with whatever random celebrity guest she has on a given day always has a hilarious and surreal train-wreck quality that is deliciously awkward. Where else do you get to hear Martha Stewart talk about "absolutely beautiful North American beaver"? Genius, I tell you. And today, just when I thought I couldn't love her any more, they ran a promo for the new season scored to...

{drum roll}

Pour Some Sugar On Me.

Fuckin' Def Leppard, man.
Def Leppard + The Martha = mind-blowing TVgasm for the Wahooty.

Okay, back to work. Right after I run to Old Navy.

It's a question of obsession.

Someone is seriously messing with me today.

It was raining this morning when I was getting ready, so there was absolutely no point in trying to do anything with my hair, as any effort would be promptly undone by the humidity well before I even arrived at work. On a normal day I wouldn't care, but it just so happens that I'm supposed to be meeting someone for a movie after work. I don't know yet if said person has crush potential - there's enough that I actually thought about what to wear today, but not enough to wash my hair or shave my legs or anything - but I do actually care about looking cute until a verdict is rendered. And, while I left the house looking decent, I arrived at work looking...well...I believe the word I'm looking for is "asstastic."

After an emergency touch-up session involving the bathroom sink and squatting under the motion-sensitive hand dryer, I was feeling a little better. My hair is still up in a clip because I can't do a damned thing with it, but at least the bangs have lost their Farrah Fawcett/poodle quality. But now, for some reason, the VGLM has walked by my desk a few times today - something he almost never does anymore. I passed him twice in the hall, and both times there was quality eye contact/friendly smile action - something else that has been dwindling lately. It's as if he knows I'm in the market for a new #1 crush and is trying to make it as difficult as possible for me to make the transition.

Oh, and the New Hotness has also wandered by once or twice, after not being around at all last week.

So, to sum up, my hair looks stupid, I'm retaining water like a mofo, and the bad eating habits I've gotten into due to vacations and entertaining have left me...well...I believe the word I'm looking for is "gassy." Why do boys have to be paying attention to me today???

At the rate I'm going, Matt Damon should be stopping by any minute now...probably at the exact moment that one of my labmates decides to give me an atomic wedgie.

Holy crap...

...does Canadian Idol suck.

I mean...WOW.

I believe you can get me through the night.

Aaaaaand...we're back.

I think I'm going to save up all of my summer travel adventures and write about them in a wee series after summer unofficially ends this weekend. After it rained all over my "camping" trip, the patio weather has returned in full force this week, and I'd rather spend my time taking advantage of it than typing in a basement. It seems it won't hurt you guys to wait just a bit longer to hear what I've been up to. :)

But I had a dream yesterday morning that I felt I should share with you.

As I've said before, I rarely remember much of my dreams, so this won't take long.

I dreamed that I ran into the VGLM. I hadn't seen him at work in a while, and ran into him in some mall. He was sporting a serious lumberjack beard, and as I understood it he had quit grad school and was now working at this mall. I could tell he wasn't happy about his general lot in life, and we had a conversation much like the one we had had back when he got the "priorities" talk from his boss. He said, "Yeah, I need to either start something new, or fall in love."

I can't figure out if that statement is kinda profound, or kinda idiotic, but it has stuck with me.

I don't really know what any of this means, other than that my subconscious has clearly not gotten the "quit while I'm ahead" message and is, instead, putting my own thoughts into the hallucinated mouths of people that I'd really prefer to stop thinking about. However, I do now know what it feels like when your heart skips a beat in your sleep.

Actually, it was more like my heart stopping and dropping right into the pit of my stomach. Yep...stop, drop, and roll, kids.

That was when I jolted awake. When I drifted back to sleep, I had one more little dream fragment. I was sitting at a long table, across from three men: the VGLM, the New Hotness (haven't told you guys about him yet because I don't know if he has true crush potential or is just pretty to look at), and a new friend who I don't even know well enough to know if I find him attractive yet. And I was just sitting there, looking at them, like a director trying to cast the role of "#1 Crush."

That dream has been haunting me for two days now, or at least the first part has. I do agree with my subconscious that, in order to get past the old crush, I need to find a new one. And it's gonna have to be good. So if anyone out there would like to apply for the position, we will be holding auditions, in my REM cycle, sometime around 5am. Please bring a headshot and resume, along with a monologue and song if you've got it.

Don't call us - we'll call you.

Gotta Get Up From Here

Hey kids.

You may have noticed that I'm not posting a lot. It's been a busy month - one vacation down, one starting tomorrow, guests coming in as soon as I get back, trying to actually accomplish something at work in between. So that leaves precious little time for blogging, I'm afraid. But I haven't forgotten about you, my beloved handful of faithful readers. I actually took notes during my first trip a couple of weeks ago for an entry that is yet to be written, and I'm sure my upcoming camping trip (if you can call a week in an RV "camping," which, of course, I do NOT) will provide plenty more material. And if that doesn't do it, Em and her boy will provide lots of blog fodder, between the singing zombies and the Pirate Festival. Fear not, devoted reader, for your patience will be rewarded.

That being said, you'll have to be patient for at least another week, because I will have no internet access and the squirrels are unreliable messengers.

Toodles!

Already in the Red

It may be time to cash in my crush.

Don't get me wrong - the VGLM is still as VGL as ever, and any direct eye contact still makes me weak in the knees. Probably always will.

But today, I asked him if he would like to go see Evil Dead with me when Em and her boy come to visit in a couple of weeks. He thought about it pretty hard (probably harder than anybody has EVER thought about a musical about zombies), but in the end said, "I think I'm gonna pass."

In research, one of the most valuable lessons one can learn is the mantra, "quit while you're ahead." It has served me well this week. When I finally got my new devices made on Wednesday, I decided to wait until Thursday morning to try them out so that, if they didn't work, at least I had ended Wednesday on a satisfying note. On Thursday, they DID work. So I waited until today to take the next step and try the hard part. Again, I went home happy last night. Today, I tried the hard part. It didn't really work. But that's okay - now I can go on vacation next week and know exactly what I have waiting for me when I get back. It's good to have a problem to start working on when you come back from a break.

Unfortunately, while I've gotten pretty good at doing this in my professional life, I'm not so good at it in my personal life. I'm not exactly ahead with the VGLM (the ratio of accepted/rejected invitations is at least 1/3, possibly 1/4) , but at least the most embarrassing it's gotten was one episode of forcible snuggling after too many beers, and frankly, that was totally worth it. I'm just getting tired of rejection - it seems to me that if he were at all interested in me, he would have said yes just to hang out with me. So I'm thinking maybe I just need to stop setting myself up for disappointment. It's starting to wear on me. At least if I quit now I haven't made any embarrassing confessions of actual feelings or anything like that, and I can escape with what's left of my dignity intact.

Take Five

The other night, I was having a conversation with a friend via e-mail about celebrity sightings/meetings, spawned by my previous post about The Incredible Hulk filming in Toronto. In this area, I'd say the world can be divided into three groups of people:

1. Celebrities
2. Those who, in the course of their seemingly normal lives, just happen to meet celebrities with some regularity
3. The rest of us

Category 2 is a small, but distinct segment of the population. I have known a couple of these people in my life; one was an acquaintance from college. The show RENT opened on Broadway my first year of college, and immediately became the obsession of every self-respecting theater geek of my generation. Naturally, a number of my friends made pilgrimages to New York to see the show, but this friend saw the show...met some members of the cast...got invited to a cast party...where he met Carol Burnett...who sent him a Christmas card that year. Oh, and he also came home with a new boyfriend - a member of the cast. I know someone who dated the guy who plays Paul on the Original Cast Recording.

The friend with whom I was having this conversation got invited to a party during the Toronto International Film Festival last year. He went to the wrong party, met Johnny Depp (humina humina), and, because he was in a position to help Johnny slip quietly out of the party and avoid the throngs of stalkers that were waiting at the entrances, he got himself invited to another, private, party without even trying.

SHIT LIKE THAT DON'T HAPPEN TO NORMAL PEOPLE.

People like this don't seek these experiences out - if you TRIED to get invited to a party with Johnny Depp, it would never happen. You don't TRY to get a Christmas card from Carol Burnett - you just have to be a certain kind of person to make that kind of impression on her. I don't know if I would make that sort of impression on anybody...I've never had the opportunity. But, in my experience, if I were this sort of person, I would have met some celebrities by now...ergo, I must be one of them there normal folk. I honestly don't know if I'm the type to get starstruck, because I've never had the opportunity to find out.

Us normal folk have to content ourselves with our six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon brushes with fame. My mom went to high school with the Unibomber's little brother (true story - he signed my aunt's yearbook)...my high school geometry teacher is Joe Piscopo's cousin (he apparently never comes to family gatherings)...that kind of stuff. While the Category 2 kids are out actually meeting fabulous and exciting people by accidents of fate, we are sitting in bars playing "Who Would You Kick Out of Bed?" or "Marry, Boff, or Kill?" in between edits of our Five Celebrity Freebie lists.

For those who are not familiar *coughcoughIancough*, these are very simple games, and I enjoy them because they continue to amuse for hours in the right crowd, and require no cards, boards, or teeny-tiny pencils. I'm not big on most games that require equipment. A quick overview:


Who Would You Kick Out of Bed?

The classic jumping-off point is the major three (American) networks' TV news anchors (meaning the landscape of the game has changed drastically since I first played it in college), but you can start anywhere.
Example:
"Who would you kick out of bed: Brian Williams, or Charles Gibson?"
"Charles Gibson."
"Okay, who would you kick out of bed: Brian Williams, or Katie Couric?"
"Oooh...tough call."

About the only steadfast rule is that you HAVE to kick one, and only one, out of bed. "Threesome!" is not an acceptable answer, so you can have great fun tormenting people by making them choose between their biggest celebrity crushes...sort of a sexual Sophie's Choice. But it gets really fun when you start giving people options like, "Who would you kick out of bed: Bill O'Reilly, or...Carrot Top?"


Marry, Boff, or Kill?

Popularized by 30 Rock (one of the most underrated shows on TV today, as far as I'm concerned). Similar concept to WWYKOoB, except three celebrities are named, and the person must assign each to one of the three categories. You can't Marry two people, or Boff all three. Fairly self-explanatory, but that "Kill" category means the game can get nasty.


Five Celebrity Freebies

This is always a good conversational item in a group of people - it's your list of the five celebrities that, if you ever get to meet them and get the opportunity, you're allowed to sleep with, regardless of your marital/relationship status. They are your freebies - it doesn't count as cheating if they're one of your Five. Well... at least, it's considered FORGIVABLE cheating. Years ago, there was a Friends episode about the List, but that's not where the whole idea originated. In that episode, Ross actually writes his list and, after long and painstaking deliberation, has it laminated. So I tend to refer to the people I consider as having permanent seats on my list as Laminated - kinda like the U.N. Security Council, but Sexy. Sadly, of course, having someone on your List does NOT mean that you WILL sleep with the person should you ever meet them (Listkeepers are not, as a general rule, rapists), just that there will be no penalty should you actually get so lucky. I find that people's Lists tend to be very revealing about their personalities and tastes, so it's always fun to compare. Some Listkeepers are purists - like Ross, they decide on their Five and lock them down for all eternity. I prefer to think of the List as a dynamic entity...as I mature and evolve, it is only natural that my List should as well. However, my Five has remained unchanged for a few years now, and, since I don't think I run any risk of becoming a Category 2 any time soon, I present my Five:

1. Matt Damon (L) (the L stands for laminated - he is the very definition of my type.)
2. Johnny Depp (L) (hotness + wicked good actor = me so horny)
3. Jon Stewart (let's just say I have plans for that desk)
3. Hugh Jackman (but not the hairy Wolverine Hugh Jackman...the clean-shaven, Broadway-darling-in-tight-pants Hugh Jackman. I mean, the ass-kicking and adamantium claws are hot as hell, but I really can't deal with the sideburns.)
5. George Clooney (I really feel like a cliche having him on here, but much like the VGLM, every time I think I'm over him I see him somewhere and think to myself, "DAMN...")

You Category 2's enjoy your fabulous parties and chance encounters with fame. The rest of us will hang out in the corner and fantasize. At least now you know why we're giggling so much over here.

No one wants to be defeated.

I'm cranky.

A woman rather unceremoniously hit me over the head with her bag as she got off the bus this morning and couldn't be bothered to apologize or even notice. A whupping upside the head rarely heralds a good day.

Spent 3+ hours in the cleanroom today and had to scrap everything I did because the materials that one of my labmates graciously let me borrow turned out to be defective. Of course, there was no way to know about the defect until I had done 3 hours of work. It's really fun watching your entire morning's work literally wash down the drain, in the form of little flakes of gold. Ooh...look how failure sparkles.

Cleanroom time means I can't wear makeup, am wearing crappy clothes, and am guaranteed a bad hair day post-hair net. Add in the fact that there is a monstrous zit on my chin that I unsuccessfully tried to pop last night (it seems I was, however, successful at angering it) and that I'm feeling incredibly bloated and gross today due to my having spent the weekend figuring out that a) I am, in fact, mildly lactose intolerant now and b) coconut apparently contains enough fructose to make me sick (which wouldn't be a colossal bummer if it weren't for the fact that I just made a MASSIVE batch of granola with extra coconut that turned out v. tasty)...this set of circumstances should all but guarantee that I will run into the VGLM today. So far, no sign of him, but it's nice to know that, should he show up, the taller, thinner, prettier, younger undergrad that I have suspected he had a thing for since I met him seems to have resurfaced after several months of being somewhere else blissfully far away from me, and is currently wandering around looking effortlessly cute.

Oh, and yesterday I finally conceded defeat and packed away all of my impractical lingerie. It was consuming valuable real estate in my underwear drawer and I was tired of it mocking me every time I went looking for clean socks. I figured that since I have now officially passed the 1-year mark since the last time I got any action whatsoever, I have suffered enough. A couple of weeks ago when I spent a Sunday afternoon curled up on the beach with my Harry Potter book, a guy who was just the right amount of attractive (i.e., cute, but not automatically out of my league) came along, sat right beside me, and cracked open his own. The approach and body language were reasonably encouraging, so I kept waiting for the pickup that never came - I mean, come ON man...there is a blonde...in a bikini...reading THE SAME BOOK THAT YOU ARE. EASIEST. OPENING LINE. EVER. But, like I've said before, I never get hit on, and girls who don't get hit on have no immediate need for lacy ruffly underthings.

(Actually, it's not quite true that I NEVER get hit on. I occasionally get drive-by pickup lines. The day before, I had picked up some fish & chips on my way home from the park and was eating it while waiting for the bus. Since there is no such thing as a delicate manner in which to eat a deep-fried side of halibut with one's hands, I was sort of holding the whole box up to my face in order to take each bite without making a complete mess of myself. As I did this, a guy who had just pulled up to the intersection in front of me called out his window at me, "That's a big bite!"

Really? THAT'S your opening line?

I kind of laughed and nodded.

"Can I give you a lift somewhere?"

I politely declined. But I had to wonder, does this approach ever actually work? Are there women out there who are so phenomenally stupid that they either a) find nothing wrong with getting into a car with a complete stranger or b) actually find comments on their eating habits so irresistibly charming and witty that they simply must continue the conversation over dinner? And considering I was wandering around on this particular Saturday afternoon in shorts and Tevas, with no makeup on and carrying a backpack - short of wearing pigtails, I couldn't have looked more like a 12-year-old if I'd tried - okay, maybe I do occasionally get hit on, but I don't think I should have to count the drive-bys by potential pedophiles.)

Mika didn't even help my frame of mind (although Jonathan Coulton may have - it's impossible to listen to "W's Duty" without giggling at least a little bit). So, I think there's one word that pretty much sums up my mood on this beautiful, sunny Monday: defeated.

However, I do have one final side note (can I still call them that if the amount of parenthetical text comes dangerously close to the amount of regular text?) - the titles of my posts are often lines from movies or song lyrics, and I'm actually pretty proud of today's. Whoever figures out the source first will officially be the first (and possibly only) person, place or thing to make me giggle AND clap today. Oh, you know you wanna. I'm adorable when I do that.

Mr. Magee, make me angry. You would like me when I'm angry.

Okay, so it's time for today's Official Reason Toronto Kicks Ass (tm).

(For those of you still bitter about yesterday's ORTKA(tm), I am thrilled to tell you that today, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the breeze is lovely, and the high today was approximately 83. SO sucks to be you.)

Anyway, here goes:

Right now, Edward Norton (and Liv Tyler, but who really gives a shit about Liv Tyler?) are outside my building filming...

The Incredible Hulk.

In case you missed that, BRUCE BANNER IS IN THE MUTHAFUCKING HOUSE!!!!

Labmate tried to sneak some pictures, and someone actually came up to her and made her delete them from her camera. That rules. Oh, and according to IMDb, Tim Roth, William Hurt, and Tim Blake Nelson are also probably around somewhere.

My thoughts:

1) oh HELLZ yeah

2) Man, extras are hot. I mean, let's face it, you don't have to be Olivier to run around in army gear and pretend to shoot shit. I like to think that that casting process involved a stack of headshots, a bottle of wine, and one long game of "Marry, Boff, or Kill?"

3) Yeah, men in army gear still make me hot. But only American army gear - sorry, Canada, but something about having a maple leaf on your cammies makes you seem a little less ferocious.

3b) There's something quite surreal about seeing a bunch of guys in American uniform running around Canada. Makes me feel like I'm walking through a scene from Canadian Bacon. Especially when a guy runs out of the U of T Visitor's Center with a gun as you're walking by and hides behind a tree. I know what it means when a black cat crosses your path, but what does it mean when it's a member of the Omega Force?
(Also amusing: a soldier...sitting in a camouflaged Hummer...on a cell phone. One can only assume he was on the phone with his agent asking, "How the hell did I wind up in the 'Boff' pile? It's the 'Marry' guys who get the actual lines!")

5) Edward Norton has long been one of my celebrity crushes. Not one of my Five, but a crush nonetheless. Am now seriously trying to think of ways to accidentally bump into him while he's in town so I can say, "Seriously...LOVED Keeping the Faith." What? Shut up, it was adorable. And anyone who can pull off both adorable AND American History X is pretty badass.

6) HULK SMASH

So there ya have it - the first time yours truly has knowingly walked through an actual movie set. SO fun...everyone should do it. Definitely an entertaining note on which to end a generally cranky week. Now, if I could only figure out where the extras are hanging out tonight...

Rub a Dub Dub

Okay, some of you are going to hate me for this, but I can't resist.

Right now, it's about 72 degrees in Toronto.

The air is dry with a pleasant breeze.

I am wearing long pants and actual sleeves, and was still a tad chilly when the wind picked up at the bus stop.

Tuesday night, a friend from home was begging to come live with me because the weather there was so miserable. I checked - at 9:00pm, the heat index was still over 95 degrees (37 to those of you who only understand Celsius).

Pardon me while I just rub that in a bit.

I'll admit, winter here isn't exactly a walk in the park, but I will gladly suffer through it if it means I get a summer worth gloating about. I'd rather be too cold than too hot any day.

It is, however, cloudy, and supposed to rain this afternoon, if that makes you feel any better. Heh heh heh...

Things That Make Me Die Inside

Paris Hilton is coming to Toronto next month to begin filming a movie musical.

There is not one thing right about that sentence.

There IS one thing right with this one, regarding a jewelry campaign: "She said she was being shot for the campaign on Friday by Ellen von Unwerth."

Unfortunately, they're probably referring to photography.

Can't talk now. Out Potting. Back later.

"Oh...you're one of THOSE..."

A response I received more than once when, as last weekend was approaching, people asked what my Saturday plans were, and my answer was, "I'll be curled up somewhere with my Harry Potter book all day."

Now, to clarify, I was not eschewing the company of actual human beings in favor of a fictitious boy wizard - I went out Saturday night to celebrate a friend's birthday, and it would be far more accurate to characterize my day as eschewing my housecleaning. But yes, I would rather spend the afternoon in the park with my new book than at the baseball game with you and your girlfriend. I'll meet you at the bar when you meet up with the birthday boy, thank you very much. But just as one gets sick of hearing everyone and their mother talk about Harry Potter if one is not, personally, a fan, those of us who are get awfully tired of being greeted with eye-rolls and choruses of, "I hate Harry Potter!" every time we express excitement about it.

That's not cool, regardless of the subject matter. You don't have to love or even like everything I enjoy, but please have enough respect for me to not put me down just because I'm different from you. Because most of the time, that's exactly what you're doing - any time someone is talking about something they love to do, or an experience that they really enjoyed, and your response is simply, "I hate that," well...that's dismissive, and it's mean. I'm not talking about, say, debating whether or not Citizen Kane really is all it's cracked up to be...opinions are, of course, subjective, everyone is entitled to theirs, and a good dialogue about them is always fun. But this is a case of someone asking me what my plans are, and me telling them about plans I've been looking forward to for a long time, and them saying essentially, "oh...well, that's stupid."

Some people are actually proactively malicious - after I read Book 6, I saw a clip on YouTube of some assmunches who had gotten wind of the Big Spoiler for that book and drove by a midnight release party, shouting it out the window at the crowd (mostly kids) waiting to buy their books. Labmate has not gotten her book yet - her boyfriend looked up all of the leaked spoilers online just to taunt her, and actually told her one of the early ones. Every day this week, I've been just a wee bit paranoid that some asshat on the street is going to see my book and deliberately spoil it for me. I don't even like to see the titles of chapters I haven't read, because I like to just enjoy the ride the author is taking me on without knowing where I'm going. Why do you so want to spoil my fun?

I am a thoroughly unabashed Potterphile. I love to read, but it's rare that I get so thoroughly absorbed in a book that I can completely forget who and where I am, and hey, my ass is numb... how long have I been sitting in this beach chair anyway?!? When Book 5 came out, I took it with me to the Indiana Dunes because I was a big ball of stress - at the end of the day, I drove home feeling like I'd just had a week's vacation. Number of non-Potter books that have actually made me cry: 2. Number of Potter books that have actually made me cry: 4. Is the writing perfect? No, not at all. But is it engaging, evocative, creative, and layered storytelling? Youbetcha. In books and in movies, I always know what qualifies as a true favorite when I get to the end of it and immediately want to go back to the beginning and do it all over. Watching Saving Private Ryan always leaves me completely gutted, yet I always have to resist the temptation to go through the whole damned thing over again right away. Every single Potter book has left me feeling that way - I'm actually kind of dreading how strong that urge will be when I finish the final one.

I understand that not everyone's wild about Harry. Some people have legitimate reasons for not liking him - some are turned off by having to learn a whole new vocabulary to read a book... others are bothered by the way fantasy authors (and yes, this one in particular) can just whip up whatever MacGuffin they need to get the hero out of peril because let's face it, they're not bound by anything remotely resembling realism...others work in bookstores and have to orchestrate the logistical nightmare that surrounds the release of a new Potter book. However, most of the naysayers are not these people. Most of them are people who have never even TRIED reading one of the books. They say that they hate them and they will never read them because they're a) fantasy, b) "kids' books", or c) popular.

a) Um, get over it. You don't have to be into fantasy to enjoy a good imagination and a wry sense of humor.

b) Just because something is appealing to kids does not mean it can't be enjoyed by adults. See a). Watch any of the Pixar movies if you don't believe me.

c) Don't get me started on people who decide to hate something JUST because everybody else likes it.

These are the sorts of people who make blanket statements like, "I abhor all pop culture."

I understand wanting to stand out from the crowd, but look, things become part of the "popular culture" for a reason: because they have a broad appeal - in other words: they're fun. So basically, you're saying you don't like fun. Fine. Gimme a call when you stop taking yourself so fucking seriously. Then we can get drunk, rent "Ninja Cheerleaders," and giggle about how Trishelle from the Real World: Vegas is wearing the same kind of blank, generic cheerleading uniform that I thought was only ever used in porn.

But I digress.

I do feel bad for these people - they will never know the joy that comes in hearing the doorbell the day your new Potter is being delivered. Hearing the footsteps over your head as someone answers the door. Listening as those footsteps cross the living room...then the kitchen...and finally descend the stairs to your door before you hear the knock. That's like hearing Santa's footsteps. Except nobody's ever going to try to tell me the mailman doesn't exist, and I know I'm getting exactly what I asked for.

And dammit, it's fun to be part of the brouhaha. All week, I've been hearing people say, "oo, she's got the new book..." as I walk by. On the beach on Sunday, I watched kids and adults wandering by with the same red and black spine I was holding, oblivious to anything not happening on the page in front of their nose. The other day, on my way to work, I had to laugh as I looked down at the girl sitting next to me on the subway and realized we were both reading the same book, and were at about the same point...and then I got off of the train and was right behind ANOTHER girl reading the same book. I ALWAYS enjoy seeing somebody carrying a book I love - I want to ask what part they're on, and whether they're enjoying it - but rarely are you reading it at the exact same time. You see someone reading it, and if you're not carrying yours, you want to say, "hey, I'm reading it too! Where are you???" You feel this weird kinship with half the subway train because, albeit in a weird way, you're all going through a pretty meaningful experience together. They may be fictitious characters, but we're all invested in them and desperate to know they're going to be okay, or if not, at least at peace. It's common ground in a world where we already have more than enough to disagree over.

On Sunday, on my way home from the beach, I got on the subway and walked past a guy. This was clearly a man with mild mental retardation, as well as some physical disabilities.

He lit up when he saw my book.

"You're reading Harry Potter! I've got it too!" (very proudly, with the knowledge that it's not humanly possible to have read more than he has) "I'm on Chapter 4! What chapter are you on?"

"I'm on Chapter 10."

"Chapter 10??? Wow! You must not have put it down all night!!!"

I just smiled at him and said, "I've been reading all day."

There aren't a great deal of things that a man with mental retardation and a Ph.D. chemist are going to have in common. But I think it's pretty cool that Harry Potter can be one of them.