PRIZE WINNER

A few posts ago I challenged my readers with an obscure movie quote. As promised there is ten dollars awaiting the winner... but here's my dilemma... I'm not familiar with the winner and am in the process of trying to suss her out.

I'm truly flattered that she takes time to read the chronicles of my life and am considerably impressed that she's aware of GREASE II.

That's right ladies and gentlemen... GREASE II, Michelle Pfeiffer's finest work. Well, at least to a suburban kid in grade five, who believed Stephanie Zinone was the coolest chick around. The open mouth gum chewing, the tight black clothes and the satin pink greaser jacket, she was the epitome of "Bad-Ass-Cool" in my ten year old world.

I recorded Grease II on my dad's VCR and played the movie over and over until the magnetic strip wore thin. I listened to the soundtrack, walking to and from school, for two months straight. My friend Kelly and I would sing "Cool Rider" as we walked home. She boogied down the sidewalk to the Cool Rider choreography while singing at the top of her voice. I was too shy to accompany her in dancing, but not even on my very timid days could anyone stop me from joining in song.

Oh, the innocence of youth... where have you gone?

DARTH VADAR'S DAUGHTER

My current position at work requires me to spend hours in the day photocopying documents.

The production office is located in an ancient building with very poor ventilation systems and unfortunately for me, the photocopier is situated in a tiny room without any ventilation at all.

Due to my diligent work ethics, I have since developed mild migraines and a hideous photocopier’s cough.

Concerned with my health, my Department Head has since ordered a Hepa mask for me, to be worn when sequestered in the copier room. The mask is great, after two hours of being in this toxic environment I resurface without a headache or hacking cough.

However, when interrupted by coworkers who need to copy a sheet or two, the atmosphere is awkward and the discourse is strained. My voice, muffled, echoy and breathy. As I attempt to maintain a carefree conversation, all I can focus on is the knowledge that I look and sound like Darth Vadar’s daughter. (Sexy only to a Star Wars Geek.)

People can only maintain eye contact for a few minutes and then they quickly shift their eyes towards the ground, because looking at me is like staring at a kid trapped in a complete braces-n-headgear ensemble. You must look away quickly before the poor kid can see the pity and stifled laughter in your eyes.

Almost everyone at the office has made an effort to come in to copy "something" so they could take a mental picture of the Hepa mask girl.

In my vivid imagination, they all assemble at the water cooler, talking and laughing about the ridiculousness of my get-up.

To my knowledge this has not yet happened, but as a preemptive strike, I have made fun of myself and the mask, allowing my coworkers to openly mock and pity me.

It’s a good thing I don’t take myself seriously and have the ability to make others laugh at my own expense, or else this would be a truly traumatic experience.

Dear Diary... About David

Leading up to my 13th year "first date" anniversary with David, I will share excerpts from my diary about him, for fun and because I have a lot of time on my hands being confined to the house. (Like most girls, I don't just rely on my memory of high school , I have my diary to turn to for the cold hard FACTS - as perceived by me.)

November 12th, 1993 - G.S.H. Academy

David H., this guy from my business class, I saw him last Sunday and drove him home from the Library. We talked and now I'm totally comfortable with him...

We had an assembly on Thursday, I walked down (to the caf) with him and we ran into his friends. I assumed he'd leave to sit with them, so I quickly walked ahead to an empty bench. I heard David call from behind, "So where do you want to sit?"

That, I thought, was so sweet and unexpected of him. He's a really cute guy...
*
I got a fake telegram today, signed Peter (from Nancy and Ronny). David shouts, "Miss. popularity!"

We headed towards class and he projects such a bad attitude towards me. Strange, he's usually great and very friendly. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Tired," he replied. I totally didn't believe him, but I kept being "normal" and pretending not to notice his cold shoulder.

He finally gathered the courage to ask me about the telegram. I tell him the whole story (practical joke and backstory), he asked if there was anything going on with Peter and me. "NO WAY!"

Then all of a sudden, he became less tired...

TONIGHT, WE BOWL

Paulette

What are we gonna do tonight Johnny?

Johnny
Tonight, we bowl!

(I will send ten bucks to the first person who correctly guesses what movie that quote is from.)

A couple weeks ago (before sickness took up residence in my body) I had a chance to go on a dinner/bowling double date with my friend Alison. I had a wonderful time.

After a frustrating workweek, you cannot discredit the healing power of a two-hour session at the local bowlerama.

I have several ways I like to work out my pent up frustration.

1. Write
2. Lose myself in a good movie
3. Boxing Classes (which I no longer go to since it has been scheduled at a very inconvenient time)
4. Bowl

Bowling ought to rank highly on the anger management list of things to do. A heavy ball and a lot of anger, a very dangerous combination to ten mocking pins. It definitely gets the hate out. There is something so satisfying about taking my “made for kids” eight pound ball, hurling it down the alley and rejoicing in the ball-pin contact.

Although only once did I get a strike and only twice a spare.

David said that I should work on my ball hurling technique.

I choose instead to use this opportunity to exercise and master my Psychokinesis. Willing my eight pounder not go gutter-side. Willing the pins to drop despite lack of contact. My awesome mind power worked… occasionally. (I need more practice)

While I was working on my psychical powers, David opted for mystical sorcery. He harnessed his magic into a fifteen-pound bowling ball and was unbeatable after that.

We did not divulge our little paranormal accomplishments to our double date partners. Some things are best left unspoken.

INFLUENZA

Guess who didn't get her Flu shot this year?

Day 4 of Flu. Incoherent... Weak... Coughy... BLOGGING SICK DAY(S).

Will blog when body and brain begin to cooperate.

UPDATE:

I tried to go to work today (Monday, Nov 27th) and was sent home at noon. I'm tired of having the Flu, but I guess the Flu isn't tired of having me.

The plus side of being sick:

1. I've caught up on all two seasons of Veronica Mars. Having the backstory all in order allows me to fully internalize season three's character motivations. (Veronica Mars, Tuesday at 9pm on SunTv - a greatly written and well executed show!)

2. I have killer stomach muscles from hurling everything I eat and from fiercely coughing every five minutes for six days straight.

(And you thought I'd be the girl who always says the glass is half empty.)

COUNTRY WASN'T COOL

I would like to take this opportunity to divulge a BIG secret that I have been hiding for all these years. I LOVE COUNTRY MUSIC.

I’m not referring to the new wave cross-over country/rock n’ roll music. I’m talkin’ about the uncool old-time, backwoods, honky-tonk country.

Songs featurin’ the good ol’ boys (Waylon Jennings, Hank Williams, George Jones, Kenny Rogers and Johnny Cash) and the famous female crooners (Dolly Parton, Patsy Cline, Barbara Mandrell, Loretta Lynn, and Tammy Wynette).

How is this possible? An urban fashionista, such as myself, swayin’ to music from the Deep South?

I wasn’t always an urbanite. When my parents immigrated to Canada, the government assigned the majority of Vietnamese refugees to Alberta, the Nashville of the North.

From the age of five, I grew up watching Hee Haw, Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters, and The Dukes of Hazzard. Even Sesame Street was a little bit country with a Muppet called Polly Darton;

the show also included a slew of notable guest appearances by Crystal Gayle, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.

I was young and impressionable.

At age nine, moving to Toronto, I quickly discovered “Country Music” was a pejorative term with the city slickers. I was country when country wasn’t cool. So, I relegated myself to being a closet country fan. The best thing about lovin’ old country songs is that you can put it away for years and comeback to it without ever having to update your collection.

I have a kooky knack for turning ANY song (including hip-hop songs) into a country song. I particularly like doing this when driving in the car with David, because it amuses him. Yes, we have established the fact that I am a BIG NERD; I’m just giving you more ammunition to justify calling me one to my face.

So why am I admitting this now? I don’t really know. Maybe because I vehemently denied it to a coworker who loves country (although, she likes new country), maybe because it’s safer to do it in a blog than to personally affirm my penchant for Country. It’s like a confessional, only to a lot of people (all 9 of my readers) all at once.

So now that it’s all out in the open, I’d like to acquaint you to my country and share with y’all a track list of my homemade mix tape for your researching pleasure.

Good Old Boys (Dukes of Hazzard Theme) – Waylon Jennings
I Was Country When Country Wasn't Cool – Barbara Mandrell
Sweet home Alabama – Lynard Skynard
I Never Promised You A Rose Garden – Loretta Lynn
Coward of the County – Kenny Rogers
Ghost Riders in the Sky – Johnny Cash & Willie Nelson
There’s a Tear in my Beer – Hank Williams Sr.
Jolene – Dolly Parton
Gambler – Kenny Rogers
Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys – Waylon Jennings
The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia - Vicki Lawrence
You are my Sunshine – Hank Williams Sr.
Jackson – Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash
Crazy- Patsy Cline
A Boy Named Sue – Johnny Cash
White Lighting – George Jones
Island in the Stream – Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton

Find the songs, listen to the songs, give it a chance. Live a little! Do it, everyone else is! It's harmless, I promise.

TODAY, WE PAINT

Today I reside in D.I.Y limbo. Lots to do, not enough time in the day.

I have ended my home makeover procrastination and have commenced to convert a spare bedroom into my office. I will finally be able to get my computer and writing resources off the dinning room table.

I have guilted my youngest brother and his girlfriend into helping me with my D.I.Y projects this weekend.

1. Paint the office
2. Assemble the Ikea office furniture
3. Sand the stairs and banister
4. Paint and stain the stairs and banister

Okay, before you get on my case about "slave labour". May I inform you that this is all VERY MINOR payback for all the sleepless nights I have lost over a vast amount of brain drain from above mentioned brother.

It all started innocently with his grade six valedictorian speech. A speech that left not a dry eye in the house, written by... me, his Ghostwriter. Since then, we (I write, he submits) have been getting A's on all our writing assignments. Not only do I have a B.A. in Political Science, I also (by proxy) have a B.Comm. in ITM.

Upon his University graduation, one would assume that I have expunged my ghostwriting career. Well we all know what happens when one assumes. ASS-U-Me ('nuff said).

Hence, the guilt.

But, what about his poor innocent girlfriend? Surely the slave labour thing is a bit too much to bestow upon her.

My reply in six poignant little words: I let her cut my hair ('nuff said).

Today, we paint.

THE TRUTH SURFACES

A couple posts ago I blogged about a flowery surprise. I dismissed my initial suspicion (I was saturated with pleasure at the time), but my skeptical nature reign supreme over my cheery outlook.

I questioned the motive behind my beautiful bouquet.

"Just Because" was the response.

A very unsatisfactory answer. So I dig relentlessly until I uncovered the truth.

Truth: He's leaving me for three days, at the end of November, to go to a football game in Boston. The rest of the explaination was a blur, something about Bears and Patriots, a fifty yard line and an NFL hook-up.

It appears that the tickets to the game will be my Christmas gift to him.

Moral of this story: Flowers are wonderful to receive but never take them at face value.

11th HOUR, 11th DAY, 11th MONTH

As the years pass more and more of our war veterans die and with them the personal stories of the world’s most tragic events. Lest we forget.

A brief history lesson supersedes:

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, Canadians are asked to stop and give thought to the thousands of war veterans, peacekeepers and civilians who sacrificed their lives fighting for freedom. The significance of the date is to highlight the end of WWI, November 11, 1918. (Imaginably, at a time when the collective commonwealth believed that this would be our first and only World War.)

On this day Canadians are also commemorating the 60th anniversary of D-Day and the Battle of Normandy, where Canadian troops suffered 18,444 casualties. Among them, 5021 were killed. Of all the divisions which formed part of the 21 Army Group, none suffered more casualties than the 3rd and 2nd Canadian.

It was a huge sacrifice – and a huge factor in turning the tide of the war against Hitler's Germany.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

- John McCrae, 1915

The poppies bloomed across some of the worst battlefields of Flanders in World War I. Canadian Lt.-Col. John McCrae was driven to pen the poem In Flanders Fields on sighting the poppies growing beside a grave of a close friend who had died in battle.

Today, I will be thinking of the soldiers who fought and all the Canadians continuing peacekeeping missions throughout the world.

Let us not forget their past sacrifices. Peace.

SOFTER-GENTLER MIEN

This evening was one of the most mundane yet truly delightful evenings I’ve spent in the city in a long time.

In heavy mist filled night air, the city possesses a softer-gentler mien.

I chose to walk to the Union Bus Terminal from the Eaton Centre. A seven block walk, full of simple pleasures, down the longest street in the world, Yonge Street.

1. The Hudson’s Bay Company is preparing for the unveiling of their Holiday window display. I’m giddy with anticipation.
2. Sharing a smile and a dollar with a homeless person.
3. Passing by a Brasserie, observing people enjoy scrumptious food and conversation.
4. Strolling down Yonge St. on a November night with temperatures around 11 °C. (52 °F)
5. Mentally replaying the day peppered with laughter and sheer nonsensical conversation.
6. Drinking a delicious strawberry-banana smoothie for dinner.
7. Being by myself in the city, yet not feeling lonely.

Most mundane, yet truly delightful.

FLOWERS!

Contributing to my delightful evening… David surprised me with flowers.

Hmm… satisfied or suspicious?

I choose satisfied!

GREAT JUMPING JEHOSAPHAT

When my brother and his fiancée asked me if I wanted to be a bridesmaid, it wasn't exactly an offer I could refuse (actually, I did once, but he’s my brother and love overcame irritation). On June 16th, 2007, I will be walking down the aisle as a brides-matron (brides-matron sounds so homely, but I can’t truly call myself a bridesmaid, I’m married).

Yesterday, the plans were set in motion, bridesmaid dress shopping.

The boundaries given to me for this dress search was: one common style in the colour Purple.

This shopping expedition brought back memories of my own quest for the elusive “perfect prom dress”. Only this time, I did not get to make the sole decision; it was a hunt for a unanimous selection.

Five girls, five differing body types, seven dress styles, one affordable dress and one particular bride-to-be, the odds were stacked against us.

I wanted to choose something not hideous, and perhaps a dress that would be voluntarily wearable again on subsequent occasions.

I’m very particular in my way of formal dressing. I gravitate toward simple timeless elegance. No ruffling, no swooshing, no gathering, no unnecessary detailing and nothing too boring, in a complimentary colour. Easy right?

Seven dresses were pulled off the racks. Three girls modeled, excluding myself. None of these dresses screamed “MUST HAVE”. One dress was agreeable, but only on a must compromise and make-the-bride-happy basis (for me anyway).

Then suddenly, “THE” dress floated towards us, swaying elegantly on the hanger in the hands of a sales associate. A dress I would have chosen for myself, barring any other influences. Three girls modeled, including myself. I loved the fit on the other girls and I loved the fit on me.

Great Jumping Jehosaphat, we all agreed on one dress, at the very first store… and we were allowed to get it in BLACK!!!

Huge sigh of relief.

So now what? Now we price shop.

SPACEY & CRUELLA

For a brief moment last night I was Kevin Spacey, an undercover operative posing as a Parliament Page. No fancy espionage type outfits for this undercover operative, I was camouflaged in white blouse, navy blazer, dark gray pants and ugly (yet comfortable) black shoes.

I was running, literally running, all over the Capitol complex delivering messages to MPs, assisting the Key House Speaker, Clerks and other House officers in the Chamber, all the while trying to uncover a spy (thank god for the ugly, yet comfortable, shoes).

I was transporting legislative documents and having to crawl through doggy doors (dream foreshadow) and venting shafts to get between Congressional offices.

I overheard the Minister of Natural Resources, Cruella de Vil (literally), talking about using skins of the Pages to produce fabric.

That was my mission? I was to stop Cruella de Vil from kidnapping Pages for their skin?

Hmm… I smell dream plagiarism.

Did I succeed? I don’t know… I woke up after that discovery.

I hate unresolved dreams. I’m going back to bed.

PLASTIC PRINCESS

I missed out on seeing all the neighbourhood kids dressed up for Halloween. Our neighbourhood is small and secluded, so making the rounds in this area would only take an hour.

I got home at 8:30, no more children and no more candy.

I miss going out in costume, begging for candy. I love Halloween.

Being immigrants, my parents never really understood the full concept of Halloween. While other children had elaborate homemade costumes I had this…

To this day I can recall the smell of that plastic mask, the build up of breath-drawn-moisture that would collect inside, and the way that flimsy rubber band pulled at my hair. I would run door to door with my tunnel vision, mask securely encasing my face, barely audible as I shouted “Trick or Treat”.

That costume was so uncomfortable, so unsafe, yet so coveted. I was six years old and I was extremely ecstatic to be a plastic princess.

I as grew older, my brothers and I were left up to our own devices in regards to Halloween costumes. Our unoriginal Halloween dress-ups were accomplished with a quick rummage through our closets. We never had complicated costumes.

My brothers (each):

Baseball Player – 8 x
Girl – 2 x
Hobos – 6 x

Other than a princess and a witch, I don’t remember any of my other Halloween costumes… Oh wait, there was this one time when I was a 1970’s porn star… but that wasn’t until years later in the dress-up game, when slutty became the new scary.