a muse

So... I'm having a hard time writing. I know you won't believe me, but it's true: I have nothing to say. I went to NYC last week, and so little of importance happened I couldn't write a Sexy City entry like I wanted to. I'm looking for life to amuse me again. Because, right now, it's pretty mundane. I mean, stuff happens (I bought a $6K home theatre yesterday and almost cried when the high wore off - buyer's remorse never felt so good), but nothing blogworthy, you know?

Or, if it is blogworthy, it's full of gossip and salacious rumour that I can't post without fear of Facebook reprisals, which, I'm quickly discovering, is seriously hampering my muse. Oh, she has lots to say - and I mean lots - but it's hard to write when you know the subjects of your scorn can just catch up on your Notes. So, this is it - the official disassociation from FB begins! Perhaps I can get my muse to come back now that she's not thrust into the spotlight all the time.

the big apple bites back

In NYC for 6 days and what do I have to show for it? $86 USD, a head-cold and more alcohol in my system than I’ve ever had in my life (yes, including Frosh Week). I didn’t do any shopping (well, okay, I attempted to, but I was so hung-over, I could only drag myself down Jamaica Aveue once and picked up a sole pair of sneaks).

The wedding (and reason for the trip) was an exhausting exercise that took 4 days to complete. There was a Bachelorette party the night we arrived and that just threw my sleeping pattern right off. They got married in church on Saturday, had a house party (Indian theme = me in a sari) that night and a proper reception on Sunday night plus the bhobath on Monday afternoon. BTW, for my non-Eastern readers: bhobath literally translates for wife-rice, basically meaning that the new wife cooks a meal for her new family. These days, the wife usually just stirs the ceremonial pot of rice and everyone helps themselves. Anyway, the bhobath is also when all the gifts are opened and we “ding-ding-ding” every time there’s cash. That got old fast. By the end, we were only dinging any amounts over $100.

One thing I learned: I MUST register for any special occasion – I mean, they got four sets of wine glasses. FOUR. I don’t know from where the Anglo-Indian hangup about registering originates, but it’s stupid. What new couple needs wine glasses and vases when they’re starting out? I know it seems rude to say “cash only please” – but I do wish that people would be logical about these things and just do the right thing. Hence why you’d think that the registry is an idea that would be embraced by these people – but no. As my mother says: it sounds like you’re telling people what to give you. Well, yes. Yes I am. If they don’t like it, they can give money. Since when are useless gifts appreciated? Honestly. But this whole wedding was fraught with things we couldn’t do because of what “people” might say. For example, they had a buffet-style dinner, which is cool. So, I said that they might want to call out table numbers to eat, in order to avoid long lineups. You know what the bride tells me? There are no tables numbers... why? Because “people” will think “oh, I’m sitting at Table 7 and my sister is at table 4... they must like my sister more.” ...what. Plus, she says, we can’t call out numbers anyway – then people will say we like the numbers we call out first more than the rest. Good. Lord. And “people” wonder why I run so far away from my community.

I also ended up in an argument about Canada. When surrounded by ignorant Americans (not any other kind), I can’t help but lose my patience. The fourth person to comment about how “cold” Canada is was the unfortunate recipient of my rant. Yes, it’s cold. But it’s not like we don’t have summers (complete with a 40 degree humidex) or that we live in igloos or never wear shorts. Canada is a vast country and on any given day, you can go skiing and surfing and swimming and skating. I mean, are Alaska and Hawaii the same? Jebus. What really gets me is this is NYC. These people get snow like we do in GTA. Are they really this dumb? It makes me sad. And mad. Anyway, I am happy to be home. I missed my shower and my bed and the clean streets of Canada (a stereotype that does seem to ring true). I’m looking forward to eight hours of sleep and eating without rinsing my cutlery first. New York City is a fabulous place to visit, but there’s nothing like coming home.

in a new york minute

Bright lights, big city! ...well, yes, I will be biting the Big Apple this week, but hardly doing anything of note. There are many things I've wanted to do in NYC (catch a Broadway play, window shop on Fifth Ave, go to the top of the Empire State Building) and I will be doing none of those over the next 6 days. That's right, none. So, what does call me to Gotham? My cousin's wedding. A four-day affair that involves five outfits, an open bar and a very permissive atmosphere. Good times!

In other news, yesterday my manager told me to stop working so hard and to slow down because she can't keep up. I've taken this to mean that I should blog on work time. Perhaps even edit a certain novella. Apparently I'm too fast for these people. I need to work in corporation where, yes everything I do really only helps some fat cat get fatter but, at least, I get a bonus for being quick/productive/efficient. This may also be an excellent time to ask for a compressed work week - you know, work four days instead of five. Since I am fast and all that. Is it really a tragedy that I can get things done in a New York minute?

Anyway, poppets - have a great week. See you on the other side.

Now Playing: Burn After Reading

I settled down for a comedy - I got a dark noir-ish macabre piece of theatre that actually had me laughing at fatalities and snickering at adultery. _________ and _________ using a simple machine known as a wedge? *giggle* _________ getting shot in the head? *LOL* Yeah, okay, let me back it up.

Plot: adultery and espionage in a modern age. It's true. That's what it's about. Enter Harry Pfarrer (Clooney, surprisingly non-irritating) who is married to Sandy (Marvel) but who is sleeping with Katie Cox (Swinton, her usual awesome self) who, in turn, is married to Osborne Cox (Malkovich, can anyone play angry like this man can?) who, himself, has just been fired from the CIA for an alleged drinking problem. He has decided to write a tell-all "mem-mwah", which ends up on a CD that Katie's lawyer's secretary loses at a gym and is picked by Linda Litzke (McDormand, fabulous) and her bff Chad Felheimer (Pitt in a great comic turn), who then decide to blackmail Osborne in order to cash in the secrets. Mayhem and hijinks ensue. ...Aaaaand that's the first 20 minutes. What follows is some of the funniest plot twists I've seen in a long time. J.K. Simmons has a wonderful dual-cameo as well.

I can't talk much more about the film without talking about its plot. And since I abhor spoilers, I won't go into that anymore. If you're looking for intelligent comedy (this is no Pineapple Express) and you're not offended by violence (hatchet to the head, anyone? anyone?) - check out Burn After Reading. 4 out of 5 stars.

material/men

We are living in a material world, and yes, I am a material girl. As long as the material is a floor-length Chinese black silk number with pewter-silver embossed dragons and silver inner-lining. I won't appreciate gingham. You know, not all materials is the same. Perhaps if I were appreciative of just any kind of material, I wouldn't be considered so high-maintenance. Perhaps not. What I do know is that my standards for men is much like my standard for things: I am bloody picky. This has been demonstrated emphatically in the last few days through various conversations with various people. Much like my search for the perfect couch and the perfect night gown, the search for the perfect boy is proving a test of my patience. So far, I've compiled a list of things for which I didn't realise I was looking.

1) Politics can make or break us. Sure, he's tall, blond, attractive, gainfully employed, lives on his own WITH a car and we have similar geeking interests. But he's going to vote conservative in the next election and I just can't reconcile with that. I mean, he supports a two-tier health-care system and is opposed to a gun registry! I can't possibly date this guy for more that two weeks without having an explosive fight. And then he'd probably change his mind about that registry.

2) Age does matter. Yeah, I know, he's sweet and cute and has a certain charisma about him. He likes cake, makes French history puns and laughs at my wit. But he's 22. TWENTY-TWO. That's barely above the half-plus-seven rule, and it shows. The wearing of the hat all the way through dinner (sideways to boot)? No. Just... no. I'm looking at RRSPs and going back to school; he's looking at paying off student debts and graduating for the first time. *sigh*

3) The wittiest banter I have is with gay boys. Yes, I get along best with them. They're kind, supportive and find ways to tell me I look fat in an outfit without shredding my ego. We have candy-floss conversations and hard-core debates. We're politically like-minded. Dammit - we just have the wrong functioning parts!

4) Hell hath no fury like Dizzy scorned. Well, that's an overstatement. It's more like this: if you hurt my feelings (and I mean really hurt my feelings) I'm never going to get over it. Ever. This is not to say I can't get over blow-out fights or anything - I sure can (as JC can attest to with numerous examples). It's just that there are some things I'll never get over. Is there a comprehensive list? Unfortunately, no. I'm quickly learning that things I thought I'd never forgive seem more easily done than things I thought I'd get over. The common theme does seem to be this: if I've ever been made to feel embarrassed, you're never going claw your way out of that hole.

5) I don't understand casual dating. In fact, I get bored with it. So, if I think we're going to have irreconcilable differences, we're probably never going to have a second date. Yes, I know, you shouldn't be marrying after your first date - but if you think you'll never marry a guy after the first date, is it worth wasting your time on a second? Probably it is - because first impressions shouldn't be your only impressions. I've just never been motivated enough to test that axiom.

...in the end, I know I come up with some really lame excuses ("he's a Conservative" is my latest favourite). But I'm pretty happy with my life right now. I should probably feel more lonely than I am, but I just don't. I can't help it. I'm not unhappy being single! I'm not happy either, but I'm in a middling "content" zone. Perhaps I don't have enough free time to sit and contemplate these things - and you know what happens when I sit and think. It's dangerous. Do I want to have a significant other? Yes, absolutely. Do I need one? No, not at all.

Like receiving gifts, I'm always leery of things of an intensely personal nature: perfume, clothing, art. You have to really know a person - REALLY know them - to be right about these things. It's not that I don't appreciate the gifts, but if they're not the kind of bottles I like, the kind of books I read, the kind of music/art I appreciate... it's just going to be regifted. I don't want to smell like just anything - I have a certain scent and that's what fits me. Like boys. I don't want just any near-perfect-on-paper man - I want someone who'll actually inspire me to think they're worth dating off-the-list. I am picky, no doubt. But in the end, I guess I think that if I can think it, it must exist. The perfect couch, the perfect mate ... yep, if I look long enough, hard enough, I'll find what I want.

...right?

this time 'round

Things I miss:
1) books that have gone missing (where art thou?)
2) internet
3) my best friend living up the street
4) Professor's Lobb's English classes

Things I don't miss:
1) playing second fiddle to the second sibling
2) "sharing" (the driveway, the bathrooms, the TV...)
3) starvation/hypothermia

this time 'round, it's better.

bare floors

I underestimated the feel of bare floors on the soles of my feet.

Last night, I broke down the last cardboard box and threw it in the garbage. Sure, there's plenty of stuff still left to hang (framed poems, postcard art, ornate daggers, candelabras) but I had put away all my cut-glass bottles, books and stone gargoyles. I had vacuumed any remaining cement dust out of corners and from behind hinges; I had wiped off the counter top and dusted the furniture; I had put everything in its place. Then I just stood there, the wood warming under my feet, smooth and hard. I looked at the yellow light spilling from behind my cream lamp shades onto my cornmeal walls, the gauze curtains shifting slightly in the post-midnight summer breeze, the clean glasses twinkling on my mosaic granite countertops. My books were resting comfortably behind the glass doors of their shelves; my laptop hummed Massive Attack softly. For a moment, a split second I felt it: home. I can't really describe it... it was like a split-second quickening in my stomach and rush of dim electricity on my heels. For just an instant, I could see clearly all the good things that would happen here: parties, Book Club meetings, movie marathons, board game nights, Survivor finale feasts, late nights with Thai food in takeout containers, baking Christmas cookies, reading books, watching TV, falling asleep on the sofa... Yes, for a moment I forgot all about the construction that still lay ahead and the cabling that still needed to be laid and the months of "breaking in" this new structure still had to endure before it finally settled. But it didn't matter. I was home. My home.