Off to Sunpeaks for the Burton Cummings concert…just in case you’re not familiar, here’s some vintage footage, with bonus Spanish subtitles–thanks YouTube!  Happy Saturday, and enjoy “Estos Ojos”.

Courtesy of YouTube/Google

Lord help me, there has not been much sleep in the last 24-hours.  This is my curse.  If I take myself to late-night boozy town, I wake up about two hours after I fall asleep, and the rest of the sleep is in broken fragments.  Before the concert and after the concert, there were drinks, shots, and so much laughter that our faces and stomachs were sore from all the hilarity.  But then, nobody was feeling too hilarious this morning.  Though it was an excellent night, we’ve realized that we’re just not kids anymore, partying without the consequence of our bodies fighting back at the abuse.

But if I thought I felt a bit exhausted, and kind of icky–nothing compared to my husband.  That bear is feeling lousy.  And so, there is little to report, and even less energy to muster recollections from the night before.  I just can’t stomach it.

All Images Courtesy of Google

Is anyone else loving the latest Netflix series “Orange is the New Black”? It’s growing on me.

It’s causing us to speak in ‘prison hypotheticals’, how we would spend our time if we were ever behind bars.

We’ve thrown around the normal responses.  I’d read a lot, exercise, do yoga, write.  Like you’d go into prison all scrawny and stupid, and then come out wordly, with a masters and abs you could grate cheese over.

But, what we are imagining is not prison, it’s more what would you do if you had to be on holiday for a year.  Prison would be rife with danger.   Man alive, I would not want to imagine how much of a target I’d be in the slammer.  I’d be sold for a pack of cigarettes in ten seconds flat.

In this program, a yuppy New Yorker is serving a sentence for some incidental drug smuggling she did…once…ten years ago.  And so far, she is not coping well.  Who can blame her, that would be a tough crowd.

“Imagine trying to find a seat in the cafeteria on the first day of prison?” Ben asks.

“I’d be more afraid of the first shower” I grimace.

To be separated from loved ones, to be treated dismissively. I don’t like to be yelled at, I reckon I would cry every single day in prison, until I could eventually start my own gang.  But not a violent gang, we’d have a book club, and talk about George Clooney.

But think of the material you’d get from a prison sentence.  The source material came from the memoir, and this excerpt is from the website:

Following a plea deal for her 10-year-old crime, Piper Kerman spent a year in the infamous women’s correctional facility in Danbury, Connecticut, which she found to be no “Club Fed.” In Orange is the New Black: My Year in a Women’s Prison, Piper takes readers into B-Dorm, a community of colorful, eccentric, vividly drawn women. Their stories raise issues of friendship and family, mental illness, the odd cliques and codes of behavior, the role of religion, the uneasy relationship between prisoner and jailor, and the almost complete lack of guidance for life after prison.

I mean, that book practically wrote itself.  It’s the kind of break a writer can only dream of.  And now she’s doing speaking engagements all over, and is on the board of directors for women’s prisons.  Talk about lemons from lemonade.  And why not? Best to do something with all that time.  That and get wicked six-pack-abs.

All Images Courtesy of Google

What a pop culture buzz kill, I go away from the internet for one night, and the cutest boy from “Glee” overdoses and dies in a Vancouver hotel room.

Argh, that shit is so sad to me.  This is Heath Ledger all over again.  And you know, I call him a ‘kid’ but he’s exactly my age.  It feels like a blip, and then…it’s gone? Bummer.  Needless to say, people are really going ape-shit over this one.  It’s always difficult when attractive, talented people die.  It’s easy to criticize this fact, but it’s true.  It’s fine, I’m not judging, that kind of thing saddens me as well, but I can appreciate how someone could flip through a newspaper and say “Yeah…so?” We do tend to lose perspective in the news, in a world of civil war, genocide, rape, poverty, natural disasters–where unspeakable atrocities are happening right this minute, and we all are politely aware, but then boy oh boy, watch out, Finn from “Glee” dies and there is an unexpected emotional impact.  Why? Because it’s a singular tragedy.  It’s a fucking waste.  An unbelievable waste of potential.  And yes, while it is being deemed a tragic accident, his actions were a bit like Russian Roulette. There was always a bullet waiting in the chamber.  Judgements are flying, because of how he died, that somehow he should be exempt from compassion because it was self inflicted.  Sadly this will be his definition…the guy who had it all, who then died of a heroin overdose in the fancy hotel….

I keep pausing.  I keep trying to wrap my brain around the choices that lead us down ill-fated avenues.  It’s just a crying shame, that’s all.

As a general rule, I don’t follow “Glee”.  I’ve seen the first few seasons and saw a few out-of-order episodes on a very long plane ride.  (why do they do that by the way? Scattered episodes of a series, what good does that do me on a ten-hour Auckland to L.A?)  But it’s adorable, and the singing is fun, and I cry at least once an episode.  In New Zealand, I once left mates at a pub to go home, curl up on the couch to watch “Glee”, and it was wonderful.  But I wouldn’t call myself a ‘gleek’.

Still, Monteith’s death is the perfect mix for a media frenzy.  It’s fascinating stuff.  There are so many articles. So much speculation.  Final moments, last sightings, crystal clear 20/20 hindsight.  And the tweets, my god the tweets!  There are a lot of tweens out there that could fill the Grand Canyon with grief.  Poor @GleesAllINeed, tweeted that she was just realizing that life…”Glee”, twitter, will never be the same.  When I came across the tweet:

“I’m not even close to being emotionally ready for when lea michele makes her first tweet about cory monteith

I didn’t so much smirk, but I rolled my eyes, with an Oh puh-lease when I realized I was a woman, hunched over the computer, well past midnight, who had gotten distracted from research and writing and reading misspelled tweets about Cory Monteith’s ‘heroine’ overdose. And then I think to myself “Oh my god, neither am I“.  Uh oh, here I am, throwing stones from my glass house.  Time to back away slowly from the computer.  But then, the next night and my brain is still pressing on this tragedy; and our obsession with celebrity, that some girl is tweeting about missing someone she’s never met.  But you do, in a sense know who these people are.  You turn to particular programs and characters for comfort or amusement, and I reckon Gleeks are a sensitive, emotional sort right out of the gate.   In a way, the characters belong to you.  And therefore, while I’m sure that @GleesAllINeed is legitimately struggling with losing a television character and celebrity, he was in fact a real person, somebody’s talented and troubled son.  And he has left behind so many people that have to live with the “what if’s”.  He didn’t invent a thing, dying the way he did, there’s a long line of those ahead of him.  Those who could not bear the weight of success, or was unable to exorcise the ghosts that haunt your insides and refuse to let you go.  And you make a choice, and for some, it’s the end of the road.  And you wish it could be different.  But it’s not.

All Images Courtesy of Google

For those of you who camp out in front of the computer, waiting for me to drop my latest track, my apologies for posting at 1130 last night.  I felt bad, showing up late to my own party, and then bumming everyone out by discussing the latest celebrity death.  But then I thought.  Why do I worry? I worry about so. many. things.  The blog should not be one of them.  It’s not like my boss is going to burst in and give me grief about deadlines.  As far as the blog goes, I am my own boss.

“Oh Lou, you lovable old curmudgeon, you can’t rush the creative process, now get the fuck out of my office before I scald you with hot coffee”. And then I’d toss my hat up into the air, just to let him know that I mean business.

It’s exciting, busy times, it’s summer and I’m in a happy place.  I’ve been able to bend my life towards a more favorable  position.  This  is why I haven’t been pumping out lengthier pieces.  Masterpieces  cannot fall from my fingertips on a daily basis; some days, it’s just a small token.  A quick phone call, a drive-thru transaction, a quick hug and kiss on the street, popping by for a short coffee.

My sister-in-law Kate is coming next week, and we are going on holiday.  I think I may take a blogging holiday as well.  I’ll still post something daily, but I don’t want to chain myself to this daily task.  I don’t want to resent it.  We often lament our jobs and occupations because we feel powerless, feel we don’t have a choice, have a say.  But when it’s your own project, why place the very constraints you hate most on yourself?  That’s like being cute little Mary Tyler Moore, but having some Incredible Hulk condition that turned you into grump old Lou Grant. I’d rather be a young MTM, if that’s all the same to you.

I’m trying to…accept things better.  Take what comes, come what may.  Sometimes I get so twisted up with stress about the slightest things.  Traffic. Current events. Money.  And…oh, I don’t know…the future? Immigration, writing, fertility, health, time, marriage, failure, success, tweeting, bathing suit shopping.  There will be forks in roads, and choices to be made.  How will it all work out in the end?  It takes time to unravel that kind of knot, and then a new worry washes over you, and the knot is not ever completely undone.  And because of that, you are never fully present in any given moment.  And then you worry about not living your life to the fullest, and in that very moment of worry, you are missing precious seconds of your life.  But I’ve always been a worrier.  When I was a child, I fretted so much that my mother actually gave me a framed copy of the Serenity Prayer to hang on my bedroom wall.

I kind of thought it was a stupid prayer.  Of course you worry about the things you can’t change…because you can’t change it…and that worries me.   I have an almost pathological need to not disappoint. So much so, that I think it’s a major cause of the heartburn that often makes a cameo appearance in my chest cavity. If you ever want to slay me kike a dragon, all it takes is the “I’m not mad, I’m just extremely disappointed”, and I will fall like Goliath.  (I’m sorry to mix metaphors, hope that doesn’t disappoint anyone). I never want to let anybody down.  But, in the end, that kind of mentality, though it comes from a good place, may lead to a bad spot.  It’s like putting everyone else’s oxygen masks on during an emergency, before you do it for yourself.  I need to take those stressful, helpless feelings and just treat it like a stray animal, drive it deep into the woods, pretend you to are getting out of the car, and then drive like hell the minute that wolverine is out of the truck.  Or just lead it across the street inside your mind, and try to be unfettered by useless, negative thoughts.  Not that I’m doing anything back breaking over here, or being put out by other people’s expectations of me.  I have so much to offer, and give of myself happily, but I recognize how I don’t always care for myself the way I do others.  I can see the value in knowing your limits, accepting change, rolling with the punches, and in taking a break, even if it’s from something that you love.

  All Images Courtesy of Google

I’m waiting to pick up my new business cards, and I can’t stop thinking about Bret Easton Ellis and “American Psycho“. It’s on Netflix, and if you haven’t seen it, I would reluctantly recommend it.  The blend of black humour, social commentary and violence is a potent mix, it’s a biting serial-killer satire. If you don’t mind seeing a chain saw wielding Christian Bale wearing nothing but Nike sneakers, and chasing after a prostitute, then you’ll have a good time.  As I get older, I feel less and less capable to view such films.  In fact,  not even when I was young.  I read part of the book in my early twenties, and it was so frightening to me, that I had to put the book in a closet, between towels.  But this isn’t to say that this film isn’t rife with some very funny moments.  There is one scene in the film where he and a few others exchange business cards. Patrick Bateman, the murderous narrator stews with rage when he sees that others have  “better” cards.  But to the outside observer, it’s the difference between bone or eggshell, and different variations of black ink. If memory serves, I’m pretty sure the guy with the best card doesn’t live much longer, but apparently I’ve blocked those details.  Suffice to say, no one is safe around this man.

Why did I get business cards? Well, for the blog…because people are not quite catching the name when I speak it.  I don’t love having to act it out   Margaret Mitchell didn’t have to act like she was being hit with a strong gust while trying to explain “Gone with the Wind”, why should I be like “It’s like a pin up girl, picking up a pen?“.  Or worse, writing the title on a crumpled napkin, scrap piece of paper, that shit just ain’t classy.  And here at a ‘pin up girl who is picking up a pen, don’t forget the name and please read my blog’, we are all about class.

The day I decided on the title, when I realized that the impossibly clever “Blah, Blah, Blog” was thought up by no less than a million people before me, it just felt so right.  Still, I don’t think I said it aloud to myself, or said it six times fast, like a tongue twister, which is kind of liking buying shoes without walking around in them first.  And now, I’m shouting “it’s like the pin up girl is picking up a pen to write-pin up picks pen up, what is the issue? Why don’t you understand me?’, which really alienates your readers.  But some thing’s look better in print.  I have a number of visible tattoos, five altogether on my arms.  It’s all writing, quotes and poetry and song lyrics. And I hate saying them aloud.  I hate when strangers ask to read them.  I didn’t really think about that when I got them done, that people would literally grab your arm, and read aloud from your body.   It was an issue while waitressing, patrons would try to read it from across the table, and then you’d get “Walter-Walter–what does it say?”. Then my tattoos are then misquoted by mouths full of partially masticated  meals, and the whole affair feels far less poetic than intended.

And so, fueled by the desire to not mime picking a pen up, while pretending to wear garter belts for the rest of my life, I popped by a print shop, made a connection, discussed the details, and emailed the guy the information an hour later.  He sent me a few drafts, and within twenty-four hours, the cards were ready to be picked up.  And that was how I came to be playing this scene from “American Psycho” in my head.

BATEMAN: New card. What do you think?

(McDermott lifts it up and examines the lettering carefully).

McDERMOTT: Whoa. Very nice. Take a look. (He hands it to Van Patten).

BATEMAN: Picked them up from the printers yesterday

VAN PATTEN: Good coloring.

BATEMAN: That’s bone. And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.

McDERMOTT (Envious) Silian Rail?

VAN PATTEN: It is very cool, Bateman. But that’s nothing. (He pulls a card out of his wallet and slaps it on the table).

VAN PATTEN: Look at this.

(They all lean forward to inspect it).

PRICE: That’s really nice.

(Bateman clenches his fists beneath the table, trying to control his anxiety).

VAN PATTEN:Eggshell with Romalian type.(Turning to Bateman) What do you think?

BATEMAN: (Barely able to breath, his voice a croak) Nice.

PRICE: (Holding the card up to the light) Jesus. This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?

Bateman stares at his own card and then enviously at McDermott’s.

BATEMAN: (voice-over)I can’t believe that Price prefers McDermott’s card to mine.

PRICE: But wait. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. He holds up his own card.

PRICE: Raised lettering, pale nimbus white…

BATEMAN: (Choking with anxiety)Impressive. Very nice. Let’s see Paul Owen‘s card.

Price pulls a card from an inside coat pocket and holds it up for their inspection: “PAUL OWEN, PIERCE & PIERCE, MERGERS AND ACQUISITIONS.”

(Bateman swallows, speechless. The sound in the room dies down and all we hear is a faint heartbeat as Bateman stares at the magnificent card).

So, if I’ve learned anything from “American Psycho” is that what your business card looks like says everything about who you are, and who you hope to be.  And I’d like to be a professional writer and have nice legs.  While waiting at the printers, I was trying to wrap my head around how I would go about giving away 250 cards with a pin up girl holding a giant fountain pen.  I’ve since given them to friends, my parents got one each, my husband has one, there’s even one on my bulletin board. But I have given very few away to people who haven’t yet read the blog.  Which I think is the idea.  There’s even been a few times when I’ve met people, told them about the blog, but didn’t have any on hand because I had given them to friends.  That was a rookie mistake.  When out in a pub after the Sun Peaks concert, I laughed with these fellows, all of us drunken and foolish.  Before we parted ways, I dropped a few cards on the table.  One fellow glanced at it and said ” I don’t get it…what’s your business?”

“It’s not really a business, it’s a blog”.

“Ah…” he reexamined the card, frowning slightly.

I suddenly felt very foolish for busting out business cards for a not-quite business.

“She’s hot…it’s a good card”.

Not exactly bone and silian rail, but they’re certainly to die for.

Images Courtesy of Google, Ashcroft

My sister-in-law Heather treated me to one of the best presents of my life.  She sent me to see a psychic before I left New Zealand for Australia.

She told me to have some questions in mind for the medium.  My thoughts immediately turned to the ‘what do I want to be when I grow up’ genre.  Whether I was ever going to have babies, go to Paris, if all would go well in Perth, and whether or not my friend Monica was okay.

Monica used to be my neighbour, and had been a long time friend.  She died suddenly in her early-forties, when I was in my mid-twenties.  She was a strange hilarious creature, and I have never, nor will I ever know anyone like her.  Her passing was one of the most painful times in my life, and five years later, I still think of her on a daily basis.  I have a tattoo on the inside of my arm that represents my commitment to experiencing life in her honor.

I carry your heart/I carry it in my heart.

Monica had this thing about dimes.  She said they were good luck.  She’d find them on the street, bring them home, put them in a jar, save them until she could buy a lottery ticket.  I don’t believe she ever won much, but it was a fine system, and she was always happy to find dimes.  After she died, I began to see them everywhere.  I took comfort in those findings, always thinking that it was her way of saying hello.

Before I left for New Zealand, I went to the cemetery to put a big bunch of flowers on her grave.  I don’t go there often, but when I do, I sometimes chat casually, telling stories, explaining circumstances, stuff she already knows.  But sometimes I just stand there.  While communicating in the silence, I watch mourners maintaining  other sites, fussing with flowers, sweeping the headstone, placing decorations.  Bless these people; I love that the relationship does not die with the person.  That day, I placed the flowers in the vase, stood silent for a long while, and then said “Don’t be a stranger, you come visit me in New Zealand whenever you want”.  And so, when the plane landed in Auckland, and every passenger was retrieving bags in the tight space, the women behind me  fumbled with her change purse and a dime shot out and landed on the empty seat next to me.  And I knew I’d be okay.  And this was the last Canadian dime I would see for years.  In New Zealand ten cent pieces are brown, like a penny.  I carried one of those pieces with me the day I got married.

When I asked the psychic about Monica, she paused for a moment and said that she “wasn’t close” to us.  She said that Monica had returned to the universe and was in particles, like stardust.  Selfishly, I didn’t love that answer. In fact, I thought she’d have more insights about her, but it was my friend Shannon that she had a lot to say about, but that’s a story for another day.

But hey, stardust is a fair incarnation, good for her.  And for a moment it made me doubt the magical dimes, and the presence I connected them to.  I find there are periods of time  where there are none at all, but if I hear a coin fall on the ground and my head snaps in the direction of the noise. In a sense, even that sounds makes me feel like she’s near.  I mention this only because recently, I am finding dimes everywhere.  I mean, I’ve always come across them, and take them as a good omen.  Now, it’s to the point that I greet the coin as if it were my actual friend.  My husband has grown accustomed to my saying ‘Hey Girlfriend!”, to the ground.  At Sun Peaks, after the Burton Cummings concert (which made me think of a rousing rendition Monica once did of “She’s Come Undone“), I was sitting next to an empty chair, and my husband noticed that there was a dime on top of, and under the seat.  Naturally, I pocketed them, and later, a man dropped a dime and just abandoned it, as if it didn’t have magical powers.  I pocketed that too, and couldn’t contain the smiling over my good fortune.

Lately I’ve been waiting tables a few nights a week.  Monica taught me about waitressing from her years of working in the Cayman Islands (where she once served Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise–Cruise was nice, Kidman was not), and busy hotspots in Vancouver.  Before my first day working for a dinner theatre, she bought a few bottles of wine and made me open them, and serve them to her. She made me carry a tray around her apartment.  She gave me advice. She told me how she once served a pre-”Sex and the City”Chris Noth during his “Law and Order” days.  She marched up to the table and quotes, verbatim the opening lines of the program.

In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime; and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.

And then she did a jazzy rendition of the theme song.  Apparently Noth was not amused.  Which to me, makes the story all the better.  She told me horror stories as well, my favorite one being that Monica brought a slew of plates to a table, one of them being a saucy rack of ribs.  She handed out the plates, then looked at the only one she had left, and the plate was empty.  The ribs had slid unceremoniously onto the patron’s cream colored pants.  I think about that whenever I serve ribs, which nowadays is more often than usual.  Being back in that profession truly connects me to her.  The other day, I was organizing my bill fold, and my counting my change.  There were five or six dimes in the modest amount of coinage.  Without any reason, the billfold flipped, and just the dimes scattered.  I picked them up and popped them back on the counter, and it flipped again.

Very cute Monica.  Very cute.

This happened yesterday too, carrying an envelope with money and a dime slipped out and rolled out of reach.  “What are you going on about?” I ask aloud.  There’s never an answer, only an offering.  I accept this (as one must do in situations like these), but wonder if she’s being silly, just having fun.  Or if this is a “Ghost” situation, and I’m in mortal danger and she’s trying to get a message to me; but Whoopi Goldberg was too expensive and dimes are the only thing within the budget.  Who knows?

Either way, I hope she keeps dropping by unannounced, leaving little reminders for those who loved her.  Even though she may be stardust, I’m happy to have the smallest piece of her, even if it’s just spare change.

Images Courtesy of Google, Ashcroft

The other day I’m at the mall, struck suddenly by hunger.  In a hurry, I pass by the nearest coffee shop, and make a snap decision.

“I’ll have the ham and cheese…cwa-sohn“.  I sort of blend mumbling with a phony french accent.  The cashier pulls the sandwich out of the cabinet.

“That will be seven dollars”.

Seven dollars? Where am I? In a fucking airport? Seven dollars for that sad little sandwich?

“No, I’m sorry, can I just get a muffin instead”?

She smiled, “Good choice…that sandwich is a rip-off. $3.50 please “.

Expensive cafe fare aside,  it brings up a much bigger issue.  How the hell to you pronounce “croissant” anyway?

I think about this as I drive over to my friend Trish’s house.  Is it soft, ‘cwa-sohn‘ or do you hit it hard “crah-sont”–either way, I think it’s impossible to win, the word sets you up for a fail.  You will either sound like a pompous ass or an ignorant lout.  How do you wrap your lips around such a word?

At Trish’s place, she was packing for a holiday.  She asked if I could keep an eye on her baby, who was sleeping soundly, which makes for some seriously boring babysitting.  But I happily hang-out, eager to help if required of me.  My eye catches “Hello” magazine on the coffee table and I give it a casual flip.

Be still my heart, you wouldn’t believe what I found on “what celebs are tweeting page”

I mumble thru the word “croissant” because I’m not sure if it’s pronounced with a “cra” or a “cwa” 

-Ryan Seacrest

I’ve never felt more connected to the universe in all my life.  Imagine knowing that you feel the exact same way as Ryan Seacrest.  I mean, we did look awfully similar as children, but this is a monumental situation.

It doesn’t bring me any answers, but it’s comforting to know that even ole Seacrest knows a thing or too about limitations.  I mean, what differentiates us is that I can’t justify a seven dollar sandwich, while he could buy the whole  cafe out, and burn it to the ground if anyone dared judge his pronunciation of french pastries.  So that’s where the road divides us.  But there was this glorious, shining, magnificent moment where Ryan Seacrest and I were on the same page.  But I don’t think it means as much to him as it does to me.

All Images Courtesy of Google

This is the last weekend before my sister-in-law comes and we go on our holiday.  Now that it is Sunday I can officially declare that Kate is coming this week!  Naturally, when you have guest come to stay, you clean your house from floor to ceiling, but the real work is pretending you live like that all the time.  Yesterday, the first order of business was to wash ‘Cracking Rosie”, our blessed little Kia Rio.

Sorry, I’m trying something different with my hair (and experimenting with lip fillers) and now I look like Cameron Diaz.  Oops! Not intentional.  I had to get a restraining order for that guy in the background cause he kept screaming that there was “Something about Mary”, when all I was trying to do was suds up my sweet ride.

Wow, I really do look different as a blond, don’t I? I haven’t eaten a meal in about sixteen years, but I can wear a size zero, and to me, that’s more important than things like cheese, booze and bowel movements.

Anyway, we’re at the car wash, my husband and I, with Cracking Rosie.  There are about eight stalls altogether, and they are all occupied with bad-ass pick up trucks.  It was like “Bring Your Big-Sexy-Truck to the Car Wash Day”, and Ben missed the memo.  He is washing, rinsing and waxing the tiny red vehicle with this brave, stoic, stiff upper lip.  I know he appreciates coming to Canada and immediately having a vehicle on-hand. But I think he’s grown tired of sharing a vehicle that requires his now famous “two-pronged attack”, where he has to wedge his upper body into the car, press his weight onto the arm rest, and finally he swing his long legs in behind the wheel.  I know he’d like to have his own wheels, his own vehicular space that he could fill with tools, and other man things…like big slabs of meat, boats and guns.  Instead he is washing Rosie, while I consistently get underfoot like an untrained puppy, asking whether or not he thinks “I’m a good helper”.

I know right? I’m not even washing the car, and I’m spraying the ground! And no good can come of letting that soap dry like that.

In a tantalizing row of trucks that are so big I would require a step ladder, that size suits my seven-foot tall husband just fine.  He looks longingly at the vehicles.  And I feel kind of sad for him.  I know owning a truck is his Canadian dream, it’s the first thing he’s get when we receive a positive word from Immigration Canada.  He wants a truck as badly as I do a book deal…or skinnier thighs.  Yeah…that’s badly.  But it’s not his time, nor is it mine evidently.  And so, we are to make do with the possessions we already have, share them like well-behaved children, and shine them up like new, until the day comes that we get all the things that we desire.

All Images Courtesy of Google

This past weekend has been chore-filled, and we have had a very productive couple of days.  We are like proper grown-ups, driving around in a spanking clean car with a full tank of gas.  My office is in good order, all loose papers have been filed, or tossed in the bin.  Everything has been dusted, everything has been organized.  Both Ben and I bought new clothes, and then stripped our closets bare, making enormous, intimidating piles.  There is always that moment, in the organizational process, when you think: why the fuck did I do this to myself? And then you wonder how long you could live amongst the mountains you made.  I pushed onward, and got my purge on.  And now my closet looks so organized, so clean…and I know in my heart that it will last approximately fifteen to twenty minutes.  But, I can’t think about failure now, as I gaze into the neat, color coded closet.  This space represents how I’d like to be: ordered, prepared, organized.

By the end of Sunday evening, with the last load of wash shimmying in the spin cycle, I am feeling very happy.  I love to go on holiday knowing that dishes are washed, bills are paid, and the check-list has been ticked off.  It reminds me a bit of one of the greatest feelings ever–that ‘back to school’ feeling.  I love that sense of preparedness, the idea of a fresh start.

When growing up, my mother would take the last week of summer and try to resurrect some semblance of a school-year routine.  This meant lying awake in a not-dark room, while other children in the trailer park rode their bikes round and round the never-ending circular street.  Not that I would have been out there playing, even when I was a child, I wasn’t a kid.

But still, just knowing that others my age were out gallivanting outdoors, made me not want to be in bed.  Not able to sleep I’d daydream about the upcoming school year.  In my mind I would piece together my ultimate ‘first day of school outfit, where you could really make a definitive statement about who you wanted to be this year.

Who I was, what I wanted to be, and how I wanted to be perceived was never an easy mix.  I liked to imagine that I would be welcomed, accepted, popular;  be a part of a group, or be an object of affection for pre-pubescent boys.  Lying there in the lit bedroom, anything was possible.  The carefully selected outfit hung from the door-knob.  New shoes lined up nicely, the school bag filled with crayons, pencils, erasers, blank sheets of paper.  Of course, that wouldn’t last long, that level of neatness.  Even as a neurotic, tabloid-reading, less-than popular child, I didn’t always do myself a solid, and finish my homework or keep my room clean.  The foundation of success is organization, and having the confidence in knowing where everything in your life is.  I didn’t really learn that until my thirties. I wanted to be that person, bright and shiny, without fault, without mistakes, but I kept tripping over myself…all the way until my high-school graduation.  Still, there was that promise, before the season actually began, when anything was possible, and you would get everything right.

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Occasionally, if I really want to splash out and treat myself, I buy a magazine. Because I am terminally frugal, I usually go for the ‘three for ten deal’ at Walmart.  We’re stocking up on supplies, and as it always does, my patience for this store runs paper thin before I’ve even said hello to the greeter.  Ben is lingering over belts, and I decide to do my own lingering over my precious 3-4-10.  Sadly, every cover has Glee’s Cory Monteith on it.  And I’m of two minds about that.  For one, I do find the whole scenario devastating and fascinating.  I mean, you couldn’t write a tragedy better.  And that’s the other thing, it really does make me so sad.  So there I stand, with little options otherwise.  Lesser quality magazines feature Angelina Jolie proclaiming that she was pregnant with twins, another one with the Kardashian’s on “Who Cares?” magazine, and a National Enquirer with a rather tired looking Regis Philbin on the front.  And so, I chose my three, two of which have Monteith on the cover.  (Thank God Kate Middleton has had her baby, that will cleanse the pop-culture palette).

I was strangely soothed by all the other celebrity goss out there–beautiful people recommending beautiful products, with beautiful children, on beautiful holidays.  George Clooney is single again, Justin Bieber is being a little dick head, Amanda Bynes is blowing her fortune on cocaine and bad wigs.  All is right in the world.  I especially enjoyed a special on celebrity homes, where all these smug B-list bastards can show off all their awesome shit.  My favorite was the Dita Von Teese article.  As you can imagine, she has some pretty amazing possessions.

She has beautiful vintage furniture, and a bizarre taxidermy obsession.  She turned multiple bedrooms into spectacular closets filled with costumes, shoes, lingerie, and there’s a whole room dedicated to hats (which to me, is really a reason to never have children). “Sure, someone could carry on the lineage…but then again, I wouldn’t get my hat room”

She is such a glamorous icon, a burlesque queen, the modern-day equivalent of a golden age movie star.

Many of the most beloved icons from yesteryear are remembered in part of their marriages or affairs.  Marilyn Monroe with DiMaggio, Miller and that other guy, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Liz Taylor and everybody.  As for Von Teese, she spent the better part of a decade shacked up with none other that Marilyn Manson.

I’m assuming this was at a costume party, but that is a seriously disturbing looking fellow.  I have always wondered what the attraction was, if she would gaze at him from across a crowded room and think–”Lucky me, I get to go home with that“.

Last night, wide awake, and lying next to my gently snoring husband, I think about Dita Von Teese, what that hat room must look like.  Eventually I give up on trying to sleep, and head into the office.  I write a few notes about this topic, and then proceed to look up pictures of Dita and Marilyn.  Which is not the greatest idea at 1130pm.  Marilyn Manson…is not someone I enjoy.

I came of age in the advent of this particular chapter of goth-culture… circa 1996 with Antichrist Superstar.  Marilyn Manson burst creepily onto the scene, and just bled all over the place.  Parents were concerned about his presence, his influence.  He was being banned and censored, which made the fans love him even more.  Rumors flew about him killing animals onstage, and removing his ribs so he could perform fellatio on himself. Which makes no sense to me, why would you want to suck your own dick? If you have the money to have elective rib removal surgery, couldn’t you just hire someone who likes going down on freaky dudes…(and possibly be into doing a little laundry and light dusting)?  In high school Marilyn Manson was such a revelation and there was a definite social pocket of teenagers that jumped on that bandwagon.  Personally, he scared the hell out of me.  But then again, if Manson was an 11 on the hard rock scale, I was a 1.5.  I was listening to ABBA, Mamas & the Papas and the Bee Gees non-ironically.  I had pictures of Audrey Hepburn in my bedroom.  I was not in his demographic.  Simply put, going to a Marilyn Manson concert would be my version of hell on earth, I would rather be swarmed by a pack of flying monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz”, than listen “Beautiful People” in a packed stadium of Satanic looking freaky-deeks.  And you just know that they would do weird things with strobe lights…no thank you.  The fine folks behind the film “Burlesque” actually snuck a sample of that song into the soundtrack; even in a different incarnation I can not bare it.  You’re just never going to find me at a fan club meeting, and that’s all there is to it.

This morning, as I’m working on my social media project, looking for pictures of Charlie Brown and the Fantastic Mr Fox, I keep running into Marilyn Manson.  And it always gives my heart a little flip.  I wonder if ever he came around the corner and startled the crap out of Dita.  “Oh my god, Marilyn, why the face?’  I read that when Tim Burton was casting for “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, Manson expressed interest in playing Willy Wonka.  That’s a long fucking way from Gene Wilder isn’t it?  Even Johnny Depp was too creepy (who allegedly based his character on Micheal Jackson, and Manson–the two Godfathers of creepy musicians).  Even Tim Burton, who makes his own distributing imprints on the world (don’t even talk to me about “The Nightmare Before Christmas) must have been like–no, Marilyn, that’s even too fucked up by my standards.  What’s worse, I don’t know which way is scarier, Marilyn Manson with makeup….

Or just plain ole Brain Warner…(cute koala though).

Yes, of course, never judge a book by it’s cover.  It’s just…what a terrifying cover.  In my research about these two former lovebirds–who were both raised in middle America, living lives through audacious, controversial theatrical alter egos.  He tried to get her for a music video, their schedules clashed, but on his 32nd birthday, she showed up with a bottle of absinthe (and a stunning outfit, I’d imagine).  And the rest, as they say, is history.

They were together for five years, got married in a civil ceremony, before having a lavish affair at some castle in Ireland.

And a year after that, Dita moved out of their home on Christmas Eve.  She never publicly stated what had happened (cough-cough-Evan Rachel Wood), but that it was bad enough to call a moving company the day before Christmas.

And, that’s all there is to it, the marriage ended and she never said exactly why.  But there is enough speculation that Dita could hang up her props, lingerie and boobie tassels, and just be plain old Heather Sweet; whereas between the drugs and the impressionable young female fans, Brian had a much harder time hanging up his Manson cap.   Von Teese lamented her divorce, and claimed that despite their appearances, they were a traditional couple, who valued the institution of marriage.  She intended for the relationship to last forever.  A Von Teese source said that–she just wanted to be at home on the couch with the dog with Marilyn Manson.  And I can’t imagine him just fresh faced, kicking back in his sweatpants and slippers.

As for Marilyn, I’ll be happy when he’s no longer haunting my image files.  I did come across more recent photos, and it looks like he has a sort of–Gothic fat Elvis thing, and it’s just not a great look.

So, Miss Dita with her many endorsements, is clearly the winner in this break-up face off.  She was classy dame that didn’t point fingers or name names.  She didn’t take a red cent of Manson’s money either.  But I wonder, if she ever misses him stealing her eyeliner, sneaking her corsets and pantyhose, or getting his red lipstick over her alabaster complexion after a passionate smooch in the kitchen.  Or if she now wonders what the hell she was thinking, and is happy to be back in the company of only the most beautiful people.

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This is not good.  I am sitting in my office, coffee cold, this sad little banana that’s been sort of half-finished, unpeeled and partially ravaged, and lying on the desk.  I only ate it because they were talking about skipping breakfast leading to heart disease on the CBC.  I’m feeling like a kid right before summer holiday.  I keep looking out the window, daydreaming about haircuts, pedicures and far off destinations.

I need to be focused, creative, organized…hmmm, what color would I get on my toes?  Surely no self-respecting woman goes on holiday without a little sprucing up.  And I could use it…I’d love it if the Wash & Brush Up Company from “The Wizard of Oz” could give me a proper once over.

This is a want, not a need.  I need to write, I want a pedicure.  I also want a latte, a million dollars and a massage from my pool boy Pedro.  Now that I’ve written a solid sentence, let’s look out that window again shall we?

Let’s look over notes… that will inspire me.  I do a good shorthand.  Sometimes I can’t even decipher my own stuff.  “Dancers”, underlined. What the hell does that mean? Just relax…just let it flow, you are a writer, the people–they need you. Nose to the grindstone, fingers to the keyboard. Looking wistful as I think up my magnificent thoughts.

I’ve got so much to do, and time is running short.  So I should definitely spend two hours not blogging, and exchanging double entendres over instant messaging with my Improv Group.  Look at this to-do list, when will this be done? There’s no time like the present…but first, lets read about the new Royal Baby, muck around on Twitter, and search for pictures of other people hard at work.

I’m just noticing now that there is a mouse scaling this lovely table cloth, and that woman is moments away from absolutely losing her shit.  Look at her, so focused on her book with her fancy little breakfast.  Those flowers are going to go flying.  Ah, I should look for a picture of that.

Oh, I’m sorry Sister, am I boring you? Is my lack of cohesive theme, my lack of focus exhausting? You should try living in my head for an hour or two, it is a scary, scattered place.

But you know what? I’m going for that pedicure, and I might even slap on a manicure on that as well. You only live once right? Twice if you are James Bond.  After all, I can’t very well face the world like the star that I am, with my fingers and toes unpainted? That just wouldn’t do.

All Images Courtesy of Google

Okay folks, even thought I will still be posting videos and photographs on a daily basis, this will be my last official blog posting until after August long weekend.

I was expecting this.  The droves of hysterical fans, screaming, crying, wailing, begging me not to stop blogging.

Okay, dry your eyes, and pull yourself together.  People are looking and this is getting embarrassing.  Listen, I hear you, I’m this strange fusion of James Joyce and Danielle Steel.  And you are one of a very enthusiastic dozen or so people that…as far as my blog is concerned…you just can’t get enough.  And I want to be here, dropping hilarious anecdotes like Dr Dre lays down tracks (is that still a contemporary reference?). But Mummy’s tired and she needs a break.

“Girls, I can’t play right now, I’m just talking about quietly resenting you”.

I think about where I was when I started this project.  By the time summer ends I will have been at it for six months.  With the exception of a handful of “too tired/hungover/busy to write, here’s a picture of a pin up girl doing….something”. I have written every single day since the 1st of March.

Since that day I’ve written over 150 pieces.  And if I haven’t made it abundantly clear, after years of writer’s block, this is a pretty fabulous feat.  Recently, my friend Sheanna came round with tarot cards, she asked what I wanted to focus on.  “The writing, of course”.  Is this something that will happen for me? Am I wasting my time?  And of course, the cards reveled that there is some kind of mystical blockage getting in the way of success.  And that I’ve planted seeds, but the harvest has not happened yet. But what really hit me was that one of the cards suggested that I don’t celebrate enough.  I need to give myself a little more credit, and appreciate every “like”, every comment, every bit of positive feedback. I’m terrible for thinking “I’ll be happy when…”.  That’s a dangerous belief.  Why not be happy right now? There are times when I’ve sought validation, as if I need an external force to justify my direction in life.  In fact, it was not being long-listed for that writing competition when my life took a turn.  It was not directly connected, but after that day, my job changed, and my life opened up.  I had this month or so of freedom.  I took casual work, which led to actual jobs.  I took on a social media project, and it has been such a satisfying undertaking.  Doors have opened, and I’ve walked through them.

And so, I’m trying not to worry so much.  Note the italics here.  I fuck it up as often as I get it right.   But it’s fair to say that this blog has been a lifeline for me.  And now, after over 9000 views in over 50 countries, I am going to celebrate that. Am I counting the one time someone in Nicaragua had a gander? Yes.  Because I need to celebrate any one, any where reading my pieces.  Am I well-paid? Not really.  Am I writing while wearing a magnificent fur coat? No.  Am I happy? Most of the time, yes.  I’m actually amazed how life can sort of evict you from your circumstance.  I was in a job that made me so unhappy, that I had never-ending heartburn, an unsightly stress rash, and a soul that was crying  out for change.  And then, circumstances changed, and I could just walk away.  And it was only was the stress was slowly released, like air out of a balloon, that I realized just how unhappy I was.  And that’s no way to live.

But there’s something about my temperament that wants me to be stressed.  And I’ve got to work on that.  I’m pretty famous for stressing hard before a holiday, trying to accomplish everything before the break, so I can be truly relaxed.  But by the time to clock ticks to the holiday hour, I am so wound up, it’s like trying to untie an impossible knot.  And I don’t want that either.  So, there’s a bit of meditation to do on this break.  How I’d like to proceed with my life.  How I’d like to adjust my attitude.  How I’d like to be just a little bit better than I am right now.   And then I’d like to come back to this place and share with you all I have learned in the time I spent away.

All Images Courtesy of Google

I only wish I could rock big hair like that. I love the style, the urban twist on this famous family and their infamous tragedy. PS-Those are Jackie Kennedy‘s words that LDR is speaking at the end.

I have such a soft spot for this song, it’s sparkly and sunny and makes me feel like a better day is just around the corner. Strange and sweet video.

Thus far, the holiday has been simply divine.  The blogging break is so very necessary, (though I know the fans may be  unimpressed by this hiatus).  I ran into one of my biggest supporters last night at the opening night party of Project X’s X-Fest, and he scoffed…scoffed at using sad little music videos as a way of temporarily replacing my daily essay.  I explained that I wanted people to know that they could still come to my website and have a five-minute break.  To which he grumbled something about “why couldn’t I have just written a dozen or so extra pieces to post for while I was away?”

Dušan, you are such an awesome friend, thanks for all the enthusiasm and support, and thanks for missing my blog entries already.  But this is my suggestion for you.  When I just can’t take it anymore, I have no choice but to drive into an abandoned warehouse and just dance like there’s no tomorrow. That’s just another thing I have in common with Kevin Bacon. There’s not a single thing I don’t love about this famous scene from the 1984 dance classic. And I hope it makes you smile.

This was my husband’s request. This appears in an episode of “Family Guy“, and it’s such a trip, one minute Peter Griffin is being a fat bastard and then…this is happening. Nothing has been this confusing since that one time when drunkenly watching an extended version of “Pretty Woman” at 3am. Not realizing that it was uncut, I though that I had slipped into an alternative “Pretty Woman” universe.  Anyhoo…enjoy! x

Yes, you did read that right. You didn’t see that coming did you? That’s because I’m complex. I remember seeing this video for the first time, about twenty years ago, and I thought it was pretty goddamn fantastic. A young Keanu Reeves and a non-boozy Paula condensing “Rebel Without A Cause” in less than five minutes, can’t get any better. In revisiting this song, it’s been stuck in my head ever since.  You’re welcome.

Feel like I am handing in my homework at the last minute. Drove Kelowna to Vancouver and currently shoveling tequila down my throat before the Jay-Z, Justin Timberlake ‘Legends of Summer’ concert. Toodles bitches!

Keeping things really light this morning.  I wonder if the members of ABBA ever just feel really, really embarrassed about a lot of things.   (Just don’t ever regret that awesome hair crimper Agnetha).