What a $12 steak says...

When I picked up groceries this afternoon, I decided that a nice dinner would perk up our fridgeless, satellite-less selves. Perhaps some tasty BBQ -- marinated chicken for me. A $12 t-bone steak big with a big ol' chunk of filet mignon for the boy. Barbequed mushrooms and red onion on skewers. Steamed broccoli. Fancy brownies from the bakery for dessert.

Our after-dinner conversation went something like this:

Me: "Oh dear god, I'm so full. Look, feel my belly. It's huge."
Chris (with suspicious and slightly alarmed look) : "Are you pregnant? Is that why you bought me a fancy steak?"
Me: "Huh?"
Chris: "Pregnant... Are you?"
Me: "Let me get this straight -- fancy steak equals big scary news."
Chris (shrugging his shoulders): "Well, if you were going to tell me you were pregnant, you might try and butter me up with a fancy dinner."

I think I'll start buying Kraft Dinner for a while.

For Lori...

Hope you feel better soon.

And Geldof was worried about eBay?

I would love to see what kind of people come out of the woodwork for this...

http://toronto.craigslist.org/tlg/81629612.html

I live with weirdness...

There are times when I'm not a particularly sane person.

It's actually a bit of an understatement. I mean, I can drop a plate on the floor and have forgotten about it in two seconds. About three days later, I'll hear Chris say, "What is this plate doing on the hallway floor? That's not where plates go..."

But sometimes, I suspect I'm living with an alien. And sure, you're probably eyeing your significant other over the top of your computer and recalling the curly green spiked tail your partner insists is normal. You might even scoff, "Who doesn't think they live with an alien?"

But Chris is a man's man, a guy's guy and a dude. He like his music angry, his TV angry, his movies angry. Hell, he even drives angry (how often have I heard him snarl at little old people crossing the street, "Move your ass, old man, or I'll run you over" while he guns the engine?). Don't get me wrong -- he's not a dink. But we're talking about a long-haired, tattooed fellow who could pummel you into your grave before you could even whimper, "Mommy..."

But every once in a while, he just does something so absolutely bizarre that I need to readjust reality.

Like this weekend, when he decided I needed to watch a new DVD he had just purchased. The movie, of course, is one of those that you recall fondly from when you were a kid. It was always on TV. You always watched it. For example, I have Labryinth and The Dark Crystal.

Chris has Voyage Of The Rock Aliens. (see photo above)

Starring Pia Zadora and Rhema (yes, the band). This is well beyond the worst movie I have ever seen. Even its campy schlock surpasses all others. Bad effects. Bad clothes. Bad script. Really bad beach musical numbers a la Annette and Frankie. For god's sake, the movie even starts with an entire (and completely unrelated) video starring Pia and Germaine Jackson. I don't think a worse movie or concept has even been made.

It's not even a so-bad-it's-good sort of thing. Hell, I can sit through Howard The Duck. Or Earth Girls Are Easy. (Brief tangent -- ever noticed how few sci-fi comedy romances there are? OK, obviously there's a reason for it, but still... what an untapped market. )

But to Chris -- well, Voyage Of The Rock Aliens is gold, Pony-Boy.

This from the man who sees me watching an old Bette Davis movie (I'm trying to catch up on my classic movies) or Kinsey (which I finally watched last night) and mutters, "You watch such crap."

The day the cynic got scammed

I thought I would share this amusing -- but at the time, infuriating -- incident from the other day with you.

I'm not exactly what you would call a trusting sort of person.

It can take years -- even decades -- before I will ever permit myself to completely trust someone. Of course, this makes it tricky to invite folks into my Good Friends Inner Sanctum. There are a lot of people in my "acquaintances avec potential" circle, but these, I feel, are the ones who require extra care in their Person Assessments. And if I suspect someone has cooled on me, or are just playing nice because they don't have the balls to tell me to get bent -- well, they get shunted back to the end of the line, and I generally regard them in a much cooler sort of way.

Of course, I can share all this with you, dear stranger/close friend/family. But I digress.

I've been on the hunt for a part-time job -- but not just any part-time job. I'm being quite particular. No retail (I've served my retail sentence, dammit). No telemarketing. No sales. No pimping shitty products or services for cash, credit or generally being a nuisance to the world. I'm trying to avoid contributing to the consumer chain. I mean, it's nonsense to whore my soul out to strangers for $7/hr.

Unfortunately, most jobs with good pay, flexible schedules and somewhat redeeming employment value are likely a) already taken; b) don't want me for some inconceivable reason ("You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it does"); or c) they don't exist and I should just whore myself to the advertising world full-time and be done with it.

Which leads to the ad on Craigslist Toronto...

Well, damn. The ad is gone (hardly a surprise). Anyway, it was a data entry position. Work from home, input orders, requires computer skills, internet, some writing skill, blah blah blah. Pay between $250-$500 week. Sounds reasonable, huh? Well, there was a fee. It was $14. I figured, "OK, perhaps it's just a material, administrative fee. Doesn't seem unreasonable."

Turns out, the manual was instruction on how to post free employments ads exactly like the one I responded to. You make your money by posting an ad exactly like that, and people send you their money. And the spiral continues.

So, right. I'm a dolt.

Sometimes I make myself ill with how gullible I can be. In my defense, the ad truly sounded legit. Anyway, in my fury, I wrote to the person who posted the ad, lambasting them for being a lousy, shitty and manipulative human being. This was her response (sics retained):

"How did you come to the conclusion that this is ascam. I started doing this Friday and I have made200.00. It is a job, When people ask me questionsbefore they decide to pay I tell them the truth I dontlie to them. I have made some extra money, just likethe person I purchased the material from and thepeople who have purchased it for me. It would only beun-ethical if I lied and didn't give the people whatthey paid for."

How do you argue with someone who doesn't see what was wrong with the set-up in the first place? How do you teach intelligence? Or ethics? I mean, I could have made my money back by conning other people out of their money the same way.

I'd rather just lose out on the $14.

Balls.

Waiting for Saturday

Our fridge has been dead for a week, but its replacement will finally appear (so I've been informed) this Saturday. And Bell are coming to move our satellite dish -- which will be nice, as I'm currently getting weary of having three channels to choose from. So everything seems to be coming up Hannah this weekend.

It's going to be an exciting day. Well, not really. But I suspect that it will be more compelling than the super-fabulous Live 8 lineup in Barrie. I would cheerfully have handed over one of my breasts to be able to go the show in London. Even Paris. But the Canadian lineup is embarassing. It's horrifying. I will defend Canadian music until I die -- but this lineup makes me ill.

Meanwhile, it's still stinking hot... and I seem to have lost any drive for writing that I briefly had. The heat? Malnutrition? A stealthy lobotomy while I slept? It's a mystery.

Must find a part-time job. And soon.

"I thought you should know..."

Did you sleep with someone and "accidentally" leave them with something more than a soggy, used "ribbed-for his/her-pleasure" condom?

Well, somehow Hallmark missed this market: http://www.inspot.org. Send an anonymous postcard to someone and let them know how they touched you... and you gave them the clap.

And I would certainly never suggest how something of this nature could be used as an amusing practical joke.

Typical.

Toronto has just started its newest heatwave. Which I enjoy.

What doesn't impress me is that our refrigerator died on Tuesday (ruining a small fortune in food, sauces, condiments and... and... oh, dear god! My dumplings. Gahhhhh!). No cold beverages. No cold storage. And hot, hot temperatures.

If you've never had a fridge defrost unexpectedly on you, count your blessings.

The smell of rotting deer meat (Chris' father enjoys hunting during the "season" -- for the record, I only eat red meat when it's squished into a small, cardboard-ish patty and slathered with all sorts of wonderful cheeses and condiments to disguise the taste) nearly sent my olfactory senses into permanent retirement.

We're hoping for a new fridge. Soon would be nice. So if I steal your lovely and cold beverage, don't take it personally.

Stupid tagging...

With the shrieks of dramatic death, war and Hollywood carnage wailing in the background (Chris is watching that mess titled King Arthur -- oh, Ray Winstone and Stellan Skarsgard, what were you thinking?), I shall attempt to do this whole "Meme" thing. It's some elitist-y blog thing where people are challenged to create the same themes -- much like those questionnaire things sent round, with "What's your favourite drink?" and "Who's your hero?" sort of questions. This supposedly lets people know what you're like.

Huh.

This particular meme, of course, reeks of self-congratulatory book snobs looking to pigeon-hole bloggers according to their reading preferences. Much the same as movies, music, etc. Frankly, I'd rather a good, healthy dose of original questions. No one ever does anything perverse or actually embarrassing. Like kinks. Or strange things you've shoved in your orifaces. Or the most humiliating thing you were caught doing in public. Whether Tom Cruise really is gay. Etc.

Thus, I've been "tagged" to answer the damn thing. So I shall do so in my own style.

NUMBER OF BOOKS I OWN:
A lot. I write for a living. I have a degree in English. I don't trust people who don't read books. I trust even less the people with only one or two critic-friendly selections on their coffee tables. Anyway, the number is in the hundreds.

LAST BOOK I BOUGHT:
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. Still haven't read it.

LAST BOOK I READ:
The last real book I read was No Crystal Stair by Mairuth Sarsfield. However, in faux movie-style books (read like watching a movie in your head), I've currently been re-reading the Anne Rice Vampire Chronicles for amusement.

FIVE BOOKS THAT MEAN A LOT TO ME:

1. The novel I'm currently working on.
Hopefully I'll be able to get some money from it and continue writing. Self-explanatory, really.

2. Sense And Sensibility by Jane Austen
But not for the reason you think. I mean, god love the woman, but this particular novel is where I hide money I'm trying to save. Best when I'm going on a trip to the UK and cram it full of newly purchased pounds. Obviously empty for quite some time.

3. The Log From The Sea Of Cortez by John Steinbeck (rare 1951 edition)
Aside from the love of Steinbeck I inherited from my grandfather, this book is actually worth something to me. About $400-$500 US, to be exact.

4. The Twits by Roald Dahl
If you have to ask, you don't get it. The chapter on beards says it all. Or the one on Bird Pie.

5. The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu
Bet you weren't expecting that one.


However, I shall refrain from tagging anyone. Likely because no else I know actually keeps a blog (or admits to it).

Cheap Summer Hooker Wanted

Ever come across something on the web that's hilarious... only to look closer and find it's really, really creepy? Here's a perfect example:

http://toronto.craigslist.org/tlg/79971975.html

This fella is looking for a "High Energy, Sporty, Fun & Sexy Female Personal Assistant, Trainer & Playmate" for the summer. He'll pay you $15,000. You'll have a place to stay, a car, a cell and a credit card. Sounds like a great deal, huh?

Riiiiiiiiight.

Truth is, I've been passing the link along to my friends because I thought it was grossly amusing. But then I looked closer...

It seems that Mr. Lonely And Stinking Rich has an agenda. After filling out a super-extensive application (which requires some pretty specific info and requires short essays for a number of questions), you will ultimately scroll down to see a buried link about legal information.

Now I expect that any rational, level-headed person with an IQ above 40 is thinking, "What if he's a perv?"

Well, it just appears as though Mr. Lonely And Stinking Rich is more along the lines of Mr. Horny Looking For Cheap, Pervy Play Partner. Including in the legal blabbity blab are wonderful, bloodcurdling gems, like:

- "dress according to request"
- "must agree to live, participate and cooperate with the employer and individuals during the program" (read: you will be passed around like a soggy joint at a Grateful Dead concert)
- "must report and be available to participate in the Program at all times and places as employer desires"
- "by submitting this participant application (the "Participant Application"), applicants acknowledge that they accept and assume all risks known or unknown of any nature (including, without limitation, the foregoing) that may arise in any way from or relate to applicant's participation in the selection process for and/or participation in the Program"

And of course, my personal favourite:
"Applicants acknowledge, understand, and agree that employers actions or requests may be embarrassing, unfavorable or humiliating and therefore agrees to release, discharge and hold harmless the Companies from any and all claims (including, without limitation, claims for slander, libel, defamation, violation of rights of privacy, publicity, personality, and/or civil rights, depiction in a false light, intentional or negligent infliction of emotional distress and/or any other tort and/or damages arising from or in any way relating to the submission of a Participant Application, participation in the selection process, participation in the Program. Applicants are required to sign Releases to this effect."

There's so much wrong with this one that I don't know where to even begin.

But say you're sexy, outdoors-y and into whatever fetish things he might offer... A closer look suggests that the $15,000 is more of a "prizes inclusive" deal. You don't actually get $15,000. What you get is room and board (a room and a bathroom valued at $2,300/month -- hardly a bloody bargain, you cheap prick), a cell phone, a rental car, a credit card "gift" of up to $1,000/month and a cash "gifting" of up to $1,000/month.

So you're this cheap bastard's on-call whore and play-buddy, and the most you will ever make is $2,000 a month. I mean, you would probably make more with $5 blowjobs in the middle of Parkdale... in a couple of weeks! (not to mention whatever perverse and horrifying things he's planning to do with your profiles once you submit your "application" -- I imagine something excruciating like a database of "How to Find High-Class Whores Across The World." Remember, once you apply, you can't sue him for libel.)

Essentially, this ad is a perfect reminder that a) you should always read the fine print; b) If it sound too good to be true, you're probably being set up as a hooker; and c) Being rich does not exclude people from being tightfisted wankers.

(Oh, and a super-quick non-sequitur -- I was able to submit my stuff to the Toronto Arts Council... with five minutes to spare. Find out in three months. Quite unlikely, but I'd accept any spare karma that's available.)

And god said, "Give the bloody woman a grant."

Some say there's no such thing as coincidence.

If there's any truth to this at all, perhaps the gods are smiling upon me. Or laughing at me -- I'm not sure which. However, last night I was suddenly inspired to look up Toronto Arts Council grants for the first time in well over eight months. It had suddenly dawned on me that to be eligible for a writer's grant, you didn't need to have a zillion books published, and that grants were given to first-time writers as well as the familiar faces.

And such was indeed the case.

What I wasn't expecting was that applications were due today. Today. I'm working a number of little projects, but most of them are still in their starting phases. (Several books, a screenplay and even a kid's book, which I have completed but am still tweaking.) None of my rather decent stuff is far enough along. And the only project that is clearly set to go (and has had chapters written) is a sort of mainstream piece of fluff. Do arts councils give grants to fluff?

This, of course, led me to the realization that a) I'm busier than I thought I was; b) I'm a shittier writer than I thought I was; and c) I should really just pollute myself to death in Lake Ontario.

But to hell with it. I'm applying anyway.

Defenders of small prey

Let us begin with this: I dislike spiders.

It's evolved from many years of arachnophobia, which I've steadily controlled. I mean, when your father (for a laugh), calls your 11-year-old self outside to show you a massive daddy long-legs crawling out of his mouth, how could you not feel some aversion to spiders? (Especially after dear old dad picks a stray leg out of his teeth?)

Yet I no longer kill spiders. I can pick them up (but only if I must), and I generally am ambivalent to their existence on earth. No therapy required.

This evening, one such creature was sitting on the ceiling of the attic. One of those kind of yellow-greeny translucent spiders that hangs about in the corners, but doesn't seem inclined to drop on you unexpectedly.
"It must die," snarled Chris, ever the deliverer of death to insects, as he reached for some shoe, piece of magazine or a large, shiny machete.
"Oh, leave it," said I, unaware that as I spoke the words, some god was laughing softly to itself. Who knew I was playing with the very folds of karma? "It's not hurting anything."

Fast forward to four hours later. I'm sitting, having a nice laugh as I watch a borrowed DVD of Black Books (an amusing little series from a couple of years ago). Something tickles my chin. I scratch. My chin suddenly hurts, and something has fallen into my shirt -- the bosomy part.

Panic.

The shirt comes off immediately, and I slap at my poor chest, desperately trying to brush off whatever biting monstrosity dared intrude upson my serene (but amusing) television-watching. My chin hurts. A lot. I run to the bathroom, to see a raised spot form amid a red rash on my chin.

So if my next report is of a chin amputation (not that I have much of a chin -- thank you, English genes)... well, you know why.

This is what comes of respecting life, no matter how small. It always bites you in the ass. Or, in my case, in the chin.

Yes, we have no money...

There are days when being poor doesn't bother me, and I'm happy. This isn't one of them.

Blog Shame

See, I knew it. That was a sucky post. Fish, for chrissakes. Fish!

My apologies. What a waste of online space. (Does such a thing even exist?)

I went to a barbecue at my friend's place last night, and stupidly owned up to having a blog. I was the recipient of great mocking. "YOU? You have a blog?!" Hysterical laughter. Pointing. They started warming the tar and madly tearing feathers off chickens.

The sucky thing about being a writer is that you tend to pal around with other writers. It can be a rather elitist little group. Sometimes I wish my friends were all accountants.

Blog Shame: (noun)
To be ashamed of or embarrassed by ownership of blog. Unwillingness to admit to posting on blog, or partaking in blog activities.

Sometimes I'm a dink...

There are times when I sometimes fly off the handle. For no good reason.

I know, I know. It seems impossible. But sometimes a gal just has to get in a really good snit. (Insert inappropriate and erroneous male comment on monthly cycles here.)

Take this evening, for instance -- my poor boyfriend came home with groceries and made dinner. The plan was fish and chips. I. of course, eyed the giant drum of Crisco (eeeeyaacchhh) and bag of fresh cod with narrowed eyes. Swimming in grease. The kitchen had just been tidied and would now play host to all sorts of free-flying oils and horrid smells. I kinda hate white fish (unless marinated in all manner of potent, aggressive seasonings). My boyfriend had just turned into the enemy -- a pimp of cholestral, triglycerides and gross fishy smells. I could almost hear some invisible voice insisting "EAAAAAT... EAAAAAT!!! By the way, darling, I bought you a muumuu--"

I could feel reason sliding out of my pores. Suddenly I was infuriated -- in much the same manner you would be watching someone take a sledgehammer and trashing your car, and only stopping long enough to take a big dump on the dashboard. I stalked out of the room, grumbling under my breath with all manner of vile and filthsome curses. I went and did laundry. I tidied the bedroom. Played Spider Solitaire... All the while trying not to gnash off my arm in indignant fury. Naturally, I was firmly convinced I was in the right.

Against my better judgement, I went downstairs and ate (one of the best insults during a fight is to turn your nose up at food someone has slaved over. Not terribly nice, but very effective). But suddenly I felt better. I felt foolish. Meanwhile, my poor boy just sat there with a bewildered look on his face. Now ensconced in rationality, I apologized.

As I said... flying off the handle for no good reason.

I think I'll wait until next week before I try to renegotiate the household chores workload, and threaten to go on strike...

Smite Of The Day

Trees.

Yes, trees. I place a smite on trees.

Granted, trees are generally wonderful flora-things. I dig trees. But in the last week, the giant monstrous trees owned by the old bachelors next door -- their house is something of safety violation, not to mention the reek of cat piss, the piled up newspapers and the yard that hasn't been tended in centuries -- have grown just enough to interefe with our satellite signal.

Stupid old men.

It's raining, it's boring...

Actually, it's a beautifully hot, sunny day outside. But it rained yesterday -- a big, beautiful thunderstorm with rain that fell in furious, heavy drops. So I decided to hang outside and get drenched. And no, nothing trite like dancing or singing. Just a good, old-fashioned soak in polluted rain.

Of course, the neighbours likely think I'm bordering on insane. (I'm not sure if they noticed me splashing in the road where the torrent of water makes a run for the sewers.) There was some vague referral to doing similar things when they were kids. I suspect it's sly way of pointing out my obvious immaturity, but I have one up on them.

I already know I'm immature. So there.

It's interesting talking to my neighbours. They're a family of four. Married, own their house, have two kids, brand new appliances, a minivan, etc. They keep a tidy lawn, and like to plan out the renovations for their house. They've even made an effort to know who lives on the street. Most unusual.

And they're only a few months older than me.

I, who rents an apartment, has student loans up the wazoo, am painfully broke and spent the weekend smuggling in liquor to as many venues at North By Northeast (annual indie music fest) as possible. I still eat Lik-M-Aid Fun Dip (scary chemical sugar powder, which you dip into with a little pink candy stick) , and when someone farts in the bathroom stall next to me, I think it's hilarious. Especially since women (myself included) try all sorts of nifty tricks to avoid that loud, embarrassing echo of passing wind into the potty.

I just find it interesting that there's this great, sweeping chasm between our lifestyles. It makes for some serious introspection when you consider the weird little paths your life makes. I could be a Mrs. (Insert Last Name Here) graciously welcoming guests into my home. And serving pate with a dry white wine. I would wear dresses, of course. And there'd be little fuzzy covers on the toilet seats.

Ick.

But my real coup de gras yesterday was a long, late night walk to Ashbridges Bay (one of the nicer beaches in the Greater Toronto Area) at 1 am. It was foggy, humid, dark and eerily quiet... save the odd person walking in the shadows with a dog or a cigarette.

Maybe it's not the safest place for a woman, but I've always believed that by playing it overly safe, you miss out on all the really cool moments in life.

Well, holy crap...

This is my very first blog. I'm a little slow when it comes to jumping on certain bandwagons. (Obviously.)

If you're reading this, I apologize for it not being more interesting. Really, there's too much pressure on creating the perfect first post. So I'm not even going to bother. Besides, I'll just come back and edit later, once I've thought of something really clever.

It'll take about a year. And then I'll erase it two days later. In retrospect, there would more interesting blogs if people did this more often. Or at least less crap to read. (Yes, I'm looking in your direction. You should be ashamed, you longwinded little twinkie.)

Anyway. Welcome.