Where are thou, o my sleep?

Just got back home from my cousin's wedding. Aside from the very big chasm between my oddball family of beaucoup d'attitude and the groom's very earnest, wholesome and Christian family (which made the disparaity between the speeches somewhat hilarious), the entire affair was very nice.

And my young cousin and her young new husband danced to The Cure's "Love Song." I approve -- far worse songs to use.

What a weird, weird night.

To bed, to try and rest. Hopefully my cold will go away...

Bleh.

Am home finally. Car trouble kept us an extra day (deja car vu -- catalytic converter and exhaust problems) when I just wanted to come home.

Have cold. Am exhausted, trouble with allergies and coming off a big pile of work and family stress, but have glorious three days of no deadlines (aside from a big nasty one next week).

Woooooo. Woo.

Cousin's wedding tomorrow. Note to self: no getting pissed. Save it for Saturday.
Hmm. Family members getting loaded. Must remember to bring camera. Excellent ammunition for future battles.

Still no sign of my missing belt. Wonder if small nephew ran off with it for unknown and troubling reason...

Random whingings

1) My feet are cold.

2) My country is cold.

3) Someone stole/ran off with/ate my favourite belt. While I was on vacation, no less.

4) My pants keep falling down.

5) I have a wedding to go to in two days. If I don't go shopping soon, I will be forced to wear old-school style running shoes with the black 20s-style dress I bought.

6) I've invoiced people for a fucking ton of money in the last month -- I've received maybe five per cent of it.

7) Ro will likely post some smarmy response about people dying, violence and what a self-absorbed twat I am. (He's right, of course.)

8) Chris will scream like a little girl in about five minutes, when I crawl into bed and place my icy feet upon his legs. He is truly a self-sustaining heater.

9) Even when posting this silly little blog that no one reads, I feel compelled to follow CP style. J'ai dork.

Me = giant enormous moo

Well, today is my last day of vacation. Am in Midland, after spending two (or is it three?) days in North Bay. Too much snow and coldness all around -- though had terrific bout of tobagganing (sp?) with small nephew. Almost forgot how much fun that is.

Xmas was nice -- a little mad with way less time than I've had off in ages (a whopping four-day weekend, filled with too much bus travel, and still have several hours of work to do this evening).

Am furious with Travelocity.ca. My parents kindly purchased a gift certificate for Xmas for me -- thus enabling me to do a bit of traveling this year -- but none of us realized the kind of restrictions Travelocity impose on gift certificates.

What kind of place puts restrictions on gift certificates? I can only use them in conjunction with a plane-hotel-car deal (two out of the three), and can on use them on last-minute deals for the weekends only. In other words, if I get a package of sorts to Mexico or whatever, I can only stay for a MAXIMUM of four days.

What the fuck is up with that? I mean, coupons and free trips? Fine -- restrict away. But don't accept someone's hard-earned money and then tell them they can't spend it how they like. That's shitty and poor business.

I'm going to try and cancel it and see if my mum can get a refund. What bollocks.

I'm so full. Too much eating the last few days -- suspect explosion is imminent. Let my gravestone read: "Here lies hannah. She overate. She died. Silly cow."

Still have cousin's wedding this week, but am fortunate in having chums who have just said, "let's do something for New Year's Eve" but are OK with just hitting a few parties and hanging out. No prissy party plans for us.

Anyway, work and deadlines beckon. And back to normal workload tomorrow. Boooo.

Joyeux whatever...

It's likely this could be my last post for a few days as I head to North Bay and Midland for holiday-type celebrations.

And lots of travel. A five-hour train ride tomorrow evening, and a seven-hour bus ride (oh, ick) on Monday.

So happy holidays (whichever ones you celebrate) to you -- friends, miscellaneous readers... and everyone else.
Eat, drink, be merry.

Stay safe, and enjoy every silly, crazy minute of it.

How to feel better about your "first time"

Dan Savage of Savage Love has kindly posted a wonderful column on readers' nightmarish first sex experiences. Check it out here.

Some of them are pretty funny (one of my favourites is the guy who thought he was doing his lady friend, but was having sex with the couch cushions instead).

And wonderful company for those of us who had a hardly stellar first-time experience (mine was when I was 15, a whopping two minutes of staring at the ceiling with my skirt pushed up to my hips and thinking, "This is hardly worth it" after which he accused me -- for months... and even years -- of not being a virgin since I didn't bleed. Ass).

What a waste of seating, time and celluloid...

Just returned from seeing The Ringer (Farrelly Bros. produced, starring Johnny Knoxville -- about a guy who pretends to be mentally challenged in order to rig the Special Oympics).

After the first 15 minutes, my brain fell out of my ear, left the theatre and even now is likely somewhere (I can only presume) in the Yonge and Eglinton area having overpriced wings or a chai eggnog latte at Starbucks.

Imagine someone taking a blunt pencil, and lowering it to your hand, millimetre by millimetre over the period of an hour and a half. From a distance, it looks harmless. You might not even realize what's going on. Had it sped up, it would have either proven painful or comical to outsiders.

Neither funny, nor sweet, nor clever... very cautious, rarely funny (with the exception of a few good-one liners) and so utterly, morbidly predictable.

Which notice is scarier?

As New York City goes into Strike Day Two, gossip page Jossip posted an image of a station whiteboard.

But somehow, I find the older announcement (the one above the Station closed -- Happy holidays) so incredibly creepy and violating...

How our DVR wishes us happy holidays...

We have a lovely DVR (Digital Video Recorder) through Rogers, and though it has a number of irritating idiosyncracies, it does tend to be -- on the whole -- a good little being.

And lately, it's started bring us presents.

In the form of late-night, movie-channel special, hardcore porn.

That's right. While we go through our recorded lists trying to make sure programs or movies are saved ("Grosse Point Blank can be erased -- it's got bloody commercials" etc), we occasionally find "adult" selections.

Now, Chris and I have a pretty open relationship when it comes to porn. I have no problem with it unless he starts hiding it (in which case I figure there's some subversive fetish he doesn't want me to know about and I should fear). Go forth. Watch porn. I'm fine with it. I'll even watch it occasionally.

But Chris is as mystified about these magical full-on-penetration skin flicks as I am. And the DVR isn't recording anything else...

Is this a service DVRs offer for all their patrons?

"Can I have a giant ape? Please?"

This is the conversation I had with Chris last night after he came home from watching King Kong... (Keep in mind, he's almost 34 years old... not seven)

Chris: OK, so I want a big giant ape. Can I have one?

Me: Uhhh...

Chris: Please?

Me: You said I wasn't allowed to have a pet tiger. How come you get a giant ape? How will you feed your enormous pet?

Chris (looking very pleased with himself): He eats trees. There's lots of trees here.

Me: And where will he sleep? It's cold here. I can't think monkeys like being cold.

Chris: No, no. He likes cold. Won't be a problem.

Me: OK, then. You can have your giant ape. But he has to like me, and I don't want to be sued if he squishes anyone.

Chris: (giggles happily)


I don't know... is this a normal conversation for supposedly adult people in their 30s?

Uninteresting observations on a Monday morning

1. CBC Radio 2 is playing the William Tell Overture. An amusingly prosaic selection.

2. I had a dream just before waking up that all I could find to wear for my cousin's wedding (next week) was a floral dress with a prissy collar and pearls. And that I had no makeup. I also dreamt that my six-year-old nephew suddenly turned into an albino.

3. I haven't left the house for three days.

4. Someone referred to a friend of mine as "enchanting." Tee hee.

5. The people downstairs have left until boxing day. No children yelling, babies crying or worrying that they will hear Chris cursing them out. ("Those fucking fuckers. I hope they die.")

6. Unless we place a rolled-up t-shirt at the base of the door to our apartment, all the heat goes whooshing out, down the stairs and out the front door with a weak howl. Because of said t-shirt, Chris can't always get into the apartment. Which is not only funny, but acts as a secondary security measure against people who may try and rape us in our sleep.

7. My typing is ass today.

You've got to be joking...

I just watched a Canadian news story about a U.S. congressman (Republican) who's looking to build a wall between Canada and the U.S. No, not a metaphorical wall (though those particular ones have been building steadily). A literal wall.

Are you fucking kidding me? A wall? Between Canada and the U.S.? To be keep terrorists out?

Jesus fucking wept.

Someone should hand them a copy of Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale. Bonjour, Republic of Gilead...

Welcome back to being human...

I was originally going to post some little rant about how most "significant others" of my chums aren't good enough. But that can be saved for a later date, I think (was primarily brought on by a friend's "new" relationship. I don't think I could have found someone more unlike her -- which sometimes is a good thing, but in this case, I just find him so terribly bland and... and... Conservative. I could never love anyone who would vote for peddy-eyed Harper).

But I've had two marvelous days of blissful sleep and all of yesterday to be lazy, TV-watching, video-game playing, puttering me. Last night, I even pulled out a manuscript I have to read for next week and got a head start on it).

(It's quite dreadful so far -- a man gets "pulled back in time" to the mediaeval period, where he encounters a woman. The writer spent all this time reading up on weapons, chastity belts and parts of the crusade, but couldn't be bothered to write dialogue that didn't sound like it was from 1992.)

You see, I write back cover copy for a major romance publishing house. It's a brilliant gig -- easy, fun and pays quite nicely for a freelance gig. People howl with laughter when I tell them this, of course (especially because I'm about as un-romance, non-girly-girl as they come), but truly -- I find it absolutely fascinating and marvelous fun.

It's sort of a far more complicated and challenging version of those reading comprehension tests you did as a kid (I always sulked if I got a wrong answer). Only you have to try and make it compelling, well-written and fresh.

And even trickier is riding the careful lines of "acceptable cliche" and "unacceptable cliche" -- you can't use the phrase "hot hunk," torn between her love of (insert object or person) or "their love would be lost forever" (or some such nonsense). So naturally, it takes a bit of creative maneuvering.

Oh christ, last week sucked. A friend of mine very accurately described it my freelance life as "feast or famine." And it's a painfully astute observation. But I know I have to take every single assignment I can in the fear of the next few months being horribly, disastrously slow.

But am feeling more rested today. Trying not to think about all the upcoming work I have due, the video games to assign to people, the copy to write, or interview I have to transcribe. or that the dreaded X-mas is fast approaching and I still haven't finished shopping for Chris. Or thinking about the fact that I will spend the bloody holiday sleeping on an old pullout couch in a family member's basement.

"Fa lala la la laaa fucking la laaa."

Even my horoscope is telling me to shut up...

TODAY'S HOROSCOPE FOR ARIES:

"A discussion about politics or religion or another of the 'big issues' could easily turn into a dispute that may become personal, whether or not you intend it to be so. Hold back as much as you can."

See? The cosmos want me quiet. (Where was this advice yesterday when I needed it? Is my horoscope a day late?)

And I'm willing to go along with it for a little while. Working from 9 a.m. until late at night (or the wee hours of the morning) has done me in for the week. I have Saturday off... and then it all starts again.

I'm trying not to feel mutinous about the fact that dishes, laundry and other bullshit household stuff has landed in my lap when I obviously have no time for it. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

Wait. That sounds dirty. Nevermind.

Well, whoopity-fucking-do...

Storm? What storm? I was gearing up for winter catastrophe. So much snow that I would find myself housebound for at least a couple of days.

And what do we get? A lousy 15 cm. Yippee.

Dammit, if you're going to announce the biggest storm in almost a quarter of a century, don't let me down like that. Our street was plowed at 4 a.m. (I had work to do, what can I say?) and even as I type this, the snow has started melting.

Bah. Weather people. You suck.

Just as an experiment...

And so's yall know that we Torontonians do get snow (though thankfully much less than most parts of Ontario), I've posted three images I took from our bedroom window.

You see, there's some kind of slow-moving (hence more snow), fancy-pants storm moving in. We're told it should start hitting us at some point this afternoon, and will be in full force tonight.

Overnight, we're expected to get somewhere in the vicinity of 30 cm (12 inches for you imperial measurement kids). It's supposed to be the biggest storm to hit in something like 20 or 30 years.

Bigger even, than the storm from five or six years ago where the city's mayor called the military to come help us dig out. Quite a joke to the rest of Canada (who never realize that due to the size of this bloody city, and the narrow tiny roads from bygone eras, there's nowhere to put the snow).

So I've posted some images pre-snow. If it's a big giant dump, you will get a lovely idea of how even Toronto sucks during the winter.

OK, enough stalling. Back to work with me.

The suckiest of suckers.

That's me.

Did my mad dash of daily newswriting today. Zipped downtown to the Bovine to interview Eli Roth (director of Cabin Fever, new movie coming out -- incidentally went very well). Had my backpack full of gym gear, and figured I would do a nice walk up to my gym at College and Yonge, and perhaps dash into a shop or two to search for Xmas presents for loved ones.

What was I thinking? Oh, je suis une ass!

My "shortcut" through the very warm Eaton Centre (the heat, I fear, was due to its proximity -- being the mouth of hell and all) wasn't very short at all. Suddenly found myself more than two hours later laden with bags of crap.

Then one of my friends called. So I thought, "Sure, a quick bite to eat, then off to the gym and then home."

Ha.

After eating in Mr. Greenjeans (by the way, lads, this is not a good choice for a first -- or second, third or fourth -- date), she wheedled me into popping inside mammoth bookstore Indigo (Canadian version of Barnes & Noble... Starbucks, multi-levels and all).

Then as she popped out for a cigarette, she proceeded to panic wildly -- you see, the poor dear is leaving for Costa Rica tomorrow for a week. This is her last chance to shop. So I was The Shopping Companion.

I was laden with a zillion bags (my own, mind) and my monster backpack... trekking from store to store to store. In pain. Exhausted. And hating malls exponentially more so by the minute.

I left my interview at 4:45. I got home at 10:45.

And naturally, I have a deadline tomorrow.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Another reason why some Toronto landlords are asses

Was on Viewit.ca this morning, checking out west-end apartments (as we live in the east near the beaches, and Chris works in Mississauga -- a long commute, so we're considering our options).

We don't have a ton of cash, so are looking for something in the $1050 range, pref. two or more bedrooms and some kind of outdoor space (I haven't had a yard or balcony in seven or eight years -- it's killing me). Oh, and laundry.

Aside from the mess of overpriced basements (why yes, please put me in a drab, dim basement in the shittiest part of Parkdale and charge me $1150... you twat) and landlords deciding to let their tenants foot the hydro bill so they can pocket the extra money, I came across an image of a basement kitchen that made me howl with laughter. (see above)

God, some landlords in Toronto are fucking morons.

In the Hall Of Ma'at...

Tookie's last hours...

Stan "Tookie" Williams is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection at 12:01 a.m. While technically that's tomorrow (Tuesday), the excution will be held tonight.

Last chance lies with Governor Arnold.

Looks quite possible that the clemency plea may be disregarded. Hope I'm wrong about this one.

--------------
(LATER)

My instincts were right. Schwartzenegger has decided that Tookie should die at 12:01 a.m.

Quit pimping your products...

My tolerance for advertising is at an all-time low.
One of the dangers of living in a large North American metropolis is that you're suddenly the target of millions upon million of ad campaigns.

On the television, in movies, theatres (and on your popcorn bag), on cars that drive by, on windows, in the air, giant animated screens on the highways, on clothes/shoes/jackets/scarves/purses, on fences, benches and walls, on the side of buses, on the radio... and all over the fucking Internet.

I dread the day when ads begin appearing on houses and in private residences. Or when technology enables brightly coloured ads to be projected into the sky (goodness, think of all the marketing possibilities on such an expanse).

Quit trying to sell me things. Quit inflicting your opinion on what I should buy, and contaminating my life with your capitalist agendas. Pricks.

I can, however, rest easy in the knowledge that horror and slasher films are generally undesirable vehicles for product placement. Of course, when you're looking at a mix of blood, vomit and horribly amateurish (and therefore uncomfortably unsettling) torture techniques, you're less inclined to look at the brand of chainsaw, wire cutters or blowtorch.

Got a sneak preview of Hostel today. Not a bad slasher, though some laughable parts. Appreciate the mixing of various bodily fluid with the usual blood and flesh chunks, however. Textured and multi-faceted gore is the way of the future.

The cheese and the damage done...

On Friday, I met up with a good friend for several drinks and the too-too-delicious Mexi-dip combo at Sneaky Dees (oh, guacamole, how I love thee).

He confessed to spending much of the week drinking a tad much. One night, he went to some event/party, where the venue was practically empty and the liquor was free. He swears he had only a few drinks...

Yet the next morning, he awoke.

With half a wheel of unidentifiable cheese in one hand, and a fancy uber-sharp cheese knife in the other -- and no memory of how they got there.

Ah, liquor... truly a liberator, a prison and a party all in one fell swoop.

Booooooo, me

I've been a bad blogger.
A terrible blogger.

But I've been in hiding. That horrible state between holiday parties and the actual holidays where you must rest, store away your extra energy and eat unhealthy food.

I'm in hermit-land. No, I don't want to see anyone. No, I don't want to go anywhere. If you've called me, I've talked to you... But chances are, if you've emailed me, I'm taking a while to respond.

I can only do the necessary things.

I bathe. I eat. I brush my teeth. I wash the dishes and do laundry. I work.
Anything else requires more effort than I can muster right now.

Not sure if I'm hibernating, depressed or just plain tired.
Possibly all three.

Will soon allow one of my other personalities control of the body, as my regular stand-by brain seems to be rather soggy and limp.

Just the thing to remind you to floss...

Chris has a brutal toothache. The kind I can't even imagine.

The kind that sends me to the bathroom every night flossing diligently and brushing far longer and more vigorously than usual.

The kind that makes my jaw ache in sympathy. There's nothing you can do, either -- the codeine doesn't seem to be working and rinsing with water non-stop seems to be the only thing stopping him from committing bloody murder (my research tells me it's likely an abscess).

Anyway, despite an emergency dental appointment where we thought it would be fixed, it looks likely the tooth will have to be pulled.

Yikes.

I've never really had a toothache. (Don't get me wrong --- I've paid in dental karma in brutal ways, like landing on a metal slide face first and fracturing my upper jawbone and completely rearranging/cracking/chipping my front teeth, having four adult molars removed when I was 10, not to mention a couple of years of very painful braces -- mmm... mush and children's tylenol.)

But when it came to dental hygiene, I was always a pretty good kid. The flossing was occasionally intermittent, but I was definitely one of those brush-at-least-two-times-a-day kids. No overbrushing, but enough to ensure that by the time I had university, I had never had a cavity.

But I haven't been to a dentist in a couple of years. Well, more than that. Like... Eight. At least.

Fear.

Add fear to procrastination, and it makes a deadly combination. I know I'll be going to the dentist in the next few months, but I'm dreading all of the bad news. Wisdom teeth need to be pulled. Root canals due (leftover from aforementioned accident). The settling up with my very first cavities.

Ugh.

I'm going to go floss now.

Oh, for cripes' sake...

I made two pieces of toast this morning. Got distracted. They burned.

Irritated, I put on another two pieces of toast.
Got distracted.
They burned, too.
As punishment, I refuse to allow myself the luxury of any more toast today.

Pathetic.

Bits and pieces

Finally saw the new Harry Potter movie last night.
Am delighted.

Am also quite happy to see that Fred and George Weasley are given substantially more time on screen. And since everyone has already seen the bloody film, that's all I have to say about it.

However, this evening I'll get a chance to see Narnia.

In other, far more interesting news, it seems that Famous Players had to hide the wrapping they were giving away. The gift wrap -- a promo item for Virgin Mobile -- featured pairs of angels kissing, but on closer inspection, the angles were having a naughty little groping session. (Girl angle fondles boy's groin, while he in turn grabs for some boob. Nice.)

Naturally, the wrap is now appearing on eBay. Banned = instant collector's item.

It deserves a name... doesn't it?

Chris and I were in the car returning from one of our favourite December past-times -- Xmas shopping for ourselves (with the odd purchase for a family member) -- when, as we zipped down Warden Ave. in our shiny black car, I remarked to Chris, "Look, there's a Dreamworks moon. It's just missing the little guy fishing off the end."

And indeed it was. Slightly tilted, about a quarter of a slice and slightly hazy, as it was still making its determined way up through the polluted atmosphere.

And a thought occurred to me.

Me - "Hey, why doesn't our moon have a name?All the other moons in our solar system have fancy names, but what about Earth's moon? We just call it 'moon.' No title, no love. Nothing."

Chris - "I dunno."

Me - "I mean, it's our moon. Doesn't it deserve a name? Just 'the moon' seems unfriendly and unappreciative."

Chris - "Yeah, but don't all those other planets have more than one moon? I mean, maybe they just named those moons to tell the difference."

Me - "Huh. Well, I still say that sucks."

Chris - "Okay. We'll call it Frank."


As I type, there's a quarter Frank sitting in the sky. He is glowy white now.
And I have new, apple green (granny smith) slippers. My feet are warm for the first time in ages.

Johnny Depp: "Energetic Thruster"

OK, this story was kinda funny.
Johnny Depp's Sex Scenes Monitored, Owners Feared Damage To Antiques Due To "Thrusting".

In other, less important news, it suddenly occurred to me today that the holidays are on their way. Dsitressing. The streets are swarmed with electrical lights, gaudy Santas are everywhere, and stores are garnished to the tits in tinsel, lights and carol after carol after carol...

This Friday is the first anniversary of my liberation from a full-time desk job. I have been a full-time, self-employed freelance writer for exactly one year. I shall buy a cupcake, light a tiny candle on it and sing glorious songs in my own honour.

Granted, I thought I would have at least a novel done by now... but sadly, bills need to be paid. Souls need to be sold. (I offer short-term leases if anyone is interested.)

Chris made Rice Krispies squares this evening. He is feeling triumphant about his culinary prowess.

He Died With A Felafel [sic] In His Hand

Danny: Do you ever wonder if it's all a big con, Flip?

Flip: Eh?

Danny: This. Everything. What if none of it really exists? What if it's like some big experiment and we're like ants trapped in a giant petri dish? What if there is a greater intelligence out there and it's creating everything purely as a way of stop us going insane on them? What if nothing really exists until we sense it? My room doesn't exist until I walk into it. Front yard doesnt exist 'til I experience it. You don't exist.

Flip: I don't exist?

Danny: Well, you could be just a projection of my inner psyche materialized for my brain in order to keep me company.

Flip: What about the cashmere sweater babes over the road, with their swishy little skirts and all? Would they be from your inner psyche, or mine?

Danny: Probably yours, I reckon, Flip.

Weighing in on Tookie

(Sorry for the copycat thing, AB, but your timing is spot-on, and I've been meaning to do this for a couple of weeks).

In less than two weeks, Stan "Tookie" Williams is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection.

In exactly one week, California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger will hear Tookie's clemency plea (clemency means no death penalty -- but life imprisonment with no parole).

Tookie was the co-founder of the Crips gang in the early '70s, living a violent gang lifestyle. In 1979, he was sentenced to be executed for the murder of four people. Since then, he's been on death row at San Quentin in California.

Since the '70s, only 11 people have been executed in that state. But Tookie? Well, he's a tricker situation.

The man has done everything he can to lobby for peace -- writing eight anti-gang books for children, teaching, urging the youth to avoid the gang lifestyle. He seems apalled by the legacy of his street gang. But aside from his work, writings and teachings, Tookie has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize five times. He's received numerous commendations and notes from both gangmembers who have been influenced by his teachings, celebrities and even an ex-president.

But even still, knowing he's to die, Tookie has still maintained his innocence in the murders he was accused of commiting.

Yet the courts cannot grant him clemency... thought they've recommended him for clemency (article on that is here.

It's all in the hands of Cali governor Arnold Schwarzenegger -- who has scheduled a private hearing to consider Tookie's clemency request.

You can go through the arguments on the death penalty over and over. The only real, cut-and-dry reason to take someone's life is to save the money. However, in this case, I think Tookie is worth the extra dollars he might be draining from the state.

Because no one -- neither you nor I -- has the right to decide whether or not someone should die for their crimes. Especially when it's someone who has spent the better part of their time -- even as they're incarcerated -- lobbying for peace, and change.

Anyway, check out Tookie's site, where you can read about the court proceeding, his letters to gangs, his apology to America and information on reaching Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger to make your voice heard.

Yo ho, yo ho... The New Pirates Of The Carribean trailer is online

Arrr, 'tis true. Quite possible that this is only available for a limited time, me mateys, so ye'd best take a look right soon...

Pirates Of The Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest trailer.

(Would it be remiss to suggest this one looks even better...?)