Love Lessons From My Childhood Pen Pal

I got a letter in the mail the other day. It was a bit of an unexpected thrill, considering my mailbox is usually filled with nothing but Domino’s pizza flyers. (Which, don’t get me wrong, I still appreciate.) 

While reading it, I was reminded of a time in my life when letters weren’t quite so infrequent.

………. Cue the flashback (you knew it was coming)

The year was 1995: I was 9 years old, bookish, and heavy into Blossom Hats and The Babysitter’s Club. I was teetering on the verge of what would soon become my five-year “awkward phase”, but didn’t know it yet. Life was good.

It was also the year I made my first Pen Pal.

*Not me or my dog.

I acquired my Pen Pal through somewhat unusual circumstances. My father, the son of Croatian immigrants, liked to keep ties with his Eastern European heritage. This manifested itself mostly in three ways: cooking obscene amounts of cabbage, hoarding things, and subscribing to a Croatian newsletter called  Zajedničar. 

Zajedničar, as I recall it, was a bizarre publication filled with ads for life insurance, way too many consonants, and people in weird costumes playing Tamburitzas.

 I never paid much attention to it until one day, my dad showed me an ad offering a PenPal service connecting Croatian children across North America.  

Now this was something I could get down with. The opportunity to correspond with a real live girl in another country? Sign me up!

I immediately submitted my information to the magazine, and a few weeks later, received my first letter.  It was from a girl named Jessica in Erie, Pennsylvania. She was 10 years old, and loved Barbies, gymnastics and stickers- in that order.  She even sent me her school photo, in which she was wearing one of those Western bolo shirts that were popular at the time.

This was the best I could do on Google images. She actually looked nothing like this.

Her long, sandy blond hair was tied into a side braid with a fluffy white scrunchie on the end, and she accessorized with dangly troll earrings, gummy bracelets and a toothpaste-commercial smile.

To me, she was impossibly cool.

I immediately began crafting my response. Besides just telling her my entire life story, I also spent hours researching her hobbies and interests in order to prove what a thoughtful and conscientious Pen Pal I could be. I even had my dad pull out the atlas to show me where Erie was on the map. 

I was certain she would be impressed by such informational gems as:

“Did you know your town is named after a lake??!”; and 

“I heard toothpaste is great for removing sticker residue!“ 

We corresponded for the next few months, sending letters as well as other totems of our respective 90’s childhoods: stickers, colorful erasers, POGS, temporary tattoos.We never spoke a single word about Croatia, but that was OK. 

Eventually, things kind of fizzled out. Ok, I’m lying. Jessica just straight-up stopped writing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I mean, maybe I was a little overzealous in my pursuits- spending hours drafting elaborate letters, consulting atlases and whatnot. And maybe I should’ve seen this one coming when my 10-page anthologies met with only a few measly paragraphs in response. “Maybe she’s busy practicing her tumbling,” my mother would say. But deep down, I knew the score. 

While being blown-off so coldly hurt at the time, in a way I’m thankful, because it probably prevented me from becoming a full-on stage 5 clinger in future romantic relationships.  

Now I’m just incredibly closed-off and distant. I think it’s working out pretty well for me.

So thank you, Jessica, for teaching me that there is such a thing as coming on way too strong. I  hope you finally found that Sailor Moon sticker sheet you were looking for, and that somewhere, out there, you and your side braid are tumbling off into the sunset.

Question of the Day: Did You Have A Pen Pal Growing Up?

When Did Valentine’s Day Get Such a Bad Rap?

The other day, I got a package in the mail from my mom and dad. In it, was a little Valentine’s day gift (yes, I know I am 27 years old.. what is your point, please?), as well as this vintage looking card with Raggedy Ann on the front:

Curious, I opened it up to reveal that this was one of the cards I had given away myself in elementary school.

Cute, eh? I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure I gave these out in grade 3. I also dressed up as Raggedy Ann for Halloween that year, so the timeline (and sadness) of it all would make sense.

Grade 3 was a bit of an awkward year for me.

Anyway, it all got me to thinking about Valentine’s days past.

I will take any excuse to use this flashback image.

Back when I was a kid, Valentine’s day was invariably awesome. I’d wake up to some little treat from my parents; a card with some chocolate, some new barrettes, maybe even a Barbie (!!!) and then sit down to what I can only assume were my dad’s attempt at heart-shaped pancakes.

He tried.

Then, I would deck myself out in red from head to toe (even the socks. I was a Valentine’s day extremist) and head to school, where we’d spend the morning fashioning little envelopes out of construction paper to hang on the edge of our desks to collect our Valentine’s bounty.

After lunch was when the magic happened: Everyone brought in some food item to share with the class; (homemade cupcakes if your mom was fancy; a box of Oreos in my case) and there was often a bowl of punch, which, as a kid always made you feel very grown up.

Then, when it was time, you’d walk around the room and drop your painstakingly chosen Valentines into the newly minted envelopes of each of your classmates. No one was ever left out; as the rule in my school was that everyone got a Valentine.

When all was said and done, I’d lay them all out on my desk; analyzing my haul the way I would my Halloween candy. Disney cards were always a constant; The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast. Other themes varied from year to year. One year Power Rangers was big; another year I distinctly remember getting 6 separate Sailor Moon cards.

I can’t help but wonder; when did it all change? When did Valentine’s day go from being this awesome day filled with treats, kitschy cards and self-assurance; to the polarizing, commercial holiday it is today? When did we start calling it “Singles Awareness Day”, rather than just “Best Day Ever”?

Was it once elementary school ended, and the safety net of everyone getting a card was cruelly ripped out from under us? Or was it even sooner? Come to think of it, I remember as early as grade four, poring over the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles card given to me by my crush, analyzing the cryptic message inside. “You have a Pizza My Heart” it read. Did this mean we were officially an item now? He had pushed me in the mud earlier that day…

I can’t say for sure, but I kind of long to have those days back. I want to make sh*t out of construction paper again, and dress in monochromatic red with reckless abandon. I want to drink Hawaiian punch out of a fancy bowl and gorge myself on Grocery store slab cake. (Ok, that last part I will probably still do; though it will be in the solace of my own home rather than a classroom setting. And the punch will probably be spiked with the good stuff). Who’s with me? Let’s find a DeLorean and make it happen.

Question of the Day: When did your perception of Valentine’s Day shift?

It’s Not A Party Until Somebody Busts out an EpiPen

“Someone call 911!!” my Father shouted, “and for God’s sake would someone go calm down your mother??!”

It was Thanksgiving 2007, and I was standing in the upstairs bathroom of my childhood home, staring down at the (seemingly) lifeless body of my older sister Marija.

Just a few moments before, she had returned from her annual Thanksgiving 10k run and  gone upstairs to take a shower. The rest of my family and I were busying ourselves in the kitchen when suddenly, we heard a telltale “THUD” . We rushed upstairs to find my sister, passed out cold on the bathroom floor, sweatband and dry fit gear still firmly in place.

What she had neglected to tell any of us was that for the past four days, she had been subsisting on nothing but a cayenne pepper and maple syrup concoction (laced with speed, evidently) in an effort to pare down for the holidays. Apparently, this was a diet Beyonce swore by.

Right. So that makes it a good idea.

Unarmed with this essential information, we all feared the worst and launched into full-scale panic mode. My brother hit the floor, attempting to revive her like a scene from a bad Nicholas Cage film, while my mother screamed bloody murder in the background. I, in my usual helpful fashion, did nothing but stand there and sob uncontrollably. My father had just gone to send up an emergency flare in the backyard when my sister came to, staring into the faces of 6 crazed lunatics.

“Guys, I’m fine” she said. “But can someone get me a Gatorade or something?”

I wish I could say that this story was one of a kind; a blip on the radar of an otherwise unblemished Thanksgiving history. But sadly, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Growing up the youngest of 5, Thanksgiving, much like any other holiday, was basically a shit show. If someone wasn’t passing out, they were splitting their hand open with a carving knife, or arm-wrestling over the last drumstick. Just getting us all in one place was cause for celebration in and of itself.

Despite all of this calamity,  I continue to book the overpriced ticket and go home for Thanksgiving every year. Why? Because there’s always the distinct possibility of one of my siblings getting their head stuck inside a turkey. And if so, I’d really like to put sunglasses on it.

Another Thanksgiving debacle in our family is the annual debate over who will say grace. The pre-dinner prayer was a necessary precursor to every Thanksgiving meal growing up, and one my siblings and I avoided like the plague. My Father would take up his post at the head of the table and ask, “Now, whose turn is it to say grace this year?” And inevitably, 5 collective heads would lower, eager to escape this cruel and unusual punishment.

I’m not really sure why we hated it so much. You reference the grub, thank the Big Man upstairs and move on. I mean, sure, there are are some weird, Latin old-timey words in there, but it wasn’t like you had to announce that you still wet the bed or something. Regardless, it was an unwritten rule that the one who had to say it would be forced to carry around a lifetime of eternal shame.

As the youngest, I was often the scapegoat. My siblings would team up against me and insist “It’s Bree’s turn! It’s Bree’s turn!” conveniently “forgetting” that I had recited it the previous 5 years in a row. If I ever thought about objecting, I only had to look at my brothers to know that one peep would result in a year’s worth of Smurf bites and figure four leg locks. Inevitably, I relented, left to mumble “Bless us o lord, for these thy gifts…” into my mashed potatoes as my brothers snickered in the background.

Things only got worse for me when one year, I decided to make a Thanksgiving centrepiece. I was 11, and going through my short-lived “interior decorating phase”. I watched home decorating shows religiously, rearranged the furniture in my bedroom daily, and, if permitted, would have sponge-painted every available surface area in our home. I had seen an amazing centerpiece in a copy of Martha Stewart Living  and was hell-bent on making it, despite my mother’s objections about the mess it would cause and my brothers’ taunts that “no one cared about a stupid centrepiece anyway”. It consisted of fall leaves artfully arranged in a cornucopia made out of a single piece of birch bark: all sprinkled with a hefty dose of glitter. It was magnificent. I just knew having it on our table would make for the best Thanksgiving ever.

Determined, I set off  in search of the perfect fall foliage for my piece de resistance. What I neglected to consider, however, were my chronically severe seasonal allergies. About 20 minutes into rummaging through leaf piles, I was sneezing so hard I could barely see straight, hives popping up on every inch of exposed skin. Think McCauley Culkin in My Girl, minus the anaphylaxis. I was barely able to stumble back home and limply drop my leaves onto the table before my mom gave me a hefty dose of Benadryl and sent me to bed. This was not, as Martha had suggested, A Good Thing.

Luckily, I only had to wait one year for my embarrassing Thanksgiving moment to be eclipsed by my brother Kristin performing what was perhaps the most notoriously stupid act in our family’s history.

We were celebrating our first Thanksgiving in a brand new home, and my mom brought out her gold-plated wedding china for the occasion. We had all been served, and were just about to sit down to dinner when my brother decided to warm up his turkey dinner in the microwave.

Not being an idiot, I of course knew that the combination of gold plating and microwaves did not mix, but despite this did nothing to stop it. Why? Because the irony was much too sweet. My brother; the self-described “science prodigy”. Boaster of many a math and science accolade. Dropper of frequent and unsolicited periodic table-related puns. This was much, much too good.

Just as I (and every known law of physics) predicted, within seconds sparks began flying and the Microwave lit up like a fourth of July picnic. He quickly rushed to press “cancel”, but not before leaving a sizeable hole in the newly microwave and a strong sulphuric tinge in the air. I had never felt so validated.

Shockingly, the mayhem is showing no signs of slowing down, and year after year, our house continues to resemble another instalment in the National Lampoon series. Just this past Thanksgiving, my mother claimed to have taken an allergic reaction to my sister Sherene’s homemade preserves, and proceeded to fan her face and sneeze dramatically throughout the entire meal. She says it was because of the nutmeg. I say it’s because they sucked. Oh well, I guess the old adage is true: it’s not a party until somebody busts out an EpiPen!

           Question of the Day: Any Good Thanksgiving Fails to Share?

*Ok so I know it’s not technically Thanksgiving for me. But I thought I would share this one for all my Amurrican friends. Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

What Happens at Summer Camp….

What do you get when you take 100 young professionals, a few stocked coolers and an unlimited supply of house music and put them all on a secluded, picturesque island in Muskoka for a weekend? The makings for a really great blog post, that’s what. Also maybe a reality show. Or the sequel to Shark Night 3D.

It was the perfect summer vacation……

I just took that to a really dark place, didn’t I? Moving on.

Since moving to Toronto, I’ve been introduced to a group of friends who I would describe as “active fun-seekers”. Unlike my prudish, brooding self who likes to stay home and look at old movie stubs on the weekends, these guys are all about planning their next incredibly fun, outrageous adventures. If they’re not jetting off for ski weekends in Mont Tremblant or Vail, Colorado, they’re planning all-day beach parties on Toronto Island, or themed fundraising galas. The majority are lawyers, accountants, MBA’s and other professionals who like to work hard and play hard, and firmly believe that if you’re not wearing a costume, then you’re not having a good time.

For their latest project (enticingly dubbed ”Summer Camp for Adults”) they rented out an entire children’s summer camp about 2 hours north of Toronto and invited over 100 friends to attend. Each of us paid a fee that covered the cost of transportation (by schoolbus of course), meals, and lodging for the weekend. Sounds sort of epic, right?

I’ll admit that I was a little wary of how I would fare with the whole “camping” thing. I never went camping as a kid, mostly because my mother despised it. Her war-veteran father had been convinced that spending time close to nature helped “put hair on your chest”, and forced my mother and her 5 siblings to spend a portion of each summer in the woods of Nova Scotia, “roughing it”. Because of this, she vowed never to put her own children through that same hell.

Perhaps because it had taken on a bit of a forbidden fruit element, I longed for the camping experience as a child. I remember having romanticized notions of what a family camping trip might be like. My siblings and I would roast hot dogs and make each other daisy-chain headbands while my dad regaled us all with local ghost stories. Then we’d all sing Kumbaya and go to sleep in our giant, 7-person tent. It would be just like in The Parent Trap.

One summer, I finally convinced my mother to let me go to sleep-away camp. I was 13, painfully awkward, and still firmly within the grasp of that unforgiving b*tch they call ”puberty”. But nevertheless, I believed that this was going to be the best summer of my life. I could hardly contain my excitement about all the friendship bracelets I was going to make.  And the boys! So many boys to have “crushes” on! Or at least that’s what my YM magazines told me.  Needless to say, it was not exactly the summer I had imagined. 13 year olds can be a vicious bunch, and I struggled to fit in amongst a group who had been attending camp together for years. Also, somehow, the fact that this camp had a strong, Presbyterian mandate eluded both my devoutly  Roman Catholic mother and I… and when I came home singing “Ezekiel saw a wheel a rolling” and talking non-stop about some dude named “Calvin”, well, let’s just say that was the end of that.

We didn’t make this craft. But I wish we had.

But after a 13 year hiatus, I figured it was time to give camping another shot. A few friends and I opted to make the drive to Muskoka, rather than take the commissioned school bus,  but unfortunately didn’t leave the city until 4pm. AKA: Traffic Armageddon O’Clock. The drive, which should have taken approximately 2.5 hours, took us almost 6. We arrived at 10pm, in pitch darkness, and began unloading our stuff onto the dock, where we were to be transported to camp by a short boat ride.

The fact that I was a camping novice became immediately apparent when I looked around at what everyone else had packed.  Instead of a practical, and travel friendly sleeping bag, I had chosen to bring  a duvet and 400 thread count sheets. Rather than Bud Light Lime and local Ontario craft beer, I brought Rose. Although the darkness prohibited me from seeing the contents of the other campers rucksacks, I was quite certain they didn’t include a curling iron, half the contents of the Holt Renfrew beauty counter, and enough clothing to last the entire summer.  My foray into camping was beginning to look about as promising as Toronto mayor Rob Ford’s “cut the waist” challenge.

I quietly shoved my two blackberry devices out of view and under the copies of US Weekly in my designer handbag and focused instead on the faint noise of motor approaching in the distance. What appeared to be a glorified canoe pulled up to the dock, and we were met by an enthusiastic young man named Daniel wearing nothing but a smile and a camouflage Morphsuit. “Welcome to Camp Tamawkwa!” he said.

So this was to be our captain. Our good-times Sherpa, if you will. Meh. I thought. He’ll do.

I struggled to load each of my bags onto the boat, while  saying a silent prayer to the Saint of $17 Eyeshadows that all of my MAC would make it across alive.

Not Daniel. But this is what he looked like. Actually, it could be Daniel. Who knows what’s going on under there.

Now let me just say that being on a boat in the middle of the night in total darkness is not my idea of a good time. Although I’m sure the scenery was beautiful, I did my best to block it out, along with the scary noises and shadows, and focused instead on Daniel’s Morphsuit. How did he get into that thing? And why did he need to be in camouflage? Was he planning to hijack a pirate ship after this? Unfortunately, Morphsuit Daniel’s role of serenity began to unravel when he started regaling us with tales of “Axe-Man Jack”, the Axe Wielding, infamous ghost of the island. Great. Not only did I have foam mattresses and outdoor showers to contend with, now I had to deal with an axe-murderer too? What was I going to do if he approached me, smother him with my duvet??

Luckily we soon heard the sound of house music and the glow of mini lights from a distance.  The night’s planned festivities,  a “grade 8 dance”, was already in full swing. “The party’s been going on for a while,” said Daniel. “I’ll take you to your cabins so you can get your costumes on and join the others.”

We looked at each other blankly.

“Wait…” he said, “You did bring costumes, right?”

Things, it seemed, were about to get interesting.

Stay tuned for part two…………….

Question of the Day: Did you go to Summer Camp as a kid?

Dear Diary: Old School Edition

As my friends Young American Wisdom, Our Life in 3D, H.E. Ellis (and I’m sure many more) can attest- the mind of a child is a fascinating, complex- and most of all, hilarious thing. Often, when hanging out with my 7 year old niece, Lola, I find myself wondering what’s going on inside that little miniature brain of hers.

Actually, I know what she’s thinking about:  those babies she’s always carting around.  It must be stressful having like, 10 kids. I think she sings herself to sleep every night with “What would you do” by City High…  I would.

For you this is just a good time, but for me this is what I call life....

Well, if you, like me- have wondered the same thing about those smaller-than-average-humans in your life- then do I have a treat for you today!

Back in the summer, when cleaning out my childhood bedroom , I came across this little gem:

 

What is behind that glorious Lisa Frank cat encrusted cover? You might ask.  That, my friends- is my childhood diary.  Given to me for my 7th birthday, it has preserved all of my little childhood secrets for almost 20 years…….. it’s sort of like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Only with worse spelling… and of no cultural, historic or religious significance.

Anyway, after I rescued this gem from the brink of obscurity last year, I sort of forgot about it… that is until last night, when, during a wine infused house-cleaning blitz (always a good idea) I stumbled across it again, and spent a good half hour reading it and laughing hysterically to myself.

So I thought I would share a few excerpts with you guys. Keep in mind, my objectivity may have been (definitely was) compromised, so you might not find it as funny as I did… but I’m still going to post it because I guarantee it’s much better than anything I could ever write now.

But before I get into the good stuff- a few disclaimers:

• I was a highly unusual child.  (You’ll see)
• For some reason, in the entries below, I felt the need to be incredibly profound, and at times, poetic. Just go with it.
• Most of my friends were imaginary. I cannot guarantee that any of the names you will see below refer to actual, real live children.

Now that that’s out of the way- here goes (I have preserved original spelling/grammar for your viewing pleasure. You’re Welcome. )

November 16, 1992:

Today my mom got me my first diary. I can’t wait to write more stories. I am shure  I will have an exciting year. today we started practicing for our christmas concert. Mrs. Renouf said that she was proud of us for learning that song so quickly. We were in the lead because we have the most stickers. We are talking about bed time in school . I have a cruch on two people. Brian and Dillon. but I geuss none of them will ever like me”. [Ed. note: Chin up, little breezyk! boys dig confidence! You will learn this by 26. ......someday.]

November 17, 1992:

Today I fell in the mud twice. I  was humilyated by all my friends. [Ed note: does anyone remember falling in the mud as a kid? totally humilyating] The worst part is that I fell two times. [totally the worst part]. I wish people would learn that if they laugh at someone when they fall, the next person might be them. Besides, it’s not nice to laugh. I was lucky Dillon didn’t laugh at me…….. I try to make the most out of life. It’s the only one I have. These secrets are for your ears alone, so keep them secrets diary.

I can't even make this shit up

December 2, 1992:

Today I had a horable brainstorm. [Ed. note: hate those!] You wouldn’t believe what happened. Ashley said I made her troll fall. And she started to cry. I was not even there. And now she doesn’t like me but I still have friends. Then two boys started muttering to me. Then on the bus every body was pushing me. Then when I got home I dropped my Mr. Misty all over the floor [ed note: looking back, this was probably fate saying: "newsflash: you're mildly overweight. Put down the Dairy Queen, kid"]  Then I talked to my mom about it and she said It’s all right, it happens all the time. I felt better after I told someone. I have to say, I really wish my mind would make up its own mind. [Amen, sista].

My horable brainstorm involved drawing Jesus fish, apparently

December 19, 1992:

I feel terrible because I hurt my brother. It is the worst thing I ever did. It would be horible if any thing like that ever happened again. Although we fight alot I really love him. He is very nice in some ways I hate to say this But he’s one of a kind. [ed note: Kristin- don't say I never said anything nice about you]

There’s way more, but to be honest, that’s about all my self-esteem can handle for today (I considered posting the “About me” page, on which I list my favourite song as being “Sometimes Love Just Ain’t enough” by Annie Lennox… but the remainder was just too embarassing. Even for me).

Question of the Day: Did you have a diary as a kid?

P.S. if this is the second time you are receiving this post in your inbox- I apologize. My fat, hongray fingers accidentally hit “publish” before that shit was ready. my bad.

You’re Not Real Until Some Crazy Kid Loves You

“Can you imagine Simon as a kid? His imaginary friends probably never wanted to play with him“

- Paula Abdul

When I was a kid, I had a best friend named Jenna. Now, Jenna was a lot of things- it’s just that ”real” didn’t happen to be one of them. Yep, girlfriend was about as imaginary as Brooke Mueller’s sobriety, but that didn’t stop me from loving the hell out of her anyway.

Growing up, we lived on the outskirts of town, and there weren’t a lot of other kids around to play with. Sure I had 4 older siblings, but they were way more into practicing the choreography to Kriss Kross and making out with their NKOTB posters than playing barbies with me. So I was sort of left to my own devices. Enter, Jenna.

Jenna was a slightly older, slightly cooler version of myself. She was 6, while I was 5, and had long, luxurious hair, rather than the stringy-ass front mullet I sported from grades 1 through 5. Her eye for fashion was enviable, and included such pieces as blossom Hats, slouchy socks, and overalls with one strap down. (I tried to copy this one. It usually resulted in said strap being dipped in the toilet).

By far the coolest thing about Jenna though, was that she was American.

As I child, I was obsessed with American culture. I blame this on the fact that we Canadian children of the early 90′s were inundated with American television. Almost every show on TV was set in a Santa-Monica high school or a  midwestern suburb. Rather than feeling alienated though, I longed to be an American. I saw Americans as worthy of the biggest brass ring I knew: being on tv.  I absorbed everything about the United States like it was my job- studied maps, learned the names of all 50 states, and begged my parents every year to take me there.

Jenna was effortlessly cool in a way that only Americans could be. She used terms like “freeway” instead of highway, and “soda” instead of pop.  She went to “kindergarten and first grade” instead of “grade primary” and “grade one”, and  had all of the coolest toys that you couldn’t get yet in Canada… She could enter contests that were only open to the residents of the 50 territorial states,  shopped at JC Penney and Macy’s and (get this) had Thanksgiving in NOVEMBER.

I can’t quite remember when it started, but at some point, I made the attempt to cross Jenna over from the fictional to the real world, and started name-dropping her like she was a real person:

“Oh, you have Teen Talk Barbie?? Well, I have a friend who has SUPER Talk Barbie. She says 100,000 things (ed note: all of which equally a feminist’s nightmare). You can only get her in the states”

“Did you know they call Chicago the windy city? Yep.. Jenna  lives there. She told me that”.

"Math is hard!!"

Jenna had taken on a whole new life of her own. It was like that quote from the Velveteen rabbit- where the rabbit asks the skin horse what it means to be “Real”, and the Skin Horse says:

“When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real”.  

Well, if by “love“ the skin horse meant ”projects her delusions upon“, then that sounds about right. I used my many layers of crazy to transform Jenna  into a walking, talking (and, arguably somewhat pretentious) real child. Eventually, however, my story began to wear thin. How did I know Jenna? And when was she coming to visit?? And wait- she lives in California?? I thought she lived in Illinois??

Uh-oh.  

I still remember the day when, after barraging me with a number of questions, a particularly horrendous girl said, in front of all of my classmates:

“There’s no such person as Jenna. That’s just her imaginary friend!!”

Blinded by hot tears, I ran from the playground.  The jig was up.  It was time for Jenna to retire.

For a while, I found other ways to ween myself off American culture… I had a penpal from Pennsylvania for a while, but I think I overwhelmed her with my constant questions and multiple small tokens of affection, and one day the letters just stopped coming. I made my parents take me Christmas shopping in Maine every year, and stocked up on Baby Ruth bars and clothing from The Limited Too. I even tried a few American regional accents on for size. But it was no use. At the end of the day, I was still as Canadian as a maple leaf made out of beavertails, snowshoes, and coloured money.

Eventually I learned to embrace my Canadian culture. Around 1999, the Canadian government would wisen to the fact that it’s country’s children were being brainwashed and Americanized through television,and pass a Policy  mandating specific levels of Canadian programming on tv. Then, when I was a teenager, Molson Canadian put out those “I am Canadian” ads, increasing patriotism and Canadian flag tattoos 10 fold nationwide (also potentially underage drinking. Not that I would know anything about that).

But despite all of this, to this day I think that Jenna lives on inside me. She’s there everytime I cross the border, and get a little surge of excitement from packages labelled in ounces rather than litres…. she consoles me when I realize that, despite all the progress we as Canadians have made- I  STILL can’t audition for cycle 16 of ANTM due to my nationality…. and she gives me a silent little high-five and an approving nod whenever I proceed to the checkout at an American outlet mall and pay the shockingly low suggested retail prices. I imagine she’s saying in her head “well done breezyk……. well done”.

Question of the Day: Did YOU have an imaginary friend growing up??  

What are you supposed to be, the Witch’s Brew?

The most magical day of the year has finally arrived- and you know what thaaaaat means: time to put on your “The one percent” costume and act all clever and relevant. Don’t worry, I won’t make fun of you (To your face).  It also means that it’s time for me to present, for your viewing pleasure, some of my  favourite Halloween clips of all time. Enjoy, all my little slutty angels, Muammar Gaddafis and GOP Presedential Candidates- and happppy Halloween!

The Simpsons: Treehouse of Horror V

“No tv and no beer make Homer go… something something” 

I could devote a whole post to the best Simpsons Halloween specials- but I gave the 5th installment of Treehouse of Horror (which originally aired in 1994) the win here for its  parody of The Shining (clip), and  also Time and Punishment- where  Homer gets his hand stuck in a toaster and gets transported back in time. Ned Flanders as dictator of the world? God help us all.

 

It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown

Poor Linus. Kid has big time delusions of meeting “the great pumpkin” – but I love him for it. And for the fact that he drags Lucy to the pumpkin patch on Halloween night to stand guard for  this fabled creature. When they wait all night and the Great Pumpkin doesn’t show up, Lucy freaks her freak and has a stage 5 meltdown, being all  “I gave up my Halloween candy for this shit??”

As Linus can attest – “There’s nothing compared to the fury of a woman who’s been cheated out of tricks and treats”.

Noted.

 

Homestar Runner- Pumpkin Carve-Nival

When I was in high school, I had a serious obsession with the cartoon “Homestar Runner“. It makes no sense- I realize this. It’s borderline obscure to the point of not being cool, and the  characters have ridiculous names like “Marzipan” and “Strong Sad”.. but for  some reason I just can’t get enough.  Especially of the Halloween 2002 special: “Pumpkin Carve-Nival” where the characters compete in a pumpkin carving contest, and everyone’s pumpkin looks like “the witch’s brew” and gets last place.

 

Hocus Pocus

I also couldn’t get enough of this 1993 film starring  Bette Midler, Kathy Najimy (yes- the ho from “Sister Act“) and Sarah Jessica Parker as “The Sanderson Sisters“, a trio of bad-ass witches who are resurrected after 300 years to terrorize Salem, Mass. It’s up to two teenagers, “Max” (Omri Katz) and “Dani” (Thora Birch) to save Halloween, and at the same time hopefully put an end to SJP’s attempts at trying to sing:

 

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

So normally I HATE MUSICALS (it’s a lack of continuity thing) – but I make an exception for “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”.  It’s a Halloween tradition (which, if you live in Canada you will see every Halloween night on MuchMusic)- plus, vintage Susan Sarandon? Say no more

 

Question of the Day: What are you being for Halloween??

Timely? Slutty? Relevant? Let’s hear it

Whatever Happened to Predictability….

So a friend sent me a link today, letting me know that Kim Kardashian is going to be starring in Tyler Perry’s new movie. While I wish Kim all the luck in the world on this endeavour- I  must admit that I have my doubts whether it will work out any better than her ill-fated attempt at a music career. Sigh. sometimes there’s more to life than just being really, really, ridiculously good looking.

The more interesting part about all of this, though, is the fact that the movie also stars Jurnee Smollet: Also known as Michelle Tanner’s friend Denise from Full House: the spicy little spitfire who replaced Teddy when he moved to Texas, and who’s uncle also happened to be Little Richard.  According to Jurnee’s wikipedia page, not only was she on Full House- she also appeared in other 90′s gems like ”On Our Own“; “Hangin with Mr. Cooper“, and “Martin“. That’s a pretty impressive resume. It must be because her parents gave her such a bad-ass name like “Jurnee”. 

My friend gets mad BFF points for pointing out the amazingness of these two worlds colliding to me, but also for encouraging me to reflect a little bit more  on the sitcoms of a bygone era.

Like most of my vintage, I was a sucker for TGIF as a kid.  Every Friday night, we would order a pizza, get some treats at the store, and sit down to watch a good 4 episodes of family-friendly programming. The rotation of shows changed a lot throughout my childhood, but I always remained faithful- from Full House & Family Matters; to Boy Meets World & Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better- IT DID.

As I thought back to all of these shows, I was struck by how different 90′s era sitcoms, particularly the TGIF lineup, were to those of today. Those shows had innocent and uncomplicated premises, such as “Midwestern American Larry Appleton meets his distant cousin Balki Bartokomous from the greek island of Mypos, and though they struggle with their differences, they also become unlikely friends ” ; with even more unsophisticated plotlines.. like “DJ learns about the dangers of eating disorders when she passes out on the stairmaster after only eating ice pops for a week“.

Plus there was the fact that every episode was basically one big, long, extension of an After School Special. Every show involved a parable- usually with a musical interlude signalling that it was coming.  ”Michelle…. Martin has gone to goldfish heaven… and just for future reference: don’t ever try to give your goldfish a bath again”.

Somewhere, however- all that went out the window. It started with groundbreaking emo shows targeted at adolescents, telling us that  “not everything is going to be ok all of the time” – like My So Called Life, and Party of 5.  Then the late 90′s ushered in the era of the WB, most notably, Dawson’s Creek, and instead of mistakenly stealing royal blue sweaters, teens were having sex with their teachers and engaging in complicated love triangles. Sitcoms at the same time were getting racier, more sarcastic- Jerry Seinfeld and his neuroses were replacing Steve Urkel’s annoying but also slightly endearing: “Did I do thatt??”   

Fast forward to 2010- and the #1 show on television is starring a drug-induced warlock with a harem of “Godesses”. 

Can we just take a step back and ask- whatever happened to the Danny Tanners of TV? The loveable widowers who just “loved the smell of Clorox in the morning”? I mean sure,  we were all surprised to find out that Bob Saget was actually a very dirty boy with a penchant for blue comedy in the end, but at least he hid that shit until WELL after Full House was done.   

With all this racy business and sexual innuendo in the liberal media, I can’t help but think – eff cell phones and the interwebs..  the REAL problem with kids these days is a lack of TGIF in their lives.

Am I right??

Cereal: A Love Story

I’ll be the first to admit it-  I have a slight (ok, major) obsession with cereal.

Not only do I eat it for breakfast every morning, I also have it for dinner far more often than is socially acceptable for a 25 year old woman. Frequently I’ll polish off a serving or two as a late night snack (true story: I am enjoying a nice, hearty bowl (or 4) of Kashi GoLean Crunch as I write this post), and the number of times I find myself running a dishwasher filled solely with bowls and spoons is much higher than I’d like to admit. 

There’s just something about it that always hits the spot- that perfect ratio of cereal to milk…  that feeling of complete euphoria when the spoon hits your lips… the taste of nostalgia- more powerful than any artificial sweetener- that cannot be replicated by any other food.

A few days ago, I somehow found myself having a discussion with a coworker about cereal (Ok, so it was because I was admitting I had no idea how to cook.. so what).  The conversation had already gone on for about 20 minutes, and I had no shortage of material left (we had only just begun touching on our favourite varieties. Next would come preferred level of  crunchiness), when I realized that, perhaps my love for cereal ran deeper than even I knew.

And so I began tracing it back to its roots…. (Cue the Flashback scene…. feel free to picture the rest of this post with a slight, sepia tone)

Our love story began not unlike so many others- Cereal and I were childhood sweethearts.  Hit by the arrow of the Breakfast Cupid, it was love at first bowl of Lucky Charms. We were inseparable- never spending a morning apart. Some of my fondest memories as a child even involved cereal. I remember waking up to the sound of spoons clanging against bowls, as my brothers made sure every last corn pop was sufficiently saturated with milk before consumption. (Because I was the baby, not only did I get to sleep in a bit later, my mom would also pour my cereal a few minutes before waking me up, because she knew I preferred it light on the crunch. Now THAT’s the love story right there… or a sad story. I’ll let you decide).   

Now, if you’ve ever seen an After School Special, you know that Childhood and adolescence are no walk in the park. Just getting through a day without being pressured into doing cocaine to perform better as a child gymnast, or  being kidnapped by your own mom was a cause for celebration.  But no matter what kind of day I had, knowing that I always had an after school snack of cereal waiting at home for me, served up by one of many potential loveable cartoon mascots (with the exception of Count Chocula…  cause let’s be honest, homeboy was downright creepy) made life seem a little more bearable.

As I grew older, my relationship with cereal changed. Suddenly my tastes had grown; expanded. I no longer craved the sugary goodness that seduced me as a child- now I longed for something more… sophisticated.

Luckily, cereal was changing too; it’s varieties becoming more plentiful; it’s milk choices now far more advanced than just 2% or skim. Soy? Almond? Coconut? POTATOE MILK? The world was becoming a crazy place, but cereal was my constant. We went through it all together; from Fruity Pebbles and Reese Peanut Butter Puffs, to Millet Rice and Spelt Flakes. And take it from someone who’s been there:  Potatoes? Should stick to being mashed (Or being used as stamps. I think Martha Stewart does that).

It wasn’t all marshmallows and sugar coating, though… like all good love stories, Cereal and I have had our fair share of ups and downs.  For a brief period, we even broke things off. It wasn’t cereal- it was me. I was too needy with my love; too clingy to its milky deliciousness; and it’s sweet, sweet, loving was having unwanted effects on me. Although I wanted desperately not to believe it, Fat Bastard’s astute observation that “carbs are the enemy” turned out to be true. I had to accept it when I could no longer button up my jeans- I had gained what they call the “honeymoon 15″.

Unable to control myself, I swore off cereal, and vowed to never touch the stuff again.

Well, anyone who’s been through a breakup knows how tough this can be. Thoughts of cereal consumed me.. I thought I saw cereal everywhere- at school… at the gym.. in my cupboards. It even infiltrated my dreams. Once, I dreamt that I was naked in public, save for a few strategically placed mini wheats.

 I searched in vain for a love like the one I had lost. I tried toast, oatmeal, eggs, even something called a “breakfast bake”-  all rendered inedible by the salty taste of my tears.

It was all together about a year we were apart, when I was staying at a friend’s house, and she offered me a bowl of cereal for breakfast. What seemed like a simple offer set off a complex web of feelings and anxiety deep within me. Oh how I wanted to say yes…to envelop myself in its carby goodness. But we’d been down this road before…….

What harm can one bowl do? I thought.

And there it was- our epic reunion- bathed in light, and set to the soundtrack of angels singing; even the household pets were crying tears of joy.  It was like the reunions of Ross & Rachel, Luke & Laura, and NKOTB all wrapped into one.

We were back, baby.

Since then, things have been better than ever before. We see each other most days; and slowly, we’re making up for lost time. Looking back, its funny that we would ever think we could deprive ourselves of being together when we are such a perfect match…. we’re so silly sometimes.

And so what if I still  indulge a little too much? Whoever says that a love this intense can’t last clearly hasn’t met us… or Sid & Nancy 

….. Wait… that didn’t end well??

Question of the Day: Do YOU love cereal?? And if so, what’s your favourite kind?  (basically, I’m just imploring you to make me feel a little less like a freak, here)

I’m a Big Kid Now

So I got a little bit drunk last night. And not in a “teetering on her heels like an adorable little deer” sort of way… no, it was more of  the “bitch is belligerent and wants to start a fight” variety. I went to a Foster the People show, and distinctly remember picking a fight with a hipster kid who wouldn’t move out of my way, while verbally abusing him about his “stupid fucking glasses”. This is particularly ironic given the fact that just 2 days ago I was waxing blogetic about how “I’m not a particularly bitter or angsty person.”  I’m an enigma ,wrapped in a riddle ,wrapped in a vest my friends. 

Image from Wikipedia

Anyway.. needless to say, the majority of my day was spent in a semi-comatose state on the couch. Except for one brief visit to my friendly neighbourhood Asian nail salon.. where nobody but the owner speaks english, and they were playing an English dvd of the  show “Breaking Bad” with French subtitles. The whole thing was wigging me out a little, I’m not gonna lie. 

During all of this, I had a lot of time to think about the fact that tomorrow marks my first day as a real, live, full-fledged lawyer. I’m so woefully unprepared that I haven’t even bothered to dry-clean any of my suits, let alone peruse the business section of The Globe and Mail (*cough* in 4 months). I’m so screwed for cocktail parties.

I google imaged "Awkward Cocktail Party" and this picture came up. I thought it only right to include it.

Maybe its the booze blues, or maybe I’ve just been reading too many novels… but  I can’t help but feel a little bit sentimental and melancholy that I am on the cusp of beginning my professional career. Particularly, there are a few thoughts that keep running through my head:

1. How did I get to this point?  
2. What would I be doing with my life if I wasn’t a lawyer?
3. I really wish the word “cusp” made me think of something other than teetering precariously on a narrow ledge before falling to my death….

So why don’t we indulge these questions? Let’s feel feelings for a little while, shall we?

How did I get to this point? AKA: The road, opposite of less, travelled.

Apparently it all started the day my parents brought me home. My grandmother, “Baba”, as we called her, famously held me for the first time, and prophesized in broken english that someday, I would be a lawyer  ( in the interest of full disclosure, the Croatian Nostradamus over there also said that my geologist brother would be a doctor; and my teacher sister would be a nurse… so I wouldn’t go betting the farm on that one).

I wish I could say my life trajectory had been more interesting – that I went on some sort of glamorous Parisian exchange in high school; or that I flunked out of university and had to beg the Dean to let me back in… But sadly, my life has followed a pretty dull and  predictable path. I went through life like I was checking off items on a to-do list: high school,undergrad, law school, articling, writing the bar exam.. check.check.check.check.check.

Looking back now, I wonder if  Baba’s decision that I was going to be a lawyer set off this whole series of events, leaving me with no choice in the matter. Telling me I could do anything I want after that would have been, to quote Nick Hornby, ”like pulling the plug out of the bath and then telling the water it can go anywhere it wants”. Baba decided for me- and there was no other direction I could have taken. So thanks Baba, for ruining my ENTIRE LIFE. I kid, I kid (I’m not kidding)… my life ain’t so bad.. I could be living in a van down by the river. And I mean, I guess I have to cut her some slack due to the fact that she’s from a communist country and all, and that’s just the way shit worked over there. But COME ON, man…let a kid dream.  

What Could Have Been……

So yeah, if Baba hadn’t gone and stunted my development as a person, maybe my life would have turned out totally differently. I can’t help but wonder what else I might have been. Based on my neurotic childhood and current babysitting tactics, I might hazard such guesses as “Dictator”; “Army General”;  ”Chess game timekeeper”; or “Committed to a Mental Institution”;  but if we put those aside and look at the remaining, non insane portion of my personality- it gets a little tougher.  I did my undergrad in Finance, and always thought I wanted to be some sort of hotshot stockbroker.. that way I could talk about ”managing portfolios” and “internal rates of return” and impress people. Buuut I chose law instead, because I have a self-loathing issue there was more “variety” in it or some shit like that. I know they say the grass is always greener, but I do sometimes wish I had gone that route… I comfort myself in the fact that in my current job I don’t have to be surrounded by quite so many dudes with Scott Disick haircuts.

All of the other things I would want to be are so far removed from what I am actually doing that its sort of frightening. Like a makeup artist… or a stylist..  or in the entertainment industry, maybe on some sort of show about celebrities.. hey, it could still happen… look at  Harvey Levin from TMZ.. he’s a lawyer. I have big dreams of leaning over a half-wall and sipping on a travel mug all day in the near future.  

s-ak.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/web04/2010/...

And as for that whole “cusp” thing….

Yeah, I’m pretty much screwed.

Question of the Day: What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you doing it? 

Are you “living your best life”, as Oprah would say? (oh god I think I just threw up a little in my mouth…..)