Dreams Really Do Come True

So remember that time I saw Jason Priestley at a play and vowed to make him mine?

Well kids, I’m here to tell you that if you stalk work hard enough, dreams really do come true!

That’s right ladies- read ‘em and weep: Brandon Walsh and I are officially an item.  (Just kidding. I don’t think his wife would like that very much. But our heads are touching in this pic, which basically means we’re besties now.)

The pic above was taken at the wrap party for the play Race by David Mamet, in which Jason starred as a morally conflicted criminal lawyer.

My friend Jane and I went to see it a couple of weeks ago, and afterwards received an e-mail inviting us to schmooze with Jason and the cast at the wrap party. Obviously we couldn’t let the opportunity to hang with 90210′s resident moral compass pass us by,

so we got dolled up and went.

There were only about 75 people in attendance, so stalking opportunity = prime.  Jason was hanging with the DJ and taking some photos with fans, so we made our way up to talk to him.

I will admit, I had a total fangirl moment was unable to form words for the first few seconds,

But eventually I pulled it together and eeked out “I loved your play!” (lie, it was terrible) “you made a very convincing lawyer!” (another lie, he didn’t), and then we chatted for a few minutes – mostly about Nova Scotia, where I’m from, and he films his TV show Call me Fitz. He said he loves it and has been thinking of buying a home there (!!!!).  Note to self: move back to Nova Scotia.

Things were just getting good when his handler came over and asked “if I could I please hurry it up because they needed to move along.”

Ummm.. RUDE. Could she not see we clearly had a connection?

Anyway, we shared a wistful embrace (if you’re wondering, he smelled like expensive cologne and nostalgia) and then Jane and I left and headed to another bar. We were debriefing about our brush with celebrity when lo and behold, Jason and his assistant walk into the VERY SAME BAR!

On the inside I was like:

But on the outside, I’m just like:

We asked them if they were stalking us (because, you know, we touched heads, so we can joke like that now) and they laughed, and then drank with us for the rest of the night. (And by “with us” I mean at the table next to us, and we didn’t speak another word- but close enough for me!)

Anyway, I see this all as a very positive development in our relationship. Am I disappointed things didn’t progress more? Sure. But it’s Brandon Walsh, I’ve learned he likes to take things slow.

Don’t worry Brandon Jason- I’ve got time.

Question of the Day: Were you a 90210 fan? What celeb from your youth would you want to meet?

Always Remember That You Are Unique. Just Like Everybody Else.

You guys, I have to begin with a piece of breaking news: SOMEONE RETURNED MY HAIRBRUSH!!!

The lovely cleaning lady at the gym took pity on me when I told her my harrowing tale of loss and sorrow, and directed me to a second location where they sometimes keep lost items. Lo and behold, there was my brush! AND my facewash!

My faith in humanity has been restored. Note, however, that the other two brushes remain outstanding.  This means that the probability of a BreezyK hair doll existing continues to be high.

Now onto item of business #2: Both Ross Murray and Twin Daddy gifted me with the Very Inspiring Blogger Award.

Ross is the hilarious and insightful blogger behind Drinking Tips for Teens, and, more importantly  a fellow Nova Scotian. Holla!

And of course, many of you know TwinDaddy of StuphBlog fame from his mysterious StormTrooper Avatar, faithful commenting and UnShitty Trademark. Now go and visit them both! (You know, after you finish reading this post.)

So the rules of the game are as follows:

• link back the person who nominated you (done),
• state 7 facts about yourself, and
• nominate 7 other bloggers for the award.

Wow, this is going to be so different from all my other posts! I never write about myself! (Just kidding, that’s all I do.)

Here goes:

1. I regularly walk into Godiva with no intention of buying anything. I just linger there long enough to get a free sample, then leave.

2. I went snowshoeing last weekend for the first time ever.

I’m not gonna lie, I kind of expected my snowshoes to look different.

Exhibit A: What I thought my snowshoes would look like:

 

Exhibit B: What my snowshoes actually looked like:

Oh well, it was still a lot of fun, and a surprisingly good workout. Here’s a pic of me and my friends, just killing it:

3. Speaking of killing it, remember my New Year’s resolution to read 52 books in 2013?

Well, I am pleased to report that I’m on book #5 so far this month. That’s right, fools. I eat pieces of literature for breakfast.

Here is the book I’m currently reading/something I hope never happens to me:

Maybe I’ll do some reviews??

4. Lately I’ve been having the urge to cut my hair like Tegan and/or Sara in the video for Closer:

I won’t do it though, because I fear it might be misinterpreted as a cry for help.

5.  Sometimes, when I’m running on the treadmill, I’ll just listen to the same song over and over again. Most recently, it’s been this one:

I used to think this was weird/OCD behavior, until Mindy Kaling Tweeted this:

Never stop being my soul sister, Mindy.

6. If you follow me on Twitter or Instagram (@breezyk1) then you already know this, but I went for a lovely 3.5 hour brunch with Karen of The Chronicles on Sunday.

Between us, we managed to consume 2 orders of eggs benedict, 7 americanos and an entire bag of donuts.

Hold your applause, please.

7. I went to a one-man show last night called Catalpa. It was at a little indie theatre in TO, and was all sorts of weird and amazing. Dude played over 20 characters himself, including a whale, a seagull and a storm. (Which, for the record, aren’t even human, so….) It’s playing until Saturday so, if you’re in the area, check it out!

Now, to nominate 7 other bloggers:

Lily – My long-legged Canadian homegirl who is also CRAFTY. Jealouss

Karen – As I’ve said before, passing on all blogging awards to her was a condition of our marriage contract.

Katie- She’s sassy and balderdashy. Is that an adjective? I just made it one.

Tori Nelson- Because she is a haute mess. And really, really funny.

Cowboys and Crossbones- Cause she loves cocktails, fashion and nail art just as much as I do.

New York Cliche- A new favorite of mine- I’m mostly jealous of her big apple life.

Cafe – My fellow Torontonian with a MAD set of pipes.

Also, the lovely and talented Sarah of Diary of a House Elf bestowed upon me the Wonderful Team Membership Reader Award.

Since I’m all tapped out of interesting facts, I”ll just skip straight to the 14 9 nominees. (14 is way higher than I can count).

Because I’m lazy they’re awesome, I’m also giving this one to the 7 b*tches above. And for the sake of equality (and the continuation of our blogging species) I’ll throw a couple guys into the mix:

• Our Life in 3D- he’s giving away candy canes and old Halloween treats! Seriously.
• Ben – because he really needs a reason not to be bitter.

Go check them out! Just don’t be disappointed when they aren’t as good as I am. Just kidding I’m not kidding.

Question of the Day: Have you ever been snowshoeing?

I swear that’s how you spell it.

Like Father, Like Daughter

So as I mentioned in my last post, my dad came to visit me in Toronto this weekend.

Since his birthday is on Christmas and he perpetually gets the shaft gift-wise, my siblings and I decided to chip in this year and get him tickets to the Buffalo Bills game happening here.

Now, given my dad lives in small town Nova Scotia and has only been to Toronto once 30 years ago, I kind of expected his visit to resemble one 48 hour-long episode of Breaking Amish.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dad soaked up Toronto like a sponge and wanted to experience everything it had to offer. He seriously wore me out. I’ve gotta start taking those iron pills.

The weekend got off to a rough start, however, when we experienced a slight luggage snafu at the airport. (I just love the word “snafu”. It makes even the most horrific problems sound like charming little anecdotes). I won’t get into too much detail because it’s kind of a long story, but know that in the end, we emerged victorious. And there might have been a little low-level B&E involved (By him, not by me of course: I have a professional reputation to uphold).

All’s well that ends well, right??

Anyway, with lady luck on our side, we prepared to tackle the rest of the weekend. (<— football pun).

Some highlights included:

• Brunch Dates: (Sorry Karen.. had to cheat on you just this once)

• My very first visit to the CN Tower

(And no, I did not step foot on that glass floor. Heights and I do naaaat get along.)

• The Hockey Hall of Fame

Ladies- a word to the wise. If you plan on accompanying a man here, bring reading material. And maybe a flask. (Unless you’re one of those progressive ladies who are really into sports. In which case, have fun… and ignore my anti-feminist propaganda. )

• The Allan Gardens Conservatory:

• The St. Lawrence Antiques Market

This was a win for both of us. I checked out vintage jewellery and books while he bartered over old coins. I even scored this sweet vintage 1968 Bulova. #treat

• He even got me to go to church. At least I got this cool instagram pic:

And, of course, the Bills game:

To say he loved it would be an understatement. We got kicked out of the stadium for lingering there so long afterwards. He loved the crowd and seeing all of the behind-the-scenes stuff you don’t see on TV.

I, on the other hand, amused myself by taking pictures:

Reaffirming my love for cracker jacks, and of course, Psy’s halftime performance.

Does this feel like a really long 15 minutes to anyone else?

I also feel like I got to know my dad a lot better this weekend. Like for one thing, he asks a LOT of questions. Here is just a small sampling of the many queries he had for me:

• Are the Concession vendors inside Rogers Centre paid an hourly rate or by commission?
• Who owns this building/when was it built/what is the occupancy/how many stories is it (Re: every single building we were in)
• What does your landlord’s boyfriend do for a living?
• Are the subway cars the same on both ends? What happens when it gets to the end of the line?

I guess I can’t really fault him; I, too, was notorious for my relentless questioning as  a child. I remember asking my older sister what other names my parents had considered for me, and she responded “Sun Yeoung”.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“She who asks too many questions.”

What’s that about an apple and a tree?

He was truly obsessed with the subway though.

He had never been on one before, and kept trying to convince me to take it to the end of the line just to see what would happened. Of everything we did this weekend, he told me the Bills game was his favourite, followed by riding the subway. I told him he was like a little kid who gets a gift and likes the box better than the present itself.

Dad also made like 800 new friends talking to every single person he encountered. Ticket scalpers, homeless people, construction workers, TTC employees, you name it. He knows all of them by name and their life stories. I hope he doesn’t get wind of the fact that we’re looking for a new mayor here in Toronto, or I may never have my apartment to myself again.

Question of the Day: Are you like your dad? Your mom?

P.S. I know you’ve been waiting for it. Here it is, folks: Track 3 from the mix-tape nobody cares about!

A Tutu is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Happy Halloweeen, friends!

Today is an extra special day in The Camel Life, because not only is it All Hallow’s Eve, it’s also… (dun dun dun……) my birthday!

That’s right folks, I came into this crazy world on October 31st, along with all the other little ghouls and goblins… and Rob Schneider and Vanilla Ice, apparently.

Embarrassing fact alert: My dad calls me “Pumpkin Toes” because of this. Any of you try this, and I will cut you.

I started my 27 19th year of existence as any sane person would: By going for a run…. in a hurricane.

Despite the forecast projecting gale force winds and heavy rainfall, I somehow convinced my friend Colin to come with me:

I don’t think he actually thought I was serious.

But guess whaaaaaaat??

Yes, I actually did wear this ridiculous outfit for a four mile run in downtown Toronto. And yes, I actually am that crazy.

I realize the cat ears are a bit of a non-sequitur but, as Colin said… #YOLO. Plus, my writing teacher has been encouraging us to try and use more “physical comedy”.. so this counts, right?

Let me tell you, after three years of living in this city, I’ve finally figured out the way to make friends here. It’s by wearing a motherfluffin’ tutu. So many people honked their horns, high-fived me, smiled and yelled “You go girl!” It was awesome!

But the best part of the whole thing was that Colin was basically horrified the entire time. He said he was cool with it, but kept running like 10 feet ahead of me and leading me down random, deserted routes with no traffic… I think to avoid being seen with me.

Like, where are we in this pic anyway?

Is this even the GTA?

Just kidding. He was actually a really good sport about it. And I wasn’t even the weirdest person we encountered. We do sorta live in the hood, which means you can always count on someone crazy to take the spotlight off you.

I even got hit on aggressively by two hobos. I guess at my age, you take what you can get eh?

In retrospect, although I looked awesome, a tutu may have not been the best choice in the rain. That sh*t soaks up so much water it’s ridiculous. By the end of my run I felt like I was carrying an extra 15 lbs on my midsection. Maybe I’ll remember that feeling when I’m stuffing cupcake #17 into my face later today.

………. Probably not, though.

Well, off to enjoy my favourite holiday/day of the year. And in the meantime, here’s a little playlist of indie Halloween jams that you can rock out to at your Halloween party and immediately up your hipster cred.

Be warned though, none of them are actually about Halloween. They just have Halloween words in the titles. They’re probably actually about feelings.

Enjoy!

(And this one isn’t really indie.. but it’s got Nicki in it, so still counts).

Question of the Day: Do you love Halloween like me?

……..Or is it one of those random, weird Holidays you could take or leave.. like National Leftovers Day… or Sneak some Zucchini Into Your Neighbour’s Porch Day? (Not a euphemism.. real holiday. See: http://urbantitan.com/10-weird-holidays/)

TIFF and the Fine Art of Celebrity Stalking

Well folks, it’s that time of year again: when the red carpets get rolled out, the champagne flows like water and A-List celebs fill the streets of Toronto.

No, not my birthday, fools.  Y’all know Ryan and I prefer to celebrate that with a nice bottle of Beaujolais and a quiet night in:

“Oh Ryan- I just love quiet nights in with you. Not even the fact that my head is 3x the size of yours can get in the way of our love”

Of course, what I’m REALLY talking about here is TIFF: the Toronto International Film Festival.

Now for me, film festival time usually means putting my stalkin’ pants on and trawling the streets of Toronto with camera in hand, stopping only to stare in the windows of the Ritz Carlton while making this face:

Until I get escorted off the premises.

This year, however, I was given the chance to kick my stalking up a notch when my friend Michelle offered  me an extra ticket to the premiere of the movie Spring Breakers.

A chance to see a cool movie and some celebs IRL? Sign me up. Plus, this was totally one of those things you could  post on facebook to make yourself seem all cool and in the “scene” when really all you did was shell out 40 bucks and hit “Refresh” an exorbitant amount of times on your web browser.

The movie, directed by Harmony Korine, is about four college girls (Selena Gomez, Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Benson and Rachel Korine) who rob a restaurant in order to fund their spring break trip to Saint Petersburg, Fla. Once there, they wind up hooking up with a corn-rowed, silver toothed drug dealer named “Alien” (James Franco) who gets them into some seriously un-Disney sh*t.

Sounds Oscar-worthy, right??

Since my 8-year-old-niece Lola is in love with Selena and for some reason is under the impression that I look exactly like her (ok, I paid her to say it), my ultimate goal was to solidify my role as “best aunt ever” by meeting Selena and taking a real photo with her to replace this splitscreen I keep under my pillow and stare at every night made once as a joke for a blog post and never looked at again:

We arrived at the theatre somewhat late and were in a mad rush to pick up our tickets when we were stopped directly in our tracks by an oncoming limo.  The door opened, and out walked Selena Gomez and Vanessa Hudgens. Not even 2 feet away from us.

I was like:

Needless to say,  by the time I came to, I totally missed my opportunity to become besties with get a picture with Selena. Good thing I can still buy my niece’s affection with McDonald’s and other sh*t she’s not supposed to have.

Anyway, we watched the red carpet progression for a while, listening to hundreds of tweens shouting “SELENA I LOVE YOU” and “WHERE’S JUSTIN BIEBER” before making our way into the movie.

Now, the movie itself was sort of interesting and arty and all, but my enjoyment of it was somewhat hindered by the following factors:

• apparently they don’t serve popcorn at TIFF screenings?? Call me un-kla$$y, but for me, a movie without popcorn is like Ice without Coco. It just doesn’t work.
• I had chosen to wear my hair in a sock bun for the event:

which, although incredibly chic and red-carpet looking, also renders it damn near impossible to sit back in your chair like a normal person.

Finally, after an hour and a half of shifting hungrily in my seat, the movie was over and the cast & director came onstage for a brief Q&A.

This was cool, but would have been way MORE fun had my friend not grabbed my hand and pulled it back down whenever I tried to ask one of my many stupid (albeit hilarious) questions.

After the Q&A we hightailed it to the back entrance where we knew the stars would be exiting the theatre. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who knew the secret and had to jostle into position with hundreds of other fans.

As I got my iPhone out and preset my instagram filter to “You wish your life was this cool“, I remembered an interview I saw recently with a 16-year-old American girl known as “Stalker Sarah“ for her talent of hunting down celebrities and getting her photo taken with them. Sarah has photos with over 5,000 celebrities, and prides herself in knowing all of the best stalking tactics.

As I dodged random elbows and struggled to see past the 6’4 man in front of me,  I wondered to myself, “What would Stalker Sarah do?”… while at the same time cursing my own name for not having the same alliterative potential.

Un (?)fortunately my question remained rhetorical, because just then the cast busted out of the theatre and Running of the Bulls: Toronto Edition commenced. Somehow I managed to snap the following pic before I met my untimely demise of being trampled to death by a gaggle of crazed Selena Gomez fans:

Just kidding. I’m totally still alive. But what a way to go.

Question of the Day: Ever been to a movie premiere? Ever had a star sighting?

 

Lakes vs. Oceans- Who’s got the better body?

After weeks of not-so-subtle hinting, a friend of mine recently invited me to spend the weekend at her family’s cottage in Muskoka.  Water I could actually swim in without turning into Blinky, the three-eyed fish from The Simpsons? Sign me up!

Since Canada Studen Loans owns my ass and I probably won’t have a car until 2072, my friend offered me a lift with her and her boyfriend in her convertible. Now this was something. I think the last time I was in a convertible was when I was four and won the “Little Miss Stellarton” pageant. I got to ride around town in the homecoming parade on a 1989 Camaro. Good times.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that riding in a convertible is a lot like going to the drive-in movie theatre: great for the two people in the front, miserable for the poor sucker in back. Only, instead of struggling to get a good view of the film, you’re struggling not to get beaten to death by 100km/hr gale force winds the entire time.

What I looked like:

What it felt like:

But if getting the sh*t blown out of you in the backseat of a convertible is your biggest problem, then friend, you don’t have any problems. And it all proved to be worth it once we got to the cottage. Between the 12 or so of us, we had enough food, booze, games and ironic hats to make even the worst of your troubles fade away:

Although I hadn’t even been back to the grind for two weeks, it was still nice to get away and replace such urbane concerns “how many hours have i billed today?” and “how many miles have I logged on the treadmill?” with the much more important questions of ”how long has it been since I last applied SPF?” and “who’s going to get me another Corona?”

This weekend was also the first solid chunk of time I’ve ever really spent at a lake. Growing up a stone’s throw from the Atlantic, I  had always just assumed oceans were far superior.  What did I want with a puny old lake when I had 22% of the Earth’s surface in beautiful, glistening H2O right at my fingertips?

But  this weekend as I lounged on the dock and floated idly  on a paddleboard, it occurred to me that maybe I had judged lakes too quickly.  For one thing, this water was warm enough to actually swim in… unlike the Atlantic, which will make you cry and then freeze your tear drops until at least late September.

I started mentally composing a list of other “pros” to lakes:

1. You don’t have to deal with sand. While its lovely to look at, there’s something to be said for not having unwanted sand particles clinging to your wet skin, whipping you in the face, or, worst of all- burrowing irretrievably into your lady parts. (amiright ladies?)

2. You can put a diving board RIGHT ON THE DOCK . My inner 8 year old’s mind was blown by this.

3. There are No jellyfish to contend with. Trust me, peeps- you don’t want to deal with those suckers. Just look at what they did to the Crocodile Hunter. (ok, so that was a Stingray… but close enough)

4. Your Shellac manicure won’t be ruined by swimming in them.  Ladies- take heed: salt water will strip that sh*t faster than Nadia Suleman on a pole. Trust.

5. “Lake Showers”  After a swim in the ocean, showering is pretty much a non-negotiable, given both the aforementioned “sand in lady parts” predicament and the salt residue that forms a visible film all over your skin. In a LAKE, on the other hand, one quick dip will wash away all your iniquities and cleanse away all your sins. Or, at least your mascara from last night, anyway.

Lakes were starting to look pretty good at this point. But, then I thought back to my beloved Atlantic, and of course had to construct a corresponding list of Pros about Oceans:  

1. Seafood. Although I’m all about considering the lobster these days, I still love me a fresh catch.

2. Sand castles/digging giant holes for no reason. Really, is there anything better?

3. Wavy beach hair- that you don’t have to buy in a bottle.

4. The wound-healing power of salt water. (Ok, so I haven’t actually used the ocean to clear up any festering wounds lately, but the point is that I could)

5. Sandbars (see #2)

6. Surfing (who am I kidding, I also never do this)

7. That salt water smell. mmmm

Girlfriend totally just caught a big whiff of ocean right there

So by a completely arbitrary score of 7-5, it looks like oceans win! Phew. I was starting to get worried Nova Scotia might get wind of this and expatriate my lake-loving ass… but alas, I live to breathe fresh air another day!

Question of the Day: Which do you prefer, lakes or oceans?

Feel free to throw other bodies of water into the mix too- bays, rivers, gulfs,  a pool of Ryan Gosling’s sweat.. whatever tickles your fancy, really.

Everyone Loves a Good Underdog

This past Saturday, a few friends and I decided to take a trip to Toronto’s beach area to soak up some sun and enjoy the beautiful weather. When we arrived,  however, we noticed that despite the blistering hot day, no one was in the water. Seeing the red flags waving from the lifeguard stations, we asked one of the lifeguards what the problem was.

“Water’s closed for swimming”, he said. “E-coli levels are 4 times the legal limit.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I moved from a province known as “Canada’s Ocean Playground”,  to this?

With nothing to do but lay on the sand and curse those who were lucky enough to escape to cottage country for the weekend, we began chatting about the 100km trail walk for charity one of my friends recently completed, where she walked with a group of 3 other people for 28 hours straight. While discussing how crazy amazing this was, another one of my friends brought up the story of Cliff Young, the Australian potato farmer who won the Sydney to Melbourne Ultramarathon in 1983 at 61 years of age.

Say whaaaaat?

Instantly, my interest was piqued. Ever since Kim started hooking up with Kanye and pumping her beautiful face full of injectables, I’ve been on the hunt for a new life model… and this Cliff guy seemed like a potential candidate.

Intrigued, I did a little investigatory journalism and learned that Cliff showed up at the race wearing overalls, wool socks and work boots. When asked if he had done any training for the event, Cliff replied that his only training had involved corralling sheep over his 2,000 acre family farm for days on end. Growing up, they couldn’t afford horses or tractors, so he was forced to run around after the sheep every time a storm came, sometimes for up to two-three days at a time. This, he believed, was as good a training regime as any.

People laughed at Cliff, dubbing him crazy and immediately discounting him from the race. And when the gun went off, it seemed they might be right. The other athletes immediately burned past Ol’ Cliff, leaving him in their dust. It even appeared that Cliff didn’t know how to run properly- his gait resembling more of a slow, awkward shuffle than an actual jog. But in the end, it was Cliff who had the last laugh. By denying himself sleep along the 875km course and keeping a slow, steady pace the entire way, he gained ground while his competitors were sleeping and ultimately emerged the victor- beating out elite marathoners from all over the world to win the title.

Man, that is some real-life Tortoise and The Hare sh*t right there.

Cliff went on to become an instant star in Australia and around the world. And his weird shuffling technique? It was ultimately adopted and used by many successful ultramarathoners and dubbed the “Young-Shuffle”, praised for its ability to expend far less energy than regular running.

I think Cliff’s story appealed to me so much not only because I, too run at the speed of molasses and look like a dying cat while doing so, but because I’m always a sucker for a good underdog story. Whatever the scenario, I always root for the unlikely candidate… and no matter how many  triumphant underdog sports movies I watch, it will never be enough.  Rocky. The Karate Kid. Rudy. Remember the Titans. Little Giants.  I cry like a baby every every single god damn time.

I know I’m not alone in this. As a society we love underdogs, and popular media has proven this time and time again. Uhh.. Susan Boyle anyone??

Or how about 86-year-old gymnastics champ Johanna Quaas?

Damn. bitch is flexible.

However deluded we may be, underdogs make us believe that anything is possible and serve as a great human interest piece while doing so.

Anyway, back to Cliff. I haven’t been able to get his Young-shufflin’, wool sock wearin ass out of my mind all day, and quite frankly I’m starting to like his chances in the unofficial Breezyk Life Model Search 2012. Next time I am on the treadmill, swallowing back puke and thinking “ummm, kinda wanna stop now” (aka: every time), I’m going to think about poor sleep-deprived Cliff, trawling the Australian countryside for sheep for the third day in a row. Cliff probably wanted to stop too.. but guess what? he didn’t. Because god damn it, a storm was brewing. And he couldn’t live with the blood of 2,000 innocent sheep on his hands. And you know what? I can’t either.  Or at least I can’t live with a fat ass. And that’s kind of the same thing.

Question of the Day: Who’s your favourite underdog?

And p.s. – just to say it:

Aww yeah!

I Wanna Sweat With Somebody

So I’ve been back in the convection oven Toronto for about a week now after my glorious vacation in Nova Scotia, and while I’m slowly settling back into my day-to-day routine, there’s one thing about this city I just can’t seem to get used to.

The heat.

The insufferable. unbearable. suffocating heat.

…..By the way, if you’re wondering what that sound was, it was the whoosh of my ass breezing past the Zero mark on the originality scale and landing firmly in negative territory.. because yes folks, I am talking about the weather.

But not without good reason. The heat wave we have been experiencing here in Toronto is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. A far cry from the temperate, maritime climate I’m used to back home, where if it gets too hot you can always take a dip in the freezing refreshing Atlantic, this my friends, is city heat. Disgusting, dirty, crowded, city heat. Where the base temperature, already equalling the average age of the Backstreet Boys) is exponentially multiplied by a combination of smog, filthy exhaust, and the 4 million other people all seemingly crowded  onto my very subway train.

It’s the kind of heat none of the other types of heat want to be friends with. The kind that gets left off the invite list for Satan’s annual pig roast in hell.

It’s a “milk was a bad choice” kind of heat.

You catch my drift?

Now, while the heat in and of itself is bad, it’s really the effects of this noise that are troubling me. Specifically- one particular ailment that has been plaguing me since the dreaded summer solstice reared its ugly head:

Sweat.

Hot, sweaty, dripping, disgusting sweat.

And not the Britney Spears “I’m a Slave 4 U” kind. I promise you it’s way less sexy than that.

For the past 6 weeks, I’ve found that no matter where I am, or what I am doing in this city, I am sweating. I can never be cool enough. Not even when I’m blasting the AC in my apartment and watching Big Brother in my bikini while praying to Al Gore for forgiveness and crush a pint of Haagen Dazs.

Resistance is futile. I have simply resigned myself to the fact that all of my pores have decided to mutiny against me and leak their saliferous fluids from my body at an alarming and unrelenting rate.  I’ve considered getting Botox injections in my underarms to stop it, but one of my coworkers did this and now experiences something called “compensatory sweating”, where sweat leaks unexpectedly from other random locations on her body.

Man, that’s some freaky Peter Parker sh*t right there.

No one wants this.

I think instead I’ll just accept the fact that I’m beginning to look a bit like the late, great Whitney Houston…who, god rest her soul, was always sweating like a wh*re in church.

I’m not exactly sure what the root cause of her perspiration problem was, but for the sake of her memory let’s just assume it was genetic or hormonal and not due to more nefarious causes (*cough* CRACK *cough*).  Anyway, I feel like any day now people are going to start calling me “Whitney” to my face, because I’m sure they are all looking at me walking down the sidewalk,  damp hair clinging to the back of my neck, visible sweat stains appearing through my shirt, and thinking, “wow… b*tch be looking all “Why does it Hurt so Bad” at the 1996 MTV awards, and that sh*t ain’t pretty”.

If this does happen, I of course will have no choice but to start carrying around a little white handkerchief everywhere I go and repeating “I wanna see the receipts!” ad nauseam. Go big, or go home, I always say.

Anyway, because I’m bored and it’s pointless, I’ve decided to rate some of my daily activities on a scale of 1-10 Whitney Houstons based on how sweaty I become while engaging in them. (C’mon.. you know you wanna play this game).. Here goes:

1. Riding the subway:

Can someone please explain to me why it’s so damn HOT down there? Isn’t it like… underground?

Score: 7 Whitney Houstons

2. Running Outside

I don’t know why I insist on doing this. I must have been dropped on my head as a child.

Score: 8 Whitney Houstons

 

3. Walking around/Generally Living

Man, just don’t even do it.

Score: 9 Whitney Houstons

….and finally:

4. Blowdrying my hair:

Ladies, I know you feel me on this one. You toil under a hot implement in 40 degree weather for upwards of 10 excruciating minutes, just to have the whole activity rendered useless by the time you get to work and have sweat-drenched locks. In my efforts to stretch out the time between blowdrys, I’ve taken to utilizing headbands and dry shampoo in unhealthy doses. Every day is an internal battle not to put my hair up in a ponytail. For this hell, I give it 10 Whitney Houstons:

Good thing I’m boycotting 50 Shades of Grey. I don’t think there’s a Whitney scale in the world big enough to handle that sh*t.

Question of the Day:  Do you share my perspiration dilemma??

… and just don’t even bother answering if you’re one of those skinny b*tches who miraculously doesn’t sweat, ever. I’m so jealous of you I could cry hate you anyway.

P.S. Naming this post was both a hilarious and ridiculous exercise which required much consultation with friends. Here are some honourable mentions that didn’t make the cut:

“Saving All my Sweat for You”

“The Greatest Sweat of All”

“I’m Your [Sweaty] Baby Tonight”

…. and for all my fellow Zoolander fans out there:

“Sweating: So Hot Right Now”

… as always, thanks for reading my verbal perspiration

I Was Born in a Small Town…

If your only knowledge of small towns came from what you saw and read in popular culture,  you might be under the impression that all small towns are picturesque, sleepy havens with tree-lined streets and waving flags. Towns where high school football, backyard barbeques and Sunday morning church services reign supreme, and the teenagers hang out at places called Chubbie’s or Arnold’s while their parents lounge on the patios of nearby bungalows and split levels, sipping chocolate milk under red and white striped umbrellas and watching the sun go down.

Having spent the better part of my life in a small town, I can tell you that, like any good “based on a true story”, this is only partially true. Our teenage hang-out was not a  friendly neighbourhood burger joint, but rather a clandestine clearing in the woods known as “the chill”, where 2 litre bottles of wine cooler could be safely consumed far from the watchful eyes of parents- and more importantly- the fuzz. Our high school was much too small to support a football team-  unless we were to recruit all of the  teachers, the custodial staff and that creepy guy who hung out in the parking lot selling cigarettes to minors for 50 cents a piece. We did have a hockey team though, and every Friday night the local arena was filled with excited young painted faces, holding ratty, mismatched pom-poms and cheering on the Warriors. And while some of us may sit at glass-toped tables watching the sun go down,  you can bet your ass it’s something stronger than a chocolate milk in our hands.

Fast forward 8 years, and I’ve left that small town and boisterous hockey rink behind. I’ve gone from a town of 5,000 people to Canada’s largest city. Instead of the sprawling, four bedroom house I grew up in, I live in a 500 sq. ft apartment with “condo size” appliances and a view overlooking a questionable Chinese orthotics business. Every morning I board the impossibly crowded subway, venti starbucks in hand, and make my way to my office in the sky,  where I push paper all day and gaze down at the traffic-filled streets below.

It’s my last night of vacation here with my family in Nova Scotia, and I’ve just taken a shower and washed the last bit of sand from my hair.  As I prepare to trade in my swimsuit and the sweatpants from grade 9 I’ve been wearing all week in favour of suits and stilettos once again, I can’t help but feel a little sentimental and reflective. I know it’s not forever, that I’ll be returning soon, but every time I leave this place I feel like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind.

Figuratively, of course. Literally, there’s probably more of me, considering the amount of seafood and local cuisine I’ve enjoyed since arriving here. (Seriously. I’m like a bear preparing for hibernation.) Anyway, figuratively, a huge part of me will always be in Nova Scotia. My whole family lives here. As do my childhood friends. It’s the setting for most of my fondest memories.

Thinking about all of this makes me realize how alone I am now in Toronto. How my roots there extend no further than my local Starbucks on one side, and Holt Renfrew on the other. And it hits me- why did I leave this place?

This place they call “Canada’s Ocean Playground”. Where a four bedroom house costs less than a Toronto bachelor apartment, and the beach is never more than  a 20 minute drive away. A place where fresh seafood abounds, and there is so much fresh air and green space, it’s almost ridiculous. What’s wrong with me?

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate this before. I was never one of those kids who longed to “Escape”. In fact, I loved growing up in a small town. Being surrounded by family and community always made me feel secure and confident, like a big, warm (albeit, sometimes suffocating) embrace.

And then, when I hit my 20′s, something changed. When it came time to choose my career,  I found myself drawn by the bright lights, big city. With blind faith and ambition, I moved to a city I had spent a total of 5 days in my entire life.  Don’t get me wrong- I don’t regret my decision. In fact, it was probably one of the best of my life. I love living in Toronto- the culture, the food, the entertainment, the energy- it’s a constant source of inspiration, and I feel lucky to be there.  But it’s still not home.

I try to tell myself when I come back to Nova Scotia that nothing has changed. That it’s still the same place I knew and loved as a child. But inevitably, I notice that things are different. My young niece, a child at my last visit, now wears Katy Perry temporary tattoos and has a Justin Bieber poster hanging on her bedroom door. I’m surprised to learn that So and So has gotten married to So and So, securing the last remaining seat in this game of musical chairs we call life.  One by one, many of my favourite childhood establishments- including my high school- have closed up shop, victims of the dwindling, blue-collar economy. Overtaken by big box chains, the once charming, small town esthetic is slowly being replaced by suburban sprawl.

It sort of makes you feel like a displaced person-  living in a place that’s too new to call your home, yet feeling disconnected from the only “home” you’ve ever known.  Like the kind of thing they’d make a made-for tv-movie about. Or maybe the next installment in the Bourne series. (Probably not, though)

Anyway, I realize I’ve gotten pretty emo on you guys here, and that this post doesn’t even include a single gif of anyone making a stupid face, or any Real Housewives jokes. Sorry I’m not sorry for that. I was going to end by paraphrasing some John [cougar] Mellencamp lyrics, but although, like John, I was born in small town… I’m not quite sure whether I’ll die in a small town, too. I can tell you this though: I feel lucky to have grown up the way I did, and while I like where I live….I love where I’m from.

And if that’s not a song lyric already… it should be.

……..And just for good measure:

Question of the Day: Which do you prefer, small towns or big cities?

What Happens at Summer Camp Part 2: The Kangaroo Court is Now In Session

So when we last left off, I had just found myself on an unfamiliar (and receptionless) island with 6 other castaways and nothing but a prayer and way too many cosmetics to my name.

This is sort of starting to sound like the premise to Gilligan’s Island, isn’t it? Only, I’d make a horrible Ginger. I don’t know any celebrities, and there’s no way I could fashion an evening gown out of a tarpaulin from the S.S. Minnow. I don’t even own a coconut phone.

But I digress.

Since the grade 8 dance was already in full swing, we had just enough time to check out our beautiful, luxurious accommodations for the weekend:

Get ourselves “camera ready”:

Balance some bud light lime on our stomachs:

And take a quick siesta.

It’s a marathon- not a race, kids.

Since our costume packing was an epic fail, we decided to make do with what we had and go with a “denim” theme. Denim shorts. Denim jackets. Denim on Denim. Basically, we hoped to emulate this look as much as humanly possible:

Only in reality, we ended up looking more like this:

I think I’m smiling so hard because after four years, I finally learned how to use the self-timer feature on my camera.

Clearly some of us were more into it than others.

Finally, we made our way to the dance. As I looked around at all of the half costume-clad 2o and 30 somethings fist pumping and spreading body paint like a bad bout of influenza, I felt like I was walking into a beer commercial. Or an episode of Jersey Shore, maybe. But I had a choice: I could wuss out, or I could get into it.

So I got into it. I threw my denim jacket to the side, and proceeded to dance the night away until “Midnight Snack” was called. We all piled into the mess hall where table-length pans of nachos were  waiting for our consumption. If only my life could be like this every night.

Picked these two up from a hair commercial.

The next morning, I awoke to a violent, albeit somewhat familiar sound. Could that be a….. bugle? I thought. And indeed it was. Signalling the 7:30 am “polar bear swim”, to be exact. I looked over at my friend Caitlin who was pleasantly dozing away in the bunk next to me, wearing a fleece pullover, a winter toque, sunglasses and a contented smile. Obviously this activity was not mandatory. I covered my head with my duvet and tried to return to the warm arms of sleep while my still drunk excited cabinmates got their swimsuits on and headed down to the lake.

It wasn’t until the breakfast bell rang that I finally rose from my slumber. You can always count on food to mobilize a chubby girl.

We languidly made our way to the mess hall to find a full-on Caesar bar outside. I’ve never been much for the whole “hair of the dog” thing… especially Caesars. I mean, Clamato juice? Really? whose brilliant idea was it to put clams and tomato juice together.. and how high were they? but still, I appreciated the gesture. We headed inside to check out the breakfast spread. The kitchen staff of the camp had remained on for the weekend, and had prepared us a feast of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and mini pastries. This was a far cry from the gelatinous porridge mixture and stale raisin bran they served up for breakfast at the Jesus Camp I attended. If it had been like this, maybe my fat ass would have stayed for more than one summer.

After that we retreated to the dock where we layed out in the sun and tried not to die. The camp really was beautiful- like something straight out of a summer camp movie.  I mentioned this to one of my fellow campers who told me that indeed, the 1993 movie Indian Summer had been filmed there. Huh. It’s no Heavyweights…. but it’ll do I guess.

Soon, the lunch bell sounded, and we made our way back to the mess hall to feast on white-bread grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup and homemade cookies. AKA: heaven. We were just about to head back to the dock, when one of the “counsellors” stood on his chair and announced that “court was now in session”. Kangaroo court, to be exact, where campers were  put on trial for their “Crimes” against partying… I mean, humanity. The offender, some dude who wanted to leave early and go home to his wife and kids, was interrogated mercilessly by the “prosecutor” (who, sadly, was a real-life lawyer), before eventually being sentenced to… (dun dun dun) shave his chest.

Yeah. I don’t know either.

The afternoon included a steady lineup of activities including basketball, relay races and driving children’s Power Wheels off water towers.

Even though my participation was limited to strictly spectating, by the time the BMX bike jousting competition started, I was in need of a little R&R. So I retreated back to the cabin to read for a couple of hours.

You can take the girl out of the emo…..

When I got back, I discovered that everyone had been…”quenching their thirst” in my absence. I had no choice but to grab my novelty children’s sand bucket and jump in:

After that we hung around for a few hours:

Until it was time to get ready for the neon-themed “full moon party”. (Would you expect anything else?) We piled on all of our neon, drew all over each other with blacklight paint, and prepared to do it all again.

But sadly, I’m not quite the spring chicken I used to be. After only a couple of hours of awkwardly fist-pumping to house music, I was ready to call it a night. Luckily, one of my friends was feeling the same way, so we headed back to the cabin together.

I couldn’t wait to get my PJs on, wash off the blacklight paint, and get some much-needed sleep.

Little did I know, however, that my night had much, much more in store for me…….

Stay tuned for part 3- the dramatic conclusion to the Summer Camp series!!

Question of the Day: Can you party for more than one night in a row?

….Or are you an old lady like I am?