Another "Halloween" post? Not bloody likely!

Yep, it's that time of year again when everywhere I look there are articles about where to get the best Halloween costumes and which ones are "in vogue" this year. Well, I for one, do not like Halloween. Sure, as a kid, I enjoyed it immensely but as an adult, I loathe the day. 

I don't know why, I really can't recall when I became so dispassionate about this celebration but I don't like it. It rubs me the wrong way, unlike my vibrator. But I digress.

What excites me about Halloween is that when it's over, it's November 1st. Less than two months until Christmas. Only one month until I officially start playing my holiday music non-stop in the weeks leading up to Christmas. I only allow myself to start that on December 1st. Because I'm normal, if only marginally.

I'm a Christmas ho, yes I am. I think I actually enjoy the weeks leading up to Christmas more than the actual day. December 25 is kind of a let down. Anticipation eclipses the actual event. But the month of December for me is equal to smoking crack every day (not that I would know, but I'm guessing). I can't get enough of it.

The twinkly lights, the Christmas trees and garlands, the special Starbucks holiday lattés, the music. For a few weeks, it feels like I'm on a Disney acid trip. And who couldn't use THAT once a year? 

For me, Halloween is a rite of passage, to the rabid consumption, overeating and general drunkenness of the holiday season.

Errant ramblings of a morose mind

Today, I am decidedly uninspired. I really have nothing to say about the fact that Charlie Sheen was found drunk, naked and angry in an NYC hotel room. What's new? And they're paying this guy 2 million f*cking dollars an episode... whatever. I cannot dwell on this. I will get bitter. So, I thought I'd ramble aimlessly about a couple highlights of an otherwise uneventful week.

I have tasted the nectar, now there's no turning back...

My boyfriend and I were in a Future Shop or a Best Buy, or, you know, one of those big box electronics stores this past weekend to get a new router for our wireless internet at home. As soon as I walked in, I turned to him and said: "Um, I'll be over there." "Over there" was the iPod section. 

Before I had an iPod, which I only very recently acquired, I could not have cared less about the newest "i" products. But I dipped my toe in the pool, I drank the Kool Aid. There's no turning back. I picked up a demo iPod Touch and reverted to an infant discovering its own toes, reeling from overwhelming wonderment. 

"I want an iPod Touch for Christmas" were the first words out of my mouth when I found my boyfriend in the computer section. That deep, dark abyss of "I WANT" opened its gaping jaws and I gladly jumped in. I doubt there's any hope of escape.

When feeling stressed and generally antagonistic, go to Nordic baths 

There's this wonderful Nordic bath spa just outside Ottawa that we go to about once a year, although we always tell ourselves we should go more often. What are Nordic baths, you ask? Well, it's a succession of very hot, very cold, then temperate. 

For example, first you go sit in a steam room or dry sauna, then you run through a freakin' cold waterfall, take a dip in a cold pool and shock the shit out of your system; then you go rest in a normal temperature room or outside by a cozy fire. You then repeat the whole cycle about three or four times.

It was something we wanted to do for our anniversary and it was well timed. I've been feeling generally bitter these last few days. Not sure why, it comes in waves. I'll be fine for a few weeks, all gung ho on my The Secret positivity. Then, I'll crash and burn and get annoyed by anyone who crosses my path. Me: "Hey you! Over there, smiling, lookin' all happy and shit. Yeah, you! F*ck off!" You get the idea.

Well, going to this place is like a sucker punch from a Zen master. You WILL relax. This combination of hot/cold/temperate miraculously forces your tense body into relaxation and you get your groove back, for a while anyway. 

After only an initial 10 minutes in the steam room, I was all like "F*ckin' A, man. Oh, look at you, pretty little leaf, gently falling from a tree. You and me, we are One, man, we are One." Did I mention this spa is outdoors?

Anyway, my hostility has subsided somewhat, for today. Doin' some yoga after work tonight. That should buy me a couple of hours before I sink into another "menace to society" state.

Anniversary gifts - remixed

My boyfriend and I recently celebrated our third anniversary which got us thinking... You know that list of official anniversary gifts, like for one year it's paper, etc... Well, we thought we'd toy with it a little... 

1 year  = toilet paper - because real paper is dangerous. Ever get a paper cut? Those mo fo's HURT.

2 years = eraser - in case you're in a miserable situation and wanted to erase the past two years.

3 years = vaccum - 'cause, by this time, you're looking for new tricks in the bedroom.

4 years = body hair removal system - after 4 years, conditional love sets in, as in, conditional on getting that gross body hair removed.

5 years = an animal - to distract you from the fact that you've been with a hairy ape for five years.

6 years = cigarettes - you've lost the will to live a long life and are looking to shorten it any way you can.

7 years = anti-itch ointment. Must I state the obvious? 

8 years = knives - why should you have to slowly kill yourself with cigarettes when you can take out your partner in an "unfortunate accident involving a butcher knife".

9 years = she gets tickets to a UFC fight to remember what a mostly naked man looks like. He gets tickets to a Victoria's Secret fashion show to remember what a mostly naked woman looks like.

10 years  = domestic help. For her, this means a clean house. For him, this means someone else to fantasize about while making love to his partner.

15 years = hearing test to prove your theory that your partner suffers from "selective hearing", as in he/she selects not to hear you.

25 years = illegal drugs. 'Cause booze just ain't cuttin' it anymore.

30 years = lube. Let's face it, by this time you won't be able to have sex without it.

40 years = trial separation, in case you may have "missed out" on better things in life.

50 years = tombstone - 'cause you'll each have one foot in the grave, if you're lucky.

I say: Start 'em out young

There is really nothing more beautiful than a momma bear sacrificing her dear cubs to the gods of capitalism, and thus, to the greater good. 

Jennifer Lopez and her two children will be appearing in a Gucci ad campaign to launch the brand's new line of children's wear. Because children, who grow out of their clothes, like, every 24 hours, need expensive designer outfits for their play dates, scurrying about in parks, and spitting up on themselves.

You gotta start 'em out young - get their not yet fully developed brains to associate self-worth to certain ridiculously exclusive brands, and start obsessing about their appearance. This is how to mold the consumer of tomorrow. How else will we keep this market economy alive?

School is for suckers! Why not become mayor of Wasilla, Alaska instead?

Back in the early 90's, the fabulously original and quirky TV show Northern Exposure made me yearn to discover the great beauty of Alaska, as well as its inhabitants. Of course, my zeal for such an adventure has waned since, and more so since reading this headline and  accompanying article on Popeater.com: Levi Johnston: I don't need to be qualified to be mayor. Click here for the full article.

If you're not aware of the latest Alaskan political news, Levi Johnston (Bristol Palin's baby daddy) announced that he is running for mayor of the town of Wasilla, Alaska. Yes, it is the very town where the illustrious Sarah Palin made her political debut. Now, I could refrain from pointing out the obvious but that wouldn't be any fun, now would it. 

Levi's statement about the irrelevancy of qualifications really explains a lot. I wondered, for the whole duration of his presidency, how someone as grossly incompetent as George W. Bush could be president of the United States for eight f*cking years. Well folks, if the woman who ran for Vice-President in 2008 didn't need any qualifications to be mayor, I'm guessing you really don't need any to be elected to the White House. It all starts at the grassroots level people, don't ever forget that. 

As Levi stated, the only qualification needed is to live within the city limits of Wasilla for a year before a mayoral election. So, if you want to be President, I think the only thing that really matters is that you were born in the good 'ol US of A. 

Don't get me wrong, I dig Obama, and I think he's a smart guy but from what I hear in the press and from Americans I've crossed paths with in my travels, he hasn't done a whole hell of a lot and, so far, has disappointed many.

Memo to Obama: you cannot reason with lunacy, i.e. a Republican. You cannot all try to get along. You have to rip out that weed from the roots and show no mercy. That's what good Republicans do to Democrats. Playing nice ain't gonna cut it. If people like Levi Johnston can run for mayor, without any qualifications whatsoever or a platform, for that matter, you are operating in a political free for all, where any whino can stake his claim. 

Then again, Obama notwithstanding, maybe you need to be someone with no substance and severe delusions of grandeur to survive in today's political climate. 

Come on, I have "mayor" written all over me. No, I won't shoot you in the face. God, I'm not Dick Cheney. ( A loud shot is heard.) Shit! I didn't think it was loaded.

Whatever happened to Chanel no. 1 through 4?

Over the weekend, I saw a lovely documentary on French fashion icon Coco Chanel. From humble beginnings, she rose up to become one of France's most recognized public figures. Her life was not without its difficulties and heartbreaks but one cannot help but admire her self-assured demeanor and signature personal style.

The documentary also touched on her most well-known perfume, Chanel no. 5 whose label has not changed since its introduction approximately ninety years ago. This got me wondering, why number 5? What happened to numbers 1 through 4? Here are my theories on this all-important question:

 

As you can see, the bottle itself is quite "provocateur" what with its sensual red colour in the shape of female lips. As you can image, ninety years ago, this would be akin to photos of Britney Spears' snatch popping up everywhere. 

There was also a rumour going around back then that a gruesome murder took place because the husband said the bottle of Chanel no. 1 told him to make his wife drink it. When asked how this was possible, he replied that the bottle turned into a demonic smile and then spoke to him. It was also discovered that arsenic, in large quantities, does not a good perfume make.

Chanel no. 2 was poo-poo'd because of religion. Its bottle, in the shape of an apple, was very suggestive of the infamous biblical tale of Adam and Eve, where Eve succumbs to temptation and takes a bite out of an apple from the tree of knowledge, bringing sin onto the Earth. 

Also, Catholic priests did not like the purple colouring of the bottle, since purple is the colour of sexual frustration and denial. An alluring scent, bottled in the shape of a purple apple = unacceptable! The Church had spoken. Chanel no. 2 was out.

The designers of Chanel no. 3 were on acid. They stated that the bottle was a reflection of their Universal selves stretching out into eternity and that we were all One. 

Unfortunately, the bottle itself could not stand on its own and would tip over if not held up. A young salesgirl died when trying to put together a display of Chanel no. 3 in the perfumery she worked at in Paris. One bottle tipped over, causing a domino effect and they all broke, unleashing lethal amounts of nice smelling liquid. She was now indeed One with the Universe. And Chanel no. 3 met its untimely end.

 

Chanel no. 4 was very promising until someone discovered that if you held the bottle at a certain angle in sunlight, it divulged the secrets to wealth, success and world domination. The Vatican, as well as the heads of corporations worldwide led an unprecedented, coordinated effort to find and destroy all bottles of Chanel no. 4 before the enslaved masses discovered what they already knew. They had to protect their exclusivity and ridiculous wealth at all costs. 

To this day, there is an urban myth that only one bottle remains, hidden somewhere, probably under a church, and that it would take a university professor with an in-depth knowledge of symbols, accompanied by a much younger, attractive French girl to decipher the clues that lead to its location.

The Adventures of Abercrumbie and Futch

When we last left Abercrumbie, he was clandestinely gallivanting in the woods with Futch, his mistress, wife of the King, Queen of the land of undulating muscle and sun kissed skin.

Your face is pretty but I'm really checkin' out your boobs.

The King was enraged that his Queen would stoop to such a low level and publicly embarrass him, with his now former best friend, and so he sent his men, in all their sinewy beauty, to hunt down Abercrumbie and bring him before the King to answer for his crime.

Seriously dude. I have the best abs. No, I do. No, I do. You suck. No, you. No, you! 

Shut up. You shut up. No, you! No, you! (A loud smack is heard. Mission aborted.)

The King, upon hearing that his A-team did not fulfill their mission, decided that the time had come to use Chesty, his ace in the hole, his strongest and bravest man, reserved only for the most demanding and dangerous of tasks, to find the wretch who had stolen his beloved from him.

I will blind you with my perfect chest. You will bend to my will. 

Little did Chesty know that Abercrumbie was two steps ahead of him, and had planned an ambush along his route. Abercrumbie's motley crew waited patiently for Chesty to cross paths with them...

Dude, want some weed? We're like totally chillin'. 

We could like, stare at each other's perfect muscle tone.

Chesty could not resist Mary Jane's temptation or the opportunity to showcase his perfectly sculpted body. Upon getting word that his best and brightest had been thwarted by Abercrumbie, the King decided that this was a job that only he himself could do. He would pry his Queen away from that lying bastard of a former best friend. He gathered some supplies, and set out to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.

However, along a twisted, secluded path, the King met Colt, a forest creature of unusual allure...

Got pants?

The King pulled out a pair of expensive, brand name pants from his trendy knapsack and gave them to Colt. He was then invited to a forest creatures' Fall ritual (kegger) where there reigned general merriment and drunkenness.

 

 

 

The next morning, the King awoke,  bathed in the gaze of a forest creature...

Hey babe, last night was like, totally wild. You're an animal. Grrr....

Now faced with his own infidelity, the King decided to give up his search for Abercrumbie and Futch, conceding victory to his loathed opponent. 

 

Upon hearing word that it was now safe for him to roam about freely once again, Abercrumbie emerged from hiding and decided to suggestively display himself at the beach, after his publicist announced that he and Futch had broken up due to "irreconcilable differences".

Yes, I always rest my hand on my inner thigh. Doesn't everyone?

Spiritual accessories

Over this past (Canadian) Thanksgiving weekend, we had the privilege of visiting one of the most well-known and historically significant cathedrals in Canada: Saint-Joseph's Oratory in Montreal. It is a very sacred place, obviously, thick with religiosity. 

Many pilgrims the world over make their way to the Oratory to partake of a piece of Christian history, in the New World. (Ok, that's an assumption on my part but guessing from the amount of tour buses in the parking lot, I must be right.)

Then there was me. I had been to the Oratory many years ago on a school trip and remembered being in awe of architecture of such gargantuan proportions. This time around, my fun really began in the gift shop. To witness the commodification of religion was a surreal experience. 

And I, being the skilled consumer that I am, took full advantage of the opportunity to avail myself of spiritual accessories in the hopes of augmenting my chances of being admitted into heaven. 

Exhibit A: the Saint-Joseph Oratory pen

So that the words I write may be imbued with holiness...

Exhibit B: the Saint-Joseph Oratory Christmas ornament:

Because Christmas is all about presents, I mean, Christ.

... and Mary and Joseph not doing it, and having a kid. 

Exhibit C: the Saint-Joseph medallion pocket card

This is what it should have looked like...

Until I defiled it and cut out the medallion, thinking it was jewelery and that I had the perfect silver chain to put it on and DAMMIT why is it encased in plastic that I have to bite and pull and peel off to get my GODDAM medallion out?  Turns out it wasn't meant to be bling after all. It was a pocket card with a lovely prayer on the back, that I hacked to pieces, filled with lustful vanity because that medallion would look so good with most of my outfits. Will Saint-Joseph still protect me even if I cut out his medallion? That sounds dirty. Am I going to hell?

Operation Rescue Burberry Sunglasses

There are very few things I own that would cause me to emotionally break down if I lost them. My Burberry sunglasses are one of those precious items. 

A few days ago, as I reached for the case (covered in signature Burberry plaid fabric), and popped it open, my heart sank faster than a mob hit in the Hudson River. The case was empty. I had "misplaced" my cherished sunglasses. HOLY F*CK.

It's not only that I'm superficial and that these sunglasses are a prized status symbol; they are also imbued with emotional memory. I bought them when my boyfriend and I were on our first vacation together in Del Mar, California. 

Also, living in Canada, when someone asks where I got my fabulous shades, being able to tell them "California" makes me sound totally cool.

So, here I am, in a state of desperation and panic. Where the hell did I leave them? I retrace my steps from the previous day, and realize I've left my sunglasses at a yoga studio where I'd taken a class. 

As I walk into our kitchen and share my tale of woe, my boyfriend conveys to me the importance of finding and retrieving the sunglasses. If anything, because they were f*cking expensive. 

We need a plan. So, he hops on the Internet, where we take a look at the yoga studio's schedule and try to figure out when someone will be there next. Then, we enact Operation Rescue Burberry Sunglasses. 

As it so happens, there's a class at 10 am that morning. Someone will be there by 9:30 for sure. So, the plan is to head to the yoga studio, retrieve said glasses, and drop me off at work, almost on time. 

We get to the studio a little early and the entrance door is still locked. So, we decide to case the joint to see if we can spot my glasses. It briefly dawns on me that this may appear to the neighbours as highly questionable behaviour. But whatever, we're on a mission, and dammit, no one's gonna get in my way.

And then, oh sweet Mother of God, my boyfriend spotted them, sitting on a desk. Someone had put them there for safekeeping. Needless to say, I was ecstatic. 

Shortly thereafter, a teacher arrived for the upcoming class and unlocked the door. Moments later, I was reunited with my Burberry sunglasses, and all was right with the world. 

 Do I not rock those shades? Or maybe they rock me.

Diary of a Hollywood starlet

Last night, while watching the latest season of America's Next Top Model, during commercial breaks on Dragon's Den (yes, it was our "B" show, and yes, we have adult onset ADD), I was highly disturbed by the extreme thinness of the contestants. 

Sure, they sent one home for being too skinny a couple weeks ago but the current front runner practically disappears when she turns sideways. She is skinnier than a stick figure, and the judges were praising her latest photograph. Said in faux French accent: "This is high fashion. You own that picture." This got me thinking, and no good can come of that.

It reminded me of what seems to be every new Hollywood starlet's story. In that spirit, I present to you a photo diary of a Tinseltown ingenue:

I can't freakin' believe I got discovered! Although I knew it would happen sometime. I mean, look at me, I'm a talented, intelligent, gorgeous, self-assured, voluptuous woman. I ROCK.

Ok, so, um, lose a few pounds. Sure. I can do that. Actually, it's probably good for me. I was a little on the heavy side, and the camera adds like, ten pounds, so yeah, it makes sense. It's a healthy choice. Really, in the long run, it's what's best for me. It's not like it's gonna take over my life. I'm still focused on my career, and my craft.

I am WORKIN' IT! F*ck, I am hot. I haven't eaten in a couple days but I feel great! That Red Bull is kicking in. And smoking has really suppressed my appetite. I could run another mile but, oh God, I'm feeling faint. Gotta stop... out of... breath.... Maybe just a short break, then I'll hit the gym for the afternoon and burn off the celery stick I ate last Monday. What is that, like, 10 calories? Gotta work it off, gotta burn that shit off my thighs. I am a f*cking STAR!

Chewed some sugar-free gum this morning. Ran 2 miles. Had to stop. Head rush. Ran another mile. Had to stop again. Out of breath, heart pounding, feeling weak, might pass out. Could eat half a baby carrot. Then will have to go to gym. Damn paparazzi! They're everywhere! Did they get my good side? The one where I look really skinny in my sports bra and spandex? Do I look perfect? I'm almost there, I know it. Just a few more pounds, and I'll be perfect.

Perfect...

My girl crush ignites once again

Oh Tina. Last night, I was reminded of your brilliance. We hadn't watched 30 Rock in almost a year, since we only watch it on DVD. The fourth season was sitting there, by the TV, still in its shiny, plastic wrapping. After about an hour spent perusing the movies available on our On Demand service, and deciding that we had no desire to watch any of them, I said" "Hey, we've got Season 4 of 30 Rock!".

So I tore off the plastic, and plunked the first disc into our DVD player. And then all we had to do was sit back and enjoy. Damn, that show is good. It's better than good. It's so freakin' clever. Even after three seasons, it still astounds me how talented and funny and smart Tina Fey is. Yeah, I have a girl crush. Someday, we'll be BFFLs. I just know it. 

I'll probably meet Tina at my first Broadway opening. I'm guessing it'll go something like this:

Tina: I loved your show.

Me: OMG! Tina Fey! I'm like, you're biggest fan!

Tina: Ahh, that's so sweet.

Me: I've seen all the 30 Rock seasons, and Date Night, and Baby Momma. You are like, so awesome!

Tina: Thanks, that's really nice.

Me: I've always known we were meant to be BFFLs.

Tina: BFFLs?

Me: Best friends for life. It's our destiny.

Tina: Right. Umm, it was very nice meeting you. Good luck with the show.

Me: Listen, we should totally do lunch. I'm sure we'll have tons to talk about.

Tina: Yeah, I have to go. I'm sure I'll see you around.

Me: Why don't we schedule it now, you know, since we're both here.

Tina: I'm really not sure when I'm available. I'll need to ask my assistant.

Me: Oh, ok. Well, let's have a drink now! We should totally work on a project together, you know, as co-writers, especially since we're like, soul sisters.

Tina: That.... would be.... interesting. 

Me: Wouldn't it! I know! It's like we were destined to work together!

Tina: Sure... Listen, I have to go. 

Me: Oh, right. You probably have an early morning tomorrow.

Tina: Exactly. Early morning. You know how it is.

Me: I do, Tina, I do.

Tina: Ok... then... you'll have to let go of my arm.

Me: OMG! Am I holding your arm? I didn't even notice!

Tina: That's ok, I did.

Me: Right. Hey, what's your number? I'll put it in my phone.

Tina: Do you have a business card?

Me: Of course! Here you go. All my numbers are on there.

Tina: Great! Thanks. See ya.

Me: See ya! Call me! It's destiny!

(Tina hastily exits and calls the police.)

Glee fatigue

I hate it when this happens. When a really good, promising new show turns to shit. Glee had a great first season. Entertaining story lines, great musical numbers and colourful characters. Unfortunately, it's being crushed by the weight of its own success.

In its initial season, stories begat musical numbers. Now, episodes are built around songs or "themes". I watched this week's episode on our On Demand service and found myself fast-forwarding through most of the songs. A few lines of dialogue; then singing; repeat = zzzzzzzzzzz.

Glee got too big, too soon and is burning out faster than a two dollar hooker on payday. The characters now seem uninteresting; they've become caricatures of themselves. I blame the writers. I don't know what they're smoking but it's not the good kind. 

Lea Michele's character Rachel Berry was somewhat endearing in the first season. Now I just want to punch her in the face. Not to mention Lea now suffers from "lollipop syndrome" where her head is bigger than her body. Sadly, it appears that Lea caved to the pressures of Hollywood and has probably stopped eating altogether. 

Lea also performed the classic Britney Spears song One More Time and was dancing like she was made out of cardboard. Much to my surprise, it was awful. On the other hand, Heather Morris, who portrays dumb blond cheerleader Brittany rocked her Spears number. That girl can shake her thang and looks like a wo-maaan, if you get my drift.

Unfortunately, the writers are set on ruining her character. Brittany used to unleash a priceless zinger every once in a while, when we least expected it. That's what made her one-liners funny. Now, the writers cram as many as they can into one episode. Not funny. Desperate, more like. Which is too bad because I like this character. Or should I say, liked.

Artsy gay boy in "look at me, I'm gay" fashion = annoying; voluptuous black girl with constant sour look on her face = annoying; wheelchair-bound nerd = annoying; requisite slutty cheerleader = annoying; requisite bad boy jock = annoying. The writers need to transform these one-dimensional stereotypes into real people we actually care about. 'Cause I'll tell ya, right now, I don't give a crap. 

This show needs to be more story-driven and less focused on the bright spotlight placed upon it. Go back to your roots, Glee. Remember why you started in the first place because I think you've lost your way in the dense bog of sudden fame and fortune. Stop pandering and regain your artistic integrity. 

Memo to Glee writers: when in doubt, watch Once More With Feeling, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical episode (Season 6, episode 7). It will teach you all you need to know.

The one redeeming quality of this show is Jane Lynch. She's still funny and sassy and doggone it, I like Sue Sylvester. 

 Thank you Jane, for making me not entirely give up on Glee just yet.