Royal Wedding Fever - Part Trois

Shortly after Wills and Kate tied the knot in jolly old England, we Canadian commoners found out that the Duke and Duchess would be making their first trip abroad to... wait for it.... Canada! And better yet, their first stop would be in.... Ottawa! Canada's Capital! And most importantly, WHERE I LIVE. Young, attractive British royalty in my 'hood yo!

Needless to say, I was deliriously happy with this news. I thought to myself: "We must prepare, prepare to Royal chase". That would mean some serious crowd surfing since the newlyweds would be in Ottawa on Canada Day, the only day of the year that Ottawa is a "hip" city and there's a huge street party downtown. And by huge, I mean tens of thousands of people show up. It then reverts back to its dull, civil servant laden self. Not that I don't love where I live, but I know Ottawa ain't one of the cool kids, if you get my drift...

Wills and Kate were scheduled to arrive at 2 pm on June 30 at the Ottawa airport, which happened without a hitch. Then they would make two public appearances in downtown Ottawa. However, I was stuck in a meeting all day. Imagine this, if you will. I was in an office building not 10 minutes away from their first public appearance at a war memorial. That hurts people. It cuts to the bone.

To add salt to the wound, my boyfriend and stepdaughter were free to go to the estate of the Governor General (the site of the Royals' next public appearance) where William would make his first speech to the Canadian people. Jealous much? You know it. My stepdaughter has photos, PHOTOS of William and Kate! And I was NOT THERE! Because I was WORKING! But I digress...

The next day, July 1st, was Canada Day, one of those rare days when Canadians get all patriotic and shit. We love our country but we have trouble showing it. Except on Canada Day. Then we're all like, "Hells ya! This country rocks!"

It's a national holiday so I was off for the day and free to hunt for a Royals sighting. We decided to head downtown for the noon show, an event William and Kate would be attending. We squeezed in a bit of shopping beforehand (what can I say, there's a mall on the way), then headed towards Parliament Hill around 11:45 am.

It was a mad house. There were people everywhere. It was a hot, sunny day. Sweat was beginning to form at my brow. We got down to business and dove into some serious crowd surfing. At this point, I would have been content to watch the show from the huge monitor set up for spectators on the street where we were located, just East of Parliament Hill. I assumed the Royals were already there.

But the closer we got to our intended destination, the more it dawned on me. We're walking along the street that Wills and Kate would have been traveling on, in an open carriage, on their way to the noon show. And they haven't come by yet. HOLY SHIT. Suddenly, there was a possibility we could see them IN PERSON. 

We walked a bit further, then staked out a spot behind a few rows of people. We couldn't see much except for the tops of people's heads and outstretched arms holding cameras. And this is why I have the best boyfriend in the world - he offered to hold me up on his back so I could get a better view. He is awesome. 

I did indeed get a much better visual. First, the security detail, a succession of sinister looking black cars with tinted windows came up the street. Hmm. Ok. That's cool. Then nothing. Then, more sinister looking black cars with tinted windows. Then nothing. I gave my boyfriend a break and jumped back down to my feet. Then, shortly thereafter, he tells me I'd better jump back on. Something big is coming. 

Sure enough, a legion of RCMP officers in official uniform on their horses turn the corner and come up the street, and then.... at first I only saw her red fascinator but I knew - I knew it was Kate. I lost all sense of decorum and started screaming: "Oh my God!". The horse driven carriage made its way up the street and at one point, Kate looked right at us as she smiled and waved and we cheered.

I don't have a photo since I cannot multitask. Fumbling with a camera while trying to seize the moment would have ended in disaster, I'm sure. We do however have my stepdaughter's photos and videos from the previous day to commemorate their visit. If I ask her nicely, maybe she'll share one with me and I can post it here.

I don't know why we're so fascinated with the British Royal Family but I was caught up in the excitement of it all, and to be in such close proximity of widely known people (celebrities, really) was a crazy rush. And just in case you were wondering, they look exactly as they do on TV and in print. Simply gorgeous. 

Dirty, cheatin' ho = famous

My boyfriend and I were watching TV the other night and someone mentioned the name Steve Nash. A big question mark appeared on my face and my boyfriend looked at me and said, "You know, Steve Nash. The Canadian NBA player." "Huh?" I responded. My boyfriend was in disbelief.

Apparently, this Steve Nash guy is a highly successful NBA player. Who knew? Then it dawned on me. I don't know him because he hasn't been at the centre of some scandal. He hasn't been exposed as a dirty, cheatin' ho so I had no idea who he was.

Mention the name Tiger Woods and, well, there's immediate recognition. Unfortunately, it's no longer for his prowess on the golf course. Or Magic Johnson. Although Magic has certainly redeemed himself over the years, the announcement that he was HIV positive and that this was most probably due to multiple sexual partners pretty much overshadowed his stellar NBA career.

Or Kobe Bryant. I wouldn't have a clue who this guy is if he hadn't been accused of sexual assault.

It's a bit sad really. If you're simply a formidable athlete with a great career and a relatively normal life, you could go virtually unnoticed in the media and no one would really know who you are. But misbehave in a most shameful manner and everyone knows your name. 

Of course, this trend applies to any type of celebrity, not only athletes. Anyone caught doing stupid shit is immediately catapulted to worldwide fame, or should I say infamy. The point is, those who stick in our collective consciousness are usually the ones who have irrevocably marred their reputation due to bad behaviour. 

This is somewhat disturbing considering we deify celebrities. These are our "heroes", the people we idolize and look up to. But why do we place these people on a pedestal? Because they can aptly dunk a ball in a basket or have their pretty face plastered on promotional material?

I admit, I'm just as celebrity obsessed as any other (although I now consider it research for this blog. What can I say, I'm a pro at rationalizing my addictions). However, on occasion, I do ask myself where our values lie and if they're not misplaced. Why is an athlete making millions while a school teacher is barely making a living?

Why are people like Kim Kardashian and Lindsay Lohan filling up magazine pages and airwaves while humanitarian crises barely get a mention? I mean, how important is Kim's latest boyfriend or Lindsay's most recent brush with the law? It's f*cked up. 

That being said, I spent last night watching The Bachelorette with rapt attention. In case you thought I was thumbing my nose at our collectively low standards. It's just food for thought, people. Food for thought.

Errant ramblings of the newly Jewish

Sidebar to my previous post: I tell my mother about my life-altering realization, that we're Jewish and all, and she calmly replies: "Oh yeah, I've been asked if I was Jewish before." Silence. "What!", I reply. All this time, she's basically kept my true identity from me. I'll be sending her my therapy bills.

And now, on to today's post...

Christopher Lloyd vs. Christopher Lloyd

For quite a few years now, I've thought that Christopher Lloyd, the actor, was also the highly successful screenwriter and producer by the same name. I thought to myself : "Wow, this guy is so low key, quietly producing hit shows like Frasier and Wings and co-creating Modern Family." He's a freakin' genius, and oh so humble about it.

You remember Christopher Lloyd right? Of Taxi and Back to the Future fame? Here's a little refresher:

Well, it turns out, they're two different people with the same name. All this time, I thought this guy was acting, writing and producing. Then I Wikied him and discovered that no, he's not the screenwriter / producer dude. He is indeed an actor and still working steadily but he's not the Hollywood powerhouse I had envisioned in my mind.

Of course, I don't want to tarnish Christopher Lloyd, the actor, or belittle him because he's not quite who I thought he was. He's a talented and successful performer. But I really cherished the thought of this crazy-haired dude also writing and producing some of TV's most memorable shows. Alas, it was not meant to be. There is another Christopher Lloyd and my world has been forever altered. 

Designer Deliveries

What's with celebrity starlets and their C-sections? It's like the designer brand of deliveries. Are vaginal births just, like, so passé? What are you saving your cooch for? The casting couch? Can't these ladies afford, oh, I don't know, a snatch tightening procedure after theirs has been stretched all to hell? 

Not that I encourage frivolous plastic surgery and there are some disturbing trends in labia rejuvenation and such. I just don't know that it's necessarily better to have your gut slit open and your uterus temporarily ripped out of your body to extract a new human being. 

I mean, you can still be all skinny and shit with a loose snatch. Apart from your lover, who's gonna know? And I'm sure it's just temporary if you're dedicated to a daily routine of Kegel exercises. You'll get that tight cooch back in no time, minus the abdominal scar. 

It used to be that C-sections were an emergency procedure in case of very problematic births. Now it's  trendy to "schedule" your child's birth and name it after some inanimate object. Go figure.

Fresh bowls

It's a small detail but one that brings me joy every single time I encounter it. A fresh bowl in a public bathroom. The seat is still up and no one's used it since it was last cleaned. Ahhhh. One of life's simple pleasures that never fails to delight me. 

'Cause, let me tell ya, the public washroom here at the office can get pretty scuzzy. Personally, I don't understand how someone can NOT notice a huge splotch of menstrual blood they've left behind on the seat, or a chunk of vomit or droplets of urine. This leads me to think most people were raised by wolves. Wait, I like wolves. Let's go with... hyenas. 

So when I come across a fresh bowl, all shiny and clean, it really makes my day.

OMG, I'm Jewish!

Yesterday started out like any other day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, I had my yoga pants on backwards while teaching a class ('cause I'm cool like that) and I discovered I'm Jewish.

Let me explain. I've always had what one might call a "prominent" nose. It has a certain curvature to it that's hard to miss. I was laughed at as a kid and have often felt self conscious about my schnoz. It's a family trait from my mother's side that I inherited. Case in point:

So, yesterday my boyfriend and I attended a Jewish / Catholic wedding. I know. You're thinking: "How is this possible?" It was also multilingual (English, French and Hebrew). I live in Canada. This kind of stuff happens all the time. But I digress. The ceremony was presided over by a female Jewish rabbi, or priestess or whatever they're called in the Jewish tradition. 

She was fabulous. Funny, classy, warm, beautiful, with the voice of an angel and a nose... like mine. I know, it's not politically correct to point out that Jewish noses are quite unique and easily recognized. But it's nevertheless true - it's a distinguishing feature of these fine people.

It was during this lovely ceremony, while watching this remarkable Jewess that it hit me - OMG, I'm Jewish. These are my people! No wonder I bailed on the Catholic Church - it was all wrong, like an ill-fitting dress. 

Now I have to figure out how to break the news to my French Canadian Catholic mother. It shouldn't be too difficult since she's pretty much abandoned the Catholic thing too. See, on some level, she knows too. 

I've decided that I'll need to do a full on search of my family history. I mean, how many French Canadian Jewish folks are out there? Actually, there could be quite a few. I really don't know much on the subject but I'm excited to find out.

However, if I decide to adopt the Jewish faith, I can't give up Christmas. If there's anything my Christian faith has taught me it's that those few weeks in December devoted to rabid consumerism, impossibly high expectations and superficial, awkward family shindigs are a must.

Bag of rusty nails > Paris Hilton

Funniest headline ever: "Paris Hilton Blames Network for Bad Ratings", found on Popeater. 

I can think of a few reasons why a show featuring Paris Hilton wouldn't get good ratings...

Paris is famous for being famous. And she garnered her fame after (surprise!) a sex tape of her and an old boyfriend mysteriously appeared on the Internet. 

Let's face facts here, Ms. Hilton, shall we? You're a talentless twat. You got famous because you got naked in front of a camera. 

I saw you on Piers Morgan the other night with your mommy, bemoaning the fact that there's a sex tape out there with you in it, and how your life will never be the same and how one day your grandchildren will see this tape because it's all over the Internet, and OMG, the shame! The shame! (Publicity stunt for your failing show perhaps? Hmm?)

You claim you were "betrayed" by your former boyfriend and that the tape got out without your consent? Honey, as soon as you decide to do anything ON TAPE, including things you wouldn't ever want your grandchildren to see, there's a strong possibility that, at some point in the future, someone other than you or your ex-boyfriend will see it, unless it's promptly destroyed. 

I get it. You're a has-been. Yesterday's news. So, like, two years ago. And now you're getting desperate, for attention, that is.

Newsflash sweetheart: No one cares who you're dating, what parties you're hosting or what kind of mindless drivel some hapless TV network let you produce. You suck, and now it's catching up with you. You're some made-up barbie who sounds like a complete moron every time you speak. You're an embarrassment to women in general. You represent all that is superficial and lame. 

And now your time in the spotlight is running out and you want to blame someone else? Well tough shit princess. We're sick of you and your dull debutante culture. If you have any shred of intelligence, now would be the time to showcase it 'cause pretty has taken you as far as it can.

If I were into chicks...

Last summer, my boyfriend had the brilliant idea of listening to books on tape, or disc or whatever while we were on fairly long road trips. If you pick the right books, this is an excellent way to pass the time during a prolonged vehicular journey. We were recently on one of these aventures de la route and carefully chose our selection of audio books.

First up, Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life. As I'm sure you've guessed, it's about her sexual adventures, and there are lots and lots and lots of them. Unfortunately, Chelsea herself doesn't narrate the book but after a couple chapters, the actress who was seemed to adopt the same intonations as Chelsea and it was believable. 

When it comes to Chelsea Handler, it was love at first sight. The first time I saw her was in a YouTube video on a celebrity gossip site. She was interviewing Jenny McCarthy and they were dissing Paris Hilton. It was one of the funniest, most irreverent interviews I had ever seen. I was immediately smitten. Who is this Chelsea person and why haven't I heard of her? 

I then found out she had a TV program called Chelsea Lately which was a full half hour of irreverence. I liked this girl. She had attitude, was completely silly, and didn't seem to take herself too seriously. 

A few weeks ago, I got a full hour of Chelsea on Piers Morgan Tonight and the bewitching was complete. Not only was she funny, but this chick was smart as a whip too. Smart, hot and funny. If I were into chicks, I'd want to sleep with Chelsea. But I'd want to marry Tina....

Which brings me to our second audio book, Tina Fey's Bossypants. I don't even know where to start. It was so f*cking good. Funny, sweet, heart-warming, clever, intelligent. This woman, I love her. She touches on various topics from her childhood to Saturday Night Live to 30 Rock to motherhood with her unique gift of being so goddamn entertaining. 

Tina herself narrates the audio book which makes it that much sweeter. It's like having a conversation with her, albeit one way only, but still. It's like she was in our car, regaling us with her many captivating tales. Wow... that sounds really corny, but I can't help myself. When it comes to Tina, I gush. I think if I ever met her in person, I might pee my pants. But I'm willing to chance it since our destiny is to be BFFLs (said the crazy, obsessed fan).

I'm not really obsessed but Tina and I are destined to be soul sisters. Just sayin'.

No honey, it's called Gigolos and it's a cable TV show, not porn.

The other night I had to kill some time since my boyfriend and stepdaughter were busy with non-TV related activities. So I perused my On-demand options and decided to give Showtime's Gigolos a try. I had read a brief article about the program and how it consisted of a good, honest look at this small group of upscale male prostitutes in Las Vegas.

How could I not be intrigued? 

So, I plunged in and watched the first episode. It went something like this: Ok, so far everything seems pretty normal. A camera follows these hot dudes around as they talk about their lives and their work. Oh, one of them is meeting a client. Ok, cool. That's kind of interesting. Oh holy Moses, everyone's naked and having sex, in front of the cameras. Ok, so that's how it's gonna be. Alright. I'm down with it.

The program also aptly shows the camaraderie among this group of five men, who treat each other as brothers and really have each other's back. It's sweet, and warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart. 

What I did notice after a few episodes was that the sex sequences all seemed eerily similar. The guys pound away like a hammer to a nail, and the chicks all make the same sex sounds and pretty much say the same things. I started to wonder if I was actually watching porn. 'Cause it was getting that cheesy.

I mean, the clients who somehow agreed to be on camera while having sex with male escorts (WTF?) were a pretty diverse group of women but after about three episodes, I could barely tell them apart. Once the action started, it sounded something like this, every time: Ooh, yeah, that's it, harder, ooh, oh, I'm gonna come. End scene. 

There were no crazy ass screamers or quiet, intense types. Just your standard porn soundtrack types. Except for that one who was honing her dominatrix skills. But I digress.

Then, there's this episode where one of them wants to come clean and tell his college buds about his unconventional career choice. The guys are all having a conversation about how they don't talk about what they do, and that their friends and family don't know how they make their living. Ummm, well, now you're ON TV. Secret's out boys. 

It's an intriguing premise, and I haven't quite finished watching all the episodes yet, which I plan to do, in the name of anthropological research. (You would too and you know it.) The irony is that the sex is the least interesting part of this show. The guys' individual stories are far more captivating than watching them bang yet another gal.

And finally, a note to the director(s): when it comes to those sex scenes, mix it up a bit 'cause everyone knows that porn sex isn't real sex. It's the stinky cheese of sex on tape. Go for something a little more authentic. Homemade is better than highly processed.