Would this be considered ironic?

I ordered a new pair of scissors at work. My old pair had become inexplicably dull, seemingly overnight. I couldn't even cut paper with them! So I ordered a new pair and threw the old, no longer functioning set in the garbage.

Before I go on, I have a question: Why is it a "pair" of scissors? Are each of the blades, individually, a scissor? Doesn't sound right, does it? What purpose does one scissor serve? A scissor is nothing until attached to another scissor! I contend that until you put 2 individual scissors together to form a pair, their existence is pointless....like Bert without Ernie...or fries without ketchup....

So, I got my new pair of scissors today. I slipped the cardboard off the blades (presumably put on before shipping to prevent the blades from opening in transit and causing unimaginable injuries to the delivery person).

There was another hunk of cardboard wrapped around one of the places you put your fingers in to operate the scissors (do these have a name? I can't think of one. Scissor finger holes? Not very catchy....).

Anyway, this baffling piece of thick yellow cardboard, with no discernible purpose, was fastened together by what I can only describe as a metal grommet. No, I don't get it, either.

I tried to rip off the inscrutable chunk of cardboard. It wouldn't rip! It was fastened too tightly and the cardboard was too thick!

The only conceivable solution to removing the piece of cardboard from my new scissors would be to cut it off...

You see my dilemma.

To quote the illustrious Norm Peterson: It's a dog-eat dog world, Sammy...and I'm wearing Milk Bone underwear...

Strange Things Are Afoot at the Circle-K

That's blatant lie. We don't even have Circle-Ks in Toronto. But ever since "Be Excellent to Each Other" left the lexicon at the dawn of the 1990s, I so rarely get the opportunity to pepper my speech with Bill- and/or Ted-isms, I thought we'd all get a nostalgic kick out of titling my post thusly.

Regardless, there are strange things afoot, just not at the Circle-K. Actually, that might be an inadvertent untruth, too. There may very well be strange things afoot at a Circle-K, somewhere in the world, so I really shouldn't be spreading any "all is well" rumours unless I receive some on-the-scene witness verification on that. I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, the oddities to which I'm referring are taking place in High Park.

Yesterday, I started my walk home, entering the park from the northeastern tip of the park, near the Keele Subway station. As I entered the "woodsy" area, something shiny caught my eye. Much like a brand-new puppy, I'm easily distracted by shiny objects and I scampered over to investigate.

There was a piece of jewellery hanging on the lower limb of a pine tree. It was quite a pretty necklace, one I'd actually wear. I kept walking by the tree and noticed ANOTHER necklace hanging on another branch--accompanied by a lovely pair of earrings! Then I realized there was a third, incredibly tacky necklace, adorning yet another branch!

Obviously, these discoveries were perplexing. Typically, when you happen upon something in the park that's not normally found in nature, it's garbage..coffee cups, cigarette butts etc. (Yes, despite the fact that there are plenty of receptacles conveniently located through the park, it is still perpetually littered with trash). So to see several pieces of jewellery hanging on a tree puzzled me immeasurably!

I came up with several possible explanations, none of which seem plausible...

—A local family can't wait to begin Christmas celebrations. Their tyrant father won't allow any Yuletide talk until December 10th. As such, they've chosen to decorate a tree in the park, with inauspicious trinkets that they were able to remove from the home without arousing any suspicion.

—These pieces of jewellery were found in the park, inadvertently lost and/or left behind by previous visitors. Benevolent hikers happened upon the jewellery and hung it on the universally known "Lost Jewellery Tree". Though not publicized, this particular tree is known to one and all as the park's "Lost and Found" area. If you ever lose something in the park, check the tree!

—A secret admirer of mine is trying to get my attention. Every day he/she hangs a new piece of jewellery on the tree, hoping to catch my attention, whilst lurking in the bushes, surreptitiously spying on me as I walk home. Should I one day take the shiny bait, he/she plans to jump out of the bushes declaring their love/lust in hopes that we'll live happily ever after.

I dunno. I heard there was a movie shooting in High Park yesterday, so perhaps it was related to the production.

Anyone else have any ideas?

Extra! Extra! Newspapers & Me: My Daily Dilemma(s)

I love newspapers--I always have.

Part of it is that I simply need to know what's going on the world. If I don't, I float through life with a vague but nagging sense of foreboding niggling at my gut, like a junk food hangover.

But my love of newspapers is so much more than that...it's practically an obsession...My anticipation prior to opening a brand-new, unsullied newspaper is palpable. What might I find inside? Who knows?! It could be anything!!

Oh, it's terribly exciting...

I'm sure I inherited my affection for newspapers from my dad--the same way I inherited his penchant for physically assaulting people who dared to read his newspaper before he'd had a chance to do so. He just HAD to be the first person to read his paper and I, too, possess this adorable quirk. (Hey--one man's annoying vice is another man's adorable quirk..).

When I was growing up, if I dared to read my dad's paper before he'd done so, no matter how cautious I was in taking the sections apart, no matter how gingerly I turned the pages and no matter how carefully I reassembled the paper when I was finished--somehow, he ALWAYS KNEW it wasn't the pristine, untouched newspaper to which he'd been looking forward!

Anyway, I still love newspapers.

However, as someone who is a big fan of the environment (in general) and of trees (specifically) consumption of news in paper form is an awfully cavalier & careless habit. I know that sounds weird, coming from someone who was raised in a town whose entire livelihood was dependent upon a paper mill, but that's just how I feel.

*shrug*

Hence, one of my newspaper dilemmas: The crushing guilt associated with enjoying them.

In deference to the environment (and the fact that it's a readily accessible and relatively up-to-date source) I generally access newspapers & magazines online. It's not as satisfying as reading a real paper, though. Something about the tactile-ness of holding the paper in your hands and turning the pages and perpetually sporting newsprint smudges on one's face is just incredibly fulfilling to me, more so that pressing "Refresh".

The only problem is that I still need to do my crossword every day. And for that, I need a real paper!

People have suggested that I can purchase a crossword puzzle book or do crossword puzzles online, but I'm not interested in these solutions. I have no interest in doing a crossword in a puzzle book--I'm only interested in doing the daily crossword from the newspaper (on the day the newspaper is printed). I know it's weird, but we've already established that I'm full of adorable quirks, so you shouldn't be surprised. I generally won't read a newspaper after 3 pm, either, because by then, it's not news anymore. So? Wanna make something of it?

This brings me to my NEXT newspaper dilemma: Which paper to buy?

Here's the issue: I normally read The Toronto Star. It's better written and less trashy than The Sun. It's nowhere near as arrogant & pretentious as the Globe & Mail. And, unlike the National Post, every single article isn't an editorial.

The problem is that the crosswords in The Star SUCK! They're just way too easy...where's the fun there?!

I like to do the New York Times crosswords...they're the most challenging and they (ostensibly) get harder and harder each day of the week (Monday = easiest, Sunday = most challenging). Though my own experience is that though I can usually complete Monday, Tuesday, Thursday & Friday's crosswords, I seem to have some sort of mental block about Wednesday's (either that or the folks over at the Times like to amuse themselves by slipping in a ridiculously hard puzzle on Wednesdays, just to mess with peoples' heads).

Unfortunately, the only local paper that carries the New York Times crossword is the Toronto Sun.

This makes no sense to me--the Sun is the "lowest common denominator" paper. It's the least high-brow, the one with the "Sunshine Girl" on the back page, the one most likely to run salacious and/or exploitative headlines and stories. It's the tabloid paper.

Yesterday, the cover story was a full-page picture of O.J. Simpson under the headline "The Juice is Loose!"...Really? This was REALLY the BIGGEST story in Toronto yesterday? O.J. Simpson being granted bail for some alleged robbery/altercation in Las Vegas?

*rolls eyes*

I'm not implying Sun readers are stupid, I'm just assuming (however unfairly) that, demographically, folks who buy the Sun are likely more interested in the 47 pages of Leafs coverage, and the scantily clad Sunshine Girl, than the New York Times Crossword.

My dilemma is that I don't want people to see me buying the Sun. It's embarrassing! I don't want people to think I read The Sun...

I know, I'm a newspaper snob. I can't help it!

For the time being, my problem has been solved...my boss has all the local papers, and papers from several other cities, delivered every day, in order to conduct ad tracking. And every day, I surreptitiously steal the crossword page from the Toronto Sun.

Ah, life is good.

There's something wrong with me.

To whoever is reading this and thinking "Yeah, we've known that for years" in response to the title of this piece: Shut yer pie-hole, smartass!

Anyway, I need to confess my newest affliction: Ridiculously odiferous feet.

You may think this is funny, but it's NOT! My feet REEK! The odour being produced doesn't seem humanly possible!

I'm extremely concerned. I don't know if this is a legitimate medical problem. If I go to the doctor complaining of uber-stinky feet, will he laugh? Will he be able to assist me? Will I be shunned and ostracized, even moreso than usual?

It's truly embarrassing. It's also becoming a painful & dangerous distraction. You know there's trouble when the stench eminating from beneath your desk from YOUR OWN FEET is causing headaches, nausea and spontaneous ADD.

I don't know what to do...I guess, if we look at the "cup half full (of stink)" version of this, I actually now have a useful weapon at my disposal, should I need one (assuming, of course, I can unsheath said weapon--i.e. remove my shoes--swiftly in case of emergency)....

Cycle of Life?

Yesterday, as I often do, I got off the subway at Keele station and walked home through High Park. It was a gorgeous fall day...crisp, not too cold, sun shining brightly...all kinds of folks out enjoying the park, walking their dogs or spouses...

I was walking along, taking it all in, snapping a few photos, watching the multiple squirrels frolicking playfully and, truthfully, considering doing some frolicking of my own (I do love a good frolic!)...basically, I was just revelling in the beauty of nature and my good fortune to live in such a great place.

A woman was walking ahead of me, clearly just arriving at the park, and she let her dog, a fluffy, little terrier, off its leash and started walking down the sidewalk/trail towards the pond.

Keep in mind, this is not in a "Dogs Off Leash Area"....It doesn't normally trouble me when folks have their dogs off their leashes in non-mandated areas, as long as the dog in question is well-behaved/controlled and not prone to vicious attacks.

Suffice it to say, this dog was not well-behaved.

As soon as the dog was released from her leash, she took off after a squirrel, who immediately ran up a tree. The dog actually CLIMBED the tree (I shit you not) and the squirrel went crashing to the ground with a THUD!

I gasped and covered my mouth...I'm not sure if my reaction was in response to the squirrel crashing to the ground, shock that I witnessed a dog climbing a tree or split-second, psychic anticipation of what was to come...

The dog's owner frantically tried to control her pet by yelling at the dog in a desperate and scolding tone, "Mildred! Bad dog! MILDRED! STOP! MILDRED!"

I must interject with a puzzled query: Who names their dog "Mildred"? But I digress...

Anyway, the owner kept yelling at Mildred, but did not approach the melee. As soon as the squirrel fell to the ground, Mildred ATTACKED and within seconds the squirrel was dead. It was grotesque.

I was appalled and walked rapidly away from the murder scene. I'll be honest, I was a little shaken, even though I've never had any particular affinity for squirrels.

After I'd walked what I thought was a safe distance, I stopped to put my camera back in my bag and it was then that I realized I was being followed...Mildred the Hit Dog was trotting behind me (her human companion nowhere to be seen) proudly displaying her limp prey clenched in her jaws...

As my dad would have said, "Don't fret, doll, such is the cycle of life..."

But does it have to be so friggin' gross?

I have developed an immunity to iocane powder.

What the hell is wrong with the top newspaper on a stack? Am I an utter fool for taking the top copy all these years?

Please, if there is something inherently wrong with the top paper, fill me in...clearly, this was an important lesson that went untaught in my household.

Of course, in my day-to-day life, if I encounter something blatantly wrong with the top copy of a paper, like a big stain or rip, something that would obviously impede my enjoyment of that particular copy, then I choose a different copy....but there are many, many people (MOST people, if my lifelong observations are an accurate reflection of this particular peculiarity) for whom taking a copy OTHER than the top copy is a NECESSITY!

Why. Whywhywhywhywhy. Please, I implore you: Give me the answer. I simply must know.

The only thing that I can fathom is that these people live life by the rules as described by Vizzini in The Princess Bride...i.e. ".... only a great fool would reach for what he was given."

Am I a great fool?

Eek!

I have suffered from arachnophobia for my entire life. I know it's illogical, but that doesn't make it any less palpable and debilitating.

This morning I encountered a gargantuan spider in my bathroom. For those of you who've been to my apartment, my bathroom is, approximately, the size of a postage stamp--as such, there really isn't room enough in my bathroom for me and a spider, especially one roughly the size of a Volkswagon.

I saw the spider. I screamed and jumped and hit my elbow on the towel rack (see above re: infinitesemal size of bathroom). The spider crawled menacingly toward me...I continued screaming and plotted an escape route. My goal was to get out of the bathroom without allowing the eight-legged minion of Satan the opportunity to attack me.

Unfortunately, my creepy nemesis wasn't in a position whereby I could vanquish him with The Big Shoe ("The Big Shoe" is, of course, a giant, heavy shoe, which I wield to kill bugs. Since I could not kill the spider with The Big Shoe, I decided to kill him with Oxyclean. Even though I've killed spiders with Oxyclean before, I approached the task with trepidation..I'd never seen a spider this large before and suspected it might be impervious to the death rays of the Oxyclean.

I doused the stupid thing with Oxyclean. I spritzed furiously. He curled up in a little ball, seemingly powerless to the oxygenating power. Victory!!!

But I wasn't going to celebrate...not yet...

I proceeded to get ready for work...applying deodorant, drying my hair etc....but always with an eye on the spider. I suspected he was simply PLAYING dead so I'd be lulled into a false sense of security and then he could attack when I was least expecting it!

Sure enough, the spider was not dead.

I re-Oxycleaned him. He still didn't appear dead. I tried to smoosh him with the bathroom scale...but I was too scared to move it to confirm his demise.

I don't think I can go home now. He's going to be pissed.

My Toast-Making Ability is Compromised!

This weekend, I was cleaning the toaster and accidentally scrubbed off some of the numbers from the toast-o-meter (I assume it's called a toast-o-meter..you know, the dial where you choose the level of toastieness you like..)...

I wasn't even scrubbing that vigorously...it just came off!

Does this mean I'll never get bread to a level 4 toastiosity? 4 is the best level!

PULL UP YOUR DAMN PANTS!*

*Must be yelled in precise Cletus (from the Simpsons...duh..) fashion.

As in, "Hey..I can see my ma from here....MA! GET OFF THE DAMN ROOF!"

Anyway...my inquiring rant today revolves around the cultural phenomenon that is males wearing their pants hanging down anywhere from just below butt level, all the way down to knee level..

What gives??

When I first started noticing this trend, I thought to myself, "Hey, it's just a fad...a completely STUPID fad..it won't be around for long.."

That was YEARS ago!

Am I just too damn old to appreciate this particular fashion/cultural statement?

I don't know about that.

I mean, I wore some pretty stupid stuff that was "in style"...

• Leg warmers (though where I grew up, they were actually functional);
• Jeans with multiple safety pins at the bottom of each leg rendering each leg of the jeans as skinny as possible at the ankles--a FANTASTIC look, by the way;
• Bodysuits--whose fucking cruel idea of a joke was this??! Not only were they NOT flattering on ANYONE, they were absolutely impossible to get done up by yourself after 7 or 8 drinks (Keep in mind, these were in style when I was in university. I have photographic evidence that I will be burning as soon as I get home).

Regardless of my numerous fashion faux pas that I continue to commit on an almost daily basis, I still declare the whole "pants-falling-down" look as nothing short of idiotic.

Why is it so stupid? Well, it's dangerous!!

What if you were being chased? You couldn't run! You'd fall right over! It's like binding your knees together with a pair of pantyhose (don't ask how I know this) and trying to run. You would never be able to escape if you were being chased by someone.

I was sitting on the bus the other day and there was a guy standing in front of me with the ass of his pants at his knees and I realized that if he turned around, his junk would be right in my face, with only a pair of underwear (with a potentially capricious flap for peeing) and a sweater between me and his man-meat. This alarmed me tremendously.

Then I realized, the positioning of the jeans leaves a man's nether-regions ENTIRELY exposed. I mean, I know a pair of jeans isn't equivalent to an athletic cup, but it certainly offers more protection than wandering around the city in cotton underpants.

And if you're being chased, and you try to run, and you fall down due to your stupid pants' positioning, or if the person chasing you decides to tackle you, you're going to fall down and your genitals will be easily accessible to the person chasing/tackling you--particularly troubling if the reason they were chasing you was to get their hands on your sausage.

Maybe someone can explain this to me.

Maybe I have an unhealthy preoccupation with being chased.

Either way, pull up your damn pants.

Oh, My Broken Back...and Bed....

So, my bed broke. Yup. Broke.

No, nothing fun was going on. Unless you consider "sitting gingerly" to be a fun activity...

And, no, I have not gained a tremendous amount of weight rendering normal furniture unable to bear my gargantuan girth.

It just broke!

Granted, it's an IKEA bed that's almost 10 years old, so I suppose it should have been expected.

That being said, having a broken bed at the same time as a broken back is just cruel and unusual punishment.

As for my broken back, it keeps tricking me...feels better one day, then horrible the next...these set-backs are really depressing (Get it? Set-backs? Set-BACKS? Bahahahahahahaha! I'm hilarious. That's it: I'm taking my act on the road).

Anyway, the stupid screw things that hold the stupid metal support things to the stupid wooden bedframe thing came out, ripping the wood, resulting in an unsalvageable bed.

I suppose if I had power tools, I might have tried some sort of MacGyveresque fix-it job.

Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to own and/or operate power tools. I tried to buy a drill once and the guy at the counter referenced a big poster on the wall with my picture on it--Top Ten People to Whom You Must NOT Sell Power Tools.

Who knew? I mean, I know I have a propensity for clumsiness, but I didn't realize the danger I pose to myself and society had reached the hardware-selling community at large.

So my mattress now sits on the floor. I feel like I'm regressing in age. Although my behaviour has always belied my true age, I had some "stuff" that was representative of my supposed adulthood (wrinkles and gray hairs notwithstanding)....a vehicle, a bed, more than one room in my apartment... I have none of these things anymore!

Next time you see me, I'm likely to have only milk crates as furniture and a kitchen full of Kraft Dinner and cheap beer.

Help me!

Oh, my aching back.

I really messed up my back.

It's my own, fault, though, really. I now know that cleaning out the lint trap in one's dryer and then subsequently tossing the lint into the garbage can is a hazardous activity. Taken in a larger context, I do believe this is a sign from the universe that all forms of housecleaning are dangerous and should be undertaken sparingly, if at all.

Heed my warning...laundry is, literally, a back-breaking chore. Tidy at your own risk.

I really hate Christmas.

The ubiquitous, nauseating holiday music.

The co-workers' cubicles adorned with so much tinsel, garland, ornaments and other cheap, Christmas crap that it looks like some dime-store Martha Stewart is conducting a "You can't have too many tacky decorations!" seminar.

The constant queries..."Got your holiday shopping done?" "Ready for the holidays?" "Is that a carrot in your stocking or are you just happy to see me?"

The endless holiday specials on television...Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Santa Drank My Imodium...etc...

All these annoyances pale in comparison to the proverbial straw that broke the Christmas camel's back..an incident that shall henceforth be known as...

THE CAROLLERS IN THE CAFETERIA

Yes, you read that correctly.

Outside the cafeteria in my office building today, there was a quartet of Christmas carollers regaling us with all the Christmas classics, in four-part harmony, attired in period clothing straight out of Dickens!

For a split second, I tried to revive myself, assuming I was trapped in a horrific nightmare.

But, alas, it was, in fact, really happening.

I couldn't help but wonder*, how did my company find this musical combo? I've never seen an advertisement for "Carollers for Hire," have you? It's really got to be tough to make a living at this in, say, April....

*"I couldn't help but wonder..."....my homage to Carrie Bradshaw's patented segue...she uttered this phrase at least once in every single episode of "Sex and the City"....

Only 13 more days until Christmas...praise Dionysus, all hail Bacchus...pass the vino...I'm gonna need it..

Four-Piece Carolling Combo for Hire

Available for weddings, birthdays, funerals, Hanukkah parties (not recommended), retirement parties, boat shows etc.

Familiar with all Christmas carols; yodelling, tap-dancing and/or lap-dancing available upon request.

Diet Coke vs. Diet Pepsi

Yes, I am so desperate for a blogging topic that I am resorting to "cola wars" to fill the space...

I was a Diet Coke fiend for many years, as are/were most of my girlfriends.

In fact, my friend Gill is so adamant about the supremacy and superiority of DC (as we lovingly called it), that she angrily reconsiders our friendship whenever I mention that I now prefer Diet Pepsi.

But why do I listen to Gill? She smells bad. And lives in hell..er..L.A...What does she know?

Anyway...I loved Diet Coke and believed I always would.

When I started working for a (now-defunct) movie theatre chain back in '01, I was disheartened to learn that they were a Pepsi company. All of their pop machines were stocked with Pepsi products. Whatever was an aspartame addict with a penchant for Diet Coke to do??!

I could have ventured out to procure Diet Coke, or I could have brought it from home, but I was enticed by the relative proximity of the Pepsi machine and the allure of paying a mere 50 cents per pop--a great deal! As a result, I grudgingly started drinking Diet Pepsi...I wasn't happy about it, but I will admit to enjoying all that extra change jingling around in the bottom of my back-pack.

One day, a few months into my tenure at this company, we ordered lunch from a pizza place that served Coke products. Huzzah! Diet Coke for Julesy! Woot-woot!

I was breathless with anticipation.

When lunchtime and pizza arrived, I hungrily threw aside the pizza boxes and tore open the plastic bag--cruelly tied with an impenetrable knot--that entrapped the beverages.

The satisfying "fzzzt" when I cracked open the Diet Coke was almost orgasmic.

*glug*glug*glug*

Something was horribly wrong. The Diet Coke tasted AWFUL!

"Something is wrong with this Diet Coke! It tastes like ass!" I cried in terror.

One of my co-workers took the can of pop from my hand, took a whiff and then took a tentative sip.

"There's nothing wrong with this pop. It tastes just like Diet Coke," she pronounced quizzically.

I frantically grabbed another one from the bag, opened it and took a drink. It, too, made me retch.

The realization that I had slowly become addicted to another brand of pop washed over me like a carbonated, low-calorie, tidal wave.

Years later, Diet Pepsi remains my preference.

Perhaps they use addictive ingredients culled from the rainforest that, if used for good (rather than cola-related evil), could cure a multitude of diseases.

But, for now, I'll just sit back and enjoy an ice, cold Diet Pepsi and try not to think about it.

*$@! You

How do you feel about people who use a lot of foul language?

It seems some people negatively judge others who regularly pepper their speech with expletives (or who seem to rely solely on derivatives thereof for their adjectives and adverbs).

Even I do it...when I hear someone who swears a lot, I think, "Is that really necessary?"

Which is fucking retarded, since I'm as big a potty-mouth as the next guy--if "the next guy" is a truck driver.

Wait--I messed that up--what I *meant* was, I'm as stinky as the next guy--if the next guy is a Merrickville farmer.

But I digress...

Anyway, my point is, that I swear a lot...exemplified by the fact that when I was in Grade 7, my dad told me (and not in a "fatherly pride" type of way) that I had "worse language than a truck driver." And my dad busted truck drivers for a living, so you can be sure he was on the receiving end of more than one expletive-laced tirade from them.

True, swearing is pretty lazy language usage--can't I come up with a more descriptive adjective than "goddamn"? Am I that unintelligent?

Is the judgement based on the fact that swearing is viewed, historically, as the language of the plebs? The vernacular of the uneducated or unsophisticated? Unabashedly uncouth?

Ah, who gives a shit....Vive la pottymouth!

Happy fucking holidays, assholes!

Love,
Julia

Utterly Depilitated

Ladies, how many of you are amazed and appalled, on an increasingly regular basis, by odd, unwanted hair(s) making appearances in strange places on your body... ??

Older women, who I can only assume are trying to make me cry, assure me that, as you get older, the frequency with which these interlopers appear increases AND the hairs get more thick and/or disgusting.

Thanks, for that, ladies. God knows I love those little perks that come along with aging...

I was in my early twenties when I first encountered an odd, out-of-place hair on my body. A lone, dark hair appeared on my right boob (aka "Righty"). Turns out, if left unattended, this particular hair will grow unabated to astounding lengths--a medical marvel, really! So, it wasn't all bad..I contacted Guiness, but they didn't seem impressed...losers....

Anyway, this hair wasn't really that big a deal, easily rectified with a quick pluck, nothing more than a minor annoyance.

I had girlfriends in high school (of Italian descent) who, unfortunately, had to have their substantial moustaches waxed or bleached before they even turned 16. Ugh. That had to suck.

And I always secretly felt superior in that regard--I may have had zits, and a boatload of other teenage problems, but at least I didn't have a moustache! Hahaahahahahaha!

And that, my friends, is just how karma works...call it karma, call it the Fates, call it "I told you so-itis"...whatever it is, the cosmos saw me gloating and decided that I, too, should know the pain of female facial hair.

For a long time, I resisted the idea that I had facial hair. "It's blonde," I thought, "No one can see it..."

Then one day I saw a woman with a very thick moustache that had been bleached--and, oh--you could see it, alright....

I realized the time had come to take action.

I purchased my first "home wax" kit. I was not without trepidation, but I felt I had no alternative.

Lo and behold, the moustache wax went well! I felt free, like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders (or, more accurately, my upper lip)...

I realized I could also use this wonderful wax to remove the hair from other areas of my face...I mean, I'm not a cave-woman, I might as well have an entirely smooth visage, yes?

Unfortunately, my cheeks didn't respond as well to the wax as my moustache area* did and I broke out in a heinous, persistent rash. :( Oops.

-------------------------

*Moustache Area: The area where the moustache goes. This area doesn't have a name, to my knowledge. I sometimes hear it referred to as the "upper lip", but that makes no sense to me--isn't the "upper lip" the one above the "lower lip"?

Anyway, I hereby christen it The Moustache Area...which, incidentally, would also be a great name for a gay bar in the 70s....

--------------------------

The last time I attempted the waxing was several months ago. My five o'clock shadow was telling me that it was once again time to take action.

I thought, "Hey, why not try this 'Nair for Facial Hair' stuff?"

I, of course, didn't make the connection that if my skin is super-sensitive to waxing, it might not be the best idea to slather on a toxic lotion designed to uproot hair so it can be easily wiped away (and proceed to leave it there for 3 to 10 minutes).

So I decided to give it a shot!!!

As I was marvelling at the ease with which the hair just wiped right off my face, I noticed a bit of redness on my right cheek. Then I noticed that the more hair I wiped with ease, the more redness, tingling and--omigod!--burning ensued!

The instructions that accompany the Nair do mention a "slight" risk of "irritation" and they suggest that, even though the Nair product is FULL of moisturizers and emollience, that you should also use your own moisturizer following the application of the Nair.

I tried to apply my own moisturizer to my rapidly and increasingly reddening, blotchy, burning skin.

Yeah, no go.

The second the moisturizer touched my skin it was as though I was pouring lemon juice on a paper cut imbedded in a third-degree burn.

So I slathered my face with Polysporin (this was painful, but I figured I had no choice at this point, I needed to heal) and tried to get some sleep.

It's not so easy to sleep when your face is on fire and you fear you're going to wake up looking like something out of a horror movie.

I'm hideous! Look away!

But, on the plus side, I don't have any hair on my face.

Grammatical Pet Peeve of the Day

Those who know me, even peripherally, are well aware of my obsession with good grammar. I truly believe it is one of my missions to assist in saving the rapidly devolving English language in any small way that I can.

As lofty as this goal is, the best I can usually do is to surreptitiously correct my boss's emails, presentations, announcements etc. or to silently stew over poorly composed advertising copy.

Tip: An apostrophe NEVER MAKES IT PLURAL.

So, for the company currently advertising in the Toronto subway system about how they can get me out of debt (allowing me to rejoin the "have's"), please take note.

I'm not a stickler for everybody's grammar--if you send me an email, replete with spelling errors and grammatical missteps, I'm not going to think less of you or mock you (unless I'm feeling particularly saucy).

There are, however, people who should be held to a higher standard. People who should know better, based on their particular stations in life. People to whom proper grammar should be second nature and whose very livelihoods are based on their alleged expertise in these types of matters.

Journalists, for example, should not only be aware of proper grammar themselves, but the people in their employ whose job it is to check their work to ensure it's correct, should be even more well-versed in its application! Editors, copy editors, proof-readers etc. should be beyond reproach in this realm! There's no excuse for bad grammar or wrong word usage in a published piece. Or, rather, there should be no excuse....

It's important to note that I'm not talking about a writer's stylistic choices, or colloquialisms, used in writing, which may not adhere to traditional grammatical "rules."

I'm talking about big, bad, unambiguous mistakes.

For example, Peter Howell, an entertainment columnist for the Toronto Star, reviewed a movie a while back and tried to use the phrase "deus ex machina" to describe the events of the film.

Instead, the phrase that was printed was "deux ex machina."

Naturally, being a former drama major, I was appalled by this and felt compelled to write to Mr. Howell to inform him of this tragic mistake.

I generally have nothing against Peter Howell..he's a fairly benign presence at the Star (he doesn't regularly invoke my ire and incite my rage like, say, oh, I don't know..FESCHUK...) I usually agree with his assessments of films. I respect his opinions. But I still felt the need to point out this error. I mean--c'mon--you're reviewing films, you should at least know the proper term for the dramatic device you're describing!

Anyway, Mr. Howell emailed me back explaining that his "idiot copy editor" changed it to "deux" rather than "deus" and I was inclined to believe him.

Apparently the same copy editor is still in the Star's employ--yesterday, in discussing Danny Devito's drunken appearance on "The View", Mr. Howell described him as being "sauced." If you're liquored up, you're soused, not "sauced"--though, granted, the liquid by which you achieved your soused state could accurately be described as "The Sauce."

A slippery slope, I know, but one that writers must gingerly & regularly traverse.

I know this subject is something about which I tend to pontificate, and if you don't care and think I'm wasting my time, that's certainly your prerogative. However, if that is, in fact, the case, I can't fathom why you'd still be reading this post...

Anyway, I implore someone out there to give me a job as a copy editor. I'd be really good at it.

Plus, I'm a lot of fun at office parties...more fun than Britney Spears at an "I just got divorced and I'm foregoing panties for Hanukkah" party, in fact.

Call me!

The Mystery of the Pharmacy

Why do I love shopping at the pharmacy? Doesn't everyone? I think so. But why?

You can spend less than 5 minutes in a pharmacy, walk out with $50 worth of merchandise (in the tiniest bag imaginable) and be so excited about your purchases that you have to rip into the bag and examine your newly acquired toiletries/makeup/sundry pharmaeceuticals as soon as you leave the store!

I spent $175 at Shopper's Drug Mart this past weekend!

In my defense, it *was* 20X the points day, so I stocked up on a bunch of stuff..like excessive quantities of tampons, a new hairbrush, razor blades (which are inexplicably expensive--possibly to deter people from suicide?)...

A few of the other items I procured:

-brown, liquid eyeliner
-cleaning towellettes
-laundry detergent (Note: I have 1 full and 1 half-full container of laundry detergent at home. This particular purchase makes NO SENSE!)
-A new toothbrush
-24 cans of Diet Pepsi
-Shampoo for colour-treated hair (I'm getting my colour done next Saturday...I'm all about planning ahead...)
-3 pairs of socks with funny patterns on them (1 pair is covered with dogs in coats--I love dogs in coats!) and 2 pairs of plain black socks.

I clearly have a problem.

Oil of Olay Regenerist Night Renewal Cream

I'm not sure if that's exactly what it's called--I think I've included all the relevent words, if not in the correct order.

A while back, I started filling out contest applications and sending away for free stuff (samples and such). Possibly because I was bored, possibly because I really want to go to Jamaica, possibly because everyone likes free stuff...

Anyway, I haven't won any contests yet (boo!), possibly because I realized afterwards that the empire for which I work pretty much owns the country and, as such, I am ineligible for most of the contests I entered.

I have, however, received some GREAT STUFF in the mail, including a tiny of sample of this Olay Regenerist Night Cream.

I had it for a few weeks and decided to try it out last night. It says, "Apply to clean face & neck before bed." Easy enough. I followed the instructions, shut off the bathroom light and headed for my bed.

As I approached my bed, something came over me...a change was afoot on my face (teehee)...my hands flew to my visage to investigate.

"Holy crap," I thought, "This is the softest skin in the history of skin!"

I inappropriately molested my remarkable newly softened skin some more before calling it a night..

When I awoke this morning, my skin was STILL THAT SOFT!

Despite a facial scrub in the shower and half a day's worth of grime on my face, my skin is still incredibly (possibly illegally) soft.

Babies everywhere are crying: Not because they've soiled themselves, not because they crave something to suckle, not because they rightfully suspect they're going to grow up underachieving and unloved--but because their butts are no longer the benchmark by which skin-softness is measured--No, no!--that distinction NOW belongs to MY FACE.

That's right, babies--put that in your bottles and suck it!

Princess Patchoulia: Stickin' it to Babies (in a non-pedophilic way) Since '06!! Ha!

I'm fairly certain this cream must be made with endangered species or aliens or something...it's just that good...

The Tragic Tale of the Mole on My Neck (RIP)

I have..er..HAD..this mole on my neck.

It fell off.

Yup--fell off.

I'm not sure if I should be alarmed by this or not. On one hand, people pay good money for cosmetic mole removal. On the other hand, I shudder to think this could be a harbinger of things to come..such as other body parts or appendages falling off.

The funny thing about this particular mole was that I had a mole in that location my entire life. A teeny, tiny floppy one--that got ripped off in an amateur wrestling match* with a guy in my residence in first year university.

Then it grew back..and kept growing..I had a dermatologist look at it a couple of years ago because it concerned me (he assured me it wasn't skin cancer).

Me and the new, rapidly growing mole peacefully co-existed until its recent, unceremonious abandonment of my neck.

RIP Martha Mole, 1992-2006

------------------------

*Not a cleverly veiled euphemism for anything illicit. I think it was an argument over the TV remote that got out of hand.


This post reprinted, with permission of the author (me), from jambands.ca.

Halloween Memories

As an adult, Halloween means 2 weeks of scary movies on TV, turning out the lights so the neighbourhood kids don't know I'm home and the opportunity to dress provocatively without being accused, however, righfully, of being a slut. Good times!

As a kid, I remember being indifferent about the whole candy acquisition part of the holiday...I didn't mind candy, I just wasn't as crazy about it as most kids were...my Halloween candy trove would, literally, last until spring.

I did, however, enjoy immensely the "dressing up and being someone else" part of Halloween...

Halloween was often snow-covered in the town in which I grew up. My parents, of course, wanted to keep me warm--so they dressed me up in my parka, pulled up the fur-covered hood and my mom drew red circles on my cheeks with her lipstick and--voila!--Eskimo. They repeated this costume for three years straight. Those tricky bastards!

Oh well--I didn't know any better. .. :)

My dog was just as displeased with me, year after year, trying to dress her up to come out trick or treating with me.

She quickly dispensed with the clown mask I tried to attach to her head one year.

I thought she might be more amenable to dressing up as my version of an "arab" (where I got these ideas, I have no idea)--sheet over her head with a hat on top--but that one didn't survive much longer than the clown mask. To my poor dog Chimo's chagrin, this particular look would pop up several more times over the years, as extant photographic evidence will attest.

Let's stroll down memory lane, shall we...everyone remembers:

• Those great houses that gave out WHOLE chocolate bars or cans of pop--we always tried to hit those places every year (if not more than once in a night)!
• Those horrible houses that gave out apples, raisins or, in the dental hygienist's case, mini-tootbrushes (you KNOW her house got egged, year after year...)
• Your parents going through your candy searching for razor-blade-studded apples or cyanide-laced Smarties.

Ah, Halloween.

I'm still bitter about Halloween in Grade 1--I had the chicken pox and missed the day we all got to dress up at school and have a party. The other kids got cupcakes. I got an oatmeal bath.

Wow, I just had an epiphany! I think I've pinpointed the nucleus of my pervading belief that the world owes me something....

The world owes me cupcakes.

Gimme some.