Vanessa Woznow

Gifts that keeps on giving

For my birthday, I received a number of fabitty fab birthday presents (from a number of fabitty fab individuals.)

In preparation for my first marathon, I was gifted a belt to store gel packs, and a beautiful, (but more important breathable) zip-up running shirt. Mr. M gave me a pair of lovely earrings that have little cameos of ravens on them (because this way I can pretend that I’m Odin, and that my little feathered friends are whispering the world’s secrets into my ears as I go about my daily business.)

I also received another Murakami book from my good friend A that I devoured on my way home from her house on skytrain.

An absolutely scrumptious lunch Ms. A treated me to, at Cafe Medina. GO THERE.

Such a strange sensation to be reading a book about a very early Tokyo morning, when you yourself feel as though you are operating out of a parallel, late-night dreamland. I was so tired that I could hardly keep my eyes open, and yet at the same time, too engrossed in Murkami’s prose to actually allow my body to let go, and crumple under the weight of my end-of-week exhaustion and post-hang out daze.

What a strange tug-of-war we mortals can play, between need and desire, consciousness and sleep.

Two other gifts that provide me with a huge amount of happiness (on a daily basis at that) are the gorgeous prints my sister in-law V made for me.

They are currently hanging in my office and I cannot even begin to describe what a difference they have made in my day-to-day work regime.

The power of art is strong, my friends – very strong.

Is your office green with ivy? I mean, envy?

Plus, the prints, combined with a few other touches of beauty and comfort (I also have nice black and white photo of SFU hanging on the opposite wall, and I finally managed to finagle someone to come in and mount my “to-do” cork board) ensure my office no longer looks like the place you go where you find out that you have a terminal illness.

Because that folks, is pretty darn bleak.

Just looking at this photo puts a smile on my face!

Seriously.

Today the sky is blue, and the trees are sun-drenched (and not rain-drenched) for the first time in what seems like ages.

Over my lunch break I hopped, skipped, and jumped my way out of the office, and around my downtown neighbourhood in an effort to procure everything that was populating my (ever-growing) “NEED TO GET” list.

It is always so pleasant doing these kinds of things in the glorious sunshine, rather than scurrying about like a drowned rat, trying to stay one step ahead of the looming fog and drizzle.

Is it springtime yet, Ms. Nature?

I picked up the usual suspect at Shoppers Drug Mart: make-up remover, cotton pads (to be used with said remover), body wash, and face cleanser.

I had a mild flashback to high school when I approached one of the clerks to ask if she knew where the Neutrogena products were, and she briskly responded:

You mean the acne products?

Umm, I wasn’t sure, actually. “It’s very orange and has a pump on the top?” I said, a little nervous all of a sudden.

Yes. You want the acne face washes, upstairs in the acne solutions section – aisle four.

I know this might seem a little silly, but I totally felt as though I was being shamed. Like I was in a one of those horrible sitcoms playing the nerdy high school kid who tries to purchase condoms, or tampons – or the young girl stuck buying Vagisil, or Imodium, or Exlax or whatever.

(Also, super hilarious that the spell check wants to change Vagisil to valise. That would require a majorly daft pharmacist to make that mix-up.)

Now, I’m sure the only reason I actually felt this way is because in high school I actually did have bad acne, and I spent so much time, energy and money trying not to have bad acne. Now that I’m finally living a life of clear skin (as an easy, breezy, covergirl – or, you know, whatever) it’s hard for me not to get my back up in those kind of situations.

It’s like the horribly embarrassed fourteen year-old girl inside starts yelling: “I’m beautiful now! Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

LEAVE ETHEL ALONE!

Okay, so I’m over dramatizing this for the sake of humour and readability, but the sentiment is the same. Even though I was over the whole thing in about 2.7 seconds, I guess it’s true what they say:

Some (acne) scars just take longer to heal.

To speed up the process I bought (and thoroughly enjoyed) a large package of peanut butter M&M’s (seriously I’d fight to the death to prove, and/or, to defend my stance that they are in fact, the best M&M product – or at least to a missing handful of hair) and an ice cold diet Pepsi.

I also managed to get a hold of a pair of sweatpants that I can wear on my way home from the gym for only sixteen dollars!

You have no idea how happy this makes me. Seriously.

Money-wise aside, this is also fantastic news because I normally go to the gym straight after work, and I really don’t like walking home in my workout clothes with just my big winter coat as my only over layer.

It kind of makes me feel like a super-harlot, because my shorts are shorter than my (rather long) coat, and this may or may not contribute to the illusion that makes it look as though I’m not wearing anything underneath my jacket.

And that’s not a look I’m ever striving for.

EVER.

My final purchase was a new pair of work shoes (nine dollars! Thank you bargain barrel pricing and size ten feet!) and two lipsticks (two for twelve bucks! I’m almost, almost afraid to know what they’re made out of, because they’re so cheap. Probably the other bargain barrel size tens that were never sold.)

It’s easy to forget about that though, because they’re so, so pretty.

Sparkly toes and red lips. Watch out world!

With all this talk of TREAT YOU SELF and the weather being as fabulous and fine, it was the perfect day to go out and do something nice for myself.

(It is also heart warming to know that I will once again be able to properly remove my mascara, and not wake up with crazy black muck that has sealed my eyelids shut whilst I slept. Side note: I was going to write “sleep-cum-makeup muck” but thought it might give some people the wrong idea.)

Okay, I definitely don’t need any more proof about how immature I can be, because just writing that out has given a case of the giggles I just may never get over.

Heeheeheeheehee.

Sunny days! Chasing the - clouds away! On my way...

OKAY.

Enough now.

I hope every single one of you had a beautiful day, were fortunate to feel the warmth of the sun on your face, and did something lovely in celebration of you, and just you.

Or at the very least, had a good giggle.

These close encounters

I. Am. Officially. Exhaustified.

I understand that this photo is darn weird and sort of Jawa-esque, but this all has a purpose...

If today wasn’t enough to erase any remaining vestiges of the weekend from my mind, I don’t know what possibly could.

Stress was had, and I had all of it.

I would also probably argue that the dice (that were to determine this fate of mine) were loaded from the start – this fatigue did not stop and start with my workday, but much, much earlier.

You see, it began with a truly crap night sleep (especially when it definitely should have been an excellent, dead-to-the-world type repose what with how wonderfully busy, and chock-a-block full of whimsy and weirdness, the weekend turned out to be).

However, yesterday afternoon Mr. M and I made the sleep-altering choice to go see The Woman in Black.

Looking for a good five-word review of the movie?

DEAD VENGEFUL WOMEN ARE TERRIFYING.

Yeah, yeah, the film wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but ask a million and one questions about X plot holes or Y character motivations – but gosh darn it – I spent the majority of the time either watching through my fingers or crammed into M’s elbow and, or armpit.

Question:

Why the flipping heck do old Victorian toys have to be so bloody scary? Who, in their right mind, would actually give their child a toy that looks positively possessed?

Repression must do terrible, terrible things…

Including, for one: scaring the ever living daylights out of me.

Ooof. Just walking around Metrotown after the end credits had rolled, I felt completely off kilter – as if the film had knocked something loose inside of me that I couldn’t quite put back into place.

There is something to be said about horror movies that explore psychological ills, or metaphysical (paranormal?) phenomenon, versus the old slasher, teen-virgin, never say “I’ll be right back BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW YOU WON’T!” trope.

Ghosts are simply scarier.

I think the most frightening movie I’ve ever seen is probably The Ring (or Ringu – it’s Japanese predecessor), with the Exorcist as a close second.

I was in grade eleven and two friends and I went to the Friday night midnight show; it was playing at the old Varsity movie theatre (a little freaky on its own, with or without the introduction of tormented, well-dwelling psychopathic spirits). I lived ten blocks down the street from the theatre and walking home at two thirty in the morning was probably one of the creepiest sojourns (or you know, ghost tour) I have ever taken, or hope to ever again undertake.

CIMG8762 — I actually do a pretty good "Ring-girl" impression. You should see me crawl out of a TV screen.

It probably took me an hour to finally make it to my front door because I was moving so slowly (also, I was walking smack dab in the middle of the street, for fear that if I strayed too close to the property line hedge growth, invisible hands would grab at my flesh, tear at my hair, and suck out my soul – imprisoning me until the sky burned red, and the seas ran dry.)

Or something equally as brutal (you get my drift, I’m sure.)

Zero winks were caught that night. ZERO.

Any time where you can think to yourself, “It might be true” is just a recipe for disaster for not only myself, but for the man for whom I’ve pledged my troth.

M can drive himself (and therefore, by proxy ME) completely bonkers, working himself into a frenzy, mulling over the one million maybes he and I attach to this genre of storytelling (or reality? That’s the problem, we can’t ever just tell ourselves its fake, and magically make it go away.)

The Japanese version of The Grudge is called Ju-On (very scary, not to be trifled with – watch only with all your lights on, in the daylight with a minimum of one other person, whom you can be sure will not leave your sight for the next twenty-four hours. What’s that you say? You’re a fully functioning human being who isn’t affected at all by this silly stuff? Carry on then. You lucky bastard.) and this word has actually become a permanent fixture in M’s and my vocabulary.

Something a little creepy happening? Unexplained phenomena making you paranoid?

That’s some crazy ju-on shit right there.

It has a two-fold effect. 1.) It’s a very accurate way of assessing and describing the situation, and 2.) It brings some much needed levity to the occasion, making it much harder to find a need to jump under the covers of your bed for the long-term foreseeable future.

Or something like that.

Cats are really good at warning you about evils spirits. And snuggling. They're good at that too.

So as you can see, last night (or should I say early this morning) I wasn’t channelling Rip Van Winkle, but instead refusing to look in the bathroom mirror as I re-filled my water glass for fear that alongside my reflection would be a pissed off widow, ready to banshee shriek my eardrums into nothingness.

Ugh, even just typing those words makes my heart pump a little faster.

So, the million dollar question is: why, if these movies make me feel as though my lifespan has been drastically altered (for the worse), do I watch them?

Why indeed?

I’ve always liked horror movies. Even though they scare the ever living daylights out of me, I’ve never shied away from watching them.

I suppose I like the adrenaline rush. I like to ask myself what I would have done in those circumstances, in comparison to the characters on screen. I like cramming myself into Mr. M’s arms one second, and then jerking away (or jumping under a blanket) at the very next.

It’s in its own way a sort of feat of endurance. Similar to a day at work, when you are stressed and under the gun, and the need to perform is palatable – all your senses, your brainpower, your problem solving capabilities are working in overdrive – you feel alive, you feel accomplished, you feel drained, and exhausted when it’s over.

You may even feel a little out of sorts.

And all you need to put yourself together again is a good night’s sleep.

I know I’m going to try again tonight.

But then again…it could be real.

All aboard the mother ship

When I was in grade five, I wanted to be an FBI agent when I grew up. More specifically, I wanted to be Dana Scully.

She was my hero of heroes. Smart, witty, gorgeous, with the enviable talent of being able to chase down bad guys, or aliens, or fat sucking monsters wearing five inch high heels, traversing through the darkest parts, of the scariest nights, with nothing but the aid of an industrial strength flash light powered by what, if I had to wager a guess, was probably a car battery.

The lady was not to be trifled with.

In my memory, The X-Files was the show to end all shows. Episodes varied on a scale from creepy to downright terrifying (with a few comedic gems thrown in to keep viewers on their toes); it had great writing and fab acting; the cast was chock-a-block full of beautiful people, and the main characters exuded enough sexual tension that it was all you could do not to shout out “JUST DO IT ALREADY!” at your TV.

(Full disclosure: I wasn’t doing that when I was eleven years old. That came after years of watching Mulder and Scully cast smouldering glances from a distance, and you know – puberty.)

Now the show is available on Netflix and I find myself watching old episodes. It’s funny, remembering how hugely invested I was in the lives of the characters, how freaked out I would be when I went to bed on those Sunday evenings, post-show, and how I desperately wanted Mulder and Scully to hook up.

Seriously. I really, really wanted them to get together. I desperately wanted them admit how much they loved each other, and, ahem, get it on.

In the parlance of our times, I “shipped” them, as a couple.

Unsure of the definition of “shipping?” An excellent definition can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shipping_%28fandom%29

I read a really hilarious article on the blog Jezebel about a week ago about television show “shippers” – and I found myself reminiscing about little old high school me – so content to pine away for the fictional love of two fictional people.

It’s a pretty common, not to mention wide-spread phenomenon; individuals ship pairings that range from the conventional, to the downright erm-we-should-probably-be-calling-the-men-in-the-white-coats-now-that-we’ve-crossed-this-line.

Different strokes for different folks and all that jazz I guess – but some of the crap out there is downright BIZARRE.

My first memory of shipping a couple is from the hilariously cheesy kids show Ghost Writer that aired on the Knowledge Network (here in Canada) from 1992-1995.

The plot revolved around a close-knit group of friends that lived in Brooklyn, NY. These young detectives solved crimes with the help of an invisible ghost that would give them clues by re-arranging letters on posters, or notebooks, or menus (or whatever.) The premise was beyond hokey, which for us darned kids meant it was epic in the extreme.

Dana Scully may have made me want to become an FBI agent (crushing blow that it was to find out that there would be a snowball’s chance in hell, what with me being Canadian) but this show (along with Penny from Inspector Gadget, Nancy Drew, and Harriet the Spy) definitely planted the crime solving seed.

I’m also pretty sure that the ridiculously chaste kiss shared between Alex and Tina was the first public display of affection I witnessed on the old boob tube, and I LOVED them as a couple.

LOVED. THEM.

After ye old implosion of quality X-Files programming post-fifth season (circa 1998 – coinciding with the series’ move to LA) I continued to watch for a while but eventually lost interest, in both the plot and the relationship between the two main characters.

For many moons I didn’t yearn for the development of a TV relationship. I didn’t watch much television for pretty much the next decade (M and I were on a pretty strict movie-only diet in terms of watching things on screens.)

I was ship-less and fancy free.

It wasn’t until a friend of M’s and I gave us the first three seasons of Battlestar Gallactica that it began again (and in earnest at that.)

P.S. Box sets are pretty much the greatest gift you could ever give to someone trying to finish their first semester as a grad student! (Between BSG and entirety of The Wire Mr. M ordered over Amazon, it’s a bloody miracle I finished all of my term papers, let alone made it to any of my classes.)

Anywho, the couple that I am about to admit to shipping (and shipping like a madwoman at that) always made (and still makes) me feel a little weird, or at least gives me pause.

Okay.

The slow-developed (and ultimately heartbreaking) relationship between William Adama and Laura Roslin nearly well did me in during the year or so I spent watching that show.

download — GOOD GRIEF. The love. THE LOVE!!!

I felt like I was going crazy at certain parts of the show’s run, what with how badly I wanted them to get married and live happily ever after. (A lot of this probably had to do with the fact that I couldn’t stand the majority of the characters on the show, wasn’t all that connected to the plot line, and didn’t really care whether or not the cylons wiped out the entirety of the human race, and crowned Lucy Lawless the Warrior Queen of the galaxy.)

I watched the show, because I really, really loved the connection between the Admiral and the President. And I also wanted them to, ahem, get it on.

(I’m not a pervert I swear.)

Plus I have this weird thing for Edward James Olmos, despite the fact that he’s about six hundred and ninety two. (Still not a pervert, I promise you.)

He’s just got such an awesome voice.

Right.

Moving on.

Currently, the couple that puts a giant, stupid smile on my face is Leslie Knope and Ben Wyatt from Parks and Recreation. This is (in my opinion) the best show on TV at the moment, and these two characters are both bloody hilarious, but also honest, sincere, and adorable in terms of their love for, and commitment to one another.

Love it.

Love love.

Also, TREAT YO SELF.

…

IMG_0356 - Copy (2) — Skinamarinky, dinky, dink, skinamarinky doo -

So why do we ship? Why do I ship? I think it depends on what was going on with me during that time of my life when I found myself attracted to the (thought of) these relationships.

I think a part of it stems from something – whether it is a characteristic, or a situation – that I identify with; something about the relationship is representative of me, or my relationships, in some way: be it something I yearn for, have, take strength from, or heck, maybe even shy away from.

So what about you, my lovely readers?

Are there any couples that you love, or that you tear your hair out wishing they would get together?

And if you do, what is it about that relationship that speaks to you?

Besides of course, watching them, ahem, get it on.

Give cheese a chance

So on Monday I wrote about a few things that I have tried to bring into my life, that despite my most valiant efforts, remain firmly entrenched in the lonely city of No Way Jose, and far away from my day-to-day routine.

(Simply put, I cannot like them no matter how hard I try.)

In response to said post, I received a pretty hilarious phone call from my father-in-law, who (being Swiss) was pretty darn unimpressed to read about my general (and enduring) distaste for soft cheeses.

“Argh!” He exclaimed. “I was so disappointed reading your last blog post. I cannot believe you don’t like soft cheese.”

“Don’t give me too much grief!” I responded. “I already know that people are judging me!”

“Well it’s obvious you’re just not eating the right kinds of soft cheeses…” he trailed off. “And that is just going to have to change!”

I sensed there to be plan a foot. (Seriously I could practically hear the cogs and wheels in his head turning at break neck speed – although not said aloud, it was pretty apparent that reading my words had awoken some kind of nationalistic need to bring me over to the dark side, dairy-wise.)

E (or Darth Gruyere as I have come to know him) is a man who really knows, and really loves his cheeses. I’m pretty sure at any given time, you could open his fridge and find at (the very least) four different kinds of cheese (and that’s not even counting those so-called “soy cheeses”) two of which would without a doubt originate in the motherland, or you know – Switzerland.

Add to the mix a good loaf of bread, some landjäger, and some Lindt chocolate for dessert, ship him off to a cabin in the alps, where he could hike and canoe at his leisure, and well, I’m not sure he’d need anything else for the rest of his days.

(On second thought I’m pretty sure he’d want to include the components for a rocking good salad, to the above mentioned foodstuffs. Because as awesome as I imagine a life-long supply of bread, cheese, and meat could be, one would eventually require some roughage – would they not? Plus he makes a darn good vinaigrette. Also, my mother-in-law is pretty much head constable of the vegetable police and wouldn’t like the idea of spending forever sans garden candy.)

Seriously, no she wouldn’t like that one bit.

For reals. If you run into her, ask her about GOMBS – it’ll give you super-immunity and phenomenal badminton skills.

Anywho, on the topic of cheese, last night Mr. M and I had a fabulous fondue, made from raclette, white wine, a touch of brandy, nutmeg and a pinch of salt.

We dipped fresh French bread and pink lady apples into this sweet, smooth, melted madness – it was decadent and filling in the extreme.

After dinner we watched Canada’s Handyman (or woman, or woman) Challenge and completed New York Times’ crosswords; ate heart cookies and lemon bars; drank tea and enjoyed the fire.

Nymeria chose to contemplate her life, staring intensely into the flickering flames. Either she’s finally figured out a way to take over the world, or she’s solved cold fusion.

I’ll keep you posted.

Between the food, the fire, and our funny, funny conversations I was pretty much knocked off my feet by 9:30. It makes me laugh to think of a Valentine’s when you cannot even keep your eyes open past ten o’clock at night – next year I’ll ask for one of those walk-in bathtubs.

Nothing says romance like sitting in your private, old-lady baignoire waiting for your water to drain so you don’t flood the entire floor.

If the ins and outs of plumbing, or just bathroom apparatuses in general aren’t your bag, here are my four of my favourite movies about “love” (this word can be interpreted in many different ways) that are hilarious, moving, and overall brilliant.

1. Rushmore

“Maybe I’m spending too much of my time starting up clubs and putting on plays. I should probably be trying harder to score chicks.”

…

2. Forgetting Sarah Marshall

“Dwayne told me. Chuck told me. Even Rachel told me. I heard about it from everybody. You gotta stop talking about it. It’s like “the Sopranos.” It’s *over*. Find a new show.”

…

3.Four Weddings and Funeral

“A toast before we go into battle. True love. In whatever shape or form it may come. May we all in our dotage be proud to say, “I was adored once too.”

…

4. Annie Hall

“A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”

…

So what about you folks? What movies make you laugh, at love, or otherwise?

Or more importantly, what cheese, amongst other rations would you need to survive a lifetime living in the wilds of the Matterhorn?

Five things I just don’t get

There are some things that just don’t work for me, no matter how hard I try.

I’ve written here before about how I worked (hard, mind you) for the last eight years to bring Radiohead into my life, but to no avail.

Seriously, as much as I love this video of Thom Yorke dancing to Single Ladies, I just cannot for the life of me accept the majesty (or whatever adjective you believe best sums up their brilliance or transcendence) of their music in my life.

We are like oil and water.

So without further ado, here are five things I just don’t get.

1.) Beer. Seriously. For the life of me, I cannot do it and do not understand how anyone could enjoy drinking it.

Edinburgh 062 — I miss me a two pound glass of wine every so often.

Like Radiohead, I made a valiant effort to make it a part of my life, particularly during the early years of my undergrad. It seemed like every post-class pub gathering-cum-night out inevitably meant a (seemingly) unlimited supply of amber coloured, frothy, frosty, pitchers of ale – I figured if I was going to survive in these social situations I better learn to enjoy it.

However it seemed as though the more effort I made, the more it did nothing for me, save give me brutal cases of the “urgh-I-can-taste-what-I-ate-for-dinner-last-night-burps” and then make me need to use the loo every twenty minutes or so, after I (begrudgingly) found my way to the bottom of my first glass.

Not cool man. This aversion to malt, barley, and hops (the much less successful Simon and Garfunkle follow-up to Scarborough Fair) made me feel like a giant square (and I got to relive this shame over again, and ten-fold worse at that, when Mr. M and I lived in Jolly Ole England. Bah.)

What I wouldn’t have done to just once have had comrade in arms to turn to me and say, “Hey – anyone want to order the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu and split it me?”

Why yes. Yes good sire, I do.

2.) Peep toe boots.

SERIOUSLY?

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how this makes any sense, to anyone, ever.

WHO BUYS THIS CRAP? And why? How do they think it looks good? WHY do they think it looks good?

How do they think it could ever possibly be practical?

This for me is like, that craziest, weirdest, most inane fashion trend ever.

It’s winter. It’s freezing. What the heck are you doing wearing shoes that have holes in them? I almost feel as though the fashion industry is trolling the entire female population of the world to see how far they can actually push the sanity envelope before the shoe (har har, no pun intended) drops, and people start to call shenanigans.

(Or at least, I hope this is the case.)

Plus it just looks FRICKEN bonkers.

Writing this out I feel as though Otto, from A Fish Called Wanda would agree with me:

3.) Cricket.

What. The. Heck.

I don’t actually know if anyone truly understands this sport.

For colonial inspired athletics, I’ll stick to rugby.

Birmingham Adventures 121 — I'll take it!

4.) Soft cheeses.

Brie. Camembert. Blue. Roquefort. No. No. No. NO.

Switzerland 108 — Swiss raclette - the antithesis of snot cheese.

For many years cheese (of any kind) played zero part in my life. I didn’t eat it on anything (including pizza – for real, I would order pizza sans cheese because I disliked it so much.)

Slowly but surely I came to see the error of my ways (falling in love with a Swiss mister certainly had something to do with my transformation) but to this day I cannot do any soft, rindy cheeses.

They seriously slay me.

They make me feel as though I am eating feet flavoured snot.

And no amount of shaming (I know what you’re thinking! Stop looking at me!) will change that.

Urgh.

5.) The English Royal Family. I do not for the life of me understand the fascination with royalty, particularly the obsession of those who live outside of the United Kingdom.

Sure, I get why those inside the UK may like them – it’s a way to cling to an antiquated representation of the power their country once had on an the international stage.

Okay, I know that sounds super harsh, and I’m sorry. (But, it’s true.)

But for people who live either in the commonwealth, or (even more baffling) those who don’t (particular in countries that were exploited, subjugated, and brutalized by the Brits) to actively support an institution that symbolizes imperialism, hierarchy, racism, classism, and well, general intolerance – the mind boggles.

If I need to take the queen – I’ll take her as a member of Kids in the Hall:

BONUS:

6.) Gene Wolfe. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure no one else gets him either though.

So folks, I’ll pass the question on to you: What can you not get, no matter how hard you try? Please share (but I’ll take wine if you’re buying.)