I’ve never felt this way before

Ladies and gentlemen, do I ever have a treat for all of you!

Feast your eyes and ears on this majesty:


Holy smokes.

So, in my former life (a when I actually had time to sit down and troll ridiculous things on the interwebs) I used to come across lots of cool and irreverent videos, and enjoy parcelling them out to friends and families in the form of facebook posts or late night e-mails.

(Seriously, I always tell people that I have both an MA in Political Science as well as an MA in YouTube, what with the amount of time I spent surfing this website during my time in grad school.)

Now, I have to get my cool stuff from the radio (re: listening to As it Happens betwixt the hours of six and eight on CBC Radio 1) when I am careening about from one post-work activity to the next.


I totally don’t want to be that girl who just talks about how busy she is all the live long day.

It’s just that I am.

I am so that girl.

And the crazy thing?

Even when I try not to be busy – when I put real effort into streamlining my life, and make a conscious effort to take on less extracurricular activities, it doesn’t seem to make a darn difference.

Not one iota.

In the words of the immortal Liz Lemon: What the what?

How is this even possible?!

Anyways, I’ve had my mini-rant, and I’m not going to mention it again (for at the very least the next week and a half.)

And if I do, it is totally your prerogative to call me on my crap. There are just way too many fantastic, funny, and fundamentally freaky thing going on in the world these days, and I need remember that my exhaustion meter ranks about 0.1 on the importance scale.



So what else has been happening?

Well, Breaking Bad finally ended.

(Finally broke?)

Marc and I watched the series finale last Sunday night, and then spent a good couple of hours dissecting the episode (and the show as a whole – as we were wont to do after the majority of season five episodes.)

Do any of you cats watch the show?

I honestly think it is the best thing I have ever watched in my entire life.

(Yes, even better than The Wire.)


I’ve also been reading a lot of Voltaire and listening to Franz Ferdinand’s newest album on repeat like a maniac.



This post is a veritable dog’s breakfast of topics, is it not?

And in that vein, I want to end with a memory:

The year is 1998. I am twelve years old and I am in grade seven. As a newly pubescent human being, I am cognisant of the existence of the male sex, but mostly just think that all the boys in my class are weird, smelly, idiots.

Despite this, I still desperately want all of them to fall in love with me.

The fact that I am approximately seven to ten inches taller than all of them further complicates things.

My favourite outfit consists of a tight long sleeved black shirt that has a red and white stripe running across the chest (a hand-me-down from my older sister), levi blue jeans (!!!) and red Doc Martin boots (purchased after saving up eleven months of my allowance money.)

One spring night, my mum asks me if I want to go see a movie with her.

What movie? I inquire.

Les Miserables, she responds.

Sure, I say. Why not?

We walk to the Varsity movie theatre, just up the street from where we live. We buy popcorn and drink water.

My immediate reaction to the start of the film is that I have never before seen a man like Liam Neeson.

Watching him on the screen makes me feel a weird and shirty.

It’s a sensation I’ve never before felt.

And I kind of like it.

When we leave I try and nonchalantly tell my mum that I think the guy playing Jean Valjean is very handsome.

She nods and agrees with me.

He’s definitely nothing like any of the boys in my class, I think.

And probably taller than me too.

So that’s all friends!

Happy Friday to each and every one of you.

I wish for you all the love.

And all the weird, shirty feelings you can handle!


You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best

Hey friends!

Today M and I are off to the Sunshine Coast with my vater, Sir R-J esquire, the IV.

(Or if you’re into the whole brevity thing – my Dad.)

We’ll be meeting up with M’s parents at the cabin for a day, and then it’s off to Hardy Island where we’ll hike, maybe swim, and (hopefully) see lots and lots of deer (and their babies!)

But in the interim, it’s time for the latest edition of the Friday Fry-up.

So let’s heat up that skillet and get cookin.

Do I have something on my face?

Full disclosure: sometimes I am a HOT MESS. It’s like I have zero control over this fact, and no matter what effort I put in to combat this problem, the worse it just seems to get.

Do I have something on my face?

For instance, it’s almost impossible for me to eat pastries (particularly if they are chocolate pastries) and not get half of the thing all over my face.

Don’t even get my started on gooey foodstuffs. Those are just a recipe a and half for disaster.

The worst of it?

I don’t even realize it when these crumbs are stuck and strewn about my skin – like the little evil edible freckles that they are. 

Imagine this: the other day at work J was like, “Oh my goodness, what happened to your face?” and I was all “what do you mean?”

So then she motioned toward my face (with an exceptionally pained look on her face), which worried me so I quickly touched my cheek – only to realize that my affliction was nothing more than the remnants of my breakfast: a piece of the sweet, flaky goodness from the Danish I had eaten earlier.

I’m not too sure which emotion won out in the end – relief or embarrassment. (Actually, definitely relief, because goodness knows I don’t embarrass as easily as I probably should, especially when you look at the high level of madness I operate on every single day of my life.)

Good grief.

Last night M and I were at London Drugs picking up some supplies for our trip. At the check-out the cashier asked us, “Do you need any tissues or Tictacs tonight?” and my immediate reaction was, “Why? Do we look like we need tissues and Tictacs?”

I mean, why else would she ask that?

M kindly assured me that she was obviously trying to either up-sell or just get rid of the umpteen million tins of Tictacs and single pack Kleenex that littered her till like some strange toiletry-inspired collage.

This is probably true, but nevertheless I remained suspicious.

This whole part of my life was only further hit home two nights ago.

We were out at the Commodore Ballroom to take in Franz Ferdinand (MY FAV BAND EVVVEEERRR) and it came to my attention pretty early into their set that I had made some pretty poor decisions outfit-wise.

Concert wise though – top notch.

1.)    I should have worn my hair up (or at the very least braided it down my back) because at it’s present length (v. v. long) it kept getting stuck in my armspits as I danced.


It was pretty difficult to stop this from happening, because a.) I was having a mad dance party b.) was sweating and c.) was wearing a tank top. It was like a perfect storm of head-hair in armpit entrapment.

Not fun.

2.)    I kept dancing out of my shoes. The flats that I had chosen to wear had already been beat to crap so I figured I wouldn’t care in they got ruined in the jigging-for-your-life melee. Unfortunately, because the shoes were operating at such a low capacity at the concert’s outset, it was all downhill from there – and quickly at that. I had to be careful, because with all the other bonkers dancers out there I didn’t want my toes to get turned into carpaccio, nor did I want to step on that slick, sticky beer soaked floor. Because, well, ewwwwww.

3.)    I didn’t realize that the skirt I was wearing had so much swing and elasticity to it. Seriously, I spent the entire time worrying about dancing too hard, lest I continue to flash my undies to all the other folks on the dance floor. It was a very real fear that if I jumped too high I’d end up hoola-hooping my skirt around my neck.


Next time – I’ll stick to simple cotton. Because if I’m going to be part of the show, I better-well be getting paid for my part.


Do you, do you wanna, wanna go?

Okay, I definitely want to continue riffing on the Franz Ferdinand theme for a bit.

Seriously dudes, I love this band.

And they are absolutely AMAZING live. They put on incredibly tight shows, and are always entertaining as all get out.

I saw them for the first time in September 2009 at Malkin Bowl – a great outdoor concert venue in Vancouver – and boy did it ever pour with rain all throughout their set.

And it didn’t matter one bit – it was still the most fun I have ever had at a concert.

I have this amazing memory of just dancing my face off (I had picked well in terms of my dance-related garb that night! Plus no chocolate on my face to speak of – BONUS) completely soaked, watching the rain just come down in sheets, lit up by the brilliance of the many stage lights.

This time there was no rain, but it was the same outrageous energy, the same quirky and strange Scottish blokes rocking about the stage, singing songs that no matter how often I listen to them on loop (over and over again) I don’t ever tire of them.

In fact, they are one of those bands (for me) that the more I listen to their tunes, the more I love them.

They are like the Big Lebowski of music – the more I listen/watch them/it, the more I discover new things to love.

And then when you get the chance to go see it live, well, holy Toledo – it just reinforces all of that magic, ten-fold.

I definitely recommend them to every single one of you. Take a listen:

And when you do, I promise, I’ll take you out.

Oh how the girl feels

One of my favourite bands ever is Franz Ferdinand. If you don’t know about them, I definitely recommend that you check them out – they are tip top groove troopers and pretty much my number one choice every time I feel the need for a mad, solo dance party.

I saw them live a couple of summers ago and these rocking Scotsmen put on a fab show, despite the pouring rain, slick stage, and a brutal opening band.

Anyway, there is a song of theirs that I love very much – it’s off of their third album and is called “No You Girls”. It’s a great tune, so definitely have a listen if you are interested:

The lines that always get me are near the end, when Alex (Kapranos, the band’s lead man) sings:

Sometimes I say stupid things
That I think
Well, I mean I
Sometimes I think the stupidest things
Because I never wonder
Oh how the girl feels
Oh how the girl feels

I feel as though these lyrics work for so many different situations (whether taken literally or not). I mean, who hasn’t been in the position where they have said something that (inadvertently) comes across as ignorant, because they haven’t taken the time to consider whether or not other parties involved may be offended, or come at the issues from a different point of view?

Not I, that’s for sure.

These kind of things happen all the time – rarely for malicious purposes, and hopefully the offending party can quickly rectify their faux pas.

Unfortunately, I feel as though the self-awareness required to do said rectifying is often lacking when it comes to the majority of these situations.

For instance, yesterday I felt very much like I was in fact the girl in those above lyrics – awash in a sea of inconsiderate, unaware, and uninformed comments, made by so, so many individuals who hadn’t given a moment’s thought to whether or not their words may 1.) be impolite or 2.) indicative of huge social problems existent the world over or 3.) infused in such casual misogyny that trying to explain why their comments are harmful would be pointless because a.) JEEZE ETHEL they weren’t meant that way, so how could I misconstrue them to such a degree? or b.) I should probably just lighten up and learn how to take a joke. You feminists have no sense of humour!!!

For the sake of full disclosure, I should let you know that This Is True. As someone who cares about the status of women, I am required by law to be a full-on laugh suck-hole, governed by nothing more than my intolerance of jokes and laughing.

(My hatred of all men of course, is second only to this.)

Le sigh.

You see, lovely readers, yesterday was International Women’s Day.

Which I’ve actually come to believe is also “International Day for Men to Ask Why There Isn’t an International Men’s Day?”

For the answer to this question, please consult the answer to, “So, like, why don’t we have White Entertainment Television?”

P.S. To all people (whether male or female) who ask these questions, you are part of the reason why International Women’s Day and Black Entertainment Television exist.

Also, I just want to put this out there (for hopefully the last time): the number of times “get back in the kitchen” or “make me a sandwich” have ever been funny is zero.

Zero times.

What’s that you say? It was all in jest?

Yeah, no. Answer’s still zero.

(And anyone who says otherwise should probably stay away from choral arrangements, or singing in front of dogs, because they are tone deaf.)

Right at this moment as I am typing these words I am doing ninja-style yoga breathing in an attempt to both regulate my heartbeat and bring my blood pressure down to a simmer (and not the roiling boil it is currently checking in at.)

I also LOVE to laugh, you stinking rats!!!

Breathe in…breathe out…

As some of you may have guessed, my mood today hasn’t exactly been one hundred percent cheerful.

I keep oscillating back and forth between happiness and rage. As soon as I start to feel cheerful, I slip-slide back to wrath so quickly that it makes my mind spin.

*In all seriousness folks, I am beginning to think that as I get older I am going to become so consumed by sadness over all the world’s ills (that as much as I try, I just cannot change) that I may die of a broken heart.

(And that’s probably the best case scenario! In reality, I’ll probably keel on the treadmill, have working myself up into the frenzy of all frenzies, wearing the shorts that always fall down when I run.)

And that’s serious class (with a K.)

So because I spent so much of today thinking of these things, and because the weather was absolute crap during my lunch hour, I walked over to the mall and proceeded to try on three outfits from H&M, all from the men’s clothing section, all based on what was advertised on the male mannequins.

And I have to say, I really, really liked them.

The crotch on the pants was a little low, but overall they were super comfortable.

I don’t know if this is because of my sour mood, or my pre-existing penchant for men’s fashion, but I had a hard time not buying every single thing I tried on.

I REALLY like these pants.

(I also thought about how the guy working in the dressing room didn’t bat an eyelash when I handed him the clothes I wanted to try on. I couldn’t (and still can’t) help wondering what reactions the exact opposite of that situation would garner – how would he have felt if I was a man, trying on women’s clothes?)

I think I will buy this sweater. But the pants were so tight I think I may have cut off some circulation.

I’m almost even interested in taking up a short sociological experiment: for two weeks I would dress solely in masculine clothing. After the time was up, I would switch, and wear only (what society deems) feminine clothing – along the way I would chronicle the different reactions I encountered to both modes of dress, and how they varied during the course of the trial. This is a topic that I’ve given much thought to for a long time, but am only now thinking of acting on it.

What do you think?

I’ll let the idea marinate a little longer, and let you know as my deliberation process progresses.

In the mean time, I am going to continue to do my yoga breathing.

And I am going to weigh the pros and cons of those burgundy pants.

And I am going to wish all the amazing, brilliant, and inspirational, women I know and love, a very happy, (belated) International Women’s Day.

I don’t know what I would do without you.