Tag: Friday Fry-Up

Call me home and I will build you a throne

Hi kidlets.

Today my love and I are up on the Sunshine Coast, drinking dark, sugary coffee, sitting in front of the fire.

The bay sits cool, and calm, just outside our window; every so often a duck armada will sail past, marking a course for the next dock or rush.

They call out to one another, “Over here!”

Oh boy, do I really love ducks.

M and I are up here for an extra long weekend, relishing the opportunity to just sit back and breathe, and actually spend some time together.

We’ve both been running about with our hair set on fire, and looking forward, well, the next few months aren’t exactly going to be relaxation central.

So we’re going to revel in this beauty and eat, drink, run, read, laugh, and love.

In the meantime, Fry-up time!

This doesn’t actual seem “cosmopolitan”.

While standing in line at Safeway the other night, waiting to pay for my raspberries, eggs, mint chocolate ice cream bars, granny smith apples, and unsalted butter (aka THE STAPLES), I came across this:

Oh Cosmo.

Champion that it is of the high-brow (not to mention safe haven for intellectually rigorous prose), it never, ever fails to surprise me with the depths of depravity (and inanity) in which it is willing to sink.

And don’t even get me started on the people who buy this shite, because if I do I will spend the next half hour alternating between banging my head against the wall and falling to my knees shouting WHHHHHYYYYY?

Instead, let’s have some fun shall we?

For instance, what are some alternate answers to the question:

“So you ate a cupcake?”

Are you allergic to cupcakes?! If yes, you should probably go to the hospital!

Was it chocolate or vanilla? WAS IT MARBLED? Never trust a marbled cupcake.

Did it fall on the floor first? Remember the five second rule. Longer than five seconds and I’ll have to eat it.

How do you feel about being a cupcake murderer?

Is it weird that one of the first things that pops into my head when I hear cupcake is Katy Perry’s boobs?

I hate Katy Perry.

Cupcake in French is petit gâteaux, which in terms of a french word is lame as heck.

Would you like another one before we start the self-flagellation? Self-flagellation starts in five.

And finally: Who bloody very well cares? YEESH.

EAT ALL THE CUPCAKES.

GO FOR ALL THE RUNS.

But seriously, don’t beat yourself up over one stupid pastry.

It totally defeats the purpose, because after all, cupcakes are made from happiness.

They should make you happy.

p.s. My tips for hot late night sex? Sleep all day first.

Stripes and waves.

I bought a few pretty pretties this week:

The skirt is from H&M and the sweater is from Joe Fresh.

I am massively in love with the skirt because it looks like it is made up of little white-capped waves. I wore it to work yesterday with a black turtle next, grey tights and little black boots.

Basically, I was a superhero.

Also, I probably should have just bought one of these sweaters in each available colour because goodness knows I had a hard time deciding which one to purchase.

Stripes are always the best.

What can I saw, I love me some old-timey jail bird chic.

East meets west.

Seeing as though we’re away for a couple of days I thought it best to bring a back-up book just in case I finish the one I am currently working on.

I started Wolf Hall a lifetime ago, and although I really liked  it, somehow it fell by the wayside and I didn’t make it past the half-way point.

Now I’m back, knee deep in Tudor gossip and intrigue.

If I do in fact finish this tome, I have brought some Dostoevsky to satisfy my literary urges.

I had my first real Russian love affair with Mr. Fyodor when I was in first-year of uni. Somehow I’ve managed to read most of his bibliography, save for this work, so I look forward to finally cracking it open.

There is something about his mastery of the macabre that just delights me to no end.

This could of course say more about my deranged psyche than his fantastical wordplay, but I’m one to stay positive.

(Unlike, of course, Mr. D.)

…

So there you have it folks.

I wish you a weekend filled with good books, delicious food, crackling fires, wind-swept walks, and all the laughs your abdominal muscles can take.

And have a cupcake or two – on me.

Rain, rain, go away

So we meet again.

I’ll get you next time gadget!

Erm, I mean, happy Friday folks!

First I would like to send a giant hug to all of you who live on the east coast.

I hope you are all safe and sound and have escaped Sandy’s clutches with minimal damage.

Mother Nature’s wrath is most muted here out west; although the weather is absolute rubbish, we are lucky enough to be dealing with nothing more than a tepid drizzle (so constant you’d think that our city was built smack dab in the middle of the world’s most anemic waterfall.)

But really, ho-hum, pigs bum, it’s all one.

So this Fry-Up is dedicated to all you who call the sweet sights of the Atlantic Ocean home (especially my beautiful big sister who rode out the storm in her Brooklyn flat. Love you sweet K with all my heart!)

Double rainbow.

Sometimes I wear an outfit that is made up of so many colours that it looks as though Picasso painted me.

I always become so much more aware of my multi-hued clothing as we enter the winter months, as it seems that all the other individuals who work downtown dress in progressively grayer and grayer tones.

This is not a good idea folks.

My rule of thumb is never dress the same colour as the weather. That’s just too depressing for your own good.

Today the women handing out the free newspapers at skytrain nearly flipped their wigs when I showed up in my poppy coat and fuchsia skirt.

“Oooooooeeeerrrr,” one exclaimed. “Look at all your colours!”

“That’s one way to keep your spirits bright!” The other laughed.

I cannot argue with this statement.

Plus, wearing an outfit that pretty much pulsates colour makes it incredibly difficult for cars to miss you when crossing the street.

Because it’s all well and good to look like the work of a Spanish cubist – but as my parent’s would always say: safety first kids!

Safety first.

Next!

Sweet tooth.

So, on Monday night I ventured out for some fab pub trivia, with some equally rad folks.

(Spoiler alert: we won! Taking Care of Quizness – the team’s name – really was taking care of quizness. Also, I may or may not be a good luck charm, as every time I’ve gone the team has emerged triumphant, either richer – in both money and spirit – or stocked with free booze.)

Now, given that I live in New Westminster, and the trivia was in the very heart of Kitstilano (a very posh, very yuppie neighbourhood of Vancity – enter at your own risk, lest you succumb to the clutches of Starbucks, Lululemon, and overpriced baby paraphernalia) it’s pretty necessary for me to drive, unless for some strange reason I feel like subjecting myself to a good hour and half of late night bus riding, post-game.

(For what it’s worth, I haven’t yet had any desire to pursue this experience.)

Anywho, what I’m trying to say here is that I drove to the pub.

As I was motoring into the city, I took the opportunity to absolutely blast the kind of music I don’t normally listen to when other people are in the car with me (as it would seem as though my loved ones are much more discerning when it comes to their musical tastes.)

When I’m all alone, on my own?

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: I blast the absolute crap out of the cheesiest, most inane pop you could ever think of.

For instance, I managed to listen to this song three times driving to and from the pub:

And as I was chair dancing like a chair dancing thing, I began to mull over why it is exactly that I love this stuff so much, and how is this representative of my life overall.

In both music and food I have a penchant for syrupy sweet junk.

As much as I love healthy food and good (or whatever my be the musical equivalent to “healthy”) music, I really, really like crap.

I mean, life is all about balance right? And as long as I remember this, I’ll probably be okay.

Plus, I probably couldn’t stop if I tried.

(And I probably won’t try.)

English Breakfast.

I’ve written a few times before on ye olde Rant and Roll about how I am a bit of an anglophile – ie. there are many, many things about British pop culture that I love.

For instance, almost every concert I have attended over the past ten years have been bands from the UK, most of my favourite TV shows originally aired on (or continue to air on) the BBC, and I’d wager a fair guess that the majority of the dudes I’ve gotten all shirty over for, oh, I don’t know, my entire life, were born “across the pond” (in the parlance of our times.)

M and I just started watching Life on Mars on Netflix. We’ve only seen a few episodes, but so far I’m really enjoying the series.

If you haven’t seen it, the premise is that Sam Tyler – a policeman working in Manchester – is hit by a car in 2006 and wakes up in 1973. We don’t know if he’s in a coma and is dreaming everything, or if he’s actually been transported back in time.

The show is funny and witty and infuriating and has some of the best tunes I’ve heard on a television program in a long time.

If you have a chance, check it out.

If anything, it will make you want to get a really sweet leather jacket.

…

So that’s all she wrote you beauty cats!

Enjoy the weekend, stay warm, dry, safe, and sound.

I wouldn’t wish it any other way.

The sky’s the limit

Hey chickadees.

I cannot believe that it is already Friday. The mind boggles.

I took this snap of the sunrise yesterday morning:

I seem to have developed a rather large obsession with the sky, in all of its variations, which has manifested itself in an insatiable need to take dozens and dozens of photos of everything from mid-day cloud cover, to startlingly brilliant sunsets.

But in all honesty, my favourite will always be the sorbet coloured striations that divide up the early morning, and patch together the early evening skies.

Always.

Fry-Up Time!

Tom Hanks.

So I watched Sleepless in Seattle for the first time the other night and I have to say it wasn’t half bad.

Despite never really warming to Meg Ryan, I’ve always loved Tom Hanks – in particular 1980s/1990s Tom Hanks.

Sure, I haven’t been that a big fan of his work post-Y2K scare, but nothing will ever take away from the majesty of his early stuff.

(Except of course, for Joe vs. the Volcano. What broke acip trip was responsible for that hot mess?)

Erm, right. So what I’m trying to say here is that while I don’t go to see any of his newer stuff, I certainly do love to dip my toes in his more seasoned pool of material.

For instance, I always, always laugh my face off while watching The Burbs. Yes, I understand that this movie is completely daft and terrible, but nothing will ever stop me from falling over during the scene when the weirdo neighbours drive their garbage to the bottom of the driveway and anytime Mr. Hanks goes absolutely bonkers.

(Which is pretty much the entire film. See the below video for details.)

I will never stop laughing at pretty much every scene in Splash, I LOVE That Thing you Do (and still know every single word to that song), and A League of Their Own is, well, in a league of its own.

Remember kids: Avoid the clap.

It’s sound advice!

Anyways, I was thinking about ole’ Tom as the end credits to Sleepless were rolling, and I was trying to figure out what it is about this actor that I like so much.

M put forward the hypothesis that so many women (and dudes too) love Tom Hanks because he’s a normal human being. He’s not stereotypically “hot”; he’s not ripped, or suave, or an Adonis in human form.

He’s attainable.

Women (and men) can actually see themselves with him.

Men (and women) can see themselves being friends with him.

While I’ve never thought about Mr. Hanks this way, I can see his point.

However in my case, what really does it for me, is the fact that Tom is the absolute master of the hilarious angry yell.

Even when he’s pissed off, he’s bloody entertaining as heck. Seriously, check it out:

Ohhhhh, I die.

Next!

Elevated discourse.

So it’s no big surprise around here that I am massively in love with my cat and will pretty much do anything for her because of how nuts I am about her.

However, of late I’ve really started to notice just how barmy I sound when I talk to her.

(And just how barmy I sound even typing out those words.)

But it’s true. I’ll be walking around my house, jabbering on like a monkey in a tree, regaling Nymeria with details of my day, when I’ll just start telling her over and over again how beautiful she is.

Eventually I’ll transition to complimenting her on how good of a job she is doing of cleaning her paws, how awesome that last yawn of hers was, or how impressed I am that she jumped up on the windowsill with such grace and agility.

Sometimes I’ll just pick her up and do nothing save mutter “beauty cat” over and over and over again. (Sometimes for variation, I’ll make those words into some sort of three syllable nursery song.)

I’m seriously waiting for the day when she’ll turn, look at me and say, “Look lady, is it possible for you to stop talking to me like I’m some kind of simpleton?”

But until that day…

Ten kilometers go!

So I made the executive decision to sign up for the Fall Classic 10k race.

It’s on November 19th, so it’s bound to be raining, and freezing – but I think I have managed to coerce a number of my amazing pals to also run, so I am really looking forward to a massive post-race hang-out fest.

(Hopefully somewhere warm, and dry, where people won’t be turned off by our non-stop laughter.)

When I signed up to race, I had to enter my estimated finish time, as the two individuals with the closest guesses will win a New Balance prize pack.

I submitted a conservative forty-two minutes, but I’m hoping to run it faster than that. However, I don’t know how the rain or cold will affect my race, so I figured I would rather be safe than sorry.

My comedic genius of a friend Alannah just entered: I’m done when I’m done.

Brilliant.

Also, I think she may have made herself an automatic shoe-in for the prize!

Humour and brains, folks.

Humour and brains.

(If I was a zombie, this is what I would put as my “ideal match” in the zombie classified ads.

…

So that’s all she wrote folks.

A very merry weekend to all of you fab chaps!

I hope it’s absolutely smashing.

Don’t forget. I’ve got bionic hearing.

Hey you beauty cats.

Well, another day, another dollar. I’m not sure about you folks, but I am absolutely knackered. Thank goodness it’s Friday. And a long weekend at that!

It’s Thanksgiving up here in the Great White North (GWN) which means that over the next three days there will be an extra serving of turkey on dinner plates across the country.

For us (quasi) veggiephiles, Thanksgiving is the perfect excuse to go double duty (or just completely bonkers) on the multitude of multi-coloured tubers and gourmet gourds, so readily available around this time of year.

And goodness knows I plan on eating myself into a sweet potato stupor come Monday, mid-afternoon. Airing on the side of caution, if one of you could check in sometime Tuesday morning just to make sure my glucose levels have returned to normal I would really, really appreciate it.

(If I don’t respond, please contact that appropriate authorities.)

One million thank yous!

In the meantime, let’s get started on this Friday’s Fry-Up.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Guess what I did?

Check out MAH NEW HAIR!

As a treat to myself for my success at the half-marathon last weekend I got it cut and dyed professionally.

Professionally! For the first time ever!

I’VE MADE IT TO THE BIG TIME MOM!

Meep.

As you may remember from my post last March, all previous attempts at colouring my hair had been self-initiated (with varying levels of success.)

The lows were, erm, very low.

So, I vowed I would never again colour it again with dye from box. I’ve done my time wearing Dexter gloves and ruining M’s t-shirts.

And may I just say, I LOVE the results.

I’m digging the bangs, I’m digging the colour, and my ends no longer look like I stuck my finger into wall socket.

I also totally cracked up when why stylist told me, “You look like Jesse Pinkman’s dead girlfriend.”

Oh I certainly do.

Only, you know, less addicted to heroin and making much better life choices.

I am, after all, a role model.

Next!

Weirdos, weirdos, everywhere

I recently started watching Freaks and Geeks on Netflix. It’s pretty freaking awesome (no pun intended.)

Bill is hands down my favourite character. I just know that if I was fourteen years old I would be head over heels in love with him.

Check out his fancy moves:

I have to say I like the “Geeks” story-line much more than I like that of the “Freaks”. There is only so much James Franco I can take. And I just not that big a fan of Lindsay and her freak-chic slumming ways.

Is that harsh?

Eh, whatevs.

On the other hand, the trio of Neal, Bill, and Sam is just perfection.

I certainly wasn’t the coolest ice cube in the high school tray (my penchant for the musings of long dead Russian communists and nihilistic German misogynists didn’t exactly ingratiate me to a ton of suitors) but even though I wasn’t exactly on the same level as these three nerdos, I sympathize with them entirely.

The brilliance of their friendship warms my heart like mad.

It almost, almost makes me yearn for the days of braces and topical acne gel.

ALMOST.

Onwards!

Bradbury, you evil genius

Given that I’ve been keeping up an intense reading regimen, I’ve been reading a ton of Bradbury.

Just today I finished The Illustrated Man.

All I can say is: HOW CAN SOMEONE WRITE SO WELL ALL THE TIME!? HOW?

How could this man describe things in such unimaginably beautiful ways – describe all things in such heart-stoppingly fantastical language – in a manner that never, ever gets tiring.

In a manner that is never, ever trite.

It is never too flowery, it is never overkill.

It is always perfect.

His words tie my stomach in knots, they bring tears to my eyes; they make me think. They make me fear. They make me nervous for – I don’t know what.

They make me question my life, question my writing; they make me want to be a better writer.

They make me want.

“They moved down the echoing throats of the castle, level after dim green level, down into mustiness and decay and spiders and dreamlike webbing.”

And so I dream.

I dream of this webbing.

I dream of the stars.

Stop skirting the issue here

Hi Kids! Friday fry-up time.

A can of spam.

Yesterday I received what has to be the funniest spam comment in the history of spam comments.

It reads:

When I think back on all the blessings I have been given in my life, I can’t think of a single one, unless you count that rattlesnake that granted me all those wishes.

What the WHAT?

Talk about pure comedy gold.

Who are you, person who left this comment? Please introduce yourself to the group so we can all give you the round of applause you so dearly deserve. And I truly believe that it was a person, and not a spambot, what with it being a complete, coherent (if odd) sentence and all. (It’s also written in English and not Polish or Russian. Do you many of you peeps get a lot of multi-lingual spam? Because goodness knows, I get a TON.)

All I have to go on is the user name Silver Price and some sketchy e-mail address. So if you are reading this Monsieur Spammer, please step forward I just wish to tip my hat in your direction and let you know that your note will keep me laughing for ages.

AGES!

A close second goes to this comment which also deserves an honourable mention:

Sod costs more; however, it comes mature and ready to lay but prior to that you must prepare the area properly, and that takes time and dedication. If you have a fireplace, inside or outside, or a grill, you can pick up the fallen tree branches and cut them up for use in your fireplace or grill. Fixing your lawn can cost some money depending on how damaged it is. This list of foes continues nevertheless the absolute goal in the game remains to be the same.

BRILLIANT.

Next!

Mini-Me.

So. I recently went and tried on this mini-skirt but couldn’t bring myself to buy it despite the fact that I loved it.

It’s like a flapper skirt! Only fluffier!

KEEEEEY-UTE!

Sigh.

I have this love-fear relationship with mini-skirts. I adore them, but I have crippling anxiety when it comes to wearing them – I tend to, shall we say, over think the whole thing.

Am I showing too much leg? Do I need tights? Why am I so pale? How do I have so many veins? Why are my body proportions so out of whack?

WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT ALL OF THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Good grief – this is exhausting!

This whole thing is weird. I mean, for the longest time (for most of my undergrad actually) I never even wore pants – hey don’t get the wrong idea here – and instead only ever donned skirts (of all lengths and styles – and believe you me, I rocked quite a few minis during this time.)

And it’s crazy to think that now that I am healthy (and oh-so much happier) I have all these awful hang-ups when it comes to this one article of clothing that I actually really like.

(I debated like crazy if I even wanted to post that one picture.)

I just wish that I could get over all of this crap and just move on. No more body issues, no more trepidation over what people will think or not think – just take the plunge and do it. Wear it with tights, wear it without tights – WHO CARES.

Just wear it.

So I’m working on it.

Viva forever.

For some reason I have never gotten over a memory I have of this YM magazine article I read when I was in grade five.

The Spice Girls were on the cover, and in their interview, Posh Spice said that she never wore both eye make-up and lipstick at the same time, less she come across as overdone (I’m not sure how often she or the other girls actually followed this model, but I digress).

Now somehow this rule of thumb has stuck with me for the past sixteen years. For real, to this day, I never, ever wear any eye make-up when I rock a strong lip, and seeing as though that is most days – well, I rarely break out anything stronger than a simple mascara (if that.)

I would never have thought Victoria Beckham would play such a small, but pivotal role in my life.

Huh.

Zigazigah is right.

…

Have a brilliant weekend you beauty cats! Do what you want – wear what you want – find that rattlesnake – and then tell me all about it.