There and back again

Today I am wearing a pretty dress.

Today I am wearing four inch heels.

Today I feel as though I will take over the world.

Clocking in at approximately 6’2” or 188 cm, I am either an Amazon warrior or Godzilla.

Let’s get this Friday Fry-Up on the road.

Shakespeare Extravaganza – Part Deux.

For his most recently passed birthday, M’s sister V gifted him with two tickets to Bard on the Beach’s production of The Merry Wives of Windsor. As such, tonight we will be off to Vanier Park to have our funny bones tickled by ye old Willy Shakes and his most prodigious wit.

Before the show, we will picnic on fresh salmon, green beans, and fragrant basmati rice, and watch the sun sink below the blue-capped mountains.

I’ve never before seen a production of this play, so I am quite interested to see how this adaptation will unfold.

I’m also curious as to what direction they will take with Falstaff – whether they will go full-buffoon, or instead, present a more textured (but not necessarily measured) interpretation of his character.

When it comes to the bard, and I am pretty darn open minded.

Just as long as it’s not this:

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Kenneth Branagh (especially as Kurt Wallander…ooer), and I love me some K. Bra as Benedick/Hamlet/Henry V – but this?

Onwards!

Simple pleasures.

A selection:

Mr. M brushing my hair.

Crawling into freshly laundered sheets, exhausted from a sun-drenched day.

The spice of freshly ground espresso beans.

The crackle and crunch of just-baked pumpkin seeds.

Nymeria’s paws, running the length of my back.

Carrot sticks and cherry tomatoes – a throw-back to my childhood that lovingly endures.

And another? Molasses cookies, this time dipped in chocolate – an updated twist on a family classic.

Heaven.

Stumbling across my 18-year old self in prose form.

Oh, to once again think that I am, like, THE WITTIEST PERSON EVER OMG.

Check this out:

Kevin stared at his shoes.  They weren’t they way he remembered them at all.  How utterly strange, (he thought), as his cat just stared and stared.  The orange sunlight fell across his nose and warmed his sinuses, dissipating the symptoms of his hay fever.   He checked his watch for the final time and decided foreign shoes or no, he had to leave.

“Open sesame!” said Kevin, and he watched a miniature tortoise on roller skates open the window to his right, leading straight into the front yard rhododendron plant.  Kevin decided that once he found out who had taken his regular shoes, he would try to get more sleep.

Reaching into his pocket, Kevin found the number of a beautiful girl he had met two days prior while sipping his Smirnoff Ice at (what he considered) the most underrated club in town. 

Now, Trish (the owner of said phone number) was suffering a quandary of her own.  Trapped in a crippling intellectual, emotional and creative stagnation, she found herself easily moved to tears while watching a re-run of an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. 

Further, her refusal to shave her legs – a move done in solidarity with the Montreal Canadian’s run to the Stanley cup finals – was getting her into trouble with her manager.  Evidently it was written somewhere in the restaurant’s by-laws that all waitresses must be 1) hot and 2) have shaved legs. 

Finally, her roommate keep pouring salt onto her blistered ankles and it had become painfully obvious that she (the roommate) also had a penchant for hoarding the teaspoons in her top dresser drawer along with her collection of leather thongs. 

Trish decided that as soon as she found another job, she would try to get a new roommate.

Meanwhile, Kevin tried to work up the courage to phone Trish. 

At this exact moment Trish’s short term memory kicked in.  The boy she’d met dancing the other night!  Also the asparagus that had been sitting in the microwave since yesterday at approximately four p.m. was most likely soggy and cold.  She ate the wilted greens by the phone. 

It remained silent, despite the fact that Kevin phoned nine times during the course of her meal, having mastered the skill of having up pre-ring by the middle of ninth grade.  (Carly McDonald never knew any of this. She was now married with two children, an international bridge champion and fucking the swimming instructor). 

Kevin grew frustrated with his lack lustre efforts, took a shower, shaved his armpits and went to bed.  He dreamt of Trish, laying next to her face and she told him, “All I wanted to do was feed the ducks.  You asshole!”

Kevin got up and drank some water.  He didn’t dream the rest of the night.

Trish passed out due the toxicity of her nail polish fumes.

Three days later Kevin was arguing with the grocer over the rotten rutabagas purchased a day and a half prior to said confrontation.  Trish was inside stocking up on strawberry flavoured Pocky. 

Too lost in their own worlds, our hero and heroine were clueless to their closeness.  Their hands brushed at the apple stand and when he looked up, Trish kneed in the junk and told him, “You have a nice crotch.”

THE END.

Good grief. Teenage self – what WERE you thinking? (I am sure I cannot be the only one who asks themselves this question?)

Actually, scratch that, I know exactly what I was thinking. Something along the lines of “ZOMG. I am sooooo irreverent and interesting and intelligent! Move over Salinger, your reign is OVER!”

Oh lawdy, I will be laughing about this for days…

A very merry weekend to you all!

Friday I’m in love

Friends! It’s Friday!

THANK GOODNESS.

Here comes the sun!

Phew, and what a week it has been. Thirteen hour days, volunteer gigs, tears, runs, blisters, beauty cats – and heading into next week, I’m just going to do it all over again.

Do what exactly, you may ask?

The same thing we do every night Pinky…try to take over the world!!!

Because it’s the end of the week, and I am so very excited for the (long!) weekend, I figured it was time to bring back the ol’ Friday Fry-up.

First on the docket:

Street food.

Simply put, I cannot get enough. Although I really try to bring my lunch every day to work, there is only so many days a girl can survive on nutella-almond butter sandwiches (this week was a little bleak in terms of foodstuffs available at the homestead. I am glad to report, however, that to balance this out I ate oatmeal everyday for breakfast, as well as at least two fruits over the course of the work day.)

I wrote earlier about all the great new joints popping up around the downtown core, and it’s nice to try out a different one every now and then.

But there are some days where the only thing I can think about is getting my little mitts on a tofu hotdog, slathered in fried onions, bbq sauce, ketchup, and mustard.

And today, my darlings, was one of those exact days.

I needed to get out of the office, stretch my legs, and spend some time in the sunshine, all alone – on my own.

I walked over to the law courts, purchased my dog, and sat down in my own little sun-soaked spot.

Nom.

Bliss.

Also, it is weird that as much as I love the hotdog itself, my favourite part of this meal is the two last bites – bites that are nothing save for the bun, the onions, and the condiments (that have all mixed together to form a orangey-yellow super sauce?)

Da best part.

Or is that just me?

Either way, it was fab. And amazingly enough, I didn’t spill a drop on my dress.

Look ma! No dry cleaning bill!

Second on the docket:

These ads from Aldo.

Barf.

First, let me preface this by saying that I pretty much despise Aldo and never shop there. Their shoes are totally overpriced, and the quality absolute shite.

Plus there is nothing remarkable about the styles they offer. Everything is boring and bland.

So when I see something like this, well, don’t colour me surprised:

Double barf.

Colour me bored and scornful.

Aren’t we over this trope already, or what?

I mean, if we’re going to keep pumping out ridiculous and sexist advertising campaigns, can’t we get something a little original?

For heaven’s sake, just have a vagina wearing the shoes (hell, have a vagina eating a popsicle wearing the shoes, for all I care) and get it over with.

Because the whole banana/iced treat as phallic symbol is old as dirt and twice as stupid.

(Or, you know, if you want to be totally off the charts risqué, just rely on quality products to increase sales, and have your marketing campaign revolve around your merchandise – a radical thought, I know.)

In the meantime, I won’t hold my breath.

Third on the docket:

I CANNOT stop buying clothes.

Okay, that’s a big of an overstatement. I’m not exactly out on a bender, slinking about outlet malls and breaking open my bank account.

However, over the last month I’ve purchased two dresses!

TWO!

Good grief. That’s one less than I purchased all of last year.

Just typing these words, I feel as though I need qualify and explain how cheap the items were, but then another part of me starts shouting WHO CARES STOP IT YOU WORK HARD ENJOY IT LOVE IT.

Today at lunch I ventured to H&M (holy crappola, this place is like my fricken Brokeback Mountain – for serious, WHY CAN’T I QUIT YOU!?) and tried on a couple of dresses.

I feel as though these past few days I’ve been oscillating wildly back and forth between über feminine and über masculine looks. For instance, yesterday I work skinny-legged men’s dress pants, a man’s sweater, collared shirt and tie, and today I wore this:

And then I tried on this:

Jewel tones FTW.

Which actually has a ridiculously cute bow on the right shoulder:

Bow!

And then I tried on this:

Love me some spots.

Dudes. It’s a lady-bug dress!!

(Okay, not really. But that’s what it makes me feel like.)

In the end, I wound up purchasing both, but got the first one in black.

(For a very, very low – combined – price.)

STOP IT ETHEL! MOVE ON.

So there you have it folks: Food, fashion, and fallacies (otherwise known as the world of advertising.)

What are your favourite street foods? Have you bought yourself anything nice of late?

Put your feet up, pour yourself a cold drink, and tell me all about it.