Archive for 2008

I'm Not Dead

Tuesday, December 30th, 2008


Babies, I have not forgotten you. I know I said I would still post while I’m away, but it turns out, I’m a big, fat, dirty liar. I’m still at home in England and frankly, having entirely too much fun to even have a second to try to construct a proper sentence. 

 

I hope you all had a splendid Christmas. I will be back with more tales of debauchery and funniness next week. 
Have a safe and happy new year, bitches. 
Till next week…keep it classy. 

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On Being Home

Sunday, December 21st, 2008


Last Thursday morning, I arrived back in England at the ass crack of dawn. This is the first time I’ve been home in three years. I had a great weekend catching up with my family and trying to overcome my jetlag-induced coma. England has that same-only-different feel about it now. Some observations:

 

The Weather


Growing up here for 18 years, I never really noticed, but England really is grey. It’s like a cloud of impending doom hangs over the place at all times. And fog. For weeks, my friends here had been telling me to pack warm, because it was so cold over here. Bitches, please, I live in Canada, you don’t know cold until you’ve stuck out a winter there. When I got here on Thursday it was 11 degrees celsius, which would be positively spring-like in Canada. I felt like throwing on a bikini and parading around town.

 

I lost my house


I’m going to preface this by saying that my parents have moved house since I was last here and I’m not familiar with the area they moved to. The following act of stupidity, is not necessarily a representation of my true self.

 

Thursday night, after dinner with my parents, my brother and I hit up a couple of bars. Around 11pm, my jetlag was kicking in pretty hardcore, so I decided to call it a night. I hopped in a cab and gave my parents address. We arrived and I got out of the cab. When the cab pulled away, I looked around and didn’t recognise anything. I looked at the sign again – I was definitely on the right street. I walked up and down the street a couple of times. It was dark, there were hardly any lights and I didn’t have my glasses on (pretty much a recipe for disaster). Plus, I hadn’t hooked myself up with a UK cell phone yet, so couldn’t call anyone.

 

After about 10 minutes, I started to get a bit panicky, thinking my parents had uprooted the whole bloody house while I had been out. I trekked up and down the street again and still could not figure out where the hell their house was (and this is not a long street). They live at number three. I saw that number four still had lights on, so I went to knock on their door for assistance. By this time it was about 11.25pm and the owner didn’t want to open the door. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to phrase my predicament, but I thought it not wise to say ‘I’m looking for my house,’ as men in white coats would surely arrive shortly after. From behind the closed door a lady asked if she could help me. ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you this late,’ I say. ‘But I’m looking for number three.’ She tells me it’s across the street. I make my way back down her path, muttering to myself that this woman is a damn liar because I’ve already canvassed that side of the street a good fifteen times to no avail.

 

By this point, I am close to tears, thinking I’m going to have to rip off a piece of someone’s hedge and bed down in the street for the night. I figure I’ll just ask at another house. I go across the street, open the gate and make my way up the pathway. As I get closer to the door, I see a rather large number three on it.

 

Funny how houses are always in the same place you left them.

 

My parents have turned gangsta


After driving to various petrol stations to find me a sim card to put in a UK cell phone, I find one and as I get back in the car, my mother says ‘I feel like I’m on The Wire!’ Later, my dad gives me his old phone to put the sim card in and points out that ‘it’s the same model as Stringer Bell’s.’ I’m not entirely sure what’s happened since I’ve been away, but apparently, my parents think they live in Baltimore and work for Marlo Stanfield.

 

Ahh, it’s good to be home.

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I'm Outta Here Suckas!

Tuesday, December 16th, 2008

Well bitches, in a few hours, I’ll be on a plane, bound for my homeland for the holidays. I’m so excited, I could do an Irish jig. In fact, I will Riverdance all up and down this mother bitch. So, while I’m keeping the British economy afloat by making substantial contributions to its respectable retail establishments, you can read the little anecdote below about my failed attempt at climbing Mount Fuji. I’ll still be posting as usual, but for the next couple of days, I’ll be busy being pampered, getting some much needed hugs from my parents, recovering from jet lag and doubtless, eating ten times my own body weight. 
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I climbed Mount Fuji hoping I’d be able to show my friends breathtaking photos of an indescribable view. Unfortunately, something altogether different happened.

 

On the bus on the way there, my friend told me there was a 9% chance of rain. The odds were good that the trip would be amazing. It turns out, she actually said 90%. We should have called it a day right then and there.

 

We arrived at Fuji around 10pm, to do the night climb and watch the sunrise. As soon as I got there and saw other people in their professional walking gear, I felt a little intimidated. My Stan Smiths, Seven jeans, a couple of tank tops and a hoodie didn’t seem like they would suffice on this mission. But I’ve always put fashion before function.

 

We started walking and the rain was annoying, but bearable. We’d been told that the route was a straight trail to the top and would take about 7 hours. At first, it was a pretty easy trail. But in no time, it turned to a steep hill and before we knew it, we were full on rock climbing. I did not sign up for this. Between the rain, the darkness, slippery rocks and my Stan Smiths it was difficult, to say the least. When we hit the first stop, one of our group dropped out. She said she didn’t want to continue and she’d meet us in the morning. At the time I couldn’t believe she was passing up this amazing experience, but it was probably the best decision she ever made.

 

The higher we got, the more difficult the climb and brutal the rain. The downpour was now accompanied by gale force winds. We climbed for a couple of hours, reached the next stop and decided, after much debate, to take a break in a nearby hut and wait for the crazy weather to calm down.

 

We went into this hut full of 10 Japanese men to sit and take a breather. It was a fairly small tatami room with a stove in the middle. Our clothes were soaked, so the owner gave us tracksuits to change into. We hung our inappropriate, soggy clothing over the stove to dry. The tracksuits made us look like 1970s PE teachers. They were also Japanese sizes, which overall, made this not the best look for me.

 

Anywhere else in the world, a resting hut up in the mountains like that would be a place where you keep each others spirits up, laugh and joke, maybe even sing a song or two (I was more than willing to bust out a little ’99 Problems’ by Jay Z). But this being Japan, you were pretty much expected to sit in freakishly Zen-like silence.

 

There was also a good deal of hostility towards us as we were the only gaijin (foreigners) in there and we were women to boot. We had to force the men to make room for us around the stove. Huddled around, in our bright yellow Adidas tracksuits that looked like they’d shrunk two sizes in the wash, my pals and I found it difficult to keep straight faces. For a room full of Japanese men who didn’t seem to have a word of English between them, they sure knew how to tell us to shut up.

 

Eventually, they warmed up to us and next thing you know we were all taking pictures together (I’m mortified that me and that tracksuit have been documented for the rest of time). 

 

We paid for two more hours in the hut. Now it was just me, my friend, the owner and his employee. My amigo went to take a nap, so I was left alone with the hut workers. I struggled through conversations with the young employee. Apparently he took a shine to me and through his employer, asked for my hand in marriage. Since the only English words he knew were ‘crazy’ and ‘madman’ (not words you really want to hear when you’re literally stuck half way up a mountain in the middle of the night) – I respectfully declined.

 

We waited for the weather to calm down but it didn’t look like it would happen. At 4:30am the owner kicked us out. To make it down to catch our bus back to the city on time, we had to leave. He managed to tell us, in his very limited English, that we had to climb for another hour to reach the descent route. This made no sense – why do you climb higher just to go back down again? But it wasn’t up for debate, we had to do it.

 

So, we set off again. Our clothes, which were supposed to dry in that time, hadn’t at all. So we put on our soaking wet gear and went out into the cold, wet rain and gale force winds. What a delightful feeling. You know when you’re wearing soaking wet jeans and it just feels like skin? I felt like I was climbing a mountain in my underwear.

 

The next stage of the climb was probably the worst. The rock climbing was much harder, the incline steeper and the winds more intense. It was lighter outside but all you could see was clouds, which made you feel like if you slipped you’d tumble down an endless cliff face. I was absolutely crapping myself. The next stop was a twenty-minute climb away, but felt like a lifetime. We finally got there but I had a flash back to the hut man telling us it takes an hour to get to the descent route. The thought of 40 more minutes of this torture sent me over the edge. I had a complete breakdown, I was freaking out, hysterical. I was sobbing, yes, full on sobbing (complete with snot and mascara running down my face. Yes, I was wearing mascara to climb Mount Fuji. Try to look past this and focus on the story).

 

I felt there was no way I would make it off this giant rock. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies, but don’t they send helicopters when people are stuck on mountains? Where was my fucking helicopter?! The friends we made in the hut earlier were at this same point and saw me freaking out. I guess I do the ‘damsel in distress’ thing pretty well. One gave me his gloves, another, his hat and a third gave me his flannel shirt to wear. They then took us under their wing and made us part of their group.

 

So, we continued en masse. As if the rain and gale force winds weren’t bad enough, hailstones had now come into the mix. As we climbed higher, we saw people coming down the same route. They stopped and talked to the leader of our pack. It was 5:30am and we were freezing our asses off, so I was hoping they could speed up the chinwag. Eventually, one of our crew explained that people were being turned back because the trail was too dangerous. No one could get to that descent route. We had no choice but to go back down all those rocks we just spent 30 minutes climbing. I resisted the urge to curse like a sailor. I would have been happy for Jesus to take me at this point – 25 years, I’d had a good life!

 

I took a moment to centre myself and chant my internal mantra ‘Suck it up and deal with it bitch.’ We turned around and started to go back down. Every few minutes, we have to crouch down because the wind was threatening to blow us off the mountain. One of the men behind me held onto my backpack and the one in front of me held my hand the whole way down. So much for being an independent woman.

 

We rested momentarily. Then, our group started walking in another direction and climbed over a fence. I figured the fence was there for a reason, so asked them if they should be doing that. One guy shook his head and managed to blurt out in English ‘beginner route’. I looked past the fence and there was a trail, just a straight trail, all the way down to the bottom. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! I just risked my life and smeared my mascara hiking up and down some very dangerous rocks when there was a straight pathway there the whole time? I pretty sure nothing about my look says ‘experienced mountaineer’.

 

As someone who’s most difficult walking experience thus far in life, had been walking from one end of Oxford Street to the other, I feel someone should have told me about this route much sooner. Things started looking up. Even I could handle walking downhill. It was a little slippery and the first time I slipped, one of the men we were with gave me his walking stick. Let me give you the visual: I was in soaking wet clothes, a flannel shirt, a poncho raincoat (which the men had to secure around my waist with some kind of special climbing equipment because it kept blowing over my head and threatening to suffocate me), two walking sticks, mascara smeared down my face and my hair sopping wet and stuck to my head. Frankly, I looked like I belonged on the ‘special bus’.

 

About an hour and a half later, we were back at the beginning. After a hot bath, some tea and a steady diet of painkillers, I could put this whole thing behind me.

 

So, all in all, Fuji was probably the worst experience of my entire existence. I didn’t make it to the top and the only photos I have are of a shit load of clouds and me in that frikkin’ tracksuit. But I’m glad I did it. I’m a city girl who had never attempted anything like that before and the fact that I did it under those conditions, kind of amazes me.

 

Having said that, I think I’ll put my mission to Everest on the back burner for a while.

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Head Bitch in Charge

Sunday, December 14th, 2008


Why is it that when women get into positions of power, they lose their minds? I’ve never had a female boss who came anywhere close to being sane. 

 

Sadly, many women bring a school playground mentality with them to the workplace. It’s bitchy, cliquey, immature and ridiculous. 
My boss at a well-known magazine I worked at, was so notorious in New York, the very mention of her name made people wince. At first, I thought she was just very demanding and particular. Fear and intimidation are what she used to get results, somewhat like a mafia hit man. A few days into my job, the pressure was immense.
A few weeks into it, I’d come to the conclusion that she must have some kind of personality disorder. Bipolar would have been a good explanation for her incomprehensible mood swings. One second, you’d be having a relatively normal conversation (what constitutes as normal with a psychopath is a blurry line), the next minute, she’d be screaming at the top of her lungs about something totally unrelated. She was particularly keen on chewing the men out, preferring to do so in a very public forum (a corridor or reception area), over the privacy of her own office. 
If the shouting was for a reason, it would be semi-understandable (though most normal individuals would have better ways of resolving an issue than throwing a tantrum of toddler proportions). But she would lose her shit over things like addressing an envelope incorrectly.
She would rave about standards of professionalism, but those standards didn’t seem to apply to her (she once threw a stapler at a coworker and when emerging from her office after being locked in there for hours, there would always be that familiar odour of weed wafting around). 
With each passing day, I became more and more stunned that she wasn’t fired, as she persisted to bully all of her coworkers. Eventually, she was fired. Ahhh, Karma, how I love thee. 
In Montreal, I had an interview with a well known TV personality, to be her PA. The interview was pretty routine, standard questions. Then she asked me if I’d seen The Devil Wears Prada. I said I hadn’t, but I’d read the book. She told me I should rent the movie, because she’s ‘a million times worse than that Meryl Streep character.’ Why would anyone brag about being a notorious bitch? Was this supposed to make the job appeal to me? Though I was invited back for a second interview, I declined on the grounds that she didn’t meet my interview standards.
When I was 14, I had a job at a local store that sold discount household goods. It was the very definition of glamour. It was an all-female staff and a terrible wage. I hated the place, but toughed it out in the hope that if I saved my measly salary, I might one day be able to afford a CD or something.
One week, the manager (who was in her 30s) came to me and told me that someone had told her I had called her a ‘fat cow.’ I had done no such thing. I had no interest in anyone who worked there and having to make conversation with them, well, some days it was all I could do to keep from stabbing myself in the neck with a pencil. She then went on to explain to me that she had recently found out she was pregnant, which is why she had been putting on weight. I was embarrassed for her that she felt it necessary to explain, to a 14 year old, the intimate details of her private life, because she was upset over allegedly being called a ‘fat cow.’ Bitch please. You’re over 30 and sell discount bleach for a living. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. If a male manager had heard that he’d been called a ‘fat bastard,’ I doubt he’d go and explain that his ingrown toenail had prevented him from working out.
So ladies, please, lets get our shit together. Save your bitching for talking about some chick’s fat ass at the gym after work. But while at the office, at least try to behave like an adult and not some uber-bitch stereotype of what you think a female boss should be. You are holding us all back! 

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Musical Villains of 2008

Tuesday, December 9th, 2008


If I wasn’t forced to listen to the radio at work, most of the shite music of this year would have blissfully passed me by. I could have stayed in my cocoon of Ready for the World, Chaka Khan, The Police and Prince and never had my ears assaulted by the horrors of pop music.

 

Radio is just a vortex of tacky, salty balls that will make you go crazy. Here are some of the ‘artists’ that have driven me to the brink this year: 
Katy Perry


So, I don’t know if you heard, but this chick kissed a girl and apparently, she liked it. So much so that she wrote this piece of shit song that made you want to wipe out womankind, just so she couldn’t make out with anyone else and write a follow up. I swear, if I hear this song one more time, I am not responsible for my actions. 
Pink 

When you have to constantly proclaim that you are a ‘rock star’ with your ‘rock moves’, you just come off as the sad kid in class who desperately wanted to run with the cool crowd, which is exactly what you are. In this extremely irritating mess of a song you say, many times that you want to start a fight. Well, are you looking for an opponent? Because I will take you down, bitch. Hey Pink, I heard you’re really big in Australia. Maybe you should move there. Forever. Just a thought. 
Every tacky, watered down rock group


Too many to mention here, but specifically, Nickleback and that dude who won American Idol with your soppy rocky love songs – enough already! Rock music has died a sad, sad death. 
Lil Wayne


It has perplexed me all year how this fool has somehow become number one on every list imaginable. Seriously, can someone put together a very comprehensive list detailing a) how this happened, b) why I should give a shit and c) how we can make it stop. 
Beyonce


Or Sasha Fierce, or whatever the hell she wants to call herself these days. The year stayed quite blissfully Beyonce-free for the most part, but we should have known she was busy concocting new ways to annoy us. And she came a-cropper with ‘Single Ladies’ which has spawned a thousand of these, which is enough to drive anyone to the edge. 
Britney

Apparently, the medication she’s on has made her develop a terrible stutter. Womanwomawomawomanizerwowomanizerwowomanizerwowowomanizer. Whew. That is one nasty ass side effect. 
Miley Cyrus


…………………..and that about covers that one. 
Mariah Carey

She wanted us to ‘touch her body’. Thanks, but I’ll pass. And put on some clothes, for Christ’s sake! 
Usher

He wanted to ‘make love in the club’. You don’t make love in a club, Usher. You fuck skanky hos in a club. 
Auto-Tune

2008 was the year of Auto-Tune, otherwise known as that annoying voice distorter thingy that everyone and their mama was using on tracks. T Pain has Auto-Tune to thank for his entire career. 
Amy Winehouse

Not so much a songstress anymore as much as she is a walking ‘just say no’ campaign. What the hell happened? In the space of 12 months, Crackhouse has aged 30 years. 2009 will probably see this queen of all crackheads on a televised intervention, offering $20 blowjobs in Camden or releasing a track with T Pain and his Auto-Tune in a desperate attempt to stay relevant. 
Let us pray that 2009 has some better music in store. So, who made it onto your musical villains list this year? 

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Yes, I Like It. No, I Don't Own a Christmas Sweater

Monday, December 8th, 2008


I’m excited. Trés excited (when I bust out the français, I’m serious). Next wednesday, I’m flying back to England to spend the Yuletide season with my family. 

 

This is exciting because a) I haven’t been home for Christmas in four years, b) I haven’t been back to England for three years and c) I frikkin’ love Christmas! 
Yes, for all my cynicism and sarcasm and taking the piss out of other people, I cannot get enough of Christmas. After four years without the Christmas traditions I’m used to, I can’t wait to get home and dive right back into them again. 
My dad and I will go pick out a Christmas tree, just like we did when I was a kid. My mama always wants a small one, but my dad’s a big Canadian lumberjack who insists that the tree must be taller than him. My input on the tree was always essential. Unless I signed off on the height and width of the tree, it was a no go. 
We’ll get it home and pull out the decorations. We still have the decorations that my brother and I made when we were in nursery school. My bro made one that was a santa on a sled (the sled was made out of lollipop sticks, of course). We’ve had it so long, the santa has long since fallen off and disappeared, but we’ll still hang the lollipop sticks on the tree like they have some meaning. 
We’ll throw on the Ramsey Lewis Christmas Album (which is the only acceptable Christmas music to listen to), my mama makes her delicious homemade eggnog and we decorate the tree. 
Christmas eve, mama and I go to midnight mass and Christmas morning, I’ll be the first one awake, waking everyone else up. Yes, I’m 27, but it’s still my responsibility as the baby of the family to be more excited than everyone else on Christmas morning. Mama makes breakfast and we sit by the tree opening presents. 
For Christmas dinner, we go over to our family friends’ house. We’ll sit down to eat, but before we dive in, my dad does a toast to ‘absent friends’ (a shout out to our grandparents who can’t be there to enjoy it with us) and that gets everyone choked up for a second before we chow down. 
So, I know that Christmas is for kids, but I love everything about this time of year. The sights, the smells (not so much the sounds – Christmas music makes me want to hurt people, unless, of course, we’re talking about the Ramsey Lewis Christmas album), everything about it. I just love it. I had such great Christmases as a kid and I don’t think that magical feeling associated with it will ever leave me. 
Don’t worry, by the 27th, I’m usually back to my normal self. But hey, even an ice queen’s heart has to melt sometimes, right?

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Hip Hop a Hippy to the Hippy the Hip Hip Hop and Ya Don't Stop

Sunday, December 7th, 2008

 

Friday night, I went to see Q Tip in concert. Two points: a) if you haven’t got his new album, The Renaissance, go get it and b) if you’ve never seen him live, go do it. 

 

It was, quite simply, the best show I’ve ever been to. And I’ve been to some pretty damn good shows. 
One thing that never fails to irk me at hip hop shows though, is the insistence upon the crowd to make some noise.
When the first support act came on, that’s apparently, all they wanted us to do. After each song (and occasionally in the middle of a song) they would tell us to ‘make some motherfuckin’ noise’. I’m not sure how one goes about making ‘motherfuckin’ noise’. I’m not entirely sure what would constitute ‘motherfuckin’ noise’ to be honest with you and I’m not sure I want to know. They also requested that we make ‘Goddamn noise’ a few times. Is that different from ‘motherfuckin’ noise’? And if so, how? 
Honestly, if I knew what it was, I would try and make it for you. I can do a mean round of applause. Sometimes, if I’m really impressed, I’ll even lift my hands above my head while clapping. I can clap in time to the beat, which, as we all know, is a major accomplishment for a white person. I can do a ‘woo’ every now and then and on occasion, I have been known to bust out a prolonged ‘WOOOOHOOOOOOOOO!’ But ‘motherfuckin’ noise’? I’m not sure I can muster that up for you. Would it involve me learning how to do the fingers-in-mouth-whistle? Because that is notoriously hard for a girl. 
Anyway, when the next support act, The Cool Kids, came on, they just required us to ‘make some noise’. It didn’t have to be ‘motherfuckin” or ‘Goddamn’ noise, just ‘some’ noise, was sufficient. I appreciated them not putting too many demands on me as a spectator. 
When Q Tip came out, he didn’t ask for a thing, he just got on with it. Performed his ass off. And I danced and danced. And about half way into his performance, when the opening bars of ‘Check the Rhime’ played, I officially lost my shit. And I believe at that point, I made a whole lot of ‘motherfuckin” and ‘Goddamn’ noise. 

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Shop Til You Drop (kick someone in the face)

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

 

When news broke on the weekend about a Wal-Mart employee in New York being trampled to death on the job, you would think it would put everyone off shopping at that establishment. Not me amigos. Oh no. It’s Christmas, bitches and if I have shopping to do, fear of death by trampling will not stop me. And how dangerous can a Wal-Mart in Toronto be really? 

 

I got up early, called my dad, told him where I was going and asked him to pray for me. Let me say at this juncture, I am not a Wal-Mart shopper. I avoid it like flip flops on unpedicured toes. My parents had asked me to get a digital photo frame for my grandmother for Christmas and Wal-Mart was the only place I could find them for a price that wouldn’t involve me having to prostitute myself on weekends. (In the unlikely event that my grandmother has, over the course of the past week, bought a computer, learned how to navigate the interweb and is reading this right now, you’re getting a digital photo frame for Christmas Grammie and you’re gonna bloody like it). 
I get to Wal-Mart (henceforth referred to as ‘Hell’) and had to figure out where to go. Would a digital photo frame be with the electronics, or photo frames or over in the photo shop? Hey, you wanna know a fun game? If you have an hour to kill, go to your local ‘Hell’ and try to find a Wal-Mart employee who knows what the frik is going on. The first worker I asked spoke to me in charades. Throw me a ‘sounds like’ bitch, this ain’t working! She motioned me downstairs. 
Worker number two shrugged and waved me into the photo frame section. I wandered through those three aisles with no luck. I then got lost and ended up in the children’s clothing department somehow. It took me a while to find my way out of that maze and I made my way to the electronics department. 
I asked some 16 year old worker where I could find digital photo frames and he gave me a typical teenage response; ‘I don’t know.’ I stared at him blankly thinking there was more to the sentence, but apparently, that was it. 
‘Well, do you think you could ask someone?’ I asked. ‘Because I’ve come all the way across town to get one.’ I tried to smile but barely managed to mask my inner rage. 
We go to gormless-egit-electronics-department-worker-number-two and his response was also ‘I don’t know.’ ‘They moved a box of ‘em the other day and I don’t where they moved it.’ 
I took a deep breath. Tried to find my happy place. Zen, zen, happy, happy, joy, joy, do not punch him in the nuts, do not put him in a choke hold. Breathe Bangs, just breathe. 


‘Well, do you think you could ask somebody?’ I tried to muster up a smile again, but probably looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. 

‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s no way for me to find out where they moved it.’ 

‘I think there is,’ I said. ‘And I think it’s called ‘picking up a phone and asking someone.” I dug my heels in, making sure they knew I wasn’t moving until they found out where these God forsaken digital photo frames were hiding. They asked some other loser who said they ‘could’ be in the photo shop, but they ‘could also’ be upstairs. 

I charged over to the photo shop, where an equally gormless employee finally remembered where he had put the display. As I lay my eyes on it, a light shone from the heavens and a choir of angels sang. An end to this digital ornament madness was in sight. Until I saw some other woman making a beeline for the display. Nuh-uh bitch, back off! I wanted to buy every last one of those muthas, lest I should have a need for a digital photo frame myself any time in the next ten years, I could avoid ever having to go back to Hell to get one. 

Once my purchase was complete, I had to go back home and sleep it off. They entire experience was traumatic. But who wants to high five me for not bitch slapping someone? C’mon, give it to me!  

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'Faux Pas' Doesn't Cut It

Monday, December 1st, 2008


At a movie theatre in downtown Toronto on Sunday, as I was waiting for friends, I saw a girl in line for tickets. I did a double take. I think she forgot to get dressed. She was wearing a beat up hoodie, pajama pants and crocs. I’m gonna say that again so you can get the full visual (I tried to take a picture, but my camera exploded – it, rightfully, thought that this particular fashion faux pas should not be recorded for the rest of time): beat up hoodie, pajama pants, crocs. Did you just throw up in your mouth a little bit too? Yeah, try seeing it first hand, homeslice. 

 

 I looked again. I don’t think she was homeless. The friend she was with was dressed reasonably well and the girl herself was paying for her own ticket. 

I took a moment to pick my jaw up off the floor. I was beyond disgusted that someone would think that is an acceptable outfit to wear, anywhere, but especially when you are in downtown Toronto and you know you will be meeting friends and around people who will judge you, like me. See, you’d never see someone dressed like that in Times Square and if you did, I guarantee you they’re from Oklahoma or some shit.
I had to hold myself back. I wanted to have words with her, figure out why she was content to be seen in public looking like that. I also wanted to talk to the friend. Friends don’t let friends dress like wankers. 
As I watched her go about her business, laughing and joking, I got to thinking about some scenarios in which her outfit would be acceptable: 
- She’s pregnant and has outgrown everything else in her wardrobe. 
- She lives on a farm and only encounters livestock, who probably don’t care about her appearance. 
- Her house burned down and a hoodie, pajama pants and crocs were the only things she could salvage from the wreckage. 
- She was accosted by crackheads who stole all her clothes and replaced them with crack wear. 
- It’s laundry day and she has nothing else to wear (though public nudity is advised over wearing crocs).
- She was playing truth or dare, she fucked up somewhere and that outfit was the forfeit. 
- She’s a method actor, preparing for a role as a Jerry Springer guest.
- She was sick, got up off the couch to get some juice, got disoriented and ended up downtown.
So, Miss HoodiePajamaCroc Girl, it’s almost Christmas, so I think you should make yourself a list. You should just ask Santa for some taste. One word lists are the best. Oh and ask for an incinerator to burn your current wardrobe. Joy to the World! 

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Posted in fashion | 7 Comments »

Keepin' it Moving

Sunday, November 30th, 2008


Uh oh. I think I’ve got that feeling again. I think I might want to move. Hand me that atlas! 

 

I’ve been trying to fight it, but I finally admitted it out loud a couple of days ago, that I maybe, I might, could, want to, think about, possibly moving again. And for those who are new to this blog, when I talk about ‘moving’, I don’t mean down the block. I’m talking continents. 
Where? How? When? Well, I haven’t got that far in the thought process yet. As I’m trying to touch all the continents, I would most likely say South America or Africa. It would be a toss up between Brazil or Ghana. What would I do in those places? I have no clue. Admire the 3Bs (Beautiful Brazilian Boys)? Learn African dance? 
But on the other hand, I am very home sick right now. Could this mean I’d move back to London? I never thought I’d say that. But you know, the longer you stay away from a place, the more attractive it seems. I’ve made great friends here in Toronto, but it’s not the same as your friends from back home. They don’t know the history, they don’t get the jokes. Not to mention the shopping debate. Frankly, I don’t know how I’ve last this long in North America. London shits all over it in the style stakes – yeah, I said it! It’s just a fact. We dress better. And I really, truly, madly, deeply miss the shopping. And I miss seeing people who give a crap about the way they look. Too many fools over here are still rocking crocs and leggings for me to ever be able to take Canada seriously on the fashion front. 
I miss gritty grime music in clubs. I miss diversity. I miss people not thinking I’m Australian. I miss being able to say the word ‘tomato’ in a restaurant and not have the waiter look at me like I’ve got three heads (it’s tom-ahh-to bitches, not tom-ay-to!) I miss the possibility of a decent career, rather than being stuck in a job that I loathe (as I am now). I miss art shows, artists, cool people. I miss Nandos – damn that’s good chicken. And yes, there is a Nandos in Toronto, but there’s like, one, whereas in London, there’s one on pretty much every corner. 
Maybe I’m just home sick. 
I’ve been in Canada two years now. That’s the longest I’ve stayed anywhere in a while. So, this might just be a natural reaction to that. Just itchy feet. I should really talk to my mama – trace our roots back. Maybe somewhere on my Irish side, we really did come from a long line of gypsies. 
Whatever it is that I’m trying to do with my career, it just doesn’t seem to be happening. So, what exactly am I sticking around for? I know I have to pick a place and settle eventually, but I don’t know if I’ve managed to shake my curiosity about the other places I want to go yet. Though, by the same token, nothing’s ever gonna happen for me if I don’t give it time and stick it out somewhere. 
With all of that said, the one thing holding me back is that I hate moving. Seriously, hate it with a passion. The packing, the shipping, the storage. I can’t stand it. 
Actually, I think I just talked myself out of it. I’ll stay put a little while longer. 

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Posted in life | 6 Comments »