Nautical Distaster

Canada Day long weekend. So good. So long. Never long enough.

Because this concert never happened when it should of, 10 years ago, someone decided to round up some oldies/goodies for the Canada Day Concert.

Downsview park, an otherwise pretty huge eyesore was transformed into an even bigger eyesore as white trash adorned in rub on and real tattoos and one-too-many Canada flag capes filled the entire park with their Players cigarettes and overabundance of litter.

Where to begin on this one? I have so many “dear you”s to address- ok, here goes…

Dear the organizers of the Canada Day Concert.

What were you thinking?

A chimpanzee could have put together a better-run event- or wait… DID a chimpanzee organize the show? Is that what happened?

Either way, having 3 separate and yet equally long/obnoxious line-ups for beer= a bad idea. Why do you want to turn otherwise friendly Canadians into beer-starved animals? WHY????

Thankfully you could only get a whopping 2 beers per visit to the beer tent (the one preceded by the ID wristband line and the beer tickets line) so, unless you wanted a non existent to mild buzz- you were at that tent at least 3 times (mind you, having spent the entire day outside in a friends backyard drinking 2 was about all I was managing).

Plus, and this was the real hilarity to the whole thing- the beer was Bud so UGGGGGGG for taste and UGGGGGG for having American beer as the one and only featured beer of the Canada Day Concert. Molson? Molson? Buller?

Right, so what am I harping on? A long beer line at a concert? You are thinking “hasn’t this girl been out to a concert before?”

You are correct, I have and they are almost always as poorly organized and line up-y as this one was but truly, this takes the cake. The Molson Amphitheatre seems like Germans run it in comparison.

Dear concert fans,

Yes, Friday was indeed a hot day temperature wise. I was happy with my decision to wear shorts and a loose T. I am not a super freak of nature who remains ever-cool when the sun is blearing down on me but I didn’t feel the need to go topless and you shouldn’t have either. The amount of backny I saw on Friday was enough for me to never want to see a bare back again.

Hey- love your overdone and completely irrelevant tattoos- put your shirt back on

Love your steroid induced bulging muscles accompanied with your small dick- put your shirt back on

Love you extra lanky body with undeveloped chest hair- put your shirt back on

LOVE your hairy man breasts- put your shirt back on

Everyone- put your shirt back on.

Unless you are David Beckham, you can keep your shirt on while outside the trailer park please and thank you.

Dear fat- ass white trash bitch and your equally heavy and unattractive friend + her skinny ass topless (OBVIOUSLY) boyfriend,

A big fuck you to all of you.

When you go to a concert on the lawn, most people are really courteous about space, fine and fair that you want to move around, dance, walk- whatever- but as long as you are respectful of personal space, don’t care. So as the sun set and the Tragically Hip were rocking out as only Gordie can do this fat chick came, from out of nowhere and plunked herself and her friends right beside me. Ok, no problem fat bitch- I don’t begrudge you for being very unattractive and 600 pounds overweight. What I do begrudge you for is beginning to fling your body (because, did you think that was dancing? That was certainly not dancing- oh you thought so? WRONG) into mine and totally take over the tiny space I was occupying while you hoot and holler in a mans voice.

You suck and you are lucky that my fiancé knows me well enough to have grabbed me and moved me out of the way before I began to throw elbows into your side-lard. Yes, you would have won the fight but I would have won the settlement for when you broke my legs by putting 1/3 of your body weight on them.

Dear everyone who stayed until the end of the show (except the above mentioned fat girl- but this includes all topless people),

You ruled for about 5 seconds and then sucked bigger than ever

Here is why. 20 minutes of amazing fireworks are set off immediately after the encore songs and the crowd goes mental. Like, no matter what age you are and where you come from, fireworks can always delight you. So all of us, all 20,000 or so of us have this momentary connection as we oooh and aaahh at the sky.

The fireworks finished and the crowd burst into applause and a totally impromptu Oh Canada. It was cute, you know what wasn't? The abundance of garbage that you all left on the ground. anything you can imagine was just strewn about- like this park is your living room. your moms would be ashamed.

My solution is that they restrict ticket sales and no longer make them available to pigs so that the rest of us can enjoy what was actually a REALLY fun show.

Happy Monday

Xo

Jane

Ghetto Love= Pure Poetry

Last night after the most lovely evening celebrating my parents 34 years of marriage with a table full of goodness at Enoteca, I got home and took to the couch to try out my new glitter nail polish and indulge in some girly time.

With my finace away, I rarely watch anything other than Slice, E and TLC. Between My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and Keeping up with the Kardashians, I am never bored and have so much mindless fun.

So I am shamelessly watching Etalk after a good episode of Ice Loves Coco and after catching up on dated celebrity gossip with the ever orange Ben Mulroney- seriously, I have been trapped with him in an airport after a bird flew into the jet of my plane and we had to have an emergency landing in Ft. Lauderdale and he is really that orange, Dear Self tanner- they do this “profile” on Karl Wolf- a Canadian singer/ songwriter who you may remember from such amazing jams as the remake of “Africa.”

Now, I cant even pretend like I didn’t like that song- sure, Africa did not need a remake but to hear it on the radio- remixed nonetheless, all the time for several weeks was awesome. Plus, good smooth white boy beats (ok, he is from Lebanon, but still) are my kryptonite. If you are white, and specifically from Canada and sing about anything slightly ghetto- I love you. Shawn Desmond, here is looking at you.

So anyways, they are previewing his new song, aptly titled “Ghetto Love.” 

Where do I even begin on this one? First of all, as such a seasoned  “songwriter” (who was able to rip off Toto and sink in some sexy beats at the same time) I was DYING to know what kind of inspired work “Ghetto Love” could feature. Second, the name alone is amazing. Is he singing about a girl who lives in the ghetto? A girl who acts ghetto? Do they both live in the ghetto? The suspense was killing me- I ate all my nails off in anticipation.

After the mini interview where Karl discussed the important things in life like being able to travel the world and see cool stuff with his posse- because, he would be nothing without his peeps- and you can quote that-they tell us we are getting a sneak preview of his brand new video- I shit myself.

Pan in on Karl atop some dusty mountain in the desert, wifebeater on, jeans hung low hands waving as he belts out his thought provoking and awe inspiring lyrics for “Ghetto Love” which include;

"And then I take her to the parking line


Jump into my car and straight to my spot say wohoo


Then she started to fight as she stepped out of the club


Only cause a fan gave me a lil hug so I said..."

 MIND. SHATTERING.

Shakespeare would be proud..

But the kicker- and the reason I have chosen to dedicate more than 5 seconds of my life to thinking and writing about Karl is the chorus.

Here is it-brace yourselves:

"I am the man who will fight for your heart


I’ll be the hero that you’re dreaming of


We’ll live forever, knowing together


That we did it all for this ghetto ghetto love"

Sound familiar? Now sing it in the tune of Peter Cetera’s 1986 Billboard topping song “Glory of Love”

Could you just barf?

Seriously. I had to pause and rewind several times to make sure that he had actually crafted his song to remove the “glory of love” and change it to “this ghetto ghetto love.”

A slow- VERY slow clap for this musical genius and songwriter extraodinaire. Please look forward to 10 year olds grinding at camp dances while engaging in their own ghetto love. If this hits the radio- god help us all.

Animal claws

Happy Tuesday readers.

As I near 30 there are certain things that I am not at liberty to do with my “look”- although I always want to and I often feel stifled by age.

Here’s the thing- I look young. So now, at the cusp of becoming a full fledged career lady I cannot afford the opportunities I once had for blue hair, T-shirts as dresses and nose rings. I always must dress and conduct myself as if I could run into my boss at any time. Would I want her or a co-worker to see me in a hooker dress? No, no thank you.

And, not only that but I have to compensate for my youthful appearance by dressing slightly older as to reinforce that I am indeed above the age of 20 and capable of taking on “adult” responsibilities..

As such it becomes increasingly difficult for me to engage in youthful self expression.

Sure, I could dye my hair still- but the reality is that I only have a precious few years left with my real hair color anyways before I start springing greys so I cling to my real hair color like a desperate girl clings to her less than stellar man, I guess I could funkify my closet but my predisposition for T shirts that say Fuck You on them just don’t seem ok and I am unwilling to jump on the neon trend. I could pierce a hidden part of my body except for that the mere idea of it makes me barf in my mouth and after that I am left with wearing a funky purse or a retro pair of sunglasses. The end.

So of course, given this over a quarter century conundrum, I find myself constantly observing what other people who are in my shoes do and wear. When I see a good look, I make mental note and have since bought a nice hat- excitement all the way in my world, and a pair of…. Get ready for it…. Khaki Bermuda shorts (seriously, I know they sound super boring- like you may even be half asleep right now as a result of reading this- but they are pretty cool, I think. Ug what do I even know?)

So last week on the elevator I was riding down with a girl who I work with whose style I particularly like. She is pretty funky for a professional (ummmm, I suddenly have this gut wrenching feeling that my over-use of “funky” has made the word seem as cool as when my parents call weed “grass”. I die)

So. Girl. Elevator.

She is holding a Starucks and I look at her nails (I am OBSESSED with nail polish- doing my nails is like a good dose of therapy- of what kind I am not sure, but still) and they are leopard print metallic glitter.

Now, I should preface this all by mentioning that secretly within my heart of hearts, I fucking love animal prints. I realize that this places me with teenage whores and women over 70 who live in Florida- I don’t care. I love them and the tackier, the better. When they came out with pink leopard print I lost my freaking mind.

There was even a time where, and dont judge me harshly please, I had leopard print seat covers, wheel covers and dice adorning my 15 year old blue Volvo. Was it the classiest car on the road? I would say so. I really would. The geriatric centers had women pressed to their windows while I dove by blaring Bette Midler (I really do love her too- just let me retire now!)

Ok, and now to the much forgotten about point of this blog- a cheers to Sally Hansen’s nail art things which you can buy (for 9.99 on sale at Shoppers)in a variety of colors and prints- including zebra, said leopard and lace, and wicked glitters. You peel them off their backings, stick them on your nails and they say on for 10 days (or more according to the original inspiration to my nails who came by today to see mine!)

I even saw a girl wearing them on her toes- which looked so cute and then I tired to do it except my toenails are mini mutants and are not conducive to any kind of polish being so freakishly small….

So go out ladies, buy this shit- they are so fun and will provide you with momentary distraction from your desires to go back to the fire engine red hair you sported before your ass got dimples. 

Breasts

Now that I have your attention- I am talking about chicken breasts you pervs. If you clicked onto this blog with hopes of it being about boobs- you need to get laid.

So chicken petrifies me.

I have grown up on a staple diet of chicken in various forms, at least twice a week, every week since birth. My mom makes some mean chicken and over the years as our taste buds got a bit more refined, her chicken got a bit more complicated and wonderful. But overall, it is chicken.

You would think that having grown up in such a way would make me very comfortable in chicken preparation (or in a kitchen for that matter). You are wrong.

I would say that one of my parents biggest laments about grown-up me is that I am a pariah in the kitchen.

I am trying, and I am slowly learning because it annoys the fuck out of me to have my fiancé cook every meal and then gloat in the aftermath of a delicious plate. He is just so good at it whereas I am very tepid. The other night after a delicious meal I said “I want something chocolately” he disappeared into the kitchen and emerged 20 minutes later with perfectly baked flourless chocolate cakes in individual ramekins- I didn’t even know what you could use a ramekin for. So I say “wow, where did you find this recipe” and he says “I made it up in my head.”

If I made up flourless chocolate cake in my head, I would be serving you chocolate baked scrambled eggs at the end of the baking.

But the great thing about all of my cooking woes is that it doesn’t stop me from being a GREAT eater. So who is laughing at the end. I am. Me and my ever growing ass.

So, onwards we go- I am really really trying to cook more. I don’t want to end up being that girl who eats Kraft Dinner when left to her own devices so I have been slowly attempting more and more recipes. I usually do side dishes and opt to leave the meat to my fiancé who not only is a prodigy in the kitchen but also has a special gift for meats (of course right?). I have gone from the easier, guacamole and salsa sauces to a more advanced bean dish and different salads (I am really good with salads- always have been- so I guess that is one thing I can do). I have gotten good at certain soups and tofu dishes, I have tried a few fish plates and have even delved into sausage- once.

But there is something about chicken that makes me just plain uncomfortable. Maybe it is that my friend once got food poisoned from uncooked chicken and was sick for almost a year- and very descriptive of her illness- making it all the more frightening. Maybe it is that my chicken master partner is sure to silently judge my less than perfect chicken should I bother to try, or maybe it is the pink, slimy, blobs that you have to manhandle. Whatever it is- chicken has not been my friend.

Last night I was feeling ambitious and brave having trapped a large beetle in my house under a jar instead of fleeing the house, hands flailing screaming bloody murder like I usually would. I felt a surge of calmness and decided to surprise my fiancé and make him dinner for once. I made a wicked quinoa dill salad and then grabbed the package of breasts, took a deep breath and ripped into it.

Now, I cant take full credit for the AMAZING chicken that came out of my marinade because all I really did was put the breasts in a bag with my self-made marinade and then smushed the marinade into the chicken and put it in the fridge. He barbequed, it is true, but only because I am always afraid of blowing myself up while lighting a BBQ alone- and because I am afraid of chicken, as I have mentioned- in case you didn’t get it yet. So I don’t like cooking chicken- ok? That is my thesis.

The end.

Feline Fridays

Happy Friday dear readers.

This Friday is an extremely happy one for me indeed as, in a few short hours, I get to begin my weekend courtesy of “summer hours”. Bless you summer hours bless you.

Also adding to my extreme happiness is that my fiancé is free as a bird this weekend. For the past 5 or 6 weekends he has been hard at work Saturday and Sunday leaving me to my own devices.

And so, as the minutes tick by my thoughts trail to what we might get ourselves up to during our free time.

The nice thing about living in Toronto is that we always have some kind of festival that you can go to on a weekend. This weekend doesn’t differ and presents us with Woofstock- a festival for the dogs.

Taking place just outside St. Lawrence Market all weekend long, Woofstock offers a bevy of dog friendly booths and other dog-related activities including a few hilarious(or not hilarious if you take your dogs very seriously) shows- to me, they always make me think about “best in Show”- haven’t seen it? Please do.

So I have never had a dog in life. When I was little, we got a cat by default having bought her for my Grandmother and having her swiftly returned to us by my Grandfather. Her name was cookie- she was the runt of a Tabby cat litter and she was a delight. I didn’t even think dog during the Cookie era. She was just as fun as I could have ever imagined a dog being plus, she let us dress her up in our old baby clothes. Probably one of the funniest memories we have of her was when my sister was squeezing her wearing new red flannel pajamas after a shower only to turn all of Cookie’s white hairs pink from the fabric dye. That and the time we thought we lost her only to hear her pitiful mews hours later from under the guest room bed where she had clawed through the underside of the mattress and gotten herself lost and slightly tangled in the exposed coils.

When we moved from out second home from Richmond Hill to the city, Cookie had to be given away. My dad had developed bad cat allergies and since our new house was about half the size of our old one- it had to be done. Cookie went to live with my dad’s secretary and hopefully had a wonderful cat life.

In university I was a crazy person and did anything and everything that a crazy person would do. I was really into karma back then and after reading an ad posted to a pole calling for “homes for abandoned animals”, I felt that it was my karmic duty to save a creature. I thought dog but laziness and logic lead me back to cat. Silky, a 2-year-old huge grey cat with yellow eyes came to me from the home of a woman who was dying from Cancer. I was certain that this act of kindness on my part guaranteed me a lifetime of happiness (of course this was also the year that I dropped out of university- should have perhaps been my first clue that I was wrong). When I came home mid-year after adopting her, she was granted residence in my parent’s home despite the allergies and despite their desire not to have a cat.

She was the worst menace devil-cat in the world. In university I had lived with 2 girls who also had cats (were we the crazy cat apartment? Maybe we were- we had lizards too- chew on that) so perhaps I didn’t notice the satanic disposition of Silky. Perhaps being occupied playing with her cat friends she didn’t have time to devise ruthless plans to make my life a living hell, but home at my parents she had nothing but time.

One of her favorite activities was waiting until we had all gone to sleep and then darting across the living room and flinging herself against the windows at the front of the house. This obviously created a huge noise and the first few times it happened, it sounded like we were being attacked. No, no attack, just the cat smashing her cat body against walls. She of course, never did this during normal waking hours of the day- as if she was meaning to scare us/ impede our hours of much needed sleep.

On the day that she ran away, my mom was bringing in groceries and she will swear to this day that the cat smiled maniacally at her before running out the door never to be seen again. Not even my “Have you seen my kitty” signs that I plastered all over the neighborhood brought signs of her back. At the time I was pretty sad- in hindsight she really sucked as a pet.


Then of course, continuing with my cat story that began as a dog story but somehow became feline, when I moved in with my fiancé, we took his cat- an old, fat orange cat not unlike Garfield. Pumpkin is actually like a dog. He plays, he cuddles, he is active and smart and funny- he lasted about 2 months before my fiancé’s allergies made him unbearable and we had to return him to their family home.

Although I often email pictures of hypoallergenic cats to my fiancé, I have a feeling a dog is a more realistic goal and ever since we have been getting prepared.

We have a name, a breed, now all we need is a house to put it in and the money to spend on it- no big deal right?

Then, we too can attend Woofstock and not have to borrow one of his sisters dogs to go and not feel like the misfit at the party. I cant imagine anything more weird than going to Woofstock for fun without a dog- I guess it would be fun to see all the dogs though? Maybe not so weird? I guess doing one of those Cornfield mazes at Chudlieghs Apple Farm with all the kids and realizing that you are the only adult without a child in the maze and feeling like a pervert despite not having ANY perverted intentions would be weirder. Not that it has happened. Ever.

A convoluted comeback to the topic of dogs, I know, but my mind has already wandered again and as lunch time approaches, I am focused far more on lunch than canines and felines.

Happy weekend all, if you have a doggie, check out Woofstock and one year in the near future I hope to see you there.

Xoxo

Jane

Dear Nudella

Every morning at around 9:15 my whole office gathers at the window of our west facing building and eagerly awaits the show that we all know will come.

Across the street there is a brand new condo building- I hate that building and think it is a major eye sore- mind you, the surrounding buildings with their dilapidated stone- and not in a retro or kitschy way- are not that much better.

So amid talks of “how was your nights” everyone casually keeps sneaking glances at the left corner apartment eye level to our window.

You might think that their attention would be focused on the unit whose windows are covered in tin foil a few levels down (are you attempting to block the ufos from accessing your secret homemade time machine?), the man who constantly parades around in neon underwear and scratches his crotch incessantly (and yes, we are close enough to see this all), or the unit to the right that has a bed in it that has been turned upside down.

The upside down bed one always really trips me out- who lives here? The anti- gravity man? Are you telling me that in the ugliest building in the general vicinity of where I am lives a man who just defies the laws of nature?

All of these rooms pale in comparison to our star show- Nudella, as we fondly have named her, has no window coverings.

She wakes up at around 9ish and proceeds to get up and get ready for whatever job she has that lets her sleep until 9am. This is her routine: wake up- wander around her very small apartment, give a morning stretch, head to the kitchen, maybe for a glass of water or something, shower, back to the kitchen for breakfast, to her bedroom to spend 30 minutes trying on clothes, mirror time, off to work.

Riveting no? You may be thinking to yourself that I am infinitely dull. That if I find some vain girl’s basic morning routine to be that interesting, I must be the most boring person in the whole world… you are wrong.

Nudella got her name because she does everything totally naked and if I can see the print of the neon boxers on the crotch scratching man, you can only imagine what Nudella reveals to us on a daily basis.

Thankfully, Nudella is hot.

The best part of her routine is the trying on of the clothes. This girl has a bra for every outfit she puts on so that every time the top changes so does the bra, much to the delight of the men in my department- and the women, who am I kidding…

I think of Nudella as a constant reminder to keep my blinds closed.

Nudella, if you are reading this- and you will be identified as living in a building that looks like lego and a fondness for nudity- I’m not sure whether to tell you to please put up blinds- or not. But I will say thank you for making my morning coffee so enjoyable.

Ready? OK!

I have an ongoing love hate relationship with my gym instructor. I see her twice a week for 2 different classes and each time I see her I want to both kill her and be her best friend all at the same time.

Of course she is blond, young, skinny, and peppy- oh and of course tall but not in an amazon-ish way- just in the way that she looks even skinnier and better in everything she wears. Oh right., and she also has “natural” (or so she claims) tanned skin. Right? Of course she would. She probably shits gold too.

Now, obviously she is super motivating and super sweet to work out with- she encourages you to do the most you can but never chastises you for not- maybe it would help my cause if she barked commandments at me- then I would have a reason to swear at her over and over in my head. The “you can do its” just don’t warrant the curses I concoct for her.

What does warrant them though is that every class she teaches, she brings in a fucking Starbucks Frappuccino. Now first of all, it is hot as hell in these classes. I sweat like a pig in them (ok, not true, I actually never sweat like a pig and most of the time don’t sweat much at all- neither does my mom- I think it may be genetic) but either way I usually spend a lot of the time not cursing her, wishing I could grab her Frappuccino and dart out of the room with it- that or just dump it over my head and bathe in the icy caffeinated goodness. Second, fuck you. Really? It is so unfair that while I work out so that my ass doesn’t grow to become the size of a bean bag chair you casually sip on your stupid 4000 calorie drink. I bet hers isn’t even light- I will bet she takes the full calorie load and just loves it. I hate her/ want to enjoy a Starbucks drink with her. Oh the irony.

Now this part- this is the real kicker. She makes us do 5 minute planks in every class- I can do about 2 or 3 if I am feeling like a powerhouse- she asks for 5- you unreasonable jezebel. Unreasonable to me, yes but OF COURSE the bitch does them with us- and talks while doing them- talks about how great we all are and how good we will look from doing them

GO.TO. HELL.

Here I am panting away barely able to curse in my head let alone utter a word out loud and there she is just planking and chatting away- like she is relaxing on a beach or something- just casually chatting with friends. How do you not love/ hate her even more? She leads by example AND makes you feel inferior and empowered all at the same time.

Finally- you will not be surprised to hear that she has a great playlist that we listen to while she tortures us. A great fucking playlist. She uses songs I have never even heard of which makes me believe that she is way more hip to what young people listen to than me- which makes me feel old- which makes me hate her all the more (or want to drink a fountain of youth- whatever). So all the while I am hating on her- I am also slowly learning this great new music and hate myself when I catch myself singing along or worse- singing the songs later in the day outside of the class.

So to my Succubus of a gym teacher I thank you for being such an inspiring and wonderful teacher- and hate you for being blond perfection. Love you for your cool songs and motivating words, hate you for everything you stand for. Will continue to thrive in your classes twice a week and will also continue to think of ways to harm you.

Yours truly,

Jane.