Fire & Ice is Back! Fire & Ice is Revlon's signature nail and lipstick colour, although they mysteriously pulled it off the market a few years ago. The name was was kept for one of their icky colognes and was used for the title of Charles Revson's biography. The lip colour is now back in their Winter collection. It is neither red nor pink, but something in between. It's definitely on the "blue" side of the spectrum, so it's good for gals who can wear cool shades (like moi). I wore it all through university. It's such a special colour that one of my absent-minded philosophy professors actually asked me about it at a cocktail party once, although he was more intrigued by the name of the lipstick than anything else. On my first visit to New York, a Manhattan matron stopped me in the rez-de-chausée of Bloomingdale's and asked what colour lipstick I was wearing. I'm happy to report that I'm wearing it now. It makes me feel like kissin' someone coldly, quickly, deeply, and dispassionately and leavin' a hot smear of colour on their beautiful face. Tee hee.
Radiohead vs. Alanis Morrisette Last night as I was singin' with my music buddies, I introduced them to Radiohead's "Creep". Here's the first stanza with chorus: When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye. You're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry. You float like a feather, in a beautiful world I wish I was special, you're so fucking special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. With the release of Alanis Morrisette's third "adult" album, I just help but compare and contrast the sensibility in this song to her entire oeuvre, which seems to consist of going through a great deal of emotional pain and striving towards some kind of healing and self-acceptance. Catch the stories in the Globe and Mail or on the Candian newswires for more info about the contents of her new album. Alanis wants self-affirmation. She rails against the men that mistreat her, that make her feel unsexy, and then she moves towards some kind of closure where I'm OK and you're OK and she's OK and everything's just fine, fine, fine...And then she goes through the cycle *all over again*. What's *not* to relate to? But, as I was singing "But, I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo", I felt an honest connection to those words that I would never get from singing a song like "So Unsexy", which includes these lyrics: I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful So unloved for someone so fine I can feel so boring for someone so interesting So ignorant for someone of sound mind I'd like to think that acknowledging the creep in me and loving the weirdo in me is probably healthier than trying to find the goddess within and exalting her to high heaven, which is ocassionally smelly due to the activities down here, right here on earth, where I *do* belong.


Spike Milligan Died Everything I know about England, I learned from my Dad and his incessant playing of his precious Goon show records. Where else could a pudgy four year old learn about the war, the channel, the germans, batter puddings, snivelling upper-class twits, and little men named Eccles. A classic exchange: Minnie Bannister: Help Henry - I've been struck down from behind. Help. Henry Crun: Mnk - oh dear dear. Poor Minnie. Police, English Police, Law Guardians... Minnie Bannister: Not too loud, Henry, they'll hear you. Henry Crun: Police of the law. Fx: Police whistle Fx: Whoosh! Seagoon: Can I help you, sir? Henry Crun: Are you a policeman? Seagoon: No, I'm a constable. Henry Crun: Oh, what is the difference? Seagoon: They're spelt differently Minnie Bannister: Ohhhhhh, help me differently spelt constable. Seagoon: Oh! What's happened to this dear old silver bearded lady? Henry Crun: She was struck down from behind. Seagoon: And not a moment too soon. Congratulations, sir. Find the full script and more here.


Went jogging this morning and saw some white scilla's already blooming in front of a neighbour's house.


Third Time's a Charm? What am I? Some kind of injured man magnet? I don't have a lot of experience with human weakness. I struggle with it in myself everyday and try to make the marvel-ush Maggie appear during important social events. Of course, I consider a trip to the depanneur an important social event. Let's just say I'm always trying to put my best foot forward. I have little down time, and what down time I have *can* be reflective time, sad, time, even self-pity crying jag times. But, when you think of me, well, you don't think "frail" or "damaged", but relaxed *and* ready to pounce at any light reflecting off the wall. My first encounter with an injured man was just a couple of months after I split with my boyfreind of 11 years (girls! make him give you a ring fer chrissakes!). He was a smart older guy and he was marvelous in bed...marvelous. He called me all the time and then he ... stopped. I couldn't figure out why. When he finally surfaced again, he told me that he was diagnosed as manic depressive. He was the most charming person for a few weeks and then splat! he was down and out and incapacitated. We didn't see each other again. My second encounter was with a work acquaintance--a European guy affiliated with Softimage--who got to know me through emails that I would send to clients on our public product discussion lists. Being a writer, I guess eloquence just make me seem cuter or something. Anyway, he started emailing me and we corresponded and I investigated him through mutual acquaintances on the other side of the pond. We had great exchanges. And then he sent me this email that was full of him and his depression. How he wasn't sure if he could love anyone, be friends with anyone, how I reminded him of his last true love who dumped him. Gott in himmell! I stopped corresponding with him. The third time happened 30 minutes ago, when a guy I had met through work and who I had been corresponding with primarily through email *just* told me that he had a burn out recently and was incapicated for four months. He's not an exciting person, but he's a nice person who loves books and films. Why did he have to tell me that? I'm just *not* going handle this well, am I?


Should I be ashamed of desiring this brooding, sweating, hunka angst?
Who's your Fellowship fella?
Tall, dark, and RUGGEDLY handsome!
Click on the image to find out which fellow you secretly lust after. It *might* not be the beautiful elf-boy after all ;)


The advantages of working on St-Laurent are numerous. I needed to: - get some new contact lenses - get some passport photos taken (ugh!) - get some money All these services are available right across the street from Softimage. The disadvantage of working on St-Laurent is that when Spring starts flexing its influence, like it did this afternoon, you get outside to run your errands and you *never* want to go back in. Of course, I had to check out Lola & Emily's (cute Tees ;) and MAC and Jean Coutu and *had* to finally get: - purple eyeshadow - chamois eyeshadow - face powder compact - golden lip gloss Lola & Emily's *did* have these divine body lotions that smelled like they were concocted in heaven by little cherubim who had *never* smelled anything nasty in their lives. But, I resisted. But, I'm still thinking about them. In fact, I rubbed some on my hands and I'm sniffing the flowery one *right now*. Spring is springing ;)


Mellow Kitty!
Inspired by suebob's dreamy confessions (I wish I had crazed monkey sex! with a real monkey!), I feel compelled to share that I, too, have had vivid dreams these past two nights and wish to share as much of their content as possible. Dream 1: In a Comfortable Empty House I'm in the house of one of my longtime friends. I sometimes think that we should be romantically connected, but, as one of my buddies pointed out the other night as we all sat down to dinner, "You bicker just like brother and sister." Anyway, my friend doesn't have a house, but in this dream he does and it's very large, very rundown, and very empty. And I'm living there. And I'm comfortable there. For a while, I feign sleep in the hopes that I won't have to leave the house. But, in the end, I pack up my stuff and I go. Sometimes my dreams are really transparent. Dream 2: I Meet My Love Interest's Girlfriend, Eat Her Cheese, and then Go Shopping! I'm out with my girlfriends. We meet on some city street and go for breakfast in some cute restaurant-place. My current love interest is there as well. We're joined by his girlfriend (he doesn't have one in real life) and I smile and say hello, but can't look at them for a bit 'cause they're all smoochy-like. The girlfriend has brought all these processed cheese slices and I eat them all. I apologize for doing this and I start talking to her and I realize that I really like her and that she could easily be a friend. Later, I go shopping in this new style boutique--one of my friend's exclaims something like,"Omigod, it's Jack and Jill's from Paris. We have to go in!" We do. First thing I notice is that all the mannequins are normal sizes and a variety of sizes. Then I discover that the boutique is actually a series of boutiques, but I can't look at everything in detail because I have to get to work...(I *did* have to get to work). Sidenote: Interesting thing I noticed in the boutique: A sparkler lighting kit. This kit consisted of a leather case containing a box of wooden matches and four birthday candles. Sparklers are notoriously difficult to light, so what you do is you light the candle with the wooden match and light the sparkler with the candle, which will stay lit much longer than the candle. Patent pending. Sparklers not included.
I had to apologize today at work. I didn't listen when somebody said "Your work is shit," because, of course, my work is *never* shit. Anyway, it turns out that there *was* a problem, the problem was easy to fix, and it was in no way a reflection on my work. But it is a reflection of my stubborn streak.


A very mellow weekend. I've found that since the addition of Punkin, my fourth stray cat, I *really* do have to vacuum every week. I'm turning into my mom fer sure. Before passing the vaccum, I decided to take advantage of the spring-like weather we had on Saturday and went for a run to get much-needed toilet paper. I find that I can really only motivate myself to jog if there's the promise of shopping at the end of it. Funny how I'm not at all self-conscious about browsing the local pharmacy in my vintage Norma Kamali sweat pants and my bright red Princess kangaroo sweatshirt. I almost bought some purple eyeshadow, but I work accross the street from MAC, so buying pharmacy-grade cosmetics just seems wrong now. Sunday I went to my friend's place to play some music. I don't know if "play" is the right word when talking about your voice, but I'm going to adopt it. We worked on our version of "Little Boxes" and "My Heart Belongs to Daddy" and, for a laugh, "Stairway to Heaven". What a bizarro song. I mean, what is it about, anyhoo? I changed the lyrics at the beginning from "There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold" to "There's a lady who *knows* all that glitters is gold" because I believe that ;). But mostly, what does this stanza mean: If there's a bustle in your hedgerow Don't be alarmed now It's just a spring clean for the May Queen A bustle? In *my* hedgerow? Honestly. What were they on? Who remembers slow dancing to this song? Who remememebers being groped? Who remembers groping? (And, why have all my posts turned italic? Forgive me as I work out the kinks of my blog space.)


Pas d'une Last night I celebrated Valentine's Day "entre ami(e)s" at a party and later at Else's. Home at 3:30. Someone had taken balloons from the party and we tied them to the back of the Beetle. I left them there over night, hoping that some kid would take them or that they'd simply detach themselves and fly off. A metaphor for lost love? Or a kitty-surrogate seeking new romance perhaps? The day before Valentine's (Valentine's Eve I called it), I decided to write off a love interest of mine. As is often the case, the moment you lose interest, you attract the attention of person you had been dancing around all this time. It was a rare communication, not a Valentine, but an apology, which made me feel like a self-centred bitch for writing him off and appealed to my tenacity, which I had forcefully buried. Did I want to dance this tango again? I did enough dancing last night (Cher rocks! "Do You Believe in Love"). And when you dance alone at least you don't tread on anyone's toes.


That lady was sweeping the snow again today.
Confessions of a Wrinkle Cure Addict Okay. So I eat fish. Lots of it. Especially salmon, touted to be the miracle food to end all wrinkly saggy skin. I actually have pretty good skin, but sun, time and a bit of weight loss have rendered it less than perfect. Its lack of perfection is, I believe, responsible for pimply faced sales "boys" in Future Shop calling me "Madame" and asking if the all-in-one shelf-unit stereo I'm looking at is for my daughter. Let's be honest. Remaining thirtysomething for as long as possible is desirable. I don't need surgery, injections, treatments, lotions, potions, facemasks, or scrubs. I need salmon. Lots and lots of DMAE-filled salmon. Salmon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Salmon. Salmon Salmon. Salmon is expensive. Very expensive. Something that Shakes the Clown doesn't understand. Seems that Shakes saw me at the market the other day. Yes, Shakes, I was hawking my shrimp peeler at the market. A legitimate thing to do when you don't eat shrimp any more because of its high cholesterol content. Yes, I *did* approach the busy fishmongers for fish scraps, but the scraps were for all the stray puddy tats I feed in my poor working-class neighbourhood. Not for me. Oh no. Pas pour moi. I hope you're thoroughly embarrassed. As embarrassed as when I gave you that mediocre mark for that equally mediocre paper you handed in. No money in the world could have made me give you a higher mark. I have, after all, my dignity. And my stray cats. But, sadly, very little in the way of salmon. Thanks...thanks soooooooooooo much...Think twice before making such wild accusations.


Intrigued by all those links to the bitch survey results, I decided to follow them and take the generic personality test. It seems like I'm a... PERFORMER (Dominant Extrovert Abstract Feeler ) Like just 6% of the population you are a PERFORMER (DEAF)--personable, self-assured, and excellent under pressure. You are extroverted and strong-willed, which, in combination means you are good with people and aren't willing to let opportunity pass you by. Congratulations. I'm sure all the peons you've stepped on never saw it coming and didn't feel a thing. You like being naked. Anyhow, you have formidable creative talents, and you often following what your heart tells you instead of your logical mind. Your exuberance can earn you many friends and admirers, despite your ambition, or it can intimidate the less confident into keeping their distance. It's also possible you're Madonna. ...I *do* like being naked...
The ordinary vs. extraordinary thing occurred to me Thursday night as I watched Jordi Rosen open for Hayden at the Theatre Outremont, a refurbished art deco gem filled to half capacity for this concert. The stage was bare except for a piano, a chair, a stand with a suitcase on it, and a lit candle. Jordi sat down and played her own compositions accompanied only by her accordian. Wow! I thought. Pretty brave to come out onto this bare stage and play your own stuff using only your voice and an instrument often associated with the tacky and the cheesy. Not knowing Jordi, I wondered: Am I seeing an act of bravery? An ordinary gal doing something extraordinary? Or was she born extraordinary? Did this beautiful and eccentric performance come easy to her? Many of you wrote to say that doing extraordinary things makes you extraordinary. I would have to disagree. I think it just makes you remarkable for that moment. One of you wrote to say that you wouldn't mind being extraordinary as you stood in the midst of people applauding your mediocre, half-assed efforts. Me? I'm a glutton for flattery...


Which would you rather be? An ordinary person who does extraordinary things? Or, an extraordinary person who does ordinary things. Tell me.


From my window at work, I can see the backyards of the beautiful row houses on Milton between St-Urbain and Clark. I pretty much know all the faces that go with the houses and its hard not to form impressions of people based on what you see them do in their backyard. For example, right now, in the middle of winter, the skinny smoking retired lady is *sweeping* her backyard. Yup! She's sweeping snow. With a lit cigarette in her mouth. I know that was a sentence fragment. But. I like them. I quit smoking more than two years ago, and I wonder about this lady sometimes. I see her often booting up St-Laurent on foot, likely to get groceries or something, and she *always* has a cigarette in her hand. Always. If I were her age and I was still smoking, if I weren't already dead, I'd be suffering from a bad ticker and emphysema. Must be all that activity that keeps her alive. Sweep your way to better health!


I can think of one thing that will change the world: Stop manufacturing mugs. Frequenters of church sales, garage sales, and second hand shops know that there are far too many of them. They sit, dusty-like, with logos from obscure and now-defunct companies or, if they're more cup than mug, wait forlornly for the return of their saucer. Stop buying mugs. Let's recycle the ones we have before we manufacture anymore. You're allowed to break all the really ugly ones. Thank you
My horror-scope today sez: "You will receive some wonderful news today, but can you believe it? According to the planets you can, so don't hesitate for even a second: when an opportunity presents itself you must milk it for all it is worth. Group activities are especially well starred today, so get together with friends and think of ways you can change the world." Change the world...change the world...Okay, I'll get back to you.


I'd rather be curled up in front of the fire reading a book. Instead, I'm curled up under my desk in a fetal position wondering if I'll ever be productive again. So far, no one I work with has noticed my behaviour.