Cheesecake in Bed

I am no longer nineteen.  I no longer can stay out all night dancing at clubs.  Who am I kidding?  I never could.  I realize that when going to the city that never sleeps, us lovely ladies should be hitting the town.  Meh.  We were too fat from eating to fit into our party dresses, our feet too swollen to fit in our shoes, and we were too lazy to put on our newly acquired guilt-gloss.

Instead, K and I spent one of our 'party' nights, walking to the corner of 6th and 53rd for street meat (the best Halal EVER), getting some New York cheesecake and eating our dinner in our beds while watching Juno on the big flat screen.  I don't think we have ever been happier.

Why do we feel guilty for staying in?  What does that say about society?  I like staying home, I always have.  I have wasted much time and money, forcing myself to go out to clubs that I don't really like that much.  I must face the facts, I truly like being home on a Saturday night because I really love SNL.

Now more about this halal.  I was recommended to go seek this place out.  It is across from the Hilton on 6th and 53rd and always has a line-up, that is how you know it is good.  K and I were the only women in line, and the only white tourists.  That is how you know it is really really good.  For $6 you get a plate of rice, lettuce, pita topped with lamb and chicken.  Then you pour over this yummy yogurt and hot sauce.  So freaking good!   Warning:  your hotel room is guaranteed to stink after eating.  And maybe you should share with a friend.

Ugly Shoes

I have decided that Sex and the City is entirely misleading.  How those girls stomp around NYC in high heels is completely beyond me.  Oh wait, I know.  They shoot for about two minutes, the director yells 'CUT!' and an assistant rolls in with a chair and slippers.  That is clearly the only way to walk in cute shoes in this city.

My feet hurt.  Ache.  Throb.   They are covered in blisters and are swollen.  Cute shoes my ass, give me some grandma Clarks.  I must admit that all the clothes I packed were cute and needed to be accompanied by cute shoes, my Haviana's do not go with my little black dress.  I have already bought two pairs of alternate flip flops, thinking some jewels on my flip flops will help my outfit.  But so far all they have helped with is forming two new blisters and severe back pain.

I had no idea just how much walking would be done in this fair city.  Stomp stomp stomp.  Up Fifth Ave, through Central park, from East to West Village.  And everyone walks fast. I can't keep up, MY FEET HURT!!!!!!  My girlfriend who moved here told me to put on my cute shoes and then keep my comfy flip flops in my purse.  I never took her advice, which was stupid.  Her feet are covered in perma-blisters and she uses the 'second pair of shoes' system.  Apparently, Band-aid makes this new blister block that is supposed to be amazing.  It's sold out in New York - well in Manhattan and Brooklyn  - but hey! - they hardly count as a measurement of popularity.

K and I have taken to cabs for every couple of blocks.  In fact, we have even taken to those rickshaw things.  $20 well spent . . . . 

Attack of the Boutique Salesperson

New York is clearly a city made for shoppers - it's a mecca of ridiculously expensive department stores, the famous designer outlet Century 21, and hundreds of adorable boutiques.  My friends and I were in heaven.

Boutiques are really where it's at.  Each has its own personality, its own flavour and its own crazy salesperson/owner.  Soho and the Village are literally covered in boutiques and thankfully I was able to visit them with K.  I am not sure I would have gone otherwise.  As much as I love teeny tiny store shopping, it also makes me nervous.

At least at Banana Republic, there are lots of other shoppers and many salespeople who generally let you do your own thing.  But at a boutique, I am often the only person.  Against the salesperson.  I know the salesperson is desperate for a sale, after all, they work in a teeny tiny store that often does teeny tiny business.  I am never relaxed on my own.  I feel their eyes boring into my head, sending me 'buy something' vibes.  Then I feel guilty when I leave without making  a purchase, as if I am a villain in a fairytale.  The evil shopper was just browsing, we'll get her my pretty.

Shopping with K, I felt pretty confident.  I had a comrade.  A browser in arms.  Not that we were browsing, we were going to spend money if we found something worthwhile.  But I didn't feel that pressure I usually feel when on my own. 

Until we were attacked by the whacko boutique owner.

One window caught our eye, it was full of cute purses. So of course we went in.  Immediately on entering I could tell this owner was on a hunt.  A hunt to sell his wares.  With every purse we slightly looked at, he would pounce on us.  "That's so cute isn't it?" to which we would nod obediantly.  "And such a deal at only $250", K and I pretended that we thought that was a deal, even though we bought our weight's worth in fake bags for an eighth of the price. He followed us around like a homeless man who doesn't listen to 'I really don't have change' and made a comment about EVERYTHING.  

I love how women have a way of talking to each other without actually talking to each other.  My sixth sense told me K wanted to leave as badly as I did, so we slowly made our way to the door.  Mr. Crazy stopped us just a foot away by pointing out a locally made chain-link clutch, we paused pretending we loved it.  And it was in that slight pause I was attacked.

Before I knew it, there was something on my lips.  He had come from behind with a stick and was slathering lip gloss on me.  I shrieked a little and he told me he wasn't going to hurt me.  He smothered my lips then moved on to K, talking a mile a minute about his own line of naturally made cosmetics.  Just as I was rubbing my lips together, he was on me again, spraying my face with some sort of toner thing.  No warning, just spraying my face so that I had to rub my eyes and spit liquid out of my mouth.  It was like being in some sort of battle, that kind that you are surprised at - what's it called again?  Oh yes, ambush.

Next we has dotting our faces with concealer and powder, telling us how wonderful it felt.  I was frozen.  Everytime his back was turned, K and I would lock eyes, trying not to break out entirely in giggles.  There was no escape from Mr. Crazy, except if we bought something.  And I have to grudgingly admit that the lip gloss was really nice, so I didn't feel too stupid.

Mr. Crazy went on about all the celebs who loved his stuff:  Reese, Cher, some Broadway lady.  He told us a story about doing Cher's make-up and not even realizing it was her.  Ahh, so he attacked her too.  He bragged about how much they bought.  Obviously, like us, the celebs bought stuff just to shut him up and leave the store.

Next time I boutique shop, I am taking bear spray.  

Everything is Coming up Roses

Traveling with girls is pretty much the best damn thing EVER.  I love the Engineer with pretty much everything I have.  Traveling with him is great and wonderful in its own right, but there is something about traveling with girls that simply rocks.  Probably because we are all nuts and clap and scream over the excitement of cupcakes, cocktails and renting movies in our hotel room.  The Engineer doesn't squeal over anything - except maybe the Oilers winning the Stanley Cup.

I am in New York with two of my good friends and we had a perfect Manhattan date last night.  It started with Rose & Lemon-aid pedicures on the Upper East side complete with pink sparkling wine and pretty dresses and ended with a huge Italian meal where we may have had mini-orgasms over the chocolate souffle.  The owners must have liked us (perhaps because we took pictures of every dish and expressed quite loudly our appreciation) because they capped our evening off with ROSE ITALIAN SPARKLING WINE.  ROSE WINE!  AAAAAAAHH!  In case you want to know it was called:  Brachetto D'Aqui from Piemonte in Italy.  I am fairly certain that a rose sparkling drink from Italy may be the most girly drink on planet Earth.

The Engineer would have appreciated the meal for sure.  It's just eating with girls makes us a bit nutty.  We loved our waiter/the owner because of his adorable Italian accent and his adorable Italian butt.  We also loved that when we stuck our forks into the souffle, warm oozing chocolate poured out.  The dessert was devoured in no less than a minute and was accompanied by the closing of eyes and the small gasps of intense pleasure.  By the last bite it was 'every bitch for herself' with the forks - much to our cute-butted waiter/owners' amusement.

We were supposed to then go out to a lounge and drink fabulous cocktails in the fabulous city.  But we were too full and the appeal of the in-room movies won over our need to go drink more.  

And only with your girlfriends can you stomp down Broadway in your too-high-heels that now kill your newly pedicured feet, wearing pretty dresses and gushing over the deliciousness of melty chocolate and rose wine.  Boys don't do that.

Boys also don't go to lounges and think they see Mario Lopez  as girls do.  Well K did, except she wasn't wearing her glasses so Mario was in fact a geeky looking guy from China, or perhaps Hawaii.  Boys also don't attract free mojitos to the table or freak out that the entrance of a bar smells like orchids and lotus flowers.  And boys DEFINITELY don't spend a whole afternoon in the village searching out vintage scarfs or the perfect shoe.  But then again, boys are very lovely to hold hands with in the street and cozy up to in a carriage ride through Central Park.

The point is, I suppose if there is a point, is that as we get older, sometimes we tend to forget the glory of girl-time as we spend so much of our life with the significant other.  Our s.o.'s are awesome and adorable, and allow you to put your head on their lap on the plane.  But girlfriends make you see the world from rose-coloured glasses.

Big Apple, Little Seed

I grew up on a farm.  Sort of.  I was born in rural Alberta and my dad is a farmer so I feel strongly in being able to claim country roots.  I spent my educational time in a small, Canadian prairie city.  So small that when I moved to rainy city I thought for sure I had hit big time.  Then I travelled the world.  I discovered London, Bangkok, Tokyo, Paris . . . . and I realized that rainy city is a very tiny city in comparison.

There have been times living in my urban apartment where I felt as though I wanted more, needed more bustle and hustle.  So I came to the Big Apple - birth place of hustle and bustle.  And freaking honking cars and stupid slow-walking tourists!!

New York is easy to love, I think.  Here are some things I have learned during my time in the city that never sleeps:

1.  Honking is mean and stupid and really annoying.  YOU AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE DUMBASS!

2.  I look like a native because people ask me for directions - it must be my frowny face trying to get through the crowds.

3.  Times Square is full of overpriced horrible food and stupid people wearing matching sweatshirts.  OR wearing matching colours - tan pants/orange shirt, orange pants/tan shirt

4.  I am really good at hailing taxis

5.  The subway is faster than a taxi

6.  If I am going to jaywalk, don't do it in front of a honking cab and then scream like an old lady in front of a crowd of real New Yorkers (I heard one lady say "She ain't from New York")

7.  People I see in TV and movies do exist:  fat black chicks who hold their palms up and say 'Don't go there', women dressed head to toe in designer clothes on Park Ave that are clearly on some sort of mood enhancing drug, more plastic surgery than LA (I never thought that was possible)

8.  Three drinks will cost $50 and I shouldn't faint

9.  Room service breakfast for two costs $81 and I shouldn't have a heart attack

10.  I am a small seed in a big apple

I really am a small town girl.  And I really love the rainy city where no one honks at you and my feet don't hurt all day.  But before I go back to my smallish city, I think I should go have some more big city adventures . . . . . 

Plastic Surgery: to have or to not?

I want to get my lips done.  It has always sort of been at the back of my mind.  I have nice little lips - the operative word here?  Little.  I have a perfect cupid's bow but then the lips dwindle into nothing.  I have never wanted those horrible duck lip things but just a bit on the edges, you know?

Then I met this girl who has her lips done.  I would never have known if she hadn't told me.  She has such pretty full lips and they don't look like she just made-out for eighty years.  They are full and perfect.  So I got the name of her doctor and made an appointment.

The Engineer is against anything fake like this.  So I told him if he wants all natural I can go back to mousy brown, unshaven, unwaxed, no-make-up me.  I am very plain if I did all this.  He thought that was silly and that he was used to this level of 'fakeness'. I don't really get it.

I at least thought my friend, K, would be behind me.  She supports all things plastic and is not adverse to botox or lifts as she ages.  But she was dead set against these lips!!!!  WHY?  Apparently because all my features are very dainty she worries I will get duck lips.  I was assured that this doctor is amazing and will only inject a teeny bit of whatever it is he injects.  My cupid's bow will still be there but I will just have a bit bigger of a pout.

I chickened out.  I cancelled the consultation appointment.  I care what my friends/Engineer/parents think (to which they would FREAK).  However, now that they think I have cancelled I sort of want to do an experiment - get it done and see if they notice!  Plus, the thing lasts only six months so isn't it better to know than to always wonder?

My Passport

I got my passport back.  Ugh.  Remember my folies in taking the perfect passport photo?  And me finding out that there is no such thing?  I was sort of hoping that my passport would magically appear pretty, but alas, NO.  No no no no.  I even made an audible gag noise when he handed it to me.

I don't understand why we can't smile.  It's not like I arrive at Heathrow looking a hardened criminal.  Tired, yes.  Criminal, no.  I am excited to be somewhere and therefore am smiling. Plus I am human, so I try to be nice to other humans; okay, I try to be nice the the passport man so he/she lets me into the country.  I am smiling!  My teeth are always brushed, my hair neat, and glossed lips smiling.  I think I am going to have a much harder time getting past the officials now - they are going to think I have cocaine in my carry-on.

It's not just the ugly mugshot that makes my passport depressing.  It's empty.  Sure, you can say "but think of all the places you can fill it with".  It takes at least five years for it to get cool!  I keep my old passports so I lined them all up to see my past adventures (and to see how I have aged from nineteen to, umm, now).  They are filled with working visa's in Japan, right of abode's to England, stamps to Thailand, Hong Kong, Spain, France, Ireland, Mexico.  The new one is E-M-P-T-Y.  Just when I was collecting  a galore of exotic places the stupid government makes me get a new one.

Depressing point #3?  When I renew something I always look at the renewal date and think, "where will I be when I am however old?".  My license makes me 31.  My new passport makes me 33.  I am renewing my identification items in my thirties!!!!!!!!!! THIRTIES!!!!! GAH!?  When did that happen?  I used to think 28 was old.  I also used to think I would be married with a wildly successful career at 28.  Look how that turned out.

The Reality of Reality

I am a reality show addict.  Not American Idol or Survivor crap but the lifestyle reality shows.  Real people in real situations. Stupid people.  They are so desperate for 15 minutes of fame that they risk going on national television to show how stupid they are.  I can't get enough.

Except I get really upset.  Like really really upset.  The Engineer won't even let me talk about it anymore.  In fact he has forbidden me from Slice network and I fear he will cut out the W network too.

One of the shows I like is called Rich Bride Poor Bride.  You can understand my draw to this show as I am a constant bridesmaid therefore I have lessons to learn from this show.  So far all that I have learned is that brides really are psychotic and horrible.  There was this one episode that had me so enraged I was shaking.  The girl was such a pompous idiot who was spending her fiance's money like water all in the name of being a 'princess'.  But she wasn't a princess!  Far from it!  She was a chubby, ugly cow who looked like she belonged in a trailer park!  GAH!  And the way she spoke to her mother?  Don't even get me started.  Oh wait, I already did.  I have no idea what her fiance saw in her.  She even insisted on an ATM machine at her wedding so that guests could get more cash as presents!  She spent over $1000 on a tiara!  But I saw her house and her mother's house:  these people don't look like the kind of people who have $1000 to spend on a freaking crown.

The Engineer came home to find me yelling at the TV.  In fact, I wanted to call Slice and tell them how stupid she was.  The Engineer pointed out that doing that would make me look stupid.

I can't help getting so involved.  I don't know what it is.  I just get sucked in to these retardo retards.  I watched one last night called 'Wife Swap'.  The one wife was this tacky stage mother who did her daughter's homework because she didn't want her daughter to be stressed out.  Both parents felt their 16 year-old beauty queen daughter didn't need brains with the looks she had.  She couldn't spell America!  AMERICA!  The dad was such a piggy tacky man and I felt so much anger towards him.  I became obsessed with finding him on the internet so I could write him a letter.  I did not find his address but I did find out that I was not alone in this freaky obsession.  Many people hated this family as well.

It is an obsession.  A sick, twisted obsession.  Why do I get so involved?  So charged?  So crazed?  It's just TV, I can shut it off right?  But no, I love watching stupid humans being stupid.

This is why I do not work in customer service:  generally I think people are stupid.  

I am pretty sure they are.

Mistake #5

The Engineer just pointed out that I applied it in the dark.  I think I see my problem here.  (and if this post doesn't make sense, read below)

The Perils of Self-Tanner

If you saw a picture of me you would probably think, "Cute girl (ha!) but wow, is she WHITE!" and that would be because I am.  I am really really white.  So pale in fact, that I sort of glow in the dark and perhaps resemble a beluga whale when in a bikini.

I sunburn.  And then I return back to white.  Well actually, my shoulders and arms develop a lovely tan, my chest and tummy look dirty white, and my legs remain WHITE WHITE WHITE.  And it is on these legs that the peril of self-tanner lays.

People think white skin is pretty - think Nicole Kidman or Cate Blanchett.  It is pretty, until you have to look at these white sticks known as legs (but mine are not sticks) with some cellulite on the thigh.  Nicole and Cate don't have cellulite.  Bitches.  But I do.  Most women do.  And it is a well-known fact that tans help hide cellulite and make one appear thinner.

Therefore is it no wonder I would like to have some tan?

I won't do the fake n' bake thing - well I do from time to time, but my fear of wrinkles far outweighs my need to be brown. Plus I have mentioned that my legs don't tan - ever.  So I must turn to the tan in a bottle.  Which, when you think of it, is sort of creepy, no?  I mean you are dying your skin from a cream in a bottle.  Bleck.

I don't let that thought stop me.  

My first run-in with the self-tanner happened in grade 10 circa 199? when I knew I was going to the waterslides (good old Fun Mountain as it was called) with boys.  My mum is not a woman who takes too much in appearances so she could not help me on this front.  I ventured to Wal-Mart all by myself.  First mistake?  Wal-Mart.  But I was 15 and on an allowance!  Then I took the advice of an oompa-loompa looking sales lady in her early 60's (maybe she was 30 come to think of it, but she was so leathery it was hard to tell) and bought a gigantic bottle of No-Ad-Sun (or something) for $5.99. Mistake #2, 3 and 4.

At 15 I had no idea about self-tanner - therefore no idea about A) exfoliation B) really rub that cream in evenly - not like regular moisturizer and C) wash your hands after.  Needless to say, when I woke up the next morning and uncovered my body expecting a tan worthy of Sports Illustrated I found a tan resembling leprosy.  I ran down to the kitchen and showed my parents who laughed at me - even though I was crying!  That is when mum finally decided to shed some light on exfoliation. I spent the next few hours, and day, in the shower rubbing my skin RAW trying to erase my Wal-Mart fiasco.  To no avail.  That No-Ad-Sun was powerful stuff.  I went to Fun Mountain and the boys thought I had a rash.  I didn't have a boyfriend until much, much later.

And now, nearly 15 years later (nearly being the operative word here) my application of self-tanner is still not much better.  I have had some luck but not once have I been able to apply it without some rogue spotting of tan somewhere that is supposed to be white.  I follow the steps.  I have read all the articles about the perfect application.  I take care in washing my hands - or at least I thought I did.  

Before I apply the stuff I shave my legs, then exfoliate even more, then I rub that stuff in hard and evenly, then let it dry.  Unfortunately it is not good enough.   The back of my calves are spotty, I have a massive round sludge on my forearm, and the inside of my wrists look like a science experiment gone wrong.  Unlike No-Ad-Sun though, this Bath and Bodyworks crap does leave a delightful colour where I did it right.  If I could just get it right!  Any advice readers??

Maybe I simply have to learn to be happy with my white skin.  My white thighs.  My white cellulite.  On second thought, do any of you readers know anything about liposuction?  Or that other fat/lipo thing Britney does?  Help!

Work Number Mistake

The Engineer made a mistake when he gave me his work number.  In fact I feel that one should never reveal one's work phone number to anyone that one does not work with . . . one.  Do I need any more 'one's?

I love the 'check-in'. I really like to know how things are running in his day and I like to fill him in on my little adventures.  But sometimes I go a tad too far.  Apparently these are reasons not to call your boyfriend at work:

1.  To tell him that you want to adopt a Kenyan baby and does he?

2. To tell him that your house smells like Christmas.

3.  To ask him if he loves Easter.

4.  To ask him what he is doing.  Duh.  He is at work therefore obviously working.

5.  To say things like 'hi poohead' or 'mershkey mershkey moo' - because you never know when he has you on speakerphone whilst his boss is in his office.

6.  To tell him your dog is dying (although this obviously was upsetting, but what can he do from his office?)

7.  To ask him what he is thinking.

8.  To tell him that you sliced your finger on the saran-wrap cutter thing and does he think you need stitches?

9.  To tell him that you love morning time.

10.  To tell him you love the sunset and does he want to go to Paris and watch the sunset too?

If you are saying to yourself, "this stupid girl is making these calls up," you would be the stupid one.  And he still loves me despite all these interruptions.  

Plus he brings me mini-eggs after a long day on set.  Am I lucky or what?

A new form of Bridesmaid hell

So I got an urgent call from my agent the other day, informing me I had an audition in less than two hours for the role of the non-speaking bridesmaid on a new CBS pilot.

Clearly, with eight times the experience I was sure that this role should be mine.  And I didn't have to prep a thing - which was a relief.  And to my (non) surprise, I got it!

Now non-speaking is a lovely term for glorified extra - why they cast real actors who get paid much higher than extras for an extra role is beyond me.  But who cares?  I get three days, good pay and my own trailer.

I thought it ironic that after all my bridesmaid days of yore, I was finally getting the financial compensation I deserve (this job is paying not only the price of three dresses, but at least half my trip to Cuba where I am going to be bridesmaid #7 - seventh time, not number 7) and I am well-practiced to the role as 'fake-laughing', look excited girl.  

But then a new bridesmaid horror crept in on set (and no, it wasn't the 6am call), it turns out that I am the fattest girl on set.  Seriously.  I felt bad eating.  The girl who plays the bride, the maid of honour girl, and the other three bridesmaids (two of which are actual extras - I really don't get why I had to audition) are sticks.  Teeny Tiny Sticks.  When I went in for wardrobe, the French wardrobe lady loved how my curves filled out the dress.  Now I know why.  On me, the dress is quite tight and shows off my bum and hips.  On the others, it is A-line.  Pass me a freaking carrot stick.

Now the only thing worse than being the fattest girl, is feeling bad about being the fattest girl.  For heaven sakes, I fit the freaking dress!  I curve it out!  And yet I feel ashamed that my arms are pipes and not twigs.  I feel ashamed my face is round and my cheeks full.  And I feel ashamed that I pretended not to want a slice of pecan pie when really I did.

This is the shitty side of acting.  Everyone on set is lovely, the fellow actors are funny, and Bill Pullman is an amazingly intelligent man.  So why should I feel bad that my thighs are the size of everyone else's waist?  I keep the mantra "Kate Winslet is Beautiful' repeating in my brain.

Okay, that is my rant.  I am going to the StairMaster now.  Or maybe I will get some cheese.  Either way, I resolve to show up tomorrow proud of who I am and not apologizing for who I am not - a crazy stick insect.  Okay, just stick insect, perhaps I am a teeny bit crazy.