Bridesmaid Update

Remember Big A and the fiasco of not getting asked to be a bridesmaid?

Well, the bride came to her senses, called Big A balling, and asked her to be a bridesmaid.  The wedding would not be right without her oldest friend.

This story has a happy ending. If you call having to wear a bridesmaid dress and bad hair a happy ending.

Also, a note that those who know Big A.  She chose that name herself.  She is not Big by any stretch of the imagination.

Life of an Actor

Sometimes as an actress, I must take jobs that aren't exactly challenging in the mental arena.

For example, I just worked at the Vancouver Auto Show as a booth bitch. Don't worry folks, those days of wearing a bikini on a Ford are long gone. I got to be the Mercedes girl.  And with Mercedes comes a black power suit.

I agreed to this show because (a) it pays really well and (b) last year I just sat there rolling posters and talking to the other Mercedes girls.

But this year was not so fun.  This year we had a 'supervisor' in the form of Belinda.  

The reason we had her this year was due to stupid budget cuts that made her job with Mazda obsolete.  Lucky us.

I arrived for my first shift breathless and two minutes late.  Due to the fact that I called an ambulance five minutes earlier because a random homeless man appeared to be dead at the fire hydrant across the street.  Turns out he was just drunk.

Anyways, Belinda, with an annoyingly large fake smile, kindly informed me not to mention the 'incident' again and if was ever late, a full hour's pay would be docked.  I just sort of looked at her, and the empty floor of cars with my eyebrows raised.  Sheesh. I said I was sorry lady.

When she introduced herself, she drew out her name so I always called her Baaa-Lyyyn-daaaa.  Her name was only the first annoying thing about this woman.

Nearing the age of thirty, and not doing what I want to do at the moment, can make me slightly bitter.  I certainly don't need some lady in a suit talking to me as if I were an idiot teenager.  I mean come on, the gist of the job is to smile at people and give them a brochure.  I have a University degree, a certificate from one of the most prestigious drama schools in the world, and business training from the technical institute.  I think I can handle smiling and brochure holding.

But Baaa-lyyn-daaaaa insisted on treating me like an idiot when it came to her 'wows'.  She actually called them 'Baaa-lyyyn-daaa's Wows'.  Somehow I wouldn't exactly call a power window a 'wow' but whatever.

For the first hour of my first shift, Baaa-Lyyyn-daaa walked me around 'training' me with her large fake grin that reminded me of the Cheshire cat and slow, melodic voice that she also must use when speaking to people who are from foreign countries. Or are deaf.

The worst thing about getting trained like that, is it reminds you that you are doing a lame-ass jill job.  Especially when Baaa-lyyyn-daaa took out a folder, smiled and said 'now for the do's and don'ts'.  She took at least three minutes to tell me about this list, her, and I quote, 'do's and don'ts - the laymens terms, okay?'.  Ummm, is there a technical term for do's and don'ts?  Do's and Do not?

They included things like not chewing gum.  Duh.  

Baaa-lyyyn-daaa also told me in her grimace about her 'survival kit'.  It contains everything you will ever need to survive the auto show.  Like a gun?  Just kidding.  But somehow I felt like calling something that contains an exacto knife and scotch tape a survival kit is going too far.  Call it like it is, it's a bag of supplies.  Maybe that is the laymen's term?

Anyways, my life continued for six days.  Standing next to shiny cars and talking to people about the magnificent wonders of the B-Class.  Which I grudgingly admit do have some fun 'wow's.  Like a 12V in the trunk for plugging in your cooler.

I also grudgingly admit that Baaa-lyyyn-daaa grew on me after a while.  Albeit she still had OCD and no sense of humour or fun, but the grin I discovered was real, not fake.  

And at least after six days I was done.  I don't have to travel Canada or actually work for a dealership all the time, talking about my 'wows' of cars and getting people excited about trunk space.  I have a much more fun job.  It's called unemployed.

Hop Hop Hop!

Every year when Easter rolls around I tend to go on and on about my love for mini-eggs.  But something horrible has happened, I appear to have lost my love-on for the tiny candy shells of chocolaty goodness.  Not that I still don't love them, I do, it's just . . . .  well, I sort of am sick of them.  

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?  

And cream eggs?  Yup, still good.  But I only needed one this Easter season.  Well, if I was in New York for Easter (which I go back to next week so maybe the Engineer will get the hint) I would be all over the new cream eggs they have there - they are filled with orange fondant!  YUM-O!  It's like Terry's Chocolate Orange meets Easter.  They are awesome.

Something is wrong here.  Usually at this time of the year, I am stuffing my snout with mini-eggs, buying pastel coloured clothes and going nuts for Easter egg hunts.  

Not this year.  Nope.  

Is it because I am far away from my family?  Or the Engineer?  Or is it simply because I am getting a bit older and the appeal of painting eggs has left me?

Maybe because it is a religious holiday and I am not religious? Wait, I am.  Sort of.  I am a Buddhist, but we aren't really the 'worshipping deity' sort of crowd.  We have no holidays.  At least I don't think so.  Certainly none that involve chocolate, presents, carols, bunnies, or eating turkey.  I must say that the Buddhists got shafted when God was handing out fun holidays.

I went through a 'am I a Christian?' phase a few years ago.  I must admit that I still like going to church on occasion.  Only because I like the ornate ceremony and the music.  And sometimes if you get a good sermon-person, what they are saying can apply to life.  Not just Jesus.

In my phase, I attended a Good Friday mass.  Something I am sure I haven't done since my Grandma took me to her country church in small town Alberta.  I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the Good Friday service resembles a funeral.  More shocked than surprised actually.  I mean I suppose that is exactly what Good Friday is.

People were sombre (more so than usual) and wore black.  In fact, one lady in my pew was sobbing and wiping her eyes with tissue.  I so badly wanted to lean over and whisper, 'don't worry, he'll be rise again in three days' but somehow I felt that was inappropriate.

The singing was beautiful and the day was sunny and warm. Maybe that's what it is.  Today Easter resembles a terrible storm of rain coming down in sheets so much so that Brooklyn refused to walk (or maybe it was the fact I put a raincoat on him?).  Maybe I would feel much more Easter-ish if it was sunny and warm, and I could wear flip flops.  

Because that is what Easter is all about.  Wearing flip-flops.  And shades of pink.  Or going to K's parents house and drinking pink champagne . . . . which is precisely what I am going to do.

ps.  a friend pointed out today that Jesus is the original zombie.  Weird holiday indeed . . . 

Brooklyn the Brave

Brooklyn is such a sweet, sweet idiot.

This is what he is afraid of:

umbrellas

pylons

plastic bags

sticks

bouncy balls

leaves

garbage cans

This is what he is not afraid of:

passed out homeless people in the park

crows

pigeons

drunk people

geese

big dogs

And tonight I learned a new, non fear of his:  horses.  That's right.  My eight pound idiot dog, is not afraid of horses.  How do I know this?  Well, tonight after the hockey game let out I ran into an interesting crowd at the park.  There were some up-to-no-gooders under the cherry trees and then two policemen on horses watching them.  Although Brooklyn backed away from the garbage can we passed, when he caught sight of the horses (that were at least sixteen feet tall) he went crazy.  He broke away from his leash and approached them, dancing on his hind legs - the way he does when he wants to play with Mop.  Of course, I scooped him up and dragged him away.

He cried and shoved his bum down, trying to get back to his new friends.

The Engineer thinks it's amazing that Brooklyn (or any dog) can recognize another animal.  He wonders how they know.  He thinks that's amazing?  I personally think it's amazing that my dog can be afraid of a rustling bag or an umbrella, but give him a seven-foot tall Clydesdale with a hoof triple the size of his own body, and he thinks he has a friend.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lay

If you have a dog, you know that they are an animal with no respect or regard for personal space.  For some reason, they love to do everything on you.  Not three feet away from you, not in the next room, not even near your feet, but actually, physically on you.  

For example, nothing beats waking up in the early morning to Mr. Mop's ass on my face as he bites Brooklyn's head in the first wrestling match of the day.  Why?  Why do they insist on playing ON TOP OF ME, especially at seven in the morning?

Or I can be reading my book, and Brooklyn ever-so-not-gently will walk across my stomach and plant his body across my book.  The best is when I am working and, like a cat, he decides to walk across my keyboard and sit down.  

I suppose it's sweet that they want to be so close to their humans, but really?  Really?  Do they really need to turn in circles for fifteen minutes and then decide the best angle for sleeping is wedging their bum between your chin and shoulder?  Mop seems to think so.

Neither of my dogs are supposed to be allowed on the furniture or on the bed.  But obviously if Mop is nestling his furry bottom near my face, he is clearly on the bed.  I can't help it!  With the Engineer away at school it is so comforting to have my furry little companions keeping my feet (or chin) warm.

The strange thing is:  two dogs weighing a total of 22lbs HOG the bed!!!  When I sleep with the Engineer I not only hog the bed, but the covers.  I yank them away and roll over them, creating a cocoon of warmth while he is left at the edge of the bed with a pillowcase.  When we first started dating, he would wake me in the middle of the night to ask me to move over.  My reply?  'I can see the edge of the bed!'  Well, I could.  And if I could see the edge of the bed, then I clearly did not have any room to move over.

I didn't believe I was bed hogger until one night when he took a photo.  And there I was, sprawled over the entire queen, with my head to the side and mouth gaping open.  Beautiful.  

I suppose now he just sort of deals with it, I still roll over the blankets, and I still can see the edge of the bed.  He's tried to move me, and I believe I smacked him.

So how is it, when I share a bed with an eight pound yorkie and a fourteen pound asshole, I wake up in the morning at the very edge of the bed, with my body contorted in a weird angle so that Brooklyn can nestle beneath my knees and Mr. Mop is sprawled spread eagle over the left side of the bed?  

I am pretty sure that is wrong.

The "I have too many friends" Dilemna

After the call from Big A, I got to thinking about what happens when a bride really can't make a decision on who should be her maids.

It isn't an easy decision.  Almost every bride I know had a bit of a panic attack in choosing her girls.  I'm not even engaged and already I am terrified of having to 'make the cut'.  I have been a bridesmaid eight times now.  So if I repay each bride that I maided, that is 8 women, PLUS the other 6 or so who I really want to be in my wedding.  That would make my number 14 which is not only ridiculous, but the Engineer has like two friends.  JJ.  He has three.

One of my good friends, who is also a perma-bridesmaid, made a pact with me.  We promised our gift to each other was not to be a bridesmaid in our weddings.  When she got engaged and called me, I have to admit that I didn't know how to end the conversation.  Usually at that point I am asked to be a bridesmaid and we are talking colours.  It was an awkward ending, seeing as we were both so not used to the non-bridesmaid protocol.  So now I am an emcee.

Okay, so now I am at 13?  This is where a good friend of mine came up with a brilliant solution.  Instead of asking all your friends to be a bridesmaid, choose just a few and for the rest give them a scarf or a necklace or a flower-brooch. Then explain to each why she is important in your life and ask her to wear said item on your wedding day.  Then make a speech at your wedding not only thanking the bridesmaids, but also all the women wearing said item.  Therefore, they are included (without the matching dress) and all those attending your wedding see that these women are the exclusive members of the 'Bridesmaid Club'.  I think it is a brilliant solution.

My other solution is to have the daughters of the brides I have maided be my flowergirls, and then their moms don't have to be in the wedding.

My final solution is to elope.  Or just not have a wedding.  Or to take all my girlfriends off of Facebook.

Woes of the non-Bridesmaid

The older I get and the more weddings I am around, the less and less I like them.

The reason?  Everyone associated with the Big Day are never really happy.  They are stressed out.

My friend, Big A, called me the other day in tears.  Why?  Upset because of a wedding.  Quel surprise.

In this case, it was the not being asked to be a bridesmaid that brought on the influx of sobs and runny nose (I suppose I am the only case now who cries at being asked to be a bridesmaid).  I must make it clear that this girl is not a bridesmaid wannabe.  This term, that I have clearly made up, describes the girl whose sole mission in life is to be the bridesmaid in every wedding for every friend/colleague/family member/bikini waxer possible.  They exist, trust me.  Anyways, Big A is not this girl.  Hence why our conversation had me in a tizzy.

Her friend has recently become engaged.  This friend has been Big A's friend for over 20-years.  They grew up on the same street in which a group of four little girls played, told each other secrets, grew up and now share a common bond of childhood friendship mixed in with the fact all their parents are best friends.

This bride told Big A that she was stressed about the bridesmaid situation.  Firstly, she wants her number of girls to match the groom's number of boys.  Balderdash I say.  Why oh why are we so hell bent on matching??  Why oh why do we care about numbers when feelings and relationships are at stake?  Plus it's not her fault her groom has no friends.  I was in a wedding once where the bride had three bridesmaids and the groom had just his brother.  We didn't:  die, explode, trip, self-combust.  We were totally fine.  And the pictures look great.  I understand if there are 10 bridesmaids and one groomsman, but seriously, it's your wedding:  you can do WHATEVER you want!!!

Anyways, the bride tells Big A that she is stressed, yadda yadda yadda.  She says that she would like to have one of the girls from the childhood group as her bridesmaid and that is it.  Big A says this is totally fine and she supports her.  Then the bride stresses that one of the childhood girls is going to spazz and be a complete freak about not being asked.  Therefore her solution is to either have ONE or FOUR (in which Big A was included).  She is going to discuss with groom and decide.

A couple days later, Big A is at a party with all these childhood buddies and discretely asks the bride if she has told spazzy-pants that she is only going to have one bridesmaid.  The bride looks at her and says,  'Oh yeah, I made my decision.  X, Y and Z are going to be my bridesmaids and you can plan my wedding.'

Punch in the stomach.

Is that the solution?  Seriously?  She went from ONE or FOUR, to THREE with the consolation prize of wedding planner?  Are you kidding me?

Needless to say Big A had hurt feelings as well as the extra sting of having 'the hardest job of all' (quoted the bride).  Gee whiz, lucky her.  She gets to help plan the wedding but no bridesmaid position?  Aren't bridesmaids supposed to help plan the wedding?  So now Big A not only gets to do the job of a bridesmaid but she is excluded from the bridesmaid club.

Here's the thing:  being asked to be a bridesmaid is being asked to be privy to an exclusive group that everyone recognizes as the friends and confidants of the bride.  Being asked to plan the wedding as a consolation prize is adding insult to injury if you ask me.

Have I mentioned Big A is an event planner?  So now she gets to plan  a wedding for free?  Give me a freaking break!!  

All of this because the bride is afraid of upsetting ONE girl who would have pitched a fit.  Because Big A is graceful and sweet, the bride thinks it's okay to exclude her, after all, she won't make a fuss.  

This really got my goat.  Of course I told Big A at least she doesn't have to wear a hideous dress or have horrible wedding hair.  She can go to BCBG and buy the hottest dress she can find.  And she doesn't have to plan, or even attend, the god-awful showers.  If you know me, you know I hate showers.

So the thing is, does she tell her childhood friend how hurt her feelings are, or does she smile sweetly and do nothing to upset the bride?

This is why I hate weddings.  Almost always someone gets hurt.  And almost always someone wears white shoes.  But that's another story.

Toddlers, Tiaras and a Ton of Fun?

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you know that I have a love/hate relationship with lifestyle television.

On one hand, I am an addict who loves the small insight into other's lives.  I am nosy.  On the other, the sheer oddness and often stupidity of my fellow man drives me to this boiling insane point that sometimes forces me to call the network to tell them people are idiots.  It's sort of a problem.

Due to the fact that a lifestyle show is coming my way, I have been an even more avid viewer.  I have taken to watching TLC on a daily basis.  The new show that gets me in a tizzy is called 'Toddlers and Tiaras' which is pretty self-explanatory; it's about toddlers and tiaras.  

Beauty pageants have always boggled my mind.  Even as a young, impressionable and slightly awkward youth, I would watch Miss America on television and know something was amiss.  I work in a field that constantly judges people on appearances and yet I still sit here and think that beauty pageants are bizarre.

According to a documentary I watched the other day, America the Beautiful, (great by the way - go find it!) beauty pageants started during the suffrage movement.  It was a way of distracting women from fighting for their right to vote to fighting to look the prettiest in a bathing suit.  True story.

So if beauty pageants were designed to distract us from wanting to use our brains and make decisions, and we now can do that, why are we still obsessed with them?  

I am not a feminist by any stretch of the imagination.  The Engineer opens doors for me, he pays for every date, and I fully intend to stay at home with my kids while he makes the money. Call me old-fashioned but I think it is super when I don't have to pay for things.  But the beauty pageant is one place that I can't help but feel belongs back in the last century.

I am not so opposed to beauty pageants in which the contestants are in their 20's.  Although I find it odd to be judged by lack of jiggle in the thigh, these women are adults and can make their own decisions.  Often they are clever (scholarships are a big incentive after all), pretty, and have dazzling talents.  Most of the time.

I am opposed, however, to children in beauty pageants.  It CREEPS ME OUT.  And not just because of that whole JonBenet Ramsey tragedy.  They are creepy with or without a murder.

This new show on TLC follows the life of tiny girls travelling the states to compete for crowns and cash.  And it's weird.

Firstly, little girls should not ever ever ever:  wear make-up, have their hair teased, wear false eyelashes, or BE SPRAY TANNED.  NEVER!  They are so sweet in their own natural way that to make them look like 45-year-old ex-strippers is oh so wrong.  The make-up looks as though it has been applied by Homer Simpson's make-up gun set on 'hooker'.  It's just gross.

Secondly, the routines that these girls do are odd.  I don't know what it is exactly, but when they smile for the judges, the smiles are not normal.  Have you ever noticed that?  Their smiles look as though they have little hangers stuck up their bums and are trying not to cry.  It's weird and unnatural.  It's also sick and wrong when the camera pans to the mother in the audience putting her mouth in a big 'O' and circling her hips so that her child on stage mimics her.  I think when an adult does that it looks like they are suffering from a rare form of turrets and/or want to perform a strange sex act.  On a child it just looks . . . . . . that's right!  Sick and wrong.

Thirdly,  families go into massive debt over these suckers with the hope of winning $500.  They are also the only ones watching. Isn't it strange that these pageants are held in random Holiday Inn conference rooms with three people in the audience?  I mean they clearly look like cash grabs for the organisers.  

Fourthly, the mothers.  The mothers!  GAH!  And grandmothers!!!  Ummm, this is very unkind of me to say, but have they looked in a mirror lately??  More often that not, these people look like they came straight off the trailer park without the thought of a shower or the need to brush their hair.  And they are usually 300 pounds.  Clearly they have weird beauty issues.  They realized they were fugs and quickly decided they need to feel beautiful through their children.   I think they should all get the spray tan and perhaps go for a walk, or lay off the cheesecake.

So that is what I say about that.  Toddlers and tiaras do not mix.  Well they do, tiaras pretty much mix with everything.  But in the case of a child, they should be from her tickletrunk for playing dress-up.

Also, another new addition is the fact that boys are now allowed to be in beauty pageants.  I guess there goes my feminism rant, but I feel a little boy in  a suit wearing a tiara will come back and haunt him in 20 years.  Clearly, the mother wanted a little girl, didn't get one, so treats her boy like one.  Or maybe little boys like wiggling their bums and shimmying for the judges.  Again, it's going to haunt him when he starts dating.  Actually, those will be the boys who live with their mothers forever and watch the world from their second-floor window and write the daily details of their neighborhood in a journal . . . .   creepy.

Technologically Tragic

I write for an online magazine, check it out:

www.joiedevivremag.com

One of the other contributors wrote about her lack of flair for gadgets, ie. breaking anything that she touches.  I realized that I too, have huge issues with anything of technological value.

When I got my new phone, I practically had to beg them for the simplest model possible.  They were pushing the iPhone and the Blackberry on me, and I had to hold my ground for a phone with buttons and the ability to make and receive calls. Because that is all I can do.  My friend has an iPhone and the first time I had to borrow it, I held it in my palm and spoke into the speaker saying: "on".  She laughed at me, obviously.  How was I to know that it didn't have speech command?  Isn't the iPhone supposed to do everything?

The most gadgety thing I own is my iPod.  And even that is sometimes too difficult. I have the mini.  Wait, I actually don't know what I have.  It's pink and little.  And I just learned that it has a clock and an alarm on it which was the best discovery EVER.

The reason I don't really care to own anything that is terribly technological is not because I break them.  It is because I smash them.

Unlike my fellow contributor who must have some sort of chemical cell imbalance that throws out weird energy which in turn breaks anything with buttons, I purposely break gadgets.  Here is a secret about me:  I have a really really really bad temper.  Like really bad.

And only two things see it:  bad customer service reps at Rogers and technology that isn't working.  

I compare myself to the Hulk.  Not that I have ever seen it, but to my understanding, when he gets mad he slowly turns into this big, nasty monster.  That is me when my fax machine wouldn't work.  Slowly, this sensation crawled over my skin and I started to only see red.  Before I knew it, I was hitting the fax machine with tears streaming down my face.  Then I kicked it.  Then I threw it against the wall.  Needless to say, it never worked after that.

Same thing with our old family camcorder.  One day, it just stopped working. Instead of calmly trying to find the problem, it too ended up against my wall in smithereens.  Then I had to take it to the fixer man to get the tape out and pretend I had no idea why it was missing parts and had bits of paint stuck to it.

This has also happened to a television set, a VCR and recently, a DVD player.  

I blame my parents.  My temper is from my father and my solution of hitting things is from my mother. That sounds bad.  Let me clear this up:  my mother never hit me.  But when I called her to ask her about the camcorder her easy solution was to kick it and see if it helped.  She just didn't know that my kick was laden with temper.

My head also doesn't get concepts of technology sometimes.  Or the point.  PVR baffles me.  You can record and watch a show, but then you can rewind while the show is actually on?  Confused.  Why do I want the entire Shakespeare library on my phone?  Nice to have, but necessary?  And even things like Twitter.  I just DO NOT understand. Why the heck do we care about your status updates every two minutes?  I digress, I can't throw Twitter against the wall so it does not belong in this discussion.

Here's the thing:  when it comes to technology I am a toad.  I can't set up at IP address or a modem (that is not an apple one, those are great - you just plug into the wall!), if something doesn't work the moment I want it to the Hulk will appear and the poor item will be destroyed.  I wish I could by savvy, I really do.  But who cares really?  As long as I can write this story for you to read online then I must be doing something right?  Right?

It's an umbrella, you idiot

The thing about having dogs is that they really are your children.

If my dogs were actual little boys, Mr. Mop would be the popular and athletic one that is either (a) popular with all the other kids or (b) forcibly popular with all the other kids.  He would be the one who is super smart, but doesn't really care about applying himself.  And he would give me heck about eating his vegetables or trying anything new.  Brooklyn would be the shy, geeky boy in the corner who tries his hardest to fit in with his big brother and friends, but is just too darn scrawny.  Unfortunately, he would not be the brainy geek.  My poor little muffin is just not as clever as Mop, but he really does make up for it in his easy and sweet temperament.

It's great that the sun is finally shining and we can spend hours together playing outside.  I love being able to let them off their leash and watch them have a ball.  I just wish one of them knew how to actually catch a ball.  We went the other day to play fetch. And by fetch I mean:  I throw ball, Mop chases it, carries it halfway to me, and then runs to bite Brooklyn's head leaving me to retrieve ball.  Brooklyn has no interest in the ball.  He spent the whole time barking at a newspaper that was sticking out of a bush.  

Brooklyn has a fear issue, which is good when you are eight pounds.  Really, if you are teeny tiny you should fear most of the world.  He has no fear of crows or pigeons though, which is worrying.  I am terrified that someday a crow is going to fight back.  He is afraid, however, of umbrellas.  Which is just super when you live in Rainy City.  Today we met an umbrella sticking out of the ground to which he sat down forcing me to drag him along the sidewalk.  Later we met a man carrying an umbrella, and again Brooklyn sat down and then skirted as far away as possible from the man.  

He has no fear of drugged out crack whores though, which is just great (we come across them often in my neighborhood).  I mean they will be walking (or staggering) around the sidewalk, yelling at God or whoever it is their meth-addled brain sees, and my little Yorkie will run to them wagging his tail as I force him back on his leash - making me look like a paranoid citizen (which I suppose I am).

I can't tell you the amount of times these words come out of my mouth in a day:

'stop eating his head'

'don't bite his bum'

'don't pee on his head'

'get out from under there'

'stop licking it'

Boys will be boys.

Weekend Update

I am a huge fan of Saturday Night Live.  I haven't always been, in fact I didn't even watch it during the famous years of Will Farrell and Jimmy Falon.  Perhaps because it was that during those years I actually went out of my house on Saturday nights.

I didn't even watch it when Tina Fey did Weekend Update and that makes me sad.

I don't know how I got  into the show.  The Engineer made me, I think. The fact that we are over the blissful honeymoon stage of dating and much prefer greasy chinese and staying in Saturday night to actually going out.  Needless to say, I am now an avid viewer.  It helps that I tuned in to watch the best of female comedians at work - Kristen Wiig, Amy Poeler and Tina Fey. These ladies are goddesses in my eyes.  I worship them and want to work with them.  Unfortunately I am not funny.

This is not the point of this entry.  The point of this entry is to tell you the story of how I met Seth Meyers.  If you do not know who he is, you will not care about the day I met him.  But you should because he is very funny and very cute.  Seth is currently the man of the famous Weekend Update and the one man, besides the Engineer, who really gets my motor running.

Last Halloween, as the Engineer and I were heading home after a long night out, I got on the F Train and who was sitting across from me?  Seth Meyers.  I saw him first and became mute.  Except for when I said to the Engineer, "is that Seth Meyers?".  I was faced with a few dilemas.  One:  Was it rude to approach him and say hello? Two:  I was dressed as a devil.

No one wants to meet their celeb crush wearing a red dress and carrying a pitch fork.  Also, the Engineer told me that it was rude to talk to him.  And yet the Engineer suggested I take a picture.  Ummm?  Hello?  How is it not rude to take an unauthorized photo of someone on the subway?  Hello!  He can see me!  And yet it is  rude to talk to him?

We were approaching the 4th Ave stop, and Seth stood up to get off.  I couldn't let this opportunity pass.  I promptly took off my jacket, pushed up my boobs, and removed my devil mask.  Feeling like a complete idiot, I stepped across the aisle wherein Seth saw me and removed his earphones (that was nice), and I said, "I am so sorry to do this, but are you . . . ?" to which he smiled and said 'yes'.  And I told him, "You make my every Saturday night" which in turn made him smile a huge grin, say 'thank you' and bid me a happy halloween.  

I am the first to admit that I am a complete idiot when talking to people when I am excited - but I am fairly certain that what I said to Seth was super classy and nice.  Albeit on the F train.  The thing about celebs in NYC, is that they just are there.  They like it here because they don't get swarmed.  So as much as I revealed my touristy, small-town self, I think I did pretty good.  

Then I remembered I had a tail.  Super.

Since then I have seen many a SNL star, including Kristen Wiig.  I have no idea what to say to her.  I basically stood their like a slack-jawed idoit watching her and Wil Forte walk past me.  A huge part of me wanted to shout out:  Oh my god, Oh my god (like her Susan character) but held it in.  I suspect she would hate that.  I have seen her a few times, so one of these days, I will figure out something just as classy.  

I suspect if I saw Tina Fey I might poop my pants.  And then ask her to be my best friend.

I now feel a close connection to the show and Weekend Update, as if that little moment was a tiny bond between Seth and myself.  That we are all destined to meet again.  And then this makes me realize perhaps I am one of those crazy people who would, in fact, take a picture of someone sitting on a subway and then worship it.

Tudor Obsessed

If you know me, you know that I have the attention span of a gnat and move quickly from subject to subject. There are only three things that keep my attention longer than a bag full of peanut M&M's (in my house that is not long).  The fact that I keep talking about them longer than my usual three minutes have greatly surprised the Engineer, my mother, and my friend little K (not to be confused with Little Kim, whom I do not know).

These three things are:

1.  Sandwiches (I once spent one night telling the Engineer about each sort of sandwich I love.  I would bring the subject up after hours of silence, to the point that he said, "Are you STILL talking about sandwiches?" and put a pillow over his head.  I think I was on heavy medication that night due to a flu because I also told him the pillow over his head was the 'pillow of truth' and proceeded to talk about my love of peanut butter and honey on a folded over piece of wonder bread - and how the best bite is where the rounded bit and the flat bit meet.)

2.  Walt Disney World.  I freaking love that place.  I have been going since I was 9 and I never tire about talking about it, hearing about it, or looking at pictures of it.  When walking along the seawall the other day, I spent well over an hour telling little K just how much I love the place and all the fun things we can do there.  We intend to spend my 30th birthday in mouseland, and although my birthday is still 8 months away, I feel that we can start preparing for the fun now by having me explain every single ride, restaurant and fun thing to do.  I don't understand why Little K walked faster than me.

3.  The Tudors.  This is my new obsession and sadly, Little K has to hear about this one too.  I sound like the girl from American Pie:  And then, one time, on The Tudors.  I am obsessed with the show, the story, the history. Not only have I read every single historical fiction novel out there that has anything to do with the Tudors (ie.  Anne Boleyn or Elizabeth I), but I have read all the history books (well, all the Wikipedia articles anyways), seen all the documentaries, and even walked the Anne Boleyn walk at the Tower of London three times.  

I am clearly obsessed.  

My obsession has been renewed by the fact Season 2 of the AMAZING show is now on DVD and I have just watched it three times in a row. 

 If you haven't watched this show, go out right NOW and rent the first season.  Not only is the acting phenomenal and the writing outstanding, but it is the HOTTEST show on television to date.  Next to Rome anyways.  The first season is dramatic, full of passion and romance, and you feel bad for Catherine of Aragon for ten minutes (the actress is Irish by the way, so her Spanish accent is amazing).  The final scene of the final episode is pretty wild, involving Henry and Anne in the woods, it is very intense.  You think their passion will never die - how did he chop off her head?  Well, that comes in Season Two.

Oh god, Season Two.  It's no secret what happens to all the characters we love, or love to hate, from The Tudors because it's written in history.  They all lose their heads.  But I think the reason I am so obsessed with Season Two and feel the need to talk about it every chance I get, is because of the feeling it left with me. 

Firstly, Henry and Anne's relationship.  Most of us have all been in a relationship that starts out full of passion and love, but slowly, one of you falls out of that and the other is left wondering what happened.  Somehow, in the amazing acting of this show, that feeling you have in real life is the same feeling you get through watching Henry lose interest in Anne.  You can't help but feel horrible for her, because you know you have dated a man just like Henry (well, hopefully not just like him.  Otherwise none of us would have heads).  

Secondly, all the darn beheading.  It's horrible, just horrible.  I felt as if my friends were being killed.  First More, then George, and then finally, Anne.  I must give a hands down bow to Natalie Dormer for her incredible, wonderful, lovely portrayal of Anne Boleyn.  Her last scene is what has made me obsessed and what has peppered my seawall conversations of late.  It just haunts you.  I want to be an actress in a show that haunts its viewers.  That makes people think about it days later.  How incredible is that?

I fear for Season Three, not only has Henry killed all the interesting characters but I feel like stabbing Jane Seymour in the eye.  She is so boring.  Anne may have done some crazy things, but who do we remember best in history right?

Okay, so that is my obsession vented on my blog.  If you read my blog, I urge you to run to Blockbuster and rent the season!  Or, wait until CBC puts it back on the air.  Nah, screw CBC, go rent the DVD's!!!!   Also, if you are in London you must go to the Tower and get the audio tour - you can actually stand in the room Anne waited in and walk the walk to the block while hearing the drum beat in your ear.  Spooky.

My perfect day?  Eating a ham and cheese sandwich, wearing a Tudorian dress and walking through Epcot Centre.