Did Swingline buy Ford?

I think the Ford Flex looks like a stapler.  Did Swingline buy Ford?

This truly is a "blue" bin

Just another Sunday at Starbucks

After a rainy Saturday, which was spent cleaning out the furnace room and which ended perfectly with homemade chicken soup and apple crisp at a friend's house, I woke up to another grey and blustery day. Bill and Penelope had their usual snuggle on the couch, while Zander and I snuggled in the recliner and I tried, with little success, to read the Styles section of my beloved Sunday New York Times.

Soon it was time to do what had to be done. Groceries. Cleaning. Planning for the week. I don't know why I thought 11am on a Sunday wouldn't be busy at the supermarket, but it was. To cope with the chaos of the busy store and the many frantic and harried shoppers, I hummed Aviici's Wake Me Up repeatedly until I reached the check out. Then I followed my bliss to Starbuck's and Chapters for some reading material and a coffee. Unlike most of the patrons, I actually paid for the magazines before taking them to the attached Starbucks to flip through them.  This Starbucks is quite possibly the world's slowest Starbucks. While waiting, I amused myself by feeling superior when the barista mispronounced doppio. Dopey-oh.  I secretly loathed the stout and thin-haired woman ahead of me who prissily announced that she had a "special request".  Four double espressos in venti plastic cups with huge amounts of ice. Who were they for?  And why did she need six lids?  What seemed like two days later, my latte appeared. By this time, I had adopted a crossed arms, annoyed stance. Maybe I didn't pronounce the double "t "adequately and they thought I asked for a "late".  I  bitchily corrected the barista when he called out "Tall latte for Shauna".  Here's what my cup looked like. Shano? Really? 

Though I, like my brother Todd, am a devoted Starbucks customer, I do have my little pet peeves. It irks me that "latte" has come to mean "caffelatte".  In italian, latte means milk.  So, by saying "tall latte", you are actually ordering a large milk. Italian is used kind of haphazardly in the Starbucks lexicon.  English for tall; Italian for grande and venti (which means twenty, as in twenty ounces). Anyway, even if it annoys me that latte was misused, I started doing it too. Then a couple of years ago at a Starbucks in Hong Kong, a wonderful thing happened; my world was set right again. I ordered a tall latte and guess what I got? A tall glass of hot milk. I felt like doing the slow clapping thing and murmuring in admiration, "Well played, Hong Kong, well played".  

Anyway back to this morning's Starbucks.  I lucked out and got a little table to myself.  I read my mag, enjoyed my coffee and looked around. There was an elderly man flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine in one of the easy chairs, there was a pair of women next to me discussing some dude and his lies, there was a little girl in her Sunday dress (sequins!) kneeling on the chair and deconstructing a muffin while her parents chatted, and there were so many people working on their computers at the long wooden table that it looked like a computer class. Just another day at Starbucks.

My love affair with all things British

Much as I am embarrassed to admit it, I read one of the British tabloids on occasion. Okay, every day. Online. Some of the stories are appalling. Disgusting, disheartening or just plain sensationalistic. And sometimes badly edited. For the most part, though, it's just funny and harmless. Unless you're one of the celebs being skewered or embarrassed. There are unflattering stories about "unrecognizable" celebrities, photographed after a bad night or without makeup.  It begs the question, though: If  they're really "unrecognizable", how did the photographers know to snap the shot?  Still, it's my guilty pleasure, this rag. And it's not a complete waste of time;  the knowledge I've gleaned from my daily glance actually came in handy at a recent trivia night; I was one of the only non-Brits to recognize Lord Sugar and Peaches Geldof in the food-related name photo round.

This indulgence keeps me up to date with my British celebrities, too. I've become quite a fan of British TV. It started with our trip to the UK in 2005. We went in December and as the days were short and we packed a lot of sightseeing and activity into the 7 hours of daylight, we spent many of evenings curled up on the bed watching TV. Space Cadets. The show, not us. Christmas specials. BBC shows. When we got back to Canada, the CBC started broadcasting the new Doctor Who series and we were hooked.  Then it was Little Britain, Catherine Tate, Torchwood, The Thick of It, The Hour, QI, and Jonathan Creek.  We went into the back catalogues for Red Dwarf, The League of Gentlemen, Blackadder, Jeeves and Wooster, and French and Saunders. Then there was Miranda and Mistresses (Bill wasn't on board for those last two at all).  Hamlet with David Tennant. And, last but not least, Downton Abbey.

As a result of this Brit binge, my speech has become embarrassingly, and quite accidentally, dotted with British-isms like: "If I'm honest" and "at the weekend" and "in hospital" and "as such". Instead of: "To be honest/to tell the truth" and "on the weekend" and "in the hospital" and....well, I don't know what the equivalent of that last one would be.

My friend Karen and I even went on a spur of the moment "mini-break" to London in November 2011.  It was one of those perfect, magical moments in time. We met up with my friend from Hastings and shopped in Bloomsbury and visited Persephone, the wonderful bookstore on Lamb's Conduit. We went to Fortnum and Mason for tea and then tested hand lotions at Molton Brown on Regent Street. We visited Liberty, where Karen bought a gorgeous print. We walked and talked and laughed in the chilly autumn air and truly enjoyed every minute.

But it was actually over thirty years ago that I first visited the UK.  1978, with my parents and brother.  We stayed at the Royal Lancaster hotel at Lancaster Gate, where, by coincidence, the Faberge World Trade Show was being held.  It was the era of Farrah Fawcett and Farrah Fawcett shampoo. And Cary Grant was the honorary chairman of Faberge International. Being a chatty, friendly little girl, I made friends with the head of Faberge UK somehow and subsequently was introduced to Cary Grant. And got his autograph. Didn't really know who he was at the time, just that he was famous, but my mom was understandably thrilled. Cary Grant was white-haired and wearing black-framed glasses at that time.  When told that we were from Victoria, he joked "That's not their fault, Gerry". Oh, stop it, Cary; you are outrageous! Later on, when my parents were out on the town and my brother and I were heading back up to the room after eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, Cary Grant got on the elevator with us.  He remarked to us, "I've really got to take a leak".  Or something very similar to that. Now that I'm writing this, I realize how odd that was. I kind of wish he'd said something dashing and clever, not something so "human".

I got two autographs from Farrah.  Well, actually, Gerry, the Faberge executive got one for me and I got one myself, intercepting Farrah as she breezed out of the tradeshow and into the hotel lobby. Notice how she incorporated the year into the end of her name. When I got home, I gave one to my classmate and friend, Chuck Bell. He loved Farrah. Not unusual for a 13-year old boy in 1978.

Farrah and Gerry and Cary were not my only brushes with Faberge-related celebrities, but more on that later. Hint:  theres a Hemingway involved. Seriously, my six degrees of separation pedigree is pretty damn solid.

I dream about moving to England and drinking tea and being completely surrounded by the loveliness of all things British. All the good stuff, I mean, like the museums and the castles, the gorgeous store windows, the history, the stripy scarves, the ubiquitous curry shops, and the British wit. And the chocolate and the biscuits. And the pudding hotel in the Cotswolds  Not the class system or the social problems, though.  Or the asbos and the high cost of living.

I suppose I'm lucky. I grew up in Canada's "most English city": Victoria. Lots of Brits and British-ness there. Many of the older generation settled in Victoria from Scotland and England, including my Granny Vickers. Victoria had double-decker buses, the Tudor Sweet Shop, Craigdarroch Castle (where I took piano lessons in the basement), the cricket pitch at Beacon Hill Park and many, many tea rooms. My grade 12 graduation dress was inspired by Princess Diana:  royal blue, taffeta, ruffled and accessorized with replicas of her engagement ring and matching earrings.  My "rebellious" teen years saw me hanging out at the Blethering Place tea room, drinking tea and eating scones after school with my friends.  Really. It didn't even seem weird at the time. So, I come by my anglophile nature honestly, I suppose.

I'd better stop writing now.
I'm off to bedfordshire.
Okay, I'm going to bed.

Gentlemen, you have just been schooled....

 in how to blend colours, patterns and textures with style, by my most fashionable friend, Iwan.  

My picks for Doctor Who and the Oscars

This weekend the BBC will announce whom they've chosen to play the 12th Doctor. There is a long list of potential docs, including Idris Elba, Olivia Colman and even Helen Mirren. But I just heard of another candidate and I'm super excited about the possibility: Peter Capaldi. Loved him in Local Hero, adored him in both The Thick of It and The Hour.  I will rejoice if he is chosen! My second choice would be Ben Whishaw. Utterly captivating, dark and mischievous. Third choice? Julian Rhind-Tutt.  So interesting. To my mind, choosing Helen Mirren would be disastrous, but not because she's a woman. She's just too high profile.

And, while we're on the subject of replacements....who should host the next Oscars? Martin Short. Without question. I used to really like Billy Crystal until the last time he hosted. He took a really cheap and mean shot at Jonah Hill. I mean, the kid was having a really big moment.  He was nominated for his work in Moneyball, which was a big departure from his usual gross-out brand of comedy, and all Billy Crystal could muster was to make fun of his weight and eating cupcakes.  Way to ruin a special night. That was just not on.

Let me be frank with you, Beans

I've been married for fourteen years and I think I'm happier now than ever in my marriage. I hope that this trend continues because I'm really enjoying our life. Here are a few things that I love about my husband.
1. That he calls our cats "bunkies". Like the four of us are holed up in some barracks somewhere.
2. That he has an amazing memory for all the obscure songs he's learned; most days he pulls one from the mental catalogue and sings it as he's getting ready for work. And then it sticks in my head all day.
3. That he thinks I'm a good dancer. He's probably the only person in the world that has seen me dance in the last ten years. And it's usually in jest....homage to the famous beat poet nightclub scene in Funny Face starring Audrey Hepburn. There's hope for the "ballet de l'inflexible" yet.
4. And speaking of dance, I love that he is one of the only guys I know who will get up on the dance floor and just let loose. I envy that. I have a video of him dancing with seven women at once at a recent wedding. He was literally the man.
5. That he spends hours on the phone with his sisters and his mom...not every day, mind you, just a few times a year.
6. That he never realizes when women are flirting with him.

More later.

Saturday morning in the driveway

Twenty-two degrees. Sunny with a slight breeze.  I'm sitting in a chair made with hockey sticks on the landing of the front steps.  My feet are up, my coffee and iPhone are beside me on a makeshift coffee table which is really a weeding bench. My husband and his friend are taking his Triumph apart in the driveway to replace the brake pads. Motorcycle ownership is a time-consuming hobby. There's a lot of cleaning of small parts and reading of the manual going on today. Wafts of citrus-scented contact cleaner are floating my way, with tiny droplets likely landing in my coffee. I never imagined that motorcycle cleaning products would be scented.  Do bikers choose the brand based on scent?  Do bikers like essence of orange? Does it soothe the savage breast?

I love my Saturday mornings. But, the enjoying of coffee and the reading of the newspaper is followed by the being overwhelmed by all the things I could and should do. So far today I've thought:  I should make focaccia, I should clean the front bay window, I should organize the Galapagos photos, I should try to find those tennis balls I bought.....and the list goes on. So, instead of doing stuff, I just write about it. Good solution.

Oslo in January

I like the cold, I replied, when friends asked why we'd go to Scandinavia in the middle of winter.  And it's true, I like to walk to work in the snow, bundled up and clutching a travel mug of hot coffee, stepping carefully so as not to slip on any ice. I like skating and skiing.  But when we planned our January trip to Norway, I wasn't really tuned into the fact that, while travelling, Bill and I like to explore on foot, which means several hours spent outside every day, not a twenty-minute walk to work followed by eight hours inside a well-heated office building, or an hour of skiing followed by hot chocolate in a chalet.  So, it was a bit of a miscalculation.  Our first full day in Oslo was bone-chilling.  Minus seventeen, more with the wind chill taken into account.  We shivered a lot and made repeated comments on how crisp it was, how invigorating.

But it did feel authentic and there sure weren't many tourists around; at the Viking Ship museum, for example, we were two of maybe a dozen.  But, boy, did we have fun!  We loved Oslo.  Lots to see and do.  Lots of  gorgeous, healthy looking Norwegians carrying skis around town....the main subway line terminates at a popular cross country skiing area, near the Holmenkollen Olympic ski jump.  Wonderful museums and history to take in.  Shops looked so inviting, cozily lit with lanterns outside and hot tea inside.  Some restaurants and bakeries optimistically provided an outdoor seating option, complete with benches covered in furs.  We did see one or two hardy couples outside, but they were smoking, so I assume it wasn't by choice.

We happily explored the city, retreating to the trams or the occasional cafe to warm up.  I say occasional because the prices were less inviting than the interiors.  One cafe latte and one chai latte plus a pastry to share = $27.  We economized by making the most of our hotel, which included a buffet breakfast and supper, the latter served up in the slope-roofed loft complete with dormer windows.  Once the sun had disappeared, we'd head back to the hotel and enjoy a dinner of fresh bread and cheese, seafood, soups,  salads and cooked eggs topped with shrimp, and desserts of custardy puddings or potato pancake "lefse" served with butter, sugar and cinnamon.  We stayed in every night, writing in our travel journals, planning the next day or watching TV, snuggled under our individual eider down comforters (no fighting for blankets in that country).  One thing about Norwegian TV:  I am not joking when I say that  most of the time when you tune in, there is ski jumping on on at least one channel.

In praise of magazines

I love magazines.  From fashion and style magazines to gourmet magazines: From Elle magazine to Surf magazine, from Entertainment Weekly to Allergic Living (okay, maybe not that last one, but I love that there's a magazine called that).  I have loved magazines for a very long time, since tweendom, when Tatum O'Neal and Brooke Shields were first famous.  Ah, the thrill of  buying the latest issue of Teen magazine or Seventeen!  The fun fashions, the advice columns, the teen idols, like Scott Baio and Parker Stevenson.  Weirdly, I recall when and where I glimpsed the first issue of Seventeen with Whitney Houston on the cover.  It was at a figure skating practice.  Some girls who were watching the session had gotten their hands on the brand new issue and we skaters would glide over to the boards occasionally to flip through it.  Instead of practising our flips.  Which is probably why I never got anywhere in skating.  My addiction to mags is a source of bewilderment to some of my friends; they just don't understand the allure, no pun intended (only a magfiend will understand that).  I have two friends who are even vehemently opposed to fashion magazines.  (How DID we get to be friends?!)  The reason, they both state, is simply, "They make me feel bad about myself".  Ironically, they are two of the most stylish and gorgeous women I know.  The husband of one of them confesses that the fashion industry makes him really angry. I don't really get that.  Maybe I'm not thinking deeply enough about it.  Or maybe I just ignore the bad stuff and appreciate the good.  Of course I recognize the absurdity and negative influence of some aspects of the fashion biz, like the promotion of ridiculous ideals , consumerism and label mania.  But I also see the very positive and fascinating side....the creativity, the beauty;  the craftsmanship, the spectacle and even the humour.  Just watch Catwalk, the documentary featuring the preparation and execution of an early John Galliano show.  Or check out the book which accompanied the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few years ago.  One can't deny the genius.  I mean, making an exquisite dress using painted medical lab slides as adornment? Brilliant.  Plus, if you're wearing the dress and you suddenly feel the urge to examine a drop of blood under a microscope, you're all set.....unless you don't have a coverslip on you.  Or a microscope.  All joking aside, fashion magazines offer considerably more than just the skinny models and $3000 dresses.  From those magazines,  I have learned a lot about art, photography, books, music, food, health, travel, cinema,  and even politics. So, maybe, just maybe, all that good stuff outweighs the fact that fashion magazines kind of make me feel bad about myself too.

October 6th Rideau River scenes

 

 

 

 

 

Montreal Comic Con 2012 - To boldly go where no shan has gone before

There are a couple of events that I've long wanted to witness: the Burning Man Festival in Nevada and Comic Con.  Not because I'm an artist or a free spirit or a huge sci-fi or comic book fan...but because I want to look at the artists, the free spirits and the sci-fi fans. I have read enough about these gatherings to know that they're a feast for the eyes, full of colour and whimsy and imagination, and I'm a visual person; I'm addicted to magazines, I love art and movies and TV.  That I'm intrigued by these kinds of exhibitions isn't really surprising, I suppose.  Plus, I love the enthusiasm that is the foundation of these sub-cultures, if I can call them that.  Or maybe I should say "super cultures".  I'm fascinated by and envious of their dedication to the form and genre, and of the effort they spend in making their costumes. 

Burning Man will have to wait, but last weekend I went to Comic Con in Montreal.  My husband wasn't able to go, so I was hemming and hawing about going by myself.  It just seemed like it wouldn't be as much fun alone. None of the Doctor Who or Buffy fans I know could go with me, so I almost gave up on it.  But, then, happily, two friends volunteered to drive to Montreal with me, so I could go to the conference, they could poke around town, and then we'd meet up for dinner afterwards.  Since I'd left it so long to get tickets, I was forced to get a VIP ticket for the conference.  $220 dollars.  Gulp.  That did mean I'd get a "free" t shirt and a "free" tote bag.  I'm glad I paid more for all the free stuff. 

So we made our way on the sunny Saturday morning to Montreal, stopping first at the Atwater Market for a carb-rich breakfast of chaussons aux pommes (apple turnovers) and almond croissants (almond croissants) from the Première Moisson bakery. The fall displays of pumpkins, corn and other gourds were already out, mixed in with all the flowers and vegetables and fruit, and there was definitely a nip in the air, too.  I love the arrival of autumn in Ontario and Quebec.  After checking into the hotel,  I cabbed it to the Palais des Congrès, full of anticipation and admittedly a bit nervous.  I wasn't in costume, in case you are wondering.  I left the Xena, Warrior Princess outfit back home and went instead as a mild middle-aged woman.

Once I had passed the "Weapons Check" where real guards check the fake weapons, I entered the exhibitor hall and WOW.  The costumes, the artwork.....the merchandise.  There were stormtroopers, a Darth Vader (definitely wearing lifts...he was about 6'8"), a couple of Princess Leias (in both the gold bikini look and the virginal white robes) and several Obi Wan Kenobis.  There was a pint-sized Ewok and a gang of towering Klingons.  What's the correct collective noun for Klingons?  A kakaphony of Klingons?  A kraze of Klingons? Must look that up.  I saw a Navi-costumed woman, whose husband was Obi-Wan Kenobi, pushing a baby carriage. Didn't get a good look at the child.....with that cross-breeding, who knows what the product would have been!  There were furries (or are they called plushies? Don't really know much about this particular group.) They dress up as furry animals.  The kids love them, but, if I'm not mistaken, there's more than a bit of a sexual undertone to that.

Speaking of sexual undercurrents, "sexy" costumes were everywhere: there were women in low-cut PVC catsuits, dressed as gaming heroines or superheroes; there were all manner of Sailor Moons, Star Trek babes, sexy nuns (see left)  and, perhaps most disturbingly, a sexy Snow White. Since when doe she display ample cleavage and wear a thigh-skimming skirt and black leather boots? And have a nose piercing? 

There were people in skin-tight lycra who really, really shouldn't have been. There was even a painted-on costume.  One trend that I did not understand was the wearing of very realistic horse heads.  Must research that....Godfather connection? A play on My Little Pony?  Even more strange:  there was a storm trooper wearing a horse head!!

I think my favourite sci-fi sub-genre costumes were definitely the steam punk ensembles.  Victorian Era meets industrial.  Goggles, metal, corsets and hats, lots of fancy hats.  Fascinating and elegant.

There were  monsters and demons, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four, Superman, Spiderman, Imperial Guards.  A couple of doctors (as in Who) and a Dalek. Shiny neon hair.  Swords.  Light sabres - that actually looked like "the real thing".  It was like the best parade ever.  But while a lot of it was playful and innocent, there was definitely a sexual undercurrent, so it was jarring to see so many little children there.  And gasp-worthy when they wanted their picture taken with the Comic Con incarnation of Snow White.  But I guess we could argue that there's a lot wrong with the image projected by the pure Disney Princesses, too.  Plus, I watched Laugh-In as a kid and was blissfully unaware of the sexual innuendo, of which there was plenty, so I'm thinking that the kids at Comic Con just enjoyed the fun and pageantry, and didn't wonder about the fetishistic side of it at all.








So well done, all you Comic Con people who worked so hard to create those amazing costumes!  I really admire all the imagination and effort and pride that went into the outfits and, the makeup, and I love the self confidence it takes to be part of the Masquerade. 





Oh Captains, my captains!

So, yes, I paid a lot of money to have my photo taken with William Shatner and Sir Patrick Stewart.  $175 smackeroos.  And, yes, therefore, it is a real picture, not a cardboard cut-out as some have insinuated.  But I ask you this:  would the Comic Con folks have used that particular photo of William Shatner for a promotional cardboard cut out?  It isn't exactly a flattering picture. He looks acutely uncomfortable, like he's having gastrointestinal issues.  But, back to happy memories.  When it was my turn, I said "Hello" to the gents and Patrick Stewart turned to face me and said "Hello, my dear".  What a gentleman.  Shatner just ignored me.

If Walter is gone, then who the heck is this?

 

Walter the Groundhog

And so it is that we say goodbye to Walter the groundhog.  He's in a better place now.  And by that I mean that he waddled into our live trap and Bill relocated him to a lovely forest out of town.  It broke my heart to have to do that, but he was destroying the garden and digging a network of holes in the backyard.  I'll miss him though.  I loved looking out to see if he was sitting by the shed in the golden light of morning.  I loved Bill's faux-enraged yelling of "Waaallllttteer!" whenever he caught him munching on something he shouldn't (like the flowering monarda).  It was reminiscent of Sheldon's "Wheeaatton!" yell on The Big Bang Theory.  So, in honour of my little Walter, I've written a blues song:
 Sung to the tune of a standard blues song.

"Where is my little groundhog,
oh where could he be?
Where is my little groundhog,
he's not sitting by the tree
my little groundhog
g-r-o-u-n-d-h-o-g
Where's my little groundhog
He ain't where he's supposed to be"

Walter, you've definitely left a hole in our hearts.  And under our shed.

My right to bare arms

Since it's summer, I'm much more aware of my less-than-toned and less-than-tanned (read: pasty white) arms and of how uninclined I am to reveal them to the general public.  Which is why, not surprisingly, they are less than tanned.  It's not just me to feel this way.  How many times have I heard women say how much they hate their arms and are loathe to go sleeveless?  Too many. Loads of us cover our pipes up at all costs....and that's not easy to do with summer fashions the way they are.  To wear sleeves or cardigans to conceal the offending body parts on hot and humid days is unbearable.  It's not hard to understand why we're ashamed of our imperfect limbs: we are bombarded by images of ridiculous physical ideals by the media.  Not to mention the "bingo wing" and "welfare arms jokes". But, honestly, how dare I "hate" my arms, when there are people who have lost use of theirs for whatever reason, or who have lost them completely?  Heck, some people are born without arms.  Don't we owe it to them and to ourselves to appreciate and even be proud of our arms?  And, really, shouldn't this appreciation apply to the whole of our bodies, if we're lucky enough to be healthy?  Not a day goes day that I don't see someone out there who is physically challenged in some way. It puts my complaints and body image issues in perspective.  My physique is far from "perfect"....I'm no slip of a girl and I'm no athlete....but my pudgy little body works pretty well and for that I am grateful.  I can play tennis, hug my loved ones, take photos and, very importantly, hold my coffee cup in the morning, all thanks to my reliable arms and hands.  No need to be ashamed of them.  Plus, I can't help but think that I'll be more inclined to treat my body right if I can abolish the shame and silence the negative inner dialogue. I'm starting my own little movement and exercising my right to bare arms.  And, in keeping with the idea of appreciating my arms, I'm going to exercise my bare arms.  I'm going to shut this computer down so I can go and play tennis and start toning those wonderful arms of mine.