Overhearing someone toot in a room that has a monitor is like being in the same room with the person while wearing the Whisper 2000.
You know anything made in Roanoke is bound to be that good.
Hey Now, Hey Now
Yes. This is a picture of a diminutive woman praying at the side of her bed.
Her name is Mother Abigail Freemantle.
She’s 106 years old, and still makes her own bread.
Driving in the car yesterday and Crowded House comes on with “Don’t Dream It’s Over.”
Normally, classic-slash-retro rock (generally anything dating from 1960-1987) is an anathema to me. My nightmare is getting stuck in bumper to bumper traffic in the summertime beside some yahoo playing Q107 with the windows down. When this happens – and it does, I tellya, far more often than you’d imagine – I always visually scan my car in hopes of finding something I can throw through their window that would both punish them and render their stereo useless in one fell swoop. I never actually throw anything, it’s the catharsis the fantasy brings that’s important. Thinking about throwing something prevents me from throwing, you see?
(Aside: Further, I’m a horrible station-switcher. I’m awful, especially so while driving. I need to have a song to sing to. I don’t care about the news, I don’t care about the weather, I just need to sing a singable song. The only exception to this rule would be whilst listening to The Vinyl Cafe with Stuart McLean on CBC, in which case everybody just better shut the hell up.)
Back to Crowded House.
In 1994, a four-part mini-series was televised which was based on Stephen King’s novel, The Stand. Appropriately, it was titled The Stand (I know, right?) I still have the four VHS tapes my then-boyfriend used to record it for me, Acura commercials and all. Now, there are several cringe-worthy moments in the show, most of them parts intended to be frightening, like Jamey Sheridan turning into the mullet-sporting, jean-jacketed Devil (Randall Flagg) himself, and being forced to engage in dialogues such as:
Randall Flagg: Oh! I never even introduced myself, did I? Pleased to meet you, Lloyd. Hope you guess my name.
Lloyd Henreid: Huh?
Randall Flagg: Oh, uh… nothing. Just a little classical reference.
Shudder. Is that bad, or is that bad?
However, there are some remarkably brilliant and poignant moments as well.
One of the best of these occurs when two young people, Harold Lauder and Frannie Goldsmith, who have lost their families to a mysterious plague, sit together one evening listening to an old, portable record player. In the mini-series, it’s Frannie (a still young, but maturing Molly Ringwald) who brings out the player, however it’s Harold (Corin Nemec of Parker Lewis Can’t Lose fame) who brings it over to Fran’s house in the novel. Here’s the paragraph:
“Music of a dead world.” Doesn’t that take your breath away? And here’s the scene. Click on the link. I’m serious. Do it now. Sometimes, just sometimes, the classics can bring back more than just embarrassing memories of high school dances. Just close your eyes and listen…
There is freedom within, there is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
Book Review: F U Penguin
Went to Toronto last weekend to hang out. As usual, saw and ate at some awesome places. Might I suggest a visit to the TIFF Bell Lightbox at 350 King Street West if you haven’t been yet, and try the mushroom soup at The Town Crier pub at 115 John Street.
I never tend to visit book giant Chapters here at home, however the one at 142 John Street is pretty impressive. While I was there I happened across a book that originated with a blog, à la Stuff White People Like. The book is called F U Penguin. I’ll let y’all extrapolate the name of the blog from that.
Without realizing it, I think I was waiting for this book to come out, and I’d wager that applies to a few of you, too. This book rails against Cute Animals Everywhere. E-mails, movies, websites – Matthew Gasteier has left no stone unturned, and nothing adorable is exempt from his wrath and derision.
A few excerpts:
Snow leopards: rare, majestic, dickish
Did you know…? Unlike many other large cats, snow leopards cannot roar. This explains why instead of getting upset when you don’t do something they want you to do, they say something passive aggressive like “Oh, no, don’t worry about it, I’m sure it will just magically take care of itself.”
Thanks for ‘gracing’ us with your presence.
I get it, Whale, you’re busy. I’ve only been on this FUCKING BOAT for three and a half hours waiting for you, and the only thing I’ve seen so far is my lunch from earlier.
Did you know…? Orcas are commonly referred to as “killer whales,” a name they spread themselves so no one would find out that they cried at the end of Titanic.
Rare animals can be a real drag.
I was living my life long before I knew what you were, Long-Eared Jerboa, and I will go on living my life long after I have set you as my desktop picture.
Did you know…? The long-eared jerboa is different from the regular jerboa in one major way, though researchers have yet to determine precisely what that is.
Happy reading! Spread the word!
Filed under Books, Wanderings
Linda & Me
The unknown future rolls toward us.
I face it, for the first time, with a sense of hope. ~ Sarah Connor
(Or at least with the knowledge I won’t be mowing down an entire Fortino’s chicken for dinner with chocolate mint ice cream for dessert.)
~Erin Lee McBride
Just finished Jillian Michaels‘ 30-Day Shred, now starting ‘Ripped In 30.’ Four weeks, four levels. I hear Level One of Ripped is much more difficult than the same level of the Shred.
I am preparing to have my ass handed to me.
Update: Finished Day 5, Week 1 of ‘Ripped In 30.’ It’s been fine, this first week. There’s a couple of exercises I hate, but that’s par for the course. I just swear at the TV more.
I’m up between 0520-0545 every morning (except Saturday and Sunday, usually around 0700 if I’m at home). For the first month, this sucked. Then, after the haze cleared, I realized I had this beautiful time all to myself guaranteed, for every day I was willing to drag my sorry tuchus out of bed. I have anywhere from 2-2.5 hours each morning to work out and anything else I can fit in, including coming here to write. It’s an important and significant gift I give myself. I’m still generally tired all the time, but that’s my own fault; hitting the sack at a decent hour has never been my forte.
I decided at the beginning of this process that I want to be Linda Hamilton, minus the marriage to James Cameron and all the crazy. When I first laid eyes on her then-new bod in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, I was in awe. Holy crap! Those shoulders! That back! Those biceps! Those triceps! And though she’s quite obviously petite, she lacks that anorexic Lara Croft vibe (sorry, Angie). She’s a veritable Slim Jim, a compact package of sinewy awesomeness. You know that bit near the end of the movie, when Morphing Silver Guy has pierced her right shoulder, and she can still load the gun single-handedly and blow him to bits? It’s my favourite badass chick moment of all time, even beating out the gorgeous, over-the-top cheesiness of Demi Moore screaming “suck my d***!” at Viggo Mortensen in G.I. Jane.
This hasn’t been easy, and I know that some days I don’t ‘bring it’ as hard as I should. When things start getting difficult, though, I think of something Jillian says in this workout: “It is what it is.” For me, this means, you’re here, you’re not getting out of it, you may as well welcome or at least ignore the pain, because you will not stop. Also, I read a quote the other day which read, “Don’t look back – you’re not going that way.” There is only forward.
Girls can be strong. Girls can be tough. And strong, tough girls can be dead sexy.
I’ll check back in soon.
Filed under Health and Wellness
Kristin Peterson: The Lost Tapes
Kristin Peterson, Toronto Bloggess Extraordinaire, Queen of LOL and author of mytorontoeh, acquiesced to play Twenty Questions with me – yay! For the great unwashed, mytorontoeh is an hilarious and irreverent blog that celebrates all that is Toronto’s diverse and wonderful, with a healthy dose of blue humour and current events.Without any undue further ado, here’s Kristin:
What’s your inspiration for mytorontoeh? What drives it?
KP: mytorontoeh was started as a real estate blog, to bring humanity into the service and to focus on the East end…but then it got personal and about other stuff. I think a lot, and so it is a way to vent and let stuff seep out in a humourous way.
Walk me through your day.
KP: Wake up at 7:00, take dog out, make lunches, then go to gym…sometimes do open houses midday, do a chore, come home, do interwebz, pour wine, blog, make dinner, eat, drink wine, watch TV!
Tell me a bit about your first smooch (if you will).
KP: I dragged Bobby Pennefather to a dark spot in the backyard of a house party after having my first drunky time, we made out and my knees shook! Never saw him again because he went to a Catholic school.
Funniest drink-came-out-my-nose moment:
KP: Drink out of nose moment: a train ride to Montreal where my friend and I were making fun of the French Canadian couple behind us…we were 45.
Joan Harris (née Holloway) or Peggy Olson?
KP: Duh, Joan Harris. I think about her all the time.
Favourite Toronto ‘hood and why?
KP: The beach; it’s where I live, I like the vibe.
What’s the most intriguing object in your home?
KP: My two curio cabinets that are filled with tchotchkes and were made by a cute Dutch man in the beach.
Best…TV show…ever:
KP: That’s a Sophie’s Choice question! “Take my little girl!” I’m picking Sex and the City over Gilmore Girls because it came first.
Best self-absorbed, crazy celebrity religion: Scientology or Kabbalah?
KP: Anything a celebrity does is crazy and self absorbed, it seems, but I’ll pick Kabbalah because Madonna and Demi Moore are into it.
Most memorable celebrity meet/sighting:
KP: Nick Nolte drunk in Yorkville at high noon.
Favourite cuss word or expression:
KP: Feck and shite – I like the way the Brits say it.
Past fad that should make a comeback:
KP: 1960s makeup with false lashes in the day and lots of eyeliner, bouffant hair, too, while we’re at it.
Past fad that should never again see the light of day:
KP: Women should never wear bra tops as tops in public – even at the gym – I don’t want to see your fat roll (or your spleen if you’re skinny).
What’s in the fridge?
KP: Lots of meat, duh, wild boar bacon and spicy salami. I have massive butcher crush. (Ed. note: She really does.)
Fave vacuuming-naked-because-life-is-just-grand song:
KP: I like 70s soul, R&B: the Wedding Bell Blues is a good one to vacuum to.
Fave openly-weep-into-your-wine-coz-life-sucks-so-bad song:
KP: Major Tom – I’m scared of getting lost in space, and that song is just saaaaad.
Indie-chick cool factor nonpareil: Zoe Deschanel or Ellen Page?
KP: Can’t choose! (Ed. note: I couldn’t either, I just wanted to know what Kristin thought.)
Words of wisdom for other single chicks in the city?
KP: Stop looking for Mr. Right, if you want a baby, have a baby, but don’t get married because you think a baby needs a father, or because all your friends are doing it.
I really just wanna say….:
KP: “Take care of each other.”
When are we gonna spend the day in our jammies again?
KP: We’re going to have to do it in November! (Ed. note: It won’t come soon enough!)
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Git yourselves over to mytorontoeh dot com!
Filed under Film, The Mama Goddess
Renaming My Kids Huggy Bear and Shaft
I’m getting Thing 1 into her school uniform this morning. Thing 2 gets to stay in his dinosaur jammies today.
DinoBoy comes into his sister’s room and says, “Mama, just to let you know I’ve prepared Thing 1’s toothbrush and wet it for her.” (He’s five years old. FIVE.)
“Hey! That’s awesome!” I say. Turning to my daughter, I comment, “What a great brother you have, huh?”
Calling after him, she replies,
“Thanks, Blood!”
Seriously.
Filed under The Mama Goddess
Bunbuns On The Lawn
Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.
~ John Steinbeck
Came out of the house this morning to find a bunny sitting on the front lawn.
Thing is about bunnies in my ‘hood, is that you rarely see them moving. They freeze the second they hear an unfamiliar noise, and stay that way until well after the initial “Hey, there’s a bunny on the lawn!” novelty has has worn off. This one was no different. In fact, he stayed so still for so long that I began to imagine someone had dropped off a really early Laura Secord prezzie for me.
Here in Hamilton, we’ve got a behemothic (can I say that?) bunbun population. We did back in London, too, however those were night-lurkers only, and disappeared the second there was light in the sky. If you were an unfortunate sod like myself, starting work at the most godawful hours, you’d see them huddled at the side of the road, furtively glancing up sideways as you drove by. Mostly, you’d see squirrels. I mean, lots of squirrels.
It helped that Old East Village is lousy with trees. I mean, we had a 25-foot Chestnut out front that dug its roots into the crumbling plumbing a little more each year. All the neighbors had trees, too, and almost all of them were very old, and very big. So the squirrels had their pick of penthouse suites.
Most of the time the prodigious population of squirrels didn’t bother me, but there were two times in particular I could have easily done without them. Once, leaving to drive the kids to school, I came out to what I now regard as one of the biggest “Eww!” moments of my life – one of the furry, bright-eyed little tree-dwellers was in its frenetic death throes right beside the walkway. Had he fallen? I dunno. What I do know is that it was capital C-creepy. I wish I could tell you I’d done something honorable, like sacrificed a pillow and put the poor thing out of its misery in goose down comfort while whispering “Go to the light” into his tiny ear, but really I just decided to sneak out the back way, instead. Got my husband to Hefty bag it when it was all over. Gawd, even writing that, I gave a shudder.
The second SSI (Shocking Squirrel Incident) will be perpetually filed under “What The Fresh Hell Is THIS?!” It was a beautiful summer day. I’d planned to have a G&T on the deck, enjoy the fresh air, read my book, have another G&T, and so forth. Grabbed all my gear and headed out only to find a squirrel doing frantic laps in our Intex pool, having jumped or fallen in, and was now unable to find purchase on the slippery plastic blow-up ring around the top. Now, I had no freaking idea how long this poor bugger had been swimming, but what I did know was that here was my chance to redeem myself for my queasy cowardice with his now-deceased buddy. I grabbed the skimming net with the intent of scooping him up and out – easy peasy lemon squeezy, right? Except I hadn’t factored in that Squirrely, considering me, a human, to be a mortal enemy, would not come to the realization that I was attempting to free him from a certain and imminent watery grave, but that he’d assume I’d come to torture him first. Each time that net got anywhere close to his undercarriage, he’d thrash away from it (I transitioned from sympathy to ‘get-the-fuck-in-the-net-you-goddamned-rodent’ fairly quickly). Finally the exertion, plus at least 200 laps, I’m sure, wore him down, and I bailed him out.
I expected him to make a quick exit, but he was plumb wore out. He just sat there, eyeing me, soaked and pathetic. It took him about half an hour to slowly make his way to the back fence, and another half an hour to get to the garage roof to rest again in safety. A little while after that I heard something that sounded like a two-pound object falling off a roof and hitting a bush in the neighbors’ yard, but I decided to get back to my G&T and not think about that anymore.
So. Here I am in the new-ish ‘burbs of Hamilton, with young trees and bunnies who cannot climb. I rarely see any squirrels.
It’s amazing how little things can help one regain perspective. Life, it appears, is good.
Filed under Ephemera
Dr. Smuddle Incom Fail
I dunno, they seem legit to me…
Note: The doctor’s name is actually Kelly Smudde, not Smuddle. Fail and a half.
October 14, 2011 · 12:12
The Long And The (ahem!) Short Of It
In the world of the short, the chick with the stepstool is Queen.
~Erin Lee McBride, 2011
short (shôrt)
1. Having little length; not long.
2. Having little height; not tall.
I’m short (that is, not tall, and having little length). 5′ 3″ exactly. Though Canadian statistics tell me I’ve only missed being classified as ‘average’ by 1.5 inches, I know the truth.
It’s obvious in my kitchen. Yesterday, the visiting neighborhood kids wanted popcorn. The bowl is in the corner cabinet, nested inside the big wooden salad bowl. Not thinking, I did what I always do: a little alley-oop up onto the counter, holding on to an open cabinet shelf for extra vaulting power. One kid gave me some pointers for safety, you know, because he has to do the same thing, being about four feet tall. Thing is, if that same kid is coming over when he’s 12, I’ll probably be asking him to reach it for me.
It’s obvious in my closet. In the name of useful space, we switched from a single to a double (upper and lower) clothes rail. More room for new duds! Joy, right? No. Laundry day used to be so exciting for me, putting away all the clean stuff; it was as if I had a whole new wardrobe…”Hey! That shirt! I love that shirt!” Now, it’s an exercise in humiliation, as I set the basket on the bed and trudge off to the kids’ washroom to borrow their stool so I can get the hangers up top.
It’s obvious in my shower. We have these lovely shower hooks. They make life so much easier than regular shower hooks, you know, the usual plastic rings whereby the ends connect and hold the curtain? Well, no more having to click them into place, because these luxury stainless hooks, m’dears, have no clicky bit. They’re open, you see:
Thing is, they always get pulled off because they catch on the middle bit of the shower bar and then dangle precariously. I have to slowly and carefully go way up on my wet toes and r-e-a-c-h to hook ’em back on, praying I don’t slip and break my neck, because, really, who wants that to be their obituary?
It’s funny, you know – growing up, I wasn’t short. I was just growing. In grade five, I was about the 4th tallest girl in my class (the others were Amazons). Then…I stopped, and all the tiny little girls kept going. One of those ‘tiny’ girls I know to this day, and whenever I look up at her (I’ll estimate she’s 5′ 7″ or so), I marvel at the fact I used to look slightly downward to speak to her. I also remember when my Granny Lee and I discovered we were the same height – oh, happy day! I felt as though this were just the beginning: “Today, Granny, tomorrow…my dad!” It was a very powerful feeling. By my twenties I had to accept that the only other kin I would manage to vertically surpass was my other Granny (and eventually my mom, but only because she’s shrinking, now).
Now I look at my own little sprouts and marvel at what beanstalks they’re becoming. My daughter is already getting excited about exceeding me in height one day, which I don’t doubt she will. We have a gag, my kids and I, about when that day comes that they’ll have to crook their necks down to talk to me. It goes like this:
Me: Clean your room! This place is a sty! Who drank all the milk? Get off the phone! NO, you cannot go to the movies tonight….!!!
Them (patting me gently on the head gently and crooning as condescendingly as possible): Aww, Little Mama!
We practice, now. I sit on a chair, and they pat. I may as well be ready for it.
Filed under Nostalgia
Really Effing Cool: Stuff I Wanna Do, #1
“I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.”
~ E.B. White
This is not a Bucket List. I’ve grown to despise that term, damn Jack and Morgan, they ruined everything. So…what? If I don’t make a tick mark beside everything on my List, I’ve FAILED life? When my time comes to go toward the Light, I’ll not be allowed a feeling of contentment and a job well done? Some omniscient being will stamp a big ‘Incomplete’ on my celestial report card? Fak off!
No, this is just entry #1 of some stuff I’d like to do at some point whilst my soul is still attached to my body. There’s a difference.
My youngest (Thing 2) is currently in school Mondays, Wednesdays and alternate Fridays. It’s a stupid schedule, I know. Most Friday mornings last year were spent scrambling to find the calendar – is he going? He’s staying home? Dammit, I had a pedi booked! This year I galvanized myself into action and marked every single week off, so a simple glance tells me if I can make any grownup plans.
In any case, Mondays and Wednesdays remain my sure-thing days of the week, unless of course Thing 1 or Thing 2 have colds, which means I’m on call. Whatever.
At least one of these mornings usually includes a trip to Starbucks. Funnily enough, I am seriously anti-Starbucks (I defiantly use terms other than they have written on their artfully done menu), but after watching the two daytime girls at my local Second Cup eating behind the counter, licking their fingers and then going off to prep a drive-up order without once washing their hands, I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice and head over to the west side of the street. Here, I order my beverage:
Me: (scanning the boards distractedly) Uh, yeah, I’d like an espresso and steamed milk, please. For here. That size (points to mug on counter).
Snotty, 20-something barista: (with barely-disguised contempt) So, you want a grande latte?
Me: (looking perplexed) Uh, yeah, I guess.
Fuck ’em. I’m never gonna say it.
I grab a newspaper from the rack, usually The Hamilton Spectator, though sometimes The Toronto Star if I’m lucky. Find my window seat and set up shop for the next hour.
Late September, I’m happily browsing away and I come across this article in the Spec, “New York City’s spots for book lovers: a literary tour.” OMG! It’s like some New Yorkers got together to discuss a few of Erin’s Favourite Things, namely New York itself (which holds an almost mythical fascination for me, having never been there), books and booze.
One day, I muse to myself. After Thing 2 starts first grade. One day.
Who’s in?
Filed under Books, Wanderings
Erin's Clishmaclaver 
