Sometimes Icing

The death of a small animal. From a farm.

2012-01-27T07:15:00.003-05:00

There comes a time in every young person's life, to make a mistake. Or, in my case, a few.

There was that time my mom's car got hit by another car in a parking lot. While I was driving. That other time I dated a guy who wore the same leather pants every day for 3 weeks. Oh, and that time I got a tattoo that meant small barnyard animal in Chinese.

There is a story that goes along with that. But I've told it about eleventy hundred and 12 times. If you'd like to be reminded of how it came to be that I got small barnyard animal tattooed on my back, please read this here post.

Instead of a wordy and smart-sounding post about my foolish youth, I'm going to make this short and sweet and tell you about how brave I was to get a big ass tattoo to cover up the stupid one. I've only been talking about it for umpteen years. Plus, I slept a maximum of 4 hours last night and am having trouble forming coherent sentences.

Oh, I'm in Amsterdam. I got here Wednesday for work. I have the jet lag.

Behold the before and after photos.

Before

After

Can you even see where the before picture is hidden? I bet you can't. Thanks to the amazing Nick Oaks. I was so nervous when I went in on Saturday, I wanted to barf. He was super nice and calmed me down right quick. We chatted for the 2(ish) hours that I sat there for and I only took one mini break. Tough, eh?

People keep asking if it hurts. Yes. Yes it does. Everything you've heard about tattoos is true. They hurt. Geez.

Sharing a house is fun!

2012-01-19T22:47:00.000-05:00

In T minus nine weeks, I'll be moving 5 hours away, to the suburb-filled province of ~~Onterrible~~ Ontario. I've been so caught up with the details of the move that I've totally forgotten about the move IN portion of this activity. So, naturally this has brought on yet another panic. In addition to the must-rent-my-condo panic, must-buy-a-car panic and the must-find-a-new-job panic. No biggie.

I lived with a boyfriend once. Well, twice. But they were both roommates first, boyfriends later. And I was twenty-something and not that smart and one of them didn't speak English, so let's not count those.

This is the first time I've met a dude and decided I liked him enough to leave my house, and go live in his house so we could be together more and you know, plan a future and everything. Big news.

My manfriend was pretty awesome about my one major freak out, which came on randomly when I realized exactly how different my every day was going to become. I already told you about my fear of the suburbs. Nothing about our actual relationship worries me. We're one of those annoying couples who never argue. But even BFF's have a learning curve when they move in together, right? Here is a small list of things that may or may not cause a few tantrums.

1. Manfriend's house is very manish: It's bachelor code to have a leather couch and a big screen TV. Lucky for me, my manfriend has two of each. And a papaya-coloured wall. And 17 bottles of the same shampoo in his shower. And he sleeps with the remote control in his bed. And watches football and/or hockey for what I'm pretty sure is 8 hours a day. None of the above things are in line with how I roll.

I'm pretty used to being on my own. I bought a condo on my own and decorated it exactly the way I like. Now, my manfriend is not some kind of gorilla-man who refuses help in the decor department. He's readily admitted that his place needs a lady's touch. i.e. moi. But I'm also not silly enough to charge in there and start painting walls pink and buying floral bedspreads. Mostly because floral bedspreads are ugly. And you know, that's rude. So, somewhere between 8 hours a day of football and all the leather, I need to find some Lindsayism. A decorative pillow or two. A couple of lamps. Matching towels perhaps. And TLC and HBO available on whichever TV I'm going to be forced to watch during the Superbowl.

2. Manfriend cannot fall asleep unless the TV is on.
Please consult #1 to find out what he's watching when falling asleep. See, I'm a pretty light sleeper. And I require darkness and quiet to sleep. A quiet mind, if you will. Hence my obsession with yoga. I'm one of those people whose mind races at night and all the stress of the day and life keeps me awake and OMG SO MANY THINGS IN MY HEAD. It's important for this girl to SLOW THE EF DOWN. Especially at the end of the day. Get away from the computer and stop checking my phone. And when there is light and noise and busy-ness and whathaveyou, it's difficult to quiet ye olde mind.

The manfriend works shifts. He works days for two weeks, then nights for two weeks and so on and so forth. Neither of us are a fan of the night shifts and I hope that he can eventually not work them. In the meantime, however, it means that I get at least two weeks a month of non-TV sleep time. Otherwise I might try wearing earplugs and an eye mask and whining loudly. I'll probably throw a couple of dramatic sighs in there too.

3. Manfriend wants nothing to with a feline in the bed.
See, this is tricky. Because I'm used to having Henry in my bed practically every night. And I quite like him there. I mean, he's furry and warm and cute. So I don't have a solution to this problem yet. Other than sneaking Henry into bed when the manfriend is falling asleep watching football. See what I did there?

Resolutions shmezolutions.

2012-01-06T16:00:00.001-05:00

I don't believe in new year's resolutions. Ef that noise.

Why so much pressure on January 1?

I prefer to make small changes on a random Wednesday in May, for example. I mean, that could also be the start of a new year if you want. Or maybe you just need 4 months to warm up to your resolution.

Whatevs.

Instead, I prefer to look back at 2011 and all the stuff that happened. See the list below. Because analyzing the past and all the things you can't change is great for your self-esteem.

Lucky for me, 2011 was a pretty good year. Way better than 2010. Except the family part (see #10). That part keeps me up at night and makes me cry. And might require another blog post. A long, long time from now.

1. I broke up with someone who was very, very wrong for me.
2. I went on vacation with my sister to Panama.
3. I started a new blog.
4. I joined a gym and become obsessed with yoga.
5. I met my best friend.
6. I turned 32.
7. I started writing funny stuff about advertising.
8. I got a new/old job.
9. I started a small side business doing nails.
10. My parents separated.
11. I went to Toronto many, many times.
12. I went on vacation with my manfriend (see #5) to Mexico.

All Zumba'd out.

2011-11-21T18:59:00.001-05:00

Somewhere during my upbringing, I was taught that hate is a very strong word. When it came to fish sticks, "I don't care for them" was a much more acceptable way to express my feelings about a meal that smelled like dirty ocean.

I don't care for cardio.

But I know it's necessary. For my health and all that. And as much as I pretend, I'm just not disciplined enough to hit the machines at the gym a few times a week. The elliptical is the least annoying and the only one I will even go close to. The stairmaster and the treadmill don't even make the cut. Vomit. Boring. Yoga always wins. Always.

So last week, I thought I'd try out Zumba. Due to my Latino connection from back in the day - semesters in Cuba and Mexico and my short obsession with Latino men - I was a bit of a salsa-a-holic in my early twenties. And from what I'd heard about Zumba, there was salsa music, bum shaking and fancy footwork.

So, obviously I was going to be a complete pro at it.

In case you aren't down with the latest old lady workout trends, Zumba is a dance-style aerobic workout. There is choreography and everything. The teacher dances and claps a lot and you try to follow. There's also lots of jumping.

Only five ladies showed up to to class before the teacher took her place at the front of the room. It's worth nothing that the woman in front of me, all 5-foot nothing of her, was dressed in a unitard. You heard me. Like a wrestling outfit. But with pants.

It wasn't long after the music started that the hysterical laughter began. Directed at myself, of course.

For the next hour, I got to stare at my sweaty, uncoordinated self shimmy, shake and swirl. It really wasn't cute and I was very disappointed I didn't look nearly as cool as I thought trying to dance sexy-like.

And I took a pole-dancing class you know.

For one, my hips totally suck. There was no Dirty Dancing-style gyration. But there was robotic, pinballesque movements. So, that was a a bit of a 90-year-old-with-a-broken-hip moment. I also failed miserable at what I imagined was supposed to be the hip-hop portion of the dance. Sorry, Beyoncé. I've let you down.

And I clearly didn't wear the right bra for all the jumping. That was a bit, um, painful. To say the least.

Unitard, mentioned above, was a particular highlight of the evening. She couldn't stop smiling at herself in the mirror and danced her own special version of the Carlton dance. I had to admire her. That whole "dance like no one is watching" quote? I think it was written about her.

There was also the WOO lady in the front row.

The Zumba music, apparently, isn't your average Shakira or Carlos Vives tune. Oh no. There are special Zumba remixes. Take your average Shakira or your Carlos Vives and throw a lil "ZUMBAAAAAA" into the lyrics. Ta dah! Zumba music.

And it was that lyric that brought out WOO lady's magic. I clapped when clapping was requiring, and I smiled like an idiot on a dance show when the teacher yelled at me to smile, but WOO lady was really givin'er. A couple of head shakes, then a "WOO! WOO! WOO!" The WOOs combined with the clapping was really something to see.

The class made me super sweaty and my abs and thighs were sore for days after. And I came home feeling relaxed after a jam-packed work day. So I guess I got something out of it. But unfortunately, I lost my delusions of grandeur. I have evidence that I am not, in fact, even close to a good dancer. And when a woman in a unitard totally shows you up, your ego takes a bit of a hit.

I might go back to dancing alone in my living room, where there is no mirror and I am still a salsa pro.

Long distance relationships are fun!

2011-11-08T15:25:00.001-05:00

It is the fate of any long distance relationship, that someone will have to move. There's really no other way around it. If things become for serious, one party has to pack up their gear and make the leap across area codes. In our case, it is me that will be doing the moving.

Since the manfriend doesn't speak French, has a pretty good job with many, many weeks of vacation, and I have a fairly movable career, it was the best option for the relationship.

Also, that's how you talk when you're in a serious relationship. Everything is "for the relationship." Because serious relationship people like to sound like they know everything about serious relationships.

And I'm excited about it. I'll be a 10 minute drive from my oldest sister and my nieces, and a 45 minute drive from my other sister. His place is way bigger than mine, so we won't be all up in each other's business all the time. Unless we want to be all up in each other's business, of course. And there are a lot of really good agencies where I can find work. Plus, he always brings me water from all the way downstairs when I'm thirsty. Oh, and we get to see each other every day which I'm pretty thrilled about.

However, I will be living in the suburbs.

Cue dramatic music.

There is a mantra I have lived by. And it went something like this: I will never, ever live in the suburbs.

I grew up in the woods and now I live in the city. And I rather enjoy both those landscapes. In the former, you get trees and fresh air and wildlife and lots of property to provide for ample opportunities to step in dog poo. In the latter, you get proximity to work and great restaurants and weirdos as neighbours. I've lived in a lot of places/cities/countries in between, but for the purposes of this very scientific study, I'm only going to refer to the homes I spent the most time in.

It's the in between part I'm not so sure of. Strip malls, oversized grocery stores, parking lots and perms make me nervous. It just isn't the environment I imagined living in when I grew up. In other news, am I grown up?

Whatever.

And what is so wrong with that environment, anyway? Maybe it's because I like pretty things, and the view of the Wal-Mart parking lot from the manfriend's yard just isn't that pretty. Or maybe I'm scared of the hour-plus commute to work, even thought I think I've *finally* managed to convince the manfriend I need an iPad because of it. Or maybe I'm just a huge snob.

Either way, the manfriend and I are pretty solid and are ridiculously happy together. So, I know I'll be happy wherever we live (awwwwww). If you ask any of my friends, they'll tell you it's been a while since I've gushed on and on about a dude. I usually rant on and on about how dumb/rude/crybabyish they are. When we first started dating, I obsessed about his dislike of olives because I had to find *something* wrong with him.

You'll be happy to know, I'm completely over the olive thing.

Perhaps I will learn to love the Wal-Mart. I mean, you *can* save money and live better. And I've heard you don't even have to wear pants to shop there. Maybe I'll buy a pair of Uggs and shuffle (because everyone knows you have to drag your feet when you wear Uggs) over to Starbucks every Saturday before we go to Home Depot and buy rugs and towel racks. Or, even better, maybe I'll bring sexy back to the suburbs. I'll do all the permed ladies nails. And buy Costco sized bags of cotton balls. And be the bendiest girl at yoga. I'll be a city girl, who's really a country girl, in the suburbs.

Please, won't you be my neighbour?

2011-09-13T15:47:00.000-04:00

St-Henri is a special place. It borders on the fine line betwee ghetto and up and coming. As all the salespeople from the new condo developments will tell you. The up and coming part. Not the ghetto part.

I was on vacation for two weeks, and last week I took advantage of visiting the grocery store during the day, without the usual mass of people who flock to the IGA after work.

Yep. This is the kind of person I am now. One who takes delight in grocery store shopping on one's holiday. And then makes muffins. For fun. Muffin fun. I think there's a haiku in there somewhere.

First, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my street smelled like urine for a good 3 blocks. This is new. It usually smells like my neighbour's yard along that street. A combination or rotting pool water and fresh cut grass.

Don't be fooled. Fresh cut grass is lovely, but it does nothing to overcome the rotting water smell. You didn't think water could rot, did you? Neither did I. But then there's this guy. And his yard. And his pool. And the rotting water in it.

When I turned the corner onto the main street, I was greeted with a woman throwing up in front of the drugstore, leaning over her old lady cart. If an old lady is in trouble of some kind, it's part of the good-person-code to help them. I don't know where that code came from. It just exists.

But I think there's an appendix about old people and vomit. Unless they're related to you. So, I let her old lady friend help her, while I had to walk briskly into the drugstore and stand next to the hand sanitizers for a good 10 minutes and think about concrete and bank machines and any other items not related to vomit.

Lucky for me, she was gone when I came out of the drugstore. But there was another treat waiting for me when I got to the grocery store. Hooray!

Of course the crazy man wearing mom jeans gets in the line-up behind me at the cash. Of course he does! He shoved his cart full of diet Pepsi and Saran Wrap into the back of my knees several times, then checked whatever was in his fanny pack several more times before running his hands through his greasy mullet/ponytail. I almost had to run back to my safe place; the hand sanitizers.

I had my groceries delivered and insisted on writing my address on the delivery slip myself. I'm pretty sure crazy man wasn't in any position to remember complicated addresses that include a street number AND an apartment number. But I wasn't taking any chances. Henry is scared of a toilet paper roll. He's no help.

I finally made it back home, but not before I spotted a man dressed in head to toe leather, with a shaved head covered in tattoos, save for a ring of blond dreadlocks around his head, examining a plastic severed foot in the Halloween section at the dollar store.

So I did what anyone in my position would do. I didn't make eye contact and kept walking.

Suck it, Air Canada

2011-08-11T11:30:00.004-04:00

Remember the times when air travel was deemed fancy? You wore your best suit with your matching luggage trailing behind you and you sipped champagne at the gate without ever wrecking your lipstick.

I don't remember either. But I know there was a time.

Now air travel has been reduced to cramped seating, a tiny plastic cup of apple juice and a complimentary bag of approximately 2.7 sesame snacks per person. And for $17 you can get a dry turkey sandwich.

When you add, on top of that, the crappiest customer service of all time, it's not always a very enjoyable experience.

Last summer I had to travel to Toronto a lot for work. On one return trip, my co-worker and I were bumped from the flight. As in, we were told we could not get on the flight we had paid for and were scheduled to take.

Air Canada offered us a $200 credit to take the later flight. Actually, it wasn't so much an offer. We had no choice. There was simply no room for us on the plane. I offered to sit on the captain's lap but Air Canada employees don't have much of a sense of humour.

Tell me, please. How does overselling a flight benefit anyone? You get disgruntled travellers who do nothing but bitch about the airline for pretty much ever. And one of those travellers is very active on Twitter. Ahem. Just sayin'.

When I went to Panama in April, our charter left from Toronto. So I had to book a one-way ticket to Toronto to meet my sister there. Oh. What a perfect occasion to use my $200 Air Canada credit you say? Yes. I agree. So I booked my flight and sent in all the required information to get reimbursed.

When I got to the gate for my 9am flight from Montreal to Toronto, the Air Canada people were asking passengers to volunteer to take a later flight at noon. Their reward for such a nobel act? A $200 credit, of course. In my head I scoffed at the poor suckers who weren't going to make it. But I wasn't worried. I had to get to Toronto so I could catch my charter to Panama City at 1pm. Taking the noon flight just wasn't an option. I'd miss my flight and my $1200 vacation would go down the tubes. Fuck that noise. Surely Air Canada was going to come through for me. I mean, I paid for THIS flight with one of their damn bump-you-from-your-flight-because-we-suck credits.

Oh, how naive I was.

A group of three girls next to me at the gate had to catch a flight to Paris from Toronto and there is only one flight a day. Well, all four of us were bumped. They were going to miss their Toronto-Paris flight and I was going to miss my vacation. Yet again, I was told there was no room for me on the flight I paid for and was scheduled to take.

I marched over to the Air Canada customer service desk and not-so-calmly explained my situation. The girl behind the counter told me there was nothing she could do. The noon flight was the only one they had any room on. That's when the tears started. And the hyperventilating.

"IhavetogettoTorontoIMMEDIATELYbecauseIhaveaflighttoPanamatocatchand...(sob)...anditsmyvacationandAirCanadaisCRAPand...(sob)...andthisismyvacationandIpaidtwelvehundreddollarsandI'mjustnotmissingthisand...(sob)..."

Someone with more power than the woman in front of me finally intervened probably because my voice had gone up about 12 octaves and it was starting to look like someone from Air Canada customer service was beating me. She clickety clicked on her keyboard and offered me a Business Class seat on a flight that was leaving in half an hour.

WHAT!? THERE WAS ANOTHER FLIGHT THIS WHOLE TIME!?

Hate.

She also gave me my effing $200 credit to which I responded, "how do I even use this? Because I am supposed to get reimbursed for THIS flight because I had another credit and I haven't heard anything back."

Her answer?

"Actually, I'm not sure. Some people claim you can just type in a number when booking online, others say that doesn't work. You'll have to look online to figure it out."

WHAT!?

An Air Canada employee, responsible for giving out these damn credits DOESN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO USE THEM.

More hate.

Fast forward to August. I'm still trying to get my money back for that April flight. After a half hour on the phone, Air Canada told me to email them my flight itinerary. So I did. The email address doesn't work. My email bounced back three times. Then Air Canada told me to fax them. So I did. I got a fax back saying it takes at least 15 working days to hear back from them. It's been 15 working days.

My manfriend lives in Ontario so I figured I'd use my remaining credit to visit him. According to my extensive research, the only real way to use the credit is to drive to the airport, and buy a ticket there. So I offered manicures and unlimited hugs to my friend Anne-Marie if she would take me.

She agreed.

When I was next in line, two of the three employees decided it was a good time to go in the back and eat a sandwich. There were about 12 people behind me. When sandwich guy finally returned 10 minutes later, his recent meal still left on his face, he searched through his computer from 1982 to find me the best deal to Toronto. The whole process took about 45 minutes.

And then? And then the printing. On a printer older than my dad. You know what I'm talking about. The ones that have the paper with the holes on the side. That make a terrible WEE-WAH, WEE-WAH sound,

The result? I finally saved $200 on a flight and I can't wait to pull this sucker out of my purse when I check in. Also, I need a haircut.

Naked superhero!

2011-07-20T11:56:00.000-04:00

You know I write about nail polish and other fancy stuff on Sometimes Fancy, right?

I even take naked pictures of my manicures. That sometimes look kind of superhero-y.

Just kidding. I have a shirt on.

Maybe.

Account people from heaven

2011-07-19T20:45:00.000-04:00

On occasion I write stuff outside of my day job and even outside of Sometimes Icing and Sometimes Fancy.

That's right. I have two blogs. Everyone knows that two blogs is the new one blog. Duh.

Here's an example. A few weeks ago I wrote an essay about how good account people make my life 112 times easier. It's an ode to a friend at work, who is moving to Austin soon. Which kind of makes me cry.

Check it out on ihaveanidea.

I'm funny. I swear.

Bouquet of doom

2011-07-19T17:28:00.001-04:00

Oh, weddings.

It's funny to me that everyone thinks they're doing something entirely different from everyone else but really, they are all the same.

Bitter. Party of one.

If the stars align, there will be a wedding in my future. My own. And when that happens, I may very well take to this blog to annoy the shit out of everyone with my ideas for bonbonieres and boutonieres and buffets and whatever other b word I can think of that is wedding related.

But there is one tradition I will certainly stay away from. And that is the bouquet throwing.

I went to an old friend's wedding a few weeks ago. She's a friend from high school I've sort of lost touch with, but I was delighted when she invited me last minute to her wedding.

No sarcasm there. For real. I was delighted.

I borrowed a friend's car, Googled the directions, put my party dress on and went solo.

I shimmied into the sweaty little church and took a seat. I had no reason to mill about outside. I didn't know anyone.

I was relieved when a couple of old friends from high school strolled into the church and sat with me.

I really hope nobody noticed that my thighs were sticking to the pew. I'll probably go to hell for that. Or something.

Pew. That's a funny word.

Later on, at the reception, I was thankfully seated at a table with the same handful of people I knew. All of them married. Except one gal who was there with her BF.

Now, I'm all for independent ladies and I buy my own diamonds and I buy my own rings and all that malarky, but when you go to a wedding alone, and you're the only single girl at the table, and your old high school friends remind you that you were the "smart and pretty one" in high school it sort of gets to you. In a where-did-I-take-a-wrong-turn kind of way.

When the photographer was going around taking photos of all the couples at the table, one of my married friends volunteered to have his picture taken with me. I HAD A PITY DATE FOR A PHOTO. WHO IS MARRIED WITH FOUR KIDS. I think my face sort of says it all here.

My faraway manfriend politely reminded me that it's okay to be single.

He's obviously never been the only single girl at table full of married people at a wedding.

For which I'm extremely thankful.

When the very, um, enthusiastic DJ called all the single ladies to the floor for the throwing of the bouquet, I tried to slunk into my seat and hide. Until other single girl with the BF gave me a look. A look that said, "if I have to go up there, so do you."

Why? Why do I have to stand on a dance floor and have an entire room wonder why I'm not married with 2.5 children? Can't I just eat my amuse-bouche in single girl peace? Plus, my shoes were made for sitting. Not for standing. Nor bouquet-catching.

But, I'm a good sport. So off I went. I threw my hands up in the air, like I just didn't care, for the photographer. And had a strategy of skulking away slowly, and walking backwards toward my seat before anyone even noticed I was gone.

Sabrina turned around and lifted her bouquet over her head. Then everything kind of went into slow motion. The bouquet flew threw the air. And then it came closer. And closer. To me. Before it could hit me in the head, I reached my hand up and it went into my hands.

I caught the bouquet.

Then this happened.

That face is what happened. And then everyone looks at you. And what are you supposed to do with the bouquet after it's caught? I wanted that thing out of my hands as fast as it found itself into my hands. So I gave it back to the bride.

And stood awkwardly for a photo.

But not before a very handsome five-year old marched up to me and told me I was getting married soon.

I wonder if he's available.

*Disclosure: Sabrina's wedding really was fun, and she's a dear friend and I've never seen her so happy. Ever.

Busted

2011-07-19T17:01:00.000-04:00

Broken headphones are not great for listening to music at work.

Namas-sucks-to-be-me

2011-06-06T14:07:00.000-04:00

I've recently become somewhat obsessed with yoga.

I'm kind of an anxious young lady. I really have nothing to stress about. Things are great.

But I started a new/old job a few weeks ago and I think because I've worked there before, I forget that I'm new. And I say to my friends "I feel anxious. I don't know why." And then they remind of this.

So smart. Those friends of mine.

And during the more anxiety-ridden times in my life, my drug of choice has always been working out.

Well, not always. Back when I could actually handle alcohol, a bottle of wine was my solution to a break-up or other some such upsetting activity.

I'm far from an expert on the yoga mat. I know my savasana from my chaturanga and I've got a mean triangle pose, but I lose my footing in warrior one and topple over pretty much all the time.

Plus, I have 90 year-old hips that refuse to do what I tell them to. Such as move, for example.

But my inner yogi hit a whole new level of non-enlightment a few weeks ago when I sustained an injury of the least-sexy-possible variety.

I'm not sure that's proper grammar but whatever.

Now, when you limp around telling people you had an injury at the gym, most people assume it's some sort of super bad-ass injury. Like I bench-pressed a dishwasher.

But not Lindsay. Nope. I find a really embarrassing way to injure myself. By wiping out in a puddle.

And now, a public service announcement, if you will.

If you spill the entire contents of a spray bottle on the floor of the yoga room, please do not go to Japan for a towel to clean it up. It's dangerous. Clean it up immediately. Otherwise, people like me slip and fall in it and jam their foot under a glass door, where foots should not go, and blood goes everywhere and it hurts and you can't walk for two days or bend your foot for two weeks.

Not to mention, the contents of said spray bottle was alcohol. So I had to limp home smelling like an alcoholic.

Which wouldn't be the first time.

But those other times I was probably 23 and that kind of thing is expected when you're 23. Duh.

Sedarisly stunned

2011-05-19T11:27:00.005-04:00

It's not every day you meet your writer hero.

For most people, it's also not every day you make a complete idiot of yourself.

Not me, though. I'm pretty much a pro at making an idiot of myself.

And when you combine those two things together, meeting your writer hero and making an idiot of yourself, you're not likely to forget it. Ever.

I went to see David Sedaris a few weeks ago at Place des arts. He read a couple stories, told a couple of jokes and was all around charming.

I left the theatre feeling inspired. In the writer-ly way.

I couldn't NOT line up to get my book signed. I brought my own and everything. This is the guy whose career I pretended to model mine after. Whose sense of humour was kind of the exact same as mine. The guy I sort of wanted to be when I grew up, except not a dude and not gay. We are but two humble nerds, united by our love of words, proper grammar and sexy sentences.

While I waited in line, I planned how charming I was going to be, and how we were going to have so much in common. When the woman in front of me stepped forward to get her book signed, and Mr. Sedaris asked her what she did for a living, I did a cartwheel in my head out of pure happiness.

This is my chance! He'll ask me too and I'll be able to say I'm a writer too! And we'll bond! And make sarcastic jokes! And he'll give me his agent's number and I'll be a real live author! And unicorns and rainbows and sprinkles and joy!

!!!

None of those things happened.

Instead, I stood there awkwardly while someone brought him dinner in a styrofoam tray. Some kind of sandwich with a pile of French fries. He asked me if I wanted any. Which was the beginning of the end for me.

Me: Actually I have a one French fry a day rule I mean not just one fry I mean like an order of fries because one French fry WELL THAT'S JUST SILLY hahaha (nervous laughter) but today I had two apple turnovers so I kind of broke my one apple turnover of the day rule because see I got one for breakfast and then at my work they have snacks SNACKS IN THE BISTRO and they had an apple-y kind of strudel which smelled just so delicious I had to have some hahaha (more nervous laughter) I'm so crazy like that sometimes with the French fries and the turnovers and what have you hahaha (really pathetic nervous laughter).

Him: Oh. That's nice. Here you go.

And with that, he handed me my book. With a drawing of a turtle-dog.

No witty banter, no exchanges about writer-ly things and definitely nobody giving anyone a literary agent's number. I awkwardly turned around and had to ask the nearest Place des arts employee how to get to the metro. Because in my nervous state, I had no idea where I was.

Yep. I'm that cool. Aren't you jealous?

Gaga-fied.

2011-05-04T11:36:00.002-04:00

Sometimes you have a co-worker who sews. And sometimes she makes three matching dresses for her and her two BFFs to go to a Lady Gaga concert. And said co-worker works super hard on them and has been looking forward to this show for weeks.

Sometimes one of her friends calls, the day of the show, and tells your adorably sweet co-worker she doesn't want to wear her dress. Because she doesn't want everyone staring at her. And would prefer to wear black. Then, sometimes, this makes your co-worker super sad.

The only logical thing to do in a situation such as this, is volunteer to wear the dress. That you have not seen. Because it makes your friend happy. And because you're not scared to have a stadium full of people stare at you for being 31 and wearing matching dresses.

That's what happened last week.

I agreed to wear my friend's handmade dress to the show. She had to do some reconnaissance work to find a fourth ticket, but unlike some people, I have a sense of adventure and was totally up for wearing whatever it was she made.

Here's how I looked.

Yah. I was supposed to wear the shorter one. But as my butt is barely covered in this one, it wasn't really an option. My friend called it a "dress" but I think the proper term is "shirt."

People stopped to take our photo, some creepy guy followed us with a video camera, and one guy thought we were a promotional team giving out free stuff. We were a big hit.

Aren't we adorable? I clearly didn't learn the sexy pose the other girls learned. My pose repertoire is very small. I've got stupid-looking and halfway-decent looking. I'll let you guess which one I used here.

Panama-cation

2011-05-03T16:41:00.002-04:00

All-inclusive vacations are funny things.

A group of strangers departs on the same flight, stays at a handful of the same hotels, then returns on the same flight.

So, if you're judgey like me, you find lots of things to talk about.

I met my sister at the Toronto airport for our charter to Panama City, after some mild drama with Air Canada which resulted in some tears and snot and a business class seat from Montreal to Toronto. Yep. I roll like that. Once settled at the gate in Toronto, we immediately started ~~judging~~ observing people.

One twosome stood out. A 30something dude with a ponytail travelling with his mother. They kept bickering about how much he could fit in his suitcase and who was going to sit where on the plane. They didn't seem to like each other very much.

Fast forward to the end of the vacation. And giant sad face.

Our flight from Panama City back to Toronto was delayed. The only logical thing to do, of course, was shop at the duty free.

And because I had taken Gravol in an emergency barfy bus situation, the only thing I wanted to do after the requisite shopping was close my eyes and lie on the airport carpet with my nerdy travel pillow.

When people started lining up at the gate, before our flight was even announced, I decided it was time to open my eyes and judge them.

Who gets in line just for the sake of getting in a line? I'll tell you who. the son/mom combo. Which I was horrified to learn, was a boyfriend/girlfriend combo. I even sent in a spy to find out why these people were lining up, for an as-of-yet non-existant flight. Their answer? It made them feel like they were doing something.

Interesting. And also douchey.

I was with five other people watching this douchiness. My sister, a couple and two guys. The people we made friends with at our resort. Because that's how you roll on vacation. You single out the cool people, and make friends with them. And then you mock everyone else.

Obviously we waited until the last minute to board the plan. Wouldn't you rather be sprawled out on an airport carpet then scrunched into an airplane seat?

I thought so.

When I finally meandered onto the plane, fashionably late, the homely gf/bf combo were occupying the outer two seats. I had to shimmy into the window seat. The rest of the plane ride next to complainer couple went like this:

GF (undoing her seatbelt): Well, the flight attendants told us to put our seat belts on. So I don't know why they said that if there's more people getting on.

Me: Good thing the seat belts are so easy to undo.

Later

GF: My light doesn't even work. How am I supposed to see anything? I can't fill out my immigration card.

BF: Are you okay?

GF (huge sigh): Yes, I'm okay. I'm just frustrated.

BF: I know. This airline sucks.

GF: It really does. It sucks.

Later

GF (coming back from the bathroom): That drunk guy in the back is grabbing people.

Me: Oh yah?

GF: Yes! He tried to reach out and grab my butt. So be careful when you go to the bathroom. He's grabbing people's butts.

Me: Right. Okay. I'll watch out for that.

After we land

Me (taking out my iPhone)

GF: Do you have the weather on that thing?

Me: Yes. It's 7 degrees. And raining.

GF: Because they didn't even announce the weather when we landed.

Me: Yes. It's a tragedy. A real tragedy.

I wonder if those people enjoyed their vacation at all.

When life gives you lemons, go on vacation

2011-04-06T13:56:00.001-04:00

The last few weeks have been far from boring.

A lot of major stuff has happened. There was a break-up, some bed bugs, some major career decisions to make and some money troubles to deal with.

The money troubles, of course, stemmed from all the break-ups and the bed bugs and the decisions. Stress = shopping.

And in times like these, you really need to face your life head on. Just embrace the hard times and work through them, to get yourself to the other side.

Except instead of doing that, I've decided to fuck off to Panama with my sister.

Wheeeee!

Just kidding. Sort of.

I dealt with it all. Quite well, I might add.

I got through the break-up, I dealt with the bed bugs and I made that major career decision. I had a few sleepless nights, and I've become a bit of a gym rat as a response to some of the anxiety these things caused. Mostly about being single again, about weird ass scars on my back and the $300 it costs for an exterminator and about going back my previous agency to work on a super huge account.

But otherwise I'm okay. And super buff. Also, see excessive shopping, above.

But I'm still going on vacation to Panama. Because I've already lived in Cuba, and I've already lived in Mexico and that's where the commoners go. When Shelley and I saw a sweet deal to a 5-star resort in Panama, we jumped on it. Only the fanciest for the Smith girls.

Bugger

2011-03-15T13:27:00.000-04:00

Things you would like to find in your bed:

1. Clean sheets.

2. Javier Bardem.

3. Fluffly pillows.

Things you would not like to find in your bed:

1. Bed bugs.

Cripes.

I've been getting bites in the night for about two weeks. Googling the shit out of bed bug bites, I was convinced mine were not the same. Still, I threw back my sheets every night and inspected the premises. Nothing suspicious.

Until I woke up Saturday morning. My one or two bites a night had expanded to 12 or 13. I threw back the sheets again and there, going for a leisurely walk across my mattress, maybe to the bed bug dépanneur for some beer, was an effing bed bug.

I screamed, smushed it in toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet.

After an exhausting couple days of washing shit, going to my parents and sleeping in my turtleneck, the exterminator came today. He said he found 10 bed bugs living in my headboard.

TEN.

I'm sure they were all "Hey guys! This is silk! Let's move in! Only business class or better for us! Oh and hey! Let's poop on it too! Because it's white! And sillk! And that'll be super fun!"

Little buggers. Super effing gross.

I had to get out of my house for 4 hours, which is not really a challenge for me since I have a job and everything. Going to an office everyday certainly comes in handy in these situations.

Henry, on the other hand, had nowhere to go. So I brought him to work with me. It's been a big adventure for him so far.

Henry checks out the office: "I guess this office is alright. Not sure about that ceiling though."

Henry discovers the window: "Hey, Linz! You can see all the stores from... WHAT THE!? The Gap is having a 20% off sale!?"

Henry and I have a conference call: "Let me just find that file for you. Oh, here it is. I named it eghdsfkjwtLAEJHISIEJ."

Thank you friends.

2011-03-08T12:59:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you go through rough times. And sometimes you can't see things so clearly. And sometimes your friends say something really simple but really smart to you like "follow your heart" and "let go."

And then you do. And then you know you've made the right decision.

And then they tell you "you're smart." And then you think, "yah. I am."

Sometimes you just have to look out for yourself.

Sometimes Fancy

2011-02-24T13:41:00.000-05:00

I've been neglecting this space.

But for happy reasons. Not for sad reasons.

I had the brilliant idea of starting yet another blog.

You know how much I love nail polish, and nice outfits and good hair and pretty things for my house, right?

Well, instead of boring y'all over here with those things, I decided to put them all in one neat little place. And that little place is called Sometimes Fancy.

I decided to keep this place for funny stories to amuse you. Rather than girly things to bore you.

So, go on over and have a looksee. If you're into that kind of fancy stuff.

Sloane Envy

2011-02-08T19:26:00.000-05:00

Photo via New York Times

Occasionally I dream about having someone else's life.

And when I say occasionally, I actually mean whenever I'm having a sucky day.

Today might have been one of those days.

So it's only natural that I started daydreaming about opening a nail salon, or getting an advance on a book that takes place in Argentina thus requiring me to move to Buenos Aires for 6 months.

And it certainly wasn't hard to daydream I was Sloane Crosley, living in New York and going to the New York Public Library every day, surrounded with books, writing my next bestseller, while the New York Times wants to know what I'm wearing while doing it.

They had me at "stacked Louboutin heels."

Read the full article here.

Listen carefully

2011-02-08T19:02:00.000-05:00

The building where I work has ghosts. I'm sure of it. And they only come out when you're actually doing work. It's a conspiracy.

Sedaris in Paris.

2011-02-03T07:31:00.000-05:00

Not really. He's not in Paris.

Well, actually he is. He lives there, doesn't he?

Either way, this post has nothing to do with where he lives and more to do with my undying fandom of his work.

I was once compared to him. Not for being a gay man living in Paris, but because my writing style was similar. Whether or not it's true, is not my concern. Sometimes you just have to take a compliment and run. Like when the dog you're walking poops on someone else's lawn.

What? I totally picked up that dog's poop. That one time.

So, imagine my delight when I found out he was coming to speak at Place des Arts in May. I solicited my Sedaris-loving friends and we bought tickets. Six months in advance. Whatever. That's how we roll.

And then imagine MORE of my delight when I found out he was doing a free reading at a local bookstore.

Actually, there was a little bit of "What the ef!? I paid $60 a ticket to see him and now he's doing a free reading!?"

But then I got over it.

And then I was super sick on the day he was coming to do the free reading and could hardly get out of bed. But lucky for me, my friend Anne-Marie was still gung-ho to go to the reading. I bribed her with my everlasting friendship to buy me his newest book, and get it signed.

Anne-Marie was a trouper. She waited two hours, in a hot and stuffy and squishy bookstore to talk to the author and get her book and my book, signed. She called me with frequent updates. And I cheered her on.

"You can do it! You're almost there!"

Actually, I don't think I did. I think I told her to forget it and go get shish taouk. Poor girl was starving.

When we were finally reunited, I could hardly wait to see what Sedaris had written in my book. She said he was very chatty and insisted on talking with everyone who was waiting in line (hence the two-hour wait). Oh, the possibilities! Didn't he know I was his protegé? I was convinced he wrote something like:

"Lindsay, too bad you couldn't be here. I bet you're awesome."

Or:

"Lindsay, success will be yours if you just keep writing."

Or:

"Lindsay, clearly you're a genius. Call me and I'll talk to my agent about you."

What did he actually write? None of the above. Not even close. Serves me right for being sick enough to say in bed all day, but not sick enough to go get my nails done at 7 pm.

And? And Anne-Marie was BEDAZZLING. I love you, David, but I'm not sure bedazzled is the right word here. Unless Anne-Marie showed up with one of those guns that popped sparkles onto your jean jacket in a fashionable pattern.

Earsy target.

2011-01-25T13:00:00.000-05:00

Um. Yah.

I can be a bit judge-y. Because it's fun and makes me feel better about myself to point out all those who are inferior to me.

So, when I was in line at Starbucks yesterday, and I saw a woman wearing purple tights with a mom skirt and earrings all up her ears, I had to take a moment.

I've had plenty of things pierced in my day.

Also, I'm 90 years-old now. Because I use expressions like "in my day."

A multitude of ear holes was first. Belly-button was next. Then the tongue. Then the nose, because there was nothing left to pierce. Even though I made a pact to never have earrings on my face.

It was a Sunday in Halifax. I was bored.

Everything is gone minus the belly-button (I can't get the effing thing off), a scar on my nose and a respectable amount of ear holes (one per ear). Because eventually, you grow up and realize some things are not really age appropriate.

I guess nobody told that lady.

However, I still have this one.

I'm not even sure why. I'm not particularly fond of it. It's just been there so long, I sort of forgot. Until a hairdresser tries to comb over it. Not my awesome stylist, obviously. But other, lesser ones I've had in the past.

Am *I* the lady in the purple tights with the mom skirt and sensible shoes? And are people judging ME for having age inappropriate things dangling from my extremities?

I don't think so. There is something nostalgic about that hoop in my ear. I must've gotten it when I was 14 or 15. It's lasted through high school, CEGEP, university, various relationships and new jobs and new apartments and new travels. It's a sign of my youth, I guess. That I'm just not ready to part with.

If I ever wear purple tights, however, please reach out to me.

The man behind the camera.

2011-01-24T09:04:00.002-05:00

It's rare for me to get all hokey about art or the creative process. I have a very mathematical mind even though I'm very creative. Things need to follow some kind of order in my head. I ask a lot of questions. I suppose it could be determined a good quality when working in an industry that is half business and half art.

Advertising, that is. Hello? Keep up.

Sometimes I get upset at my mathematical nature. When I see how free other people can be when coming up with ideas. And I feel like it's a hinderance to letting go and being open to inspiration.

Wow. That's the exact kind of hokiness I tried not to engage in.

Working in a creative field like advertising, you are basically paid to make something out of nothing. Same goes for cooking, designing, novel writing and architecture. Some people are able to pull these zingers out of thin air. Something that comes from a direction I never would have thought of. And I often wonder how they do it. My friend Jessica, one of the best copywriters I know, had this ability. And I envied it.

Or maybe people look at me like that and wonder how I come up with ideas. You just never know, I guess. And that's why we all work together. Because everyone has different strengths. The grass is always greener and you shouldn't throw stones in the glass bush at the birds and all that jazz.

If you've consulted my life list, you're aware that one of the items on it is to have my picture taken for The Sartorialist. When I watched this video about the man behind the lens, I almost jumped out of my chair. The way he talks about soaking up the scenes around him. There is something very organic and simple about it. And it made me excited. And makes me feel like I should open my eyes a little more, and put that mathematical side of my brain to bed. Stop looking for the perfect answer to the equation.

Watch this. Then be inspired. Then go do something creative.

P.S. I'm not sure why Blogger is being such a jerk and cutting off the video.

Things I learned/was reminded of this week.

2011-01-21T13:42:00.000-05:00

1. There is no prescription for a relationship. Everyone's is different.

2. Getting Henry was a good decision. Even if he licks my earlobes and scratches my furniture.

3. I eat better, I feel better.

4. It's all about balance. Relationships, family, work, mind, spirit... etc. When one thing starts taking up too much of your brain, that's when you feel anxious. And by you, I mean me.

5. I'm addicted to social media and being in touch with others. And I need to unplug more often. Because it makes my brain spin.

6. A good hair cut changes everything.

7. Sleeping is good for you.

8. I dislike the gym on the weekend. I will not feel pressured to go.

9. I can NOT buy stuff and still be happy. Maybe even happiER. Who knew?

10. Sometimes you just need your man to tell you everything is going to be okay.

That's just how I roll: Shit I like.

2011-01-21T09:07:00.007-05:00

Sometimes you find shit on the Interwebs that you like. So you put it in a folder on your desktop. And then you share it on your blog. Because that's just how you roll.

The cat in the hipster glasses totally looks like Henry.

Come on, Vogue.

2011-01-20T09:05:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I told you all about how awesome my hair stylist is.

Well.

Oops. She did it again.

We gossiped, we giggled, we discussed and dissected. Then we died my hair and cut it.

Perhaps I left out the part where she works out of her home. It's probably essential to the story. Because there are couches to sit on and teas to drink and her boyfriend to amuse us. It's really a good time for everyone involved.

I realize that Carey Mulligan's hair is a grown-out pixie cut. Because the article said so. And I realize that you can't achieve a grown out look unless you actually have a grown out look.

Are you with me?

"I have been photoshopped. And I look great. But where is my neck?"

But.

You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration. You bring feeling to my life, you're the inspiration.

Ok. We get it, Chicago. You don't need to keep repeating it. I don't feel THAT strongly about her hair. Come on.

Either way, this was the result. If you'd like to comment about how I'm way prettier than Carey Mulligan, please go ahead. We don't censor those kinds of comments on Sometimes Icing. We welcome flattery, bribery and a variety of other things that end in -ery.

One of my co-workers said it's nothing like Carey Mulligan's. Then she followed it up by "it looks exactly the same as it did before."

Um. No. You are fired, ma'am, from any other discussions about my hair cut.

"Oh, hello. I'm taking a picture of myself at work and it's really awkward. I think I'll make this dumb face."

All the ladies.

2011-01-19T09:00:00.003-05:00

The BF and I went to see The Fighter last weekend, and as we were ridiculously early for the movie (Hi. I know how to read a watch. Swearsies), we went to Second Cup and got a tea and hung out with the great unwashed for a bit.

Honestly. The Second Cup on Ste-Catherine and Peel makes me want to scream. So. Many. Damn. People.

Out of nowhere he mentioned this artist he liked and whose paintings reminded him of me.

Do tell. Is she beautiful? Is she successful? Is she rich?

I'm not sure about any of those (Except the rich part. Because she was), but Tara de Lempicka was glamorous and lived in the 20s and probably wore feathers in her hair, so I'll take that. And she liked to show her boobs too.

Wait. What? That is nothing like me. Come on.

The girl in the green dress is arguably her most famous painting. I might have to have a print of it.

The artist

La Chemise Rose

Auto-Portrait (Tamara in the Green Bugatti)

St Moritz 1929

Jeune Fille en Vert

Don't look a gift horse in the Bodum porcelain mug.

2011-01-18T14:18:00.002-05:00

Whatever that means. Inspired by another stupid expression. And as you know, I have no time for stupid expressions.

I've posted a few times about my hair-do. Most recently here, here and here. It changes semi-often. Mostly because my hair stylist is awesome and we hang out for three hours at a time (Yep. Three hours. That's how long it takes.) and we talk about relationships and people we hate and we look up celebrity hair inspiration (Nicole Richie and Rihanna were among a few) and then she tries to push blue streaks on me.

What?

Yes. She does. And she doesn't have to push that hard because actually, I've wanted blue hair since I was 17. And even though I'm 31 now, you should really never give up on your dreams. Of the hair variety.

I'm purposely omitting the story of actually dying my whole head blue when I was 16 and in London, England because it mostly turned out grey. Disaster.

Skinny and blond with attitude in Brussels, Belgium, on our 8-country tour of Europe. About 5 countries before England and the blue hair of doom. Apparently Angela (right) had a thing for denim in 1996.

All this to say, my stylist is amazing and has become a friend and her boyfriend even did some voice work for me and he's awesome too, so she deserves awesome things. And obviously everything I like is awesome. I've been coveting these Bodum porcelain mugs since before Christmas, and as she is mildly obsessed with David's Tea, I thought they'd make a nice gift. I'm totes going to get myself some when my budget renews in February.

Aren't they the coolest thing you've ever seen?

Besides my hair, of course.

Bringing jingle back.

2011-01-18T11:30:00.003-05:00

It was a bit rough coming back to work from the holidays. I sort of forgot how to do my job.

"You want me to write what, now? A headline? I don't know what that is."

NOT REALLY. I'M STILL TOTALLY AWESOME AT IT, BOSS. JUST KIDDING.

Sometimes, you just need some jujubes to get through the day. And sometimes, they have to be real fruit gummies or you might break down and cry. Because I have the best boss in the world, he brought me some one afternoon. And because I couldn't think of anymore radio ideas, I made a jingle about my real fruit gummies instead. The jingle is making a come back. Just like sandwich boards. All the marketing pros are buzzing about it. Duh.

My art director tried to help with the jingle, but he didn't quite get it. "You should always have a hand clap in a track," he says. It's okay. He just makes pretty pictures all day. Nobody ever asked him to be musical.

Photo booth mayem.

2011-01-17T14:36:00.001-05:00

Just a few examples of what happens when you have a photo booth at your office Christmas party. Your Mad Men themed Christmas party. Because you know, we're an advertising agency? And Mad Men is about advertising? Get it?

We are so branché I can hardly even stand it sometimes.

If you've never met me in person, you won't be aware that I was most likely bossing this group around and telling them how to smile and where to stand. Until that last shot where I'm checking out my own rack. Not sure what happened there.

Reboot. But no boots. Or purses. Or sweaters.

2011-01-07T15:43:00.000-05:00

Spending freeze, spending freeze, spending freeze.

Gah.

I talk about it all the time. And it haunts my dreams.

I have a bit of a shopping problem. I've addressed it many times. Working downtown does not help me one bit. I know my way around all the major malls better than I know my own name.

Who am I again? Ah, yes. Carry on.

I fall off the spending freeze wagon sometimes. It's like a diet. The more I'm not allowed something, the more I want it. And something about being in Los Angeles in December made me feel like my ACTUAL bank account was far, far away and I could spend, spend, spend and it would never reach my bank account.

Well, I was wrong.

And then it was Christmas and I don't like to skimp on gifts. I actually got a lot more joy out of spending my money on my family and the BF than I did out of spending money on myself. I feel like there's a life lesson in there somewhere.

I came across Elizabeth's blog, Flourish in Progress, yesterday and daggamit. The girl is a clever writer and she's on a spending freeze for a whole year. Love it.

Like me, she made a list of things she's allowed. And like me, haircuts are one of them. As well as the gym and make-up. I'm allowed those things too. And nail polish. I'm allowed that too. She also has gifts for friends and family in her list, which I think I'll add to mine as well.

She also has a list of what else she could be doing with her time besides spending money at the mall. She calls it the Monday Dares. Great idea. I mean, I go to work every day. So, there's that. And it's free. It totally counts.

Plus, now that I'm all set up at mint.com, I'm totally going to kick ass at the spending freeze. Because I seriously can't handle those threatening emails. I want people to like me too much. See? Sometimes my dysfunction totally comes in handy.

Getting ahead the awesome way.

2011-01-04T10:37:00.000-05:00

It's only January 4th and already I'm well on my way to a way better 2011. Some things I've done:

1. Bought two bras and two matching undies yesterday at The Gap for $23. Did I mention that two bras and two pairs of undies were TWENTY THREE DOLLARS!?

2. Called California Closets to come look at my mess of a laundry room. I have dreams of a tidy laundry room with baskets and shelves and joy and joyness. Free estimate!

3. Am somewhat closer to my 2011 goal of mastering winged eyeliner. See below. It's a good start. And I might I add, I look this gorgeous with only drug store products. Maybelline Pulse Perfection Waterproof Vibrating Mascara, and CoverGirl Liquilineblast eyeliner, as recommended by the very savvy Janine.

I have no idea what vibrating mascara is all about. It mostly just numbs my finger and tickles my eyelid. But for someone who has been loyal to one mascara brand since I was 17, it looks pretty good. And the eyeliner totally stays put. I made a mistake this morning and almost rubbed my eyelid off trying to remove it. Sheesh.

4. I signed up on mint.com. I have an actual, real life, grown-up budget now. And I refuse to get one of those threatening YOU SPENT TOO MUCH, STUPID emails.

I totally need a hair cut in 2011.

The people have voted.

2011-01-01T13:37:00.004-05:00

And they think I'm funny. And stylish.

That's a pretty damn fine combo.

I guess it means I'm going to have to start thinking about what I'm going to say when Barbara Walters asks me what it means to be a role model.

Well, Barbara, I'm honoured to be called a role model. I really am. I always knew that I was a wonderful example to young girls, who wanted to be both funny and stylish, which, as we know, is probably the most difficult thing to achieve. I mean, how many Vogue covers can make you pee your pants? And how many funny people know how to dress? Please. [Holding hands up] Don't even mention Rosie O'Donnell to me. [Sigh] But there was always something standing in my way of becoming a role model. [Pause for dramatic effect] It was Tina Fey. [In a mocking tone] Tina Fey this, Tina Fey that. [Back to being serious] Ugh. It gets tiring. So, I'm thrilled that the public has finally acknowledged my two key strengths and if I can help just one person put on eyeliner properly, buy the right tutu, or make a fool of themselves in public, then I have fulfilled my job as a role model.

[Wipes fake tear from eye]

In case you haven't caught on, I won some blog awards of the Canadian Weblog variety.

I won second and third in the Humour and Fashion & Style categories.

I know, right? Fashion & Style? Whatevski. I'll take it! '

I won second place in the Humour category, right after @sween thank you very much. Who was on CBC Canada Writes. And won. And is basically the most hilarious person on Twitter.

So clearly, I'm funny just by association. And I get these badass badges. That I will flaunt proudly. And refer to anytime I feel boring and badly dressed.

Presents!

2011-01-01T13:29:00.000-05:00

Because isn't that what Christmas is all about?

No, you silly. It's about cookies and a selection of cheeses. Haven't you been reading my blog? Gawd.

Well, if you have, you'll know that I dislike New Year's resolutions. It's too much pressure. If you want to change something in your life, why can't you just wake up on a random Wednesday morning and decide to change it? Nobody likes Wednesdays anyways, so why don't we give it something useful to be responsible for? Why's it gotta be all about a new year and everything? Just leave New Year's to what it's meant for; wearing sequins, sparkly eye shadow, making out and drinking champers. Leave all that other stuff to some other day.

But I am going to get sappy on your asses for just a moment. Because if I absolutely HAD to make some kind of resolution, which I'm not even going to CALL a resolution, it would be to be more present.

Get it now? Oh, I'm so tricky with my blog post titles in 2011.

If I'm washing the dishes, then I want to BE washing the dishes. If I'm painting my nails, then I want to BE painting my nails, if I'm singing John Denver tunes with my nieces, then I want to BE singing John Denver tunes with my nieces. See what I'm getting at here? Live in the moment, as it were.

It can be a burden to be as smart as me. I know, it's hard to believe. But I often have 10294820357 thoughts going through my head at one time, and I am often always thinking of the next thing I have to do.

Well, stop that I say.

There is only going to be one 2011, and there is only going to one year that I'm 31 going on 32 (!!!) and you just don't get a do-over. So, make all the moments count, I guess is what I'm saying.

Now. Onto more superficial things. Here is a short list of stuff I want to accomplish this year:

1. Cover up that stupid tattoo on my back.
2. Deal with painting/wallpapering my bedroom.
3. Build a wall in my house.
4. Only buy matching bra and undies from now on.
5. Acquire a PVR.

Happy Christmas to all.

2010-12-24T09:46:00.000-05:00

Love from, me and Little H.

Eat, drink and be merry. Or not.

2010-12-23T12:02:00.001-05:00

The festive season is upon is. It's Christmas Eve Eve, after all. A lot of people are gearing up for the massive feasts and drink-a-thons that permeate the holidays.

But not I.

Well. I'm totally down with the eating part. Usually, some kind of survival instinct comes over me when I spend time with my family over the holidays. My mom is an amazing cook, and my oldest sister always brings a huge amount of cookies, and my dad is in charge of the Godiva's and the breakfast cheeses selection. And there is an inner voice that tells me "Who knows when you'll ever have all this amazing food in front of you again! Eat it! Eat it all! You'll be eating scrambled eggs when the holidays are over! GO GO GO!"

And how can you ignore a voice like that? Have you ever heard me? I'm loud. The voices in my head are the same.

But the drinking part? Notsomuch.

I don't drink anymore.

Which is kind of weird, coming from the girl who used to order DOUBLE rum and cokes in university because I thought singles weren't strong enough. Cripes. Most of those cocktails ended up down the front of my shirt.

I was very classy in university.

I'm not even sure what happened to make me stop drinking. Well, I sort of know.

In a past life, I did a lot of eating out and drinking of wine. It was partly because of the relationship I was in. Food and wine was both his passion and his career. So naturally, it spilled out onto me. I loved it. Eating at the best restaurants in the city and tasting wine as old as I am, but it gave me a lot of headaches and indigestion in the middle of the night.

I went through some rough times not too long ago, and decided that all the eating and drinking probably wasn't helping. It's not like I was an alcoholic, but I did look forward to drinking to be able to cope. So I just sort of stopped. I have a glass of wine every once in a while, but I don't really miss feeling loopy at the end of every meal and the subsequent headache when I wake up.

Weekends are precious when you work a 9 to 5 job, which for the past couple weeks has been more like a 9-9 job. I don't really want to wake up Saturday or Sunday morning feeling like a total hurt bag and not being able to even brush my teeth without wanting to throw up.

I will make an exception for champers. Obvi. Because nobody puts champers in the corner.

The Cuddle Triumvirate.

2010-12-17T10:32:00.000-05:00

Holy busy Batman.

All those ads and magazine articles and other things that tell you to buy sparkly outfits and tell you how to avoid gaining 2309584204 pounds at Christmas time because you have no time to make it to the gym have some good insight.

Because, yes. You SHOULD have sparkly outfits and you DON'T have time to go to the gym.

And then you have to go to LA, and then you have to come back and do all this stuff for the stuff you shot in LA and you work late, and then it's your BFs birthday, and your Mad Men themed office Christmas party, and your sister's birthday on the 24th and then it's family time and then it's the holidays and the shopping and the eating and the wrapping of things and the boot wearing in the stupid Montreal slush and the sweating from in and out of malls in your parka and OMG.

Below is a photo of the cuddle triumvirate. I plan to resume the cuddle triumvirate pose for as long as possible this weekend. With these exact two people. Well, only one of them is a person. The other one is Henry. The BF keeps trying to get him to use his "people words" to communicate. So far, no progress on that front.

Aren't we adorbz? Yah. I know.

The LA video series: a pier.

2010-12-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

The LA video series: casting couch.

2010-12-07T09:00:00.001-05:00

The LA video series: museum.

2010-12-06T09:00:00.003-05:00

The LA video series: brunch.

2010-12-05T21:26:00.000-05:00

Oh, hai America.

2010-12-02T21:13:00.002-05:00

I'm in Los Angeles for the next little while for work.

I've never been here before, so seeing stuff in a new city you've always wanted to visit is pretty awesome. I don't think I've ever even been to California, but that might be a lie. Since I'm the youngest in my family, there are a few family vacations I have no memory of. I was a heavy drinker as a toddler.

Just kidding. Geez.

I'm sure my sister has the answer to my have-I-ever-been-to-California question. She's smart at that kind of stuff. Among other things. Like how to make apple crisp off by heart.

I got up at 5 this morning and my computer says 9 pm but the hotel clock says 6 pm and I'm all confused. And exhausted. I'm trying to stay awake until at least 10 Montreal time because that seems like the smart thing to do, but it's proving to be a challenge. There might be room service in my future.

In an attempt to keep my eyelids from drooping down to my kneecaps, here is a recap of some of my important LA moments thus far.

Palm trees. Duh. You know what that means? It means NOT WEARING PARKAS AND WINTER GALOSHES.

Tinyyyy lip balm, tinyyyy lip balm. You are so tiny and weird. P.S. This is a song. In case you didn't catch on.

This toy has basically made all my dreams come true. It's pink and it shoots marshmallows. Please go buy it. And change your life into one of marshmallowy joy.

Um. Excuse me? I am a Beezy. According to both my nieces. And I don't understand what this statement means. But if there are dumb Beezies out there, then by all means. Beware of them.

That's just how I roll: Awesome hairdo.

2010-12-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

Short hair can be temperamental. I sometimes envy girls on the metro who get to leave the house by piling their hair into a messy bun, and don't spend 15 minutes with a hair dryer and a round brush.

I know. It's painful to be me.

But recently, I discovered a new trick. You get out of bed, have a shower, then feel like shit and get back into bed and go back to sleep for two hours. When you get out of bed again, your hair looks like this.

And It's awesome. And I'm totally going to try to repeat it. But with make-up on. So it will be better.

Two separate people in two separate conversations told me I looked like Robert Smith from The Cure.

A quick Google search tells me I'm way cuter than him. Thank you very much.

But the association to a rock star? I'll take that. Thank you very much.

Bragging rights.

2010-11-23T14:20:00.000-05:00

Alright, alright.

Y'all have been bugging me about the new BF.

Okay. Maybe that's not true. Mostly it was only Laurenne. In one tiny comment. But whatever.

Not only is he awesome and adorable, and not only does he think I'm awesome and adorable (duh), he's also quite talented. See below for some proof. And then go buy some shoes. And prepare to be jealous of me. Or him. Either or.

OMG TUTU LOL CBC BCBG PTO PONIES!

2010-11-14T12:36:00.000-05:00

Some of my loyal readers may recall my post from last week about the unfortunate spilling of water on my pants via my work laptop and the unfortunate creaky office that happened after that which had nothing to do with the wet pants.

Long story short, the spiller of the water felt bad and and referenced a Facebook status about tutus and then there was a real live tutu to be bought.

I marched over to BCBG and tried on pretty much every tutu they had. Also, I'm not five years-old and I'm not Carrie Bradshaw. Which presents a bit of a problem where tutus are concerned.

I totally fell in love with the pink tutu dress. But it was a serious tutu. Like, it poufed out all over the damn place. The salespeople made me try it on with that $700 leather jacket. If I was someone way cooler than I was, I could've rocked that tutu dress. But since I'm just me, and medium cool, I think I'd look like a total douche canoe wearing that in public.

Or, maybe anyone would look like a douche canoe wearing that in public, no matter how cool they were. I mean, hello? It's a damn tutu. For grown-ups.

Can you guess which one I bought? I'll give you a hint: it's not the white one hanging up in the change room. That one was stupid.

The mysterious creaking office of doom.

2010-11-10T17:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, when you stay late at work, because your boxing class isn't until 6:40 and you already put your boxing pants on earlier in the day, because your boss threw a ball at your head and missed and hit your water bottle instead which dumped a full liter of water on your pants by way of your laptop so you have even MORE time to waste after work than usual since you're half changed for class and your computer doesn't work so well anyway, so you decide to work on your NaNoWriMo for which you are extremely behind because you have discovered that "Hey. This scene is kind of good. I'm going to make it gooder." and then you get stuck there foreversies which is kind of not the point of NaNoWriMo and then you get extremely annoyed at the weird construction noises that are giving you a headache.

Please to watch. And listen. Also, all that water that fell on me made me cold. So I had to wear my toque. That's Canadian for hat. And OMG is my face blotchy and terrible. I hate you, winter. If that IS your real name.

An afternoon song.

2010-11-09T16:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I make up songs.

Actually, a lot of the time I make up songs. See here, here and here and also here for previous song make uppery and various videos of shenanigans I've partaken in. I was also blond in most of those videos. Gasp!

The first Monday of the week is a bit rough.

Yes. That's right. In case you weren't aware, the week is made up of four Mondays and a Friday.

Plus, there was all that changing-the-clock crap which is really depressing and just makes me want to cry. It just shouldn't be dark at 4 pm. It just shouldn't. This isn't Alaska for God's sake. Or is it? Maybe I've been tricked this whole time into thinking I live in Canada.

I might have to get one of those lights that makes you happy.

So yesterday, the first Monday of the week, I needed a caffeinated beverage. Obviously there was an opportunity for a song there. If you could disregard the 28 chins I have this video, that would be appreciated.

Oops. I did it again.

2010-11-08T20:44:00.001-05:00

Aren't you getting tired of all my excuses for ignoring my blog?

I am.

November has a lot going on. Remembrance Day (in Canada), Movember, and NaNoWriMo.

So basically, you have to wear a poppy over your heart and have one minute of silence at 11 am on November 11, grow a moustache for charity and write a novel. That's a lot of activities for only 30 days.

I'm only participating in the first one and the last one. Fewf. Because having to grow a moustache on TOP of all that would have been way too much for me to handle.

I already got my poppy from the nice veteran who works the Ste-Catherine and Peel corner downtown. He told me to unzip my coat so he could pin it on. Oh, sure guy. I've heard that one before. The old unzip-your-coat-so-I-can-pin-a-fake-poppy-on-it trick. Nothing gets by me.

I totally let him, obviously. He's a veteran, after all.

And I'm a bit behind on NaNoWriMo, so if you'll excuse me, I have to pick up where I left off. And that was 16 pages of total dribble. Like, honest to goodness dribble. I'm just blah blah blah-ing all over the page. All those people who tell you to at least have a chapter by chapter outline before you start NaNoWriMo? Yah. You should listen to them.

That's just how I roll: I play songs on repeat.

2010-10-29T10:07:00.000-04:00

That's just how I roll: it's Friday.

2010-10-22T15:17:00.000-04:00

So, I'm sitting in the pink Fat Boy next to the heater, which has now been turned on at work. It's basically the urban version of sitting-on-the-couch-next-to-the-fire. And it's a pretty win-win scenario.

Girly McTwirly.

2010-10-20T14:24:00.000-04:00

Oh.
Em.
Gee.

I saw these photos over on Desire to Inspire and the first thing I thought was "why didn't I see these before I started decorating my house?" Because this is very much align with all things Lindsay. It's maybe a bit over the top, but whatever. So am I.

Exhibit A: I was in studio this morning recording some voice overs, and my French copywriter colleague introduced me as "Lindsay, the eccentric English copywriter." I took it as a compliment.

I'd like to draw particular attention to the pouf in the bathroom. I think my life would be complete if I had a tassled pouf in my bathroom. For realsies.

This lovely space belongs to Australian designer Alannah Hill and was designed by David Hicks. I think I should probably be friends with both these people. But mostly in a stalkery Internet kind of way. The best kind of friendship! This is a mission which has already commenced as I type this.

Cute in 3D.

2010-10-13T12:03:00.000-04:00

I was at my folks this weekend for Thanksgiving. And it was a full house. Both my sisters were in town and my little nieces.

My dad bought this fancy 3D television which he CLAIMS he bought because it's the best television on the market. The jury is out on the truth of that statement. It just also happens to play 3D Blue-Ray DVDs. Or are they just called Blue-Rays? Whatever. So many acronyms. So my sister and I thought it would be an awesome idea to pick up some 3D movies for my nieces to watch.

Well. Getting the whole 3D Blue-Ray thing functioning was another headache altogether. But after a bit of yelling, we watched Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. I think I did more screaming than my nieces. What? Those hamburgers were coming right at you!

Here's a sneak peek of our fashionable, and mesmerizing, movie-watching.

Where did you learn to be tan coqueto?

2010-10-08T10:43:00.002-04:00

Because I spent so much time in Cuba and Mexico and around Spanish speakers in general, I developed a love of Latin American pop music. When I worked in DC and at the OAS I made a lot of friends from Colombia, and that's when I started listening to Carlos Vives. And there was this one song I used to listen to on repeat and and sing along and dance around my apartment with my room mate. True story.

Recently, I met a guy from Colombia and Carlos Vives came up again. Why? Because his sister is married to him. I must admit, I was a little star struck and I thought this was pretty exciting news. To the average Montrealer, it's not that exciting. But it's just another one of those things that makes me way cooler than most.

Kidding. Sort of.

Wallpaper wars.

2010-10-07T12:26:00.000-04:00

When people see my condo for the first time, it's all "OMG! It's so nice!" and "Wow! It really feels just like Lindsay!" and "You are the most beautiful and funny and amazing person I've ever met!"

Ok. Maybe not that last one. But we all know it's true. So, whatever. They were probably thinking it.

But, because it's my place, obviously I look around and see all the things that are left to do. Like build a wall, and get a ladder to the loft-y part and do something with it up there, and wallpaper the bedroom wall.

It's taken me until now to give up on the dream of covering that wall with the wallpaper I was in love with at Empire. Sigh. It was $250 a roll. And would have cost $1000 to cover one wall. And that seems a bit ridiculous. Because I could go to the Dominican Republic instead. Can I sit in front of that wallpaper and drink rum and get a tan? I don't think so. Unless it has some kind of magical properties I wasn't aware of. Which would explain the price.

So, I've set my sights on cheaper options. And here's what it's come down to.

Option one matches my colours pretty perfectly. Hot pink and grey. And it's light and airy, which is good for a small pace. But. I don't love the design, per se. Those pink bits make me think of corn. Violent corn.

Also, violent corn? Who am I?

Option two matches absolutely nothing but it's super awesome and kind of rock star (please see post about WWRD: What Would Rihanna Do?). Neither of these designs were what I had in mind at all, I wanted something damask-y, but I saw this and loved it. And then I decided damask is maybe too trendy and too NOW and I might get tired of it. However, I have black floors. So with this option, there would be a lot of black. Which concerns me a wee bit. My place is less than 600 square feet. Which breaks some kind of design God rule for small spaces.

And this is the wall it's going to go on. Which is 13 feet high. So it will make quite the impact.

Any thoughts, design-y people?

Meet Henry.

2010-09-27T18:25:00.000-04:00

So I went to my parents this weekend, and I ate a lot and my mom bought me some plates and I watched some movies and bought a kitten and thought Saturday Night Live kind of sucked.

Wait. What?

Uh huh. Yes. A kitten. I adopted him. He's 8-weeks old and his name is Henry. He looks a bit scared in this photo, but I think he's adjusting to his new home well. He does a lot of running and jumping and he is rolling around in bubble wrap and mewing his head off as we speak.

He's not fond of the hair dryer, or the sound of the shower, and is quite fond of climbing my couch and my ottoman with his claws. And I also haven't stopped talking to him since I brought him home. It's entirely possible I'll become a crazy cat lady. The future is unclear.

But at at least one thing is clear. I will never refer to this animal as my child. A cat is not a kid. And I am not it's mom. Thanks to Eve for referring to me as Henry's life coach. I think all crazy pet owners should take up that moniker.

Here are some more photos of the Henry adventure that Eve took.

She's my cherry pie.

2010-09-17T14:48:00.003-04:00

Blog awards.

I don't usually get any. Which is okay, really. Because I'm not very good at that whole passing it forward thing.

But, I will post this one because it was given to me by Jules over at Mean Girl Garage and well, she is pretty swell. And not mean at all. False advertising, if you ask me. Because she wrote some pretty nice stuff about me at Studio 30+ when I was their featured blogger. So, thanks Jules for this Cherry on Top award. Which, I agree, is probably sex related. Rarr.

This particular blog award states that I'm to write down three things I like about myself. Perhaps this award is some kind of self-esteem booster. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME, JULES!? HUH!?

1. I make people laugh.

2. My butt. It's nice.

3. I'm self-aware. And I am constantly trying to become more self-aware. I'm not really interested in going through my life without reflecting on my actions. I know people like that and I don't want to be like them.

"I like that about myself. And I like myself and I have a lot of other great qualities as well." - Marcel the shell with shoes on.

Here's a little secret: it took me about 45 minutes to think of number three. What the what? Maybe you were onto something after all, Jules, with your self-esteem blog award trickery.

Then I'm supposed to post a picture I love. Geez. There are a lot of rules for this award. Am I done yet?

Below is a photo of my oldest niece, Clarabel. She is 6. I was at my parents house one weekend with my whole family, in May. Both my sisters, my brother-in-law and their two kids. And we were celebrating my 31st birthday. This was pretty much the last weekend my whole family and I spent in our childhood home, as my parents moved for the first time in 37 years about a month and a half later.

Clarabel loves loves loves doing stuff in the kitchen with her grandmother - my mom. And my mom made a big fuss about baking a birthday cake for me. So Clarabel taped the kitchen off with this post-it note and wouldn't let me in. I love that she's learning to write, and I love her handwriting. She spent the rest of the afternoon running after all of us and asking how we spelt our names so she could make a list of everyone who was coming to dinner. Adorable. This photo seriously warms my heart.

Her other aunt, my sister Shelley, took the photograph.

And now I might cry.

Now is the time when I pass the award onto five other bloggers. IS THERE NO END TO THE SLAVERY OF WINNING AN AWARD!?

Alright.

1. Trials and tribulations of being fabulous. - She was a marvelous host when I visited her in Vancouver and definitely put the cherry on top of my trip. But not in a dirty way. Ew.

2. Brainy Girl - She is an ex-neurologist, Montrealer, currently living in New York City, pursuing a passion for advertising and we went to the same university. I mean, really. You can't get much cooler than that.

3. I Wear T-Shirts...Sometimes - He wants to live in a romantic comedy and also tried out for Jeopardy. Dude. If you live in LA, find this man and be his friend.

4. The Goodie Life - The best dang red head you will ever meet.

5. Peace, Love and Muesli - Because she's my sister and she is my sister. And she's my sister. And the mom of Clarabel.

It's complicated.

2010-09-15T18:13:00.005-04:00

Facebook.

Love it or hate it or pretend you hate it when you secretly love it, there has been plenty of material written about the dreaded relationship status.

I found out one my best friend's got unengaged because her soon-to-be ex fiancé changed his Facebook relationship status before her and I even had a chance to talk and dissect the relationship to death. Uncool.

Also uncool? The girls that freak out because the guy they are dating hasn't changed his status from "single" to "in a relationship."

Yes. Women do this. Women I know. Who are in their thirties.

Really? Is all this effing relationship status bullshit not the digital equivalent of the note you pass in class that says: Want to be my girlfriend? Check yes or no.

I do believe it is.

Not like I can judge. I don't care one way or the other what my effing relationship status says - I just don't change it ever - but I dated someone who I refused to add on Facebook out of pure, anxiety-ridden fear. I just didn't want to know which girls he was interacting with. Uh huh. Yah. Lindsay had some trust iss-ews. For which she needed a whole lot of tiss-ews. Among other things. Of the sleep-inducing variety.

Anyhoodle.

I came across a post somewhere recently that was somewhat funny. If I remembered where I found it, I'd post it here. But since my attention span on any given day is that of a piece of toast, I don't remember where that link went or where I found it.

But this blog, or whatever it was, posted a bunch of alternative Facebook relationship stati. Statuses. Whatever. Some of them were funny. But mostly I thought "Hm. I could do better." Which is what I think about most crap on the Internet.

So, here are a few more alternative Facebook relationship statuses. I'll use my own name for demonstrative purposes.*

Lindsay Smith:

Is in a relationship but we're not speaking right now.
Has a sugar daddy.
Is a make out bandit.
Is celibate. Unless Javier Bardem calls.
Swings both ways now.
Is engaged. Just kidding! We broke up.
Will make out with you but won't let you sleep over.
Likes pie.
Would like to marry sleep. Because sleeping is way more awesome than being with you.
Is a stalker.
Is holding out for George Clooney.
Would prefer not to answer the question.
Is so happy she could spit. In other news, what's so happy about spitting?
Got married and doesn't remember the wedding.
Is knocked up. Oopsie daisy.
Is too good for you.
Pretends she likes being single.
Is just not that into you.
Is the reason there is a crazy girl stereotype.
Tied the knot! Finally, I can do up my own shoes. What did you think I was talking about?
Don't want no scrub. A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me.
Is committed. To not being committed.
Is in lust.
Is engaged to myself.

*None of the following is based on real-life. Like, at all. Swearsies.

Things I learned/was reminded of this week.

2010-09-14T08:14:00.001-04:00

1. People say a lot of stuff. But it's the doing that counts. If their actions don't match the things they say, then they are full of shit.
2. I like being 31.
3. It's possible to be in love with, or think you are in love with, someone who isn't right for you.
4. Pasta and bread hurt me.
5. The more dates you go on, the easier it gets to tell those dates you just aren't that into them.
6. I think self-awareness is a sign of intelligence. Only the really smart ones try to figure shit out.
7. I am very impressive on a resume.
8. 5-inch platforms are pretty hot, actually.
9. My new haircut is awesome. As is my new hair colour.
10. Sometimes you just have to ask yourself, would Rihanna wear this?

Rest, relaxation and apple crisp.

2010-09-12T22:41:00.005-04:00

When it comes to measuring awesomeness, I don't think this past week even registered on the scale. Not even -1. Except maybe the wine drinking I did on Thursday night combined with the shoes I wore. Those two items rated pretty high on the scale. And in times of pure crapiness, you need to be around people who have to love you unconditionally by law: your family.

I took the train to my folks place on Friday for a change of scenery, clean sheets and a meal that wasn't scrambled eggs or cereal. I'm 31 years-old and when and my mom still knows how to cheer me up. She makes my favourite dinner. Just like when I used to come home from university. She is seriously the best, my mom. And I have no idea what I would do without her.

If you don't know her, you should. You'd be lucky. She's amazing. And she says things like "I don't understand those Krevetchians!" when she actually means the Kardashian's. And she puts her glasses on to try to learn my iPhone and send text messages to my sister. And she picks me up at the train. And she watches crappy reality show programs with me. And she's basically the best mom of all time.

And she reads my blog. HI MOM.

What is my favourite meal you ask? Well, nothing puts me in good spirits like roast chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy. I think the gravy on its own has some kind of magic good-mood ingredient. How can you be sad when you drink, I mean, eat gravy? Impossible I say.

UPDATE: A shout-out to my dad for scooping the ice cream onto the apple crisp. Ice cream scooping, and anything ice cream related, such as milkshakes, has been his family job for about 30 years. Thanks dad.

Please bear with my extremely non-professional iPhone photos of my happy food.

The bird!

Squash! With maple syrup! So Canadian. And so delish.

Smashed potatoes with beurre and love.

Brussel sprouts aren't my favourite. But when they're cooked with bacon? Instant favourite!

Gravy drink. I mean, no. NOT for drinking. Pfffff...

Apple effing amazing crisp of life. Be jealous.

Notice the strategic mashed potato gravy lake.

AppleCrispIceCreamYummyGoodnessPoniesSoDeliciousOMG!

Breakfast of pancakes, sausages and peaches with whipped cream and awesomesauce.

My real awesome wine-drinking shoes.

This just in.

2010-09-08T08:21:00.002-04:00

Basically, I'm awesome. And if you mess with me then you're obviously a big fucking loser.

THE END.

Sunday is hysterical day!

2010-09-05T23:08:00.000-04:00

So. Here's what has happened in the past 24 hours.

I ran into someone. This run-in made my knees shake, hands sweat and my heart beat too fast. It was a butterflies and rainbows and cotton candy moment. Until it wasn't. Then this was the order of events:

1. Had to sit down for half an hour post run-in before I could move or make decisions.
2. Went home. Went hysterical.
3. Tried to sleep.
4. Woke up. Went hysterical again. This time, in the shower.
5. Left the house. Went hysterical again. In public.
6. Went home. More hysterics.
7. Left the house again. Had the same run-in. This time I was ignored.
9. Repeat #6
10. Called family members. More hysterics.

Let's see what tomorrow brings!

Please, to watch. And then be a kinder person.

2010-09-03T12:51:00.000-04:00

Amy Krouse Rosenthal's Thought Bubble: Kindness from ThoughtBubbler on Vimeo.

Things I learned/was reminded of this week.

2010-08-31T21:54:00.000-04:00

1. Dye your hair. Get a tattoo. Get a new job. Whatever. You're still exactly the same person. With the exact same iss-ews. For which you probably need tiss-ews.
2. Some days are awesome. Some days are not.
3. I still don't like pants.
4. I may be the founder of the anti-schlep movement, but I'm not always that graceful in high heels.
5. Drinking usually gets me into trouble of some sort.
6. I'm incredibly sensitive. And that's okay.
7. Vodka. Always choose vodka.
8. Tidying up the kitchen before bed makes me happier in the morning.
9. Subsequently, making my bed in the morning makes me happier when I come home.
10. Coffee makes me into a crazy person. But I like it that way.

Interpretive awesome, that's what.

2010-08-30T20:17:00.003-04:00

Two Fridays ago was the summer party for the agency where I work. The agency gave us the morning off (yay!) but I had to come in for a conference call anyway (boo) so I was a little late to the party.

The party was on Parc Jean-Drapeau. A big ass park in Montreal that is made up of two islands. They hold festivals there and sporting events and general shenaniganery. There are swimming pools, and a pretend lake and a pretend beach and people who wear fanny packs. If you're a non-Montrealer, that's where they hold the Grand Prix. An event where the fanny-pack lovers get together and watch race cars.

One of the party organizers at work sent everyone an email with directions. "Get off the metro and follow the signs for the Jamaica pavilion. It's about a 15 minute walk from the metro station." Easy enough, n'est-ce-pas?

N'est-ce-non! There are no signs for the Jamaica pavilion (leftover from Expo '67) when you get off the metro. I had to ask the information guy, who gave me a map and told me to take a navette for 20 minutes. Whaaaaa? I took my map and went to talk to the navette driver (that means shuttle in French. It also happens to be one of my favourite words). The navette driver told me to take a different navette. So I walked over to THAT navette stop and waited. Until that very same navette driver came over and said "Wait. You can take my navette. It'll be faster." Geez. So off I went to take this guy's navette and then there was a groundhog just hanging out at the navette station which was really weird and random and I'm sorry I don't have a photo to show you of the groundhog.

Anyhoodle, after I got off the bus and macheted my way through some wilderness, I found the party location. And here is a story, in photos, before I died my hair brown, of how the party went down. With some creative license, of course.

The party started out innocent enough. I watched a little volleyball. I had a few cocktails. And I wore a flower thing around my head and picked my nose.

Then I heard some crazy office gossip. And I could hardly contain my shock.

To get over the shock, I felt it was necessary to awkwardly insert myself into an otherwise lovely group shot of these lovely girls I work with.

After cocktails, it was time for dinner. Here was our delicious beet salad. Which oddly looks exactly like salmon. But it wasn't.

After dinner there were some awards given out. I was nominated three times (loudest, something something fashion related and I forget what else), but did not take home the coveted dollar store tiara. Instead, because I'm new(ish) at the agency, I had to sing karaoke for initiation. As IF that's some kind of punishment. Pffff. And would you like to know who won the karaoke off? Uh huh. Yah. I did.

But obviously my performance did not stop there. When all the guys got up to to sing a Queen song, do you think I'd let the opportunity for interpretive dance pass me by? Of course not. My co-worker, Mathieu, decided to join me. And it's hard for me to say this, but I think he out interpretive danced me. He took his shoes off and rolled on the floor and everything. But I dare say, our performance was magical. Just magical. But sweaty. And also, magical.

P.S. That I posted these terrible, sweaty photos of myself just to make y'all laugh is a little bit sad.

Come to the dark side.

2010-08-28T16:09:00.000-04:00

Here's how my day went yesterday:

Before

After

Douche or douchefree?

2010-08-26T20:12:00.000-04:00

I love this hat. I bought it last summer on a trip to Vancouver. But I feel semi-douchey the few times I've worn it out. In an attempt to pretend I have new things in my closet, I'm considering the potential of this hat. Douchey or non-douchey?

Consider me suede.

2010-08-26T14:52:00.001-04:00

I know, I know. I'm on a spending freeze. But I walk by the Steve Madden store every day after work to get to the metro (along with the Laura Secord store. Do you realize how delicious waffle cones smell?) and these Chelseey blush suede booties stare at me from the window every time. I love the look of them, but the height on these puppies would make me an even 6 feet tall and I'm not sure I could handle being that freakishly tall.

However, I just showed them to a co-worker and she said "these boots could give you glorious inspiration. It’s an investment." Thank you, Karine. You are so right.

I saw Rihanna wearing these pink Christian Louboutin pair of booties in a fashion mag about eleventy hundred years ago and since then, I've kind of been obsessed with this style. It will be some time before I own a pair of Louboutin's, if ever. Le sigh.

P.S. The Christian Louboutin Website is super annoying to navigate. NAVIGATION FAIL.

Tube art.

2010-08-26T13:17:00.001-04:00

Isn't this an awesome poster? I'm not usually one to fawn over artsy-fartsy stuff I find on the Interweb, but the moment I saw this I decided it belonged on my wall. It's an old transit ad from the London Underground. If anyone finds a postcard or print of it, buy it for me, K? I love that lady's lipsticked lips and that umbrella. And, it's so true. Winter sales ARE best reached by underground! (I'm a stickler for words, as you know.)

The artist is E. McKnight Kauffer and this one and the rest of the prints are being shown at The Modern Museum of Art in New York.

(via Slate)

Writing tips from the Get Shorty dude.

2010-08-25T13:48:00.003-04:00

Otherwise known as Elmore Leonard. He also wrote Glitz, Maximum Bob and Rum Punch. All books I've never heard of.

Anyhoodle, here are his top 10 writing tips. Which I believe are pretty useful.

   1. Never open a book with weather.

   2. Avoid prologues.

   3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.

   4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely.

   5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.

   6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose."

   7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.

   8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.

   9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things.

10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

(via Gotham Writer's Workshop)

Don't go putting your round self in a square hole. Or something related.

2010-08-24T19:01:00.001-04:00

So.

Here's something.

You should be yourself. All the time.

This might be something you peeps have figured out a long time ago. Good for you. I'm 31 and it's only really making sense to me now. I'll admit that I always knew it was true, I just had trouble putting it into practice. Rather, I had trouble figuring out what "being myself" meant.

I've always kind of been a mélange of things. I took a memoir writing class last summer and the hardest part about writing memoir is deciding what the protagonist (me) wants. What is driving that person. In literary terms, what is the major dramatic question. (Impressive right? I know literary terms).

For the sake of the class, I was writing about being in university in my early twenties. I kept getting my 10 pages of prose back from the teacher, covered in red type. What are you trying to achieve here, Lindsay? It sounds like you felt like you didn't fit in. Is that the theme here?

Good question. Was that the theme?

For me, high school was just something to get through. I wasn't tortured or anything horrible, it just wasn't that memorable. I didn't belong to any one clique. I did the unthinkable. I was the lone wolf who was able to cross over the invisible border set by who you sat with at lunch. Some kids intimidated me and there are some kids whose name I forget. I had friends but I never felt BFF-y with anyone. By my graduating year, a bunch of boys liked me which made a bunch of girls hate me. And then I was anxious to get out of there.

University was a different story. I made some really great girl pals, who I still consider some of my closest friends. But as my memoir class revealed, there was still an element of not really belonging. I went to a liberal arts college that attracted a lot of smart people who liked to discuss Dante and Heidegger over sherry at lunch. We didn't have a football team. We had a medieval club. I had come from a 95% average but I never felt like one of the smart kids. I didn't understand Heidegger or Kante or The Epic of Gilgamesh. Nor did I belong to the gang of kids who played rugby and drove around in SUVs in first year. And I sometimes felt like an outside because of it.

Many years later, I realize that being an outsider can be a good thing. I don't classify myself as one way. I've always tried to though. But why would you want to do that anyway? Who fits into that conventional box? It's boring. [Cue Pink song]

You can be all kinds of things. You can be sarcastically funny and hysterically emotional. You can like sneakers and heels. You can be fiercely independent and also want someone to take care of you. You can be incredibly self-confident and devastatingly insecure. You can love Kraft Dinner and oysters (but not together. Ew). You can love Dirty Dancing and The Godfather. You can live Tweet The Bachelorette and read the latest Giller Prize winner.

In case you haven't caught on, the above description is me.

I think we often try to fit ourselves into a relationship, into a friendship, or into a job. We try to change so we can fit into those things we think we want. But what's the point? It just gets you all confused in the head.

For me, I think it's always been a matter of trying to do what was expected or trying to be accepted and liked. I have an unfortunate need to try to please people all the time. Which is why I have such a hard time understanding how people can be so selfish. For me, disappointing someone I care about it punishment enough.

But if a relationship, or a friendship or a job isn't working out because it's not inline with the core values of who YOU are, then see ya later. It's just not worth it. Consequently, if there are people or jobs that judge you based on just one of the above things I mentioned without understanding the whole picture, then just let them go. As my crazy Aunt Paulette once said, "life is messy." And people don't fit neatly into a little box. They are more complicated than that. People are full of contrasts. It's what makes us human. Something else I learned in my memoir class.

So just keep being you. When it comes down to it, what else can you do besides that? There are people and jobs out there who will fit better with you. And more importantly, they won't make you feel crappy for being exactly the way you are. They'll make you awesomer.

Just sayin'.

2010-08-20T10:14:00.001-04:00

Do you follow me in a non-stalkery way?

2010-08-18T22:18:00.001-04:00

You can find deep, meaningful Tweets about life and relationships:

You can also find interesting insights into the advertising industry:

Sometimes I provide very eloquent movie reviews:

Sometimes I Tweet about what's happening in Montreal:

Occasionally I vent frustrations about airport related things:

And of course, I respond to Tweets I if they contain subjects I want to know more about:

If I find something I think my followers might learn from, I re-Tweet it:

And finally, I provide live commentary on hard-hitting news shows:

So why aren't you following me? You'll be privy to minute-by-minute hilarity and intellectual insight. Following me will basically make your life better. And all the cool kids are doing it.

Cutest thing ever of all time.

2010-08-17T22:17:00.002-04:00

Watch and marvel at the cuteness and brilliance that is this video.

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

Scaredy-cat-pants-on-fire.

2010-08-15T22:18:00.003-04:00

Everyone likes compliments.

Such as:

"You smell nice!"
"This dinner tastes delicious!"
"It's bigger than I thought!"

If someone compliments my writing, it basically makes my day. I've gotten a lot of good feedback about my various forms of writing throughout this roller coaster career of mine. But it never seems to be enough. I need to hear it again, and again and again. Or I lose faith and start to doubt myself.

I'll never forget something the senior producer told me at my CBC job. She was reading over one my scripts. Then she turned to me, stared up at me over her little librarian glasses and said, "Lindsay - you're a good writer."

She was tough. And she rarely gave out compliments. So that was one of those compliments that made my day. Or my life. Clearly. Since I still remember it so well.

I heard some kind of psycho babble once that went something like this: for every time you betray a child in some way, it takes 5 acts of goodness for them to trust you again. Or something. It might have been my day off and I might have been watching Dr. Phil. Wait, what? I don't watch Dr. Phil. Whaaaaaa?

Maybe that's why I need so much praise. Because I can tell myself all kinds of things to the tune of "you suck" and "nobody cares what you have to say". Maybe I need someone else to say something nice to balance that out. A few gold stars can go a long way.

And even once you get past all that "you suck" talk, writing a book is effing hard.

Yes, I'm talking about writing a book. I talk about it a lot. Mostly in my head. I don't post anything about it on here because I am easily annoyed with people who talk about writing a book, but don't actually do anything about it.

First, you have to have the talent. Then, you have to have the dedication to actually write it. Usually on top of a day job. When the book is finished, if it ever gets finished, you have to revise it. Then, after the eleventy hundred years it takes to revise it, you have to find an agent who believes in your talent. Then that agent needs to find a publisher for that talent. And then - voila - you have a book. And you're 97 years old.

I get incredibly overwhelmed with the process. I do a lot of research on the publishing industry. Pretty much every day. All this talk of building a "platform" and writing something "marketable" and blah blah blah. Some genres are more marketable than others. And I've been told several times to not even TRY writing anything David Sedaris-y because the only reason David Sedaris sells books is because, well, he's David Sedaris.

I get bogged down with the details very easily.

I'm smart enough to know that being a blogger does not make you a writer. The craft of writing is hard to learn. Really hard. Telling a good story, on paper, is hard. Even if you tell stories out loud very well, writing them down involves developing characters and writing realistic dialogue and using proper sentences and descriptions that allow your reader to see your story coming alive in their minds. In addition to that, you need to develop your own voice and think about how to keep your readers turning the pages. I have so many things I've learned floating around my head, sometimes I am frozen with fear of screwing them all up.

Sure, anyone can sit down and do exactly what I'm doing right now and call themselves a writer. And if that works for you, go for it. But I consider blogging and learning the craft of writing two very different things. Being a good writer makes you a better blogger. But being a good blogger doesn't necessarily make you a good writer.

But I keep trying. I keep writing essays and stories and submitting them wherever I find places to submit them. Sometimes just a writer's group to get feedback. And I have to assume that I can only get better. And not crappier.

I once got a really crappy critique in a writing class. It was a humour writing class, and the woman said my story made her cry. What the WHAT!?

But one of the other students basically told that person to lighten up and to find the humour in my story. And then he got in trouble for being rude. But I was kind of happy about it. I mean, really. I'm hilarious. And if that woman couldn't see it then she deserved to be told off. In the most literary way possible, of course.