the theatre and a rant explaining in a small part why servers are bitter, bitter creatures

Treated myself to two Fringe shows tonight. Once I heard about it, I was desperate to see An Inconvenient Musical--I LOVED SARSical! last year, and this one is by the same guys. Tonight was the only possible night for me to see it, and I had to boot it hardcore out of work to make it. And it was so worth it. I love the guy who plays Al Gore--he was David Mirvish in SARSical!, and he just has this twinkle in his eyes when he's delivering these completely ridiculous monologues and songs with an otherwise straight face. And I literally could not breathe at one point during David Suzuki's scene. The only bad thing about it was that I was squished in between an elderly lady who did not seem to take kindly to me, for whatever reason, and a man who actually fell asleep on me several times. He was visually impaired, but he must have had some other kind of disability as well. He'd wake up when the songs got loud, and roar with laughter, and then sloooowly droop off until he was nearly leaning on me, and then the cycle would repeat. The first time, I thought he'd quietly expired next to me, and I eyeballed him narrowly to make sure he was still breathing.

The second one was The Africans, which I liked, but think could have been snappier. But that could be a leftover impression from going straight from An Inconvenient Musical, which could be accurately described as frenetic.

I've been working a lot over the last couple of days--not precisely surprising, of course. I just want to make a public statement that anyone who drinks Corona out of a glass is automatically a wang. I'm sorry. It's just the way it is. The whole Corona BRAND involves sticking the damn lime in the bottle and then drinking from it. Everyone who has EVER asked me for a glass with their Corona turns out to be a raging asshole. And they always act extremely offended that I didn't bring one automatically. "EXCUSE me, but I'd like a GLASS with my beer?"

Hey, I am all for pouring a beer in a glass if you're pro-bottle (which I am, although I've gotten much better about draught in the past few years... it stemmed from bartending school, when you learn that bottles are pasteurized, and kegs are not) and you want to look slightly classier. There is, however, nothing classy about Corona, nor will there ever be. Personally, I hate the taste, but more than that, it has branded itself as the beer you drink while lounging on the beach. It's not a beer for connoisseurs; if you're a Corona drinker, you're not impressing anyone with your knowledge of hops or barley--you just drink a shitty import marketed to frat boys. I JUDGE people who drink Corona. So just shove the damn lime in, and drink it from the bottle, lady.

Incidentally, I also judge people who drink Blue and Coors Light. I'm sure they judge me for drinking Canadian, but I'm okay with that. I am branching out, however--I already loved Guinness before starting work at the pub, but since we have seventeen beers on tap, I'm trying to get to know my beers a little better.

One of my coworkers and I were agreeing that food brings out the worst in people. Until you've worked for awhile as a server, you have no idea how douchey people can be. My rants aside, I generally try to be as understanding as possible--I'm human, and I've had horrible days that I've unfortunately taken out on innocent bystanders, so I know how it is--but sometimes it's just incredible. There was this one woman, whose children were actually very polite and sweet, who was inexplicably rude to me, and GLARED every time I came up to the table. And I was the one who sat them (so I KNOW it didn't take long for a server to get to them, because that, again, was ME), dug up a kiddie menu and crayons, and made sure they had refills and extra sauces, and what-have-you. She tipped me less than ten percent, and I can't think of a single thing that went wrong with their table.

I can understand being pissed if you can clearly see your server standing around and chatting with coworkers, and ignoring you completely, and basically not doing any work, but just because you can't SEE me, that doesn't mean I'm not busy. If I walk onto the patio with a full tray, and stop at five different tables before I get to you, wait politely while you finish your conversation (as you ostentatiously ignore me) to ask if you would like a refill, and then walk back inside the restaurant with a full armload of dirty plates, it may, MAY, take me more than thirty seconds to come back with your diet pepsi, no ice, two limes. So please stop sucking at the dregs of your drink with your patented bitch face.

The funny thing is, it's often days when you get completely swamped, and are just a TERRIBLE server, due to insane volume, that you get good tips. I was getting twenty percent consistently on Tuesday at lunch, even though I was spending very little time with each table. Other days, you slave away for everyone's individual comfort, and you make shit. Management always claims that if you provide service that SIZZLES, you'll make better money, but I tend to think that's not entirely true. Most people have a preconceived notion of how they're going to tip; I usually give slightly over twenty, because I have been hardened in the trenches, but it's very rare to find someone who will say to themselves, "Gee whiz, that was amazing service! I'm going to tip more than I usually would!" More often, people will rationalize docking tips ("My food took longer than I thought it would," or "She didn't offer me more water."), or just tip their standard amount, but thank you profusely on the way out. When those people are the ones who think ten percent is good, but say that they loved everything about you, you start to wonder why you even bother.

So, insider info here: the way to up your tip is to talk people into buying more. You have to feel people out--if they're only looking to spend a certain amount, you're ripping yourself off by talking them into spending the extra few bucks on gravy and coffee and etc, so don't do it for teens on their dates--but generally, if you upsell, your percentage will be higher. So, for those of you who are on the other side of the transaction, that's why we're pushing the desserts and the add-ons, and trying to make you drink more. I don't actually believe that you MUST have this cheesecake before you die to have lived a full life. I just want the extra couple of bucks on your tab.

these apples are delicious... can all this food be free?

So, the restaurant that Toni has aptly described as the "Mickiest of Mickey Mouse operations" has finally opened its doors. I have to say, the food is extremely delicious. There were a few points tonight that I pretty much decided to take off and accept my losses, but I stuck it out. AND, I served Steven Page beer! And got a polite laugh out of him! AND didn't fall all over myself gushing. It was fabulous. I'm probably going to have to keep this job, just for the minor celebs. Paul Venoit was in on Sunday (make-up artist on cycle one of CNTM). I couldn't place him, though, and it wasn't until after he'd left that someone mentioned who he was.

I also befriended a local playwright who's working on a play about Conrad Black and Barbara Amiel. So far, the crowd at this place is much more interesting than the downtown one. I really enjoy the Annex. Hopefully, I'll enjoy working there. I'm way ahead of everyone when it comes to the computers, because both restaurants are using the same software, so that's good. I'm getting along reasonably well with my coworkers so far; there's only one I don't really like. I suspect her of being somewhat dim-witted, but not affably so. Also, there are some politics to navigate--some people were friends previous to working there, and a few of the servers are close friends of the managers, so until I have all the dynamics worked out, it's going to be a matter of feeling out every situation as it goes. Furthermore, I have moderate to severe doubts about some of their methods, but I'm going to sit back and shut up until they see the problems on their own, or I am proved wrong.

It is unspeakably good to be employed after those long dry months. Now I just have to re-beef up my bank account, and I can direct my attention back to my existential qualms.

"I sat at my desk all day, with a rifle that shoots potatoes at 60 pounds per square inch. Can you imagine if I was deranged?"

There's this girl at work I really don't like. There's one I actively despise, but this one I just... don't like. She's newer than I am, and you can tell, you can just TELL, that she is one of those girls that is used to getting things because she's tiny and pretty. I have to turn off part of my brain to talk to her; she's vapid in that special way that will interrupt a conversation to talk about this guy who is really into her, but hasn't called her back, but he's super sweet, and he serenaded her at karaoke the other night, and you know, she just doesn't get karaoke, but she sees how it could be really fun for someone, but she could never get up there and sing, because that would be SO embarrassing.

But really what I don't like about her is the fact that I have to do extra work because she's just used to people doing work around and for her. She'll just leave basic things undone and wander off because it doesn't occur to her that it is, in fact, her job to do them.

Other than that, work's going alright. I think I hit upon one of the main reasons why I'm able to maintain a fairly perky demeanour at this particular place. I feel like I'm in costume, and it's a ridiculous costume, and therefore I put some effort into staying in character. I have been accepted by the rest of the staff--they've decided I'm clearly more insane than they are, and I think they respect that.

The other restaurant is actually opening tomorrow, so life should get pretty busy. This is excellent news, because I'm thinking of many things I want to spend money on, so, you know, I'd like to have some.

Also, I straight up LOVE The Office. I listened to one of the commentary tracks, and they sound like they have the most amazing time filming it. The only job I really loved was the costume shop. I was cleaning and organizing, yes, but cleaning and organizing interesting things. The shifts I spent in the hat room were fabulous. It's possible I'm more than averagely crazy.

" This is an environment of welcoming, and you should just get the hell outta here."

I spent a sizeable portion of the day at the local walk-in clinic, sporting the latest in fashionable face gear. You just look MORE infectious while wearing a disposable mask, you know? I liked the doctor I eventually saw, though. He said I could infect whomever I pleased once I left the building. I like a GP with a sense of humour.

The medical interlude did allow me to finish reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I can't say it's going on my top ten list, but I don't regret having read it. Maybe I'll relate to it more when I'm older, and I have a few failed romances and huge life disappointments under my belt.

I bought seasons one and two of The Office as a get well present to me. I'm madly in love with John Krasinski, thanks in no small part to this:



So obviously the thing to do is feed my obsession.

I'm hoping to go back to work tomorrow. I need money, now that I've decided to save up for Europe, because I clearly need to pay off Visa and make rent every month on top of all that.

sick, but dreaming

How I consistently manage to come down with colds in July is a mystery to me. This particular one, however, I think I'll blame on Jo. Toni's got it too; Jo is the typhoid Mary of our times.

I started feeling poorly on Sunday, but that didn't stop me from deciding at the last minute to abscond to Guelph with Jo and Lindz. I got spectacularly drunk (so much so that I got turned away from a bar), and got up to my usual harrassing-passers-by antics. Monday saw me feeling progressively worse (but surprisingly not very hungover)--I was unable to enjoy the sunshine at High Park, and ended up in bed by eight thirty. This morning I roused myself enough to call in sick to work, and managed to roll out of bed by two in the afternoon to ingest some toast.

I'm hoping that after a good night's sleep tonight, I'll be right as rain, or at least a closer approximation to it. Jo's cold seems to be lingering, but we have a wildly different approach to illnesses. She tries to deny that she's even sick, and goes about her daily business, challenging her body to let her down. I cancel everything humanly possible, drink tea and orange juice religiously, and get as much sleep as I can convince my body to take. This is entirely due to my father, whose gruff advice I have finally learned to heed. He used to send me to bed as a child, but I'd sit up and read until I got too tired, or my head hurt too much to focus.

I did spend some of today reading, though. I finished Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. I admit, there were a couple times that I thought about punching Klosterman in the face, but I think if I were ever to have a real opportunity to do so, I'd pass it up just to listen to him persuade me into his opinion about things. After all, the book is a collection of essays, and the function of an essay is to persuade. He just happens to write monumentally entertaining essays, to the point where it's hard to question his point of view because you're so entertained.

Yesterday, I added the "Where I've Been" application to my Facebook page, and I think I'll spend June and July of next year backpacking in Europe. I saw a bunch of places last summer, but I didn't really get to SEE them. I'll be 25; it seems like an ideal age to acquire some stories and experiences. I can't make up my mind whether to dragoon someone into coming with me--right now I'm leaning towards going by myself. Mother will not be pleased. I don't think I'll tell her until next May. I think I'll also go on this Contiki tour; I have plenty of time to decide whether to attach it to the beginning or end of my trip. If I did it first, I could maybe find some people to travel around with for a little bit, and get settled back into the whole travelling thing. But since it involves some time at a resort, I could do it at the end to relax after traipsing around Europe for weeks on end.

Anyway, now my project is to save up a bunch of money to fund my trip. I'm going to work like a bitch so that I don't have to for two glorious months in 2008.

It always seems strange to me when I realize that people come to Toronto as tourists. We get a bunch of foreigners at the pub, and now that I live here, I'm continually walking past tourists taking photos of themselves in front of things. I guess you get used to it eventually, but since I've lived in Mississauga for most of my life, I see very little about the CN tower that warrants crossing an ocean.

I've got a bunch of places in Canada on my "Want to Go To" list, but I feel like they can wait. Europe needs to be done soon, while I'm still young and irresponsible. And maybe Australia, too. British Columbia and Nunavut are later's work.

long, rambling, and having way too much melancholy in it

I'm currently reading two books that have to do with the Meaning Of Life. Well, I suppose most literature has to do with the human condition and our search for a higher purpose in one way or another, but these two have a more particular and direct way of going about it.

On a whim in an over-priced used-book store (I was looking for reading material to keep me company on my solo lunch, which I was eating at Not Just Noodles in order to escape from work for an hour or so during my split), I bought Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I always liked the title, but I'd never had it on any sort of reading list. I knew of it mainly as a movie, anyway. I'm somewhat enjoying it so far, despite my total inability to relate to Tereza's devotion to Tomas, but it hasn't GRABBED me. And it's not that it's depressing me; I've been grabbed by melancholy books before. But it sure is depressing me.

The other one is Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman. It is also depressing me somewhat, but in an amusing way. The first I heard of him was perhaps a year ago, from my friend Tim, who said that my writing reminded him of Klosterman. I'm only thirty-nine pages in, and I have to say I'm flattered. Klosterman's a whole load wittier than I am. I'm probably going to ditch Kundera until I'm through this one. The reason I bought Sex, Drugs... was not because of the title or because of Tim, but because Peter said that I should start with this one, so as not to be overwhelmed by the urge to punch Klosterman in the face. There, credit where credit is due.

One of the habits I've adopted since moving to the city is going to a coffee shop and parking myself to read. So today, I wandered over to the Annex (I usually choose the Annex for this purpose because the hipsters are fun to watch, and also to check up on the progress of the restaurant that may someday open, which I have technically been employed by since the beginning of April) and read some of The Unbearable Lightness of Being while drinking a black coffee and doing a little people-watching. I was at first amused, and then disturbed, by a fellow patron. He sat down a few seats away at the ledge facing the window, and then proceded to tap on the counter, dance in his seat, and bang on the glass when two girls in mini-skirts walked by. It was hard for me to appropriately lose myself in the troubles of occupied Prague, so I eventually left and wandered off to a bookstore. I had time to kill before I was meeting L.Ro to see Ratatouille, so on yet another whim, I bought Sex, Drugs... (hahah... I bought sex and drugs... what, I'm immature. Deal with it). Then I got on the subway, and started snickering away.

For the record, I am not in love with Lloyd Dobler (if you haven't either seen Say Anything or read the first essay in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, you don't know what I'm talking about). I sort of wish I could be, but the fact of the matter is that I'd view with alarmed suspicion any man who wanted to move to England with me after knowing me for a month. I am more in love with the John Cusack from Grosse Pointe Blank. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much a more cynical and world-weary Lloyd. So maybe I AM in love with Lloyd Dobler after all. But only in the imaginary sense; actual lovelorn devotion freaks me out. More on this momentarily; it ties into my mood after Ratatouille.

I liked it very much; at a few points it seemed to be running a little long, but I can't really see what could have been cut. What got to me most, however, was Paris. I am suddenly consumed with the desire to go back and possibly have a whirlwind love affair, or even just to move there so I could gaze at the Eiffel tower for hours daily. I love Toronto, but it is seriously lacking in the romance department. Paris, however, effortlessly exudes romance. Standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower, I had an incredible urge to just grab the closest reasonably good-looking male and kiss him passionately. I didn't, because a) my sister was standing right there, and b) I couldn't commit to publically making out with a guy from our tour group on the second day. Yes, my commitment issues extended themselves to me being unable to attach myself to a male exclusively for a maximum of two weeks.

Anyway, this desire to take off for Europe resulted in me resolving to either move there, or spend next summer back-packing, at the very least. However, once the euphoria of that momentous decision faded, I was faced with the crushing realization that my life for the past indeterminate amount of years has been a series of waiting periods. I've been continually promising myself that my Real Life will begin after such and such a time is over. Once high school is done, university will be the beginning! Once I graduate university, the world will be my oyster! After I make enough to move out of my parents' house, life awaits! Once I have enough money in the bank to ensure that I can pay rent, and thus not have to worry about bankruptcy forcing me back into my parents' house, here I come, world!

All this made me think about the last time I felt entirely alive and happy. It was in Amsterdam, and I was completely drunk. I was wandering around the streets with a guy in the middle of the night, and we were looking for a secluded place to have sex. By the way, Amsterdam is a well-lit city. We eventually found a dark park-like area beside a canal, but it was the wandering that I remember as being thrilling. I suffer no illusions that it was the particular guy that made the night special; I'd unceremoniously attempted to ditch him the night before. Not to say he was repulsive--I hope you have enough faith in my taste to realize that--it was just that he seemed to want much more from me than I had to give. He still does, in fact: he drunk-texts me every few weeks or so professing to think of me often, the most recent time being tonight, soon after L.Ro and I got out of the movie. We had an argument a month ago when he invited himself to Toronto for a weekend, and I told him firmly that he COULD NOT stay at my place. I shot him down when he pitched the idea of some kind of long distance arrangement soon after we parted ways in Europe, but I take it he's striking out back home, and returns to the ideal of a woman who will wander a European city and shag him outdoors.

What can I say? Crazy things happen in Europe. And this is clearly a big part of why I want to go back. There's much more flavour in a European adventure, and my life is definitely lacking in spice right now.

in which I spoil Star Wars (so don't read if you've been living under a rock), and show how nerdy I am

One of my favourite luxuries is falling asleep to a movie I've seen approximately a million times before. There's something about listening to dialogue and sound effects that lulls me more than having music on (I have trouble sleeping without background noise). And since I've seen the movie so many times, I don't have to even watch it; I know what's going to happen, and I can pretty much picture it in my head. I can even stretch one movie out for a couple nights; each night I just start the DVD at the last point I distinctly remember before dropping off.

Of course, at some point I wake up when I hear the DVD menu's soundtrack looping incessantly, and I have to crawl to the foot of my bed and turn off the player, but usually that doesn't wake me up enough to make it hard for me to fall back asleep immediately.

Anyway, last night it was Return of the Jedi. The very beginning (in which Darth Vader arrives at the shell of the new Death Star), made me think of what a horrible mess George Lucas made of everything. That start, with the Nazi-esque ranks of Imperial officers, and Vader's ominous line, "The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am," has SO MUCH PROMISE. And, compared to the prequels, the rest of the movie isn't that bad (although I think it could have lived up to that fantastic beginning much better). While I'm on the topic, the line, "Inform the commander that Lord Vader's shuttle has arrived," is also somehow awesome.

Anyway, in Timothy Zahn's simply amazing trilogy of books (I feel like the world would be a better place if he'd written the plot outlines for the prequels), he distinctly points out the fact that the Empire's officers were all human males. EVIL. And I read somewhere that in early drafts of The Phantom Menace, Queen Amidala was going to be overtly racist towards the Gungans. How much more interesting would that have been? And since Palpatine was also from Naboo, it would totally give us a clear base for his suppression of non-humans as the Emperor.

Speaking of Amidala/Padme (and Padme is a goddamn stupid name), I think we could have left a little something up to the imagination with the birth of the twins. Leia (in Return of the Jedi) claims to remember her; we couldn't have her abscond with Leia to Alderaan, and die sometime in the interim before A New Hope? The naming scene and the whole "no will to live" scene really just killed Revenge of the Sith for me. Also the "NOOOOoooooOOOOOOOOO," although I've gotten a lot of mileage out of doing that whenever something slightly bad happens.

Alright, I really ought to go for my run right now, so I'll just list off a couple other things I'd change: ditch Shmi and Jar Jar altogether, make the disappearing dead Jedi thing standard, amp up the love triangle (I'd be okay with there being doubt over who was Luke and Leia's ACTUAL father), definitely not bring Boba Fett or even Jabba up at all, can the cutesy shit with kiddie Anakin and his pals, and make the Clone Wars more interesting and more... better.

is this... good? you know, comparatively?

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uhh... for serious?

Mingle² - Online Dating

This is based, apparently, on my recent usage of the words "skank," "abortion," and "sex." Proof positive that movie ratings are fucked.

don't provide service that fizzles, provide service that SIZZLES!

As part of my on-going indoctrination into the customs and rules of my new workplace, I was forced to haul my ass out of bed early this morning and watch a video telling me how to provide "Now, that's service!" service. Also known as "Service that Sizzles!"

This one had slightly higher production values than many of the other videos/presentations I've been forced to sit through. There was some cutting to black and white shots from the point of view of a guest looking up at a server, and a waaaaay over-used flame graphic whenever the word "sizzle" came up on screen. Which it frequently did. I think I'll steal the DVD and see how drunk I get if I take a shot every time it comes up. The speaker had an unnatural hatred for the word "dude," and he had distractingly odd hair. A chunk of the video was taped while he motivated a group of restaurant managers at some kind of convention, which was fantastic because of how bored some of them looked.

The thing about these little sessions is that sometimes they tell you something that isn't insultingly self-evident or common sensical. I've been at this for awhile now, so I don't think I gleaned too much from this one. I still have a manual to weed through and complete a worksheet on (oh, how I wish I were joking). But as far as service seminars go, this was hardly the silliest. I don't know if I'll tell my new coworkers about the menu tours that were mandatory at TJ's, for fear that a manager will overhear me and decide it's a great idea.

in which I tell you stories about me being a skank

I jest. I may, perhaps, in the future, tell you of some of the skanky things I have done, but for the most part, this post will be skankage-free. The more you look at the word skank, the funnier it is. I merely mention skanks for those of you visiting from here, in case you were looking for some dirt.

So, I promised you the tale of my failed detoxification. It happened like this:

On Friday, I was hanging around and applying for jobs online (for those of you out of the loop, I am technically employed by a restaurant that has yet to finish its renovations, so I've been waiting around for three months. I am heartily sick of it, so I chose to start the job hunt process again). No more than an hour after I'd sent off a resume to an Irish pub downtown, I got a call for an interview. I go in for a Saturday noon meeting, and hey, presto! I have a job and start on Tuesday. MORNING. So I sez to myself, I sez, Susan, you're going to need a coffee to do that. But I could just add caffeine in, and continue feasting on brown rice and veggies, even though I was sorely tempted to just ditch the detox altogether.

However, it was not to be. We were going out to a martini bar to celebrate Tara's birthday, and, swept away by my celebratory mood and the tantalizing taste possibilities promised by a martini called a "Jazzmatazz," I got COMPLETELY drunk. I would say AMAZINGLY drunk, in fact. I had a hot dog, which is nowhere on my list of approved foods. (I don't know if this counts as skanky, but it was Taste of Italy where we were, so there were throngs of people everywhere, and I drunkenly critiqued their clothing choices and possibly hit on a few guys confrontationally. You'll have to ask Jo to be sure; that part of the night is a blur.) And then, when Jo and I got back to my apartment, we ordered wings and a meat lover pizza.

And then the next day was Father's day, and it takes a stronger-willed person than I to maintain a detox in my parents' house, especially when there's steak for dinner. And in case I had any illusions about going back on the diet, they were demolished by the fact that trainees eat for free at work. I had Guinness steak and mushroom pie and sweet potato fries for lunch today. It was glorious.

Less glorious is the fact that I have to wear a kilt and knee socks at work. This means shaving my knees every day and not sprawling around, limbs akimbo. But I'll tell you more about work later. I have a rant that's storing up about these servers having it ridiculously easy, but I'm going to wait until I've had some tables on my own, so that my pride isn't wounded when karma comes around and bites me in the ass.

I guess I'd better learn an Irish jig

I'm going to eventually write a post detailing how I catapulted off the wagon of my detox diet, and some philosophical musings on serving, now that I'm working again, but right now I am le tired. So I'll just tell you that I want this.

this made me go, "Awwwwwww...."

CLLEEEEEEOOOOOOOOO!

I caught a re-run of the Friends finale today, and I have a burning question: when you get off a plane at the last minute, what happens to your luggage? Is it a write-off? Do you have to call the airport in Paris (it's always Paris in these situations, isn't it?) and browbeat them into finding it and sending it back? Because they're really not going to delay the plane and search for your luggage and then haul it out. So what gives? I'd be pretty concerned about my clothes going across the globe, I don't care how romantic the gesture. And blowing all that money on a plane ticket... well, you can always come BACK from Paris. I think I'd be more like, "Well, I love you too, but I'm just gonna go... check out the sights, buy some souvenirs, you know. I mean, I have this ticket and I'm all packed. So, hold that thought, and I'll come back in a week or two. Unless I meet a charming mime. See ya!"

I see your schwartz is as big as mine!

I went to a few Luminato exhibits on Friday with the dear old sis. I mention it because the robot chair was nowhere near as exciting as it sounds; the artist had it billed as a "metaphor for life," so apparently life metaphorically involves a lot of whirring, long pauses, and a tech cheating a little to help the chair reconstruct itself. I was unimpressed. I prefer my metaphors to be much more abstract, high falutin', and exciting.

We also went down to the Harbourfront to check out the pulse light thingy. There are searchlights rigged up all around, and you can go up to them and hold onto some bars, and then your pulse is flashed across the sky in light form. It was definitely cool--so cool, in fact, that I forgot to say the hilarious thing I'd come up with for once I grabbed the bars (see the title of the post. I try not to miss opportunities for quoting Spaceballs). My pulse seems disappointingly weak when beamed out into the Toronto sky, I have to say.

Last night I went to a club for an old friend's birthday. Definitely not my scene; when faced with places where I hate the music and am uncomfortable with the people, I tend to get drunk in self-defence. Unfortunately, the drinks were six bucks a pop. Luckily, vodka and water isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, so besides a random shot of passion fruit liqueur, I managed to stay somewhat within the bounds of my detox. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to have any alcohol at all, but apparently vodka, gin and tequila are passable because they're low on sugars and distilled, or something.

Anyway, I managed not to fall over, despite wearing the infamous yellow shoes.

I miss my caffeine monkey

I think we can safely add gluten-free porridge, honey, and hot brown basmati rice (I actually didn't mind it when it got cold, but eating it fresh was rough) to the list of things I don't like. I already knew about the honey thing, but here I am, giving it a go anyway. It really does taste like bee puke (tm Jo).

The headaches from my caffeine withdrawl have subsided. That was a rough few days, I'm not going to lie. If I weren't determined to see if this diet thing will actually really do all the stuff it says it will, I'd have just added coffee in, and done everything else. As it is, I'm scoffing at the success stories from people who claim they stayed off the sauce when they finished the three weeks. I LIKE being addicted to coffee. I'm not angry that I'm a slave to my caffeine habit; it's my vice, my hipster affectation, my security blanket. There are plenty of worse things I could be addicted to. And life without some kind of sugary treat, a cup of hot black coffee and a book? NOT WORTH LIVING.

Well, two and a half more weeks to go. It's becoming an exercise in will power; if I can make it, I'll have practiced enough self-denial to know that I can do it at any time, and will thus relish the good things in life all the more. Or so I hope. In the meantime, it's certainly forcing me to eat a lot more green vegetables.

And now for something completely different: this article in The Star caught my eye. It's kind of weird that there are all these controversies swirling around Knocked Up. I really liked the movie; I didn't see it as having a hugely conservative message, nor did I find the pairing of Heigl and Rogen out of the ordinary. Howell even says (in the above article) "What would be far more unbelievable onscreen, frankly, would be a situation where a good-looking guy gets a homely girl pregnant and then decides to stay with her." I don't find Rogen unattractive; my taste runs towards the "Brittanical," as some have pointed out, but he's no monster. Also, he's funny and sweet, and that's something that most women look for. I thought it was pretty realistic that Alison gradually fell for Ben as she spent more time with him, and that they both fumbled the ball while trying to figure out and supply what the other wanted.

As for the abortion thing, well, some women decide to keep the baby. I probably wouldn't have, in that situation--and to be honest, I think Apatow could have avoided some of the believability issues by giving Alison a different job. An ambitious woman who just got a promotion to being an on-air personality probably wouldn't jeopardize that with an unplanned pregnancy. And besides providing a few laughs, Alison's job isn't really that important to the plot. It also would have been nice to see some of her reasoning behind keeping it; she lives in a guest house at her sister's place, she barely knows the father, and her bosses already told her to lose weight. But having an abortion is not a decision to take lightly, and Apatow does make it clear that she puts thought into it and struggles. I liked that Ben just stepped back and let her decide; few things make me angrier than a man trying to impose any decision about pregnancy on a woman. Basically, my body, my rules, screw you.

Well, I have to choke down more porridge now, and tidy my apartment. I know, you're thrilled.

breaking news: I hate soya milk

I had corn chips for breakfast. Oh, Susan, you say, shaking your head in unsurprised dismay, how is that any different from the days you're NOT on a diet? Well, dear readers, to you I say FIE. They're organic blue corn chips! And I'm allowed.

True, it was a little poorly planned to be eating them right off the bat, but here's my explanation: I was hungry and in a hurry. See, last night I read through the book and made a grocery list; also, there was some kind of exciting arrest made in front of the fire hall next door! There were like, six squad cars, and someone yelling for someone else to get down and keep his hands where they could be seen. This has nothing to do with my diet. It's just interesting. RIGHT. Now, the another reason I chose to go on this diet was that I pretty much ran out of food chez moi. I was going to have to go grocery shopping anyway, so why not restock with healthy and organic stuff, and see how far it got me?

Unfortunately, the No Frills in St. James Town is not noted for catering to the hippy element. So, when I finally hauled my ass out of bed this morning, I had to stumble down to the 24h Dominion's at Ryerson University. It is incredibly difficult to read labels and negotiate a shopping cart down aisles when you're sleep-deprived, craving caffeine, and suffering from a slight case of vertigo caused by the previous two things. Oh, and also an empty stomach. Besides coffee, I'm not yet suffering any extreme cravings for any one thing; rather, everytime I see something I'm not allowed to eat for the next three weeks, I suffer minor pangs that go away the instant my attention is drawn by another thing I'm not allowed.

The whole ordeal (and I do not use that term lightly) took longer than anticipated. You'll recall that I mentioned a job interview; the damn place was up at York U. I booted it home on the subway, showered, and crammed a job lot of chips down my throat as I dressed. Classy, yes. Then back on the subway, and then on a bus. It actually took me a lot less time to get there than I thought it would; I made up for it, however, by missing my stop. By a lot.

I'd decided, by the sounds and location of it, that it was a seedy pool hall for the locals. My suspicions seemed confirmed when I saw the outside; however, it was actually not that bad inside. And the owner turned out to be a nice little Chinese man who reminded me irresistably of semi-relatives on my Dad's side. In other words, if I lived closer, I'd totally work there. Which would probably be a huge mistake, but I'm honestly a sucker for older Chinese people.

black coffee... since the blues caught my eye

Attention, everyone: I am going off the sauce.

No, I don't mean alcohol. Well, I do, kind of, because I'm not allowed to have that either, but what I'm really referring to is coffee. I woke up today in a total funk. I've been getting a string of crappy news lately, and I'm sick of feeling lousy and logey. So naturally, I'm going to cut out one of my few real pleasures: my daily black ambrosia. Not only that, but I'm also off of chocolate, dairy, processed foods... yes, that's right, I'm detoxing. Three weeks of me being crazy and caffeine-deprived. Should be fantastic.

Actually, after a week my cravings and the assorted withdrawl symptoms should be gone, or so I'm told. I don't want this to become one of those diet blogs, but according to this book, in two weeks I should be looking and feeling fantastic. So I'll be keeping you posted on whether or not it's full of shit. I won't be, because I should be getting plenty of fibre. I admit to being pretty enamoured with the healthy vision it's promising: glowing complexion, clear mind, better sleep, more energy, fewer mood swings.... Come to think of it, if I have a clear mind and fewer mood swings, I might have to shut down this blog altogether. What am I gonna write about? How fantastic my life is? Pfft.

I also have a job interview across the city somewhere tomorrow. It's a good thing I've decided I don't really want this job; I have a very small chance of getting it without coffee.

you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her read

In a fit of whimsy, I decided to wander down to the ROM this afternoon and see if they had any tickets left for their all-night extravaganza. By the time I got there, I was pretty grumpy; it was hot out, I'd forgotten my sunglasses, I hadn't showered yet, and there was a long line up. Plus, my iPod went on the fritz right before I left my apartment, so I was listening to my old mini-disc player, which pales in comparison to the smooth efficiency of my baby. But hey: something like this only happens so often. So I stood in line, and didn't kill the kids behind me, even though they had a hazy at best understanding of personal space. I can't stand being touched when I'm grouchy or stressed.

I ended up with tickets for three am. I get to roam the ROM in the middle of the night. Should be fabulous. I wandered over at around quarter to ten to check out the opening ceremonies. I'm a fan of both Sean Cullen and Paul Gross, but whoever wrote their banter should be shot. You'd think, with all those millions of dollars, that a few more could be scraped together to find a better writer. It's possible that I missed some underlying nuance, because I didn't hear the beginning, but honestly, what the hell was that? I milled around a little, but got annoyed and took off.

you'd think that I could muster up a little softshoe gentle sway

I had a pretty random day yesterday. I had an audition for something slightly hilarious; I'll tell you about if I get it--the wisest thing to do, post-audition, is to forget about it entirely, so as not to obsess. Easier said than done. Anyway, soon after I was back from that, my brother called. He had some time to kill downtown, and wanted to meet for sushi. So back on the subway it was. Over dinner, he asked if I wanted to come with him to his salsa lesson. I had plans to see Pirates III, but not until ten. So off to salsa it was! I'm not sure if it was actually billed as a class for gay men, but that's how it shook out. And of course, everyone had been there in previous weeks, so not only did I stick out as the straight female (there was a lesbian couple, and what I think was a straight woman with a gay man, but I'm not sure), I was the newbie. And I wasn't wearing shoes built for swirling around. But other than that, it was pretty fun. I've always wanted to try salsa. We did a lot of partner rotation, and everyone took it upon themselves to help me out. I don't think the leader in the lesbian twosome liked me very much, but she didn't seem that thrilled with anyone. Oh well. She's not my demographic.

The fact that I'd taken some social dancing before really helped me out. You don't know when community centre lessons taken with a wannabe pirate will come in handy, but then suddenly you're standing in a tiny studio on King Street West, trying to impress a handful of salsa-ing homosexuals who know your brother.

Anyway, after that I rushed home to tidy up after my exertions, and then took off for the bright lights of the Yonge and Eglinton centre. I had to give the Coles notes of Dead Man's Chest to Taylor, but I kept losing my train of thought, partially because Linds kept asking whether or not the barnacle-y guys were going to be back. Taylor had to lean over and poke me when the chest actually shows up in the sequel, because I'd completely forgotten to explain its significance. It occurs to me that I make very indifferent amounts of sense when I talk. I'm very easily distracted.

The movie was excessively long. I enjoyed parts of it, but overall it was just exhausting. Keira Knightley gets to kiss pretty much everyone. I admit to still getting a kick out of Jack Sparrow's swishy run; but this installment just wasn't fun.

Just a note to guilt-trip Toni: I had planned on seeing Knocked Up last night, but SOMEONE has made EVERYONE I KNOW* promise to wait and see it with HER. A fate, I might add, which I planned on avoiding by not talking to her until after I'd seen it. What? I'm only half-kidding. Call me if you assholes are seeing it in the T.dot on Sunday!

*Possibly a slight exaggeration.