2006 Recap

In keeping with recapping tradition, here's what 2006 looked like.

(Instructions: take the first sentence (or 2) from the first post of each month of 2006. That's your year in review.)

When I was a wee baby, I used to want to grow up to be a horse. And that is completely apropos of NOTHING.

When I was in primary school, one thing that I looked forward to every year was the MS Readathon. Did I care that the money raised went towards Multiple Sclerosis research? Hell no. But a sport for your brain? Ohhhh, yeah.

Jeff, my trainer, fairly murdered my biceps and back this morning. I have been walking around all day, arms cradled around each other, perhaps making dinosaur noises.

And not ass of the hot buttered variety, either. But as a child, I devoured them with much aplomb, even though I suspect the chocolate? At least 75% plastic.

Some of you may be wondering why I haven't mentioned Rick Springfield's performance on the Daytime Emmy Awards on Friday. Let me just say that I only recently pulled out of the swoon it put me in.

It must be a fashiony day! Look what arrived at my house this week. Oh, BCBG, how I love you:

But without the tripping. And without the funny.

Although I fear by stating such that the exact opposite will come true. But, still - today I met with my renovation project's new project manager, and their countertop supplier came in to measure my cabinets for their top.

Well, except for paint touch-ups, that is. What am I talking about? Why, my bathroom renovation, of course!

Get your mind out of the gutter - I'm referring to my car. And the crazy lady who ran into my rear end this morning on the way to work.

Crushes come and go, and I've moved on, and on again, to a new love.

That would make me so happy, I would clap like a seal!

An Excellent Toaster

And look how cute it looks in my kitchen!


I can't remember a time in my life when I've actually been in possession of a pop-up toaster. It's always been toaster-ovens-or-bust in my house, because, why have a machine that only does one thing when you can have one that does two or three (usually none of them very well).

Thankfully, it makes an awesome piece of toast, and has made friends with its neighbours, the food processor (ROBOT CUISENAIRE!) and spice grinder. Plus, defrost and reheat options! Slots big enough to toast a bagel!

It really is love, I think.

Proof That There's a Reason for the Immaturity

If you've been anywhere near a TV in the past couple of years, you've seen Drs Michael Roizen and Mehmet Oz on the talkshow and newsmagazine circuit, flogging their book You: The Owner's Manual.

As a part of their official site, they've provided an extensive questionnaire that calculates your real age, taking into account your lifestyle, as well as medical and family histories. Enlightening, indeed.

Wondering how I fared?

Calendar Age: 32.8
Real Age: 24.3

See? I told you there was a reason for the silliness. And now there's proof.

Making Out Like A Bandit

Is what I feel like I did yesterday, with my Christmas loot. And though the holidays aren't supposed to be about the presents, I am still honest enough to admit that they sure do make me happy.

But even better? Watching the people who you've bought something for unwrap and examine, and, if you're lucky, turn to you with just that look in their eyes, like you got them the exactly right thing. Then you feel like both Smokey AND the Bandit (wedding dress and porn-stache optional) .

Completely unrelated, until this morning, I had thoughts of purchasing yet another Mackage. Then I really started to think about it - although lovely, the things that have really made me happy over the past few years have been the things I've experienced, instead of the things that I have. Even though the things I have are freaking awesome. So I'd rather give myself an excellent birthday - whether I stay in town or take off for a weekend - and have something excellent to remember and think on and savour for ages to come.

Where You Been?

I have been even less prolific then usual this week, and I put it all down to the fact that vacations turn me into a sloth, like this:


And sometimes, like this:


HEY YOU GUUUUUUUYS.

It's a Peeler

But not in the stripper sense. So close to being a monkey knife fight, you don't even know.

Via Target

A Proper Size Comparison

I knew the new IPod Shuffles were tiny, but I had no idea just how wee they really were. Until one arrived at my house this morning, via the organizers of a conference I'll be attending in the new year.


So tiny! So cute! It is making me make cooing noises at it.

In other news, I started my final vacation for the year yesterday, and I shant be returning to work until January 4th. So far, my days have been full of sessions at the gym with Jeff, my trainer, and lunch yesterday at The Siddhartha with my excellent friend Brad.

Annnnd....scene.

Dick in a Box

Justin Timberlake on Saturday Night Live. Excellent.

Ballet Girls

For the past few weeks, I've found myself engrossed in the 3-part documentary mini-series Ballet Girls. Filmed in the second half of 2005 at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, it follows a number of young and teenage girls, as they take-part in an intensive dance camp, through enrollment in the school of dance, through auditions for the RWB's annual production of The Nutcracker touring company.

The series has been making me think a lot about my own childhood, and the time I spent dancing. It makes me think about how different my life could have been if I had a different temperament as a child. As a kid, I was a quitter. It's true! I know some of you who have only known me as an adult might scoff at the thought, but, seriously, it's true.

I saw first enrolled in ballet class before I was even enrolled in grade school. I took part in two recitals, and have the photographic evidence that I just might have to scan when I next visit my parents to prove it. Following a move to a new city, a couple of years later I enrolled in gymnastics. And quit. And started taking piano classes. And quit. And enrolled in jazz dance classes. And quit.

And though I was a middling-to-not-so-bad student in all of them, I had neither the love or drive for any to make a permanent part of my life. Which is a shame, because I think my body was made for all of them. Long limbs; small stature; long, tapering fingers; flexibility that can sometimes be a little circus-freak scary; feet with a pointe that my dance instructors would use as an example for other students.

And it's making me think a lot of about how fun re-taking up ballet would be, and how the last dance studio that I attended is still up-and-running. And how I should call to see if they're offering adult classes. Because how could wearing a tutu as a 32-year-old woman not fucking rule?

World's Tallest Man? Saving Dolphins? Best. Story. Ever.

This is Bao Xishun, the world's tallest man.



This is Bao Xishun's left hand.




This is Bao Xishun sticking his hand down the throat of a dolphin, removing the plastic that it was choking on.




Read the story here: Toronto Star - World's Tallest Man Saves Choking Dolphins

Have Passport, Will Travel

That's right, the Government of Canada has made the dubious decision to lay claim to my nationality and let me loose on the world.

So, when are you going to invite me to visit you?

Completely unrelated, you must click on over to La Tartine Gourmande. Amazing food photography accompanied by recipes. Hot. And also, Damn. Look! Macarons made with Macha Tea and Chocolate Ganache!

Bare Knuckle Brawler

I'm looking down at my hands right now, and they're a complete and utter mess. Mostly because I'm a klutz. Like Daphne, from Scooby Doo. Give me something hot to handle (except my ass. That's hotness that I can handle) and I'll show you a burn waiting to happen. Something sharp? Cuts a-plenty.

I've given up wishing for an incident-free life, as I know I'd be more likely to find out that I was (a) adopted, and (b) a princess. And since I look so much that the pharmacist that we share, who has never seen us together, felt it necessary to marvel over the resemblance last month.

I will always be accident prone. And I will always, eventually, make my way over here to injury-blog.

I reckon this serves as a warning, as slipping on ice weather is about to start. Let the pain begin!

Sleeper Cell Returns

And I am delighted. Although I have issues with Showtime for blocking access to their website to non-US residents, I forgive them that slight due to the fact that they produce incredible, incredible television.

Last year, the first season of Sleeper Cell followed a Muslim FBI agent as he infiltrated and eventually brought down a sleeper cell of multi-ethnic terrorists inside the United States. The show was marked not only by stunning and nuanced performances by Michael Ealy and Oded Fehr, but also taut and thoughtful plotting and dialogue. A compassionate treatment of the subject at hand, even and thought provoking.

I loved the show, and I am very much looking forward to it's return. Except, one thing, that is. Dude, what's up with Ealy's hair?

I Would Totally Marry Stephen Colbert

Is That A Tree On Your Skirt, Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

Oh. Well, apparently, it IS a tree.

The Eve Gravel La Noyee skirt that I ordered as an exchange for the crazily up-sized Spoken dress arrived today, and La Noyee and I? I feel like we may be in love.

She looks a little like this, but in olive brown, with the tree in a gentle beige:

I Am A Fountain of Knowledge and Truth

"That would make me so happy, I would clap like a seal!"

"The drama! It's like we're an episode of Dynasty. But without the money. And shoulder pads."

"This is the second purple thing I've eaten today."

This is what I sound like at the office. It gets worse when I don't have to put on a professional demeanor.