"The furniture is neatly rearranged."

"The carpet's clean;
there is no trace of memories."

Three years in, a seam split; it was irreparable from the outside. We couldn't afford to have the whole thing reupholstered. After two years of sitting on various sheets and blankets tucked into the folds, we brought in a replacement.

One last photo taken; it might be used in the future, to remember. Other than that, it's gone. Coffee and end tables, knick-knacks and floor lamps were moved until everything fit. Throw pillows were thrown and now it's like the room has always looked this way.


TRACK LISTING: Citizens Here and Abroad, "A Change of Scene"

"Don't you remember?"

"I was always your clown."

Why do so many public figures deny they've had plastic surgery? Don't they realize that photos are taken along the way? Don't they realize the truth eventually wills out?

Why does any public figure bother lying when he or she knows that we all know how to use The Google?

TRACK LISTING: Sammy Davis, Jr., "Why Try to Change Me Now?"

"Anything you want, dear, is fine, fine, fine, fine, fine."

"If you want a good joke,
why split? You'll go broke
right here."

We managed to catch the top half of a list devoted to things that should be done before one turns thirty, if one happens to be a self-described "tough guy" with a penchant for extreme sports, arcade games and, er, facials (see "mind-blowing experience" No.12).

PF wondered why the show wasn't airing on Spike, but I was wondering why, if I were to make a grand to-do list of my own, it would consist mainly of acquiring various material goods. (Also, at this point, it would have to be titled 40 Before 40.) From getting a little white MacBook to owning a house, the list would basically be the written equivalent of a shopping cart. Even the goal of "having kids" employs a verb that implies possession. Bah! My priorities are clearly in need of sorting out.

Anyone willing to rehabilitate a material girl only recently coming out of denial?

TRACK LISTING: The Replacements, "I'll Buy"

"I cannot hold it."

"I cannot control it."

This evening, a young woman -- slightly round with a curvy belly and a very full chest -- emerged from a boutique's dressing room wearing a charcoal-coloured knit tank top. The sweater was a soft cashmere; it was cute and fit her well. It was the first in a range of fashion pieces she'd modelled that wasn't greeted with head shaking from her boyfriend.

The young man was short, with a tired face and a tracksuit jacket. He smiled.

"Now imagine if," he began, but instead of finishing the sentence, he used his hands -- fingers extending straight up, palms facing each other -- to trace a much narrower silhouette in front of her body.

"Imagine that," he proposed, "with those?" He pointed to her breasts, then gathered the tips of his fingers on his puckered lips. He made a kissing noise as he flicked the fingertips toward her.

Her face turned to stone, then crumpled slightly. In a small voice, she said: "That wasn't nice."

He said: "No, I didn't mean it like that, you know." He reached out for her, and she said, again, "That wasn't nice."

He hugged her. "You know I didn't mean it like that. You have some great parts." He said, "I think I just need something to eat. Let's get something to eat." So she crumbled a little more, and he kissed her lips instead of his own this time.


TRACK LISTING: Britney Spears, "I'm a Slave 4 U"

The Sunday Night Lights: No.6

"I won't breathe
until I catch my death."


TRACK LISTING: Dash Rip Rock, "Shine a Light"

[Note: The "Shine a Light" link will lead to the "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" page; however, the audio link on this page will in fact play a clip of "Shine a Light" (as of the original posting of this entry).]

"What if I ride?"

"What if you walk?"

I know that at some point, I will have to get my driver's licence. Underground transportation in big cities is usually quite reliable, and the traffic so reliably thick, that there seems to be no point in driving a car. But what if we moved to a smaller city or town where nothing was in walking distance? What if we had kids that got sick and couldn't just hop in a cab, and no one else but me was around to take them to the doctor? What if I always felt like something was missing from my regular adult life, and I grew weary of people crying, incredulously, "You don't know how to drive?" (You should hear how they react when they discover that I don't know how to ride a bike.)

Motorists, trust me when I insist that I'd be a horrible driver, with no hand-eye coordination or depth perception whatsoever. I'd be a slow driver, terrified of causing an accident, or a speed demon, racing home before I have the chance to cause an accident. I know it doesn't make sense, and also someone once told me that nervous drivers have "great defensive skills" (hmm), but I think it's probably best that I stay off the road as long as possible.

TRACK LISTING: R.E.M., "Drive"

"If I should lose that one..."

"My wings would melt
in the sun."

Last night, in honour of my American husband, I celebrated American Thanksgiving in Canada. I am definitely not a chef -- and honestly did quite a bit of what could be called "crafty" cooking for this meal, if one were feeling generous -- but I truly enjoyed preparing and plating the various dishes. I thought it would be nice to have a spinach salad with walnuts, diced plum tomatoes and a little blue cheese dressing; some roast turkey with gravy; cranberry sauce; stuffing with chopped cranberry; a pork loin with apple butter; mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and onion; and, of course, pumpkin pie. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen and was basically shocked at how much fun I was having in there. By the time I garnished the dishes with sliced pears, walnuts and a ground nutmeg-cinnamon blend, I was certainly proud of myself, but mostly amazed at how smoothly everything went. I was lucky!

I am lucky! I'm lucky because I'm able to indulge in my fondness for food; I'm lucky because I have someone beloved with whom to share the food. Yesterday evening was wonderful and satisfying in so many ways. Evenings like that are not a rarity in my life, and that is why I'm lucky. I should celebrate every day! For every day, I am thankful.

TRACK LISTING: Ben Watt, "Lucky One"

"Well, I went and seen the doctor."

"You're goin' insane."

This post is something of a cheat, as it's really a glorified comment that probably should have been posted under the original entry. However, when PF wondered why I hadn't addressed The Trip to The Vet in my own blog entry on the same day, I couldn't explain the omission. Maybe I was just trying to repress the memory.

I mean, until Calvin's freak-out at the animal hospital -- after the vet and the nurse managed to get their hands on him -- after they tipped the cat carrier forward so it was ALMOST PERPENDICULAR TO THE EXAM TABLE, in an attempt to shake him loose from the plastic -- well, until then, I'd never heard a sound in life that could truly be described as "guttural". It was like a scene out of The Exorcist, except with a twenty-pound feline in the role of Regan MacNeil. (It must be noted that the illustration accompanying PF's entry from yesterday is as good as a photograph of Calvin at the vet.)

Last night, while sleeping on my leg, Calvin had another nightmare. He was whimpering and whimpering, like he was having rectal thermometer flashbacks, and I suddenly grew very frightened that he would snap into a waking dream and start clawing through my flesh as if I were the one trying to probe him.

Ah, bring on parenting! Bring on the sullen, cranky offspring and the endless doubt that "we're the ones who made him like this!"

TRACK LISTING: Ted Nugent, "Cat Scratch Fever"

"Good enough to eat thing!"

"And that's just a-what
I'm gonna do!"

Six hours ago, I had my first taste of this ridiculously delicious alternative to black pepper potato chips. I now declare it my new favourite snack food!

["It's like the Food Network did a Rachael Ray makeover on your basic Triscuit, and now it sizzles with amazement. Or something." -- Blandella, Nibbles and Bits.]


TRACK LISTING: Ohio Express, "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy"

"It's a sentimental jury."

"Why can't we just
look the other way?"

This guy is actually asking us to forget about what this other guy said. Apparently -- SHOCKINGLY -- there is a veritable shitload of "tangible racism" with which we should deal before we pass judgement on some idiotic actor.

Tangible racism, you say? You mean, like this?

TRACK LISTING: Interpol, "Evil"

"Got caught in a celluloid jam."

"This is how the message ran..."

This evening, I peered out of our living room window and saw a cloud of blue flames directly above the south wing of the building. It was beautiful, and momentarily stunning.

A man wearing a large face mask was wielding a blowtorch. I heard a whoosh, a low roar, and saw another ball of fire. I was mesmerized. It was surreal; it was cinematic. I didn't know what he could be doing up there, but really, I didn't want to know.

If only for a few minutes, I wanted to pretend that I lived in some fantastic world, where industrial colonies went about their business on the roof; where men and women floated around the courtyard in long robes; and a cavalcade of robots and circus performers paraded down the street. It was easy, and then it was over.


TRACK LISTING: Richard O'Brien, "Science Fiction/Double Feature"

[NOTE: This is a photo of Tony Oursler's "Braincast" (2004), taken at the Seattle Public Library (downtown branch).]

The Sunday Night Lights: No.5

"Take me through the night
to the break of day."


TRACK LISTING: The Band, "Shine a Light"

"Death comes creeping in the room."

"Crying, Oh my lord!
Oh my lord!
What shall I do?"

Today, thanks to some insincere television, I was reminded of the still terrifying, utterly depressing "pro-ana" movement. I don't know how I forgot about it; I suppose I was just wishing it was all a hoax.

It's not. RIP Ana Carolina Reston.

TRACK LISTING: Golden Gate Quartet, "Hush!"

"Crawling to work, six feet under."

"And the day
has barely begun."

Arggh.

I hate colds! I'm listless and stupefied and just plain stupid, 'cause I can't think straight, and it's partly the effect of the meds but mostly because...blah.

Alright, goodnight. I need to put myself to bed!

TRACK LISTING: Fountains of Wayne, "Sick Day"

"They're gonna wrap you up in corn silk."

"They're gonna cry
like you were spilled milk."

When I first saw the ad, I couldn't believe my ears. I thought it was the work of a sound-alike, if only because I couldn't imagine them doing this.

But why not? A friend once reasoned that the term "selling out" only applies when a band changes their approach to suit the dictates of an organization offering money. On what appears to be the classiest message board thread ever, I read an interesting, surprisingly polite discussion on the internal discord that might occur if one's "sound" is retained while singing an ode to baby back ribs. The participants don't mention that a band from Dallas could also very well love barbecue, and therefore have no problem paying tribute to it, even if the tribute is recorded for a specific restaurant chain. (I actually found this suggestion on another message board; unfortunately, that thread quickly devolved into the usual message board cliché of pointless barbs and comments posted out of sheer boredom, so I didn't bother linking to it.)

Like many of the people discussing the commercial, I won't stop enjoying the band's music. [E]ricg75 makes a good point when he writes that people don't love Gene Hackman any less just because he does voice-overs for Lowe's. I certainly don't, and I don't love Jeff Bridges any less because he lends his voice to Duracell. (Even my love for Billy Crudup wasn't diminished by his voice work for MasterCard's "Priceless" campaign; rather, my love for him was diminished by the story of him leaving his pregnant girlfriend for a much younger woman. But...that's love. It's a whole other story.)

My favourite point in the thread, however, is a different proposal by ericg75: that the people who complain about artists "selling out" should quit their jobs and form a band. His hypothesis? "I bet most would be recording jingles for Wal-Mart in no time flat."

Ah, ericg75. I hear you.

TRACK LISTING: Old 97's, "House That Used to Be"

"Transfixed by the inner sound."

"A spray of stars
hit the screen."

I have a small tube of a certain hand cream that always makes me feel like I'm fourteen again -- not because of its restorative properties, but because of its perfume. I'm not sure if it would be classified as fresh or floral; its fragrance can only really be described as "pink".

I know, and you know, that memory is closely tied to particular scents, but this is the first time that my sense of smell has catapulted me back to another decade. I remember so many details of that era, as clearly as if I was looking at a photograph or hearing an old friend's voice. The cream has stolen the exact notes of the Alberto Mousse Styling Foam I once used, and it places me back against the wall at the middle school graduation dance, waiting out a slow song and thinking about summer.

TRACK LISTING: Siouxsie & The Banshees, "Kiss Them For Me"

"Rotten to the core."

"Oh, what you won't see!"

You know what else I figured for a joke? This.

(Seriously, don't you expect to find a tiny Onion logo hidden at the bottom of one of these ridiculous pages?)

TRACK LISTING: The Rogers Sisters, "You Won't Believe It"

"We're gonna take 'em down! We're gonna take 'em down!"

"We're gonna take 'em down
in numbers one by one!"

The first time I encountered My Super Sweet 16, it was being parodied on Saturday Night Live. Scarlett Johansson was doing an excellent impression of a rich teenager freaking out over minor birthday party glitches. ("This is worse than the HOLOCAUST!") It was funny because I figured it was all a joke. A TV program like this couldn't exist outside a sketch comedy series, right? Kids don't throw tantrums like this and get away with it in real life, do they?

I once saw part of an episode of MSS16 that revolved around two wealthy East Indian girls. I cringed -- oh, lord, not brown people, too -- like South Asians couldn't be spoiled. The younger one actually said "ewww" when she discovered that a purse she'd considered buying cost "only $275," and I heard the loud clicking of shame bearing down on an ENTIRE RACE.

I know I'm one of the people who's basically making the bed for shit like this, probably every time I hit E! Online. The curiosity is morbid, which reminds me of an Italian proverb that a man named Berard referenced in an A.V. Club blog comment: After the game, the king and pawn go into the same box. Anyone up for a class war?

TRACK LISTING: You Say Party! We Say Die!, "The Gap"

The Sunday Night Lights: No.4

"I'm no captain,
just a reflection of the sea."


TRACK LISTING: Michael Knott, "Shine a Light"

"We're gonna pass out on the couch, alright. Tonight!"

"Don't talk about anything else --
we don't wanna know!"

It's amazing how much television I'll watch. It's more amazing how much bad television I'll watch. Give me a rainy Saturday, a burgeoning cold and a remote control, and it's like hypnotized. (Some might say lobotomized.) I make no apologies even though I know how lazy I am. I give the cat a run for his money (and I use the word "run" lightly)! I only get up for more French Twists (Maple French Toast flavour) and the occasional bathroom break. (Some might also say that this is one of the worst days to act so apathetically.) I'm trash.

My eyes glazeth over: respectable screwball; promotional material masquerading as "the untold story"; cartoons I've seen a million times before; and childhood nostalgia, at which point my husband returned from a thoroughly un-potatoish art gallery outing and joined the sprawl.

Train wrecks; ghostbusters; overly smug pundits; eager enumerators; crazies and backstabbers -- they seduced us. It wasn't a difficult sell. We only spent about ten minutes with most of them, anyway. The ADD-ish attention span shouldn't surprise, should it? I myself can't believe that I actually took time out to publish this entry. (However, the attention deficit and devotion to the tube didn't quite let up when I put my mind to this task; prior to writing, I spent an inordinate amount of time reading elaborate Project Runway recaps. That's right -- I read a play-by-play article about a television show I'd already watched this evening. But as long as we're on the subject of PR, I would just like to say: Damn you! Rob and Brendan, for properly introducing me to this program and the shameful pleasure of hating Jeffrey Sebelia.) We will most likely, against our better judgement, end up watching this inevitable disappointment at the end of the night. And then we will sleep the sleep of the just!

I swear I will definitely get out of the house tomorrow.

TRACK LISTING: Black Flag, "TV Party"

"How many hearts would feel the winter's wind blow..."

"...and still not turn cold?"

Linda and Alan were married today in a simple, beautiful ceremony that put many (far more expensive) weddings to shame. We witnessed their vows at City Hall instead of a church or grand ballroom; we gathered for the reception at a small bar downtown, not a banquet room or fancy restaurant.

It was the kind of wedding where the bride was stunning and the groom was beaming; where friends filled the roles of dressmaker, stylist and official photographer. It was the kind of reception where no one worried about assigned tables or speeches or formality of any kind. It was relaxed; it was fun; it was perfect. May their life together be as wonderful as this day.

TRACK LISTING: The Afghan Whigs, "True Love Travels on a Gravel Road"

"These are strange, strange, vain days we live in."

"Sometimes we all
want to give in."

While I fell asleep last night, this song found its way onto the radio and into my thoughts. I have a soft spot for Lesley Gore, but in my half-conscious state, I was irritable. Why in the hell would you take THAT GUY back? He's the one that left your party with that other girl! Remember that party? THE ONE WHERE YOU CRIED? I know you’re only seventeen, but Johnny clearly has possession issues and a violent streak, so you might as well ditch that asshole now.

I started wondering what life would be like for the poor crying girl if she were a pop princess in this decade, instead of the Sixties. I'm sure her people would tell her to Lose twenty pounds! Lighten hair! Schedule nose-and-chin job pronto! She'd basically be this girl.

TRACK LISTING: Richard Ashcroft, "Music is Power"

"Remember this sound in the dark of the town."

"Ring the alarm!"

Yesterday I remembered a long lost yet exact feeling: a yearning for an extra five minutes of sleep. It's a feeling I'd forgotten during those years in which I didn't have a regular wake-up time, in which my Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays didn't snowball into a Thursday morning that found me totally willing to donate my eyes to science, right then and there, if in exchange I could turn back the clock and stay in bed for another half-hour.

It was inevitable that my return to the day job universe would be accompanied by this feeling and its effects: the burying of the head, deep into the pillow, when I realize that one more minute will result in my being ten minutes late for work; the leaning of the body against the tiled wall above the bathtub while I wait for the shower to work its revivalist magic; the staring blankly at the clothes in the closet, completely unable to focus on a pair of pants; and the stumbling into the office, hoping that the caffeine kicks in soon. Ah, working world! You put a spell on me, because I'm yours.

TRACK LISTING: Tenor Saw, "Ring the Alarm"

"Down where your paint is cracking."

"He don't really feel
the weather."

This song played, followed by this song, and the sounds melted into each other so beautifully that I didn't really notice the rain or the chill. It was the perfect music for walking home at night, which is what I was doing when all of this hit me -- these songs, and this thought: I have always had a place to call home; I have always had somewhere I could go for the night.


TRACK LISTING: Iggy Pop, "Neighborhood Threat"

"The dictionary doesn't know the meaning of friends."

"Some you grew up with,
around the way."

I hadn't seen Eric in at least a year; in fact, it was probably two years ago that I saw him last, in Montreal. Even though we were catching each other up on past events and chance meetings with mutual friends, it felt like no time had really passed.

I'm always happy to keep in touch with my good friends, to see the people who have seen me through so many ages. I love these friends who know me so well. I love that I have known them for literally half my life, if not longer. This doesn't make me feel old; it makes me feel lucky.

TRACK LISTING: Whodini, "Friends"

The Sunday Night Lights: No.3

"When I'm lonesome
as can be."


TRACK LISTING: Spiritualized, "Shine a Light"

"It turned my whole world around."

"And I kinda like it."

I left the Shut Up & Sing screening ready to name my firstborn child after Natalie Maines.

TRACK LISTING: Dixie Chicks, "Not Ready to Make Nice"

"What you see you don't see."

"But some people,
they always see."

"I am the eyes and ears of this institution, my friends." I remember when I first heard Carl the Janitor utter this immortal Breakfast Club line. I was nine or ten years old, discovering that a trash can guarantees neither privacy nor anonymity. All that throwing personal items in the garbage ensures, I realized, is that your dirt will get dirtier.

For the most part, in offices -- given the commonplace situation of the paper shredder -- the secretaries and receptionists are the eyes and ears of the institution. Nine times out of ten, it is the secretary or receptionist who shreds each sensitive document. Nine times out of ten, they plainly see what makes the document so sensitive. The higher-ups are aware of this fact; thus, even temps like me are usually required to sign a confidentiality agreement, or at least verbally consent to maintain company secrets. Once the ink dries, of course, the guard is let down.

Receptionists working for larger businesses will often smirk at how most of the employees ignore them on a daily basis, except when they need something ordered or couriered, and anyway these requests are conveyed to receptionists by department secretaries. Granted, sometimes this can make a receptionist feel unappreciated, but there's something to be said about being more or less undetected. When people don't notice you sitting there, or choose not to notice, they tend to reduce the filter level. What comes out of their mouths can be quite amazing.

Now, imagine how loose tongues get around temps. Temps have such brief lifespans that regular employees don't even have to learn their names. There is a particular office, at which I've filled in as receptionist on a couple of occasions, where I am routinely addressed as "Rebecca" -- the name of the regular receptionist. To be fair, from the nose up, I look very similar to this "Rebecca"; moreover, the majority of the people who call me by the wrong name aren't even looking at me. So: whatever. I don't care. I'm just there for the day!

Because these people may never see me again, I am often enlisted as a confidante, as someone to whom they can vent about other employees. This sort of makeshift therapy offers the same relief as airing their grievances to their respective supervisors, without the (probably messy) ensuing mediation. I don't mind. I have no interest in spreading gossip within the office; outside the office, especially in the pages of a public diary, I carefully change the names of all my short-term co-workers. I know the legend of the blogger fired from her job for full online disclosure. I'm not ready to burn those kinds of bridges just yet.

I've heard about office romances; quirks of the bosses; and that so-and-so is SUCH a BITCH. People stage whisper the details of divorces and lawsuits; of physical and mental illnesses; and of the imminent termination of a colleague's career. There was one incident in which I forced myself to divert my attention, or at least appear as if I was diverting my attention, from a loud cell phone conversation taking place across from my desk. The employee overlooked me as a then-current, highly infamous criminal case was discussed. Normally, this water cooler stuff wouldn't faze me, but in this instance the accused was one of the employee's family members. I couldn't believe what I was hearing; I couldn't believe the employee didn't care that I was hearing it.

Again: whatever; I'll never tell; etc, etc. I'm not paid much to observe what I do, and therefore regard it as free psychological training. What wonders lurk in the human mind! and all that. It's fine if people continue to treat me like the fly on the wall, like a possible nuisance that they'll tolerate because I am presently harmless. I will continue to look, listen and learn.

TRACK LISTING: Massive Attack featuring Horace Andy, "Spying Glass"

"She couldn't help thinking..."

"...that there
was a little more to life
somewhere else."

PF commented this evening that I might have been Southern in a past life, if only because of my love for the food. I wouldn't have thought that so many of the dishes I enjoy are tied to such a specific section of the United States, but there they are: fried chicken; chicken fried steak; mixed berry cobbler; pecan pie; country ham; grits; barbecued pork; catfish; corn bread; okra; and, of course, biscuits and gravy. This sense of my hidden history is possibly diluted by the fact that I also love Southwestern cuisine, particularly the New Mexican variety. Good thing I married a man with a grandmother from Tennessee and a family that lives in Albuquerque. Too bad I can't stand sweet potatoes.

Is the way to a Southern woman's heart through her stomach? If so, I would be an easy catch. After all, PF said what he said because we were watching a television program demonstrating the art of biscuit-making, and suddenly I was very hungry. I kept repeating the word "biscuits", slowly and drawn out, like a zombie with a taste for breakfast.

TRACK LISTING: Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, "American Girl"

"So let it be known..."

"I can sure rely on you."

On the way back to our apartment building, on two separate occasions, a particular song has played through my headphones. I like to think of it as a soundtrack to that moment of returning, of relief at the end of the day.

The song itself is a brilliant interpretation of a great piece of music; while not totally different from the original, the singer takes the composition and makes it his own. Similarly, I like to make the song my own in this situation. This is not a love song -- really, it's a caustically phrased lament for lost love, in classic Morrissey style -- yet I can't help but think of it as an ode. It makes me happy. It's not quite a case of blissful ignorance, like Ronald Reagan latching on to "Born in the U.S.A." and "Pink Houses" during his presidency; let's just call it blissful ignoring. This sort of selective, accentuate the positive/eliminate the negative listening is probably just as annoying to the artist, but like a bride and groom choosing "Every Breath You Take" for their spotlight dance, I can't help how I feel when I hear this song. It's love.

I wouldn't have heard this song if it wasn't for PF. I'm not sure how he found it, but one day it appeared in our computer jukebox. It's the kind of song one wants to share: Mark C, a diehard Smiths fan, hailed it as the first time he'd heard a Smiths cover that was actually as good as the original. In the end, however, it's a song that brings me home. It always reminds me of PF, because I would leap in front of a flying bullet for him, indeed.

TRACK LISTING: Bobby Bare, Jr., "What Difference Does It Make"