Another Year

Sheesh. How did this happen? 2006 is gonzo, and a whole new year, with it's ding-dangly opportunities, taunting unknowns and mind-bending twists in the proverbial road is upon me.

Maybe this year will be the year I...

... get paid what I'm worth.
... take a real vacation.
... spend more time with my friends, and less with my work. (yeah, right)
... meet a man over 35 that isn't psychotic, messed up, married, desperate or angry that can string together 5 words and doesn't eat like a pig, hump my leg in public or smash beer cans on his head.
... buy a real couch. Like a new one.
... go to the art gallery once every three months. And the theatre, too.
... start my sommelier training. For real.
... learn to not take crap personally and take power from being inoffensable.
... drink better wine, not more wine. (Who am I kidding?)
... get my wisdom teeth pulled out, instead of bearing the pain so I can work more.
... eat well everyday, not just the three days after payday.
... lose 20 pounds and get some muscle tone back so that carrying groceries up the stairs doesn't give me a coronary.
... stop looking for greener pastures and make the best of what I have, without being bitter or ungrateful.
... start writing my book. Not just taking notes, but like putting the damn thing together.

2006 wasn't a bad year, per se; it set up 2007 nicely. But it was a year of hard work, decisions and a lot of frustrations. Some acceptable losses, others are regrettable. All in all not a bad year, but certainly not one that I would drag out any further.

I'm not usually susceptible to NY hopefulness, but this year I am certainly looking forward with a smile, and not a furrowed brow. This will be good.

Best wishes to all of you out there in blog-land.

Boxing Day

Well, it's over. Yesterday I ate too much, drank too much egg nog and went home feeling bloated and gross. Happy Holidays. Ugh.

But Boxing Day is always a nice day for me. I don't shop on Boxing Day, because I'm not an idiot. I like it for two reasons; I used to work in retail and always had to work today. And it was a living hell of women fighting over 9 dollar jeans and trying to bargain at the 500-person line-up cash desk. Crazy. The other reason is that it's just a quiet reflective day. Play with my presents, have a coffee, bundle up and head to the pub. I won't talk to too many people today. Just hermit-it-up and try not to think about how many calories I ate yesterday and how many people that would have fed in another country. Does Bono have a big turkey dinner? If he does I would be somewhat relieved.

James Brown died on Xmas Eve, in his typical dramatic fashion. What a life. We know so little of his music - there are hours and hours of songs that you haven't heard. That I haven't either. But evidently there's a 6 hour radio show, just him. 6 hours. I will safely say there are no young artists out there, save perhaps Vance Gilbert and Martin Sexton, maybe a few others, that I think could do a six hour show of their own material. Insanity.

It's off to the pub for me!

Crazy Bitches Everywhere

I am in awe. My gender never ceases to disappoint me. I have grown weary, and perhaps even a smidge irate, at the endless moaning and whinging about how horrible men are, while we chicks wander about stalking people, throwing fits and generally acting like two year olds. Not to say that men don't exhibit the same behaviours, but that's the point.

We're ALL crazy bitches.

I don't think I really know anyone who isn't nuts. Nuts is the new normal. If you don't have a quirk, you likely don't have a pulse. Sure, this makes for great dinner parties, but it sucks when it comes to interpersonal relations.

Aside: There is nothing, in my opinion, more beautiful than watching a Guinness cascade.

Back to it - people's insanity. I mean really.

I'm sitting in my living room, reading. The phone rings. It's Peter. After ribbing me for not being able to keep up with his drinking (He's 6'4 and Danish fer Chrissakes), he launches into this story about this chick he was dating that has gone bunny boiler on his ass. He had just gotten off the phone with her (she hung up on him) and as he took a deep breath to go into detail, she shows up at his door. This means she literally hung up the phone and sped to his door. WTF? To be angry at him? To tell him he's horrible for dumping her? Grab a shred of dignity and stay the fuck off his doorstep, you drama-seeking, thirty-something, validation vacuum. I don't get it. I don't do this. I do other things that are crazy, but I'd like to think that my quirks are charming and non-threatening. I could be wrong. I'll have to think about that.

Tomorrow I am hosting a party. SO far there will be myself, my sister and 8 guys. None of my female friends can come. This should be interesting.

At any rate, rant ends.

One must ask why...

...why the hell do we subject ourselves to the maddeningly stressful frustrations that guise themselves as pleasantries and chuckles also known as dating?

What is UP with guys in their mid thirties? Sheesh. I had hoped that the pubescent age discrepancies would have balanced by now, but evidently not. Perhaps my expectations are too high, but dammit guys, YOU keep telling me that you're all grown-up!

If you want something, you reach out and take it. You don't see how long it will sit on the shelf for, then chase after the clever person that sauntered by and said "Hum! Look at this!", begging for them to give it to you, since you saw it first.

CHRIST!

Just call the girl already. Ask her out, tell her she's cute. SOMETHING. In the meantime, she's thinking, "Well, I'd kinda hoped that he'd call, but the other one did instead, so I guess I'll go out with Plan B." And why doesn't she call him, you ask, dear reader? BECAUSE HE DIDN'T GIVE HER HIS PHONE NUMBER. She gave him hers, with the gross assumption that when a man says, "Hey, I'm a man, I like to drive the bus." he MEANS IT.

I'm at the end of my tether. I have people telling me that if I call or email first, he'll get intimidated or whatever, and I should wait for him to call, to initiate, to make the first, second and twentieth moves. This is such a load of bullshit as I have never known it. I hate waiting. I hate pretending I'm not interested in someone so that they'll be interested in me. What the sweet fuck is THAT about? Misogynistic freak shows.

Ok I'm fine now.

Another night...

This was an email I sent to friend of mine. It was written last summer, but still makes for a ha-ha read. I would love to say that the events are embellished, but they ain't.

Subject:
Another Night...
Good morning! I am sitting at my desk at home, Starbuck's coffee steaming, radio humming in the background. I had such an evening last night I felt compelled, nay, obliged to write it down. And who else to write to? None so deserving as you, my friend. None so deserving as you.

The evening started simply enough. I was to meet Neil, whom I had dated previous to dating you, for a friendly night of watching his other ex-girlfriend, who is a celebrity impersonator, perform at the casino down here on the quay. Her name is Bonnie. As he approached me on the boardwalk, I was a tad shocked to see him walking with a blonde, slightly chunky, badly dressed girl. She was wearing thick-soled clunky faux leather shoes. 'Nuff said. Who the hell was this? He wasn't bringing a date to see his two ex-girlfriends, was he? I mean he was kinda stupid, which is why we ceased relations, but really... (KIDDING MONKEY) Oh, no no. Not to worry. She's another ex-girlfriend. She was first, then Bonnie, then me. Her name is Andrea. So Neil, Andrea and I headed into the casino.

Now, I have never set foot on the floating monstrosity that is the Royal Star Casino. And I never really wanted to. I had observed the types that entered and these are the people I typically avoid. Most of them are from Surrey and they think coming over to New West is a big deal. And perhaps it is.

We skipped the actual casino areas and found our way to the Hurricane Deck, which was where the stage was. It was a strange set-up. The room looked like it was typically used for banquets, and people were sitting at tables that were placed in no sensible arrangement. Some of the tables were round, some were rectangular. Chairs were spewed about with old people sitting, fanning themselves in the muggy, too close for comfort, non-air-conditioned, badly-decorated-in-old-Showboat-fashion room. Some woman asked for our money and our names and waved us in.

There was one bar, a makeshift thing, at the entrance, with one person slinging drinks. There were about 25 people waiting in a line that didn't seem to be moving at all, and the one bartender didn't seem to care. Slow as molasses. There was no sign of any servers. I shot Neil a look. He knows how I feel about waiting for alcohol. He put his hands up in defense and said "Hey, sugarplum, I don't know what's going on either." Great. I pushed him toward the bar line up. "Beer," I muttered. Andrea and I perused the room, looking for empty seats. I grabbed a couple of chairs at the back, just in time for Neil to return empty-handed. "Line's not moving, I'll go back in a minute," he offered.

Now at this point, I'm already thinking this is a horrible waste of a Saturday night. Andrea is sitting, mousily fiddling with her purse, looking at my shoes. I wanted to deck her, or give her a make-over. Something. I send a few SOS text messages, and hope for a nibble. Neil sends me a text message from two seats over. "Stop texting". I stick my tongue out at him and nod at the lack of line at the bar. "Go."

He returns with beer, which in the heat of the room, goes down cold and quick. I feel better and turn to be social with Ex-girlfriend number one. We chat, about what I don't recall. The show starts. Three more beers. The show ends. Granted, Bonnie's got pipes -- she sounded great and she does a mean Cher impersonation. We say our hello's and our compliments. We all laugh at the fact that Neil is surrounded by three ex-girlfriends. I catch a glimpse of the three of us in a mirror, Bonnie in her Cher outfit, me in my stilettos, Andrea still fidgeting, now staring at Bonnie's cleavage that is accentuated by the corset she's wearing. And it strikes me -- Geek, Chic and Freak. I laugh to myself at my stellar cleverness.

Neil wants more beer, so he comes up with the ingenious idea to go to The Foggy Dew. We take a cab over and as we arrive, I swear loudly. "There's a fucking LINE for the pub? FUCK." Neil assures me that we can get in -- he knows someone who slept with a bartender or some such thing. We walk toward the door. They're frisking people as they enter. This does not bode well. We are refused guest list privileges. My hackles begin to rise and I interrupt the doorman's no-one-gets-in-get-in-line-I-am-the-gatekeeper speech. "Let's just fucking go, Neil." Andrea begins to shuffle her feet. My anger is making her uncomfortable. Neil thinks he can work magic on the door guy. I take one look at the door guy and know he's a suburban club door guy. A complete prick. I begin to walk toward the taxi stand. Neil eventually follows. Andrea is looking worried and frantically asks "So what are we going to do?" as if the universe is falling apart due to lack of Foggy Dew.

We head for The Drive. I finally get a text message from Colin, my producer friend. He's in the studio, do I want to meet for a beer? Sweet jesus thank you. We get to Toby's on Commercial. I slam back a beer, kiss Neil on the cheek, pat Andrea's drooping-due-to-bad-posture-shoulder and run for the Skytrain like a screaming but well-heeled banshee. Colin picks me up at Stadium station. He laughs at me -- "Too much suburbia for you tonight?" I roll my eyes in response. "Where to?"

So I suddenly remember that Mark at Chambar had told you and I about a new place. Lolita's. We head for Davie Street. It's there... just past Jervis. It's small, cozy and they're serving. Perfect. We sit at the bar, and I start picking apart the menu. It's mexcian-ish. I order tacos and a Dos Equis Amber. Satisfied that my needs are now being tended to, I turn around to check out the room.

As I spin in my seat, I catch someone staring intently at me in my peripheral vision. I can't quite recognize them without really looking, though, so I do the casual glance thing. Oh fuck. It's an old lava guy that I really don't want to talk to, but oh, no, that's not possible. He walks up to me and starts asking me why I haven't called him. Colin, of course, while highly entertained, is concerned that this person is just being an ass, so he makes some "hey buddy" comment. Maybe he called him "guy". I don't remember, but Ian, the "guy", loudly told him to fuck off and that if I wanted him to go away I'd tell him, and who are you anyway, fuck head? He called him fuck head. Priceless. The bartender comes over and asks if everything is ok. nod and wave as I'm trying to think of how I can stab Ian in the chest with my fork and get away with it. I tell him, calmly, that I really have nothing to say to him, that he's making a scene, and perhaps he should sit down with his, oh yes, DATE, and get on with his evening. This chick is sitting there, glaring at ME as if this is my problem, fire bursting from her eye sockets. He sits down loudly. I begin, perhaps unwisely, to laugh. And I can't stop. The table next to the lovely couple is chuckling as well.
This exacerbates the problem.

After a few more minutes of drunk Ian flailing and at one point almost crying?, the bartender escorts him and his chippie out the door. Someone anonymously buys me a shot of tequila.

See what you're missing?

But when you get back into town, we should definitely go to Lolita's. You'd like it there. Maybe Ian will be there. Maybe I'll be banned. Or get paid as entertainment.
Be well,
xo
C

Back Atter

Well, so much for my commitment to write every day. Maybe I should start with every week as a goal, and go from there. Maybe.

I have re-entered the dating realm. I'm sure you've all heard, as this fact is so bloody newsworthy it reeks of tabloid ink and sweaty reporters hats.

I signed up on Plenty of Fish - a completely free dating website. I like it - it's better than Lavalife, in my opinion, mostly because there are more people on it, but also because it's free - so contacting people doesn't ding you a couple of bucks.

At any rate, I've gone a couple of dates. Like real dates, where you dress up and feel awkward and stupid and repeat lines you heard on tv, praying they don't recognize the line. When I hear that he doesn't watch tv, I feel relieved.

The first victim was a computer software guy, very tall. Blonde. Extremely smart and funny. We ate oysters and drank beer at Rodney's, then headed over to George for martinis. 5 martinis, to be exact. It was a very good date, and we agreed we should see each other again. So we had lunch the following week. Both of us had work on the brain, so lunch was subdued. Or so I thought.

A week later he emailed me to tell me he had met someone and that someone was sparklier than me, but he "really likes me so can we be friends, for real, not like "that"." I agreed on paper. But then I started thinking about it - is that getting a fair deal? He gets my wit, charm and occasional platonic company AND he gets to go bonk someone else. I'm not sure about this agreement, but I'll keep you posted. I suppose I could turn that around and think that he's the one getting the raw end of the deal and that I should be happy to be spared the doldrums of relationship, but, no. I don't think that's the case.

The second date was a smash hit. SMASH. Funny as hell. My jaw hurt the next day. (from laughing, thank you very much). We had a snack and a drink then bought beer and hung out at his place and talked for 6 hours. Somewhere around hour 4, we changed into baggy t-shirts and Thai pants - the wide legged things you tie at your waist. Super comfy. The whole date was super comfy. Golly I hope he calls me, I do I do. Damned fine kisser, too. Nothing worse than getting to the end of an evening, and have a bad kiss ruin everything. Tsk. But not the case here. He knew what he was doing and yes I wanted more, but no I didn't. So there.

And I have more, yes MORE stories to tell, but I will pace myself and save something to write about next week.

By the way - go to Abigail's Party on Yew, grab a bottle of Masi Campo for 40 bucks and the Goat Cheese Pave, pictured below. Say hi to Andrew.

Funny funny funny

I had the good chuckle.

Restaurants, Comedy and Long Weekends

A smidge of history: I have worked in around and through restaurants, catering and food/booze for a looong time. Even when I didn't work for restaurants, I was involved consulting or just being an opinionated bitch. I am one of those people who evaluate restaurants in a sweeping glance. Food, service and bar had better be what the decor suggests it to be, or I get, shall we say, disappointed? That said, I love eating out; the culture, the entire experience of being taken care of and fed is one that I will never grow tired of. There are few restaurants that take this as seriously as I would hope. But those that do, get my money. Frequently.

The biggest loot vaccuum is most certainly Chambar. I cannot gush words of love enough to describe how this restaurant leads the Vancouver restaurant scene, on every level. I walk in and feel like a million - and they give me a million, one at a time. The staff, the food (sweet lord help me now, the venison) and the drinks are simply on. I have never ever EVER had a negative experience there, and I have been there a lot. Like three-times-a-week-at-one-point-a-lot. And everytime I recommend it, the people come back with thanks and glowing reviews.

Another is Le Gavroche. It's French, it's swish and old school in all the right places. Go there. Eat and dig into that wine cellar.

People frequently will say, "Yeah, but isn't it expensive?" Yup. You get what you pay for. If you buy a cheap car, you get a shitassed car. Buy cheap food where they chase cheap labour and shortcuts at every turn, that's what your food will taste like. And it's how it will be served to you. Parsley and orange slice for garnish. Cold, wet plate. Glasses from your grandma's house. Velvet paint-by-numbers paintings of Mexican cowboys on the wall, accented by plastic flowers and those eerie barbie doll/knitted toliet paper covers that someone bought at a church rummage sale. And they'll likely be playing country. New country, too. Ick.

-------

Dane Cook. Where did this guy some from? I've seen "Waiting". I though he was some bit actor that had a funny streak. Holy shit this guy is HUGE, like huge overnight huge. And no kidding he's huge, he's hilarious. Check him out on myspace or at danecook.com. Worth the trip. He does the best "girl" I've seen. Nails us to the wall. "Vicious Circle", his HBO special, is out there on the interweb. Filmed live in front of 18,000 people. Nuts.



--------

I'm on my third giant cup of coffee. I slept in until 1 pm. I am relaxed and have no intentions of moving out of my apartment until after 10 p.m. Sweet ass. Happy Thanksgiving.
Out.
C

Happy Birthday and Goodbye

Cleopatra Jones is dead. OK, well, actually Cleo will live forever, but Tamara Dobson died today at the age of 59. (http://people.aol.com/people/article/0,26334,1542781,00.html)

Alexander Keith would have been 211 years old today. Another reason to drink beer all night. Whoo.

We had our office Thanksgiving lunch today. Wine in the middle of the day, while relaxing, makes for a complete waste of an afternoon. I've felt drowsy and mellow and unfocused. Not a bad lunch though. Got to sit next to a cute guy. Whoo.

I'm off to the pub. I'm wearing loud beads in memoriam of Cleo.
C

End of the Day

You know when you're so tired and drained from a day at work that the drive home seems like the worst possible thing ever? And then you think about the stairs, the neighbour wanting to chat, the key in the too-heavy door, the messy apartment that you want to have cleaned but don't have the energy to call the cleaning chick and even if you did she's likely out being young and energetic and running about gathering roses while she may, then the fridge door, the emptimess of the fridge, the hum of the freezer, mocking you endlessly that you should have bought groceries when you had more energy, the thought process of whether or not you should even eat, cuz what is there to eat anyway and you'll be damned if you go OUT to eat, but you're hungry so you eat a box of Wheat Thins and pass out on the couch, so you figure what the hell, might as well stay at work and avoid all of that.

That's how tired I am.

Pretending to Work

It's a funny thing to be typing away, fooling the universe into believing that I'm a productive employee. So let's see... first real post, what to say? I guess a wee intro is appropriate.

I'm a 34 year old Marketing Manager and Production Coordinator for a 60 unit restaurant chain in Western (soon to be Eastern, too) Canada. I am divorced, no kids, no pets. I have managed to keep two house plants alive. That's the extent of my commitment level right now.

Work is a big deal. This job is the big push -- the challenge that will define my career for the rest of my life. It's a humbling experience to look at what you do to make money and know that it's such a huge rudder in guiding the bulk of your life. The people I meet, where I go to eat, travel, house and home, the car I drive, what I do with my free time, even how I feel about politics and world events are touched by if not directly forced by work. I guess some may say that's a bad thing.

Relationships wise things are slow. I few years ago I was serial dating. Had some fun, had some heartache. Now I'm just too damned busy. I never thought I'd be too busy for sex, but I am. I'm getting old. Shit. Recently broke up with a boyfriend. Just not on the same wavelength. Oh well. Another one bites the dust. Sometimes I think I should have married the guy I dated in college.

Then I wake up.

(Oh lordy lord, I'd have four kids, be fat-assed and living in Utah. There's a visual.)

I'm still peripherally involved with the music industry. I sit on an advisory board for a music school, representing the retail end of things. Music is still a passion of mine. Nothing will ever replace it. I was listening to an old old tape of the choir I was in during my one big year of college. Brought back a lot of memories. What I would give to go on Choir Tour again. Ha. I think if I went back to visit myself when I was in college I would have some very risque advice to give myself. Mostly about one night with a basketball player. Dayum.

I digress. (It's my blog, so I guess I can't really digress, can I?)

Okokokokokokok, the boss is getting suspicious.
Later, yo.

what have I done?

oh dear dear dear me. this cannot be a good thing.

stay tuned. debauchery, violent opinions and other horrifyingly tedious errata of my life soon to come.

oxx
C