all around me

I haven't even heard if I got the job in residence yet, but I'm so certain that I did well on the interview (and so anxious about what I would do if I *didn't* get the job) that I spent the better part of tonight picking out potential posters for my new suite. I know, I know - it's all imaginary. But the things that people choose to hang on their walls will tell you more about them than a 3-hour conversation. We can't help but to be reflected in what we choose to surround ourselves with. So without further ado (and hoping that the wait to hear from residence isn't going to kill me), here's my dream room(s):

The Music Room












The 'Everything Else' Room

the supernova relationship: a mid-year review

6 shows we attended together:
1. Mamma Mia
2. Wicked
3. Hairspray
4. Phantom of the Opera
5. Evita
6. Green Day

Cribbage Record: 20-19 (in a rare turn of events, Steve currently holds the lead)

6 amazing memories:
-Charity Ball. I’ve never seen him look so handsome and I’ve never felt so beautiful. We got dressed up to the nines, dominated the party and made a fashionable exit at about the same time everyone else was getting sloppy. This was also the night that I fell in love (or at least, the night that I realized it!)

-The first “I love you”. We were cuddling languidly, getting ready to watch “Singles” when he turned to me, took a deep breath and said, “what’s the statute of limitations on saying, “I love you”? My breath got stuck in my chest and I said, “are you …?”, to which he replied, “I love you, Bri”.

-The shoot-me-now anticipation of our date to see Hairspray. We both knew that we liked each other, we both were dressed to impress and when his hand brushed mine during the show, I thought I was going to explode.

-The first kiss, an explosive, can’t-get-enough-of-you plunge into a tailspin, dizzy, sexy marathon… we kissed for hours and hours and hours.

-Mornings together, lazing around in our pajama pants, watching Sports Net and reading the newspaper, passing the sports and A&E sections back and forth

-Our trip to see Phantom of the Opera, involving a fantastic 4-hour drive down to the States, getting lost in the Detroit ghetto, a scary run-in with a seemingly harmless crack addict, and the moment when the chandelier rose (the highlight of my first Phantom experience)

6 ways that we bond;
1. Playing cribbage.
2. Playing football and soccer on the field in front of his house
3. Bickering about … well, everything (what do you get when you put two stubborn, passionate people together in a relationship? Answer: bickering)
4. Making mix cds on itunes for each other (this is a big, big deal)
5. Making love
6. 6-hour msn conversations when we both should be doing something more productive

6 things that make me love him so much my chest gets tight:
1. The way he listens to me, unconditionally, without judgment and with all of his attention. If I have something on my mind, Steve always does everything he can to make me feel as though he understands.
2. Watching him play sports. There’s something so sexy about it; whether I’m sitting on the sidelines at one of his dodge ball games or watching the way he patiently tries to teach me how to throw a football (again), I’m overwhelmed and impressed with his natural athleticism
3. The fact that he is determined to help me be the best version of myself that I possibly can. He believes in me more than anyone has – whether he’s giving me advice on my grad school application or encouraging me to get back into soccer, or stroking my hair while firmly insisting that I can trust him: Steve is my biggest fan.
4. His blog. I’m reminded on an almost daily basis of how talented he is; if you haven’t been lucky enough to read it yet, check out his blog now.
5. The way he automatically moves over and wraps me up in blankets and a hug and kisses me on the shoulder when I come to bed late at night, even while he’s sleeping
6. How he knows every word to the original cast recordings of just about every show to hit Broadway in the last 20 years. Steve’s a bit shy, but I love to listen to him sing – he has an incredible voice.

6 things he is better than me at:
1. Having excessive sports knowledge (the guy is a veritable encyclopedia of facts, names, dates and other useless sports related trivia)
2. Playing the guitar, the drums and the piano
3. Writing essays, reviews, stories and songs
4. Taking fast showers
5. Navigating the Toronto subway system and successfully handling crazy and scary people.
6. Getting tickets to popular shows on ticketmaster.ca

6 ways that my life has changed as a result of him:
1. I wake up earlier in the morning and like to be in bed earlier at night
2. I eat more potatoes (his parents are British)
3. I feel more confident about living –and succeeding- in Toronto next year
4. I strive to be a better person in pretty much everything I do
5. I follow baseball
6. I can successfully throw a spiral football one out of ten tries

6 things I’m looking forward to:
1. The wedding in Thunder Bay that we’re attending. Not only do I get to see his home town and meet his childhood friends, I get to do so while being dressed up and sipping champagne. I’m a sucker for matrimony
2. Attending Pearl Jam together. The band that formed the basis of our first words to each other finally gets its moment in our collective history
3. Living in the same city. I can’t wait to be 12 (ish) subway stops away. We’ll spend more time together and we’ll also have a much easier job of balancing our relationship and the rest of our lives
4. Les Miserables. The show I’ve always wanted to see comes to Toronto this fall, and there is no one I would rather sit next to for the first time than Steve
5. Taking more trips together. New York City, Niagara Falls, Vancouver … who knows? I love to travel and I love to travel with Steve
6. Many more months of insane happiness. What can I say? I’ve found my partner in crime and I couldn’t be more glad.

wishing I had more rock n' roll fun

It's a good summer to be a music fan. Despite the fact that I missed both Weezer and Jimmy Chamberlin playing live this spring (the first due to an extraordinarily high price for a scalped single, the second due to bad timing), I'm scheduled to see Oasis, Sleater-Kinney, Pearl Jam and U2 in the next four months, and if I had the money, I would be buying tickets to the following acts without hesitation:

- The Rolling Stones (playing in the Skydome, with an as-of-yet-unnamed opening act that'll have to meet or exceed the standard set by either Gordon Downey or Eddie Vedder)
- Billy Corgan (playing music from his solo album, released next month. Is it worth the risk, given that the Smashing Pumpkins defined my musical existence from 1995-1998?)
- Ben Folds (My favorite artist .. or at least in heavy rotation in the top 5, along with the Pumpkins, Green Day, the Stones, Oasis, U2, Norah Jones, Pearl Jam and the Beatles)
- Beck (okay - this one is give or take, but I'd love to say that I witnessed the live performance of the man responsible for Odelay)
- Jann Arden (Sigh. I adore her - it's one of my more guily pleasures. But not 49.90+service charges guilty)
- Paul McCartney (again, enough said. This one defies reasoning, even if the ticket prices are through the roof)

Like - how does this happen? Sure, there's lots to do in Toronto, but when said FAVORITE MUSICAL ARTISTS OF ALL TIME are ALL coming this summer, how do I choose? If I played my cards right, the only member of my top ten left to see would be Norah Jones. The truth is, as much as I should be pumped to see Oasis, U2 and Pearl Jam, I'm in hardcore moping mode. Not so much about the smaller shows, but definitely about the Stones tour - I've got a feeling that even without officially announcing it, there's a sendoff on the horizon. And in these last chance situations, we always regret that which we did not do. If only I could put together money -any money- in time to buy the tickets.

There - I'm done whining. And if you happen to reside in a cardboard box on University, I'm incredibly sorry.

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

My faithful reader(s?). I extend a sincere apology for the late abandonment of my blog. I love writing - I really do, but lately my moods have been changing as often as my plans for the future, and I've found myself swinging in and out of a pretty sorry-for-myself state; I didn't want to, or have the energy to come here and rant, share or even confide. I'm not sure if things are looking up for me right now, or if I'm just catching the tail end of a brief good mood, but I'm back, with a quick comment (and a review of the movie "Crash" coming tomorrow morning, I promise).

In the restaurant today, I sat a couple that had just flown in from Edmonton. After the requisite Oilers/Flames banter, the lady took a good look at me, and said, "say - I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you Eastern European?" And yes, it's true. I am. And I wasn't offended by the question or even taken aback. It's just not something that has ever been brought to my attention before. I didn't realize it was so profoundly obvious. But I've now had two specific questions about my heritage from total strangers.

So I was sitting in the staff room on my break, eating tortillas and honey (which I don't have to pay for) and I asked one of the managers, Drifter, if I looked different to him. After explaining what had just happened on the floor, he confirmed that both my bone structure and body shape were distinctly Ukrainian/Polish, etc etc. In essense, I've got a pronounced nose, a short frame and I tend to put on weight around the middle. I'm like one of those four foot eight babas, digging up root vegetables for the winte, my stout body wrapped in various pieces of fabric.

And you know what? It's not something I'm embarassed about. I'm proud to be ukrainian. I'm proud of my apple shaped body and my distinct nose and the way that people can tell from my body and my face where my ancestors are from. I'm proud to look like all of the women on my mom's side of the family.

God Bless Babas. G'night, everyone

running to stand still

I've been meaning to write an entry about my frustration with cover songs, after listening (again, I'll admit) to the Indigo Girls' cover the Dire Straits hit "Romeo and Juliet", which, besides being of incredible sentimental value to me, is also one of my favorite songs. And listening to the cover makes me mad, because the whole business of covering a song is inherently fraught with potential landmines. For example:

- When covering a song (like Fuel covering "Daniel", perhaps) is a band paying homage to an inspirational artist, or are they simply too lazy to write their own music?

-What changes when a female artist sings a song written by a man (for example, when Jann Arden covered "You Don't Know Me", which included the line "I watch you walk away, beside the lucky guy". The original song was about a woman, but Arden is allegedly gay. I'll leave that one up to you)

- In what circumstances is it okay to change the lyrics? In the Indigo Girls version of "Romeo and Juliet", the lead singer (I can't be bothered to look up her name) screams out "I can't do anything, but I'd do anything for you", instead of, "I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you". Picky, I know. But it pisses the hell out of me.

- Also, who gives people the right to be idiots? Case in point: Ryan Adams recorded a cover of "Wonderwall" for an episode of "The OC" a couple of weeks ago. The next day in chapters, two teenagers (or in Steve's words, prostitots) were discussing how "beautiful" the song was. One girl went so far as to claim that "he's SUCH a good singer!" Fine. But the song was written by Oasis. In my humble opinion, if you're not old enough to remember WTSMG?, you're probably not old enough to be watching the shit that takes place on "The OC", but I digress.

That being said, at a show in San Jose, U2 pulled out a cover of "Hello", another Oasis hit, and I got really faint and tingly when I found out. Am I biased? Not necessarily. Over the course of the Vertigo tour thus far, they've also pulled out covers of the Who (I can see for miles), The Beatles (Blackbird), The Stones (Ruby Tuesday), David Bowie (Young Americans) and even Marvin Gaye (sexual healing). This is amazing.

My post, initially was going to be an inspired sermon on my born again Bono-ism. Whatever I was looking for, I found. For some reason, running through tour pictures, reading set lists and reminiscing has put me in an extremely good mood, all inspired by the fact that I wrote "it's a beautiful day" on the Lonestar driveway in sidewalk chalk today (it was). Dear Bono - I'm back. Dear Steve - I'm sorry.

Bright Lights, Big City II

Of all the people in Canada, I'm the last person who I would ever imagine hearing say the words, "Toronto's actually not that bad". Last Monday, I was sitting at a table with Eips and two other Calgarians (Jimmy and Dan Jacob) and she was lamenting on our supposed "western pride". People from the west not only manage to find each other with their western-canada equivelent to gay-dar, but they also are damn proud of it, too. That's right, I was born in the big city of Calgary, home of Peter's Drive In (with 30 milkshake flavours, it's worthy of it's own entry), the Calgary Stampede and my beloved Flames; an existance blissfully ignorant of things like OAC, subways, the "GTA" and Via Rail.

I'm not necessarily a stranger to the Toronto area, either. I spent a summer living in a classed-out condo in Mississauga (which had it's own bowling lanes ... also worthy of an entry!). I visited here frequently, from my friend Sunil's penthouse apartment on Queen's Quay, to trips home with Alana, to shopping days downtown. I never liked it. I was scared of the crazy people, overwhelmed by the traffic and disgusted by the smog
http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif
But when my bus pulled into downtown yesterday, I found myself spotting familiar landmarks (the Kinkos on university, for instance). I can now confidently name at least 5 major Toronto streets, and can semi-confidently get myself from the University Campus to Union Station on the subway. I've been to a few baseball games, seen a dead body underneath a tarp at the Danforth GO station (I have a lot of catching up to do!) and shopped in Urban Outfitters. Tonight, if I felt like it, I could have seen the Black Crowes OR Sarah Mclachlan, watched at least 100 major motion pictures and eaten food from Thailand or Chile. And over the past few days, I've actually started to say to myself ... "Hey. Toronto isn't so bad"; in fact, there are parts of it that are just plain awesome.

Now I'll be the first to admit that it's not hard to like Toronto when the trees are blooming and people are walking their dogs in the park. And it doesn't really compare to the way I feel walking down Kits Beach near my dads house (see below) , or rollerblading on the Stanley Park Seawall, or what it was like to grow up a stone's throw from Banff ... But with my Don interview @ UofT in 9 hours, I'm starting to see Toronto as a place that I can call home - at least for the next 12 months.

a true teenage wasteland

Let me just reiterate before I launch into my latest rant, that you would be hard pressed to find a bigger slurpee fan in all of Kingston, nay- all of Ontario- than me. My high school was a stone's throw from a 7-11 and I would often stop there at lunch and after school. I was the Calgary Soccer Centre's biggest concession customer, etc, etc.

But that doesn't make me a blind follower, like the girl who works at my restaurant and will purchase and wear ANYTHING that comes from American Eagle, even if it is objectively ugly (hello - frilly mini skirts do NOT look good on people over the age of 14). But I digress. The point is, Macs has outdone themselves. If you trust yourself not to vomit, take a look at this advert for their new slurpee flavour and let me know if there is anything that would make you LESS sick to your stomach.

I understand the good intentions behind creative marketing. Why call it "7-UP grapefruit" when you can call it "Pink Pucker"? Even the "Swamp Water" option (which apparently is the Lime Flavour, although I always thought it was a mix of Orange Crush and Rootbeer), is not entirely unappetizing. But bloody zit? Associating an edible product with the most disgusting body function that I can think of is a sure fire way to make people throw up into their mouths, not to create a strong, positive impression.

If you're brave enough - go and check it out. Let me know what you think. In my opinion, there had to be something better to name a Cherry-Coke slurpee. But what do I know? I'm just a lonesome ranter.

In the words of Oscar Wilde

"Dreamers can find their way by moonlight, and their only punishment is that they see the dawn before the rest of the world"

I'm never going to stop the rain by complaining

I've been really sad lately. Because of this, I've done a lot of inward thinking. As introspective as I've become, however, I've been equally apathetic about my blog, as well as things like getting out of bed before noon, changing out of pajama pants or answering phone calls. I am so sad. I think, though, that it might be good to talk about it - not to try and hide it from myself. Whether or not people read this blog is irrelevant - the fact that it's here, however, and not inside of me anymore is really important. So indulge me, if you feel like it. I've got a lot on my mind.

Sometimes I think that everything could be so simple. When I look at the world around me, I see a million shades of gray - subtle nuances and details that are useless to dwell upon, but likewise equally fascinating. I love to think. I love time by myself to not have to be anyone for anything. I don't know where I'm going with this, but I know that there has to be an easier, less tormenting way to live than to be a thinker, or a dreamer, or whatever label I casually try on. Like, it doesn't have to be this much of a struggle all the time, does it?

I need three things to be happy. A place where I feel home, people who love me, and inspiration. I don't know how to find this. I don't know how to get along without it.

My family is coming out in June and instead of being excited about celebrating my graduation, I'm anxious and upset and guilt ridden. My dad will be here for 5 days, which isn't that important except that I haven't EVER been able to spend more than 5 consecutive hours with him before breaking down. My grandparents want to take me out for dinner, my mom is going to be alone, and I'm going to be working full time on top of it. I can't take the idea that everyone is going to be looking to me to please them, when it's supposed to be my happy day.

When have I ever asked for the indulgence to be selfish?

I'm sad because I'm lonely. I'm sad because things are changing. I'm sad because I'm homesick. I'm sad because I've let people down. I'm sad because I don't feel beautiful. I'm sad because I don't know where my path is. I'm sad because I wake up in the morning and worry about money. I'm sad because I don't know how to make myself happy.

So tomorrow, I'm going to do what I can. I'm going to write about things I'm grateful for. I'm going to do yoga when I wake up. I'm going to see a movie with a friend. And I'm not going to indulge in being sad -- I'm sick of letting myself feel this way. I have so much to be happy for right now.

And, by the way, I actually feel a little bit better. Thanks for listening.

-b

come pick me up, I've landed

I've lived in a lot of places over the past four years. What started as a settled family of three in a comfy bungalow in south-western Calgary with wood panels and shag carpeting in the basement became a cross country adventure that included:

- a one-floor, three-room doll apartment that me, mom, regan and three dogs crammed into in spring of 2001. 2 other girls shared the house with us but lived in the basement. Our computer and desk, kitchen table and chairs, TV and couches were all crammed into a room smalller than my current bedroom.
- living with my grandparents in Vancouver when we first moved there (I slept on the couch)
- a townhouse in Port Coquitlam which we affectionally called "the fishbowl", because everyone in the complex knew everyone else's business
- a large, ground floor study room that became my dorm for 8 months, shared with a girl from Kewlona named Nahri who liked Audrey Hepburn and Hello Kitty
- The basement suite on William and Aberdeen, where I painted my tiny little bedroom sky-blue, and raw sewage leaked through the ceiling of our kitchen into waiting pots below
- Michael Dix's house on Vancouver Island, a stone's throw away from a secluded beach where I loved to visit and write in my diary
- 41 Toronto Street, my first real 'house'. We had a driveway, a barbeque, a real back yard with trees and lilacs and flowers, a fake fireplace that would expell heat from the furnace when you jiggled the wires right, and a family of mice that we couldn't trap all of, no matter how many we caught (fast breeding, we think)
- The 7th floor bachelorette pad that my mom moved into last year (in the same building as her parents!)
- 132 Earl Street. Gorgeous (GORGEOUS) house. Crazy landlord. Even crazier housemates
- My present location (294 Barrie) which is close to the grocery store, clean enough, cheap, and allows me to play 8-bit nintendo whenever my little heart desires.

My point is, doing all of this moving has made me realize the subtle difference between the meaning of house and home. 'House' is my walls, my shower, my fridge and my bed. House changes as I change and I'm sure it will continue to change as I move into the different stages of adulthood. Home, however, is a feeling. It needs no walls, no front lawn, no bedroom (although it may certainly be these things). Home, for me, is when Steve meets me at the bus station and envelops me in a giant hug. Home is when I'm reading to my sisters. Home is where I feel safe and loved.

I like the idea that with Steve, I'm home. That's the only place I need to be.

Febreeze

Besides from being my nickname in high school, febreeze is the god-loving stuff that really works. Every day after my shift, I take my uniform down to the basement, hang it from one of the water pipes and spray the hell out of it. The next morning, it's clean, softly scented and retains no fajita residue. No, seriously - I come home every day smelling like a mexican border jumper.

I was spraying last night, and was reminded about another Febreeze incident. When my soccer team and I used to travel to tournements, we would often play three games a day and wouldn't have time to clean our uniforms between matches. And we weren't girlie soccer try hards - we sweat, got really dirty, and smelled like a boys changeroom after every game. Especially when it was raining outside. So we would all pile into one hotel room, lay out our socks and kits, and take turns febreezing them and sticking hairdryers inside to try to dry them off for the next game. It's funny what kind of random memories you hang on to, hey? I haven't thought about soccer tournements in years.