Makes Me Frown

Yup.

If you’re in Toronto you’re feelin’ me.

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TIFF 2012 – Expectation vs. Reality

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Mini-Trip to NY: Day Two

So I was staying a luxury hotel overlooking Central Park, and when I checked in they were all like “OH!  Would you like your regular, super-wicked fancy-ass room?” and I was all like “Obviously.”


Thank God for the Chess set, as I enjoy spending many-a-time playing the Chess.


Yawn.  This was my view.


While taking this picture, I was petrified of dropping my iPhone and accidentally killing someone via “accelerated gravity-induced iPhone to the head”.

Seriously, though, I was actually there to “work”.  When I say “work”, I mean hanging out in the Presidential Suite of a luxury hotel over-looking Central Park, taking pictures of myself like a baller while supervising a video shoot.  Yes, I know it’s basically exactly the same as my last trip.  Deal with it.

Except this time I was an “extra” in the shoot, so I got to get my hair and makeup done by a professional make-up artist.  WHAT????

Incidentally, I was coming down with a cold and my makeup artist (who is Russian), told me to use these Russian nose drops that you basically put into your nose and it burns like the fire of a thousand suns and then you are cured.

Some of it accidentally went in my mouth and I was worried I was going to have radiation poisoning or Dioxin poisoning or something else dramatic and Russian-mafia-esque.  But I survived.

ALSO.  I bumped into Lionel Richie in the lobby.  Whaaaaa?  Yeah.  He literally hasn’t aged a day since the 80’s.  Here is an artist’s rendition (note Lionel’s sweet ‘stache):

ANYways, after my fabulous stint as a movie-star-slash-extra-because-I-was-the-only-person-there, I headed down to the lobby bar for a fancy drink and dinner before coming home.

While in the bar, I got approached by a man.

An old man.  I’m not being mean.  He had a cane and could barely stand.  Pants up to armpits.  Like, I was so concerned that he was going to fall over from his weak standing ability that I rushed to get him a chair next to me.  Big mistake.

He talked to me all nice-like for a while about his wife and kids while I tried to eat my dinner.  Since I am a nice person who is unable to be mean, I humoured him for about 20 minutes while trying to eat my fried portobello mushrooms.  Then this:

Old Guy: This is going to sound strange but when I see something I like I just go for it
Me: *awkward smile while eating fried portobellos*
Old Guy: You are so pretty.  I would like to call you some time
Me: *starting to choke on portobellos*
Old Guy: Can I give you my number?
Me: Oh… no… no… that’s ok.
Old Guy: No, I want you to have it.
Me: Oh… no… no… I don’t think so.
Old Guy: Take my number please I really want you to have it.
Me: *awkwardness* Ummm fine ok fine I guess.
Old Guy: *starts writing number and his HAND IS SHAKING SO MUCH FROM OLDNESS THAT HE CAN’T COMPLETE IT* I’ll just tell it to you and you can write it down.
Me: *extreme, powerful awkwardness mixed with pity for old man* Uhh… ok fine.

I then got up to leave in a hyper-rush to get the FUCK out of there.  Seriously, I was like a termite running under the fridge when the light turns on.

Old Guy: I REALLY hope you call me.  Seriously.  I really hope you call me.
Me: *BLURRRRG!!!!*

My hypothesis is that, for some reason, even though I was wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, and was very unattractively eating a plate of fried mushrooms, and even though I mentioned REPEATEDLY that I was there on business and was flying out in a couple of hours, he thought I was a prostitute.

This is the last thing I’m going to say about this.  MAYBE I was mistaken that he thought I was a hooker.  MAYBE he just gave me his number to talk.  However, note that my “he likes me” radar is GROSSLY underdeveloped – I always assume that no guy ever likes me ever, and it is very difficult to convince me otherwise… and here I was 100% convinced that this man had just solicited me for sex.

So this: what kind of fucked-up world is this where a chick can’t eat by herself at a bar in a hotel without a guy assuming she is a prostitute?  This happened to me when I was travelling in Austin, too.  By a similarly old man (the young men do not enjoy me, apparently). Like, I said about 60 times that I was there for work.  WHAT the FUCK.  CHICKS HAVE JOBS.  JOBS THAT AREN’T HOOKING.  THEY NEED TO EAT.

So then I went to the airport and my flight was cancelled.

Till the next morning.  YEAH.  BALLS.

You know what else was balls?  The fact that there was some mystery event or some shit going on in NY and EVERY SINGLE HOTEL ROOM IN THE WORLD was booked.  Seriously.  I called like 20 hotels.

I ended up having to call my boss, who happened to still be in town, and sleep on her room’s pull-out couch for the night.  The end.

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SUBWAYS

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:(

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Weekendly Things

I haven’t been taking too many pictures lately, mostly because I keep forgetting to charge my phone then I have to save every last bit of phone juice for pithy facebook comments-slash-googling pictures of hot boys.

Which means a lot of this post will require reading, but you can handle it. I have confidence in you.

Friday night Sarah got much-coveted tickets to the Bahamas concert, mostly due to her connections and all-around babeliness.  It is beneficial having a babely friend when you are significantly less babely because then she can get things with her babeliness and give them to you.  Which she did.  With a ticket to the show.

I don’t go to shows too often because I like to sit on my ass and listen to music while drinking wine in my house in my underwear, where I don’t have to deal with stupid people or washroom line-ups, but this was a good show.  You know when you’re at a show and the bass is like, so loud and well-timed that you’re all like “YES YES YES you are in beat with my heart, you attractive singer-songwriter, you.  We should probably get married.”.  Yeah, that totally happened.

 

The only bad thing was that I decided to run to the washroom 2 minutes before he went on and then when I got back Sarah and Julia had taken the initiative to move up to the front.  Being a total coward, I am physically and psychologically unable to push through crowds, so I stood by myself at the back of the bar for the whole time, swaying awkwardly with strangers…

… or as I like to call it “going to jam” by myself in the corner. 

Honestly, that wasn’t bad at all, it was just the four guys behind me who kept saying things like “This is boss.” and “This is the sickest track. I love this track.  Sickest track on the album”  SICK TRACK?  Who says that? WHAT IS THIS?  2004? 

The plan was to go to some art show thing at Brickworks, but then there was a line up of SIXTY BILLION PEOPLE so we decided to go to Pizza Pizza instead.

We probably sat in the Pizza Pizza for like 2 hours talking about stuff and business and eating pizza, and Sarah (maybe) almost got robbed, and then we went home and I ate an additional two hot dogs.  Really, they were called “frankfurters” on the packaging, which I thought was SO FUNNY in the middle of the night.  Like it said “Put the frankfurter in boiling water” HA HA H AHAAAA.  I kept saying “frankfurter” in my mind for the next four days and giggled every time. 

Saturday I had lofty plans to walk around aimlessly and maybe buy a leather jacket (because 4 leather jackets is clearly not adequate), but instead it turned into this:

Which of course turned into this:

Little known fact: Ossington has turned into a fucking disgusting douchebag SHITHOLE.  We danced at Huey’s for a bit, which was fun, but while my two nice, relatively sober friends and I were standing outside, politely trying to get a cab, a tiny-nutsacked-loser THREW A FULL TALL CAN OF BEER AT US from a cab.  It smashed against the *Escalade* that was parked next to us and fucking exploded everywhere, narrowly missing Karen’s head.

Five minutes later a gross souped-up corvette thought that the car in front of him was going too slow, popped it into 3rd and gunned into oncoming traffic to pass him, narrowly missing groups of drunk people trying to get cabs.

You are all gross.

Anyways, I finally got a cab and the following conversation ensued:

Cab Driver: You seem like a nice lady – all of the people on that street were crazy.
Me: I KNOW – someone threw a beercar at us for no reason.
Cab Driver: You know where the best fares in the whole city are?
Me: No, where?
Cab Driver: That club Wicked.
Me: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  Really?
Cab Driver: Yes, they are all very excited to go home and get on with the rest of their night.
Me: *laughing* Yes, because their night is just beginning.
Cab Driver: Yes – you know you should go to Wicked.
Me:
Cab Driver: It is only $10.00 for you to get in.
Me: You mean for ladies?
Cab Driver:  Yes.  Do you know how much it is for men?  $80.00.
Me:
Cab Driver:  And even then sometimes they don’t get what they are paying for.
Me:
Cab Driver: You should go to Wicked to see it, you know.
Me:
Me:
Me: WELL HERE IS MY HOUSE BYE GOTTA GO.

The actual conversation was about 30 times longer and involved many more encouraging statements about going to Wicked.

Anyways.  On Sunday I bought these mustard yellow witchy vintage Ferragamo shoes.  They might be a *little* too witchy, but you can suck my nut.

Please note my wrinkled up blue socks and how they make my feet look like blue pig hooves.

And now you are fully updated.

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Don’t Mind Me

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same song again and again

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Les Balls

Some blogger took a picture of me.  I look like a pregnant hobo.

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