De agony of de feet

Now here's something weird. I got a really bad cold and I was so tired I didn't run for two weeks. Instead, I tried to get some extra sleep. The good news? I got over the cold, eventually. The bad news is that after two weeks of not running, my feet were killing me. It made no sense. I've been having pain from arthritis and bunions on my feet and I thought my shoes were causing it. But after a whole weekend in bed, without even wearing shoes, I was in agony.

Finally, I put on my runners and went out for a run. My feet felt 10 times better afterward. The same thing after I went running again later in the week. I realized that running actually helps! In fact, the only time my feet really feel good is when I'm running. And not running makes my arthritis flare up, which affects the bunions. Oh, and I lost three pounds this month.

Want some gouging with that guacamole?

So I go to my favourite faux-Mexican takeout place for lunch. The place where I used to be able to get two soft chicken tacos packed with fillings, plus a handful of nacho chips and salsa and a can of pop for about $7.50. And guess what? They have jacked up their prices. Now, I can live with that, to an extent. Prices do go up sometimes. But when the guy starts making the tacos, I can see that he's not even putting in half as much stuff as before. A teaspoon of chicken, a drop of salsa, a smidgen of cheese, a teensy pinch of cilantro ... I feel like Oliver Twist watching gruel being spooned oh so sparingly into my bowl. Finally, the guy puts this pathetic excuse for a meal into a takeout box and rings it in. The total comes to $8.91. Which is bad enough. But when I hand the guy a $20-bill, he doesn't say thank-you. He says: "Ya gotta penny?" The nerve.

I look through my coinage but the smallest I have is a nickel. Nope, that's not good enough, he says. He wants a penny. Well, I don't have one. But there's a plastic cup next to the till, and it's full of the little buggers. So I pull one out and say: "Here's a penny!" and I give it to him. He looks at me like I just stole the Crown Jewels. "That's our tip jar!" he says, all outraged and indignant. I'm now officially flabbergasted. I give the guy a twenty and he's bitching about a penny? All because he doesn't want to bother making change? HUH?

He tosses the penny back in the tip jar. Apparently it doesn't matter if the till is short but damned if that tip jar is taking a hit. I'm still shaking my head when I take leave of the joint -- for the last time, methinks. I'll find another lunch spot.

And by the way, am I really expected to tip for counter service? For a taco? Unbelievable.

Two months later

It's been about two months since I started running regularly again. I usually run three or four mornings per week, shuffling along in my malodorous shoes at a park near my place. And so far, it's really helped improve my mood and some of the chronic aches and pains that had started to bother me a few months back.

But here's the thing. When I gain weight, this is where it usually goes: 1. waist 2. bust 3. hips 4. arms 5. butt 6. thighs and 7. face. More or less. So you'd think that when I lose weight, I'd lose it in that order as well. But no. It works the opposite way. 1. face 2. thighs 3. butt 4. arms 5. hips 6. bust and 7. waist. It's so unfair.

How much weight have I lost in two months? Wait for it. (Drum roll.) I've lost a grand total of two pounds. That's it. Just two pounds. Sigh. Check back in November. I might lose another one pound by then.

Shoes that make you go `Eeeeewww'

Last week I went to my son's cross country practice and then I went running around the park. The grass was quite soggy from a recent rain so my shoes got pretty wet. Anyway, the next day after I got home from taking him to school, I took off the shoes and put them on the little carpet by the door. A few minutes later I'm like: What is that smell? Seriously, it smells like cat piss.

So I figured maybe a cat was outside or something. But the smell didn't go away. I picked up the shoes and took a good whiff. YIKES!!!! They stunk big time. At first, I thought maybe one of the cats at my house had peed on them. But I hadn't left my shoes anywhere they could have got to at the time. Then I thought maybe I had run through some dog pee at the park. But that didn't make sense. It definitely smelled like cat piss, not dog piss -- and yes, there is a difference.

So I washed the shoe uppers by hand with detergent. That didn't help much. Then I sprayed them with Febreeze. That helped a little. But still, they stink. What happened? I would have had to run through a swamp full of cat piss to make them smell that bad.

On a hunch, I Googled "New Balance" and "Cat urine." Eureka! Turns out lots of people with stinky New Balance shoes have been blaming their cats for pissing on them. Turns out it's some kind of synthetic material in the shoe's midsole that stinks.

Not a newbie

Just in case you think I'm new to this running thing. I'm not one of those new converts. I ran cross-country in high school (we were city champs) and continued running regularly through most of my late teens and 20s. It wasn't until my 30s that I started slacking off and doing other sports like hockey and baseball and soccer.

Believe it or not, I was inspired to start running back when I was about 13 or so. I had just seen the movie "Rocky" -- yes the first one -- and I wanted to run just like Rocky. Except for punching the big slabs of meat. I wasn't into that. The scene that really struck me was the one where he cracked a bunch of raw eggs into a glass and then drank it. I can't remember if he did it before he ran or afterwards. Whatever. So out I went for a run, and when I got home, I got a glass and cracked about three eggs into it. Then I drank them. The first egg went down OK but I really had to choke down the last two. It was gross but I managed to drink the whole glass. Then I got a stomach ache and threw up. Raw eggs are baaaaaaaad.

Confessions of a couch potato

Funny how things sneak up on you. A while back I realized that I had stopped exercising regularly. I'm not sure exactly when that happened but I guess I've just been so preoccupied with being a mom and all the stuff that goes with it. I just kind of let it go. Anyway, a few years went by and I started finding it hard to get rid of those extra pounds. Also, I was getting depressed and finding it hard to shake that as well. And (yes, there's more) my joints were starting to ache, like I was getting arthritis, which unfortunately runs in my family. Yikes. I'm only ... um ... how old am I now? Oh yeah, I'm 45, right.

So I've started running two or three times a week. At first, I wasn't really running much. I would shuffle for about a minute or two, then wheeze, then gasp, then cry, then walk for a few minutes, then repeat the whole cycle all over. But eventually I got to the point where I could do it without crying or gasping, and then I got past the wheezing, and finally I did a whole 20 minutes of running without having to stop and walk. Hooray!

Just plain bad ...

The clock was ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Marking the hour. Ticking down towards the final deadline. Myron Brockton broke out in a cold sweat that immediately soaked through his seer-sucker shirt.

He could feel the minutes slipping away like sand through an enormous hourglass. An hourglass that towered over him like a behemoth. Heading toward that inexorable midnight deadline. He ignored the feeling of his thin shirt clinging to his sweaty chest and glanced at his Elmer Fudd watch: 11:50. Only ten more minutes. Ten minutes to midnight. And then, that would be the end. Midnight. The final hour. The end. Only mere minutes away. He paused, struck by the puddle of moisture at his feet. He slid as he tried to walk through the huge puddle of his own perspiration.

Myron took in a good long breath and wondered if he would make it. Only ten more minutes. Well, nine minutes now. Myron realized that he had already spent a whole minute just thinking about the ten minutes that were left. That was one minute that he would never be able to get back It was gone. Just like that. Myron imagined the sound of fingers snapping. Marking the lost minute. Minute number one of ten. Leaving only nine. The gears turned. The seconds ticked. The minutes ticked too. All of them just kept on ticking.

Suddenly his eyes met another pair of eyes. They were dark, smouldering eyes, eyes that seemed to envelop him with their sensuous feminine warmth.

“Carmelita!” he called out. Suddenly, he felt a warm, caressing, Spanish hand in his. She was pulling him towards her, her hot Latin breath surrounding him like some kind of rapturous beneficent force of nature. She wrapped her long, tanned Mediterranean arms around him and gentled cradled his sweat-soaked body next to her slim-yet-toned sun-kissed athletic form.

“Myrono!” she cooed lovingly. “Ti adore!”

Suddenly, Myron felt her stiffen and pull away. He looked up to see the police captain standing before them in the total pitch black darkness. El Capitan was tall and ramrod straight, with a dark complexion, pale, watery eyes and tiny freckles. His nose was lined with tiny red spider veins and blackheads. But his cheeks were round and full and puffy, as though he was holding acorns in them. No wonder his men knew him by the nickname: The Gerbil.

The Gerbil moved silently through the inky black total darkness until he was standing in front of Myron and Carmelita.

“So, we meet again.” He said wryly, his nostrils flaring. Myron noticed the Gerbil was still wearing the same tie he had worn earlier that day, the one with the teeny tiny zigzag design overlaid with mermaids and cherubim. Yes, even the minute stitching on the underside of the tie did not escape Myron’s precise eye.

Wait. Myron heard his brain tell him. What’s that tiny stitch there? Myron craned his neck forward and squinted as he scrutinized the tie. Yes, that was it. The rare Persian double backwards cross-stitch. The trademark of the true craftsman. Myron knew from all his years of study that expert carpet-makers always used the special stitch in their designs. It was enough to tell Myron that the Gerbil was one of the Carpetaggia. Finally, all the pieces fit at last. Myron fixed The Gerbil with a cold, hard stare, his eyes narrowing in the darkness.

“Yes,” he whispered. “We meet again, Carpetaggius.”

My solemn summer vacation pledge

This summer, I promise not to waste a single minute of my time on the beach reading the amateurish prose of Dan Brown. No matter who hands me one of his trashy, cliché-ridden tomes.

I long for a summer free of having to endure the hackneyed phrases, implausible plots and formulaic storylines. Begone, O talentless scribe! Never again will I wince as you clobber me over the head with another “secret” gem of knowledge that any half-witted liberal arts student would know. Never again will I roll my eyes and sigh as you state the obvious, then repeat it two pages later.

Seriously, I have no problem with the alternative views of religion his novels explore. Most of them are not “new” ideas anyway. In fact I think it’s healthy to challenge traditional belief systems. Or even just to wonder: “What if?”

What I object to is bad writing. There is absolutely no excuse for that.

Not again ...

So I'm driving home after having dropped my son off at soccer camp yesterday. I'm sitting stopped at a red light, minding my own business of course, when all of a sudden BANG! The car in the lane next to mine just drives right into the vehicle in front of it. This of course reminds me of the time about 10 years ago when my beloved Honda Civic was rear-ended by a trophy wife in a Mercedes Benz, snapping its axle like a twig and giving me an excruciating case of whiplash.

Now when this happened yesterday, I was on the way back to my house where my ex was waiting for me to drop off the van so she could drive to work. "Drop it off by 10," she said. "No later than 10." She said this about five times because she hates being late. So there I am, sitting next to this mess, knowing that if I stop to help, I'm going to be late getting back, thereby pissing off my ex.

It's really just a fender-bender, although the two young women in the car are probably suffering from whiplash themselves right about now. The vehicle they hit -- a half-tonne truck -- lurched forward on impact and hit the car in front of it. The woman in that car -- a little Mazda -- is about eight months pregnant. She's shaking and crying, so we decide to call an ambulance just in case.

Of course I realize that once I call 9-1-1 that means the police are going to come as well. And the woman who rear-ended the truck is probably going to be charged. I kind of feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for all of us actually, including myself, because I know what my ex's face is going to look like when I finally show up with the van. It's going to be that angry, scrunched-up face.

So after about 45-50 minutes, I finish talking to the police. The tow-truck drivers, who appear like a flock of vultures about 2 minutes after I call 9-1-1, realize nobody needs towing and leave. Must have gone back to the tow-truck pit, or the parole office or whatever. The paramedics have also come and gone, having checked out the drivers and decided they were all fine.

I try calling my ex, but SURPRISE!!! my cellphone is dead. The truck driver's cellphone is dead too. I don't want to ask the other woman if I can borrow her phone because I feel bad about having to call in the accident and telling the police how she plowed into the back of the truck.

So I leave and go looking for a pay phone. I finally find one. It's been vandalized. I find another pay phone. It doesn't work either. Then I get lost. I finally get to the house at about 10:22 a.m. Sure enough, the ex is pacing the sidewalk, briefcase in hand. Scrunched face: check. Clenched teeth: check. Clenched fists: check. Clenched everything: check.

After I apologize for being late, I tell her what happened. She's pissed at being made late but says I did the right thing. I'm not so sure.

Charisse and Mitchell

I'm a little surprised (and miffed too, I guess) that none of the obits I read on Cyd Charisse mentioned her work with James Mitchell. He was her partner much more often than Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly were -- he just wasn't a big star. But many think (and I agree) that James was the best partner for her. Just watch this and you'll see how much more physical and sensual they were together, compared to the light-weight stuff she did with Astaire. I mean REALLY! Just watch it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHnFmFSWk5U

Ed Sanders

OK, here he is, on the left. His name is Ed Sanders. And here's Jack Wild on the right. Some similarity in the looks but really it was the talent and charisma that got me. I hope to see this kid in something else soon. He's fantastic.

Sweeney Todd

The other recent film I saw was Sweeney Todd, although I have to say I found it rather gruesome. All that blood spurting around was a bit too graphic for me. The art direction was good and the music OK but not great. The two leads were OK but not great. Their singing OK but not great. Overall the whole movie was OK but not great.

The best performances came from the supporting cast: Judge Turpin played by Alan Rickman and the sailor Anthony, who had a fantastic voice and an exquisite face. Sacha Baron Cohen was a scene stealer and so was the young boy who played Toby. I think that kid actually stole the whole film away. He reminded me of Jack Wild. I'll try to look him up and find a picture.

Juno

Finally got a chance to catch up on some movie viewing. One of the flicks everyone kept telling me I had to see was "Juno." Well, I saw it and it was OK but it wasn't as great as people were making it out to be. I found it kind of over-the-top, to be honest. In what universe would health professionals, be they pharmacy clerks or ultrasound technicians, be so rude and insulting to a client, especially a teenager dealing with a pregnancy. Those scenes just seemed to be thrown in there to showcase a couple of character actors. But I guess we're expected to suspend our disbelief. After all, the main character is a barely pubescent teen who talks like a 50-year-old university professor. Brainy brainy brainy girl, but not smart enough to use protection when she manipulates her boyfriend into having sex. The audience is supposed to sympathize with Juno but I didn't really like her much. She was rude and ungrateful to her parents (who were remarkably supportive about the whole situation) and downright cruel to her boyfriend. The only people I did like in the movie were her stepmother and the adoptive mum-to-be, although the film took a mocking tone towards the two of them. They were (gasp!) old and unhip, and actually cared about other people's babies. How pathetic! So much better to be emotionally detached and to dump on everyone who loves you.

On second viewing ....

I watched the Lost finale again the other day and a couple of things came up.
1. - I wonder if Charlotte is Charles's daughter.
2. - What happened to Daniel Farraday and the other people on the raft? I'm guessing they're dead since the island disappeared while they were halfway to the tanker. Too bad because I liked him.
3. - Is Aaron the next re-incarnated leader, like Locke?

Lost: Finale

Quite the two-hour finale. Only twenty minutes in and the Others have already dispatched Sgt. Slaughter and the dirty half-dozen, with a little help from Sayid and Kate. Seems a little early on to be dispensing with the main threat, doesn’t it?

Oh well, not to worry. The tanker’s about to blow up and the helicopter is rapidly leaking fuel. Talk about up the ocean without a paddle.

Meanwhile, back at the Orchid, it turns out not only is Keamy McSteamy still alive, he’s pissed, and he’s channelling Christopher Walken. He peels off his jacket and tries to blind everyone in striking range with his humungous triceps and six-pack abs. Ben soon puts a stop to the testosterone-fest, blowing up the tanker along with any sympathy he’s earned over the last few episodes by reverting to his sociopathic default persona.

Locke: You just killed everyone on that boat.

Ben: So?

OK, Ben’s mad as a hatter. He reminds me of Patty McCormack in The Bad Seed, hopped up on Dharma amphetamines. Keep him away from the matches.

Sawyer gets all noble again and leaps out of the chopper in order to save his friends. It’s not entirely an altruistic move. He gets to snog with Kate first and then he gets a nice long swim. And he loses his shirt. We later see him lounging on the beach, helping a soused Juliet polish off a bottle of rum. People pay big bucks to spend a week’s vacation that way.

Somehow I get the idea Frank wanted Hurley to be the one doing a cannonball into the ocean but the big guy pretends not to get it and Jack puts on his “I’m too sick to bail from a chopper ‘cause I just had my appendix out” face.

Poor Sun has to watch Jin re-enacting the pivotal scene from “Platoon” just before the tanker blows up. Poor Sun. I’ll say it again, Poor Sun. Now the Oceanic Six are all on the chopper, plus Desmond and Frank. So we know this baby is about to wrap up.

The helicopter hits the water like a dragonfly hitting a rotary fan. Yikes, haven’t these poor people been through enough? I’m worried about baby Aaron, even though I know he’s going to be fine. Desmond seems about to kick the bucket but Jack gives him mouth-to-mouth and saves him. All the bars on Church Street go wild. Then Desmond finds Penny. Awwwww. At least one couple ends up happy.

One question keeps gnawing at me. Who the hell is Jeremy Bentham? The name sounds vaguely familiar but I don’t remember any character with that name. So I look it up. Another philosopher. I still don’t get it.

Surprise! The person in the coffin is not Ben, as I had suspected. It’s Locke. Also known as Jeremy Bentham. Now I’m really confused.

So anyway ...

After several months of these pointless efforts, I tell my therapist about all the freaks I’ve been finding on the dating scene. I tell her how most of them are not worth the time I’ve had to spend meeting them. She tells me it usually takes about 45-50 or more dates before people find the right person. I tell her I’m barely up to 10 dates so far and each one’s worse than the last. She tells me I give up too easily. I tell her I don’t care. She tells me I’m too negative. I say I’m just the right amount of negative, considering what my experience has been. I’m wondering if the next person who should get dumped is my therapist.

Crackers and Orchid

Last night’s episode started out kind of slow but was pretty exciting by the end. Best line of the night goes to Ben (again) for this nonchalant aside after watching Hugo scarf a package of crackers: “You know those are 15 years old.” Hugo’s mother comes in second with this gem: “Jesus Christ is not a weapon!” Honorable mention goes to Sawyer for calling Miles “Ghengis” and Frank "Shaggy."

A couple of things that struck me:
-Jack’s mother looks a lot like an older version of Kate.
-Aaron seems amazingly aware of everything around him. An old soul? A special one, obviously.

Now I have to wait two weeks to find out what happens next. Dang.

One more dating story

So following all these assorted dating misadventures, I think I’ve finally hit the jackpot. I go to a singles mixer and find my perfect match. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart -- she’s even my age.

We meet for coffee a couple of times and things seem great. We’re both writers by profession, musicians by hobby, and have a lot of shared interests.

I notice that on the phone she has this weird speech pattern where she speeds up the first part of a sentence, then draws out the end of it. Like that sketch on SNL where the woman is always trying to top whatever the other person says. “I-have-a-coat-just-like tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-t. I-have-a-thousand coooaaaaats …. A-thousand-coats-just-like-that onnnnnnne. Yesyesyes-I-dooooooooo.

Quick, quick … slowwwwwww, slowwwwwww. Quick, quick ….slowwwww. It’s like doing the country two-step with a narcoleptic cheetah. I’m practically getting whiplash just listening to her. But I tell myself, it’s not a big thing. So she has a weird way of talking – so what? We all have our idiosyncrasies, right?

I can live with the odd speech patterns because, well, out of all the dates I’ve had, she’s by far the best-looking and she’s got a great body and she’s well-educated and not stuck up or nasty or a control freak. Yeah, the quick-slow talking is weird but it’s tolerable, I assure myself. Maybe she just gets nervous talking on the phone.

Then it happens. The deal-breaker. We go to a movie and as she sits down next to me she exhales in my general direction. I try to tell myself that horrific stench didn’t come from her mouth but deep down, the truth is slapping me in the face like a giant, stinking hand of decaying flesh holding a mitt-ful of feces.

I don’t know what the exact word is to describe her breath. OK, yes I do. The word is shit. Her breath smells like shit. And not in a good way. I stifle the urge to hurl and as soon as the movie is over, we go to a nearby bistro where I order the strongest martini I can find, just to blunt the sense memory. A few days later, Death Breath calls and dumps me over the phone, quick-quick slow. The reason: we don’t have anything in common. Well I can think of one thing I’m glad we don’t have in common. I’m simultaneously relieved and insulted but I get over it.

Dickie comes home, worse for wear

The missing bear arrived back home yesterday, squashed into a Fed-Ex box. We were ecstatic to have him back but a little disappointed about how he looked. He shrunk. They must have put him through the washer and the dryer. So he looks like he's been on a starvation diet with teddy boot camp. My son was thrilled to see him but then he began to cry when he saw Dickie was half his previous size and rather twisted up. We told him Dickie had a big adventure and now he's home. He took Dickie to bed with him and cuddled him all night. Poor little guy.

Dickie Lives!

Great news -- They found Dickie!!! The Disney Resort called and said a teddy bear matching Dickie's description was found at the laundry service and sent to Lost and Found. They also said his name was on the tag. So it's definitely the right bear. They're sending him back and he should be here by week's end. Hooray! My son will be so happy. He's been having trouble sleeping and misses having his favourite cuddly toy for security.

Lost: New revelations

Another intense episode, laden with meaning. Although I really could have done without the discovery of Carl and Rousseau's semi-buried corpses. How interesting that Sawyer was taking the role of "big brother" and being so protective of Claire just before we learn that Claire is actually Jack's half sister.

Now I just knew there was something between Charlotte and Daniel. That scene when Jin starts speaking Korean to Charlotte was incredible, especially when he threatened to hurt Daniel. You could see the expression on her face change as he said it. Then she gave up trying to convince Jin she didn't understand, and began answering him in Korean.

Watching it, I was marvelling at how smart both Jin and Charlotte are. Then it struck me that most of the people on this show are incredibly smart. They are either intellectuals like Daniel, Charlotte and Ben, or wise-from-experience types like Sayid and Locke, or street-wise manipulators like Sawyer, Kate and Miles. Not only is it the Island of the Gorgeous People, it's also the Island of the Brainy. Seriously, what are the odds? Dozens of people stranded on the same island and not one stupid person in the bunch?

Having said that, I'm going to have to nominate Jack for the dummy of the week award. First, he insists on staying awake while his appendix is removed. Bad idea, Jack. Don't you know that if you keep screaming like that, they'll have to chloroform you?

We flash forward and find that Jack has managed to get Kate to accept his marriage proposal. Awwwwww... so sweet. Even though I prefer Kate with Sawyer, I have to say awwwww. The next evening, when Kate seductively invites him upstairs, Jack responds by downing a few Valium with a beer chaser. Good way to make sure neither one of them has a good time. No wonder she throws him out.

In any case, by the end of the episode it's Juliette who really blows me away. Perceptive enough to see the bond between Jack and Kate, and unselfish enough to let them both know the truth they can't see themselves. She has to be the most noble person on the island, and maybe also the bravest and the smartest.

The search for Dickie: Just the (bear) facts ma'am

I don’t want to tell my son that Dickie’s gone for good. But I’m worried that he probably is. So I come up with a plan. I’ll just buy another Dickie and if the real one isn’t found, I’ll replace him with a new one. Of course, I’ll have to try and make the new one look older, somehow.

This is not as easy as it sounds. And before I can figure out how to make a new bear old, I have to figure out how to get the new one. My son has had Dickie for at least four years now but nobody can remember what make he is, or where he came from.

My ex thinks he’s a Gund but she’s not sure. So I go on the Internet and start looking for Gund teddies. None of them look like Dickie. I try eBay. Scads of teddy bears for sale there. I lean in closer to my screen, examining their tiny faces, their stuffed bodies. Nothing even vaguely Dickie-like jumps out at me. Maybe he’s a Ganz, I wonder. Nope, doesn’t look like one of those either.

Maybe if I could find a store that specializes in teddy bears, someone there might be able to tell me what make he is. I could take a picture of Dickie with me. Just like on one of those TV shows where the cops walk in with a picture of the perp and stick it in the clerk’s face. “Have you seen this bear?” I’d ask.

OK, so maybe that’s not a great idea. I begin methodically combing the Net for manufacturers: Russ Berrie? Nope. Boyd’s? Nope. Hermann? Ty? Playful Plush? Nope. Nope. Nope. Nothing.

There are dozens of bear-makers, it seems, churning out multitudes of teddies. White bears, blue bears, pink bears, brown bears. Large and small; plush and mohair. Bears with strangely distended abdomens and bean-filled bums for sitting upright. Who knew there were so many nuances to teddy-hood?

I scan each picture, quickly eliminating those with the most obvious un-Dickie features like big feet, round heads and goofy smiles. Any deviation from a uniform tan colour is also grounds for disqualification.

Sometimes, the description under a particular teddy leaves me oddly charmed.

“Cuddliest-ever” one coos.

“Fully jointed,” boasts another, whatever that means.

Driven, I press on. Teddy faces stare back at me with bright eyes and shiny noses, some wearing happy, goofy grins and others the more traditional nose-and-mouth stitched together.

For hours, I ponder their inscrutable faces, wondering what cosmic secrets they might yield. Before I realize it, several hours have passed and I’m no closer to finding Dickie.

But I have learned this much: If you ever want to know what it’s like to go insane, try staring at teddy bear mug-shots for three hours. Talk about punch drunk.

After a while, all their faces begin to look strangely similar, so that they seem to melt together into one giant teddy face: The Buddha Teddy. I’m mesmerized.

Finally, the Buddha Teddy speaks to me, in a soft, plush voice.

“Close your eyes,” the Buddha Teddy says. I do.

“Think of Dickie,” the Buddha Teddy instructs me.

I clear my mind of all thoughts except Dickie. In fact, I become Dickie. I’m one big blob of Dickie-consciousness. And there I am: face down, in a dark, cold cardboard box. Being driven in a truck, maybe? Yes, I’m being driven somewhere in a truck.

OK, so either Dickie has been kidnapped and is being whisked across the state line, or he’s in a Fed-Ex truck, headed for the Orlando airport, with its immaculate carpets and gum-free cigar shops. He’s on his way back home. I just know it.

My neck is sore, my back aches from being hunched over a keyboard for three hours. But I’m at peace.

Have you seen this bear?

One thing did happen in Disney World that was not a happy memory. My son lost his beloved teddy bear, Dickie. He's had Dickie since he was a curly-headed toddler. He gave him the name Dickie. I don't know how he came up with that name but he names all his stuffed animals. He has a stuffed toy rat that he calls Animal and a large teddy called Uh-Huh. But Dickie has always been his favourite.

Whenever my son goes on a trip, Dickie goes with him. He's travelled to Niagara Falls and Nova Scotia, and to Beaver camp. So of course, he went with us to Disney World. I'm not sure exactly how he got lost, but I think my son had him under the bed covers and when the maid changed the bed, he got swept up with the bedspread and sent to the laundry. Of course we went looking for him but couldn't find him anywhere. We reported him to Lost and Found and checked back there day after day. Nothing.

After several conversations with hotel staff, I find out that the laundry is done off-site and that there's a good chance Dickie went with it. It could be weeks before he's found, they tell me. In the meantime, we've returned home without him. My son is heartbroken. At bedtime, he cries and asks me "Where is Dickie? I miss him." I tell him Dickie is off on an adventure and will come home when he can. I hope.

Ben's Bluff

Well that was a pretty intense episode. Sawyer was heroic, Hugo was noble, Aaron was cute, Jack was sick. Ben sits at the piano, playing Chopin. Either the Raindrop Prelude or the Funeral March, although I'm not 100 % sure.

Don't get me started on Ben. Sacrificing his beloved daughter to save his own skin. Seeing his bluff backfire was excruciating. I knew poor Alex was dead as soon as he said she wasn't really his daughter. Alex was one of the few truly "good" people on the island. By that I mean she was kind, considerate, forgiving (even of her psycho father) and sweet. Heck, just the fact that she hadn't killed anyone must put her in a minority on the island.

All seemed hopeless until Ben unleashed that fog monster. Still don't know what the heck that thing is. Ben's private pit bull? Whatever. Time to say goodbye to hunky ex-marine mercenary Martin. He of the pale eyes, itchy trigger finger and non-existent moral code.

I noticed Ben checked into the hotel in Tunisia under the name Dean Moriarty, the hero in Kerouac's On The Road. Another literary reference. And Aaron (named for the brother of Moses) gets placed in a basket again, another Biblical reference.

Chew on this

Just returned from Florida after taking my son and nephew to Disney World. It was a fantastic trip. But here’s something odd. Did you know that you cannot buy chewing gum at the Orlando airport? Neither did I!

We’re heading for the departure gate and my sister says, “Hey, let’s get some gum for the plane.” I say: “Hey sis, great idea.” OK, I didn’t say the “Hey sis” part. But I did want to get some gum because it helps when the plane is taking off or landing and my ears start to hurt.

So I go into this ridiculously crowded shop that is full of candy, chocolate, books, drinks, etc. But I can’t find any chewing gum anywhere. So I ask the cashier.

“No gum,” she snaps.

Um, OK. I try to ask where I can find some.

“No gum! No gum!!” she barks, sounding eerily like the Soup Nazi.

Still, I press on.

“Is there anywhere I can get some gum?” I ask.

“No!”

“Not anywhere in the airport?”

“No! Not in the whole airport!”

Now, I want to ask why. But I’m afraid to even utter the word “gum” again. Everyone is glowering at me, as though I’ve just asked for the most unreasonable contraband imaginable, like endangered Siberian tiger testicles or something. I’m expecting to feel an elbow in my ribs and a voice hissing urgently: “Let it go. Let it go, you fool. Walk away!”

Everyone seems nervous and jumpy. But still, no one explains why gum is taboo.

So I leave and go into another shop.

Nope, no gum there either.

“No gum! No gum!” shrieks the woman at the counter, again without explanation.

Did I somehow enter the Twilight Zone? I feel like I’m in one of those cheesy old horror movies where some clueless outsiders stumble into a quaint little village in New England. All is cheery and pleasant until they ask about the old McAllister place on the hill and then everyone starts slamming shutters in their faces.

I find my sister and tell her about my unsuccessful quest. She reports a similar experience. Probably part of those new security measures, like the no gels, no liquids thing, she suggests. Still, I’m surprised gum would be among the banned items. What do they think I’m going to do with it? Chew up a huge wad of explosive Juicy Fruit and spit it into the cockpit? Do I look like MacGyver?

After returning home, I check the Internet to see if gum is on the list of banned items on flights. It’s not. So what gives?

Further research reveals the airport in Orlando legally prohibits the sale of gum. No store in the airport can sell it. Why? Because they are afraid people will spit it onto their carpets. That’s it. There's no great explosive chewing gum plot. Just their way of keeping the carpets clean. Could they not just say so? How about a sign? Sheesh.

Nim's Island

I took my son to see Nim's Island on the weekend. It was fun, despite some silly plot contrivances, and I had a few good laughs. Jodie Foster did a good job with the physical comedy and I liked the young girl in it, Abigail Breslin (I think that's her name.)

Just for the record, I'm not a huge Jodie Foster fan and unlike most lesbians, don't find her that attractive. I know, I'm a bad lesbian. I don't like Martina either. Sue me. I liked Jodie Foster better when she was chubby, which was about 20 years ago. Somewhere around the time she did "Nell" she lost a ton of weight and I lost interest. Whadevah. Back to the movie.

It was fun and I did enjoy Foster's character, a neurotic fiction writer who lives alone in a funky apartment. Her creative process is very similar to mine. Yes, I can relate. I'm not quite that neurotic and my apartment is not quite as funky. But still.

The ending of the movie was kind of odd. It seemed rushed and non-cohesive (Did she finish the book? What about the volcano? What happens to her alter-ego Alex Rover?) I guess we're not supposed to care as long as she gets laid.

The Bath-house

It sounds so mysterious doesn’t it? The bath-house. It makes me think of Romans in togas feeding each other grapes whilst lounging around huge rectangular pools of steaming water. Well, never having been to a bath-house, I really had no idea what to expect.

So when I hear that one of the city’s popular bath-house spots has been booked for a women-only night, I think what the heck? I’ll go, and I’ll dip myself into those steaming, erotic bathy-things. My ever-helpful therapist gives her blessing and encourages me to venture into these (ahem) uncharted waters.

First, what to wear? The website says wear leather, or sexy lingerie or whatever. I’m a little on the shy side so I’m not going to suit up like a dominatrix and I’m certainly not going dressed as a hooker either. So I put on my black Levis and a black T-shirt, black leather boots … you get the picture.

Now, it’s cool out and I need a jacket. So I pull my trusty black leather jacket from the depths of my hall closet. I haven’t worn it in about 10 years but it’s still in great shape. I bought it in 1992 and it definitely has that late ‘80s-early ‘90s look to it. I put it on and look in the mirror. OK, I look ridiculous.

Oh well, I won’t have the jacket on for long, I tell myself. I get in the car and drive to the place. It takes me about 30 minutes to get there because it is on the other side of town, in a downright hideous neighbourhood. I park and look at my watch: 8:45 p.m. I’m early but I might as well go in so I can get a good “room.”

I’m expecting the place to be like a big party, with music, go-go dancers and lots of women mixing and talking, etc. You know, like a key party in the ‘60s, which I’m really too young to remember, but never mind.

I go in and realize I am very, very, very early. There are only about three other women there and one of them has not been a woman for more than 15 minutes by the look of it. She’s the only one who smiles. I pay for a “room” which turns out to be tiny cubicle with plywood walls, a tiny locker and a small bed. The guy at the counter is nice. He gives me sheets for the bed and tells me to drop them into the laundry hamper when I leave. What does he think I’m going to do with them?

I go into this tiny room and start to get changed into my “bath-wear” which is my bathing suit and my black cover-up. I wonder where the pool is.

Then I realize it’s past 9 p.m., my son’s bedtime. I usually call and say good night to him. I go back to my plywood room to get my cellphone. That’s when I realize I left the damn thing in the car. I don’t want to get dressed and go outside again, so I go out to the front lounge, where the same three or four other people are hanging out together. I ask the guy in the office if I can use the phone. He says sure.

Now I call my ex’s place, cringing. I’m trying to remember if she has caller ID on the upstairs phone. I wonder what it will say? Bath-house? Spa? Den of Iniquity? Luckily, she doesn’t seem curious about where I’m calling from, so I figure there’s no ID on the phone. I say goodnight to my son and blow him kisses. Hanging up, I see the lounging people staring at me. I guess it’s not the usual bath-house etiquette to make phone calls to your kids. Whatever. I head back down the hall to find the pool.

It turns out there isn’t a pool here. No bath either. Just a few showers, a sauna and a steam room. I wander around a bit, checking out the play rooms. They are all deserted but I go in anyway, just to see what’s there. One of them features a large TV screen playing hard-core porn that appears to be straight but it’s so raunchy I don’t watch long enough to be sure.

I wander around a bit more, passing a few people in the hallways. None of them even make eye contact let alone smile. I figure everything I’ve heard about bath-houses must be complete bull. A few more people trickle in but they’re all in couples. They disappear into plywood rooms and begin making ridiculous amounts of noise. I wonder why they don’t just do it at home. It’s bizarre and really not my cup of tea so I grab my towel and head to the steam bath which is actually quite nice. Five minutes in there, about 10 in the sauna, then a shower. I manage a brief conversation with a couple in the sauna, but they leave after about 10 minutes. No one else seems the slightest bit friendly. Everyone is wandering around barefoot and I begin to worry about how often the floors are cleaned and whether bleach is used.

Finally, even my obsessing about the floors begins to bore me, so I retire to my cubicle. The people next door are going at it like mad cattle. I’m surprised they have enough room in there to do what it sounds like they are doing. What should I do now? Take a nap? Meditate? Masturbate? I really don’t feel like doing any of the above and frankly, I’m now convinced that coming here was a big mistake. I finally pack up and leave.

When I get home, I grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol and swab the soles of my feet. My mind goes back to my sophomore year of high school, when I picked up athlete’s foot or some equally hideous kind of fungus in the locker room. It took weeks to get rid of it, as I recall. Paranoid? Maybe. But I learned my lesson.

My Earth Hour Experience

Tonight I took my son to the Science Centre where we watched the lights dim all across the city. Then we danced in the dark to some techno-beat hip-hop mashup. Then we made our way over to where the telescopes were set up and we got a great look at Saturn. I couldn't believe how amazing it looked. I could actually see the ring around it. How cool is that? I hope he remembers all this when he's older.

We left before 9 p.m. and drove home, taking the opportunity to see how dark it was. It wasn't totally dark because the streetlights were still on. But on our street, all the houses were dark. So we walked around the block and waited to see what it would look like when everyone switched their lights back on at 9 o'clock. But it wasn't that dramatic. Most of the houses remained dark. I guess people figured if they could do without lights for an hour between 8 and 9, they might as well leave them off for the rest of the night.

Dating: The Egotiste

Let’s call her Catherine of Arrogance

Today’s story begins with me being invited out to dinner by a person I met through a social group I’d joined online. She turns out to be the rudest, most pretentious and condescending person I’ve ever shared a meal with. But of course, I don’t know that when I agree to meet her and her “hottie” friends for dinner.

So there she sits, waiting -- or should I say holding court -- at her table. Kind of funny-looking, bleached yellow spiky hair, tan-in-a-can, dressed like a cheap hooker. I guess some people might find that attractive but to me it registers as “phony” and “over-compensating.” Still, I want to give her a chance and keep an open mind. Maybe my first impression is wrong. Let’s see.

She begins by immediately putting me on the spot.

“Sit down. Tell us about yourself.” She haughtily commands, as though it were a job interview.

I ask her if she thinks this is a job interview. She smirks and waves a hand full of gaudy jewelry. I tell her and her friends that I’m happy to answer their questions but I’m not applying for any positions at the moment. Her two friends laugh pleasantly enough and they at least seem genuine. She laughs as well but her laughter is grotesquely fake.

After a few cursory questions (“What’s your favourite colour” is about as deep as it gets) she becomes bored with me and launches into her own biography.

First, she puts on airs about her job (“Oooh, I don’t know if I’ve revealed this yet, but I’m actually an interior designer”) Ooooh, whoopee shit for you. She seems to expect me to become giddy over this fresh factoid but I don’t because I actually couldn’t care less.

She also won’t stop talking about some sweaty yoga thing she does and how meditation has made her a perfect spiritual being. She tells me that every day she spends 90 minutes just staring at her own reflection in the mirror. “I have fallen in love with myself,” she purrs with a beatific smile. I clamp my napkin over my mouth, smothering my snicker-reflex.

Thankfully the waiter comes over at this point, to take my order. But silly him, he takes too long with me and this serves to piss off Madame. “When you finish your little chit-chat,” she snarks at him (and me too, I guess) all unamused and prickly-like. Yes, the Imperial Princess is wound so tight, I can practically hear her anus snapping shut.

The meal continues apace. She says she’s a vegetarian but that doesn’t stop her from wearing the most ridiculous pair of leather pants imaginable. On this particular evening, it must be about 15 below with the wind chill. Her pants are basically two leather flaps with huge gaps on the sides, which are then laced up. The effect is bizarre and she looks like a giant S/M sausage.

You know, I don’t have anything against leather. I actually like it. I have a leather jacket myself. But leather pants? Well, there are few people who really look good wearing leather pants. And when it’s the middle of winter and freezing cold out and your pants are all open at the sides, well, leather pants just look stupid. Still, wear them she does, preening and strutting down Church Street like some kind of demented leather peacock.

I follow a few paces back, arm-in-arm with one of the other dinner guests, who is much nicer and much more interesting and who it turns out is the ex-girlfriend of – you guessed it – Mme. Leather Pants. Later on, we all say goodnight and I get a nice warm hug from the ex-girlfriend and an icy stare from Leather Pants.

I later get an e-mail warning me to back off the ex. “She needs to fly solo for awhile,” Leather Pants rhapsodizes, apparently channeling the narrator from Jonathan Livingston Seagull. “She needs to heal and grow.” Heal and grow? Like a eucalyptus plant? Like aloe vera? I’m not really all that interested in the ex but I’m left with a warm, pleasant glow and a certain sense of accomplishment for having pissed off the control freak. Good lord woman, pull down those icky pants, bend over and yank out the pickle. Meditate on that, o holy one.

Lost: No No No No No No No!!!!

How dare they kill Rousseau, one of my favourite characters. Damn them!!!!!!! And I could see it coming a mile off, especially with Karl's rather obtuse appraisal of the situation: "I just have a bad feeling about this."

"So do I!" I scream. "Get out of there!"

But of course, it's too late. Karl is nailed big-time and the sound of darts shooting all around pretty well seals the deal. I know my beloved French goddess is going to be the next castaway to say au revoir.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" I yell at the television.

"One, two THREE!" yells Rousseau. What, she doesn't count in French? There can only be one person named Daniel (le) on the island? Where's the backstory? Where's the flash forward?

She jumps to her feet. I jump to mine. She's hit. I scream and knock over my beer. Now I'm drenched with beer, Alex is drenched with sweat, Karl is drenched with blood.

Rousseau is face-down in the tall grass, apparently dead. Why, why, why, why?????

Now I have to wait four weeks to find out if she's really dead. Maybe they just used the knock-out darts on her. I didn't see any blood on her, after all. Sigh.

Oh well, at least we know why Tom told Kate she wasn't his type. He obviously prefers indulging with Arturro. How many characters have we met so far on this show? Got to be at least 100 by now. It's about time one of them turned out to be gay.

The Scaaaaary Date

There’s one prospect that doesn’t even make it out of the farm league. We exchange phone numbers online and set up a time for me to call her. The conversation begins with the usual pleasantries and then she dives right into kvetching about her co-workers, her boss, her company, and her job in general, which apparently she hates because everyone she works with is an asshole.

The venom is spewing near hurricane force after about 20 seconds and shows no sign of stopping. In fact, she’s practically haemorrhaging bile. Finally she pauses for some air intake and I realize I’m supposed to say something. So I reply with a vague kind of acknowledgement that indeed, work can be a challenge sometimes. I add a brief personal observation about the place where I work. Before I can finish the sentence, she interrupts with this snappy rejoinder: “Oh well, that’s life. Whatcha gonna do…Lah-de-dah, lah-de-dah.”

The alarm bells aren’t just ringing, they are in system overdrive. Red flags bursting out all over like poppies on Remembrance Day. Yep, I think we’re talking serious personality disorder here. And I’m not going to speculate about which one -- or how many of them -- may be at play. I do what any sane person would do. I thank Nasty Nelly for her time and hang up.

Lost: Follow the Sun

Well I was half right. Michael is the spy on the tanker, as I suspected, but now we find out that Sun is the final member of the Oceanic Six. How cruel was that flash-back/flash-forward timeline that led us to believe Jin was with Sun in the future before slapping us in the face with his death? I guess we can also surmise that however the six get rescued, it will happen in a matter of a few months, since Sun is already several weeks along in her pregnancy.

Speed-Dating (Or, oh what fresh Purgatory is this?)

So just to speed up this excruciatingly sluggish process I decide to try speed-dating, which had always seemed like a good idea to me, until I actually tried it.

This event is run by a group called “25 Dates” although I only get 10 “dates” and no one explains the shrinkage. The other wrinkle is that they divide the talent pool into two age groups: 39 and under, and 40 and over. The first group being the young ones and the second being the old bags. I ask how they came up with the idea that 40 is officially “old” and the only explanation I can get is a prim and snotty “this is the way we always do it and this is the way that works best.” So there. Try arguing with that logic.

Apparently any attempt to try something different (say holding one event for those aged 30-50, a sizable cohort) is too complicated.

Not that the pickings are much better in the younger group, but my coterie of crones consists of two people in their early 40s (one of whom would be moi) and the rest well into their 50s and 60s. Well, no offence folks but I’m not really interested in dating my mother, or my grandmother for that matter.

Still, I’m there and I’ve already paid my money. So I gamely move from table to table, or sometimes I stay and the next person comes to me. It’s completely confused and disorganized and the people running it obviously don’t have a clue what they’re doing. But it doesn’t matter because every date is a dud. First I get the whiner. That’s attractive. Then the one who can’t talk about anything but football. Then the one who keeps sticking her face in mine and asking me “Are ya nervous? Are ya nervous?” Charming. There’s not a decent prospect in the bunch. Still, it seems I’m stuck with this pitiful charade for the next 90 minutes. But hey, at least I got a free drink and a handful of nachos in the bargain.

Dating tip: if you are ever tempted to try speed dating, take your $35 and spend it on something worthwhile, like bathtub grout. You’ll thank me later.

Fasten your seatbelts for the Hyper-Date

On to the next exhibit in my virtual rogues' gallery of dating.

This one is really an enigma. She shows up about 20 minutes late for our date and seems to be in some kind of hyper fast-forward mode.

She leans forward, smiles a lot, mirrors my posture and seems to like me. But there’s something odd about her behaviour. Like she’s desperately sprinting to a finish line or something. Some of the things in her online profile are now starting to seem a little exaggerated. And I’m realizing the photo she posted must be at least 10 years old.

The profile said she drove limos for VIPs and famous folk and this angle is played up quite a bit online. She even boasts of partying with her big-time clients after driving them. So I ask her which celebrities she’s driven. Well, none that you’d know, comes the reply. Hhmm, guess they must be those under-achieving kind of celebs that nobody ever hears about.

“Are you the one with the dog?” she asks suddenly.

“Um, no.”

“Are you the one who lives in Burlington?”

“No. I live in the East End,” I reply.

This kind of exchange happens a few more times. She must be setting up dates with quite a few people if she can’t keep us straight.

A week or so later I come home and find a panicked message on my machine that sounds like this:

“Hi it’s me. I’m on the Q-E and I should be at your place in about 15 minutes. Sorry I’m a bit late …blah blah hyper-blah”

I recognize the voice. She’s talking about driving out to Burlington. That’s the place that I don’t live in. She must have confused me with that other person again and mixed up our phone numbers. What a freaking loon.

Still, for a brief, fleeting moment I wonder what the hyper-hurry was all about. Did she make a bet with someone over who could a get a girlfriend the fastest? Maybe she was in line for a huge inheritance if she managed to get hitched in a month.

Guess I’ll never know. G’bye Ms. Enigma. We hardly knew ye.

Lost: Cooking with Ben

This week we are treated to a flashback about how Ben pulled a King David on Goodwin and we also get to see a good old-fashioned chick fight between Charlotte and Juliet. It's a close one but Juliet wins. Afterwards, our two warrior princesses, all sweaty and pummelled, walk outside to find Kate waiting. Kate is pissed, having just recovered from being smacked on the head with the butt end of Charlotte's handgun. Smouldering looks are exchanged. I'm thinking a three-way is in the making but the hot chicks talk it out and there's no more rough stuff, for now.

Meanwhile back at the barracks, Sawyer and Hurley play horseshoes, Locke lets Ben out of jail, and Ben reveals that Penelope’s father is the big bad wolf.

How lovely that we get to see a different side of Ben. A tender side. Shall we call him Gentle Ben? No, I'm afraid not. Although it was quite sweet the way he tried to woo Juliet with a bouquet of flowers, a cute two-bedroom cottage and a romantic gourmet dinner. Poor Ben. Don't you know that psychopathic nerdy types never get women like Juliet? She's sure to end up with an Alpha Male like Jack or a dark, brooding type like Goodwin. Not with you Ben. Sorry.

Anyway, Ben makes up for this unusual show of naivete by taking Juliet to see Goodwin's impaled corpse and then entertaining her with a jealous hissy fit. But wait, he quickly switches back to his sweet old self: "Take all the time you need," he intones in a nonchalant manner, his demeanour turning on a dime. Yikes! Psycho-date alert. Run Juliet. Run away as fast as you can.

So who is the sixth member of the Oceanic 6? And who is Ben's spy on the tanker? I'm thinking the answer to both questions may be Michael.

You're so far away ... thank God

So I’m going to introduce you to some of the duds I’ve subjected myself to over the past several months. And just for the record, I’m not making any of this up. These are all actual people, from actual dates I've had. I'm not kidding. Believe me, I wish I were.

First of all, Ms. Faraway Photo. Yes, I should have known there was a reason why the photo was taken from 12 feet away. And why she’s wearing a big hat and has her head tilted in such a way that you can’t really see her face. But she seems, well, OK. And she definitely has me interested with her flirty, suggestive e-mail messages. She’s articulate and seems to have a pretty good job. She’s a bit older than I’d prefer but not that much older. So we meet.

First of all, what the heck is with her teeth? There’s a big one in front that’s almost sideways, crossing over the one next to it. What’s that called? Snaggle-Tooth? I don’t want to look her in the face because I can’t help staring at those weird teeth.

We have coffee but not much time because she has to be somewhere and so do I (thank God.) So she stands up, and so do I. Her profile said she was 5-foot-7. I’m 5-6, barely, and I can see the top of her head. The top, as in the part in her hair. There’s no way she’s ever gonna be 5-7. Not even in stilettos. Why on earth would she lie about her height? Didn’t she think I’d notice? I mean, it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?

We say goodbye and she gives me this limp, dead fish handshake. Ewwwww. Next.

Dating secrets, lies and wishful thinking

I have to say that online dating is an excellent opportunity to study human behaviour. It’s absolutely mind-boggling the way people present themselves and the things they say and do in order to impress others. It’s as though the only reality they believe in is the one they have created in cyber-space. The idea being that if they believe it, you will too.

The main problem with this is that if you want to date someone, then eventually you will have to meet the person. And then all the exaggerations and outright lies are exposed and well, that’s the end of that. Thanks for wasting my time.

Sometimes these can be easy to spot. Like the woman who posts a photo and it’s from so far away that you can’t even see her face. Or the photo that is obviously contrary to the person’s description of herself. “Very fine and sexy” it says below a picture of the freakiest looking person imaginable. Yikes!!

Yeah, I know, you gotta love yourself. That’s true, to an extent. But let’s not go overboard. A little perspective is also kind of healthy.

Back to the coupling thing ...

The thing is, this pressure to couple isn’t coming from within. It’s coming from the people around me. You know, the people who are supposed to be my “support system” as they say these days. My so-called “friends,” my family doctor and my freaking therapist for instance. I’ve barely managed to extricate myself from my last relationship (11 years) and the therapist is telling me I need to get out, make friends, date people, find a hobby, get laid.

Now, I don’t have a degree in psychology but don’t you think that jumping into another relationship right away is kind of – what’s the word I’m looking for … oh yeah, that’s it – stupid? I mean sometimes you just want to take a break, take a deep breath and reflect. Appreciate having some time to yourself. Appreciate having a living space that’s just yours, that doesn’t look like a bomb just hit it, or like a junkyard with great mounds of crap piling up everywhere because your partner doesn’t believe in throwing things out or tidying up? You know, those trivial little issues.

And then, there are the more practical reasons. For example: I don’t have time for a new relationship and I don’t have the energy either. Basically, I just can’t be bothered.

Apparently, this means I’ve given up, and of course, that’s just not acceptable. There’s obviously something wrong with me. Now I have to be cajoled into taking action, because if I’m not in a romantic relationship, well then the whole universe will be thrown off kilter and go spinning into a ghastly vortex of nothingness. God, I hate it when that happens.

And so … I’m bullied into taking the next step: Internet dating.

Lost: Desmond does the Time Warp

It’s just a jump to the left and then a step to the right. Oh Brother. Looks like poor Des is caught in some kind of time travel feedback loop. I feel bad for him but even worse for Eloise the rat, who promptly keels over after “jumping” one maze too many.

Of course, this is far too much foreshadowing but just to make sure we understand the gravity of the situation, Des gets a bothersome nosebleed. Uh-oh. Thank goodness Sayid is around to help, talking in a calm voice, getting Des through to the island phone and then wiring up a patch for a call to Penelope. Is there anything this guy can’t do? He’s like the professor on Gilligan’s Island. He can make a radio out of a coconut shell but he can’t fix the hole in the Minnow.

Oh well, at least Des isn’t the only one down the wormhole. Fisher Stevens finally shows up after having his name appear in the opening credits for the past three weeks. We find out that he’s the radio operator, so we’ve been hearing his voice. And, oh yeah, he’s bleeding profusely from the nostrils. Guess we won’t see his name in the credits next week.

The actor playing Faraday is great. Love the long-haired, mad scientist bit, even if he does look a little bit like Oliver Stone hopped up on caffeine. Only with a nicer personality. Not sure what the deal is with Charlotte. She seems almost protective of Faraday. I want to like her, but then I see in the preview for next week that she bops Kate in the noggin and that pushes the needle into the red zone for me. Bad Charlotte.

Un-coupling, or I vant to be left alone

Here’s something that’s been bugging me for a while now. Why does everyone insist that everybody be coupled? Why is that the norm anyway? What if coupling is just a neurotic response to one’s dependency needs? Sheesh. I know so many couples that are just glorified co-dependents. They are totally miserable. Some people are just better off on their own.

Of course, if two people really like each other and want to be together, then by all means go for it. I'm happy for them. It's just not the case for everybody.

So why is it that people are always asking me: “Are you seeing someone?” Why is it so important that I be seeing someone? Is my existence only legitimate if I’m half of a relationship? Am I validated only by another’s clinging presence?

No, I’m not seeing anyone, and I like it that way. I like being able to eat, drink, sleep, spend my money and dress the way I please and not be hen-pecked and nagged mercilessly for it. I like being single. For now.

Those hideous Oscar-nominated songs

Should have posted this the other day when I was watching that bloated promo-fest they call the Academy Awards, but really, does anybody think they need that Best Song category? They had a bunch of people come out and perform these five (was it five? ... hard to tell since they all sounded the same) unbelievably mediocre musical interludes. There was not one decent ditty in the bunch. And the one that won the Oscar was like a fricking funeral dirge. WTF?

Seriously, dump the whole category folks. Unless there is a year wherein someone actually writes a good song.

Lost: Kate's Case

Hhhmmm, not much to blog about after the last episode. Kate's behaviour has me a tad confused, unless we're supposed to believe she's completely motivated by self-interest and self-preservation. Which kind of blows away any sympathy that's been built up for her over the past year or two.

So how does she end up raising Aaron as her own son? This doesn't bode well for Claire, to say the least. And why are Kate and Jack lying about what happened on the island and how many survived the plane crash? Ponder, ponder...

By the way, I caught the horrendously long movie Heaven's Gate the other night and Terry O'Quinn (Locke) played the Captain of the cavalry that rides in to rescue the evil cattle baron (Sam Waterston). Good cast; crummy flick.

Lost: In Sayid Out

This latest episode: a Sayid-stravaganza. Not only is it revealed that our intrepid Iraqi is No. 4 on the Oceanic 6 hit-list but we get a virtual GQ pictorial of said Sayid. We see him meditating in the Lotus position, showing off his golf swing, and effortlessly picking up an uber-model in a swanky German cafe.

What's next, I ask myself, expecting to see him wearing blue Casino Royale swim trunks and a big smile, cavorting in the surf on a beach in Waikiki. Perhaps a message will crawl across the bottom of the screen: "Ladies, what are you waiting for? Call 1-800-Sayid."

I'm already reaching for the phone when the next flash forward appears. Nope, no swimsuit. But he is wearing a tuxedo and that gorgeous mane of dark hair is straighter than usual and flowing down to his shoulders.

Somewhere along the way we end up back on the island where Rousseau is taking Sayid for a walk at gunpoint. "Nothing personal" she explains, all French-accent and smirking in that "we've bonded over torture" kind of bantering way she has. Sayid seems to enjoy the playful repartee and I can't help noticing the sexual tension that seems to exist between them. Must be some kind of SM/BD thing. Anyway, the room begins to spin and I start to pass out from hotness overload but Hurley cracks wise, snapping me out of my reverie and forcing me to disembark from Mickey's train ride to Fantasyland.

Finally, we see Ben at the end, back in the real world, working as a veterinarian and Sayid's task-master. How cool. Ben is deliciously evil.

Across the Universe

I didn't fully appreciate this movie until I watched it a second time. I have a problem with the idea of "new" musicals, as they call them -- movies that just take a bunch of familiar songs and then try to stick them together in some kind of narrative. So I really was rolling my eyes at some of the plot-lines and the wink-wink, nudge-nudge references. And in a way, it was like watching a bunch of really well made music videos back to back.

Still ...

This movie is visually stunning. The art direction is breath-taking and the colour gorgeous. It's by the same director who did Frida, so if you liked that one, you can imagine how colourful and vibrant it is.

There are some incredible sequences. The standouts: I Wanna Hold Your Hand, with Prudence walking slow mo through the tackling football players; I've Just Seen a Face, set at a bowling alley of all places; I Want You/She's So Heavy, featuring a troop of young draftees dragging the Statue of Liberty as they trample the underbrush of Vietnam; plus the amazingly shot Strawberry Fields Forever and the stylized Happiness is a Warm Gun.

A few other scenes really stuck in my head. Eddie Izzard ad-libbing his way through For the Benefit of Mr. Kite was a lot of fun to watch and the Day In the Life/Helter Skelter montage was incredible. But what really stands out is the talent in this young cast. They all do their own singing and a lot of it is live. The woman who plays Sadie, the Janis Joplin character, has a phenomenal voice and presence. Ditto the Jimi Hendrix character Jo-Jo. I would have liked to see more of him. And we don't see or hear enough of lovely Prudence either. But I guess the movie is already quite long.

I also really liked the actor who played Max -- he'd be perfect for the role of Kurt Cobain if they ever make a movie about him. I expect we'll be seeing more of these young actors in the future. Check it out on DVD if you are a Beatles fan, or a fan of artsy, imaginative, offbeat flicks.

My Oceanic Six

The idea being that if I were to be stranded on an island (hopefully a deserted one, but with all the proper amenities) these are the six Lost characters I'd want to share it with. Yeah, I know, what are the odds. Humour me.
1. Kate. (Do I really have to say why. OK, she's cute, she's smart and she's a little bit wicked. Like moi.
2. Ana Lucia. (I know. She's dead on the show. But on my island she's still alive and she's feisty as ever. I do love a woman who knows how to take charge and kick ass.)
3. Rousseau. (There's something about her I can't resist. Maybe it's her French accent or her haunted eyes. Or maybe it's just the way she swings that rifle.)
4. Sun. (Eye candy)
5. Sayid. (Eye candy and handy)
6. Desmond. (Eye candy with a great accent. He and Sayid can build the shelters while Kate and I go exploring in the jungle. Heh heh.)

New Lost

I watched it twice just to make sure I caught all the nuances. Probably didn't but what the hell. Best line of the episode goes to Ben who floors Jack by telling him that Kate swiped the mobile phone and found the right trail to Naomi.

Ben: At least someone around here knows what the hell they're doing.

Ooooh! Good one, bug-eyes. That guy can deliver a line. Although he risked getting another punch in the face for it.

Random musings:
- Who's in the coffin? Someone small, I think.

- Who's this Jacob guy? Jacob is a significant Biblical reference. Most translations say Jacob means: "the supplanter" which is another way of saying he wrongfully takes someone's place. Jacob had 12 sons and the youngest one was Benjamin. Interesting.

- Naomi is another Biblical name. Her last words: "Tell my sister (Ruth?) I love her."

- Who are "The Oceanic Six"? Obviously Jack, Kate, Hurley, the person in the box and two others. Hmmmmmm. Ponder, ponder. I think I'll come up with my own list.

Welcome to the Lair

This blogging thing is a little new to me. And I'm not even sure if anyone is reading this. So.... I'll just start by saying I'm looking forward to the first episode of Lost in eight months. And, if I can figure out how to organize things on this blog, I might put some fiction on here. Let's see how it goes.