Adorable Ma - Part 1

So, when I had Netflix set up for the first time through our X-Box, it was quite the novelty. We hadn't had cable in about a million years, so the concept of both variety and affordability was obviously appealing.

We initially watched a plethora of things from intense drug movies, to ridiculous kid flicks like "3 Ninja's: Kick Back", to six part documentaries on Auschwitz. With every new viewing, an entirely specialized new category shows up.

Currently showing are witty independent movies, dark movies featuring a strong female lead, and sentimental dramas. I am both concerned and entertained at the categories it presents me with.

I phoned mother to share with her my delight in the new laziness facilitator.

"Don't you need one of those Box-y things to work it--"

"X Box, Mother...it's called--"

"--or one of those wee-ee's?"

Hold the phone...did she just say what I thought she said?

"...did you just say 'wee-ee'?"

"Well...yeah! You know that thing with the weird flingy controller?"

Sweet Jesus. She meant Wii.

I laughed at her for a solid five minutes and she, being old and adorable, just good-naturedly joined in. I swear to god, the shit that comes out of that woman's mouth.

Wee-ee. For real.

Being Jonathan Taylor Thomas

I don't know what it was about Jonathan Taylor Thomas, but for some reason my sister and I wanted to be him. Like, all the time, legitimately wanted to be JTT. We would fight about it, constantly. Who got to be him on Home Improvement, or in the Lion King, or Wild America, or Tom and Huck.

"I get to be Simba!" Niela would proclaim triumphantly.

"No, way!" I would scream at her, "You got to be Simba yesterday!"

And it wasn't just JTT either. No-ho-hoooo all fictional characters on TV or in movies were party to our ridiculous competition: Devon Sawa, Andrew Keegan, Jonathan Jackson, Brad Renfro...and that's just the boys. All Disney princesses were subjugated to our madness, as well as any real-life girls who we deemed worthy enough to embody.

The fighting would usually escalate to some hysterical screaming match where one or both of us would eventually resort to petty violence to get our way. Dad would intervene and separate us, not ever really understanding why we were fighting in the first place, while we sat and glared at each other out of the corner of our eyes, not paying attention to the show, just plotting...concocting ways to make the other one suffer for the injustice that had just happened.

It. Was. Mental.

Because, really...what does it mean to BE a fictional character, especially if only for just the duration of the movie or show, and from the comfort of our own couch?

Absolutely nothing, that's what.

I look back on this, and I realize that these arbitrary declarations of being were actually just a vehicle for our sibling rivalry to escalate and be released into the world. At eighteen months apart, we were too close in age to differentiate any sort of special privileges, like later bed times for the older sibling, or new clothes for the younger. Our parents tried to treat us equally, which is of course what drove us mad.

Mum was the worst offender in all of this. She couldn't for the life of her remember our names when she was angry. It was always some bastardized meld of both our names, usually spoken with a certain sense of insanity tinged exasperation.

"JUSNEE!" She'd exclaim, her eye twitching from the anxiety of it all, stray wisps of hair sticking haphazardly from her carefully sculpted coif.

We failed to appreciate that Mum couldn't possibly be expected to differentiate between either of us. We were both awful 95% of the time, and she would spend her days plowing snow, or patching potholes, or working a jackhammer...like the bad-ass mother fucker she is, and then come home to Satan's children.

No, all we could think about, was how dare our mother have the audacity to forget our extremely special names.

"MY NAME IS NIELA!" my sister would wail angrily.

She never did get over the emotional scars this name-meld caused, though our sibling rivalry has pretty much disappeared.

~*~

The importance of Jonathan Taylor Thomas remained relevant fifteen years later. I was a university student, and Niela worked at the Cactus Club Café in Vancouver, BC.

I was in French class when my newly purchased cell phone rang. This is the most embarrassing thing that can happen to you when you are in class, even more so when you've inexplicably chosen a Jack Johnson song as your ringtone.

I quickly ignored the call, looking apologetically at my professor and classmates for disturbing the quiet tranquility of conjugating French verbs.

Thinking the great disturbance over, I returned my cell phone to its designated pouch in my backpack, not turning off the ringtone, like a smart person would, because seriously...this is 2006...who uses cell phones?

I was caught unawares when it rang again.

I thought, 'This must be an emergency. I just got this thing, no one has my number except my family...someone is dead!'

Avoiding the annoyed stares of my classmates, I ducked out of the classroom to answer the phone, prepared for the worst.

"Hello?" I said hesitantly.

My sister's excited voice blasted loudly into my ear, "Oh my God, Justine! You are not going to believe what is happening!"

"Niela, I'm in class! I thought it was Mom calling to tell me you died!"

"I'm sorry!" She said, "But I don't think you understand. JONATHAN TAYLOR THOMAS IS SITTING IN MY SECTION! JTT is sitting...in...my...section!"

I could detect a hint of panic in her voice, like she just couldn't deal with the prospect of interacting with the mythical creature that was Randy Taylor. I reacted appropriately:

"Shut UP! Is he cute? What is he wearing? Have you talked to him? Is he with anyone? How tall is he? Why is he there? What the fuck is happening??!!!"

 She paused for a moment, "...actually, he looks kind of gross. He's really short, his hair is kind of greasy, and he's wearing these stupid blue sunglasses."

"Well that's disappointing." I said, leaning against the brick walls of the Arts Building hallway. "Is he with anyone?" I asked, curiously.

"Yeah...he's with a dude. They're talking kind of closely...I don't think I can process this right now."

"Breathe, Niela," I encouraged, "Just bring him a glass of water and be your usual charming self." I thought for a moment and continued, "If you can help it, try not to spill anything on him, and whatever you do...don't tell him that we rented Man of the House and kept it for over a year."

"What? Oh my God, I forgot about that! Now that's all I can think about! I'm probably going to blurt out something stupid like 'penis pants' and pull a total Gina!"

"Niela, it's going to be fine. You are not mom. You can do this!"

"Okay," she said, taking several deep breaths, "I can do this."

I chuckled and told her I was going back to French class.

Look at his stupid little face. Who WOULDN'T want to be this kid?

Making out with Bernard the Elf. Uh, what?

So I had a bit of a steamy dream last night, with someone a bit out of the ordinary...but I'ma go with it for now because, damn...it was HAWT.

In dreamland...I totes made out with Bernard the Elf, from The Santa Clause.

DAFUQ is wrong with me??!

Ok, that's not entirely true. Dream Me made out with David Krumholtz who played Bernard the Elf in The Santa Clause.

Okay, that's better. 

I'm splitting hairs here, only because I don't want the image of me face-raping an elf being sent off to the universe. It's too late for that isn't it? Damn.

Whatever. The dream itself wasn't X-rated by any means, but when I woke up I still felt like I should be fanning myself delicately from the experience.

The funny thing is, I am completely sure this is entirely twitter's fault. I follow @DaveKrumholtz and he is possibly one of my favourite tweeters in existence. For Example:

"The guy in the hunting enthusiast t-shirt is hitting on the lady wearing toe socks, an elaborate back tattoo, glasses and a smile at O'hare."

"He hunts, she knits. He's got a Camouflage bag, she's got Louis Vuitton. He wears Oakley sunglasses, she wears the latest from Walgreen's."

"He's fascinated with her footwear. She's like, "What about my eyes??" He has A.D.D. She's BiPolar 2. I hope to christ they don't fuck."

Also, uh...I fucking love this guy! He was in 10 Things I Hate About You, and Numb3rs, and Freaks and Geeks, and he's hilarious...and I'm pretty sure we'd get along outside the twisted dream-verse of my brain, but whatever. I understand the laws of the universe don't work that way.

*sigh* I'll just have to be content with all the dream-making-out. Woe.

If Only I Were a Ninja...

Trashiest Couple Ever were up watching Breaking Bad at full volume last night...until 3:00AM.

I've been plotting creative ways to eliminate the neighbours all day and I thought I would share a few of my more creative ideas:

1. Pay Angry Bum $20 to assassinate them next time they lock themselves outside in a drunken argument. I envision him stabbing them both with several broken glass bottles.
2. Fill their apartment with noxious gas.
3. Realize my life-long dream of becoming a Ninja, don a black martial arts suit, sneak into their apartment, and kill them via karate chop.
4. Play Rebecca Black's "Friday" though the wall for several hours, until their brains explode. My other neighbours and roommate might start plotting my murder for this...
5. Drop 1000 ton ACME anvil on them from the sky (should Angry Bum fail to complete "Operation: Broken Bottle" during outside argument)

I realize most of these ploys are unlikely to happen, but it's the only thing keeping me going today.

Cowabunga. 

Back Alley Drama

Our back alley is a highway of drama and entertainment.

We have the usual shopping cart pushers, who rumble past every twenty minutes in their endless search for cans, an occurrence most Vancouverites have just accepted as a quirky byproduct of living in this city.

Usually these people aren't very entertaining, just audible, but one man in particular has a tendency to rant at the top of his lungs about everything and nothing. The world just pisses him off and he feels the need to constantly send his furious indignation out into the universe. I have bequeathed him the creative and witty nickname "Angry Bum" and enjoy listening to his tirades.

Once an entire pack of raccoons singled out one of its members and had a full out rumble the likes of which have not been seen since "The Outsiders", right outside my window. It was one of the more astounding events I've seen in this city because really, what the hell are eight raccoons doing fighting in an alley in the middle of a giant city?

Finally there are several individuals who live in the surrounding buildings who think their conversations in the alley are actually held in the Cone of Silence.

News flash, morons! Everyone and their deaf dog can hear you!

Last night the trashiest couple in the world had a humdinger of a lovers quarrel...and I heard every word.

In the heat of their drunken quarrel they both forgot their keys, thus locking them out in the alley where they proceeded to verbally abuse each other for an hour and a half.

Part of me thought that I should just go let them inside, but aside from not wanting to get involved and possibly beaten within an inch of my life, this is free entertainment! Who needs trashy reality TV? I have my back alley!

So what have we learned today? If you converse in or around an alley someone is always listening. Take that shit inside people!

Concert Etiquette: Part 1

I went to see Beirut a few years ago, and they pretty much blew my face right off with how awesome they were.

Though the band was amazing, the experience made me realize that a great number of people do not have any sense of concert etiquette.

I always get stuck next to at least one asshole at most concerts. Maybe these people lack some sort of insight into what is usually expected of a thoughtful human being, and if so I feel it is my duty to lay down some rules for how to behave in a crowd without being a monumental tool:

1. Are you a giant? Can you graze amongst the tree tops with the other long necks? Perhaps you should hang back and give the average-sized humans a chance to look at something besides your shoulder blades. Also, don't bring your other vertically exceptional chums and create an impenetrable wall of douchebaggery, it's selfish and will make everyone hate you...including God.
2. I don't care if the music speaks to you in a way that no human ever could, there is a time and a place for you to pull out your Stevie Wonder impersonation, and guess where it's not: a jam-packed fucking concert! Getting lost in the music does not mean you have to sway like a "tay ina win".
3. Everyone is allotted a personal bubble of space in life, and this bubble expands and contracts depending on the situation. In a concert situation, this bubble is about 2 inches away from the outline of your body. That is your permissible space, DO NOT INVADE OTHER BUBBLES WITH YOUR BUBBLE!
4. Don't sing*. Unless, by some miracle, there becomes an intuitive moment during a particularly good song where everyone else has simultaneously burst into song, you shut your face! No one wants to hear your off key rendition of a song that the band who fucking wrote it is trying to do justice. You are ROBBING the world from hearing how that song should sound, and most likely fucking up perfectly good YouTube videos with your cacophonous screeching.
5. If you are going to participate in a band-led, audience-inclusive, clapping exercise, you better have the rhythm of Louis fucking Prima. If you can't find 2 and 4, don't even attempt to assault the rest of the rhythmically superior with your ineptitude.
6. If you are at a concert, you need to be realistic about the space around you. You don't own it, and if you don't occupy it, someone else will!
7. Leave the PDA in your bedroom. No one should have to be subjected to the sounds of tongue slurping while crammed against your rear end. Space is tight, folks, and you're sharing it with a lot of people.

*unless you have the voice of an angel and/or perfect pitch. 

I'm sure there's about a million more rules I could come up with, but mainly, just be considerate.
Or else.

Casualty of the '90s

I think every generation has a moment where they look back at how they dressed in their youth and they think to themselves, "Sweet Jesus, what were we thinking?" The '60s had their beehive hairdos, and poodle skirts, and pointy mountain-peak bra's; the '70s had the tight, white bell bottoms and platform shoes with the comb-over bowl cuts and horrid polyester shirts; the '80s had the big hair, and the ripped clothing, and the poufy-shouldered metallic prom dresses; and then there were the '90s...

We grew up in the '90s, my sister and I. We are '90s casualties.

I'm actually horrified at the clothing choices we made as children. And, I do actually mean choices. I got up in the morning, took a look in my closet, and purposefully selected pink neon spandex pants to wear with a no fear t-shirt. It was usually between that and pastel coloured sweat suits.

I mean I get that we worked with what was available at the time and all, but...I mean...just look at this:

Can we talk for five seconds about how my shorts look like they're being eaten by a magenta vagina monster? And a bucket hat? Are you fucking kidding me?! I'd also like to point out that my t-shirt is decorated with gold metallic paint. Yeah. Gold. Someone just kill me already.

I don't know what the hell fashion designers in the '90s were thinking, but I assume it had something to do with copious amounts of cocaine, and I will never forgive them for it. They are responsible for never-ending shame whenever I think about what I wore as a child, and the photographic evidence (a.k.a. every photo between the years of 1990 and 1997) is enough to make me want to bedazzle my eyelids shut.

The sad thing about the whole situation is I remember just loving some of this stuff, and I'm not talking about complacently enjoying my clothes. I mean throw-a-tantrum-if-I-don't-get-to-wear-my-sparkle-kitten-sweater excited.

Because, yeah...kitten sweaters. 

Kitten sweaters...and permed mullets.  

To be fair, the hairdresser really screwed me in this photo. She left the perming solution in too long and then thought 'I know, I'll just cut some of it off...INTO A MULLET!' I can't even.

And this isn't even my worst hair doo.

I can't really even blame the fashion creators of the '90s for this faux pas, this is all on me. I went from this adorable little thing, with the mum-cut bangs: 

To this:

I apparently didn't care for bangs much...so I cut them off.

Just. My. Bangs. And then mum had to try and salvage the rest. 

Such a train wreck.

But anyway, less of my hair travesties and more about the clothes.

I really feel that 90% of what we wore as children can be seen on the cast of Saved by the Bell. 

There's something about the colour palette of the clothing on the early seasons of this show that really brings me back to my youth. Pastels. I remember a lot of pastels. Or maybe I'm just thinking about how I used to sit glued to the television gazing adoringly at Zack Morris's pretty, pretty face, wearing my onesie, black, jersey-knit jumpsuit with rainbow buttons...    

We had pastels, and sparkles...but we also had neon. So much, mother-fucking neon.   

I'm fairly certain we had the pink version of the skirt seen above. That skirt with the built in shorts underneath. And the elasticized waist-band.

I know neon has made a fairly triumphant come back, thanks to American Apparel, and various other stores that I hate, but I feel like we'll look back at this resurgence in a few years and say the same thing about now, that we said about the '90s: what were we thinking?

Granted, we're not really rocking the same neon holocaust as seen above, but it's still pretty bad. I saw a belly shirt the other day. A highlighter yellow cut-off belly shirt. That will never be okay. NEVER.

There was this one sweat shirt that Niela and I used to fight over constantly when we were kids. It was white with pink, neon, tie dyed bits all over it. But the pink stuff was made from hyper colour, so when it heated up, it changed colour to green.

But it never really changed consistently over the whole sweatshirt, so you'd be left with booger-green armpits and a sort of pinky-green gradient around the neckline and the wrist cuffs.

If you were really hot, sometimes just a racing stripe down the middle of your back. Pair this with a newly shorn mushroom cut (possibly with a rat tail) and this basically paints a picture of the 4th grade.

Okay, maybe this was me in the 4th grade. Whatever. I'm cool with my sparkle shirt. And my mushroom cut. And my boy-face.

Thank God that about half-way through the decade neon became terribly un-cool. I'd like to thank the grunge movement for this: thanks grunge, even if you are the epitome of dirty 'who-gives-a-fuck' attitude, you really helped us out of the trenches on this one. Keep on rockin -- Justine.

The downside of this reversion to natural colours and clothing textiles is that instead of leaning towards day-glo poly blends...I discovered overalls. I wore overalls for two years straight.

I think I only had the one pair too...and considering I wore them every single day, and didn't do much laundry...I'm thinking this was a dark time for me. They were fairly utilitarian, and they definitely didn't hinder my tetherball serve by any means, but I just can't for the life of me figure out why I lost my shit over these stupid buckled bib-pants. I mean, they had that pointless hammer loop for Christ's sake! At what point did I ever even attempt to wield a hammer? And at what point did my excessive hammer usage necessitate the addition of a hammer loop to my pants?

Never. That's when.   

Anyway, I'll cease my tirade on my poor childhood choices and just revel in the knowledge that this time is over. I can wear real clothes now. Clothes that match my skin tone, and never go out of style, and express my personality, and don't have sparkly kittens, or plastic jewels permanently punched through them, or neon skirts fastened around them or anything. 

Maybe what I hate more than the general awfulness of '90s clothing is the plethora of fads that decade subscribed to. It seemed like everything was a trend, from the clothes, to the music. One hit wonders, and metallic parachute pants; only acceptable for two months out of the year and then never to be heard of again.

But the important thing...is that we survived it all. We lived to tell others of our woes, and maybe...just maybe...we can save the world from another neon-o-caplyse.