I wanna Keep On Lovin’ You

All I want is nachos. All the time. There are these blue tortilla chips? And they are not too salty and not too crunchy and just totally the best? And then there’s the cheese? I like the part with the cheese. I realize that over the months I have been neglecting the Cheese Part of the CheeseBlog and if I have disappointed anyone, I am filled with deep regret. There will be more cheese in the weeks to come, I promise.

The cheese has to melt but not be so melted that it’s absorbed into the chips. There has to be a layer, a dangerous moment, when you pick up a chip, when you don’t know if the cheese will stay on the chip or slide right off into your mouth. It’s partly about the danger. Mark Burnett, can we please play Cheese roulette?

Sometimes I use different kinds of cheese. But cheddar is the best. White or orange, I don’t care.

Lately I’ve been big on toppings; hot peppers, red onions. But toppings are not strictly necessary if you have the good salsa.

I know – the best salsa is the one you make yourself. Mm hmm. And the best love is Mom’s love. Whatever. Making salsa is too much work! If I wanted to work, I’d make something for dinner that takes longer to prepare than 5 minutes on Broil. The name of the game is expedient, salty, spicy, crunchy food in my face. Feed It!

QUE PASA salsa is the best. HOT QUE PASA SALSA is really the best but can be hard to find. We found it in Pemberton on one of our trips to buy more crap with which to camp. Also, there were chips in the grocery store at Pemberton that are called “Grimms” (you know, the sausage people? not the fairy tale people.) “Chili N Lime Tortilla Chips” and they are bloody delicious. You can actually taste the lime and the chili. And not an OMA in sight. Speaking of which, here’s more camping:

The Mighty Green River as seen from our campsite…

A stray redneck who took shelter under our tarp as the rain did piss merrily down…

The mountain view from our campsite on arrival day:


…And departure day:

But in a pinch, and often I am pinched, PACE is my next favourite salsa. Medium Pace. Now you know what to get me for my birthday or for Canada Day or whatever. Sure, I’ll set up a little paypal button for salsa. Absolutely.

Also, there is no need for things like pineapple, peach, water chestnut, etc. in salsa. No need. All you need is tomatoes, onions, jalapenos, garlic, cilantro and lime juice.

Nachos. Better than a dead Republican.

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OMA!

OK, I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble. Everyone has the right to be happy and live on a wonderful, delusional, sparkly champagne planet of his/her own making if that suits. But I must speak to the condominium development called OMA and I must do it quickly, before anyone is hoodwinkled.

Condominiums are not so swank as they want to be, usually. They are fancy apartments that you own and they tend to be located in ritzy neighbourhoods, traditionally downtown (the downtown of whatever city one happens to be in.) Recently a lot of condos have been going up in the suburbs, too – that way they’re affordable and are still condos and so you’re swank and can still afford to eat and put gas in your minisuv.

Most condos don’t really interest me one way or another, mainly because they cost many many dollars and don’t come with any land. Unless I can afford to imagine being able to afford to live in the penthouse of a given condo, I don’t give condos a whole lot of love or hate. Whatever – they grow; I go by.

But there is a particular condo development going up in my neighbourhood, which has been my neighbourhood, on and off, for the last 30 years.

(That would be Burnaby, a suburb of Vancouver. Burnaby is not the worst you could do, suburb-wise. It’s friendly and you can see the mountains and from some spots, the water. You can get downtown in 30 minutes from my house, or to the deep-burbs by heading 30 minutes in the other direction. Most neighbourhoods in Burnaby do not have crack houses or grow-ops but some do and that’s OK. We don’t mind. There are two lakes in Burnaby; Deer Lake and Burnaby Lake. Both lakes feature many ducks.)

The condo development is called OMA. That stands for One Madison Ave. Oh yes, there is a street, um avenue, called Madison in Burnaby. It runs north-south and goes as far north as Burrard inlet and as far south as … um … highway 1, I think. It’s not a particularly interesting street…sorry, AVENUE.

But! OMA sent me a flyer. It’s all black and lime green. There’s an elegant girl on the front staring at me, her kempt hair mocking my own flyaway strands. She is one of the terrible Italian girls I went to high school with. She has very thin eyebrows and is sitting in a leather recliner. She is daring me to Choose Burnaby. I want, instead, to run.

See for yourself: OMA! There is a lot of flaSH! woah! but you will be able to see the green and blackness of it all. Maybe you will be able to read it – I could not but I have the flyer. Doesn’t it look like the theme from GODZILLA?
Wasn’t the best part of that movie at the end when there was a remix of Kashmir? P. Diddy and Jimmy Fucking Page. Allrighty!

Aside from the design choices, though, there are some errors in print about OMA. I was willing to let them go when I had only seen them on posters and billboards, in rapid-passing, but then a flyer came to the door and taunted me. Bitch.

1. “1 minute from Vancouver, 2 towers, 334 homes.”

If by Vancouver you mean Boundary Road, yes, you are one minute from Vancouver. But I doubt that most people, when they think of our fair city by the sea, think of the 24-hour Knight and Day restaurant, the McDonalds with the caboose and a #9 bus depot. Because that’s what you’re going to find in the Vancouver that’s one minute from OMA.

And isn’t building 2 towers just asking for trouble?

2. “Like New York’s SOHO in the ’80s, Burnaby’s Brentwood is in the heart of a popular revitalization.”

It’s in the what with the who, now? Burnaby’s Brentwood is a mall. It’s called Brentwood Mall. Ah, the stories I could tell about skipping school, stealing lipgloss from Boots Drugstore, taking endless photos in the photo booth. But I won’t. Without ever having travelled to either New York or SOHO, but having experienced the ’80s firsthand, I can tell you that Burnaby’s Brentwood had a great makeover in ’89 or so and it really doesn’t need a whole lot more done to it. It’s one mall with 2 Starbucks, a Zellers, a Sears, a London Drugs, a liquor store and three or four shoe stores. It’s fine.

3. “And you’re only a few stops away from downtown Vancouver via the Gilmore Skytrain.”

Gilmore, then Rupert, then Renfrew, then Commercial, then switch trains, then Main Street, then Stadium, then Granville. If you’re still breathing, Congratulations! You’re downtown! But you’ve paid for two zones because even though you’re a minute away from Vancouver at OMA, that still means you’re in a different transit zone. That’s $3 one-way.

4. “Uptown in Brentwood, you’ll find brand-name and new-name shopping, familiar and offbeat restaurants, community centers (sic) and elementary schools. Everything from Save On Foods to Home Depot, Cactus Club to Blue Ruby.”

I guess the brand name is the Sears. Or the Canadian Tire? Or the crappiest Staples store on the face of the earth. (Oh, it’s bad. It smells like desperate teenagers and sour chicken soup.)

New-name might be Winners? Or the Church’s Chicken. That’s new. I don’t recommend it, though.

And speaking of food: you’v got your White Spot, Tim Hortons, Cactus Club, Boston Pizza and Milestones…and that’s BEFORE you get as far as the mall, er, Brentwood Community. The Brentwood Commmunity has all kinds of food in its FOOD FAIR. Mmm, haute cuisine.

Yes, we have one elementary school. And one high school. The one I attended. The one where all the bad kids who got kicked out of their high schools got sent. But hey – it’s been 12 years, maybe it’s improved. I noticed the last time I drove by that the school motto is still “Where the best get better.” That was the legacy of OUR grad class y’know. True story.

5. “One Madison Avenue – fresh as lime zest.”

They saw green, green meant go, but go was bad. They wanted stay. They saw green, green meant environment, but environment was political. They saw green, green meant fresh fruit…Thai food…Thai food is popular! Lime zest! OMA = lime zest!

The penthouses start at $739,900, which is a steal for a penthouse. Especially one with a view of two highways and a skytrain line!

I just think – people are going to buy your dumb condos. They will be driving by, on their way to somewhere, and see that you are building towers and they will inquire and then buy the condos. Do you have to subject us to your horrible advertising? Are you really trying to convince anyone that a stretch of Gilmore Street that is currently (perpetually) being re-paved so that when the rains come it doesn’t flood is going to be a border street for a new, sophisticated lifestyle-d community? Home Depot on one side, White Spot on the other, that place that sells the cheap sausages up the way and a big mushy pile of dirt where your two towers will stand? Save the ink & the trees and get thee to Coal Harbour. G’wan. Git.

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La La La La La La; La La La La La!

The concept of Smurfs is pretty strange, I’ve always thought. They are small and blue, all have the same last name and have incredibly uninventive vocabularies. They would suck worse than me at Scrabble. I remember watching the Smurfs when I was a wee girlie but my most recent memory is of discovering them in French (Les Schtroumpfs) and thinking it was the funniest thing since the time I nearly lost my mind to the Monkeys of Hysteria as I tried to get dressed for a party while stoned.

The other day at work, I was walking from desk to copier (or vice versa…it’s all a blur) and was humming as I walked, as I do. Suddenly I realized I was humming the Smurf song. I tried to stop, but it kept coming, kept bubbling out of my throat like a reverse throat-waterfall. Archhhh! La la la la la la! La la la la la!

A co-worker sitting nearby heard my distress and came out from his cocoony cubicle to ask if I was all right.

With haunted eyes, clutching my stack of papers to my chest, I asked, Does it ever happen to you? That you are humming as you walk and suddenly you realize you’re humming the SMURF song?

Bless his heart, he did not run to fetch the office WhiteCoats right at that moment but did consider my question carefully before replying, uh, no?

To distract myself, I engaged in a conversation with him about the Smurfs, their language, their eerieness. Being good government employees, we wondered: What does Smurf mean? What does it stand for?

Back at my desk and one google search later:

Socialist Men Under Red Father, apparently. (Thank goodness there’s an acronym. I don’t function well without them now. They’re like the jam to my peanut butter.)
I guarantee that if you toss this piece of trivia into a conversation, the conversation will stop. If that’s what you’re after.

Plus, I found a Smurf Name Generator (I am Junkie Smurf, but Tortured Potato is Yaweh Smurf. Co-worker A) is Hoochie Smurf. Rowan is Super Absorbant Smurf, the knowledge of which has just made my day. I’m done. See ya.)

Here is a Smurf Blog because you knew there had to be at least one. It looks interesting, though I have not had time to read much of it.

The most helpful thing at the Official Smurf Site was this: A Smurf a day keeps the smurf away!

That’s what I’m talking about. Real advice! Why can’t a Smurf run for President/Prime Minister? (see link 1., above, for a definitive answer.)

Have a smurfy day! Smurftastic!

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Pretty Little Girl wit Diddy Style

See, J.Lo, you still want P. Diddy. You’re working your way back to him. You married a dancer, almost married an actor and now you’re back on the block with a fellow musician. Just call Diddy up. I’m sure he’ll take you back.

Just think, you could have little As and Cs and Rs.

S. Lo Diddy.

Do. Wa. Lo Diddy.

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Lick my Legs, I’m On Fire!

McGriddle. Pancake sandwich with meat in the middle.

Ladies & Gents we have a new award: The James Brown Crack Pipe Award. (JBCPA). Awarded to the individual or group on any given day who most exemplifies the wacked-out, jail-deserving, “are you so high you didn’t see the stoplight?” behavior of Mr. James “wahhhhhh!” Brown.

Today’s award originally was going to a gentleman in a pseudo-SUV, one of those ritzy MercedeSUVS, who signalled right as we approached a corner (I was behind said gentleman) and then, instead of turning and in a daring move, parked about 7 feet from the corner (which also had a stop sign), got out of his vehicle and began running north on the sidewalk along Boundary Road, necessitating my sudden swerve and a right turn at an irresponsibly wide angle. Luckily it was early in the day and there was no one yet driving down Boundary road.

But then, the McGriddle, which I have been meaning to try for quite a while. We were at Wal-Mart, looking at the cheap chips, and I suddenly (Imlovinit) really wanted (Imlovinit) a sausage McMuffin with no egg. It’s been years since I had one. They are my favourite Mcbreakfast. But then, the sign said EAT THE MCGRIDDLE! DO IT! so I ordered one. Pancake sandwich. I’m thinking some drunk teenage son of the Executive Director of Marketing used the McGriddle prototype to distract from his irresponsible behavior. “Hey, dad, so yeah I missed curfew but check this out! Pancakes and SAUSAGE and EGG! America would totally go for this and you’ll get that promotion! And then you can buy me a Mercedesuv or a LINCOLN FREEDOM NAVIGATOR.”

Terrible, terrible stuff.

Yesterday for breakfast, I smushed two hardboiled eggs, added liberal doses of fresh salsa, spread it on toast and topped it with parmesan. I highly recommend this as a breakfast. It’s like egg salad, but without the grossness of mayonnaise.

I do realize how ridiculous it is to be offended by mayonnaise when I have so recently consumed something called a McGriddle (imlovinit). Just so you’re not wondering whether or not I realize that I’m inconsistent. I delight in my inconsistency. So there.

Nothing like summer to remind you how much hair covers the human body. I think this is going to be a shaven summer. For the longest time, growing up, I didn’t have any hair on my legs. It was great, except I wanted to be a grown-up and shave my legs. My mom told me that I should count my blessings because once you start shaving you can’t go back. The hair grows thicker, darker, more ominously, like the films of M. Night Shyamalan. (oh my god, he’s only four years older than me. what am I doing with my life?)

The hair eventually came. I mean, I am half Italian. That half? Lots of hair. And I shaved merrily for a few years and complained about it, as you are meant to do. Secretly, though, I felt awfully grown up. My body hair made up for my woefully lanky (read: flat-chested) body.

When I was 20, I met the ex-girlfriend (M) of my boyfriend (P1). M had no hair on her head (had shaved it off) but lots under her arms and she didn’t seem too concerned about the hair on her legs. I had never known that body hair could be a personal statement, an expression of intent and principle.. This was militant! She was controlling her own hair based on what she thought was right, not on what society said was right.

(One of the other things M taught me was that red wine can really deliver a sucker punch to menstrual cramps. Up till then I had always swallowed handfuls of Tylenol. But red wine is much more pleasant and just as effective.)

I took to letting my leg hair grow. Handily, P1 was used to this sort of thing and didn’t complain. At the time, that was important. I shaved when I felt like it, which was usually in the winter when I had to wear tights because if you don’t shave your legs before the Christmas party, you spend the Christmas party scratching yourself which means you get less of the free food and drink.

For a few years, I let it grow, shaving once or twice a year. The armpits are trickier because they trap the sweat and then you smell. I developed theories that have probably been well-documented by more academic women than me about why we shave and what it means when we don’t. At one point I became very angry that the idea of a smooth, pre-pubescent girl’s legs was perceived as good. It seemed like a giant oppression that no one was paying attention to. How can we expect to be taken seriously if we look like we haven’t yet reached puberty? And if it is inappropriate for men to have sex with underage girls, how can it be appropriate (even encouraged) for women to make themselves look like underage girls in order to attract men? Meanwhile, men are lauded based on their amounts of body hair, resulting in a society made up of grown up men telling little girls what to do. Did anyone else see this? Was I the only one?

Then, a couple of summers ago, I started shaving again. I think it was because I started working in an office and people were staring at my legs and judging me. Intellectually it didn’t matter, of course. But to meet my day-to-day goals, like getting along with co-workers and not being the ostracized one in the corner of the office for ONCE in my LIFE, I gave in and shaved.

I felt like a bad feminist. But in the mainstream, with leg hair, I felt like a bad woman. Is that fucked up or what? (oh yes, yes it is.) There is a deep, abiding desire in me to fit in, which battles almost constantly with my deep, instinctual need to set myself apart.

This year I think I’ll compromise and shave my legs (but not obsessively) and leave my armpit hair at a not-stinky, not-non-existent length. And I will paint my toes but not my cheeks. And I will make my beliefs known by speaking them rather than displaying them about my person and hoping people will understand.

And by next year: who knows.

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