c'est what?

2009-06-10T10:07:00.004-04:00

i've moved!

if you like design, art, nail lacquer, colours, pop culture, fashion, interiors, and all things aesthetically pleasing, i'd love if you joined me at bougy//bisous. there's nothing personal about this new blog--a total change from the style of paigesix was way overdue.

thanks for reading over the last 5 years!

IDS09 - Castor vs. 5x5

2009-02-18T08:57:00.000-05:00

I really love their restaurant—what with its semi-terrifying (“omg! I thought it was alive!”) stuffed beaver mascot and overflowing cloud of light bulbs—but honestly, Castor’s 5x5 IDS space was just... not... anything.

As I exited the Winnebago a sleek-looking business man caught me on the stairs.
"What's, uh, in there?" he asked.
"The... space?" I retorted.

At first I thought my response was due to typical, youthful you-just-don't-get-it-man sentiments. But after a week or so of reflection, I realize I was actually asking the same thing.

And then, without even trying, the internet totally topped Castor.

(via Buzzfeed.)

Karim approved.

2009-02-06T00:09:00.003-05:00

I honestly wanted to write a much, much more comprehensive post about what’s happening this weekend, but:
- considering I was in office working till 3:30am last night
- and taking into account that I actually forgot that eating food is a necessary function to survive until 7:30pm today
- at which point I speed ate a salad and then after a short cab ride eagerly downed complementary flute after complementary flute of rose Veuve with Sarah in the IDS media lounge
...I’m going to have to make it short.

It’s Toronto’s Interior Design Show this weekend!

The crowd at tonight’s gala/preview was, according to my rough, cloudy-memory estimate, nearly double that of last year. So actual opinions of the exhibits are on hold until tomorrow when I can tour it all sans hustle and bustle. Perhaps I will see you there?

summer goal #1

2009-01-26T20:02:00.006-05:00

I will make a pair of Hermes sandals.

The past twelve-plus months were dedicated to building feather head pieces, but the trend is reaching the end of its run. (No thanks to the talentless, camera happy masses for that one.) However, my arts & design drawer still resembles a deconstructed Winged Victory of Samothrace--supplies that need to take flight.

So: before the flock gets this one, I'll craft some feathered shoes.

Obviously before, during, and after will be shared here.

(discovery of Vicente Rey shoes via Atlantis Home.)

well, they weren't very warm in the snow...

2009-01-12T22:06:00.004-05:00

good dog.

bad dog.

You honestly wouldn't think that something the size of a (really large) cat would have the jaws of a rottweiler. But he does.

i want to go to there.

2009-01-07T22:26:00.007-05:00

I’m turning 25 in a few days, a number I am very eager to reach because it has pretty solid clout. Professionally, I’ve been slightly sensitive about my age ever since a client—in her late twenties, no less!—told me over lunch that I was “too young” to understand the dating problem she was detailing to others at the table. (Even as I write that now I furrow my eyebrows in frustration-rage. If. She. Only. Knew.)

Personally, I can’t wait to be 25—that is until I realize this leaves me five years to, well, to do a lot of things I’ve always assumed would happen before the next big decade begins. I thought I’d even have one of those 1, 3, 5, and 10-year goal plan charts done by now. But I just… don’t want to. Vague notions of what will happen have always worked for me in the past, so why not now?

The fuzzy-unsure haze on the horizon is what makes it okay to age—it tricks you into thinking you’re still a fresh-faced graduate with every insane opportunity available, and not a young professional with a boyfriend, car, dog, and apartment you love so much you’d consider subletting it should you ever be required to move from Toronto.

But! Okay, yes. There are a few things I would add into my multi-year plan should I ever choose to make one. Such as: decorating a room in my future home with a Bisazza tile mosaic.

Stunning, right? It's managed to make luxe wallpaper prints look simply pedestrian and pushed the definition of “mosaic” far, far away from your aunt’s craft cupboard. I’m not even going to ask the price—perhaps in part because next decade me also imagines lots of disposable income in that hazy horizon.

resolution question #1

2009-01-06T19:57:00.002-05:00

drink more water.
Seriously. Why is it that I have to force myself to drink glass after glass of water all day long, but could easily down a bottle of wine without getting up from my seat?

it's a... lamp!

2009-01-05T18:52:00.006-05:00

After years of coveting the Arco floor lamp and dropping many a non-disguised hint by dog-earing certain pages of Dwell and Domino, it’s finally nestling the corner of my living room.

(to which Natalie nicely adds—and I must repeat!—“Every time I’m over I think you’ve brought about all you can into your apartment, until you find something new and it just… fits.”)

Indeed—cushioned between suede sectional, Lionel puppy, fig tree, and an Indian ink print titled “How to destroy your bird” is the lamp, perfectly curved to enclose the space.

It should be noted: my shiny chrome Christmas present is a relative of the Italian insurance-rate-rising original. Tis the season for inspirations, however! Apartment Therapy just called attention to CB2’s much more affordable take on the George Nelson Swag Leg desk—a desk I make a point of dreamily waving at each time I walk past its window-front display in the Herman Miller boutique at Manulife Centre.

quick as a flashback

2008-12-31T17:45:00.005-05:00

2008:
I cut my hair.
New friends more than successfully mixed with old.
Boyfriend and I started a family by adopting Lionel puppy.
Promotion! From agency Copywriter to Associate Creative Director.
Social media apps took over and I (temporarily!) forgot about the blog.
Goodbye crazy landlord, hello dream apartment in Little Italy.
Travelled: from South of France to South Beach. New York City, the Windy City, and the Alma Mater’s City. And Texas: to the parents’ new expat home of Houston and my new North American favourite, Austin.

2009?
It’s time to work on my New Year’s constant: the failed resolution of being on time. There’s lamb and lobster and many bottles of bubbly waiting…

(oh, and as I also failed to take enough photos over the past 365, photo credits are due! Including, but not limited to: Dallas, Sarah and Jenn.)

i mean, it could just be something that looks like a lamp

2008-12-21T11:30:00.003-05:00

Because our families can never agree on hosting Christmas in a common city, the boyfriend and I always exchange presents either a little early or a little late. I, the eternal procrastinator, made a promise to be ready for today—the day before I leave for Texas—and actually made the deadline. However, while walking to my apartment last night he alluded that he wasn’t going to be ready until I’m back on New Year’s Eve. I smugly mocked him, and also thought “well at least I don’t have to trudge through the snow to find wrapping paper tomorrow morning!”

But then he unlocked my door, and, well, this:

(EEEEEEEKS! If you don’t know, you’ll have to wait till I unwrap it…)

i miss you.

2008-12-16T08:42:00.001-05:00

How to be single: step one.

2008-07-17T08:28:00.000-04:00

Dear Prudence,
I've been dating someone for a few months, and things have gotten serious very fast. We are highly compatible and have had no difficulty resolving the few minor disagreements we've had thus far—except one. I'm a cuddler. I want to hold my partner and be held by my partner at night. Preferably all night. My partner will hold me for the first five to 10 minutes in bed, or I him, and then he will tend to move to the opposite side of the bed for the night. At first I hinted that I'd like more extensive touching at night, and he said he'd make an effort to fulfill my cuddling needs. I switched to gently but clearly asking him for more contact in bed at night. But after a disappointing weekend, I tearfully explained to him how sad I was that we don't hold each other at night. He then told me that it's uncomfortable for him—too hot and confining. Is it unreasonable to ask a partner to change their sleeping style to accommodate this particular show of affection? Maybe one night a week? Sleeping entwined with my lover is a very tender experience for me, and I intensely don't want to lose this lover, yet I'm finding it very hard to accept that he is unwilling to find a way to make this meaningful act a possibility for us. Am I wrong?

—Unembraced

Not wrong, per say, but you do have to accept that you’re the reason why most guys are afraid of settling down with a girlfriend. You actually “tearfully explained” how sad his lack of late night cuddles are making you? Did you then explain that you’ve secretly been filming the sequel to a certain Kate Hudson movie on spec? I suspect that in a few weeks you’ll be writing in to complain that your lover doesn’t want to scrapbook with you, or that your partner refuses to join you in the bath every evening for a 3-hour soak. You are not a cuddler. You are, however, needy and high-maintenance. Sleeping positions are not a negotiable thing—if you haven’t learned this through life experience it’s time to rewatch a few early 90s episodes of Friends.

2008-07-07T01:24:00.000-04:00

We’re on the cusp of wedding season. Not specifically wedding season 2008: no, no, it’s the wedding stage of our lives that’s about to begin. The albums on facebook, the tacky colour schemes, the invitations you never wanted to receive in the first place—it’s all pouring in en masse and it’s only going to multiply.

(My aesthetician, bearer of all truths, told me that she was invited to more than eighteen nuptials the summer she got married.)

While drinking on a patio last week with a childhood friend we started talking about our boyfriends and when we'd get married. This in itself is a big deal—there’s an unspoken rule in your early-early twenties: do not gush about all things 'death do we part' unless you want to alienate or bore your friends, especially those who are single and/or career-driven. We were raised on Sex and the City after all, a show which aimed to teach us that it’s cool to still be chasing Mr.Right throughout your mid-thirties.

Um, not so much. Maybe inspiring for the women who were actually thirty and single, but Sex and the City was more of a cautionary tale for viewers of a certain upwardly mobile age. And this weekend’s Sunday New York Times continued the narrative with its coverage of Nanny Diaries co-author Nicola Kraus’ wedding.

You see, it wasn’t just by chance she got married at thirty-three. The poor chick lit author was thirty-two and single, meaning it made perfect sense for her to dedicate her last novel to her future husband.

“I was creating a place holder,” Ms. Kraus said. “He was out there. I just hadn’t crossed paths with him yet.”

She began behaving as if she was already in love. “You carry yourself differently when you’re not alone,” she explained. “I would carry myself at a party or a supermarket or a gym as if I was loved.”

Seriously.

And then the article goes on to wax tragic about Kraus’ feelings of desperation during her frenzied search for a husband. (Including a four-month sabbatical involving Tibetan healers and the placement of affirmations around her apartment—obvious inspiration for her brother reading a verse from “Eat, Pray, Love “ at the eventual wedding.)

Eugh. I’m only a casual connoisseur of the Vows section, but last time I checked they’re meant for stories of love, romance and family money. Not depressing tales about crazy borderline-barren ladies who throw birthday parties for their dogs.

And while the Sex and the City movie taught me that men care very little about getting their weddings listed in newspapers, if I was Kraus’s groom I’d feel more than jilted. The article isn’t about him—it’s about the idea of finding a husband. He just happened to break up with his mentioned-much-too-frequently ex-girlfriend at the right time. And wouldn’t you just LOVE to overhear her gossip circle this morning?

forget facebook

2008-05-29T08:01:00.001-04:00

Chuck Bass prefers Photobucket. Who knew?

2008-05-27T18:23:00.004-04:00

The New York Times is in my mind this weekend, and I’m not just talking about Emily Gould’s essay on the Gawker spotlight and why we are compelled to be oh-so-personal online. To those who think the 10-page article is too self-absorbed: you have obviously never blogged.

But, back to the topic at hand: “Starting Salaries but New York Tastes”—locally known as “trying to find a one bedroom apartment in Toronto is the worst unless you’re willing to live in a tenement house or pay rent comparable to mortgage payments.” The problem is, once you decide that a one bedroom is what you are going to do, the rental offerings start picking away at all sensibility until you convince yourself it’s worth it.

I’d compare the feeling to Stockholm syndrome: Yes, slum landlords, your no-windowed basement is a great deal! Or, yes, greedy yuppie who just finished his first house flip, I do want to pay for your inability to renovate on a budget! There’s absolutely no middle ground when you want to live on your own: It’s either worth it to spend twelve months making do in a hovel, or worth it to live a year of squalor in order to afford a pretty pretty new place.

So it’s June first on Sunday and I still don't know where I'm moving. However, instead of getting stressed about this fact (though the condition of my skin would tell you otherwise) I decided to become passive-aggressive proactive by emailing a random craigslist landlord. The ad was posted by “Rise High Investments” and was offering a one bedroom, second floor apartment in a Victorian Annex reno for the lovely price of $1500.

These rentals aren’t uncommon, but what irked me was the fact that the place was advertised as “below market rent” due to its “reasonable price”. I refuse to believe that one person spending $18,000 a year is below market, even for the Annex. And so I emailed this opinion over.

Paige,
Thanks for your email - very constructive and useful. As such, we are immediately dropping the rental price down to $1000/mth for this unit entirely based on your opinion. HA..just kidding!

Fine, fair enough. I did call you greedy and foolish.

…Let me give you a tip, rents for condo's (sic) downtown are much less than rents in the Annex (right beside UofT where there are 70,000+ students). In fact, would you believe that you can rent an even newer condo and nicer place than our unit (or a downtown condo) for even less rent...in north Brampton. Imagine that...location matters.

A normal person would generally end the argument there, but I had to keep going. And this wasn’t just because I obviously already know I could live in suburban housing for pocket change. I just had to get my “stop pretending Toronto is Manhattan!” point across. After all, I’m a blogger—we thrive on online anonymous conflict.

So the emails continued, containing such gems as “it's not that I'm trying to say you don't have the power to choose your renting price—if some guy with more money than brains is willing to pay it, fair enough—but just don't say something is 'below market' when it's not” and “I'm just calling you out for false advertising”.

And how did it all end?

He asked me out for coffee.

Well, if a girl can’t find a place to live at least there is some comfort in knowing it’s always easy to find a date. Fortunately I’m already in a long-term lease with someone else.

the difference between watching this and an episode of The Hills?

2008-04-09T18:26:00.001-04:00

Gossip Girl returns April 21st!

2008-04-01T07:56:00.002-04:00

The Pixel Couch is dizzy-adorable. I have to imagine, however, that its “you need to get your eyes checked” effect is actually not so bad--it's just natural to squint and refocus when viewing something on a computer screen, right?

Designed by Royal College of Art graduate Cristian Zuzunaga, it's hard to find a blog that hasn't posted about it this week. If you buy it, do tell how it looks in person.

via Shape + Colour
and many other blogs.

separated at birth?

2008-03-18T08:27:00.001-04:00

No, it's not really me. But close enough that I’ve been asked about it all weekend--even an ex emailed with congratulations.

Do you always pose like me, doppelganger?

Thanks to Josh for the tip, ha.

2008-03-09T23:08:00.014-04:00

We got “evicted” this week. The landlord’s father is moving into the house and so we have until June 15 to find a new place. So happy that we funded her renovations and lived through the constant nagging—from thermostat wars to passive aggressive snow shoveling—only to be pushed to the curb when everyone was finally getting along.

While I don’t mind the idea of house hunting (I like to spy on others, who knew?) for the first time in my life I’m not at all enamored by the idea of change. I’ve nested in this apartment and I’m just not ready to pack it all up and move.

(Then again, something went through the Laundromat window this week while my sheets were in the rinse cycle, leaving behind a hole which resembled evidence from Law & Order. So the opportunity to find a place with en suite laundry is rather appealing.)

Answer to question #1 you may be thinking:
No, I’m not going to move in with the boyfriend. Call me Katherine Heigl, but I’m slightly old fashioned—while also being terribly bored at the idea of living in a “couples” house. And besides, we still manage to sleep in the same bed most nights. We can wait until we're married to share a bathroom and everysinglemomentever.

Answer to question #2 you may be thinking:
No mom, I’m not going to move back home. Sorry!

Instead, the next three months will be dedicated to finding a place that will let me best replicate the design I’ve been building in this apartment. I’m annoyed that the projects I wanted to complete over the next month have to be put on indefinite hold. (Peeping toms, you may continue to window-lurk, those curtains aren’t going up anytime soon.)

And at the same time, I am getting excited at the prospect of new furniture: The aforementioned renovations included the addition of a smaller door frame, rendering our couch and wingback chairs into permanent installations of the house.

Answer to question #3 you may be thinking:
Yes, the landlord is definitely getting our cheap $20-from-craigslist couch as a moving-out present. The wingback chairs, on the other hand, are much too nice and are going to have to make it out a window.

shoveling snow is not a workout.

2008-03-04T17:45:00.003-05:00

A few weeks back it was fun to mock the thrilling "SNOW! WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW!" headlines that accompanied the non-stop blizzards of southern Ontario. But now, 90-odd centimeters later, we've heard it all and no longer care. The snow is coming and it's boring.

IDS08 - klaus objects

2008-02-28T19:53:00.004-05:00

I’m trying to think of a scenario that would allow me to have both these objects...

But I just keep recalling Joey’s apartment when he moves away from Chandler. And, shocking I know, but that’s so not the style I’m going for.

Still. Pig table or rabbit lamp?

Picture the pig in a front hallway, acting as butler-console table. You have dark, aged hardwood (original to the house) or tiny black and white octagon tiles. The pig isn’t all in your face the moment you come in the door—no, he’s rather unassuming, waiting across from the closet, ready to take your mail and hold the keys.

Rabbit lamp, while it is my first choice, is simply too mrah. You could put that bunny anywhere to light up a room.

(Both from the Klaus by Nienkämper booth at IDS.)

IDS08 - loyal loot

2008-02-26T19:19:00.002-05:00

When your signature item is a series of precious candy-coloured bowls made from found pieces of log, of course the presentation has to be equally whimsical.

Loyal Loot’s IDS exhibit was positioned somewhere between a fairy tale and an easter egg hunt; it’s crisp and cozy autumn textures with a fresh spring feel.

AND FELT TOADSTOOL TABLES!

IDS08 - designLIVE

2008-02-25T23:44:00.014-05:00

It’s not fair to call it a booth: the designLIVE rooms were one of the main attractions at the Interior Design show this past weekend, complete with a velvet roped queue. (And a 10pm curfew, as Sarah and I found out during the later hours of the opening night gala.)

First up: Brian Gluckstein’s smoky-elegant living room, complete with faux library.

The colours! I’m so into purples and greys right now—during a getting-dressed frenzy the other night I noticed that the pile forming on my bed was almost entirely dove grey and mauve. My walls? Painted the perfectly-named shade “chinchilla white”. But how to make it all look like a room you'd expect to see Blair Waldorf lounging in?

Oh, hello chair. Do you know how perfect you would be for my bedroom?

The one thing lacking in the designLIVING rooms was a guide all the objects and elements. I suppose that's the point, though. You get really into something like this red table, call Gluckstein up to ask about it, and next thing you know the whole house is redecorated.

On a whole, Lynda Reeves’ City Loft room design did not impress. Much too cluttered, with colours, prints, and art from different eras. (Zebra! Hot Pink! Oriental Art! Rattan!) I think she was going for the eclectic feel that Woodson and Rummerfield do so well—but something was just off. The room was a distracting mess.

Separately, though, there were some great pieces.

Kartell’s Louis Ghost Chair is a perfect match for this unassuming vanity. But that awkward candelabra sitting on the floor has to go...

Conran's orange enamel enamors Sarah.

And last, Sarah Richardson’s rooms, which, to no surprise were flawless. The cozy retreat had all her signature touches: perfectly paired textiles, custom upholstered items, and a modern-whimsical aesthetic. It was just like walking through an episode of Design Inc.

Yes, that’s right. Birds. The sofa is upholstered in bird silhouettes. This makes me never want anything in a solid ever again. Say what you might about woodland-chic being over—this is a perfect twist to the look. And the bone table! Certainly an acceptable antler-related item to covet.

Come to think of it, I wonder what happens to these pieces now that the show is over...

2007-12-11T18:41:00.000-05:00

NOTED:
The two OldschoolTABLEs on display in Toronto (by modernist design group Thout—as in without, a name so perfect I wish I’d thought of it first) are now no longer. They’ve suddenly departed from the windows of the Ministry of the Interior and Thout’s Dundas West headquarters.

So while I used to imagine how I would decorate a dining room to complement the bright red spindled table, now I’ll just have to hope that one day it won’t seem out of the ordinary for a glossy, $3000 piece of furniture-art to appear under my Christmas tree.

2007-12-11T18:04:00.000-05:00

Approximate amount of time it takes for the Globe and Mail to scoop a New York Times trend piece? 5 days.

It used to be that the Globe simply republished NYT Style pieces a week later in their own Life Style section. (As though they really think style/trend/fashion followers are loyal to only one source, or don’t mind week-old information—please!) But more recently, local freelancers have been rewriting NYT stories with Toronto or Canada-based anecdotes.

And I must admit, while the lack of innovation usually annoying, in the case of articles about push presents, I like the local sourcing.

"I expected one, and if Adam hadn't got me one, I might have been upset," Ms. Halpern, 35, said. "A push present says, 'I appreciate what you've given me, that your body was used as a vessel for this child.'

"Let's just say that a dinner out would not suffice as a push present for most people." -G&M

Because one can never have too many quotes from entitled women discussing the many reasons why they deserve a big ticket present for giving birth*. It’s nice to know Toronto is just as capable as New York City in terms of being both detached and competitive about pregnancy all at the same time.

* It’s fair to assume that most of the high-maintenance moms quoted did not actually “give birth”, though I suppose “picked up the phone to schedule a c-section present” just doesn’t have the same ring.

2007-12-10T23:41:00.000-05:00

Things I’ve Bought That I Love

When I get together with my old roommates from university, a favourite thing to do is discuss the horrible state that our student house was in. It’s shocking, really, to go back and think about all the things that consumed every inch of available space in our six-bedroom townhouse. From piles of appliances, papers, clothing, and furniture that no one ever used, to the numerous surfaces we covered in the accouterments for said useless objects, it really was incredible that a) we thought without a doubt that the house was perfect b) our friends saw nothing wrong with our ‘decorating skills’ and c) we survived there for two whole years, never losing an item to the tide of garbage or a housemate to some incurable disease.

So now, you can’t even imagine how impressed I am with my current obsessive state of cleaning. For those two student lifestyle-dominated years (and the other two previous years spent in equally-unorganized housing) I liked to keep things clean, sure, but it was always on a for-purpose basis: I want to cook a meal—I guess I will clean off the counters; a boy is coming over—it’s time to put away the laundry. Day-to-day cleaning, tidying, or organizing was never done, or even considered. Putting the garbage out once a week was struggle enough.

Fast forward to today. Have you ever watched how your parents move through a house? It’s like an exercise in schizophrenic logic: start dusting the TV but notice that a plant needs to be watered but when filling up the watering can it only makes sense to clean off a few dishes that are sitting by the sink, and oh, looks like the recycling is full so might as well take that out and on the way back inside it becomes obvious that the doormat needs cleaning…

Yes, this is the person I have suddenly become.

But maybe all I needed was the right inspiration to stay clean. The personal/emotional/financial investment into my current apartment is a good start. But how about something a little sexier (aside, of course, from the boy who I do like to clean and cook for) like, a Dirt Devil Kone vacuum.

The Kone is something I am hesitant to refer to as an appliance. Karim Rashid is genius for the sleek, soft look of the Kone—made even more perfect by its white lacquered finish and friendly blue-white glow. That’s right. Plug the Kone in to charge and it radiates ambient light. I think it’s saying: “Hi, I’m just sitting here, enjoying your company. Let me know if you need anything.”

Occasionally it sucks up dust happily, but, truthfully most of the time I just like to have it plugged in, awake and glowing from the corner of my bedroom.

2007-11-20T00:45:00.000-05:00

After being forced out of my new apartment for two weeks because my landlord thought she was doing us a favour by replacing all the electrical (she apparently lives in a world where wires aren’t hidden behind 50-year-old sheets of dusty, dirty plaster and thought the job would take maybe half a day to complete—hah!) we have finally moved back in.

During the construction it was clear to us that the electricians were total douches—all too often we’d find them sitting around and doing nothing. Many holes were cut ether too small or too large. Plugs were “finished” with dead wires sticking out. Half our new outlets are not flush to the wall. Our landlord lost a month’s rent from us and paid over $12,000 to the dingbat electricians for this service.

And now, after getting painters and cleaners to fix up the apartment, we’ve discovered that the new, safer electrical system is also very, very “sensitive”. Meaning: plug in more than three appliances and you’ll have to reset the breaker. I reset the breaker approximately ten times a day—and I’m only home between 7pm-9am! The landlord says the electricians told her “that’s just the way it is” and she doesn’t know what else to do.

Things I have learned: never become a landlord. Never hire just anyone to work on your house. Never try to renovate a space without actually knowing the basics of what needs to be done—and how it’s done. Though, I must say, thanks to observing the bad fortune of my landlord, I’m going to be way ahead of the game when I do have my own place.

Oh, and I have decided that when I do get my own house it will be this house. (Or, well, something very similar.) My most recent “when I grow up” idea has been to go back to school for interior design—a thought which is only reinforced by the absolute crush I have developed on this Farnsworth House-inspired abode, custom built by architect/designer Will Meyer. Strange to feel so enamored by a large, inanimate object, but it is flirting back—my bedroom has much of the same furniture as their master.

2007-11-19T19:39:00.000-05:00

NOTED:
NineGramBrain, the not-so-secret parody blog of Rebecca Eckler’s NinePoundDictator, has announced that they’re shutting down because Icks has “slipped into such an irredeemable state of irrelevancy and uselessness that we can no longer decipher her pointless and illiterate musings and from this point forward”.

While I can understand wanting to ignore something in order to make it less relevant, NGB is shutting down at the peak of its (though not Icks) popularity. The comments section is full of both snarky random notes and obvious tips from insiders—creating a non-stop obsessive-yet-interesting discourse on all things mommy blogger and vapid journalism.

So I have to wonder if Eckler won. She did issue a “threaten” in the spring claiming to know who was behind the site, with promise to legally destroy their lives both personally and professionally. Hmm.

2007-09-11T00:46:00.000-04:00

It’s film festival season again in Toronto, which generally puts half of the population in super high alert mode for all things going-on, and the other half in a state of either “huh?” or “whatever”.

I only like the film fest for the parties, none of which I am ever personally invited to, but enough of which I manage to get guestlisted for. The movies? Mrah. I can’t even make myself go to the Paramount to see a week-old blockbuster let alone line up among crowds for a limited screening of something that my film-savvy friend Tanya can just summarize for me over cocktails the week after.

(Fun fact: when the boyfriend and I have movie dates, we rarely end up seeing the film. Instead we go for dinner, then enter the theatre lobby, ponder the movie we’ve earlier chosen to see, debate if we actually want to see it, and then leave. On more than one occasion we’ve had to return tickets purchased beforehand.)

I saw Paris Hilton last week at the DJ AM pre-festival party, but she was hiding behind the turntables all night long and, admittedly, the actions of numerous older d-bags at Ultra were much more amusing than the dancing heiress. Yawn.

And really, it seems to be local talent that delights more so than anyone international. The images of Brad and Angelina and Reese and Jake in Toronto seem just as, well, distant, as any other appearance they’ve made across the globe. It’s the same pre-programmed poses and phrases and really, I can’t tell the difference from pictures taken in Yorkville versus those from Venice.

But back here, ah, the fun unfolds. The film fest was the perfect topic to make Leah McLaren and Rebecca Eckler’s otherwise subtle cattyness suddenly enter the realm of obvious. (Until recently it was reserved to darling Leah subtlety lamenting about the lameness of ending up as an Albertan lawyer’s stay-at-home wife. Ouch.)

When Eckler professed her desire last week to be adopted by a celebrity entourage in the National Post (“With friends like these, who needs publicists?”) the article was quickly countered by McLaren’s weekend Globe Style column titled “Who needs enemies with friends like these?” which argued the patheticness of celebrity hangers-on. Well played as it was well-timed, indeed.

My friend Jenny is equally compelled by the local gossip scene, but probably because she film fest bumped into a CBC radio personality with whom she’s had a long-time crush. And he flirted back. Which might not seem like a big deal, but at least unlike a Hollywood somebody, there’s still the very real chance of a second encounter before next September.

2007-09-05T00:56:00.000-04:00

I’m moving out in a few weeks, and no, not into something I bought, like I once professed I would only do. It’s an adorable rental in an equally adorable section of downtown, so yes, let’s all be happy for me.

I tell this to my aesthetician, who is one of the most opinionated people I know, and she scowls, ripping away verysensitive hair as she lists off the reasons why I should not be moving away from my parents.

“Do you know how much it costs to buy a house? Save up! If your parents are not that bad to live with, why are you leaving!”

I don’t want to let her logic sway me, but because she does the best waxing in Toronto there is some part of me that invites her judgment.

It’s not like the decision to move out was an easy one to make. Once I said goodbye to unlimited spending money and monthly vacations, and started prepping for a life sans insta-laundry and dinner, there was the whole issue of actually finding a place. My mega-pickiness was not helped by the fact that fall rentals are absolutely dreadful to find.

(Yes, it is possible to spend $1600 a month on a 3 bedroom apartment above an old Chinese restaurant where evidence of a small electrical fire and black mold infestation makes the landlord simply shrug his shoulders.)

But at the same time, this anti-move rhetoric was coming from a thirty-something woman who last month was surprised to hear that my parents ‘allowed’ the boyfriend and I to take a romantic holiday in Sonoma, California. She moved out of her parents’ house when she married her husband. They have 3 kids and live in the suburbs. She thinks I should be saving up to buy a similar abode. Nothanks.

Instead, well, instead I’m measuring and remeasuring Victorian-sized doorways and windows and getting happy headaches from carrying (er, assisting in the carrying of) large pieces of furniture. The energy I once reserved for keeping track of every single craigslist rental is now being channeled into finding key items in their for sale section.

Is it weird that I feel like I’m finally coming out of winter hibernation? I know I’ve been doing things all spring and summer, but it seems that something is finally starting to happen. My fingers are crossed that moving is going to set a lot in motion.

2007-07-06T08:18:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I was quoted in an Ottawa Citizen article about the twenty-something mindset on engagements and diamond rings. Yesterday I went to my first-ever bridal shower. Tomorrow, according to both high and low wedding culture sources, is the luckiest day to get married. And so, in celebration of all things nuptial, I thought I should share one of my most favourite pastimes:

Mocking the pictures and comments on Facebook’s various “Being Engaged Rocks!” groups.

I understand the need to share and overshare “interesting” things about one’s life (hello, this is why I have an oh-so-personal public blog). However, wedding/engagement websites seem to bring about a certain lack of decorum that is unparallel to anything else online. Perhaps this is connected to the whole ‘me day!’/entitlement/bridezilla culture at large, or perhaps it’s because most Engaged Facebookers are under the age of 21. Either way, it has resulted in a self-congratulatory parade of photos featuring the ugly, uncouth, and downright offensive choices that today’s blushing brides have made.

Showing off engagement rings is the main reason all these groups exist. Because by flaunting their diamonds, brides-to-be can translate their love into a commodity that is more easily assessed by jealous friends and family. Sure, saying “he really loves me!” is fun, but it’s simply much more meaningful to post a pic online with the carat count in the caption.

Sadly, some fiancées have not yet figured out how to best show off their assets.

Some might say it’s the fat positioning of the hand that ruins this picture. However, I think if you spend that much time lacquering the tips of your nails bright red, you could at least clean off the bed and throw out the water bottles. You know, unless you’re as committed to looking trashy as you are to your fiancé.

You know they were going for an adorable “holding hands!” pose, but sadly, wound up with alien fingers on hairy knees. Sigh.

All in all, not a bad ring picture. Until you realize she’s posing on her fiancé’s chest. The caption says “don’t worry, he’s not naked!” but it’s still an entire frame of scrawny bare skin. Best to keep this one to yourselves.

And speaking of keeping it to yourselves, this is a professional engagement picture. A pose usually reserved for Cosmo photos shoots, romance novels, and misty black and white posters found in university residence rooms, I hope this couple doesn’t plan on sending announcements to anyone over 60. Or their own parents. Slate was right, the photojournalism style really isn’t ideal for all wedding pictures.

And finally, the pièce de résistance:

That is NOT an engagement ring. For a female at least. Because I suppose if you proposed to a football player, that would be the most appropriate token of love. Also note the words “economy” in the background—either a clever ironic comment on the explosion of metal and crystal on her hand, or notes from class proving that our fiancée is flaunting the ring between lectures.

Bonus picture:

If anorexic twelve-year-olds are getting married, does that increase or decrease the chances of us healthy twenty-somethings finding love? Seriously.

2007-06-26T19:21:00.000-04:00

I am so ready to quit the gym.

Ah, but you saw this coming, didn’t you? Because my gym-going has never been consistent. It generally comes in three month bursts and then fades away the moment it’s warm out because I really believe that summer sweat burns away all and any errant calories.

Too bad I forgot this when I signed a year-long contract last fall. At the time I was convinced that the $60 automatically deducted from my account each month would be enough motivation to get me on a treadmill a few times a week. Reality check: I am paying a dollar a minute for an hour long yoga class every four weeks.

Pshaw. I don’t need the gym. I’ve got other things to occupy my time—and not just lazy things, but physical activity things!

We got a new dog about a month ago. Named Candy, she’s a 4-year-old American Fox Terrier/Chihuahua mix and was brought up from a pound in Kentucky where she was on death row. I adopted her for my mom as a present for mother’s day, from a private dog rescue through PetFinder.com. I can’t even begin to describe how much I freaking love the dog.

(Honestly, if you want a new dog do the adoption thing, don’t buy a $2500 puppy mill puppy from a PJs. I’m amazed at how well trained Candy is—she came housebroken, leash-ready, loves other animals, doesn’t beg—it’s tragic to think she was so close to being put down.)

So yes, when it’s the end of my work day, I think about the sweaty, crowded change room at the gym and the fact that I’ll have a choice between watching soaps or staring at someone’s back fat as I workout. Then I picture Candy jumping four feet in the air and licking my face before we run circles in the backyard and go for a long walk. The puppy always wins.

And when I’m not playing with her I’ve got another new favourite thing: bicycling. It’s just too convenient to go from store to bar to party to home to brunch to park on a bike, especially considering that summer traffic/construction makes going anywhere downtown a thirty minute ordeal or $15 cab ride. And I already feeling guilty enough for commuting out to the ‘burbs everyday—a drunken bike ride from cinq-a-sept to the boyfriend’s bed is the best way to counteract this.

Also related: The parking lot at my office has been colonized by a new company, causing RESERVED signs to appear on every good spot. This forces perpetually-late me to park very far away on the floor with no elevator service. But the dangerous hike up the down ramp every morning is treating my calves nicely.

2007-06-06T08:31:00.000-04:00

If claiming that the entertainment industry stole your writing for profit is the new trend, then, hello! I am so relevant!

As a 13-year-old I was one of the few people in my school to spend countless hours on the Internet hard-coding websites and chatting with strangers across the globe about, well, everything. I wish I still knew the URLs to my old sites (hosted on Angelfire and Tripod and usually called Princess Paige’s Palace or something equally adorable) because, like reading pubescent diary entries, they would now seem quite entertaining.

Anyway. This incessant internetting was also directly linked to my obsession with Degrassi Junior High and Degrassi High. The show had been off the air for something like five years, and I was rediscovering it through reruns on Showcase and the CBC while obsessing over every little trivial detail with fans online. We had webrings! And email newsletters!

So, this is where the interesting-slash-super-geeky part begins. In 1998 we started writing fan fiction (it should be noted that I was the youngest contributor, with the bulk of my online Degrassi friends being genXers) and I partnered up with two guys from Israel to develop a website to host our self-written television series “The New Generation of Degrassi”. It would follow Emma, Spike’s daughter, as she started school in the newly-repaired Degrassi Jr High. Mm, sound familiar?

A few months after we posted character sketches and a draft of our first script we were contacted by Playing With Time Inc. (the creators of Degrassi) and told to cease and desist. The premiere of Degrassi: The Next Generation was officially announced a few years later by CTV and one of the new characters was named Paige. (I freaked out about this here.)

Here’s the thing. On paper, sure, this sounds too coincidental to be a coincidence. But really, the concept of a Degrassi sequel was something every fan talked about. And using the character of Emma is a pretty logical lead for the show. You just can’t copyright obvious, universal ideas.

Oh, and SPEAKING of big media stealing ideas from others...
C’est What, July 2004: “I want a big guy, maybe as a boyfriend or just a friend, to look all bodyguard-ish and walk around with me when I go shopping.” -Paige
The National Post, September 2005: “I wanted a massive bodyguard, one who looks like a bodyguard and not just a friend.” -Rebecca Eckler

2007-05-08T18:28:00.000-04:00

Let's talk about Lean Cuisine. You know, the tiny-portioned microwave dinners which serve best as the punch line in jokes about single women with multiple cats? Mmm yes. Even I cannot defend my own fondness for the meals without having to mock them in the same breath. Because as much as I find them delicious, and as much as they don't contain the 650 calories that all other microwave meals do, Lean Cuisine is still pre-packaged preservative-filled pseudo-diet food. Acceptable as a mid-day snack but horribly unsuitable for a whole meal—an entrée with more negative connotations than actual mouthfuls of food.

And I know I'm not the only one to think this. I happen to work in an office which is unusually concerned with my eating habits (making me feel, more often than not, like the ditzy villain of a Cathy cartoon) and so yesterday I thought it best to sneak a Lean Cuisine into the microwave rather than face a barrage of questions about food choices.

(Side note: soy milk, apparently, symbolizes one's fear of fat and calories in milk. Who knew?)

But as the office kitchen is the ditzy villain of global warming (no recycling system) I held onto the box so I could later safely dispose of it in a Blue Bin. Oops. Before the microwave beeped, I was caught by a co-worker.

"What! Lean Cuisine? For you!? Why do you need to be eating this? You don't! You don't need to worry about that, your figure is fiiiiine."

Please, someone inform me of the proper way to respond to such an inquisition. A casual "I like the taste," is okay, but that's not answering the unspoken, real question at hand. So maybe a better reply would be along the lines of: "Thanks, I already know I am hot and thin, but Nicole Richie just keeps changing the definition of skinny on me!"

I told my sister about the exchange and she responded that only a few days before she too had been made to feel awkward about Lean Cuisine. By a grocery checkout person who stared her up and down as he rang in her five frozen meals. He double bagged them and then asked, "Are you sure you'll be able to carry these out?"

There should be no shame in choosing an alternative to XL Hungry Man Beer Batter Chicken and Cheesy Fries! And hey, at least I'm not that girl who thinks "Well, I did walk the stairs—twice!—and had a bowl of Special K before I took the dog for a walk. I will treat myself to eight pieces of puffed rice crisp!" No way. My sacrifice of a lunch was rewarded with a bulk bag of chocolate covered almonds.

2007-04-19T18:11:00.000-04:00

Two things that don’t seem important now but will be totally in your face by June:

Knocked Up
About half way through the screening of this movie, I thought to myself “how many more times will I see Knocked Up this summer?” The answer was a number somewhere between three and seeing it so frequently that I memorize the entire script and annoy my friends with preemptive laughing on every joke. And oh, there are so many jokes! All very clever, well-timed, and delightfully inappropriate, making the things I laughed at in 40 Year Old Virgin seem soo 2005.

Unplanned pregnancies are usually nothing more than contrived plot devices, to give an otherwise boring story a twist or to enable character revelations. But in Knocked Up, the pregnancy is both the entire movie and not at all significant. The real narrative is about relationships, friendship, and all other personal growth topics usually reserved for cheesy rom coms. Judd Apatow and his usual cast of characters really can make any topic incredibly hilarious and brilliant. Seven weeks to go until I can see it again...

Navy Blue Nail Polish
Goodbye black and deep purple and maroon! Hello navy blue. It’s possibly the only thing I could put on my fingernails (other than tiny mirrors) to make me want to just stare at my hands all day. Opaque, deep blue is hard to find right now—those metallic, translucent tints are not what I’m obsessing over—but give it a few weeks and the right shade will be everywhere.

2007-04-11T18:14:00.000-04:00

It seems that lately my alma mater has been up to no good. True, I left Western with a few, how to say this gently, negative opinions of the school. But as the past year progressed, I forgot about all the things that annoyed me and instead started to crave the carefree, crazy days of yore. Unfortunately, those good feelings have again been tarnished.

The first annoyance came by way of a sweepstakes-style envelope, claiming to be an URGENT!! letter from the UWO Alumni Relations department. Inside was a request for information, for everything from my updated address, phone number, and career status, to recent photos and a personalized message about my time at Western.

I was to send this all back to a P.O. box in Toronto and then presumably 6-8 weeks later receive an order form for the “UWO Alumni Guide Book, yours for only $49.99 plus shipping and handling!!”

All my classmates are on Facebook, of course, so I saw no need to participate in a book that would list me next to Bill Smith, class of ’77. But what was with the cheesy “don’t delay, reply today!” letter and the P.O. box in Toronto? (Western is in London.) Some simple research uncovered that the letter was written on behalf of UWO and the book was actually being created by an American company, Harris Communications.

And so, on one of my more feisty days, I called the real Alumni Relations department and demanded to know why I was being solicited by an American company to provide personal information for free, only to have it sold back to me. Why wasn’t this at least being done by a Canadian company, or, even better, why couldn’t Western employ their own graduates to create the book?

(I had also received an application for a UWO Alumni credit card that week, and politely inquired if giving my contact info to third-party companies was all Alumni Relations did.)

My concerns were all appreciated, with hopes that I would continue to be involved in alumni affairs. Thanks, Western. Now perhaps you could remove the pathetic postings by Vector Marketing from the “Full-time Marketing Jobs for Graduates” section of the career website?

But! The fun doesn’t end there! This week, another issue came to my attention, this time via Facebook. The Gazette, Western’s daily student-run newspaper, published a rather controversial “article” in their annual spoof issue. Under the premise of satire, the narrative was titled "Labia Majora Carnage" and detailed angry Women’s Issues Network members at Western staging a "take back the nightie" march. It cumulates with:

Upon seeing the chaos, London Police Chief Murray Faulkner stopped greasing his nightstick and intervened. He grabbed the loudspeaker from [Jennifer] Ostrich's wild vagina and took it into a dark alley to teach it a lesson. To Ostrich's dismay, the vagina followed, giggling as it said, "I love it when a man in uniform takes control."

(It should be noted that both names are badly-disguised pseudonyms which represent real people in London—the actual police chief and a female student involved in women’s rights on campus, who apparently also frequently protests inappropriate content in the Gazette.)

At the same time, the article was published under a pseudonym and the actual writers have not yet been revealed. Which is understandable: from my experience, those who delight in bad arguments, cheap shots, and ignorant opinions love the veil of anonymity. If you really think what you have to say is valid, you will always attach yourself to it.

I’ve been told that the creation of the spoof issue involved the newspaper staff writing stories while drunk. I believe this, because only stupid content comes out of drinking binges. True satire, truly hilarious writing and clever commentary on current events reads nothing like the content that the Gazette produced. The spoof article is both offensive and incredibly pathetic. It makes me ashamed for my school and for the newspaper. A newspaper I once wrote for. Euck.

The outrage sparked by the article has passed through Facebook circles and now has national coverage, with the CBC, Toronto Star, CanWest, SunMedia, and CTVglobemedia all reporting. So despite those who say that people are overacting about the article (and the Gazette maintains a rather lazy “it was a joke, get over it, we can’t please every minority, don’t take yourself so seriously!” attitude) the desire for resolution of this issue shows how important equality and respect for all is in this country.

Yes, stick to your contrived excuses Gazette staff—and remember to not take yourselves so seriously this spring when those same media companies decline you for jobs.

2007-04-09T16:56:00.000-04:00

Monday morning at the airport I hug the boyfriend hello, as he stayed home for Easter weekend while I celebrated belated birthdays with my sister, mother, and god-mother in Las Vegas. And hey, the rebirth of Jesus is also about gambling and showgirls, no?

"I missed you so so much!" he proclaims while hugging me close.

"Sweetie," I say, kissing him on the nose. "I was only gone for three days you know."

"Well sorry Paige, but I did! Some of us are not robots!"

"No! I mean, of course I thought of you! And missed you! It’s just.. such a.. short... time. Um." Apparently I've failed at correctly expressing my ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ sentiments.

We are quiet for a bit, walking towards the parking lot, still in embrace. And then, without thinking, I speak.

"...I...oooh!! Oh! I missed my car!"

2007-04-03T19:54:00.000-04:00

If you've had a conversation with me over the last three-or-so weeks, you will have most certainly been bombarded by my love for Slice. Hello, best thing to happen to Canadian television since, well, MTV gave CanCon pop culture something to fight for. Or be fought over, depending on who you ask.

Slice is essentially nothing more than the Life Network with better branding, but this is exactly what our television landscape was lacking. One catchy slogan (drunken Paige shouts "Slice is MY VICE!!" while grabbing the remote from the boyfriend), dozens of clever ads ("I started watching Slice because my friends are boring. And, I hope, illiterate."), and incredible on-air promos (Don't you want… traces of peanuts? …AT A MALL!) all combine to give Slice an automatic boost over any other Canadian station. The strong brand identity means viewers don't need to know, or even care, what exactly is on—they'll tune in because Slice simply promises to deliver.

And deliver it does. I did my share of Life Network viewing back in the day, but the amped up programming of Slice keeps me locked on channel 41. It's just sooo entertaining, always providing the perfect distraction. (And ego boost, because I'm not in debt, constantly berating my spouse, or raising a family of bratty kids.) Even the online portal is clever—Slice.ca is filled with gossipy articles, advice tips, and personal tricks. I want to write for them. I want to work for Slice!

I also love that most of the shows are Canadian-made. That way, instead of watching the failing marriage of Jane and Billy from Nowhere, USA, I get to identify street signs and discover that this week's unhappy Newlywed, Nearly Dead couple is from Pickering. (In which case, I understand! I'd be on the brink of desperation too!) Same with Til Debt Do Us Part: I just care so much more about the monetary mishaps of others when I can identify with the cost of living.

And, if you're curious, Slice isn't just for girls. I don't want to name names, but I do know a certain group of men who were riveted by a recent episode of Rich Bride, Poor Bride. To the point that they talked about how bitchy the bridezilla was for days afterward. Which just proves, I'm not the only one starting conversations about a television channel.

2007-03-23T19:58:00.000-04:00

I'm impatient I'm impatient I'm impatient! It's spring—the time of year when everything is on the brink, and so on comes the usual seasonal cynicism and boredom. Winter is ending, spring is "here" but it's still too cold for delicate shoes or to open the sunroof without first cranking the heat. I'm stir crazy, and I just need to make it to that next… well, to whatever is happening next.

I blame my boredom in part on Terra and the province of Nova Scotia for showing me such a good time last week. Four days of lobsters, wine, oysters, country air, and East Coast pot was enough to make me want to give up landlocked city living. And my vacation could not have been more perfectly timed, dropping just the right amount of distraction into my otherwise too-much-routine life.

But now Terra's returned to Italy for another semester of winery internship, and I'm just back at a desk in suburban Toronto. The juxtaposition of our respective livelihoods is too painful for me to really focus on, so instead I field questions from mutual friends, demanding to know how they too can live the life of Roman Holiday. And after all, the best of friends aren't jealous of each other, but rather relish in smug feelings of being cool by association.

And I must make a note of today, because it is my and the boyfriend's one year anniversary! A year ago: I was home from London for the weekend, and met him downtown late at night in a very blind date “is that you?”-style manner. Then we quizzed each other truth-or-dare style in a park, sat on a tower of picnic tables, swung on the monkey bars, and drank bourbon out of a flask. I shared my mittens to keep his fingers warm, and later walked to his house to watch funny GoogleVideo clips and play board games. And yes, we are still so fucking annoyingly cute.

So if a day I've been so keenly waiting for doesn't change my impatient mood, a decadent night in Montreal to celebrate will at least ease out most of my restlessness. Or make returning to normal life on Monday morning that much more bothersome.

2007-03-20T19:52:00.000-04:00

Tuesday morning on the verge of being late for work, I'm rushing around the house on a warpath to get dressed as fast as possible.

"Lauren! Where is your white polo shirt??" I shout to my sister, knowing that item will be the thing to make my currently uncoordinated outfit complete.

"Oh, I know what you should wear..." she begins to suggest. But I cut her off with a squeal, spying my gym shirt crumpled in a ball beside her dresser.

"WHHHHYYYYY IS THIS HERE ON THE FLOOR!" I shriek.

"Oh, I was just looking at it on the weekend," she calmly replies.

"And then left it here hidden in your room? AHHHHH!!" I shriek again. "I wouldn't have looked in my gym bag before leaving today to check for it, and working out topless WOULDN'T really be an option this afternoon!"

Lauren is smart and knows how to counter my unnecessary early-AM sass. "FINE. I guess you don't need my help. BYEE."

She goes downstairs to the kitchen. I am still in a getting-dressed frenzy, looking for something decent to wear when I spot her work pants (yoga pants) on the floor. Without a second thought I grab them, hide them in my gym bag, and walk out the door.

Later on Tuesday morning...

Text message from Lauren: "Okay did you take my work pants to prove some sort of retard point?"

Yes. And I am wearing them to the gym.

Her reply: "Gaaaaaaaah!"

I can only imagine how this sisterly love will grown when we move into our own place in a few months. Will our antics reach a whole new level, will we kill each other, or will we simply stop being bratty siblings? Stay tuned on that one...

2007-03-09T01:14:00.000-05:00

Facebook is addictive, I spend all my time on it, blah blah blah what else is new? Oh, how about that suddenly every single human being has an account. Like every person I’ve ever shared a school building with, every person I forgot I knew, and all those random people from random clubs, camps, jobs, and places I haven’t thought about in several years. And of course, we all have to be friends because Facebook isn’t a social networking site—it’s the place where you virtually recreate your social circles and social history. And in most cases, Facebook has more detail than what ever occurred in real-life.

When MSN got really huge—you know, back in the day when you couldn’t use swear words in your name and there weren’t any display pictures—I thought about what it would mean for our generation. We grew up with instant messaging, progressing from IRC to ICQ to MSN, making us the first group of people to have immediate access to every acquaintance made over the last ten years. But I wondered if as we got older we would slowly wean of IMing and move towards more typical middle-aged forms of communication, like dorky email forwards and long-winded phone calls.

And then Facebook came along and pushed passive communication to a whole new level, completely reinventing cyberspace. A year ago, I wrote an article claiming that Facebook was only popular because it finally made the internet friendly. It showed us who our friends were and how we knew them—we didn’t have to worry about talking to No-Name-Pedo-Bill from random town, because everyone on Facebook was connected to someone else you knew, and, up until they opened registration for all, Facebook was exclusively for well-educated and well-off North America.

(Fun fact: Thanks to Facebook, I now know that almost half the girls I went to middle school with have babies! Four-year-old babies! Damn, if only “Active Ovaries” was a network option—though I guess the If U THINK ur Baby is a QT!!!1 group is a good enough outlet for all the post-secondary mothers.)

And now Facebook is the sixth most-visited website in Canada and the US with over 19 million users. It’s become a replacement for instant messaging, emailing, and cell phone use—how many times have you met someone new and instead of giving out a number or email you write down your full name? Hell, you don’t even have to go that far, just cite a common friend on Facebook and you're connected. On one hand, how refreshingly basic. But on the other, how extremely distant, to rely on keeping in touch through such an extensive network of networks.

Not only that, but we’re under this illusion that Facebook is a form of communication, when it’s nothing more than a collection of names, updates, photos, and statuses. Automated prompts of join, edit, add, and create guide us through the site on a daily basis—all insignificant features designed to make us feel involved, included, and productive. You’re not speaking to anyone by clicking a friend request, though it does produce the satisfying feeling of making a connection.

And that is exactly what we’re hooked on. We were raised in the era of 24-hour everything, and came of age in the digital-on-demand boom. We crave as much information as possible, with little emphasis on actual knowledge. Just give us summaries and constant updates! Because when something isn’t easily accessible it becomes obsolete or simply no longer part of our reality. But when we can quickly scroll through all our “friends” and instantly see who got a new job and who’s traveling in what country, that sense of knowing, and the ability to continue knowing, is very fulfilling.

2007-03-01T16:32:00.000-05:00

I would like to send out a big FUCK YOU to the person who hit my parked car last night. You are too considerate, smashing in my driver’s side-view mirror and then speeding off to where ever you had to be. So I could come bouncing out of my house at quarter to nine, ready to drive to work, and find your handiwork waiting.

Thank you so much for not thinking to leave a note either. Naw, I don’t need the $250 it’s going to cost to replace the mirror. Nor do I need my car for the two days it will be in the shop. It’s fine, I can totally cover the expenses caused by your lack of depth perception.

And how sweet of you to do it on the date of my one-month anniversary with the new car! Also swell: that you chose to do it on the day of a huge blizzard. Who really uses side-view mirrors anyways? I mean, traffic was only going 20km/h the whole way home—being able to see properly wouldn’t have changed that.

In other not-wanting-to-hunt-down-a-car-with-a-dent-and-white
-scrape-on-it-and-seriously-harm-the-driver news, Brown and I recently debated the idea of engagement rings. Our totally clever outcome is posted here.

2007-02-20T20:04:00.000-05:00

Do you ever think that if there was some sort of apocalypse and only our generation survived, we would be extremely screwed? I just don't see how anyone raised in this post-baby boomer modern society could successfully carry on, because we've surpassed basic knowledge in favour of convenience and speed. Cases in point: most "cooking" involves a microwave, sewing and work-working are nostalgic crafts not skills, and condos are ideal because houses are "too much work". How did we become so removed from the production of everything?

I think I'm having this mini Luddite revelation all of a sudden due to viewing an inordinate amount of HGTV. Design and renovation shows have become my new pastime and I'm suddenly overcome with the fear that my future self will have to rely on people like Mike Holmes to get anything done.

I take it for granted that my family is very do-it-yourself oriented. My house was designed and, to some extent, constructed by my parents. My dad refuses to outsource work, so from building a deck to installing an underground, automatic sprinkler system to crafting a satellite dish to pick up the free HDTV signal (in your face, Rogers!) he does it all. When we were younger my mom not only sewed elaborate Halloween costumes, but also made custom duvet covers, pillow shams, and curtains. She knows how to tile a bathroom and grow an impressive garden. We live in central Toronto, so it's not like access to modern conveniences is lacking—my parents just had the knowledge and drive to do it all on their own.

I guess we're supposed to be proud of this evolutionary shift, the one that makes us more comfortable with McNuggets than the thought of boning a chicken breast. We're the generation that's grown up being completely catered to, so it only makes sense for us to think that the best work is that which is instantly done by others.

And I can connect this detachment from basic skills to a few other things. Our large, perfectly-finished houses hide furnaces and electrical work (and all other things I don't even know are necessary for the function of a home) from everyday observation and concern. We don't raise our own food, but rather receive prepared portions of once-whole plants and animals only when ready for consumption. Our lives are designed around the end-product, with focus on the means of how to get it, not how to make it.

I have friends who don't know how to properly cut up an onion, let alone tell the difference between a screwdriver and a drill. But if more emphasis was put on being handy, maybe we'd learn to be a bit more useful. So I propose another round of school, one that will teach us how to install light fixtures and pluck and prepare a whole chicken. I can already set up a router, successfully grow and re-pot plants, and have basic sewing skills, so bring it on—teach me how to eventually turn a bungalow into a two-story house.

2007-02-12T00:02:00.000-05:00

I happen to know that a friend of mine is in for a big surprise this Valentine’s Day. She’s going to get some “sexy lingerie” from a boy she’s only been dating for a month or so, and considering that she considered their relationship not all that serious, it’ll certainly be an interesting reveal.

Lingerie—and I mean elaborate intimates here, not basic bras and panties—is a very difficult present and generally not something one should attempt to give early-on in a relationship. If I require two sales people, multiple size adjustments, and an all-way mirror when shopping for bedroom clothing, and still experience an inordinate amount of struggling and shouting to find the perfect slinky something, then it seems very unlikely that someone else could find me a perfect fit.

After all, there is a very, very delicate line between looking like a pin-up girl and feeling like a bloated human trapped inside a pink lace tent. And needless to say, no one wants to receive (or give!) a present of the latter—so honestly, how guys can blindly do it?

Oh, because they can’t. That’s right, I refuse to accept that any present of lingerie has ever completely worked out (unless it’s a different version of something already owned by the female in question, but that really doesn’t count much for creativity or surprise). I think that women have simply just become experts at accepting awkward intimates graciously, and the male-run media and retail stereotype mills are the only ones still promoting notions of lacy and racy surprise Valentine’s presents.

First of all, the tip to “buy smaller, it’ll flatter her!” when in doubt of size has huge potential to backfire. If she doesn’t fit the item your lady is stuck with nothing to wear and will spend the rest of the night feeling like a cow. If you choose to buy larger she will think you’re a total oblivious dick. Of course, this isn’t your fault, dear boyfriends of the world. A small size in one style can be completely different in another (never mind the range between stores!)—and the space permitted for the bust never matches with that of the hips.

Second of all, most boyfriends really do think their girlfriends look incredible in anything—especially if it’s lacy, see-through, and/or cleavage-creating. We appreciate that a few feathers and lace ruffles provide distraction, but while you’re excited and turned on we're stuck struggling with dozens of exposure-versus-comfort issues. We need to feel as sexy as we look when parading around the bedroom for you!

So here’s my solution. Girls, take charge and buy the lingerie yourself. (And not just for a once-a-year Valentine’s Day thing—a little Saturday night surprise always gets a good response.) This way he won’t feel the need to play the guessing-you-fit-into-black-vinyl game, and you’ll only wear things that look perfect.

And boys, if you really do want to get your girl something special then consider accessories—shoe sizes are much more forgiving and everyone can appreciate items that vibrate or tickle. But if you’re set on getting intimate then here’s a novel idea: take her to the store with you. As a bonus, this also works as a test of whether sexy lingerie is an appropriate present. Because if you wouldn’t ask her to join you on a naughty shopping trip, she probably won’t want you to take a guess on her corset size.

2007-02-06T22:22:00.000-05:00

A favourite post-New Years joke has been to change the resolution of “No Hatin’!” into “MO Hatin’!”—and then you know, spread little bits of resentment and disagreement whenever possible in a jokey fun way. So, in effort to keep up with all the negativity I’ve missed out on (and because MTV told me this is the week we supposedly give up on our resolutions…) I’ve compiled a list of things which annoy, irritate, and drive me crazy. I’m a really good complainer when I put my mind to it.

- Jessica Simpson’s “brown” hair. First of all, it’s a crappy dye job—the transparent caramel colour is not brown, nor does it make her a brunette. If you go from platinum to chestnut, your hair requires some extra care to keep the dye from “sliding” off your over-processed strands. Her glossy shade has to be a very temporary hue designed to not damage her precious blonde—which, by the way, she made a huge stink over protecting for her role in the Dukes of Hazzard. Way to back down now just when your paparazzi attention was dwindling.

- The Torontoist debate about the “Global Warming Ready” Diesel ads. The argument that it makes people excited for climate change is simply stupid. And the mini-protest about using endangered macaws—ever heard of digital editing and photo manipulation? One doubts they wrangled a dozen parrots for the picture, let alone even went to Venice to capture Piazza San Marco. Why don’t you boycott Parrot Bay Rum for exploitation while you’re at it?

Sure, the photos are glossy and sexy, but to assume that anyone would look at the ads and think that’s what’s coming our way when the ozone vanishes, and to claim that the ads are un-educating us about global warming… COME ON. It’s nothing more than a clever visual representation of everyone’s “I love warm weather!” jokes. Did I miss the moment when all advertising proclaimed to represent reality?

And if you’re going to get completely analytical about it, look at the background of the ads where the real destruction is taking place. It’s a modern Death of Sardanapalus—a perfect moment of luxury and ecstasy before the devastation takes over. Though I’m sure there were haters judging Delacroix for being too romantic, just like our local mini-iconoclasts are doing today.

- The “Bridezilla Wigs Out!” clip (no link deliberately) on YouTube and its surrounding popularity. I hate this video more than I hate how YouTube references have become the way for main stream media outlets to act like they’re still relevant. I just don’t get what all the fuss is—it’s a mildly entertaining clip that’s been completely over-hyped. I shouted “just get to the point!” many times while viewing. Interesting how suddenly YouTube is now known as a place for hosting hoax videos secretly produced by production companies and ad agencies.

Additionally, the girls from the video were on MTV yesterday and their overblown egos required a whole other studio. If any of them become popular I hope it’s the bridesmaid with the The Office-style glances into the camera—the shrieky bride herself just needs to disappear. Oh well, fifteen minutes has almost passed, right?

- The Australian stranger who has decided to move into my friend Ashley’s house. After signing the lease in August, Ashley’s annoying roommate informed the house than a friend would be moving in for the winter. Not just any friend, but an older man she had been chatting with on the internet who was going to come from Australia for a visit and to meet her for the first time. After months of debate about, oh, personal safety and respect for others, she snuck the Aussie inside and he’s been squatting ever since. Hosting a stranger for two months is one thing, expecting your roommates to cover his utilities and rent is another. Time for a good old fashioned eviction, I think…

2007-02-02T18:27:00.000-05:00

So on Wednesday night I went to the preview party for BlogTV.ca, as did pretty much every other blogger in Toronto. While I usually never act on the random PR invites that show up in my inbox, this event was being coordinated by a big firm and the website was backed by Alliance Atlantis. That and the promise of an open bar was enough to make me decide to RSVP.

While I had spent the week leading up to the event wondering if Canada actually had any use for a "YouTube style website of its own", I forgot all my reservations once the boyfriend and I arrived at the party. I've said it before and I'll say it again: PR and advertising people—I am your dream market! Give me some VIP treatment and slip a few drink tickets into my hand (made more effective by my choosing to spend lunch hour that day cruising around in my new car rather than eating) and I'll instantly be enamored by whatever product you are promoting.

Okay that's not completely true. Had the launch been for some newsletter or book I would have been mildly impressed but not entertained. This party, however, had a number of very fun people in attendance and included multiple computer stations with webcams for live broadcasting on the site. Hilarious people + webcams + open bar are what actually make a good event. (And the gift bags with webcams for all in attendance didn't hurt either.)

So that's my event planning lesson for today. And now a question for you. Is BlogTV.ca nothing more than Alliance Atlantis's former reality-style TV show U8TV without the Loft and Lofters? Fuck, I loved that show. (What young Torontonian didn't want to be in the Loft?) That's really what I'd like to see in Canada: more quirky and provocative reality TV programming—not more of this "Generation YOU" stuff.

Because when it comes down to it, the best content online is the stuff that's produced by people with the means to set up their own hosting. The YouTubes of the internet merely drive traffic en masse. And even that becomes an afterthought once the content is picked up and linked by the top tastemaking sites of the internet. So what I'm trying to say is, at the very least could we get some U8TV season one up on Dailymotion? And if anyone's so inclined to bring a similar show back to air, I bet in this internet savvy era it'd pick up a lot more traffic than any individual broadcast on BlogTV.ca ever will.

2007-01-25T19:31:00.000-05:00

On a trip to Chapters yesterday I was completely bombarded by dating and relationship and engagement books. Well, not bombarded, because I was lured by all the pink, red, and white into that particular section—so a more accurate description would be that the flashy displays and seasonal in-store marketing made me content to surround myself with a large selection of terrible, terrible books.

Now I have decided I need to write a dating/relationship advice book of my own. Sure they are horrible creations, but they're also horribly popular and something I can fully capitalize on. It's almost too easy: all you need is one simple concept and then the ability to stretch it across 150+ pages—and much like writing a university paper, this requires little more than a thesaurus and excellent written bullshitting skills.

I saw a book that was entirely about decoding what his text messages mean and how to better flirt though email and IM. Seriously?? Though after Amazoning the author I discovered she also has co-written a whole book on what to wear when you're dumping 'your man'. Are these subjects not better oriented for, I don't know, a segment on the Tyra Banks Show or a sidebar in Cosmo? Nope, it seems that redundant and obvious advice is the stuff this industry is made of.

Take He's Just Not That Into You, for example. I thought the original Sex and The City episode did a pretty good job of explaining that theory, but apparently not. And so we get 176 pages of every possible "is he into me?" scenario, all cumulating with the "he's just not that into you!" solution. The book is a bestseller because, frankly, so many women are too vapid and useless to come to this seemingly simple conclusion on their own. (Though I fail to see how someone unable to absorb ideas through television would be better off digesting information in a literary way, but I digress.)

However, slightly misogynistic dating advice books unfortunately don't sell as well, so, you know, I'll go for a friendlier slant with my own. Though the title If You Spent $20 to Find Out the Guy You Dated Six Months Ago Who Never Returned Your Desperate Calls is Just Not That Into You, You Need So Much More Than A Book has such a nice ring to it…

2007-01-24T22:41:00.000-05:00

I feel like this story, about a woman fired for keeping a journal of every mundane thing she didn’t do at work, is so popular because so many people relate to it. Not in a ‘we all keep inane journals in the office’ sort of way, but more because everyone has spent time at work doing non-work things. At my old job, wow, I could have narrated 300 pages of “wtf am I doing?” per day.

Speaking of which, sometimes I still really miss my secretary job. Which in no way means I am unsatisfied with my current employment—I am very much in love with copywriting and advertising and the people I work with and doing things everyday that relate to both my schooling and own personal passions. I miss my old job for different reasons.

Like that feeling of being in charge and in control of everything happening in the office. Want to know where so-and-so is? Wondering what happened to that document? I've always liked being the keeper of all information—it's something that's obvious in the dozens of 'feelers' I keep in every social circle, and my constant need to gossip and be the first provider of anything interesting. So I miss that—being the resident problem solver and provider of any possible fact or idea necessary was a pretty cool responsibility. (I also enjoyed that I, failed chemistry student and math class drop-out, was able to quickly become a chemical engineering expert.)

I'm also kind of shocked at myself for missing certain things about the old job. I mean, I loved my engineers to the point of being able to do nothing but cry at my going-away party—so missing them is a total given. But why do I miss being a secretary? It makes me think that there's something inherent in me that likes… serving others? Being involved but not responsible? Eeep.

But then there's the good chance that the nostalgia I have for my old employment is, more than anything, highly romanticized. I was bored out of my mind most days and spent a great deal of time googling media internships and copy-pasting every even-minutely relevant job posting. I sat at a desk (albeit the largest desk) in a sterile cubicle-farm for nine hours every day and wasn't able to listen to music, but could wonder what the web "nanny" and activity tracker on my computer was picking up. I also did a lot of filing that I dreaded and had constant thoughts of "I better not be here when this project is wraps up in six months because I am not prepared to deal with all the paperwork…" I didn't fit in with my older, serious co-workers, had to maintain a whole other wardrobe of business-casual clothing, and constantly battled the urge to have mid-day naps in the office prayer room.

So when it comes down to it, I think I just miss being a secretary because it was my first love, so to say. A carefree, idealistic time when I didn’t have to relate my work to a larger career plan and had my boss in the palm of my hand. Which, naturally, is something you can only do for a short period of time before the existential self-loathing crisis sets in. I think I timed it just right.

2007-01-16T01:34:00.000-05:00

So the Dear MTV segments run every Monday on MTV Live, but since time is always so short for me to get everything good in, and because I also still get this deer-in-headlights feeling when the camera is on, expanded Paige-advice will now, sometimes, be posted here.

Dear MTV—I’ve been friends with a guy for 3 years. Two years ago, we confessed we both liked each other, but we were in relationships at the time, so we began seeing each other on the side. My relationship crumbled as a result, but his went strong until last week, when he broke up with her. Now, I’m worried about us—will he still want me, or keep us a secret? It's hard to hang out with him and not flirt or fool around. Plus, I can talk to him about anything. He says he cares about me, but doesn’t know if its love. What should I do?

At first glance, you think, “okay, it’s not the ideal way to start a relationship, but it could work…” However, then you read between the lines and realize that a) girly is straining to sound positive about how it is between her and boy, and b) that she’s writing in because her friends are so sick of hearing about how buddy is using her that they’ve become experts at ignoring her “but we can talk about anything” bullshit and are have been doing nothing but telling her to move on for the last two years.

You’re in denial about being the other woman, and also in denial that your “friend” cares for you. Once upon a time I was in a similar situation. I’ve had friends in this situation as well. So I know how difficult it is to realize that you’re not his one, you’re just a rebound, easy-fuck, booty call who dropped everything to accommodate his selfish needs. Alternately, if he’s really your friend then that means you’re friendly with his now-ex and so trust me: if you publicly hook up with him she’ll set out on a huge mission to destroy your life.

And sorry, but now that he’s single he won’t want to start dating you, because what young person ends a long term relationship to jump right into another one? You’re not middle aged people, out of your dating prime, torn between sexy love and serious relationships—you’re young kids, and bf/gfs are as easy to find as keg parties. If he was serious about being serious with you he’d have done it years ago. He’s going to start doing as many girls as possible, not start taking you home for dinner. And also possibly get back together with his ex in oh, less than three months.

It might be easier said than done but just stop hanging out with him! Go on ignore mode, block his msn, don’t stalk his Facebook, and stop searching out what bars and parties he’s at. Yeah, it’ll probably take a year or two before you’re really over him, and then another year to recover from the embarrassment of having been such a lust-sick lapdog, but it’ll be worth it in the end. You won’t spend so many nights crying after watching him leave the bar with someone else while you’re stuck standing alone in the corner, lamenting the time you spent earlier cleaning your room and shaving your legs in anticipation of getting it on with him.

2007-01-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

I’m 23 today!

And so, some thoughts on older women I’ve recently encountered:

Why are so many of the women in my office building unable to notice I am occupying a washroom stall? Instead they opt to slam up against the locked door and then mumble a ‘sorry’ before going to the next, empty one. Then we always have awkward small talk at the sink. Sigh. Am I the only one who does a through-the-crack (ha!) peek before attempting to enter?

I also don't understand the resolution newbies at my gym who circle the change room at peak times in hopes of an unused locker. I'm forced to constantly dodge their sudden movements and overstuffed Lulu bags because one after another they open the same un-locked-but-full lockers, thinking that magically a free one will appear. Ladies. I know you all drive to the gym—leave your valuables in the car and put your coat on a shelf like the rest of us. No one is going to steal your Aerosols while you stretch.

2007-01-09T20:46:00.000-05:00

Okay so 2007 is also somewhat scary. Not in a spooky way, but rather just overwhelming, filed with the unknown. Because unlike years of past, 2007 is not broken up by semesters or breaks. It doesn't come with a syllabus of things to do or what to accomplish. It's just: work. Work and figure the rest out. "Paige," my desk says each morning. "This is your life."

It's exciting, though, because this is the year we all change. (We being my recently graduated peers and fellow bloggers.) In the days after New Years I started thinking about the whole process of growing up—which I think is more aptly described as growing away, considering that most people associate one's geographical, financial, and emotional closeness to parents as the main factors of real adulthood. Anyways, I have decided that 2007 is the year we're all growing up up and away. Now comes figuring out what that means.

Working seems like a rather obvious contribution to adulthood. Especially because it's the one your parents (my parents) expect. And it's also the one that provides me with the disposable income to do anything else I want. Moving out is another clear "I'm an adult!" option, but I say a big NO THANKS to renting in Toronto when I already live there. So, goodbye disposable income, hello saving for a down payment.

But how about the whole emotional connection? As the boyfriend and I move in a more and more serious direction, I wonder if one day there’ll be a sudden switch, or if I will just slowly drift into a new, more distant status within my own family. Isn’t that really what it’s all about? You have to forge your own lifelong connections and put your everythings into something completely new and separate from your formative years.

And one last thought. If being an adult means our parents are no longer in control, does it also mean we also no longer have sway in familial decisions? I mean, adults can't parade into their parents' home and declare the new living room rug a disaster, can they? Growing up means learning how to smile and nod and say “yes Mom, I suppose the floral pattern does complement the drapes...”

2007-01-03T00:38:00.000-05:00

2007 is going to be an incredible year. It’s one of those things I am convinced of, which I base half in superstition (something about 2s and 7s that have always seemed lucky to me) and half just because I just know.

Point one: the way you spend New Year's eve/day is how you will spend the rest of the year. And so, a few house parties, a lot of my best friends, some of that mingling with celebs I am so fond of...complimented by a day-after of reading in bed with the boyfriend and cooking gourmet foods—what more could I want?

Point two: it’s the year of the pig, a sign of which I was technically born under. (My birthday is January 11th and Chinese New Year usually falls at the end of the month.) I like and partially believe in all zodiac things.

Point three: there’s already so much planned for 2007! Like trips (Nova Scotia, Las Vegas, California, and Montreal, are all currently in the works) and visits from friends and other exciting engagements! Oh and, I bought a car today.

Yes. A car. I bought a car. OHMYGODIBOUGHTACAR!!! Believe me, I am in just as much awe as you—though I did have a month’s worth of test-drives and research to help prepare for the shock. However, by research I mean I decided one December morning I wanted a white Volkswagon and it also seemed like a good way to (literally) purchase some autonomy. And as of today the deed is in my name and I get my sexy little Golf in four weeks. So come on 2007, let’s get moving!

HAPPY NEW YEARS!

2006-12-31T18:26:00.000-05:00

Resolution: Make every day in 2007 as indulgent. You know, be amazingly tanned and drink champagne in front of your TV-acting-as-a-monitor before donning a blue silk mini-dress and gold stacked pumps for an evening of celebration with friends and the boyfriend you love love love.

2006-12-20T21:06:00.000-05:00

The Good
Last night was my company holiday party. There were delish foods and many glasses of wine and also casino games. The blackjack dealer kept commenting that I had a horseshoe up my butt because I kept winning tricky hands.

But oh—I must be covered in luck! Because at the end of the night I won the grand prize raffle! And I have to brag brag brag brag BRAG because it’s not every day one becomes the owner of a 40” Samsung LCD HDTV. (This is the part where I squeal and jump up and down a lot.)

The Bad
Apparently they are no longer manufacturing my brand of birth control pill. My pharmacist informed me today that Alesse hasn’t been shipped to any pharmacy in Canada since the summer and that there are also two other brands of pill also in short supply.

Thank god she had a secret pack hidden for me, but that's it. After 21 days I get the joy (ugh) of changing brands. So yeah—ladies it’s time to stock up if you can because a quick internet search told me we’re in the middle of quite the drought. Or, don’t stock up because they’re about to announce something bad about the pill? Ahh who knows…

Happy Holidays and see you all in a week, I’m off to Cuba!

2006-12-12T00:40:00.000-05:00

Ha! If I didn't know any better, I would think you commenters programmed that caption beside my face.

2006-12-11T01:34:00.000-05:00

Back in late October I started feeling totally out of seasonal sorts. It’s a feeling I can only describe as being so weirdly disconnected that it takes more than a few seconds to realize what time of year it is. (June? Wait. December? Huh..?!) Anyway, I blamed my seasonal confusion on two things:

First, the lack of going-back-to-school meant that, for all intents and purposes, my summer was still a-going. Without texts to read and papers to write it seemed like I was living in a very endless season.

Then I missed the other major indicator of fall when my European holiday happened at the same time as Thanksgiving. (I did not, however, miss out on delicious food as the boyfriend cooked an incredible turkey dinner with all the trimmings the weekend I returned home. Awe!)

In an effort to combat this lack of connection to the current season I decided to get prematurely gung-ho for winter. I broke out cold weather wear as soon as the temperature dropped, eagerly checked for snowfall every morning, and put up Christmas lights at the boyfriend’s house weeks ago.

But, alas, my plans have been foiled because apparently I won’t really be celebrating Christmas this year. My family has opted out of the holiday: we’re skipping the traditional festivities and escaping to the sunny beaches of Cuba for a week.

So, always one to adapt, I’ve decided that this retreat is just what my seasonally-challenged mind really needs. Because skipping Christmas is, as far as I can tell, the best idea ever. No presents, no planning family parties, no last-minute-insanity—just pina coladas and bikinis and lobster for X-mas dinner! And back home in time for New Year’s Eve, a holiday which is much more date-focused. Let the countdown begin…!

2006-12-05T00:50:00.000-05:00

I am always much more relaxed after my third try at something. The first time it’s new, and the second time you always compare to the first, but the third—that’s when things start to get comfortable. But they’re still exciting enough, of course, to make you squeal all the way back to your car after it’s over and done with.

(Plus I got asked a relationship-troubles question after the show by someone familiar with the blog!)

And third time really is a charm: seems like there will be more of me and the Dear MTV advice on next week’s MTV Live. Oh! The excitement squeals will go on for a bit longer now!

2006-11-30T23:37:00.000-05:00

I am not home very frequently—between working and day/nights spent with the boyfriend my house resembles more of a hotel, a pit stop, than a place of residence. This unconditional hospitality is one of the reasons I have not yet moved out. (Other reasons include: laundry service, my sister, home-cooked dinners, too-convenient location, and use of car. Oh, and saving money…) But I’m home tonight and sitting in my bedroom and I must confirm that, yep, my house is predominantly just the place I keep all my clothing.

It’s everywhere. I can’t contain all the clothes—the things!—that I have anymore, and so I’ve opted for a sort of basket-floor pile combo to take care of the overflow from my closet. This situation has occurred for a few reasons. When I moved back home my sister took all my university furniture (it matched her décor) and I just assumed my pre-post secondary bedroom would suit my storage needs.

And it did, until I started working and had to amass a whole other wardrobe of office-savvy clothing. Which then lead to my purchasing of many “when I’m not working” items. Which then lead to winter, when all clothing becomes much more larger in size and storage requirements. And, accordingly, we are now at my current state of baskets and piles.

The worst part is that I thought I had less. I threw out/donated so much stuff when I moved back here in April and was so impressed with my new, smaller collection of things. But now I look around and know that I have to get another purge session in order.

Because I have a hidden organizational plan. A solution. I have decided that my parents need to turn the spare bedroom/mom’s office into one giant walk-in closet. Genius, no? My sister is also pro-massive closet. Her approach to clothing is very Veronica Lodge: many, many items purchased for few-time-use, which I then adopt in true Betty Cooper style. So a combined closet makes total logical sense.

The first time we suggested it the parents smiled and nodded, and continued in their own conversation. We might have to take this into our own hands. Perhaps draft a plan outlining where shoe rack A and coat hangers B will go. We’ll even provide space for them to store their own various excess items. It’ll be like we’re doing them a favour. And with that much planning going into an organized way for keeping our rooms clean, I don’t see how they can turn us down.

2006-11-29T18:32:00.000-05:00

It's a key week for Paige! (Har.)

Today I was given my key to the office. Something which I only realized was necessary when I got locked out last night. Whenever I leave the building I exit through the back door, which is self-locking, and return through the front. However last night when I tried to get in the front door I found that the receptionist had left for the day and closed up. Some humble knocking and a few sore knuckles later, I got back inside (thanks to a confused late-working design department) and so today I was provided with my own key.

Actually, that isn't as embarrassing as when I entered the parking garage on my first day. The pass-swipe machine is at a very awkward angle and requires some crafty maneuvering to get close enough to. Needless to say, on my first try the car was yards away and I had to open the door and actually get out. While a line-up vehicles belonging to still unknown coworkers was growing behind me. In classic Paige style, I tried my best to act breezy while swiping the card...but instead had a little too much gusto and the card momentously exited the scanner and went sailing through the air. Lesson learned: there is no way to act breezy while scrambling in pumps across asphalt.

Ah! So back to keys. On Saturday I was doing my usual mid-afternoon marathon of watching Flip That House (among other favourite home/real estate shows) from the boyfriend's couch while he was being his lovely self and grabbing us some Starbucks. When I heard him return home and try to open the door there was an unusual amount of lock twisting and struggling. I rushed over to help and opened the door.

"Oh! My key is stuck!" he exclaimed. "No, wait a second... this isn't my key!"
I squealed and he handed over a shiny new (and pink!) key to his house. Very cute trick, indeed.

2006-11-28T00:35:00.000-05:00

BAH!

I hate when something perfect comes to you minutes after the opportune moment. For instance, while driving home from my mini-pearance on MTV Live this evening I came up with not one but TWO totally awesome things I should have added to the conversation. (Which I won’t repeat now—it’s always good to have backup.) However! This means I need to start jotting down notes and really writing again; I’ve been in one of those not-so-creative moods lately but it appears to be coming to an end.

My daily commute, it seems, is maybe helping to change this. I’m now driving to work, which is enjoyable first and foremost because I go against the traffic, leaving from downtown and arriving in the outskirts. (I also enjoy that my CBC Radio listening doesn’t have to end when I leave the house!) But it’s not just the thrill of racing past all those sad grid-locked people that’s inspiring. It’s the view of the city.

I love that I drive across the Gardiner Expressway every day as it has always been one of my favourite roads in Toronto. It stretches above the city and is an elevated highway, allowing cars to weave between sky scrapers, the SkyDome, and the CN Tower.

All those people who want to bury or demolish the Gardiner are fools. Or not avid drivers. Or not lovers of urban architecture and unique vantage points. Or, you know, not fans of making it from the Don River to Mississauga in less than 20 minutes.

Okay yes, soon I’ll get stuck in a traffic jam or realize just how much gas costs or something else equally uninspiring. But my love for the Gardiner isn’t going anywhere. As a child my favourite summer camp overlooked its beams and supports. When I was in university I loved coming home along the Gardiner for the panorama re-introduction of my city. And now I can kiss Toronto good morning! each day on my way to work. Beautiful!

2006-11-27T00:03:00.000-05:00

Anyway.

Best new job moment so far:

While working at my desk and hearing a phone conversation from the office next to mine. “…oh that, I’m not sure. Wait, I have the copywriter right here—she’ll know!”

And I did know! There have been so many other little “ask Paige, she’s the expert!” things all week. I love being useful. I love doing something I’m totally into. New jobs are incredible.

2006-11-19T21:55:00.000-05:00

Last week was, oh, probably the most boring week of my life.

My former job was one which had more free time than responsibilities. That’s not to say that being a secretary to Saudi Arabian engineers was easy—it’s just that after internalizing my tasks I could work almost subconsciously. And as long as I had the status and location of every important document memorized and was one step ahead of my boss’ needs, it was totally kosher to just play around on the internet during any lengthy stint of downtime.

So, how does one train someone to take over a job like this? Especially when I had no training myself: all of my duties were self-developed over months of chasing engineers and reading my boss’s mind.

Head office had an idea of how training should go. My replacement would job-shadow me for a week. 44 hours of sitting beside me was what it would take for her to become a secretary. And, um, 4 hours of her sitting beside me was what it would take for me to hate her.

She was a talker. And not a “I’m nervous because this is my first day” talker but a pointless-stories talker. A “I will keep talking so much as to not notice that you’re looking in the other direction and not listening to me” talker. Which meant I was forced to learn pretty much everything about her (and her husband). From allergies to nightly habits to where the grandparents grew up to the intimately-dull conversations she and hubby had on the commute each morning, I got to hear it all. BORING.

But the best past was the discussion about what her and hubby’s future was going to be like. Currently they’re living with her parents, but she could barely contain revealing that this new employment (her first job post-graduation) meant they would start looking to buy a loft. A 1200+ square foot fixer-upper loft in downtown Toronto for under $275,000, with low/no maintenance fees, 16ft ceilings, and a huge kitchen. A place they could put in a second-floor loft bedroom and a his-and-hers bathroom.

Insert here me nodding politely and trying not to burst out laughing.

Never mind for a second that such an inexpensively large loft doesn’t even exist (unless you want to move to Hamilton, as both my father and boyfriend joked). But let’s mock because they both have NO savings and together cannot be making more than $100,000 a year. And also they both pay $500 a month in student loans. I’m no financial expert, but that doesn’t exactly make you a great candidate for a (hefty) mortgage.

Then consider that she spent most of our week complaining about how cold the office was. And that she wants to stay working as a secretary “for a few years” until her first maternity leave. FYI, girlie: a drafty loft isn’t the ideal residence for those afraid of the cold, nor is it the place to buy if you’re planning on having babies.

And some of you thought I was only capable of romanticizing married life. Ha!

2006-11-08T11:39:00.000-05:00

I have a newfound obsession with engagement rings and wedding bands.

Now now, all other assumptions aside, my interest in them is simply part of my overall curiosity in the relationships of others. (And considering that I am so devoted to reading wedding announcements, I am equally enthralled by their real-life counterparts.) At the same time, however, I really only pay attention to young and trendy newly-engaged or newlywed couples—relationships that are fresh and interesting to dissect.

Young husbands and wives are interesting because they’re both a foreign concept and something I’m about to become very familiar with. Sure, very few of my friends are married right now, and yes, many don’t even know the difference between an engagement party and a bridal registry but! I know within a few years that will all change. And I, resident relationship advice girl, need to be prepared. So when I see a wedding ring on someone in the same age bracket as me—oh!—it’s beyond distracting.

Case in point:
This morning I was supposed to introduce the new hire—my replacement—to the office and orient her to the job. I think it took maybe half-a-second after saying “nice to meet you!” before I spotted her wedding ring. Not only that, but she was also a recent grad and dressed in equally cute clothes as me. The perfect person—yes for my job, but also for me to secretly observe.

I instantly daydreamed a round of questions: who is your husband? What did the two of you do this morning before starting your commute to work? How’d you meet? How cute is your house together? When did you get married?

By her third mention of the husband I couldn’t hold back. Goodbye document control basics, hello overview of Toronto wedding venues. I got stories about their pre-engagement days and bridesmaids and proposals and destination weddings and dresses…and all that in our fifteen-minute introductory session! We’ll have so much more to cover when I train her all next week. (She said she’d bring me pictures—I can’t wait!)

(in your face, Britney and K-Fed)

2006-11-06T23:21:00.000-05:00

Okay actually my new new guilty pleasure is dancing in my bedroom to the boyfriend’s band’s album. I bought it the first time I met him, two summers ago at one of their shows, which I attended for both curious-stalking reasons and “I really like this music” reasons. I was playing it cool (read: sitting outside the venue, hoping to bump into him) at the end of the night when he approached me. I most likely hug-greeted him (always the flirty one, Paige) and then we went our separate ways.

Actually, we how we first ‘met’ is a different story. He was writing a weekly column and I was devouring every word, reading and rereading and pointing out his byline whenever I saw it in print. It just so happened that my very-public praise was seen by an acquaintance of his. Emails were sent. I found out he had a band. I squealed whenever I got a message from him. And then we met at the show, and went our separate ways.

Of course, throughout all this “separate” time I was still dance-listening to the album, getting giddy over his writing, calling in radio shows to request songs, and dreaming up love stories between him and I. (Which, for the most part, revolved around a scenario where his column one day included a declaration of love for me—girls have the best expectations, eh?) And, skipping to the point, the following summer we fell madly in love and now we’re one of those irritating couples who can’t even stop making-out to pay for some groceries.

So the album is suddenly back in my rotation because it’s like re-reading old diary entries, but better. It’s listening to the boyfriend before I really knew him, and being able to remember all the silly and sometimes embarrassing pre-relationship things I once thought about him. It’s adorable! Or perhaps this is just another symptom of being annoyingly lovey-dovey. I’ll let you decide.

2006-11-02T10:08:00.000-05:00

Fact one: finances have always bored me, in part because of their heavy correlation to math, but also because until recently saving money meant making sure I had enough cab fare to get home from the bar at the end of the night.

Fact two: after an extended summer of soaking myself in money (my “no more squalor” post-student life was celebrated with amassing all things I had neglected during my undergrad) I have reached a point of financial foolishness guilt.

Fact three: I discovered the world of personal finance blogs this week.

Personal finance blogs are, to sum it up, thebestthingcurrentlyontheinternet. I don’t know how I skipped over their existence until now: they're like pornography for money! People (generally anonymous) list all their assets and savings and debt and investments and then openly track the growth of their net worth all while giving tips on how you can achieve the same.

Thus, “if you invest in an RRSP in your twenties it will make you more financially prepared than 99% of your peers” and other Did you know…?’s are now commandeering all of my thoughts. (That and all the juicy gossip that derives from observing the spending habbits of others!) I am in mutual funds and net worth overdrive and now I don’t just fear savings and down payments—I fear I have bored said peers by suddenly launching into an unofficial financial-savvyness phase.

After spending a few hours going through the archives of here, here, and here (among others) I started writing down ideas and made *gasp!* calculations and then promptly opened an ING savings account. The next day my archive reading continued and I started looking up information on retirement savings and mutual funds, all while pestering my friends about their own finances.

However, this sudden interest in being responsible wasn’t just spurred by a few websites: I have better news! My starter job has come to an end, and with that ends my laissez-faire lifestyle. In a couple weeks I’m leaving my position as an engineering secretary/personal assistant, and starting as a copywriter for an ad agency. Writing! I get to have a career in something I love? Incredible.

Also good: the copywriter job functions both as a push away from the fauxn-up status I’ve been living, and as an impressive inclusion in the family Christmas letter. So what’s the next step in this whole “growing-up” thing? (I think I have some ideas…)

2006-11-01T10:57:00.000-05:00

Guilty pleasure: driving around the city in my parent’s new SUV, blasting the new Justin Timberlake CD while wearing my new parka.

And not just guilty because it’s like one huge consume-a-thon, but guilty because I used to hate hate hate SUVs. However, the moment I drove the KIA I fell in love and now I get the crossover revolution: bulky-mini-trucks are necessary not only for the superficial feeling of owning the road, but really because they are SO! FUN! TO! DRIVE!

Driving an SUV is driving, lite! There’s really no effort required with suspension that allows you to cruise over speed bumps without notice, extremely responsive steering, and brakes that come to a halt with the lightest touch. Yes, perhaps my perspective is a bit off, as until the KIA I had only driven a ten-year-old minivan…but still. I’m in car-love.

(A side note: before you all get uppity over this, I should point out that a SUV was not my family’s first choice for a new car, however my mother’s declining mobility due to her MS required a vehicle which was easy to get in and out of. So perhaps I am covering up feelings of worrying about her health by taking the “yeehaw materialism!” route, but that’s just how I’ve chosen to cope.)

As for Justin Timberlake’s FutureSex/LoveSounds, can you think of a better soundtrack for obnoxious driving? Every moment has its ideal music—dancing in the kitchen while the boyfriend makes dinner: Junior Boys; sitting on the balcony in my luxe Paris hotel: Charlotte Gainsbourg; drinking wine and TAB energy drinks before going out: CSS. So JT and his delightful rapping is what I (and my sister, and sometimes my mother) like to drive to.

Unless of course it’s early am, in which case I cruise calmly down the streets to the soothing voices of CBC Radio’s Metro Morning.

2006-10-25T10:42:00.000-04:00

I am a big fan of inventing things. Inventing as in: constantly convincing myself that the various ideas I’ve come up with are necessary and logical, when in fact, they simply do not exist.

For example, when Terra and I were at the Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera concert a few years ago, I learned over and whispered to her “So at the end of the show, if they came out together and did Dirty Dancing’s ‘I’ve Had the Time of my Life’ routine wouldn’t that be incredible!”

After a few moments of extreme excitement I burst her bubble and let her know that this duet was something I had made-up, not something that was actually going to happen. (Though we both kept our fingers crossed until the stadium lights turned on and the show ended sans Baby and Johnny impersonations. To this day we both maintain that eventually it will occur. It HAS to!)

Fashion also drives me to constantly invent things. Every season I imagine the items I need to acquire, through mental hybrid creations of various trends and designers. Then I go shopping and expect to see said items on shelves for a reasonable price. Surprise surprise: this rarely happens. Yes, I could make my own clothing, but most of the time I imagine shoes and I don’t think I have the skills to be a cobbler. So instead I get extremely stubborn about finding my dream purchases and end up buying nothing at all.

Currently I am obsessing over finding a winter coat. Or, more specifically, finding THE winter coat. I want a down-filled ¾ length parka with real fur trim on the hood. Seems simple enough?

People suggested I buy a Canada Goose coat, but even in size XXXS I resemble a military marshmallow pouff. I need a parka that’s a little less bulk and a little bit more sleek. (Also, the boyfriend has a Canada Goose and I usually make it a point to poke fun at couples that dress the same, so…)

I then used my internet skills and found exactly what I wanted on the American website bluefly.com: a Michael Kors parka. But. But but but! I’m a tad uneasy about ordering a jacket sight unseen, especially when the cross-border duty would make returning it pretty difficult.

And so this is how I found myself in a shopping frenzy last night, driving sales people batty trying to find a Kors replacement and then skewing my own judgment on what would be an appropriate purchase. When you are deep in a valley of $700 coats, suddenly the $400 one you “kinda like” seems like a bargain. When you again remember how cold it is, you suddenly think that buying a $130 placeholder “no down, no real fur” parka makes sense. NO! NO NO NO NO!

So instead, I have opted to be more proactive. I will expand my coat requirements and continue my search. I will donate all my old jackets to Goodwill. But I will remain annoyed at people with allergies who have ruined the market for down-filled coats, and be angry at the people who protest fur because they prefer the shaggy, frazzled look of faux. (I will make up for my lack of animal ethics by eating some trendy Animal Compassionate meat, okay?)

2006-10-20T15:40:00.000-04:00

I can handle being tired at work and I can deal with still feeling tipsy from a night of drinking and I can even cope with having to work while sick but to experience all three at once! I took some medicine but all it has done is placed my consciousness a few feet above my head—a head which currently feels like it’s wrapped up in a plastic bag.

Last night was the Toronto Life 40th Anniversary Party. Toronto Life is, for all non-locals, a glossy who’s who of the city and its goings on: urban politics, pop gossip, restaurant culture, and high society. It’s also styled in the elite-insider sort of tone that I absolutely adore—a taste that was most likely cultivated by childhood readings of the magazine.

So when the boyfriend said he had been invited, I shouted “yes!” before he could even finish asking if I wanted to go. I do have a huge crush on the magazine but I also like any reason to buy a new dress and see him in a suit.

I have also decided that this means party season is officially open. Perhaps the Toronto Life party was a touch elaborate, but now I will expect:
- gourmet chocolate, wheeled around on little carts (always coming by exactly when I crave a bite)
- a scotch tasting lounge
- rounds of one-plate dinners with wine pairings
- an oxygen bar, make-over/photography room, and casino (with dealers willing to teach me poker!)
…and gift bags filled with various goodies (to delight my drunken self at the end of the night) to be at every future fête I attend. Or, you know, some variation of them. I’m sure that after your eighth event with a chocolate fountain it would be nice to see some truffles.

2006-10-17T23:29:00.000-04:00

Backpackers. I have spent two weeks absorbed in their culture and I am still conflicted about them and their frugal-travel lifestyle. On one hand, I get it: you want to see the world and this is generally impossible to do without proper budgeting. But on the other hand, you’re a drifter, living out of a teeny bag for months on end, never engaged in any one thing for more than a few weeks.

And since when are hiking boots the everyday shoe? You can get a lot of mileage out of some nice flats or sleek runners, you know.

Anyway. I think I am just too obsessed with being tuned in to ever be a backpacker. Decipher that as you will: I’m superficial; I constantly need to know what’s in and upcoming. I’m a media junkie; I thrive on the weekend Style sections and CBC Radio and online news memes. I need substance; I like my long-term friends and hate chatty “so where have you been?” hostel small talk.

Those conversations are all the same: It's either simple stolen-from-guidebooks visions of cities or over-romanticized and superfluous descriptions. Let’s make generalizations about a society based on our few days there! Let’s talk about the Americanized bars and name drop half-a-dozen youth hostels I don’t care about! Yes, some stories are fun, but usually I am more interested in how these kids can manage to be on the road for half a year or more than to hear about their walking tour of Warsaw.

Backpackers scoffed at Terra and I for spending €25 a night on our private hostel rooms, but I wouldn’t have done it any other way. I like sleeping in while on holiday and going to bed late—not being influenced by the habits of a half-dozen dorm mates. We were also told that we “didn’t look like backpackers” when heading out to the bar one night. Um, correct: because we are not!

(Too bad they didn’t see our suitcases! Mine gained 15 pounds of mementos over the two week holiday. And as much as I hated lugging it up and down staircases—why our Prague hostel had to be on the third floor I do not know—it only took a glance at other traveler’s soggy backpacks to reconfirm love for my sleek roller bag.)

Yes, short city-hopping travels are fun. Terra and I called the holiday our sampler tour; our flashy introduction to Bohemian Europe. But it made me decide that if I was going to spend months and months in other places I would need to settle on only a few. Build a little niche in a city. Have urban geogrpahy become second nature and learn the language and fall in love with the culture. I always thought I was a transient person, but on this holiday I concluded that I’m really much more of a nester.

2006-10-16T23:51:00.000-04:00

Vienna was the shortest city visit of the European Holiday. Terra and I were there for only two days—it was a pit stop on our way between Budapest and Krakow. The city was nice, but just not as mesmerizing as the other places we were traveling to. (Um, except for the shopping. Hello new slouchy boots, I love you!)

Our trip really revolved around eating as much local food as possible: The first thing we did in Budapest was search out goulash and we had perogies and beet soup every night in Poland. Terra would not, however, submit to my request for roasted pig’s knuckle in Prague.

So in Vienna we wanted bratwurst and sauerkraut, without realizing that this is not a popular national dish in Austria, but instead more common in the Czech Republic. After a weary day of searching out somewhere to dine, we settled on a place called Centimeters.

“Two meters of bratwurst for €6.50!”

“It can’t possibly be two meters, right?”

“No…. I.. don’t think so at least. We can share it, though, and then order more food if we need it.”

Waitress takes the order and gives us a knowing smile. We get a little worried. We order more sturm, a delicious fermented bevvy which really should be available here.

Suddenly I see the waitress coming towards our table with the bratwurst.

“Oh my god, holy crap!!!”

Lesson learned: In Austria, two meters of bratwurst really is two full meters of bratwurst. At least we ate it all.

2006-09-26T11:46:00.000-04:00

Skinny pants! Oh, they kill me! I want every pant I wear to produce the same slinky look, the same cute knee-to-ankle concave silhouette. After a few months of skinny, I have become addicted--I love them in a total trend way: it’s half intuitive and half ingrained.

But I really really enjoy the look because skinny pants get such a rise out of the trend-shunners. (It’s not that they aren’t aware of what’s in style, it’s that they are incapable of letting their subconscious mature and mold a trend to fit their own personal aesthetics. Or maybe they forget that “non-conformity” has become the new conformity. Hmm.)

I assume that the pants are mostly hated-on for their teeny shape. However, I would argue that there are a lot of other styles not at all intended for larger bodies and yet they seem to be coveted and worn in excess, no problem. (See: tube tops, stretch-denim, bikinis, and cut-offs.) Actually, there are a lot of styles which only flatter certain body types and we easily accept their limits. Perhaps it is the obvious exclusive nature of the skinny pant and the inherent reference to thinness in the name which irks people so much. Perhaps they need to redirect their fashion-hate to actual ugly things, like Croc shoe-clogs.

If skinny pants are no longer in style when I get to Europe (please note use of irony in assuming a trip to a half-dozen cities represents an entire continent and its sensibilities) I will be very upset. Sure, I can imagine that, like most things, this change in fashion will not translate across the Atlantic for a few more months, but when you’re aware that a trend has spoiled wearing it becomes much less pleasurable. So please please please be good to go for at least one more season, skinny pants. You simply just make me too happy.

2006-09-22T14:19:00.000-04:00

Facebook is for sale, it seems, though creator Mark Zuckerberg (age twenty-two) has not yet made a deal to sell it. He has, however, already turned down one offer of $750 million from Viacom, and is now in negotiations with Yahoo! after they offered him $900 million.

All together with me now, Facebook users: Why didn't I think of it first! I want multi-millions! Where is my share!?

And here’s the thing. I think our envy is totally valid: All the users of Facebook do have a share in this deal, because what he’s really selling is us.

Who cares about the software; anyone can create a social-networking program. Facebook is valuable because it’s a comprehensive and no-holds-barred database of young, educated, and privileged North America. Our profiles, our photographs, our music, our chats, our likes and dislikes, our clicks on advertising dollars (already pulling in revenues between $20-50 million a year) are what’s worth $900 million dollars (if not more) to big media conglomerates. It’s a pretty tiny price to pay for a captive audience AND all their demographics.

But as jealous as we are about the profits and as unaware as we pretend to be of this pseudo-identity theft, we really just don’t care. We’re not going to stop using Facebook because someone is making multi-millions off our net-identities because, simply put, we like the unrestricted access other people’s net-identities too much. And that careless trait is what will keep our generation as a very hot commodity.

2006-09-20T17:23:00.000-04:00

My Parisian hotel woes were solved in a very fortunate manner, and it seems I will be spending the first day-and-a-half of my European holiday in exclusive king-sized luxury. (Preferred member rewards are always a welcome gift!) The rest of the vacation, while decidedly more glamorous, is not going to be as indulgent—at least when it comes to accommodations.

Terra and I have been finding various hostels all week, but the final route is still, purposefully, up in the air. We're breezy like that. Our basic plan really is all we need: After my short romance with Paris, I will meet Terra in Italy. Our hostel in Rome has been booked, and we’ve purchased a flight to Budapest as well as Eastern Europe rail passes. We'll end up in Prague about two weeks later.

Some of my penultimate goals for the holiday include:
- drinking absinth and eating foie gras.
- seeing the Velka Pardubice horse race in the Czech Republic.
- viewing as much Art Nouveau as possible.
- buying loads of clothing so upon return I can be that girl who says “Oh this? I got it in Europe…” when someone asks about what I am wearing.
- somehow winding up with a room at the Budapest Four Seasons.

…EEeeep! Only one week to go!

2006-09-17T22:43:00.000-04:00

Dear Paige:

Some reflections on your first working September?

I love wearing my mini-trench (the suddenly-favourite fall trend) and feeling chic on the way to work each morning. I hate unlocking myself from the boyfriend’s arms at 6am and crawling out of his very-warm bed.

I also hate all the students that have suddenly swarmed my morning commute. Not the university kids—ha ha, like they’d be out before 8am!—but the private high schoolers with the twenty pound backpacks and obnoxious iPods. It makes me feel totally ancient but MUST you play your Eminem that loud? And also: my patent-leather pumps do not appreciate it when you carelessly drop your bags on my feet.

I love having manicured nails. My nails are, for the first time ever, permanently long and healthy and gorgeous. It’s part of my job: Secretaries are supposed to file their nails to perfection when not making phone calls or drafting memos, oui?

I totally enjoy the fact that working keeps me skinny: gone are the late-night munchies and midday stress-induced eating binges. Instead, I spend my day running flights of stairs (in the aforementioned heels, mind you) and consider double-short soy cappuccinos my biggest craving. Go figure.

I love that cinq-a-sept has taken on a new and crucial meaning for me, but I hate the amount of time I spend thinking about my first post-work cocktail. I love justifying things with an ironic “well I’m a young professional, that’s what we do!” and I also love the “we’re working women!” dinners out that my girlfriends and I have started.

Verdict so far: working... it’s not so bad.

2006-09-14T09:27:00.000-04:00

Dilemmas Au Courante:

- Do I buy the Canon PowerShot SD30 digital camera (in violet, of course) or the tacky-hot white Sony Cybershot DSC-W30W? Or is there some other fabulous camera perfect for photographing a European holiday that I have overlooked?

- Where can I spend the night in Paris and why is the last weekend of September so popular? Apparently waiting on my hotel-bookings was not so wise: everything good/cheap is taken! I really want to be in the 4ème arrondissement, but there is nothing under EU$100 available. Actually, there is nothing in arrondissement 1 through 6... and I don’t want to be anywhere else. Only solution: suck it up and just pay for the hotel you want. (I justify it by reminding myself I’ve spent twice that amount on a pair of jeans.)

- Is the new British man in my office being flirty or is this what they call sexual harassment? He just transferred from the Southern US and has taken to MSNing me winky faces and calling me “sweetie” “gorgeous” and “the beautiful PA”. I name-drop my boyfriend but don’t really know how else to respond. At least I don’t work for him.

- MuchMusic is auditioning for a new VJ in a few weeks. And it’s not VJ-Search styles. Should I go to the open call?

2006-09-08T11:44:00.000-04:00

There’s a notion that the most interesting interactions are the ones we never see. A friend mentioned this to me; she posed that the intimate moments of pure emotion and inside jokes—the conversations that happen between two people who are hushed and huddled together—are probably the most fascinating.

It is easy to look at a couple in public and observe their banter, but aren’t we always curious about what happens when no one else is around? Curious, I think, simply because it’ll never be accessible. There’s no real way to get an actual idea of anyone else’s relationship. (Oh, but plenty of ways to judge it!)

I can tell you that I have been receiving and reading handwritten love letters for the past two weeks. They are waiting for me when I get home from work; one for each day the boyfriend was on holiday. You can ask me about the gold necklace with the bunny charm that I am wearing, and I’ll get a dreamy look in my eyes and gush about it, and then him, and just how! incredible! we! are!

These things are tangible and relatable, to some extent—you get that there is love and romance and that my relationship is pretty delicious. There’s obviously much more I could tell: I could talk about all the little isms him and I have or the sexy things that happen between us, but somehow I just don’t think the intimate translates well. It’ll come off as bragging, or sound foolish and insignificant to you outsiders. You’ll pick apart what you want and come to your own conclusions.

I think I have finally learned that some information is better withheld. I have always been one to over-share, keeping little to myself because I see no reason not too. But now! I contain paramount secrets and like the way they consume and excite me.

2006-09-06T16:05:00.000-04:00

Someone is selling two unopened packages of birth control patches for $20 on Craigslist. (Curiously filed under “clothing and accessories” but I suppose technically you are wearing them…) I think this is totally creepy and gross, but when I joked about it to a male friend he thought there was nothing wrong with it. Really??

He pointed out that I do a lot of risky things based on the trust of strangers (I did find that Fruit & Nut bar in a snow bank…) but still. If there is a line, buying someone’s unwanted birth control certainly crosses it.

Why not give it to a friend or donate it to a women’s health clinic? Or just save it for future use—every girl has had one of those throwing-everything-out-of-cupboards-and-drawers-looking-for-that-forgotten-pack-of-bc days. So, don’t be creepy on the internet, be prepared!

Also, the ad mentions that she’s selling the patches because “talk of babies” came up. This might sound totally bitchy (what else is new?) but if you’re that in need of an extra $20, perhaps now is not the right time to be creating another human being.

2006-09-04T23:27:00.000-04:00

Memorandum.

Re: your plans to cross the Canadian-American border.

It should be noted that any attempts to drive to Western New York on the Friday afternoon before the Labor Day Long Weekend will be extremely delayed. While it may only take you one hour to drive from Toronto to Niagara Falls, and while you may have a small pile of MapQuest maps ready, pointing out every destination (from the Coach outlet to the Albright-Knox Gallery) for once you get across said border, please be prepared for a FOUR HOUR wait at customs.

Please also note that the grande Starbucks coffee you consumed en route will now take effect. However, because your car will literally crawl through the five kilometer car line-up to get to customs, you will have time to participate in the all-female run into the bushes at the side of the road. This will occur approximately two hours into your wait.

Upon return to Canada, expect feelings of guilt for smuggling a pet hermit crab (purchased-rescued from a mall kiosk) into the country. This will cause you to ramble through the planned speech (“…we bought some food at Target and had dinner at IHOP…”) and declare the two 1.5L bottles of Stoli purchased at duty-free. You will then be required to pay taxes, causing the $12.50 cost per bottle to rise to a not-so-discounted $32.50.

Thank you for understanding, and have a good day-trip.

2006-08-30T22:53:00.000-04:00

When you are on public transit every day you begin to notice the same people going to and from work. The only people out at 7:30am are, after all, those with a professional requirement to be somewhere. (Okay, and the occasional early-am walk of shamer, but you’d never mistake her for an employee.)

Anyways, I know there are a diverse range of jobs out there, and I know that not all places require even business casual attire, but morning after morning I witness some of the worst clothing choices ever. And as it’s summer, the biggest offender is always the shoe.

PAIGE SIX SPECIAL EDITION
Shoe Photo Essay: Why Would You Think That's Acceptable to Wear to Work??

The black stiletto with camo-pants: See, this would be a mildly-acceptable office shoe (though still an ugly one) had the wearer not paired it with army fatigues. Darling, you are going to work, not starring in a Beyoncé video—please reserve this look for Saturday night on Richmond Street. (It should also be noted she was carrying a faux-fur shoulder bag and had white-girl cornrows.)

Flip-flops and blue toes: There is a lot I could say about wearing flip-flops to work (will you be teaching CPR and doing aqua-fit today?) but I’m simply too distracted by the grade-four-styles blue toe polish. Which is actually not just blue, but a delicately painted multi-shade floral pattern. Please, go get a real woman’s pedicure and then we can talk about the shoes.

Sequins and stacked heels: This one’s hard to see, but all you need to know is that it involves a 55-year-old woman, pink, purple, green, and gold sequins, and a 2-inch wooden wedge stacked heel. At 7:30am. No, no, no!

Patent leather whore-platform: Click here to see this shoe in all it’s glory. Then tell me if you would ask your secretary for a lap dance if she showed up to work in those. Honestly, I don’t even think I could wear those to a bar without feeling extremely awkward. The girl has guts, I’ll give her that much.

2006-08-29T11:25:00.000-04:00

I would generally consider myself to have a sort of alpha-female personality. This was first pointed out in high school by a friend who turned me into a superhero for a comic-book art project. I have a copy of one drawing: it’s me as a sort of Sailor Moon girl, with flowing platinum-blonde hair and a huge ‘A’ for Alpha-Female is marked on my spandex-suit.

(The illustrator also made sure that every drawing emphasized a teeny waist and supple chest, but that’s a whole other story…)

I think my alpha-personality is kind of a half-one, however. I’m bossy when no one else is making decisions. I’m the center of attention when I don’t feel over-shadowed by those around me. I get publicly frustrated with complacency. I’m a brat when I really need to get my way. If the void is there I will fill it—but if another female is dominating I’m happy to let her lead the way and play the role of unassuming, quiet, and satisfied. Basically, if the passive alpha-female exists, it’s me.

Lately I have met a lot of female comedians; like stand-up, improve, totally funny girls who work any situation they are in. I can not perform on demand like that: Instead I balk at their confidence and turn into shy-Paige. No alpha-female personality here!

(Hellooo! I only have a natural, occasional amount of funny in me! Wouldn’t anyone else feel totally intimidated if surrounded by people whose job it is to be hilarious? And also: I’m simply much too distracted by laughing constantly at jokes to make any of my own.)

But yesterday, while waiting in the MTV green room with Sabrina Jalees, I realized that the professional funny girl is a passive alpha-girl’s best friend. She’ll make jokes to melt through all your anxiety, turn around any awkwardness, let you be the center of attention when you really need it, and do it all without you even noticing. (And ignore the fact that you ‘TV-promised’ not to blog about the green room? Ha ha.)

So. I’m not saying a more-bossy and bratty Paige is on the way. No no, just a more confident, assertive one. But hey—the whole seeing myself on national TV thing could also have something to do with it. (Insert here the huge smile I have been making since yesterday.)

2006-08-26T16:16:00.000-04:00

Friday:

Actually went to bed early on Thursday (11:30pm has now been deemed early after a string of unsatisfying post-midnight sleeps) making work on Friday seem half-as-long. But the day was also broken up with phone calls: Not only did I speak with one of my favourite journalists, Rebecca Eckler, I also took a call from a producer at MTV and maybe you’ll see me on TV on next week. Hmm. There was a lunch trip to the Mandarin buffet for departing co-workers (feeding the needs of hungry university kids is the only reason I would eat there..) and then the ubiquitous post-work drinks to celebrate a work-week well done.

I made some slightly-intoxicated purchases on my way home, including the new Christina Aguilera and Paris Hilton albums, but when I opened the Paris case there was no CD inside! An ironic statement on her abilities as a musician, perhaps? Went with the parents to test-drive a new car and then argued about their inability to buy a new car over dinner. Drank some wine and curled my hair and tried on too many outfits and then changed my shoes three times before heading out the door.

Finished a bottle of Il Prosecco while watching multiple episodes of Cover Shot at Ashley’s. When we arrived at the Drake I bumped into a friend who introduced us to the bouncer and we were immediately ushered inside, much to the dismay of the dozens of people waiting in line. MisShapes was DJing (what may be a monthly event?) and another friend bought me a few vodka tonics. We danced on stage for a long time (SexyBack! Annie's Heartbeat!) until I was too tired and excused myself to go home.

Fell asleep in my taxi and the cabbie woke me up a few blocks from home to clarify directions. Curled up in my sister’s bed for a while, demanding she play the new Christina album. Defeated, I went into my own room and got into bed where I could cuddle up with the boyfriend’s sweater and then considered leaving messages on his answering machine, but as it’s only the first day of his two-week vacation there will be many more opportunities for that.

2006-08-22T11:53:00.000-04:00

I am never going to attempt to address all of the contradictory complaints that have been made about this blog (ranging from “you’re too slutty!” and “you don’t write about sex enough!” to “this is soo boring, talk more about partying!” and “Paige is an alcoholic—start acting like an adult!”) because no matter what I post, someone will comment a request for change in content.

I will, however, acknowledge that yes, the things I write about now are very different from the things I wrote about then. I have been going through transitions of habit and pastime recently—some which may provide interesting content and some which may result in the censoring of interesting content.

Anyways. It has been almost sixty days since I started my job. The summer students are now quitting work to go back to school and I am wondering if the cute girl on my bus will still be there in September, among other things.

While knowing I have been waking up at six am for two months is shocking, what’s even more interesting is that I’m not craving school as much as I thought I would be. Okay, I do miss classes and having my own house and fun professors and lectures and reading media theory and my culturally-savvy friends!

But I certainly don’t miss students (in general), being poor, the need to ‘pre-drink’, and feeling like I was in some sort of life-purgatory. And I definitely don’t miss London, Ontario and its never ending Top-40-mall-shopping-frat-boy mentality.

Perhaps I have been much too influenced by recent readings of American Psycho and Bourdieu, but I am enamored with post-student-life and its potential for distance from necessity.

2006-08-15T19:18:00.000-04:00

...Okay I've accepted that we'll never agree on the last issue I posted about. Things are entirely too multi-faceted and complex--so move along to your own spaces if you want to keep typing in circles.

Let's switch to something simple: make love, not war. And actually, I don't care if you can't manage it, because I am doing incredibly fine with this mantra.

2006-08-11T21:46:00.000-04:00

While I can be an incredibly insensitive and cruel person, I am always amazed at the stupidly-ignorant things that come out of other people’s mouths.

Today I was given a package to mail to the UK by two of the highest-ranking men I work for, who are also Saudi Arabian. They wanted me to mail their British cell phones to the secretary at their old office in London. I took the package (in the original celly-box), wrapped it up, printed off an address label, and took it to the mailing room as I do for all other packages.

The elderly mailing-room lady lost it. She demanded to know what the Saudis were sending out, and when I said it was some cellular phones she became even more irrational.

“You can’t even bring those on airplanes now!” she exclaimed.

“Yes you can,” I replied. “You just can’t bring them HERE from the UK on planes…”

“No! No, no, no!” she retorted. “If that box starts ticking they will be all over it, and me!”

Yes, that’s right. Forget the multi-billion dollar reason why my silver-spoon Saudi bosses are in this country; their real purpose for being here is to send a couple of old “cell phones” through the postal service.

2006-08-09T17:56:00.001-04:00

If there is one thing I know for sure about myself, it is that I am the audience and consumer that advertisers dream about. This was first discovered many years ago, when I was sitting outside the local grocery store waiting for a friend to end his work shift. A truck drove up, displaying a huge ad for chocolate chip cookies, and I rushed inside and purchased said cookies, only realizing what had occurred when I was back outside ripping the bag open cookie-monster style.

So now I have this phone from Nokia, which I was given, free-of-charge, for the purpose of promoting among my social network. At first I was a tad apprehensive to the whole idea—being trendy is one thing; secretly branding products as a tastemaker is borderline selling-out.

But once the phone was placed in my hand I became instantly transfixed and my doubt was replaced with: “How could anyone not want this phone!?” as well as: “It’s soooo awesome, it’s pretty much the best celly I have ever had! The best cell I have ever seen!” and also: “Everyone LOOK at my new phone, look look look at everything it does!”

I am almost ashamed at myself for the level of eagerness I have towards talking about the phone. But I have decided that trend marketing is the easiest form of marketing, given the right product and people involved, with me and the Nokia being a prime example.

I rarely initiate conversations about the phone, but when they start, oh then I go into celly-love gushing mode, where I blab endlessly about things like being able to watch videos on it and adjusting the white-balance on my zoom-lens camera.

This all sounds like a carefully crafted product placement, doesn’t it? I told you, I’m an advertiser’s dream: my talking about the Nokia is not done for contractual obligations or to please them; it’s motivated by my overwhelming need to brag about having received THEBESTPHONEEVER for free. (Which, I now realize, does end up pleasing Nokia. And so it goes…)

So while I’m at it, let’s air out some other products I am currently infatuated with, simply because they’re trendy and up to par with my lifestyle. You know, other things I would wax poetic about, samples or not. (hint, hint?)

- Domaines Ott rosé wine.
Simply because the NYT Style section deemed it the drink to be seen with and I need a more fashionable rosé than my mother’s White Zinfandel.

- Paige Premuim Denim jeans, skinny style.
(And thank you Leah McLaren for writing so poignantly about skinny jeans this weekend--as if I needed another reason to lovelovelove her.)

- A Fendi Spy Bag or B Bag.
Because I have already half-experienced the Spy Bag (my knock-off is possibly the best purchase I've made this summer) and I just can’t seem to get over how fucking cute the B Bags are. Designer bags, I think, make any outfit look instantly fabulous, and would be the perfect accessory on my European holiday.

2006-08-03T09:08:00.000-04:00

The perks of being addicted to maintaining a tiny piece of the internet come in many forms—from getting free things to being contacted by both celebrities and the people who make celebrities to getting dates from something I’ve written—yes, this site has created a lot of opportunities. (Most of which I unfortunately haven’t been able to post about due to their confidential circumstances.)

But! Here’s a couple for you:

Tomorrow morning, part in thanks to my writing here and on Torontoist, you can hear me on the CBC Radio 1 show Here’s the Thing. I'll be the ‘dating and relationship advice expert’ giving some tips in the laundromat. 9:30am, do listen if you have a chance—it’ll be funny I promise!

And also: I know that I’ve been totally lacking on photo content recently, but that’s simply because I haven’t had a camera. Nokia decided to fix that, and tomorrow I am being given a brand new beautiful 6682 phone as well as a whole bunch of additional accessories and features. This means that the next time I am judging weird people on the subway or being crazy at the bar, everything will be camera-captured or even videotaped and instantly uploaded to this blog with hilarious commentary. It’s going to be positively thrilling!

2006-08-01T16:22:00.000-04:00

The square outside my office building is a rather busy one, as it feeds into two high-rise towers, one subway station, a shopping centre, and a huge movie theatre. Across the street are other highly-populated offices, and, to further reveal the scope of the traffic in the area, there are three Starbucks all within a half-block radius.

I like working in a busy-businessy neighbourhood. The flow of people rushing to work in the morning is actually quite refreshing (though the after-work trudge home is less appealing) but it also means that there is always something happing at lunch time.

Usually my office square is surrounded by my former colleagues—the promotional samplers and street-level marketing kiddies, that is. I love getting free things on my way to lunch, and then getting even more free things on my way back.

(Let’s be honest: Every sampler I know doesn’t care if the same people get a dozen free products, as long as each is given out one-at-a-time. Samplers just want to get rid of their swag quota so their well-paid break-time can begin!)

However, more recently our office square has been occupied by the lowest-level of solicitors: the pyramid scheme employee. It’s a blanket term I use to describe any job where the person who does the hiring is vague about work conditions but positive about making “up to $1000 a week!” and the standard uniform is a foggy ID-tag and worn-out clipboard. Think: spa “discount” packages sold on street corners, door-to-door knife sales, or any other job that pays almost 100% through commission and has a Tony Robbins-clone as the CEO.

Anyways. My favourite pyramid-schemer of late is the girl who signs people up for credit cards. Truthfully, it took me over a week of watching her “work” before I knew what exactly she was doing. She wears the same black mini-skirt, decorated tank-top, high-heel sandals, and brown leather purse every day, and generally spends her time sitting on the edge of a planter, chain-smoking cigarettes. But every once and a while she will approach someone on the street, clipboard in hand, and ask if they would like to sign up for a free credit card. And generally, everyone says no.

I don’t blame them—there is no way, NO WAY, I would give my personal information to a girl on a street corner with no ID who looks like she is walk-of-shaming home from the bar. And this sentiment has been further embedded after spending an hour watching credit-girl’s work ethic in action:

After sitting on the planter for twenty minutes and occasionally chasing groups of men through the square while begging them to sign up, she finally got a poor sap (probably hoping he could ask her on a date) to fill out the form. Out comes his drivers license, SIN number, and most likely the numbers for one of his current credit cards.

Once poor sap leaves, credit-girl greets another fellow on the street—a high-schoolish age kid in oversized “urban” clothing, complete with jeans tucked into socks. They hug and then sit down on the planter to chat. After a few minutes credit-girl gets up to go bum her friend a cigarette from an office worker. She leaves her clipboard with thug boy, and he starts flipping through the filled-out information. My how secure the privacy measures are for pyramid scheme jobs-- hello Identity Theft! Eventually credit-girl comes back to her friend (and clipboard) but she is done working for the time being: they stay seated on the planter until my lunch ends.

I was recruited for a credit-card application job a few years ago, and while I didn’t even consider it, the pay further threw me off: $6:50 an hour plus $0.07 commission on each application filled out and approved. I don’t blame her for being lazy, but how can she afford all those cigarettes, let alone make a living?

2006-07-26T10:42:00.000-04:00

I am in love, and so I have decided that I am allowed to do foolish things. Such as: deciding to spite my self-imposed 11pm curfew last night in order to finish the pitcher of sangria I was drinking downtown, and then further ruin my plans for responsible sleep by suddenly choosing to go to the boyfriend’s house—something which resulted in half-sleeping for maybe five hours before having to head back uptown to make it to work for 8am.

At first I was so good at this ‘early to bed, early to rise’ thing. Then I discovered that, with careful sleep-budgeting, I could afford the late nights I am so fond of. (I also learned that a few drops of Visine will instantly make tired eyes look chipper and alert!) Going out even makes the workday go faster: if you’re not happily distracted by thinking about what happened last night, you’re certainly busy planning what will occur tonight.

This packed social-and-work schedule is also easy to defend. Certainly nine hours is a long time to be focused and productive each day, especially if you work in a partially-stimulating office. And yes, being overly tired while having to work is, well, horrible. But if I don’t do something after 6pm I become one of those people who only exist to work. Ew.

But of course, now I am sitting at my desk, endlessly yawning, totally dependent on the grande Starbucks coffee next to the keyboard, and waiting for the TAB energy drink I will have with lunch.

Ahh, whatever! I am well rehearsed in functioning on low-levels of sleep. But more importantly I have discovered that daydreaming about said love is absolutely the best way to glide through an entire day of work. (My pink and red office supplies and fancy doodling skills also help.)

2006-07-19T17:15:00.000-04:00

Between editing engineering documents and emailing my coworkers, a great deal of my daytime has been devoted to planning a holiday. That’s right, I finally get to be one of those graduates everyone else hates: I am going traveling!

However, because it’s a tiny bit of traveling I’m calling it a holiday—something which I think sounds more cute (and European!) than ‘vacation’. And as of right now, my holiday is very… open.

Terra is currently in Italy, if you didn’t know. She’s the real traveler: spending three months working at a winery and taking courses at the local university. However, when she’s done in the fall that’s when I will romantically coast into the European landscape and we’ll rendezvous. Somewhere. And then go other somewheres together. Amsterdam. Rome. Barcelona. Prague. Marseilles. Vienna… who knows! Those finite details remain to be determined.

What I do know is that I’m flying into Paris at the end of September and then flying out of Paris two weeks later. I booked those tickets literally the hour after I got the okay from my boss on vacation time. I’m comfortable being in Paris on my own, and I have more than two months to figure out where I’ll be for the rest of my holiday.

So for now, I obsessively research train schedules, hotel and hostel reviews, European plane schedules, and Google maps. I also need to buy a digital camera. Technically I’m not planning on backpacking (after all, I’m employed now, not a poor student!) but I also would much rather spend the bulk of my money on clothing and food and entertainment rather than accommodations.

But until then, I have another holiday to look forward to—this weekend will be spent at the family cottage in Muskoka. What’s even better: my sister and I are both heading up avec boyfriend. Sexy midnight canoe rides and bunking shenanigans, ahoy!

2006-07-12T17:16:00.000-04:00

After spending four years in school obsessing over the political economy of Canadian broadcast media, memorizing which company owns what content, and tracking the flow of pop culture, of course the most ridiculous and massive takeover ~~bid~~ has to occur the summer after graduation.

If Bell Globemedia does takeover CHUM (for the ripe amount of $1.7 billion) well… Well, right now I can’t even begin to imagine how immensely our media would change. Right now I am still convinced the CRTC won't let it happen.

On one hand, I don’t doubt that an incredible boom in Canadian content, production, and talent would arise out of it. But on the other hand, there is no way we need to have one company controlling the vast majority of our media outlets.

Forget tongue-in-cheek jokes about Much VJs and MTV hosts competing to for the title of most-daft personality—we’re going to have a serious recycling of programming, ‘celebrities’, and issues if it’s all being produced, publicized, and controlled by one conglomerate.

Consider the large amount of repeats and ideas that already flow between the various networks of each: CTV airs a show that E! Talk Daily gave a rave review to that a Canadian Idol sang the theme song for that the Globe and Mail reviews that MTV interviews. MuchMusic uses the MMVAs to invite and nominate every musician connected to the VJ Search and plays the videos on constant rotation and then re-airs the awards show five times a day on every one of their specialty channels.

And this is really all fluff concerns—I’m not even getting into the problems of objectivity and partisanship that come with having virtually no competition.

Oh! It’s times like this that I really wish I was going back to school in the fall…

2006-07-09T22:14:00.000-04:00

The best part of my afternoon occurred when I left my friend’s World Cup party and an Italian family gave me a flag. Hello! It was pandemonium downtown after Italy won, and having a flag meant I got to be a real part of it all. Every car honked (and in a, yay Italy! way—not the usual ‘hey baby’ chirps I am used to) and people waved and cheered as my one-person parade weaved between regular street-traffic and all the other fans.

(The best part of my morning, on the other hand, was an affair much less crowded, but entirely more invigorating. Absolutely delish! …but anyways…)

So perhaps I felt like a fake Italian, but I figured at the height of celebration no one would care. Extra support is always needed, no? And my instant connection to this huge, special, and ridiculously excited club completely overrode any feelings of guilt-by-flag-waving.

Whatever, I’m all about the bandwagon these days. That’s the only way I can explain my sudden love for various “cheesy” pop songs. Christina’s “Ain’t No Other Man”—amazing! I have been singing Paris Hilton’s song all weekend. And after discovering the new Justin Timberlake single on Friday I have decided I will now be bringing a JT renaissance back.

2006-07-06T11:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Pretty Young Professional Girl on the 7:44am bus: I love you.

Okay I don’t love you as much as I love watching you. On this early-am route people under-35-over-17 are few in number: so between the dads heading downtown and the pre-teens in private school uniforms, my morning people-watch is a pretty boring event. I don’t care about the outlandish 40-year-old woman in the lime green appliqué shirt with matching crocodile shoes. (She’s reading a Danielle Steel novel and wishing her own life was as compelling—how blah.) Nor am I concerned about the multitude of tech-workers wearing store-logo embroidered polo shirts.

What I care about is what you’re wearing this morning, Professional Girl. You’re the only other commuter on my bus who adds personal style to the horrid dress code known as “business casual”. While others are in outdated loafers and button-down cardigans* you always get on the bus in something cute. Angle-toed flats. Cropped trousers. Dainty accessories.

Yes, technically I am supposed to catch the 7:36am bus. (It allows me enough time to get to Starbucks before work begins, and there is nothing more satisfying than having achieved “regular” status, meaning the barristas just know my order and I get free baked goods.)

But there are only stylish men on the 7:36am bus and I can’t compare work-fashion trends with them. Also, I have discovered that my boss really doesn’t care if I am at my desk a tad late... so I don’t even have to sacrifice my Starbucks to see how you’ve styled your hair this morning.

Come to think of it, you’re really the only exposure I get to business-fashion trends. I work with engineers, Professional Girl, and while they are professional, they’re certainly more concerned about designing petrochemical plants than they are about the aesthetics of design. (Not to mention their lack of interest in all things pop culture! Even the summer eng students draw a blank face when I mention Broken Social Scene…)

So thank you Professional Girl, for making it worthwhile to be running late in the morning. You and I, we’re single-handedly setting the trendy bar for everyone else’s commute.

See you on Monday**,
Paige

*don’t get me started on cardigans—they are the horrible, boring loophole of business-casual attire.

**yes, another benefit of my job is that I have every second Friday off.

2006-06-27T19:02:00.000-04:00

I almost burst into tears today at work.

Not because my boss yelled at me, or because I deleted a day’s amount of work—no no, my watery eyes were caused by reading the New York Times.

…Style Section.

…Weddings & Celebrations.

Canadian wedding announcements are ridiculously different from American ones. The Globe, for instance, once featured a couple who had met in grade nine and were now married at twenty-three. They both went to school at home and saved EVERY penny for their wedding—which also meant that they never went on dates because their ‘future’ was too important. EW! Seriously!? That has no place in a newspaper. (The bride also had the most horrid dress and the groom was rather troll-like. I wish them all the best.)

The real reason to read wedding listings is for their insight to the lives of the rich and educated. It’s essentially an outline on how to get the dream life: go to this university, live in this city, be friends with this crowd, and you will end up with both an incredible job and cute husband. And this is why I enjoy the NYT’s listing so much.

Today’s reading included both the wedding of a woman who does PR for Seven Jeans, and the son of Disney CEO Michael D. Eisner. There were both PhDs and MTVs. Exactly as wedding announcements should be. Ah! I get a little misty just thinking about it.

2006-06-26T23:19:00.000-04:00

There are four people whom I actively ignore, and I think that’s an okay number of people to have permanently exiled from my reality. It’s not like I’ve blacklisted every person that has pissed me off; in fact I generally make it a point to “keep my friends close and my enemies closer”. However, sometimes when relationships end—be it friendships or romances—you really just need your former counterpart to no longer exist.

Okay, I realize at first that the whole concept of ignoring someone seems incredibly childish. And certainly in most cases I think it’s better to face-up to those you do not like rather than to pretend nothing has happened. But if you honestly have nothing (nice) to say, I do recommend taking up the art of ignoring.

For two of the people I dislike, it’s a case of mutual silent treatment. One is a girl whom I used to be very close with. We share some of the same friends, occasionally go to the same parties, and even attended the same graduation, standing only a few alphabetical people apart all day. And we haven’t said a word to each other in over a year.

I like the way our new relationship works. Our friendship ended on obviously strange terms and we easily could have decided to start bitchy in-your-face fights at every chance meeting. (And trust me, it’s not like we’re lacking on drama.) But instead, somehow without discussing it, we’ve just decided to write each other off. We don’t give cut-eye glances; we stare past each other. We don’t ask common friends about each other; we claim a complete lack of concern. (Okay, only sometimes—because other times the gossip is too delish to pass on.)

Boys, on the other hand, are less likely to suddenly take part in the “let’s pretend we don’t know each other” dialectic. Maybe it’s late-onset guilt, or perhaps he really is that vapid—but isn’t it always the one ex you don’t want anything to do with that deems it important to keep the communication lines open long after you’ve broken up?

Which brings me to another person whom I like to pretend doesn’t exist. And in this case, it really is necessary for me to no longer speak to him—not because I get upset or beg for him to take me back, but because my actions are always misinterpreted as so. I don't have the time for shit like that, so it just seems safer to ignore.

And really, what can we discuss other than ”so… we’re both seeing other people now… yeah….” considering we were never friends to begin with? He, however, has yet to get this memo, causing me to become very good at making sudden disappearances.

Yes, four is just enough people to actively keep off your radar in Toronto. Everyone else: we're just going to have to get along.

2006-06-21T00:07:00.000-04:00

So, lets talk about my new job!

Because, it really hasn’t hit me that this is what I do now: I wake up at 6:30 am and get to work by 8:00 because I am an administrative assistant for a team of international engineers at a Fortune-500 company.

What? Really!? Really. Yes, I am just as shocked as you are. It’s totally not what I thought I would be doing—I even turned the position down at first. However, I have my reasons for accepting…

1. It’s actually a pretty fun job. I’m not just an office admin; I’m a concierge for the city of Toronto. A secretary. A supporter of the British and Saudi football teams. A personal shopper. A travel agent.

2. It’s experience. I’ve become pretty cynical about the whole university thing—a B.A. qualifies you to do, well, nothing. Because frankly no one gives a shit if you can write ten pages on the political economy of Canadian broadcast media. But if you can do expense reports and organize meetings… that’s something.

3. It’s a contract position. I’m signed on for six months but will most likely be employed till the team leaves in April. But that’s it—I don’t have to promise myself to “only stay here for a year or until something better comes along” because I’ve got the luxury of an expiry date.

4. The pay is, well, incredible. Forget entry-level and forget being modest: I’m making almost twice the amount I would anywhere else! (!!) Which brings me to…

5. The wardrobe. I am completely devoted to dressing the part of stellar secretary. Right now I’m going for an Audrey Hepburn-meets-Anne from Valley of the Dolls look: high waistlines, cropped pants, pleated skirts, capped sleeves, ahh!

6. If nothing else, I will get many good stories out of it. In high school I nearly failed chemistry and dropped math in grade 10. I am no way like the meticulous, monotonous, and methodical people I work with, but they’re so fun to observe.

7. And, at least once a day I am mistaken for an engineer.

2006-06-16T14:43:00.000-04:00

Since ending school I have found an immense pleasure in deleting and tossing. Of things. People. Numbers. Papers. Anything. I have become so organized I almost think I have changed personas—I have even started sorting my sister’s belongings in effort to avoid clutter.

I don’t know what exactly it is that makes all this deleting so appealing. You would think that by being forced out of the student lifestyle I would have grabbed on to everything and anything that reminded me of the life I’ve known for the past four…ten…twenty-two years.

Plus, I have always been considered a very good pack-rat. When I started sorting, packing, and moving I discovered just how grand my obsession for keeping things was: lovenotes from grade four crushes, make-up stolen from my mother’s 1980s collection, tags from clothing I wore in grade nine—it was all stored somewhere, waiting for me.

Not anymore! Once I started throwing a few things out, I couldn’t stop. It became therapeutic. With every toss of something I had once coveted I felt refreshed and reinvented. In your face, belongings—I don’t need you to hold me back! (But here’s hoping someone at Goodwill will use you to move forward with.)

And now it’s the excitement of loss and the pride of detachment that I crave. After I finished cleaning out my bedroom and bathroom I started going through other collections—address books, email archives, and phone numbers. Delete, delete, delete.

It’s not that I’ve lost my sentimentality; I simply find it easier to define what will be important now, rather than it is to hang onto things which once seemed significant.

Or maybe I am not demolishing, just renovating. Making room for everything that’s about to arrive. I start my new job on Monday morning, 8am.

2006-06-08T15:50:00.000-04:00

I love the little tidal-wave that my craigslist Missed Connections post has created. Not only are all my friends now obsessed with tracking connections, but I have managed to make it on to the site twice since last week.!

Today this post was brought to my attention. Awe, thank you to whomever wrote it. (And I’m really not that hard to spot around the city—just ride the subway or hang in the downtown core and I’m always around.)

The other Paige-as-a-“missed connection” was posted on the weekend. When I read the title I was overcome with a feeling of possibility: I’m brunette and giggle a lot! Is this what I think it is? Then I read the post and everything clicked—nachos! texting! Green Room late on Friday!—it was totally about me!

I fired off an email asking for a description of what I was wearing, and re-read the post again (and again). And then something else clicked. I had had a similar conversation, but not with anyone at the bar—rather, all those things were said as I tried to convince the boy to come out that night. Ah! The post was not really a missed connection as much as it was him being cute. (Or, as one of my male friends said the next day: “First orchids and now this? Man! He knows exactly what to do to make you happy!”)

However, not so cute was the humiliating re-read of my “OHMYGOD it’s my dream to be a missed connection-what was I wearing?!” email. Not as much flirty as it just seemed dorky. Ooh well.

And, one last thing: Former Torontoist editor Josh and I have re-started the weekly He Said/She Said “advice” column. This week’s post: Wake up and smell the summer! Enjoy.

2006-06-06T17:24:00.000-04:00

I am in a sour-puss mood today. It started in the middle of a job interview this morning, for a receptionist position with a prestigious downtown car dealership. First the interviewer—the sales manager, no less—kept asking me repetitive asinine questions which had nothing to do with my skills or work experience.

”Are you working right now?” “So how long does it take you to get down here?” “Are you currently employed somewhere?” “Which route would you take to get here?” “Would you drive or take public transit?”

Then he outlined the job requirements, which he had already done on the phone yesterday morning. (Side note: I am always suspicious of any job which calls for an interview and seems ready to hire in the same breath.) And just when I thought it was all over, his assistant came in and they proceeded to repeat the entire interview procedure.

This second round of outlining the job requirements was, however, where I reached my breaking point. Because it came with special emphasis on just HOW EASY the job was.

First they asked, despite it being outlined on both my resume and cover letter, how much experience I had with computers. This was asked with a delicate tone, to indicate it would be okay if I wasn’t technologically savvy. Then they continued to outline the other easy parts of the job: “Don’t worry, it’s slow in here most evenings, it’s really easy.” “You have to do some inventory, but don’t worry, it’s really easy.” “You have to answer the phones, but not that much, so don’t worry.”

At the end of the interview they wanted to know when I could start. I wanted to tell them to fuck off, but instead politely shook their hands and said I would speak to them later in the week.

It’s not like I had great hopes for this interview or the position, but I can’t help but feel greatly undervalued right now. I understand that the job market is currently swamped with graduates, and yes, I do have two other well-paying part-time jobs so I can’t really complain, BUT: aaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuughhhhh!

My future has turned on me. I feel like I have asked it, “Where shall I go? What shall I do?” and the only reply I can get is “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

2006-06-02T08:11:00.000-04:00

Lauren and I bought a bicycle this week. I haven't had a bicycle since I was probably nine, so I am totally excited. And aside from biking with Terra and her family through Pelee Island last fall, I really haven't ridden a bike since I was nine. (I was more into rollerblades.)

My mom is making me practice going up and down the neighbourhood streets before I go downtown. Apparently there's more to remembering how to cycle than I thought. But, at least I have already learned how to comfortably bike in a skirt.

2006-06-01T01:36:00.000-04:00

Earlier in the month I started working for a local craft brewery. My job mainly revolves around in-store promotions and samplings, but also includes some other random gigs (and perks!). The job is totally fantastic--the hours are perfect, I like the products I sample, and I get to learn about beer and brewery techniques. Three weeks ago I had no idea what the difference between a lager, ale, or stout was, and now I am on my way to being a pro. (Well, sort of.)

My only problem is all the free beer. Okay, not all the free beer, because I would never hate on my 75% employee discount, but I do have an issue with on-the-job beer. Yes, that's right: I am getting paid to drink.

You see, sometimes my job includes working at industry events--events which are really just about talking, drinking, and enjoying beers. Industry events are fun because everyone is in a good mood, but ha ha, we're only in good moods because we've already tossed back a few complimentary pints and know the supply will never run out.

I know it's not fair to complain about a job that puts you in a constant state of ease. However, when this ease also transforms into relaxed judgement, verbal liberation, and a sense of everything being "cool"--THAT is when the problems begin.

My manager is only a few years older than me, and so we started bonding over tales of keg parties and university life. When we have had a drink or two, the conversations get more animated, and I start rambling. And then later I end up questioning the work-appropriate nature of everything I have said. It's simply too confusing! Honestly, after half a glass of wine I act more outgoing than usual--so you can imagine how hard it is to hold ground while in the company of brewmasters.

But I am more than willing to keep practicing. After all, from here on in I can only imagine that the art of formal conversational drinking will be an important skill to have.