The Boy

There comes a moment in every relationship, just before it starts, where the pending couple is essentially in limbo. They’ve established interest, sort of, and all their friends are now watching and playing “will-they-won’t-they” to see whether the relationship will develop. This is one of the sweetest moments of the relationship, filled with shy courting and covert glances, before it turns to the maudlin, mawkish mush that causes everyone in a fifty foot radius to avert their eyes lest they vomit from the atrocity. During this period, the female (if there is one) refers to her potential partner (if he’s male) as The Boy. This is because he can’t quite be referred to as “boyfriend” yet, and the female usually gets tired of constantly referring to him as “that guy, YOU know…” or “the guy I just met” or “that guy I’m always telling you about, really, you should just assume from now on that I’m talking about him because honestly I’m not thinking of much else right now.” It gets shortened to The Boy, as in, “The Boy walked me home the other day!” and coupled with inane squees from the female conversationalists.

Why am I explaining this?

I’ve found a Boy ūüôā

Life’s random encounters

Today, at the church Christmas pageant for which I conducted the angel choir, I ran into the first boy I ever kissed.

How awkward to find that he is a bright-scarf-and-fake-glasses-wearing intern-actor hipster.

Muppety goodness

 I thought it had been too long since the two loves of my life* had made their appearance together. So I went and rewatched this video:

That’s right, OK Go and the Muppets. Plus, Bret McKenzie of Flight of the Conchords was the musical director for the upcoming film. I am fangirling more than is rightfully appropriate for a girl my age.

Watch. Enjoy. Feel the awesomeness.

*Damian and Andy of OK Go count as one love of my life under the heading “OK Go.” The Muppets are the second entity. They’re both categorised by way of synecdoche.

Wedding bells

Since my roommates and I moved into our house here in July, the old tenants’ mail has been piling up steadily with the intent that one of us lazy arses is going to eventually find out a forwarding address from the landlord. Since none of us has taken the initiative, the mail has accumulated into quite a pile. Today, my roommate who deals me some good Futurama episodes went through it all so we could save ourselves the trouble of forwarding the junk. (This was a move designed to make us feel like we were doing something, which we undoubtedly will not follow through on.) He came across an envelope in the shape of a wedding invitation and lo! It was so. (pix 1 and 2)

What to do? The name on the envelope was not even one that we recognised as one belonging to the previous tenants; could it be that this unknown couple was inviting someone they hadn’t seen since the people BEFORE the people before us lived here? (I think that sentence made sense.) Indeed, the invitation was addressed to someone “and guest,” so the couple was unclear whether their intended guest would even be bringing a plus one.

The invitation requested an RSVP by September. Oops.

Now what to do? Obviously it was too late to forward the invitation, even if we could track down the invitee. Plus the wedding was last weekend.

So my roommate and I did the best thing we could.

We sent a letter of congratulations and some origami. (pix 3 and 4)

P.s. Yeah, that’s the quill pen in action. Awww yeah.

I’ve got a crush on Andy Ross

Yeah, I did this. No, I’m not ashamed. Well, a little. But pretty proud¬†of how I cranked this baby out in like half an hour.

And now, the backstory:

Last June, I won tickets to see my favourite band, OK Go, perform at the Kennedy Centre Center in Washington, D.C., initially thinking the Kennedy Centre Center was in New York. (For the geographically challenged, NY is a LOT closer to TO than DC.) Thankfully, my grandmother used to be a flight attendant and so she got me free plane tickets to get there (with the stipulation that the other free ticket be granted to her. So yeah, I’ve been to a rock concert with my granny, what of it? She used to be a Playboy bunny. True story). Anyway.

I’ve loved OK Go’s music for about 5 years after having seen them by chance on a repeat of MadTV where they performed their famous dance to the single “A Million Ways.”¬†So obvs the chance to see them live was too incredible to pass up… and it far exceeded my expectations. Yowza. Laser guitars, multi-instrumentalists, handbells…¬†My grandmother later told the band that she was “hesitant at first but that bell thingy made me a fan!” to which they awkwardly went “heyy… that’s great…” and I died of embarassment. I was also only able to utter that I had flown in from Toronto that afternoon just to see them, to which they responded in much the same manner, and I died again. “They think I’m a moron,” I said to myself. “My favourite band, filled to the brim with musical and artistic genius, probably thought I was some teeny-bopper fangirl who couldn’t get a hold of her tiny brain cells to say something interesting or intelligent. Now what do I do?”

The answer came to me while babysitting my parents’ dogs: Write a love song.

For most of my love affair with OK Go, I, like thousands of others, have been infatuated with the lead singer, Damian. (He is fairly swoon-worthy, to be fair. There’s a reason girls go for guys in bands.) During the concert, however, before my brain decided to deflate, I noticed the second guitarist-slash-keyboardist-slash-chime-player-slash-hi-hat-operator-slash-whatever-the-hell-instruments-they-decided-to-pick-up-that-day. He was, to say the least, quite impressive. A maestro of multiple instruments. Capable of playing anything they threw at him with astonishing ease. My two decades of music training kicked in and I was ga-ga. He signed my ticket. I probably drooled on him. He played it off like it was all cool though. Probably happens all the time.

So when it came time to write my love song, Andy had managed to usurp Damian’s place in the crush-on-a-cute-guy center centre in my brain. Plus his name just fit itself so nicely to music.

Days went by and the video racked up a couple of views. Then it got tumbl’d by Andy’s official Tumblr fan site ( and the views went up. Then for some reason it got incredibly famous in Estonia (just check the web stats… Estonia is that tiny eastern European country that is the same colour as Canada on the map). Then Andy found it! He commented (not on the video link) that he was “Very flattered” and that the song had a “good hook, too!”

I died again.


The palpitations made it seem that way, anyway.

That was back in June. Damian’s managed to creep his way back into my brain’s cute-guy-crush centre but he’s about on par with Andy now. Maybe it’s time to write a ballad…

Defense of (bad) Poesie

I feel like I need to justify the two posts immediately below. The second one, with the Spice Girls reference in the title, was initially written about my now-ex-boyfriend and was full of florid metaphysical conceits of the garden as it pertains to fertility. Obviously I scrapped that. Gross. I still kind of liked it though Рthat part about the roses was initially part of the garden conceit but was a clever pun on the fact that I have Asian flushing syndrome blush a lot and am cute and all that and look nothing like a tomato when sauced.

So my ex and I met working at a restaurant, and he was a bartender (hence the nod to the spirits) and was nothing like a garden at all. Anyway, I began writing this poem to him after being struck by inspiration reading Donne, then was struck with mental constipation about two quatrains in. We broke up in the interim.

Then I started “casually seeing” another bartender. (It is important to note that this is how I get all my drinks for free. Follow my example, kiddies.) Though I’d scrapped most of the sonnet,¬†I still had this one quatrain and the increasing urge to do something with it. Then by grace of U of T’s¬†Topics in Shakespeare: The¬†Sonnets and a goose quill pen my sister got for me at the Globe Theatre, the sonnet was completed. About a different bartender. Bartender The Second. Who is also nothing like a garden. Which is ok now since neither is the poem.

HOWEVER. The first sonnet, directly below this post, with the Scissor Sisters reference in the title, was written today with a pen full of angst. Apparently my friend with benefits, The Bartender II,¬†doesn’t like his coverage plan. Has anybody else ever found a guy who said he was getting too much? I feel like I should stuff him and put him in a museum. Anyway so I wrote this sonnet because I was feeling Shakespearean after class today and there was my quill pen, all shiny in some parts and inky in others. And feathery in most parts. And then this sonnet was created.

And as an addendum: in both poems, substitute the word “love” for something of a more… unromantic ilk. “Love” felt more Shakespearean/Petrarchan (in the case of the first poem) and worked with the metre. Inaccurate, but it makes the poem sound squishier and gives it altogether more sappitude. Which is what I was aiming for, even though it was off target.

It’s a bitch convincing people to like you

More bad poetry from the wellspring of my inner fourteen-year-old’s angst ridden misery.

The love I bear thee, beneficial friend,
exceeding quite the level granted me
would seem to hearken our good friendship’s end
as flame burn’d with too much intensity.

You turn your eye from my poor, seeking gaze.
You hear not embassies of pleading want.
You leave me quite, and take your leave for days;
My strong advances fade from hale to gaunt.

Initially, you had return’d my love
with equal fervour, ardour, insistance,
’til more than your desire, mine soared above
and your desire increasèd our distance.

The steward of my body once before
shall be desire’s outlet nevermore.

A weekend love is all it was

Oh noetry – bad poetry!

My love does press the roses to my cheek
with spirits, or by spirits spoken true;
A sleeping world in gilt of morning dew.
A nighttime ritual, by night to speak.

To you I do by catchèd breath impart
the trials and the vict’ries of my lot;
The age that parts us sunder, heed ye not:
You know still all the content of my heart.

And yet you know, and I, we will be twain
inevitably in the course of time;
So to you now I dedicate my rhyme
in order that my memory remain.

So when our courtship be yet at an end,
Look on these words, and know me still a friend.