- The Mad Men Drinking Game: You drink when they drink. (It's a lot.)
- A twist on the game: You drink when they light a cigarette. (It's a lot.)
- Drunk driving and littering are totally ok!
- So is cheating on your wife!
- The BlackBerry is the new secretary, but not nearly as voluptuous.
- Birth control is for sluts.
- We need more liquor in our offices.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Things I've Learned From Mad Men
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Voice on the Phone
First, I developed a crush on the guy who works for campus tours at the university. Something in his voice made me feel that he must be very attractive. He was so helpful. He sounded interested in my plans and aspirations. He was funny, and best of all, he wanted to make me happy. It was love at first listen.
Then I met him. I wish I could say he was a hairy ogre, fifty-five years old with a hunch back and bad odour, but it wasn't the case. He was just a normal guy and I was jealous when he talked in exactly the same way to the guy ahead of me in line. He was probably also barely twenty years old, and looked mildly sorry that they couldn't offer more specifics for people who wanted to do graduate work. Point taken. You can't fall in love with people who are paid to make you happy and act like they're interested in your ambitions.
On that same trip, I also learned you can't fall in love with the voice of your potential roommate. I was so excited to meet this guy though. Something in his voice made him sound hip, smart, witty and successful. Just, something about his tone and his energy. I was sure of it. Now, this guy did turn out to be hairy ogre, fifty-five years old with a hunch back and bad odour. I thought I took the point before, but apparently not. Several weeks of apartment hunting via Craigslist have drilled the point into my brain, and a few more times I have chuckled to myself - "Good thing you didn't get a phone crush on that landlord. Your hopes would have been crushed!" But conversely I've thought, "Hmm..that person sounded sooo dull and unintelligent on the phone - but here we have quite the opposite." Just goes to show!
Unfortunately, I've recently fallen in love with the handwriting on the page. After requesting a back issue of a magazine I'd been trying to find, I receive it in the mail - enclosed with a handwritten note addressed to me. He spelled my name properly, invited me to a magazine fair, and reminded me that he was kind enough to have thrown in an extra magazine for me to peruse. What a man! Part of me dreads this magazine fair - which I had previously planned to attend, so it's not solely a man cruising event for me. I know what I've learned about the voice on the phone - highly untrustworthy in forming a first impression - but I wonder if the same rules apply for handwriting.
Then I met him. I wish I could say he was a hairy ogre, fifty-five years old with a hunch back and bad odour, but it wasn't the case. He was just a normal guy and I was jealous when he talked in exactly the same way to the guy ahead of me in line. He was probably also barely twenty years old, and looked mildly sorry that they couldn't offer more specifics for people who wanted to do graduate work. Point taken. You can't fall in love with people who are paid to make you happy and act like they're interested in your ambitions.
On that same trip, I also learned you can't fall in love with the voice of your potential roommate. I was so excited to meet this guy though. Something in his voice made him sound hip, smart, witty and successful. Just, something about his tone and his energy. I was sure of it. Now, this guy did turn out to be hairy ogre, fifty-five years old with a hunch back and bad odour. I thought I took the point before, but apparently not. Several weeks of apartment hunting via Craigslist have drilled the point into my brain, and a few more times I have chuckled to myself - "Good thing you didn't get a phone crush on that landlord. Your hopes would have been crushed!" But conversely I've thought, "Hmm..that person sounded sooo dull and unintelligent on the phone - but here we have quite the opposite." Just goes to show!
Unfortunately, I've recently fallen in love with the handwriting on the page. After requesting a back issue of a magazine I'd been trying to find, I receive it in the mail - enclosed with a handwritten note addressed to me. He spelled my name properly, invited me to a magazine fair, and reminded me that he was kind enough to have thrown in an extra magazine for me to peruse. What a man! Part of me dreads this magazine fair - which I had previously planned to attend, so it's not solely a man cruising event for me. I know what I've learned about the voice on the phone - highly untrustworthy in forming a first impression - but I wonder if the same rules apply for handwriting.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Oh-no
There is this function on my computer at work which reads little pop-up alerts aloud to me if I don't respond to them right away. I noticed this a while back and thought it was kind of funny.
However, yesterday these alerts were raised to hilarious status when I realized that, to represent the little yellow triangle with an exclamation point that preceeds the message, the robot computer voice with the terrible pronunciation makes a really understated exclamation.
Fortunately, I was working on layout yesterday so there were about a zillion of these little alerts to listen carefully to. I don't think there's anything funnier than listening to a robot say "RATS", "BLAST", "pay-a-ten-tion" "OH-my" or my personal favourite "It's-not-my-fault"with the emphasis on all the wrong sy-LA-bles. Orrr maybe I've just been isolated in the back of this newsroom for a smidge too long.
Hard-TO-say.
However, yesterday these alerts were raised to hilarious status when I realized that, to represent the little yellow triangle with an exclamation point that preceeds the message, the robot computer voice with the terrible pronunciation makes a really understated exclamation.
Fortunately, I was working on layout yesterday so there were about a zillion of these little alerts to listen carefully to. I don't think there's anything funnier than listening to a robot say "RATS", "BLAST", "pay-a-ten-tion" "OH-my" or my personal favourite "It's-not-my-fault"with the emphasis on all the wrong sy-LA-bles. Orrr maybe I've just been isolated in the back of this newsroom for a smidge too long.
Hard-TO-say.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
On Style and Sass in Southeast Asia
So I've spent nearly the past two months of the year wilting in the tropical sun, suffering from a list of maladies that include heatstroke, heat rash, the common cold, vomiting, t.d., mosquito bites and of course, sunburn. Not that I'm complaining. In addition to the discovery of just how miserable my own body can make me, I've come to the realization that I am a distinctly unstylish traveller.
I was first reminded of this during my first few days in Bangkok, notably in Siam Square. A mecca for uber-trendy students, even the average college girl uniform (navy pencil skirt - stylish belt optional - and fitted white blouse with the collar unbuttoned in the most flattering fashion) is enough to make me feel like a frumpy, sweaty and boring nobody. Sit on a bench in this part of the city and the people-watching makes your heart clench with envy at the sight of the outfits, the heels, the flats, all put-together in the most fashion-forward (though often outrageous) manner. Meanwhile, I suck on a green sugary concoction in a moist Suzy Shier tank top and wrinkled Bermuda shorts, accessorized with a patchy sunburn and frizzed out ponytail. Hey, I got these sandals at Payless and I don't care that they imbed dirt between my toes and into my cracked heels! And so it goes.
Several people I've encountered along the way have asked me what I miss most about Canada and without missing a beat I reply, my hairdryer. And I'm not even trying to make a joke about how superficial girls are. On our tropical island get-away, I met a British boy who kept an 1800 watt hairdryer and a ceramic straightener hanging pristinely on hooks in his wooden bungalow. And I'm going, yeah so instead of making out, can I straighten my hair!? I've adopted the somewhat universal traveller's look of messy ponytail and pinned back bangs, the old 'cross the bobby pins at the crown of your head and go' routine. Some people have said to me, oh you should wear your bangs back sometimes, and I'm like, right. Here it's the easiest, and only, way to maintain that usually highly maintained side-sweep fringe I like to call my own.
Which is why I ogle the straight, shiny hair of these fine Asian specimens, and risk getting hit by a motorbike while checking out some perfectly fitting short-shorts on someone's toothpick legs. I feel so galumphy and blegh with my wardrobe of one t-shirt, 3 tank tops, 2 pairs of shorts to rotate and of course, the Payless sandals. In my case, why does packing light have to equal a bad pompadour and the faint scent of body odour that I convince myself is actually the Nivea Fresh Scent of my deodorant? (The only non-whitening deodorant I could find in the 711, to be clear.) But, let's not get totally depressed about my Felix the Cat t-shirt or my poorly washed, quickly deteriorating black shorts. As much as I admire and yearn for the kind of sassy looks that push by me on the busy streets of S.E. Asia's capitals, I have my own kind of self-esteem boost that follows me everywhere I go.
Despite being constantly stared at by both men and women, (fingers crossed it's not because of my ill-fitting purple Beer Chang shirt) I never have to go far without hearing choruses of "Very beautiful!" or "Lovely skin! So white...." Women frequently come up to me and compare their arms to mine, amazed by the contrast of brown to white (or pink, depending on the day). They like to stroke me, or giggle shyly while staring blatantly, or quiz me about my lack of boyfriend. All I can say is, "No, you're wrong, I'm not beautiful, you are!" I hate how highly they value the white skin, how desperately they wish for this pale burden of mine. The drugstore shelves are lined with whitening and brightening products, even a pink nipple enhancer! Meanwhile, gorgeous, young Asian women are clinging to paunchy, middle-of-the-road North American men in an order to enhance their lives, boost their status, something like that I'm told, anyway. I understand in a sort of factual way that this is often the only way to gain any sort of financial security. Average monthly wage for a waitress? Approximately $60 US dollars. And I whine when someone only tips 10% on a $250 meal during service.
In less than a week I can blow-dry my hair until it turns to straw if I like. I'll easily pay back the hundreds of dollars I spent getting custom-made everything in Hoi An, pay back my mom for the money she transferred when my ATM card wouldn't work, when I insisted on extending this unstylish jaunt throughout this part of the world. Echoes of 'very beautiful!' will follow me, and so will hundreds of white dudes accompanied by their new arm candy, their Asian play-things that they bought for cheap and claim to love.
I was first reminded of this during my first few days in Bangkok, notably in Siam Square. A mecca for uber-trendy students, even the average college girl uniform (navy pencil skirt - stylish belt optional - and fitted white blouse with the collar unbuttoned in the most flattering fashion) is enough to make me feel like a frumpy, sweaty and boring nobody. Sit on a bench in this part of the city and the people-watching makes your heart clench with envy at the sight of the outfits, the heels, the flats, all put-together in the most fashion-forward (though often outrageous) manner. Meanwhile, I suck on a green sugary concoction in a moist Suzy Shier tank top and wrinkled Bermuda shorts, accessorized with a patchy sunburn and frizzed out ponytail. Hey, I got these sandals at Payless and I don't care that they imbed dirt between my toes and into my cracked heels! And so it goes.
Several people I've encountered along the way have asked me what I miss most about Canada and without missing a beat I reply, my hairdryer. And I'm not even trying to make a joke about how superficial girls are. On our tropical island get-away, I met a British boy who kept an 1800 watt hairdryer and a ceramic straightener hanging pristinely on hooks in his wooden bungalow. And I'm going, yeah so instead of making out, can I straighten my hair!? I've adopted the somewhat universal traveller's look of messy ponytail and pinned back bangs, the old 'cross the bobby pins at the crown of your head and go' routine. Some people have said to me, oh you should wear your bangs back sometimes, and I'm like, right. Here it's the easiest, and only, way to maintain that usually highly maintained side-sweep fringe I like to call my own.
Which is why I ogle the straight, shiny hair of these fine Asian specimens, and risk getting hit by a motorbike while checking out some perfectly fitting short-shorts on someone's toothpick legs. I feel so galumphy and blegh with my wardrobe of one t-shirt, 3 tank tops, 2 pairs of shorts to rotate and of course, the Payless sandals. In my case, why does packing light have to equal a bad pompadour and the faint scent of body odour that I convince myself is actually the Nivea Fresh Scent of my deodorant? (The only non-whitening deodorant I could find in the 711, to be clear.) But, let's not get totally depressed about my Felix the Cat t-shirt or my poorly washed, quickly deteriorating black shorts. As much as I admire and yearn for the kind of sassy looks that push by me on the busy streets of S.E. Asia's capitals, I have my own kind of self-esteem boost that follows me everywhere I go.
Despite being constantly stared at by both men and women, (fingers crossed it's not because of my ill-fitting purple Beer Chang shirt) I never have to go far without hearing choruses of "Very beautiful!" or "Lovely skin! So white...." Women frequently come up to me and compare their arms to mine, amazed by the contrast of brown to white (or pink, depending on the day). They like to stroke me, or giggle shyly while staring blatantly, or quiz me about my lack of boyfriend. All I can say is, "No, you're wrong, I'm not beautiful, you are!" I hate how highly they value the white skin, how desperately they wish for this pale burden of mine. The drugstore shelves are lined with whitening and brightening products, even a pink nipple enhancer! Meanwhile, gorgeous, young Asian women are clinging to paunchy, middle-of-the-road North American men in an order to enhance their lives, boost their status, something like that I'm told, anyway. I understand in a sort of factual way that this is often the only way to gain any sort of financial security. Average monthly wage for a waitress? Approximately $60 US dollars. And I whine when someone only tips 10% on a $250 meal during service.
In less than a week I can blow-dry my hair until it turns to straw if I like. I'll easily pay back the hundreds of dollars I spent getting custom-made everything in Hoi An, pay back my mom for the money she transferred when my ATM card wouldn't work, when I insisted on extending this unstylish jaunt throughout this part of the world. Echoes of 'very beautiful!' will follow me, and so will hundreds of white dudes accompanied by their new arm candy, their Asian play-things that they bought for cheap and claim to love.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Don't Date Within This Oyster
Well, if the world is my oyster, then I seem to be gagging on it these days. Let's start with the boy situation. What boy situation!? Ha ha. Now, M, you might say, haven't you been involved with some perfectly decent fellows since you've been back?
Sure - perfectly decent if you enjoy men with secret coke addictions, men who don't follow up on their invites to The Simpsons movie, men with hair the texture of a baby and the conversational skills to match! And then there's Big Hair. The dark, handsome one I'd hoped would keep me warm throughout the winter and make me forget my small-town woes. Not quite the case. No, instead he pushed me into snowbanks, ran across the street without me, couldn't spell my name properly - all with the nagging feeling that a five year old was sticking his tongue out at me and singing, "na na na na boo boo" while he ninja-kicks me in the ass.
Don't be silly, M, you might say...look at who's next on the list of prospects: a Lebanese waif with an earring and a penchant for pretending to be something he's not - think tights, perfect diction and a spear. That ought to carry me right up until February 13, when he's called away to shoot a Best Buy commercial and doesn't think our relationship is good for his career.
Which is why I'm so grateful to have the company of S, who will nod in the appropriate pauses as I agonize and wail about the fact that no one appreciates me or wants to be with me. And then we'll spoon.
Sure - perfectly decent if you enjoy men with secret coke addictions, men who don't follow up on their invites to The Simpsons movie, men with hair the texture of a baby and the conversational skills to match! And then there's Big Hair. The dark, handsome one I'd hoped would keep me warm throughout the winter and make me forget my small-town woes. Not quite the case. No, instead he pushed me into snowbanks, ran across the street without me, couldn't spell my name properly - all with the nagging feeling that a five year old was sticking his tongue out at me and singing, "na na na na boo boo" while he ninja-kicks me in the ass.
Don't be silly, M, you might say...look at who's next on the list of prospects: a Lebanese waif with an earring and a penchant for pretending to be something he's not - think tights, perfect diction and a spear. That ought to carry me right up until February 13, when he's called away to shoot a Best Buy commercial and doesn't think our relationship is good for his career.
Which is why I'm so grateful to have the company of S, who will nod in the appropriate pauses as I agonize and wail about the fact that no one appreciates me or wants to be with me. And then we'll spoon.
Oysters
I'd be hard-pressed to count the number of times I have heard the phrase "The world is your oyster" in the past 2 years.
When I graduated from college, and moved to Toronto for a choice internship at a real, live magazine -one that people actually read!- I felt totally ready to kick some mythical oyster butt. However, as anyone who has tried the delicacy can attest to, oysters are slippery little things. They can be hard to keep a grip on.
Although my internship went quite well and I learned a lot, when it was over, somehow no job magically appeared to take its place. Unfortunately, even the colossally noisy, unbearably hot, mouse-infested closet of an apartment I had been living in required rent. I could see no other viable option but to join the league of twenty-something graduates who were bringing their empty pockets and post-secondary educations back home to mom and dad.
So here I am, doing my darndest to find some kind of job remotely related to journalism and living in this weirdly picturesque little town. Seriously, it's kind of like living on the set of the Gilmore Girls.
Luckily, I'm not alone. One of my best friends (M) moved home soon after me and we've managed to recruit some excellent -or, according to M, adequate- company to keep us entertained while we try to decide how we're supposed to fit into this world we've been handed.
When I graduated from college, and moved to Toronto for a choice internship at a real, live magazine -one that people actually read!- I felt totally ready to kick some mythical oyster butt. However, as anyone who has tried the delicacy can attest to, oysters are slippery little things. They can be hard to keep a grip on.
Although my internship went quite well and I learned a lot, when it was over, somehow no job magically appeared to take its place. Unfortunately, even the colossally noisy, unbearably hot, mouse-infested closet of an apartment I had been living in required rent. I could see no other viable option but to join the league of twenty-something graduates who were bringing their empty pockets and post-secondary educations back home to mom and dad.
So here I am, doing my darndest to find some kind of job remotely related to journalism and living in this weirdly picturesque little town. Seriously, it's kind of like living on the set of the Gilmore Girls.
Luckily, I'm not alone. One of my best friends (M) moved home soon after me and we've managed to recruit some excellent -or, according to M, adequate- company to keep us entertained while we try to decide how we're supposed to fit into this world we've been handed.
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