Monthly Archives: September 2009

Black Holes and Revelations

It’s almost my birthday!

In less than a week I’ll be 25. It’s kind of a scary age I guess. It’s the kind of age that makes you think what you want in life, and where you want to go. The age that makes you reflect on the year that passed, what you have learned, what things you have gained, what things you have lost, and the new perspective you have acquired as a result. Discovering new hopes and expectations.

I like to learn. So I constantly try to take away good things and helpful lessons from all my experiences, good or bad, whether it be to check the TTC token slots for lost treasures, a new way to perfect my  buttercream, or simply just realising that everything is ok. This past year has been exceptionally awesome, and extremely difficult, in all aspects of my life. Friends. Family. Love. Work.

Thank you all for teaching me.

I have most certainly learned a lot.

Bring it on 25!


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I’m Going In For The Kill

It’s 12:14am on a Monday night. So obviously I’m awake, headphones plugged into my ibook, listening to music. I am at least lying in bed. I cannot tell you how excited I am for Saturday. All I want to do is dance.

I used to go out dancing every weekend. My sister and I would pretty up, drink up and then head down to the Velvet Underground every single Friday. It wasn’t a particularly good time in either of our lives when we started this tradition. She was miserable. I was more so. An understatement really. And this was the best kind of therapy. It started one Friday night in December 2005, after a Christmas party at the Rivioli, when Sarah and I moseyed on over to the Velvet. I remember her saying “I think you’ll like this place.” It was my Mecca. I had no idea. I had always loved to dance. But this night started it all. Hopped up on vodka cranberries, and music I actually loved, I would boogie the night away. A charmingly cute boy by the name of Stephen J Williams danced with his hands on my hips à la junior high to the White Stripes, and I was in heaven. Seriously. I invited him to Christmas Eve Chinese food, and he gave me the wrong phone number. On our way home we stumbled into a bartender who told me to never recycle men, and we bumped into a man from Florida. He makes movies. Ahem.

We made it to the Velvet almost every single Friday for the next six months. Every Monday morning my co-workers would wait with bated breath for a weekend recap. There was always a new story to be told after Friday night at the Velvet. While there were perks in the form of handsome young men, what I came back for week after week was the music and the dancing. Unfortunately things went slightly sour on the boy front, but I still clung to the Velvet. It was mine, I was not giving it up. It was sacred. So sacred in fact I refused to take a guy I was dating there because I didn’t think he deserved the experience. I was right.

But slowly and surely Sarah and I stopped going as frequently. Then Sarah stopped going altogether and I had trouble finding friends as enthusiastic about the venue as I was. And when I did manage to coerce someone to join me, it just wasn’t the same as it had been. So I went less and less. And then life got in the way as it often does. I guess.

Now, I am thrilled if I get to go out and dance once a month.

A couple months ago for my friend’s celebratory “You are the best jeweller EVER” night out we ended up at The Boat;  a dirty little bar in Kensington Market. It was their “Chronoloic” night. The DJ plays all the hits from the 1840’s up to today. And it was AMAZING. I danced and danced and then face planted it outside. Blood and scars aside, it was one of the best nights I had had in a loooooooong time.

This past weekend my fabulous roommate was kind enough to invite me to join her on a jaunt home to Halifax. It was funtimes indeed! Saturday night we went out to drink it up Halifax styles. We ended up at this terrible and fabulous club called The Palace. It’s skanky, sticky , skeezey and ladies get in for free. They handed us condoms upon entry. It was perfect. We were already quite drunk care of some tequila and liquid cocaine shots previously ingested. The music was a mash up of every kind of top 40’s song, all mixed and smooshed into one another. I threw my purse at one of Emma’s friends who was less inclined to dance, and skipped out on to the dance floor. And I danced. I danced and danced and danced. I was hot and sweaty and happy. I haven’t danced like that for ages. We danced to Journey and Lady GaGa and Michael Jackson. I just let everything go, and I danced. It was like the old days. Carefree and uninhibited. Pure bliss.

So as I lie here in bed, listening to all my favourite songs to dance to, reflecting on every single amazing night of dance and all my favourite dance partners, I am giddy. It’s Emma’s birthday this weekend, and it will no doubt be fabulous.

I plan on dancing like I have danced many times before.
And it will be awesome.

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An Open Letter to Toronto Bike Thieves: The Hat Trick

Dear Asshat,

I haven’t really thought much about you lately. It’s been most pleasant. I’m calm, peaceful even.


I am writing to inform you that my bike is fixed. Finally. I thought you should know. I have a seat post, and it fits into that that sad stump you left exposed when you pilfered my seat all those weeks ago. It took many moons, and all my emotional strength to finally get a post that fits. But get one I did.

You will be happy to know that Duke’s was less than helpful. They “ordered” me a post and kept me in the lurch for three weeks waiting for it to come in. Then when I was tired of waiting I google-stalked and reverse 411’ed NORCO (they, for some strange reason, neglect to put their phone number on their website). As you may recall from my last letter, the charming gentleman who took my call informed me they have a shim that will solve all my woes. I just need a bike store to order it in for me! So I called Duke’s and they “cancelled” my previous seat post “order” to instead “order” me a shim. Another week goes by. I called Duke’s to check in on my shim “order”. Oddly enough it turns out that Duke’s never ordered or cancelled anything, except they did happily charge my credit card $10.00. Magic! They also, apparently, have a clip-board dedicated to me, no doubt strewn with doodles of a she-devil-banshee bitch. I’d like to frame it. Hang it above my fireplace. Show it off to my grand kids one day.

But, my good Asshat, when I called Duke’s for the final time, for the first time ever a lovely, helpful, positively cheerful girl answered my call. And she was kind enough to refund me the $10 and “cancel” my “order” that she said didn’t even exist. Fabulous. Thanks Duke’s! You guys are champs!

So I was back to square one, Asshat. But this time I was saddled with this sentence:

“Please order me the shim from NORCO that will take a 25’4 up to a 28’”.

My ruby red lips clicked out this sentence three times before, like Dorothy, I got exactly what I wanted. The kind soul at Bathurst Cycle (who I might add could do nothing for me five weeks ago) had a sudden revelation. Maybe it was my dejected posture, or my sad sigh as I turned to walk out of his shoppe, or maybe it really was divine intervention. But as I walked out towards the blazing sunlight he said “Miss! Wait! I have an idea!” A choir of angels began to sing as he tore two metal bits off a metal tube and crammed them on another metal tube. He handed me this crafted silver creation, charged me $20, and sent me on my merry way.

Goodbye yellow brick road.

Hello bicycle.

I can ride again, Asshat. And I can remove my seat, so you are less inclined to take it home with you. This whole debacle is finally over. For now. And I bought this T-Shirt to commemorate the whole experience. Sadly the man wearing the T-Shirt is not included, because he looks like he could maybe donkey punch you, real good.


So, as I politely asked you in my first letter:  Please, stay the fuck away from my bike.

Kindest regards,


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Money, that’s what I want.

I’ve been overspending. What? I know! I swear I hadn’t bought anything either. A couple weeks ago, as my credit card balance was teetering at an all-time high, I vowed to quit buying crap!

Luckily my fabulous new Club Monaco dress is far from crap, as is season three of Futurama, or for that matter season four of Home Movies. And while we’re are on the topic, I really did need those Muppet Show DVDs and Madmen… And those two new pairs of jeans. They were on sale. And cheap in the first place. They’re from Bluenotes, come on people. And we ALL KNOW my life would not be complete without my spanking new awesome ROBOT COOKIE CUTTER. Seriously guys. HOW COULD I NOT?

Let’s take a trip down memory lane via my credit card statement:

1)      V-Fest. That was pricey. But totally worth it!

2)      Everything I bought in Montreal… Ooops.

3)      Oooh look there’s my gym membership, I should really use that more.


5)      Tuition to the (hopefully) fabulous sewing course Emma and I will be taking together!

6)      $13.98 worth of groceries, and only three meals out. I’m not quite sure where or how I’ve been eating.

Throw in a bunch of random items, and bam! Worst is none of my usual big ticket items are on this statement. No train tickets or flights. And I only bought one CD. That’s right, only one new album. Makes no sense to me either.

But still, it all adds up to WHOOPS I spent WAY TOO MUCH money last month.

So my brain thinks, “Ok Maggie, you just need to harvest EXTRA chickens to pay this off. Easy!” But no, Farmville can’t save me. Harvesting chickens on Farmville does not equate to actual golden coins in my pocket. Fool. Then I think “I’ll just pick up extra shifts, like I did at University!” No, silly brain, you have a fancy SALARY job now. You big kid, you. You should have learned to budget by now.

As I am quite keen NOT to break my winning streak of never having to carry a balance on my credit card, I’m gonna dip into the ol’ savings account to pay it off in three weeks when it’s due.


Incidentally at V-Fest, a woman hands me this neon pink flyer, and with a gleam in her eye says “It’s a casting call, for YOU, or uh, maybe someone you know.”

Oooh a casting call you say? (Though I must say my thoughts immediately went to that porn guy, which I’ll no doubt explain later…)

The flyer reads something along these lines:

Are you a FASHIONISTA that needs to become a RECESSIONISTA?

Has your spending become a problem in your work/love/social life?

Has your bank account taken a turn for the worst?

If so you should come on down!

We are holding a casting call for the new reality show PRINCESS!

Our expert host will blah blah blah fix your money woes and teach you to be less of an idiot, and still look so good.


P.S. You we might give you up to $5000. (Ooooh $5000 you say?)

Or something.

She spotted me a MILE away. Well, ten feet away. But she freaking spotted me. I may not be a Prada toting kinda gal, but I do all too often indulge in pretty things. They are just so pretty!

Living beyond one’s means is not a wise idea.

So, I’m gonna quit that.



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Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind

I have a habit of looking back through my journals every so often, in a search of perspective and hilarity, hoping that maybe I’ve learned something since then, or perhaps I had some wisdom in the past I could use now.

In January of 2000, I starting writing in my journal religiously. I would write an entry every night before I went to bed. Unfortunately my dedication to quantity often left the qualtiy lacking. But it just so happens that exactly nine years ago to this day (holy shit do I feel old), I was crossing the Atlantic to begin my adventures at an English boarding school.

Upon re-reading these entries, it turns out I was absolutely petrified about leaving my home, my friends and family. My city. My country. Clearly a reasonable reaction for a 15 year old girl taking this huge life step. Alone. But it surprises me nonetheless as I have this uncanny knack to completely forget certain things. I forgot that I was scared and nervous. I forgot that my mom forgot her raincoat when she left me to fly home after I was settled in. I forgot that I signed up to the 6:50am time slot on the shower schedule, which frankly leads me to believe that I also forgot I was insane.

I do, however, remember crying. I remember holding my shit together as best I could after saying goodbye to my mom at the train station. Trying my best to hold back all my tears while my House-master drove me back to school. I remember curling up on my Ikea loft bed and silently sobbing until I had nothing left.

But, in spite of my shaky beginnings, by the first day I was in fine form. I present to you my (slightly abridged) journal entry from my first day of boarding school:

September 6, 2000

I look like such a fruitcake in my uniform. I feel like I’m walking along with a bunch of flight attendants. Breakfast was pretty nasty, but I was nauseous anyhow. I did end up finding Frosted Flakes, so I’ll keep those in mind for tomorrow.

Some of the guys here are pretty hot, but lots of them have acne problems which makes me feel better. Heh heh. One guy looks like a Johnny Depp in training. Raow Raow.

We had our tying a tie lesson this morning. I decided to just not ever untie mine so I never have to go through the hassle of tying it again. Then there were lots of different speeches about what to expect now that we are in the Sixth Form, which I don’t think anyone was paying attention to. I had trouble not falling asleep.

I called home and left a message with my answering machine. Then I called again and my mom answered. I spoke to her until I was interrupted by some guy WHO WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE UP HERE in the first place, but apparently all the girls had to go downstairs so Mr. Boothby could talk to us. Boring.

Bon Soir!

Ahhhh I was so young and innocent.

Cue music, and….


seb, me, jamie, raphie

Yeah, that’s me! And my friends. I am wearing my fancy Business Studies Society tie, which, inceidentally I learned how to tie in more than three different ways! I am also sporting my lovely cat-piss blazer. My mom bought it for me at Club Monaco, and it was made out of wool, but it was kind of stretchy. Whenever it rained, or misted or some form of moisture got near it, which being in England was ALL THE TIME, it would smell like cat piss. It was disgusting. Luckily Febreeze had been invented. PHEW.

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