I guess I can follow through...

Allllllrighty. 31 Posts in August. I'm exhausted. And a little proud. So I've been watching Quints by Surprise (I love me my TLC) Really? Yall took fertility medication, and were surprised to conceive quints? Surprised after 6 seasons of Jon and Kate Plus 8? (Sidebar: Jon was never really needed for the success of the show. He doesn't even fit the rhyme-scheme.) What these shows don't show are the developmental and physiological delays that many multiple births can experience. The Gosselins and the Joneses are pretty lucky to have such healthy multiples. And whatever happened to Octomom?

Is this love that I'm feeling?

Why you should watch Mad Men To fantasize about Don Draper, who exhudes pure sex. _________________________________________________________ Or maybe Ken Cosgrove's Madison Avenue Charm is more your style. _________________________________________________________ Or, if Silver Foxes are more your style, there's Roger Sterling. _________________________________________________________ I love 'em a little nerdy, like Harry Crane. _________________________________________________________ Paul Kinsey is a delicious mix of pomp and self-consciousness and culture.

Running short on juice..

Dammit. Left my power cord at my parent's house tonight. Made Mon a resume, and Dad some business cards. Also, I'm officially a grown-up, because I am now the proud owner of business cards of my own. So no post tonight! I think that the airwalk kicks I bought (child size 4 1/2) negate my journey into adulthood.

Not exactly a FAQ..

Because I am, quote, "open-minded and opinionated", young women oft seek me out for advice. I take this role on very seriously. If you're in need of unsolicited advice, look no further. But the question posed by Miss MA, were my thoughts on.. relationships with money.. you know.. sugar Daddies. hmmmm.... This one gave me cause for pause. Ask me before the summer of YES!! and I would say... "Sugar daddies? Seriously? Urgh, those women. It's absolutely degrading. Money is evil. Blah blah blah."

Best birth-control ever..

You know, sometimes I worry I won't have anything to blog about. And then some kid pulls the fire alarm at work. When the fire alarm is pulled, the entire building is subject to the incessant, high-decible noise. And we can't turn it off. We have to wait for the fire department to come. What a waste. "I can't wait to have kids of my own, so that I can beat them," I joke. This is a pretty regular occurance. Of course, this is only the second time that my store has been the culprit. I think that finally, I have a parenting solution. What is the proper punishment?

Gimme a break, I'm tryin to date here..

Blogging is exhausting, can't someone else do it? Jenna's Journey Diary of Why Octamom

What not to do in Montreal..

Did I tell you the one when we gave the dude exact-change, and then mockingly told him to keep it? We stopped to get gas before leaving Montreal. We pulled up to the pump, to be met by an attendant. In Toronto, it's almost impossible to find a place that isn't self-serve. Besides, Irish and I are the type of gals who pump our own gas. So of course, now we're counting our moolah and panicking over what kind of tip to leave. The total is $34.17. We have $36. Is that enough? She hands it to him, with an embarrassed, 'uh, you can keep it.' And he gives us a look that only the French can give. And before we drive away, I realize that he's topped up the tank. To $36, flat. There goes our $1.83 tip. (Whoa, big spenders!) And the sad part? Irish has a chronic over-tipping affliction (she's a waitress). And I am, at the very least, more than adequate.

Kutzier and flukier..

OK, so it was a bad sprain.

But saying "I sprained my ankle" doesn't really sum it up as much as "I broke my ankle" does.

I was coming into work, and me and my boss were parking at the same time. She was ahead of me and went inside. I, on the other hand, was writhing in pain and agony just outside the store. In the 20 or so steps from my car to the front door, I managed to slip on the teensiest patch of ice.

She had to carry me into the store.

And call my Dad to pick me up. (It was my drivin' leg!)

My Dad dropped me off at the hospital, with my brother as my escort. The triage nurse demanded to know why I was crying. And the waiting game began...

He kept trying to get me to eat. I refused. Finally I saw a doctor and got x-rayed.

In the end, it was deemed to be a "bad sprain" and I got me a cast and a cane. Yes, a cane like an old man. Or a really-cool act from vaudeville-days-of-lore. (I used to twirl it when I was feeling up to it.) I also got me 6 weeks off of work.

Me and Bro went outside to wait for Dad to pick us up. I sat on one of those salt-storage bins. When all of a sudden, Bro is shouting, no, frantically SCREAMING

"Veronica!! Veronica??!?! VERONICA??? VeRoNiCa!!!"

And I'm thinking... "What. The. Fuck. Bro. Shut your damn mouth, you're making a scene. Why are you screaming my name like a mad man?"

And that's when I realise. The world is all-of-a-sudden sideways. And I taste something. Salty. And gritty. Its the salt off the sidewalk. And something else.

Iron.
Blood.

Bro helps me to my feet. He is looking at me wide-eyed and aghast. I see the panic in his eyes. And at that moment. My father pulls up.

"What happened?" he is simultaneously furiously angry and frighteningly concerned. And I realize how much he loves me.

Paper towels are produced. I refuse to go back into the hospital. Dad helps me into the car. I keep insisting that I'm fine. And safe in the warm car, I look in the mirror. And that's when I start to cry.

I look like I went 10 rounds in the ring with Hillary Swank (the million dollar baby, herself) And I took a beating of a life time. (I would joke, 'you should see the other guy!' many times before I was healed.)

I chipped my 2 front teeth. (That's right, this winning-smile contains 2 partially fake teeth!)

And I scraped the entire right side of my face. From forehead to cheek to nose. And all the way down to my lips and chin.

Sprained ankle. Cast. Cane. Chipped teeth. Scraped face. Can't walk. Can't work. Can't eat. Pain. Constant pain. And my worry? Will I be cute again?

But I have to be cute. I'm nothing if I'm not cute.

What were my key take-aways from that shenanigan?
1. Pop some pills before going to the hospital. They don't take kindly to it, but guess what triage nurse? I already took 'em, so what ya gonna do about it. Everyone always asks me why I fainted. Uh... probably from the intense pain? And I hadn't eaten all day.
2. Eat. Your body needs food. Even when you don't want it. Just force yourself to eat something, anything.
3. Wear your retainer after your braces come off.
4. If you fail to follow the preceding instruction, and the only way to fix your teeth is to get braces again, and your insurance just won't cover it, get creative! Insurance covers accidental dental. Falling on your face and chipping your 2 front teeth constitutes as an accident. And maybe the fall will knock your teeth back into place. And maybe the new fillers will be nicer than your real set. And, voila!*

5. Twice a day, wash with baby-shampoo, followed by vitamin-e cream. Wards off scarring.

*no insurance fraud was committed in the making of this post.

Get over yourself..

Ya, I realize I didn't post yesterday. Just having one of those slothy, apathetic days. So I guess I owe ya one. For a special treat, I will feature a NEW segment: Life, according to Anthony Lake. He's a coworker of mine, who always has the best FB status updates. He manages to insult you and make you laugh simotaneously, which is no easy feat! So here's one for ya,

Anthony Lake ‎" I dont know what makes you so dumb but it really works"

OK, gotta work on that make-up post. Maybe you're interested in the time I broke my leg...

Kutziness and fluke...

So I'm a klutz. I am constantly getting bruises or breaking toes, and always in the most ridiculous manner. I expect to die in a freak accident. Oh, and I am usually sober. I hate having to explain for my limping the next day by prefacing the story with... Ok, so I was totally sober... and I dropped a small ceramic bowl on my toe. I bruised the fuck out of it. But I think I may have broke it because this was like, more than a month ago and I still can't wear shoes? Maybe I should have sought medical attention? Seriously. I miss shoes. I wear all these "dressy" "thong" sandals to work. And I spend the rest of my time in flip-flops. So I didn't even realize that I couldn't wear shoes until about 2 weeks in when I tried to wear flats to work, and I couldn't even walk around the apartment. I even tried for Taste of the Danforth, but my pointer-toe was just not having it. I did manage to wear my wedge sandals 2 nights in Montreal and on a date last week (mistake!) But last night I wore boots (gimme a break, it's been chilly!) And tomorrow, I shall conquer the 8 hour work day in shoes. But poor LT. She was walking up the stairs and she tripped. The plate she was holding in her hands dropped. Shattered. She fell on the glass, and got a massive gash on her left hand (she's right-handed at least). She had to get stitches. In the emergency room. She had some nerve damage on the top knuckle of her middle finger (no! not the swear-finger!). She couldn't even move it! She had to get surgery to repair the nerves. She's getting better, but won't even begin to regain feeling for two months. At the best. And damn, I feel for that girl. I thought I was the only one to horribly injure myself in such fluky manners. Like the time I broke my leg. Damn, I'm glad she's doing OK. But I'm even gladder that I'm not alone.

Yes, it was the umbrella that urged me onto the Interwebs... nothing else...

ok si Im drunk *DISCLAIMER* so orib shouldnt be posting.

but i did something really dumb. I lost my fancy eddie bauer umberlla (ella ellla eh eh eh)

no jk but my parents might kill me

*Editor's Note* I'm just going to leave this one unedited, for true comic effect. Perhaps the author realize that she was, in fact, too drunk to be posting. (Is there even such a thing?) One good-judgment made that night. 

The F-word and the S-word..

Well there's no denying it. There's a chill in the air. And I'm avoiding the calendar at all costs. BTS. (Henceforth, Back-to-School shall simply be, BTS) Don't get me wrong, I WANT to go back. I love it. I miss it. But you know what I love even more? Shenanigans!! And everyone knows shenanigans are best served HOT. I'd just like a little more time. A few more weeks. I've not been very productive. Damn shenaniganning. I really need to take care of some biznass around the house and around the life before going back. Nothing major.. you know.. gotta do my taxes.. and such. Also need to decide on some sort of direction for this little blog o' mine. These posts don't write themselves! And we need a theme... The Semester of _________??? Gotta set goals. This could be my last BTS. Second semester will be an internship, so it won't really be like going back to school after the Christmas holidays. It will be much more frightening than that. I could never be in school again after this semester. Like, I'm gonna have to be a grown-up and shit. Who knows what the future holds in store, but I'm done with academia, at least for another few years. Jeeze, the semester hasn't even begun, and all ready I'm nostalgic.

Bienvenue a Montreal: Ok, nous l'avons trouvé

Que faire et que voir quand vous êtes à Montréal: Part 4 in a series.

My Uncle's job occasionally has him on the road. Nothing glamorous, just North America, but I think that everyplace has at least one cool thing about it. Even in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere, there's always fun to be had.

But since he's there on business, he really only gets a day to himself. Or sometimes only a couple of hours. So he'll ask someone who's been to the city before..."Hey!! I only have (this much) time in City X. What do I HAVE to do?"

And I think that is a delightful approach to travel, one that I hope to utilize in the future. SO... what should you do in Montreal? My first instinct is to say strip club.

But I'll go with my second instinct, which is, ironically, church. Now I don't care what faith you were raised in, how religious you are, or what check-box you put your neat-little X in. Cause this ain't just any-old church. Basilique Notre-Dame de Montreal.

(I'm looking at photos online to show you, but there's just nothing that truly captures the grandeur and extravagance and erethral beauty of this structure. I think it's best to go in blind and let the beauty take your breath away.)

Words, cannot even describe it. When I am inside Notre Dame Basillica, I am undoubting and unwavering in my devotion.

Outside on the pavement 10 minutes later, or at the strip club 6 hours later might be a different story. But inside the Basillica, all the beautiful old-world Catholic tradition and masonic architecture meld into otherworldliness.

Ya, you're gonna pay $5 for admission. Take the tour, it's free. And feel free to wander and explore. Light a candle, say a prayer.

And, meh... it was good enough for the nuptials of the Diva herself (Celine Dion). Also, the Basillica hosted the funeral of Pierre Trudeau. But you'll learn all that on the tour. And if you're feeling adventurous, take in a mass. It would be worth it just to hear that massive organ.

We suspected that The Musee D'Art Contemporain might only be good on LSD, but alas, it was an hallucinogen-free weekend. Like any contemporary art gallery the pieces (some were more like, pieces of crap) fell into three categories:
1. Ohhhhh neeeaaaaatt!
2. Cool. Probably cooler on acid.
3. WTF? How does this qualify as art?

For instance, The Bourduas exhibit fell into the first two categories. While his contemporaries (or, bootleggers) often fell into the third category.

In the second category was videomusique. It told the story of a couple. They were... how you say... troubled. Some might say... volatile. And in the background was Chris Isaak's sexy serenade, Wicked Game. Only instead of the insatiable Isaak crooning, some crazed chick was sometimes screeching it sometimes sobbing it. It was fucked.

Also in category numero tres was Runa Islam: A silent film of a pretty young woman at a table. There is a cup and saucer about 3 inches from the edge, and the woman's hand is 2 inches away from the china. Her hand is moving a millimeter a minute. And, soon (but not quickly) the china begins to creep towards the edge of the table. And then, its hanging over the edge. And you're thinking... Noooo!! You can save it!! There's plenty of time. Then.... SMASH!!!

Then all sorts of things are breaking. It was excruciating.

We enjoyed The exhibit of Yesterday's Tomorrows, especially John Massey's Phantoms of the Modern/The Beginnings of the World. His prints were of a very clean very modern house. But it was like a Where's Waldo of strange and slightly provocative objects.

It was cheaper than seeing a movie. But come high or don't bother. It's always nice to take in a gallery or a museum wherever you roam. Lends culture to a journey.

Montreal was home to the Olympics in 1976. So we wanted to grace the hallowed grounds of the site of monumental debt. For a photo-shoot... __________________________________________________________

The park was nothing more than a concrete wasteland. __________________________________________________________

And the stadium looked like where they hold the Space Olympics. __________________________________________________________

And the biodome is where they train. __________________________________________________________

What the hell is this?
__________________________________________________________

GIANT stairs!
__________________________________________________________

Reach for the stars!
__________________________________________________________

Maybe Olympic Park and Stadium are not a must-see.

But upon returning home everyone will ask, did you see the cross? According to "legend" you can see the cross on Mount-Royal from everywhere in the city.

In the 16th Century, Jaques Cartier hiked up this mountain with the natives and christened it Mount-Royal, which is from where the city takes its name. In 1643 the founder of Montreal, Paul Chomedey de Maisonneuve hiked on up with a giant wooden cross.

It was replaced with this in 1929. __________________________________________________________

It was... a little anti-climatic
__________________________________________________________

A breathtaking view. Oh, and there's the city. __________________________________________________________

Hitch-hiked back. 

__________________________________________________________

Dodged falling rocks.
__________________________________________________________

The park itself was very lovely. Its hopeful to see a major metropolis devote such great acreage to foliage and walking paths. Walkers, joggers, runners, hikers, cyclists, skiiers, bladers and the like dominate the trails. The young and old come to exercise, play, picnic and even date in nature. Wear sturdy shoes.

The waterfront at Les Quais Du Vieux-Port de Montreal had some beautiful assets as well.

__________________________________________________________

Prepare for boarding.

Typical day in the life...

Ahhhh ok so I'm (prob?) going out with Irish tonight so all I really have time to do is vomit on this keyboard and GO-GO-GO!!

fhuaghkdfjadhfjkdhfighnbwrv kjheioqfhijnfjKWRNFHJ (OK, there!)

So I went back to work Tuesday after a most blissful vacation. And I'm not ashamed to say... I was just not feelin' it. But everyone gets the back to work blahs, right? But then yesterday was even worse. But I'm happy to report that I've got my work-mojo back. We had things to do and people to talk to. (Plus, I don't think that it helped that both MW and I were in vacay mode, me coming back, and her about to go)

1. Today was a sharing day. I have a severe aversion to cargo-pants. Remember in the late-90's when they were in-style? Well, I was on BOARD with that fashion-trend. Jeans, casual pants, capris, shorts...and...even...dress pants. (acceptance is the first step.)

My name is Veronica, and in 1998 I wore black, slightly shiny, flares with cargo pockets. I've been clean and sober from cargo pockets since 2001.
SIDEBAR: Does anyone remember flares?!?

2. I brought the world's-most-depressing lunch. Leftovers from the other night: broccoli, green beans and baked potato. Which was delightful for dinner with the addition of butter, sour cream, green onions, pepper and cheese. But was downright depressing and plain sans accouterments. At least it was healthy. And satisfying. (And everything was just so delightfully fresh... (Good things grow in Ontario!)

3. My break got rained-out, so I abandoned my coffee and Eat Pray Love for celebrity gossip. Lindsay Lohan on suicide watch? (Of course, I'm reading gossip from July 26th, which in Hollywood, may as well be 10 years ago.)

4. I wouldn't mind going to jail. Especially for 90 days. Do you know how much reading you could catch-up on? Suck it up, buttercup. Jail would give me much-needed structure in my life. 3 square meals a day, time to work out, you can even get yourself edumacated. Plus all the fun activities? Movie night? Soft-ball leagues? Group rapes? Arts and crafts?

EDITOR'S NOTE: Jail is NOT fun for those wongfully convicted.

But if you do the crime, shoot, be prepared to do the time.

5. Why would I be sentenced to jail? I'll leave that open-ended.

6. If you come into the store, here's the sort of talking points I enjoy:

a) I get really stressed out at No-Frills trying to bag my own groceries.

b) I'm 25, but if you're a 50-something year-old woman, I will gladly sit and chat with you about how we're getting old. (Seriously, when all yall reach your seventieth birthdays and are having some sort of end-of-life crisis, I'll be chillin' in my rocker, watchin' my jeopardy, wearin' a cardigan.)

Hmmm, maybe I'll take a nap later.

c) Coming up on a significant wedding anniversary and looking for a fab way to renew your vows? Vegas, baby! Why not have Elvis officiate!?!

d) I covertly played hid-and-go seek with a small child. The game was even more thrilling, as I had to hide the entire game of hide-and-seek from the Boss.

7. It made my day!

8.
BOSS: Good news!!!
ME: Whaaaattt??!?!?
BOSS: I have permission to hire a male assistant manager.
ME: Oh... cool.............................. WAIT! Have you even found a male assistant to hire?
BOSS: No
ME: So you've secured permission in the unlikely scenario that you find a male assistant?
BOSS: It's nice to keep our options open.

(Well, I guess we've doubled our hiring-pool)

9. Don't even talk to me about Labour Day weekend.

10. Damn I forget the tenth point and my OCD dictates that things have to be even.

Oh, looking for Part 4 of the Bienvennue a Montreal series? I'm such a tease! Gotta keep ya comin' back for more.

Bievennue a Montreal: Où sommes-nous?

Ce que vous pouvez découvrir si vous êtes perdus à Montréal: Part Three in a Series.

Sometimes getting there is half the fun. I think I said it best in my (private) journal.

"With all the best intentions to leave at the ungodly hour of 8 am, we were finally on the road by quarter to 10. Tim Hortons was still serving breakfast, which is earlier that I'm motivated to get my ass out of the door on the best of days. Not being accustomed to actually making it on time for breakfast, of course we ordered bagels and BLTs. I drove the 6+ (+++) hours, as Irish was nursing one hulluva hangover from last afternoon's excursion to the Jay's game. I'm pretty proud of her for keeping that BLT down. At 11, only at Markham Rd, I tried to burn the car down with a cigarette butt. Back on the highway, we gabbed. Then she napped while I grooved to some oldies. Then we had a pretty hard-core heart-to-heart which turned in..."

I was writing this while illegally parked, waiting for Irish to check-in. Because we couldn't park until we checked in. What bullshit is that? Quality Hotel. Dad asked me if they spelled Quality with a K. But now, to continue on this train of thought...

...which turned into an epic rant-fest. Of course we missed our exit. Got off at another, and started driving to the hotel. Story of my life, we were going the wrong way. So we turned around. And alas, once the road ended, we realized we were going a wronger way.

Uh-oh! We're lost!! Take a picture!!

__________________________________________________________

EDITOR'S NOTE: Ok SER-I-OUS-LY how in the hell do we keep getting lost while all along we're in the right direction? What is wrong with us? Suicidal brain-cells?!? (in anticipation of the debauchery the weekend would hold in store?)

We def spent a lot of our trip lost and wandering. Boy did we put our grade 7 geography lessons to use. Map reading? An invaluable skill. Although, we lamented not having a compass.

By the end of the 4 days, our map was in tatters. But we never got lost on day 4. That was a successful day (until we tried to get home. And I wasn't 100% sure where we were. Then we missed an exit and had to take a delightful detour.)

Lost, yet again. Familiar territory. We'll be in Toronto in 6+++ hours __________________________________________________________

How many maps does it take to navigate our way out of this city? Three. __________________________________________________________

We spent much of our days on the quest for M:Brgr (which I must say, was worth it). The problem (for once) wasn't our poor sense of direction, rather, just not knowing what the place was called. And, alas, google failed us. On our first unsuccessful attempt, we ended up at a lovely little place called Dundees, where we shared quesadillas and poutine, and I got tipsy off of three $12 raspberry mohitos.

Unapologetic.
__________________________________________________________

We also spent a good part of our trip in search of a club. Some place happenin'. Everyone always says that Montreal is a party city. So where the party-at? Ah, sketchy nights, wandering the streets, slightly intoxicated. That's how I shall always remember the fair city.

Just lookin' for a good time.
__________________________________________________________

Got lost in search of La Croix at Mount-Royal. Got lost trying to make our way back to civilization. We even *gasp* stopped and asked for directions. Damn, that park was large. Even almost got off at the wrong bus stop on our way to the park.

Irish and I enjoy the thrill of finding your own way, and exploring parts of the city you would never stumble upon otherwise. Let's face it, that's pretty much what I do in Toronto anyway.

Map reading: an invaluable skill!
__________________________________________________________

The problem was that Montreal is so small! What seems like miles and miles on the map may only take you a few minutes. We were constantly over-shooting everything. 

Including our sojourn to suburbia. Well, you can't really blame two Scarborough girls for being lured into the gentle caress of the suburbs. We took the metro a little too far north. We were off the map. We were so unbearably, confusingly lost. 

So we took a breather on a bench, tried to gather our bearings, and were delighted to see such randomness, all from the vantage point of our bench.

This light-hearted graphic on a sari-shop sign turned our frowns upside-down. __________________________________________________________

Mannequins with serious 'dos.
__________________________________________________________

Gold. Jewelery. Computers. Video Games. Tools. Bicycles.
Musical Instruments. TV. DVD. Cameras. Film XXX. Etc...?
__________________________________________________________

*Shrugs shoulders* It was an interesting door. Lots of texture. I'm not just silly all the time.
I'm at least a 2-dimensional character.
__________________________________________________________

Passive-aggressive? Or ironic? You be the judge. __________________________________________________________

The lost-pose.
__________________________________________________________

Happy travels and happy wanders!

You know the drill, stay tuned tomorrow for part 4 of our series: Ok, nous l'avons trouvé: que faire et que voir quand vous êtes à Montréal

Interrupted service..

A break from our regularly scheduled programming. This post today has been brought to you today by the good folks at Ziplock, this over-thinking brain of mine, and the letter K. So the summer of YES!! is drawing to a close. I'm going to do a recap sometime in September before I get back to school. So we're not going to talk about YES!! right now. But although I haven't been screaming it, if you're following my blog, (or if you know me IRL, or if you're simply stalking me (I'm flattered, *blush*)), you know I've been living it. So look for it in September: Procrastinate NOW!! in the summer of YES!! (the coming-of-age tale of a girl just trying to find her way in the big-bad city. A story, of a struggling journalist, lost-in-love and afraid... of living. But when she lets her hair down, and follows her dreams *cue music* anything is possible) And... as a special treat, I shall reveal the summer bingo card, that I have been threatening you with all summer. And that's not all!! The photo-a-day project shall be unveiled! An awards show shall follow. And of course, we gotta go back to the summer goals. And we'll round it all out with a clip-show. But if the summer of YES!! is coming to a close, what shall the semester, the next chapter of my life, hold in store? And more importantly, what will the semester be the semester of? OK, howsabout "The Semester of Organization and Productivity?" No? "The Semester of Decisiveness?" No? No? That's all I got! "The Semester of Love and other bad decisions?" Or, "The Semester of learning and following your dreams!" Ok, I guess I still gotta work on that. I really should work on my decision-making. I over-think everything... often before events even transpire. I'll look at something from every angle, try to determine any and all possible cause-and-effect scenarios, make pro & con lists.. then throw them out, and make a quick, rash decision. Then fret over my decision. And at the last second, change my mind. So, about this dating thing. 1. Giving my brand-spankin'-new moleskine daytimer a workout. 2. How do dudes juggle multiple chicks at once? 3. I feel terrible even talking to more than one guy at a time. 4. My new dating mantra is... meh... free dinner? 5. Feel like I shouldn't be blogging about this. 6. Don't hate the playah, hate the game. 7. Am I a hypocrite, or a revolutionary? Peut-etre, je peux ecrire en francais des mes rendez-vous? Bien sur.

Bienvennue a Montreal: Manger et Diner...

Comment vous pouvez gagner du poids quand vous etes dans Montreal. Part 2 in a series.

Where ever you wander in this life, whether you create a most-detailed, to-the-minute itinerary or you simply show-up and roll with the punches, a little preliminary food-research will always serve you well. (I mean, why would you ever eat at Mickey-Dees and contemporaries, when there are entirely new palates and flavours to be discovered?)

And Montreal is no exception. Crepes and poutine are a must. (although, I would caution against in one sitting.) We didn't find anywhere that served the exceptionalle, so ask around, eat around (and then let me know where to procure the best of the best). Bagels, we missed out on, but worth a sampling, being toted as the world's best after New York.

A trip to Montreal is not complete without a Montreal Smoked Meat Sandwich. We checked out Reuben's on Ste Catherine, which boasted the best smoked meat sandwiches in the city. So what is Montreal smoked meat? (known simply, as smoked meat when you're in the city.)

Some compare it to pastrami, brisket or corned beef, but anyone will tell you that authenticity can ONLY be found in Montreal. You can even bring home a brisket for Ma and Pop. (I didn't. Should I have? I was thoroughly chastised.)

Reuben's serves up thin, pink slices of smoky, salty goodness, stacked mile-high on a dense, malty slice of rye, lightly kissed by the toaster. A pickle and a hot pepper add a little oomph, and the pungency of the mustard just cuts the saltiness of the meat in a very special way. Reuben's may look unassuming from the street. But head down stairs, and you're instantly taken into a very classy, and very out-of-date deli.

The staff were most welcoming, but it's the food that will have you coming back for seconds. And taking a brisket (or two) home with you. (seriously, can you pick one up for me?)

Ah, M:Brgr. A place that sells $49 pitchers of sangria, $400 bottles of dom and $500 for a bottle of cristal. I had a coke. We made the mistake of going here for lunch. Come hungry, and stay for dinner. M:Brgr is not some simple burger joint. With ingredients on the menu such as goat cheese, smoked apple-wood bacon, fois gras, truffle aiole and porchini mushrooms, this place takes gourmet burgers to a whole new level.

For those on a beer wallet, there's AAA beef, and for those with champagne tastes, try the kobe. We came for le big zak. ($15.95)

This is how a Big Mac should taste: fresh ingredients, lovingly prepared. The burger is prefectly grilled, the whole-wheat bun lightly toasted. Tomatoes and lettuce are crisp and fresh. And the "secret" sauce? Secret, no more! Try le petit big zak ($9.95) and save room for M:Burger's delicious sides. We shared a seemingly unlimited bowl of french-fried onions, which absolutely sang in my mouth.



Alas, no pictures of le petit big zak. It was devoured too quickly. But doesn't this intrigue your appetite?


A trip to Montreal wouldn't be complete without a night of french cuisine. Chez Goutier was a quick walk from our hotel. The patio was intimate and tres classy.

Not only do the French know how to eat, but they know how to dine. Eat late, eat long, good food, good wine, good conversation; the recipe for a perfect evening.

We began with a French Onion Soup. And if you've never had Onion soup before, you don't know what you're missing. (And if you've only tried the Tim Horton's incantation, then you are truly depraved.) The beef and onion broth was light yet hearty. The soup is simplicity: broth, onions, fat pieces of bread sopping in flavour. Top it with cheese, and then bake. It's a soup that'll put hair on your chest and meat on your bones. Perfect after a long winter's day, and delightful on a patio on a cool summer's eve.

For the main course, I thought fish? butter? Parfait! The salmon was moist, light and not overwhelming. The butter-sauce was absolute divinity. It was served with green and yellow beans, which were perfectly prepared and tasted like they were picked yesterday, next-door.

Of course we drank wine. Which I would recommend, not dry, not sweet, just the prefect red.


A cafe au lait and creme brulee rounded out the evening. Chip away the perfectly caramelized crust to discover a creamy, not-too-sweet custard. Heavenly!

Dinner for 2? $116.

We didn't get to taste any Quebecois cuisine, but I urge you to go to Quebec City for the split-pea soup. And maple-syrup specialties.

To enhance your Montreal experience drink lots of red wine, perrier and expresses and cappuccinos. Eat lots of croissants and pastries.

May you come home, 10 pounds fatter.

Bon appetit!!

Stay tuned tomorrow for the third installment in my Bievennue a Montreal series. Où sommes-nous? Ce quevous pouvez découvrir si vous êtes perdus à Montréal

Bievenue a Montreal: Acheter et Magasiner...

Comment passez-vous tout votre argent quand vous etes dans Montreal: Part 1 in a series.

So the big to-do was the underground mall, La Ville Souterraine or RESO. All the travel literature, and people on the street all seemed to be urging us to check out the WORLD'S. LARGEST. UNDERGROUND. SHOPPING!!!! (yaaaa!!!haaaa!!!yeahhhh!!)

I don't understand the big draw. It's stores. Underground. Like a mall. Only more artificial and zero natural light. I don't even really like malls. I much prefer walking down a strip.

Besides, as I told Irish: "we have underground shopping in Toronto."

"We do?" she replied.

Check and mate.

The Eaton Centre was no where near as impressive as Toronto's. But the shopping on Ste. Catherine Ouest, just outside of the centre was good. Similar to Yonge and Dundas.

Simmons is a place to check out: a fashionable department store, exclusive to Montreal and Quebec City. The prices are pretty reasonable, and I think you'll find that Montrealers are more cutting edge than their Toronto cousins. The European trends tend to hit Montreal before Toronto. But then again, you're running the risk of looking like a freak for several years before the trend hits the general population. 

__________________________________________________________

Like these high-waisted bloomer polka-dot shorts.

H&M, $19.95

__________________________________________________________

Or, a ruffle-shoulder tee.

H&M, $14.95

__________________________________________________________

Or even a fancy veil, suitable for all your mourning needs.

H&M, $9.95
__________________________________________________________

Went a little bit crazy at H&M. Found some more studs. (Trying to bring 'em back. Spread the word.)

H&M, $4.95
__________________________________________________________

Of course, needed more large sunglasses. They're kinda my thing.
H&M, $5
__________________________________________________________

Vieux Montreal (Old Montreal) was by far our favourite. Its where the artists come to sell their wares. Definitely check out the original art, sold on the street by the artist. Acrylic, water colour, lithograph, photography and even caricatures; there's something for everyone. Unique jewelry, clothing and gifts can be procured here as well. Plus, the cobblestone walkways just give Vieux Montreal such a delightful old-world feel.

One thing we noticed was Montrealers' love of stationary shops. I have never seen so many shops devoted to paper. And such large and extensive shops! Not a great place for two journalists to walk into. Nevertheless, we showed restraint, purchasing one notebook each.

Sure, everything we saw you could pretty much find in Toronto. But Montrealers have the luxury of one stop shopping. And bonus? Blank paper is bilingual!

I couldn't resist the small notebook with the sentiment, "Une bonne action n'est jamais perdue." (A good deed is never lost). $6.50.

 

Ya, I bought a sex book. What's it to ya?

Backstory: For Beat Magazine class, Irish, Brown, Grey and I (henceforth, known as the Douches) are creating, writing and producing a magazine and website about 'sexual education as a lifelong process'. Sex-ed doesn't end after highschool.

Sexology was a magazine that launched in 1933, and became defunct in the seventies. It was considered humorous, informative and frank. And sometimes ludicrous. It was certainly risque, and paved the way for magazines such as Cosmo and Playboy. Ironically, Sexology met its inevitable demise, because it couldn't complete with the frankness of its predecessors.

The book is a compilation, "The best of Sexology: The Illustrated Magazine of Sex Science: Kinky and kooky excerpts from America's first sex magazine." Got the book from the most delightful store (origins, currently unknown) which had all sorts of useless yet delightful wares.

Tea bags with celebrities from Audrey Hepburn to Bob Marley to Obama chilling in your tea cup, jacuzzi style. Fake promotional pens from 'Springfield Sexual Addiction Center' and 'Dr. Lance Hughes, Proctology'. Bloody shower curtains. Precious kits for pigtails or explorers. And not to mention a great collection of uber entertaining books. Like Sexology. $16.

It's worth it to check out the gift shop in the Notre Dame Basilica. (I know, I know). It's actually pretty classy. Rosaries, crosses and nice gift items for all your Catholic needs for Baptisms, First Communions, Weddings, etc. I bought a new magnet for my fridge collection. (Seriously, the easiest travel collection to maintain. not to mention cheap!) $2.


So, there you have it. Shopaholic takes Montreal! Stay tuned tomorrow for the second installment in my Bievennue a Montreal series. Manger et Diner: Comment vous pouvez gagner du poids quand vous etes dans Montreal.

Travel blogger, extraordinaire!!

So perhaps I shall pen une petite voyage series about Montreal. I could break it down day-by-day journal style, but I shall give this a go, travel-writer style. Thus, look out for themed posts about shopping, eating, getting lost, tourist attractions, strip clubs and the people. That would be such a dream job, travel-writer. Just go off to places and explore and eat and converse with the locals and write all about it, all on the company's dime. Mmmm or food writer. I think any profession where you have to try out new things, because you get to sample the best of the best, and often before the general populous. So look out tomorrow for "Acheter et Magasiner: Comment passez-vous tout votre argent quand vous etes dans Montreal" Aussi, j'ai un rendez-vous pour jeudi!! Zut alors! J'oublie la musique!

Witty titles still on vacation...

Ahh, Midnight. I missed the deadline to have today's post up in time. I haven't written anything since Sunday, with that spurt of scheduled posting. I dicked around all day with all the (400 or so) Montreal photos. Trying, in vain, to get this shit on a narrated slide show on the interwebs. Did accomplish a facebook album, captions included. Went to the parents house, broke down in tears when they told me they're getting rid of my piano. Its beautiful and ominous, dark wood. The ivory is yellowed, and chipping in places. The ebony is luxurious. It has a very mellow, organic tone. I'll never have a piano like that again. Anything nowadays may be asthetically pleasing, but has a synthetic, artificial, cheap feel. So I went to drown my sorrows. Actually, I went to console a friend who got dumped. Nothing like a good ol'fashioned male bashing* Discovered tonight that my new-found-favourite radio station is - wait for it - Zoomer Radio. I am turing into a 70-year-old women. I never go anywhere without a cardigan, I watch jeopardy and I enjoy a good nap. That vacation wore me out. Good thing I have the weekend off. I shall have to share my 'Tales from a Strip Club' for another eve. *No males were harmed in the making of this post.

Let's make fun of people today!

So this online dating thing? It's infinitely entertaining. Everyday there are new winks, matches, interested gentlemen and even emails. I've been very passive. There's a constant stream of willing suitors. And weeding through their profiles is the best part.

Ah, take NeedyChristianAsian.

Here's the highlight reel of his profile: To my future wife: I feel so happy and blessed to get to know you here.
(To my future husband: I hope we have a much cuter meeting story than *shrugs shoulders* internet dating)

If the relationship with you is a mission from the Lord, I will accomplish it with my whole life, and nothing else will be able to come in between us. I will told you every story of my life, my pain, my pleasure and my inside world.
(Since when is God sending people on relationship-missions. Gives new meaning to the phrase what-would-Jesus-do?)

Sometimes I am a day-dreamer who indulges in fantasy, so I think I must be a nature- born writer, although my job will be a stable income occupation. I admit I am really a shy, traditional and ordinary-looking guy, not rich, not good at sport. But I will devote myself to you.
(Nature-born writer, he is not. I cleaned up his punctuation. He kept putting spaces before the comma which was driving me nuts.)

Everything belongs to me belongs to you, including my property ,my youth and my life.
(Hmm.. I did lose a lot of property to my last boyfriend. And not to mention my youth...)

I believe that making your pleasure my pleasure and your pain my pain is my most important duty. I will be the band -aid that heals all your sorrows when you wallow in sadness. I will be the Teddy Bear that warm your body when you are trapped in tiredness. I will be your invisible wings that fly you to the Eden when you are between the devil and deep sea.
The serendipity that will happen between you and me is a movie filled with sweetness and tenderness that God directed, and God chose you as the heroine, me as the hero. I just want to tell you that everything that is happening must be the order from GOD, and I strongly believe that it is also the GRACE OF THE GOD. (Band-aid, teddy-bear? Not sexy. But a movie directed by God Himself? Probably would sweep the Oscars, but be overrated in the end.)

What I like to do:Titanic, a movie that I have been watching for more than 30 times ,touches me deep in my soul and completely takes my heart.such as Gone With the Wind , Breakfast at Tiffany’s ,Legends of the Fall, Shakespeare in Love are also my favourite.
(And juuuusssst incase you were seriously considering this guy... he throws in his love of Titanic for good measure.)

*NEXT*

Here's WhiteGangstah.

My first thought: how does he even know how to work a computer?
Second thought? I bet he's been to jail.

I am a family man and loyal to my mate. A hard worker working for the thing that we would need. I am the kind of person that always duze the right thing know matter the outcome. I would like some buddy that is good to me with a big heart. I like shy woman i like a woman that takes things slow. O and she has to b loyal and honest. U can not have a go strong relationship with out it. And she has to like to b silly some times. But the biggest thing to me is we have to be friends as well.
(I like how he saves time by not typing full words. I wonder if he actually thinks that 'does' is spelled 'd-u-z-e'?)

*NEXT*

Moving right along to... Bitter&Lonely.

I have found writing anything here does no good whatsoever. If you look at the rest of the information and want to talk to me and get to know me, then do so. The only way to get to know someone is in person, but it can start on the internet. Meeting someone in person is easier, but I am not closed minded and some people have stories of meeting their one true love or soul mate online. However, if you want to talk to me you are going to have to message me and provide that as I am no longer a paying member...
(Jeez, I'm depressed after that.)

Well then. Music? (How fitting. A special request from a match.com suitor.)

There are two promising gents. We've exchanged some witty banter via email... but when asked for my number, I panicked. I, naievely, wasn't prepared for this. And next comes dates... (and, naturally, I think... hooray for blog fodder!)

As for the New Plot Point? We think he's trying to play me. He's not very good at it. I've kind of taken a step back, realizing it's more of a fuckationship without relationship potential. And now he's getting whiny.

I think I'm the first girl he's tried to play. And that should say enough about his playah-skillz, because as much as I hate playing games, I also don't like to lose. You don't try to play a girl with an IQ double yours.

Especially since I've always been smart enough to play dumb.

Ya. I'm a little bitter.

Any excuse to watch dancing babies on the Internet

Twelve days ago, I lost my magical no-mommy pills. (and I'm just getting around to blogging about it now. I'm running out of material for these scheduled posts)

I was two days into a brand new pack. How/where did I lose them? You know, playing in a park. Probably on the swings. Or the slide. Or more likely, the jungle gym.

But that's besides the point. Because I think that this is a clear sign from God.

What? No! Fuck no! Losing my magic-no-mommy pills isn't a sign that I should get pregnant! It's a clear sign that someone who still enjoys larking in playgrounds is certainly not ready to have children. Besides, I lose everything. Tis not the fist time I have lost my magic pills.

Do I want to be pregnant? Like, with a baby? I wouldn't mind being pregnant with emotion, and I've been pregnant with a hefty food-baby since our Greek-food eat-fest on Friday. But I can't even keep a plant alive!

I was walking to the grocery store on Saturday, when I came across a prefect scene. A beautiful young woman in long skirts and a hijab was sitting on the boulevard, gazing lovingly at her family. Twin girls, in pigtails, on tiny pink bicycles were riding up and down the sidewalk. One of the girls had her toddler brother in tow, chasing after her.

Just when it couldn't get anymore Norman Rockwell, I noticed Dad (who was a hunka-hunka burnin' luuve) teaching the other twin how to ride her bike, sans training wheels. I watched this scene from a distance.

"Do I want this?" I mused.

And then the moment was over.

"I'm going in the house. I want a sweater," the young-woman called.
"No, just stay for a bit," Hunky-hubby replied.
"I'm just going to get a sweater, and then I'll be back out," she said calmly.
"You can't leave me!" He cried, panicked. "I'm just one man, I can't watch 3 kids!"
"What. Do you think I do. EVERY. DAY." She replied. Scathingly.

It's allllll the birth control I need.

Searching for my lost shaker of salt...

Sometimes, I realize I'm a girl, and maybe I should start acting like one. When I go out, it's either beer or whisky for me. But Friday we went to Taste of the Danforth (where we stuffed our faces 4 hours straight, served by Mr. Silver himself at Mr. Greek.) Conversation led to Franny's maid. Her name is Margarita, which was much better than anything that we could've guessed. But all that Margarita talk made me thirsty. So I ordered one, then another. I can never resist the call of tequila. Ahhh, my kryptonite. I guess I wasn't too sloshed. But even though I was wearing a skirt, all made-up and coiffed, I still felt strange drinking a frozen margarita in a fancy glass. Next time, I'll just take a pint of Keiths.

Your weekly dose of randomness..

1. Rubber gloves? Check! Face-mask? Check! 2. Apparently, silica gel is important. And expensive. 3. Taste of the Danforth was one big LOL. 4. It was all worth it, for the compliment on my shorts. 5. Je suis en Montreal! 6. There's no such thing as a simple summer fling. 7. 8. 9. Probably shouldn't have read that article about bedbugs directly before staying in a hotel. 10. Ahhhhhhh...now I have to go on dates and shit?

La vie en rose...

So I'm heading off to Montreal at the ass-crack of dawn (8 am) tomorrow. But never fear, posts have been dutifully scheduled. It's dawned on me that this blog may be a little too-hot-for-TV. Well, as HB put it. "It's good. You write how you talk. I feel like I'm having a conversation with you. But heaven help you if a future-employer reads it. She has a point. But I caution you, reader, to take this all with a grain of salt. I'm usually pretty dull and ordinary. I don't blog about my 9 hours spent at work. And I certainly don't blog about sitting in sweatpants, food network on the telly, eating chocolate and wasting time on the interwebs. I'm very responsible and driven. (But when I let loose... whoa boy, watch out!) I also have equipped one of my match.com suitors with allll he needs to be able to stumble upon this blog. I don't care about future employers. It's journalism. I think I'm representing my would-be profession with flare and panache. I don't mind acquaintances reading this. Co-workers. But as for friends and family? Well I can be a little closed-lipped about some of my "feelings". But out in the blogosphere, I'm more liberal with my emotions. I don't want people seeing me as weak. But as for the mens and the dudes? I think this blog gives way too much insight into everything Veronica. So will I edit myself? Will I delete anything? Will I turn over a new leaf? Maybe I'll be a little more discriminating. Or maybe, I'll go smoke a bowl. Au revoir, bitches!

I'm not high-maintenance, right?

Why is my first thought always, "but what will I wear?"

Took my hair out of my ponytail, tousled. Pouted in the mirror. Reapplied bronzer and scrutinized my end-of-the-night eye-make-up.

Looked good, but something was off.

Powdered my nose (and greasy forehead. seriously, I could prob fry an egg on my forehead.)

Lipstick would be too much, right? Ok, tinted lip balm. Damn these three tiny zits on my chin.

Eyebrows are prefect, and freshly plucked. Took care of all the general landscaping areas today. Brush my teeth. Deodorant. Perfume? Naw..

Maybe I should pee? Oh, close the medicine cabinet. Your make-up and jewelry organization makes you appear high-maintenance!

Ok. Perfume.

Remove baggy sweater and wife-beater. The turquoise bra is my favourite, that can stay. Slip my slinky black tank back over my head. I'm glad I didn't put it in the hamper. Slip off my comfy green pyjama bottoms. (so cute, with little white stars.) This calls for booty-shorts.

I had been saving this simple black cotton thong, my favourite. This thong gives me confidence. I appraise the overall look, and finish it up with small blue studs.

And now, I'm ready to blog.

Grosser than an episode of hoarders...

Sometimes life sucks. The journalist stumbled upon an incredible story, that would prey upon the fears of the general population. It would be a hard-hitting expose, and I can see how one could tell the story in such a way that would make a mountain out of a molehill. It was an isolated incident (I hope!!) And it alllllll boils down to wanting to save a little money. (isn't that always the case.) But I'll stay mum. But if this happens again... I'll deep-throat it. Just to be even more frustratingly random and vague, listen to THIS!

Dirty escort

So drama-drama with the escort today. Put the key in the ignition, it turned over for a split second... and then nothing. FUCK. Cabbed it to work (15 minutes late) I don't have CAA so I called D-A-D. He took the battery to Canadian Tire, and they tested it. Since the battery was fine (we did learn today that the battery is a 2006) Daddy-O took it home. He noticed the terminals were a little corroded, so he cleaned 'em, replaced the battery, and now it's running again. So YAY! my dead car was fixed, without costing me a penny. But I can't help but feel that I have more problems on the horizon. (I mean, really? The problem was a little dirt?) Ya, it's a 1991 Ford Escort. I bought it last summer from a little old lady... there's still only 132,000 km on it. It was in perfect condition, all it needed was new tires. Other than that, the car hasn't cost me a cent. (Unlike my truck, which cost $2,500 worth of repairs just to make it road-worthy when I first bought it... not to mention all the other shit that went kaput during our tumultuous tenure together.) And sometimes I worry I won't have anything to blog about! I'll leave you with this.

Buy me a leather jacket..

And we begin ... I'm standing in the drive way, I may or may not be smoking something illegal. I can hear the unrelenting wail of sirens on Danforth. A parking-enforcement car slows down. And shines a light into the interior of my '91 Escort. And I think, "Oh shit. I better move my car off the street! I'm gonna get a ticket!" I wonder who they were looking for. And more importantly, what did they do?

A little this, a little rant, some tears.. typical Tuesday night.

So what the eff, apparently I joined match.com in a moment of insecurity and alcohol-fuelled weakness. I'm better than that. But I guess it is the summer of YES!! trying new things, etc. Plus it's kind of fun talking to strangers and writing emails. And since I think this is absolutely ridiculous, I've only been logging on whilst under the influence. I got nothing to lose. Just gonna be myself. In other news, my store won a sales contest a million years ago, and I finally recieved my $40 gift card to Shoppers Drugmart. Seriously, have been waiting forever for that damn thing. I'm nearly out of mousse, leave-in conditioner and deoderant, my roots are starting to show, I'm out of nailpolish remover (my dad asked if people call me 'Chippy'), and I've been using "Forever Tan: After Sun" because I've run out of lotion. So the gift cards finally arrive Friday. I'm gearin up to leave work and just BLOW it all at once. I check the email before I leave... and the gift cards were not activated. And we're still playing the waiting game... This is all meaningless fodder. Vacation starts Friday, 3pm... He can always make me tear up.

Well don't you worry, don't worry, no don't worry mama..

I've decided to have a quarter-life crisis. I'm happy living my life according to the infinite wisdom of The Steve Miller Band in the inspiational lyrics from the band's masterpeice, The Joker. But blame it on the whisky, blame it on the beer, blame it on reading Generation me, blame it on the pot, blame it on fuckin a lot. Generation Me keeps talking about the quarter-life crisis. And it got me thinking. My job? Sucks. Bank account? Sucks. Car? Sucks. Apartment? Sucks. Education? Sucks. Love life? Sucks. (Lovin' life? Awesome!) And I ain't gettin any younger... But I don't care. I'm happy living my life as a joker and midnight toker. I'm happy gettin my lovin on the run. Some people call me a space cowboy. Some call me the ganster of love. Some people call me Ronnie (eee-eee)! I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. I do play my music in the sun! But why don't I care? Shouldn't I care? Is there something wrong with me, that I can be happy with this, lot in life. I can't even fit in with Generation Me. Which lead to the quarter-life crisis. Maybe I do care. And maybe I am unhappy. I ain't gettin any younger. So I signed up with match.com