Product of My Upbringing

The time has (almost) come, friends. The time of scented candles and garland; of wrapped gifts and baked goods; of Christmas movies and the sweet sounds of Bing Crosby.  One day until I can wholeheartedly launch myself into Christmas cheer and proclaim the joy of the holiday season.  American Thanksgiving may be today (even Canadians can watch the parade), but God damn it, Christmas begins tomorrow, and I couldn't possibly be more excited.  (For the background behind this reasoning, read this.)  However, in an attempt to conserve my childhood-like excitement for another 24 hours, I should probably move on.

The last couple days have been eventful, bringing kitten adventures, smidges of productivity and a Pirate Radio outing with the lovely Lauren M.  It may not be an Oscar contender, but charming British comedies set in 1960s England have a special place in my heart - especially with a soundtrack boasting the likes of Cream, The Kinks, Cat Stevens and the Stones.  If there was any hope of extinguishing my intrigue/appreciation/love/obsession with the British Invasion, Pirate Radio has officially ended it.  (And frankly - Philip Seymour-Hoffman-oriented rock 'n roll movies are placed on their own pedestal in a league of their own.)  Now, if we could teach the men of North America to adopt British fashion, we'd be in business.

That's the thing about loving all most things1960s - since the popularity of Mad Men, the era's become entirely more accessible.  The furniture's hot again, the fashion's "in", social smoking's the norm, and old is no longer tacky.  (This coming from the girl who shuns even Christmas decorating trends in lieu of sixties kitsch.) As a child of baby boomers, I'm one of the last generations to have had values of "the good old days" instilled in me - whether it be "sit up straight" and "respect your elders" or "they don't make music like they used to".

I remember being little and listening to the oldies stations - growing up on the Beach Boys, the Platters, the Beatles and the Supremes - then going to school and being bombarded with "bands" like Boyz II Men or Ace of Base.  This music was strange and foreign to me, and none of it exuded the feel-good vibes of the golden oldies - you can nod your head and belt out the chorus, but you sure as hell can't rollerskate to Joan Osborne (and believe me, I tried).  When we had "sock hop day" (or a similar themed occasion) in grade three, I was in all my glory - not only could I pretend I lived forty years earlier, but I was praised for my Beach Boy cassettes.

My Dad and I would wake up every Saturday morning, have breakfast at McDonalds (and I'm not even getting paid to say this!), grab Juicy Fruit gum and drive around listening to oldies stations while Papa Dons reminisced about roller skating, holidays of old and the joys of decades past.  By the time I found vintage "red wheel" roller skates at Value Village at age nine, I didn't stand a chance - my heart belonged to the past, and I was determined to combine it with the present.

Sure, there were the in-between decades in which I attempted to immerse myself in current youth culture - whether it be the skate clothes (cringe), the Jacob wardrobe (I actually dressed like a 45-year-old business woman at age 17) or the Generic Bird-type ensembles, but anything old - whether it be photos, magazines, artefacts or stories - reeled me in like an oversize vintage magnet.  (Which my Grandparents actually owned. See what I mean?  My fate was sealed.)

Movies and TV were just as bad.  Since I spent a good portion of my childhood at my Grandparents' house, I grew up on classics like Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, M*A*S*H* and Bewitched.  Afternoons spent watching Full House and Family Matters were speckled with my Mum's running commentary and distaste as she slammed the lacklustre dialogue and cheap laughs.  (Sure, the entire Beverly Hillbillies premise may have been based on cheap laughs, but at least it was interesting.  Could the same be said for Steve Urkel two seasons (or even two episodes) in?  I think not.) 

After a brief love affair with Gone With the Wind (sure, it was circa 1939 - but it was vintage nonetheless), I was the only 13-year-old to write her year-end essay on the wonder of Vivien Leigh - as well as the only 11-year-old to write a speech on Star Wars after a yearlong obsession with the franchise.  Everything old was much more interesting.  And as proven now, everything old is new again.

I'm lucky to have come into my own and embraced my love of kitsch around the same time the "golden years" have resurfaced (thank you, Don Draper) since everything I love seems much more accessible.  However, I'm less scotch and Audrey Hepburn than I am greasy diners and Pattie Boyd (minus the Beatles, the connections, the Brit factor and modeling career.  Right, so I'm not similar to Pattie Boyd in the least - but a girl can channel her love of all things UK while drawing non-existent parallels when she sees fit.) 

The moral of the story?  My submersion in 1960s culture is not due to its increasing popularity, but because of genetics - or nurture.  Regardless, I was pre-disposed; it was out of my hands.  (I owned roller skates for Christ's sake.)  I attempted to mimic Julie Andrews' hair circa Sound of Music during my unfortunate brush with the mushroom cut.  I cried at One Tin Soldier because it was "beautiful" and fell asleep to the Beach Boys and Petula Clark.  Old Bugs Bunny episodes made sense, and the ladies in old photographs knew how to dress.  I understood the references to sixties culture in the Simpsons, my uncle taught me how to use a jukebox.

Now the UK obsession . . . well, that's a different story.

Talkin' It Out - On the Barry Gibb Talk Show

So after what was an undoubtedly emotionally draining weekend (understatement of 2009), Mama Dons, Rick James and I chose to channel our Mocha-oriented grief and adopt a kitten from the Humane Society. It's not a small decision to make - yet I chose to make it in about thirty minutes. Was I stricken with "oh my God - what have I done?!" panic as I sobbed at the idea of forgetting Mocha last night? Absolutely. Do I regret our latest decision? Absolutely not.

Mocha will never be replaced. He was a prince, a duke, an earl - he was class, baby, and he didn't care who knew it. He put in seventeen-and-a-half years of love, friendship, forgiveness, patience and adorability - and he still managed to stick it out to the bitter end and pass on with dignity. He was a blessing and a brother, and I'll love him forever. There's no quick fix to losing a member of your family.

But my latest addition was for us both. This cat needed a home, and I needed to pet and cuddle something while I wept for my lost brother/friend. He needed freedom from cages and community litter boxes, and I needed a pal to chill with while working from home. He needed someone to love him, and I needed someone to love. (Someone needs to play Queen right now.) Sure, it was soon (and at times I felt it was a little too soon), but every time I pet and cuddle my son (well, isn't he?) I realize the right decision was made and he clearly came into my life for a reason. (I mean, we opened the cage and he jumped right up on me - we're meant to be BFF's.) And as Judith so eloquently stated on Saturday, "why deprive a kitten of a good home?"

So without further adieu, let me introduce you to the latest addition, Barry Maurice Gibb (BeeGee for short):
See? What a peach. And he smells like herbal cat shampoo and purrs like it's going out of style. I found a winner, friends. And no, he's not my beloved Mocha (who I'll always miss), but he's Barry-effing Gibb.

Needless to say it was a weekend of friendship, cats, mourning and family, so unfortunately no actual professional progress was made. (Aside from my "Decade In Review" piece for The Cord - which I'm actually super stoked to post when the time comes.) Unfortunately, the key wording gig in Brooklyn didn't pan out and the product reviewing in the UK yielded a dead end (boo), but the good news is that the fashion/lifestyle site in Toronto launches in early December, and that it looks as though I've actually been brought on board. (But please keep those positive vibes coming since we all know how I feel about potentially jinxing myself.) In the meantime, take a trip down memory lane and check out my latest Spiteful Critic piece about the crappy 90s shows that defined our tweens.

Tomorrow will yield to productivity, and hopefully my next entry will bring news of great success and a surprise abundance of funds. (I've been playing those It's A Wonderful Life scratch tickets like nobody's business because I'm hoping the spirit of Clarence and George will somehow result in a windfall.) For now, I will catch up on Mount To-Do Pile (HA - I'm so witty), and try not to be completely distracted by the cuteness of Barry Gibb.


more movies at http://www.miloop.com/

Mocha, 1992 - 2009

I'm so sad to report that after taking a sudden turn for the worst, my little Mocha was put down last night, marking the end of his 17-and-a-half years with the Donahue clan.

Needless to say (because I'm a sap and refuse to accept impending sickness or death in humans or cats), I'm absolutely torn up, but I've been so lucky to be surrounded by an unbelievably supportive network of friends and family. Phone calls, text messages, Facebook posts, flowers, outings, lattes, talks, economy boosting and general company have made this painful situation much more bearable, and to have such amazing people in my life is an extraordinary gift. Thank you from the bottom of my heart - I'll never forget how loved you made me feel during this difficult time.

So I'll keep this post short - both because I'm a little drained and don't want to drudge up more emotional outbursts (which will ultimately lead to more tears and further unsightly tear puddles/mascara stains), and because nobody needs to be buzzkill'd on a Saturday night - and dedicate this post to the best cat a family could ask for.

Mocha, I love you, and I'll miss you so much.

Journeys and Rain

I'm not sure if it's your positive vibes or the fact that I've finally declared my liberation from the republic of retail, but the past two days have brought me total productivity, opportunity and awesome . . . tunity. (Three "tunities" sound better than two.) Let's discuss.

First off, the Canadian Freelance Writing Jobs Blog (that I religiously read and check into) has been gracious enough to list me under their Find a Writer section that links to my blog (yes, this very one) so that if anybody needs a pop culture writer/music enthusiast, they only have to look so far. Exposure = super exciting. A million thanks to Angela for the opportunity.

Second, as Mina and I Facebook'd our way through class yesterday (A+ students to the max), I heard back from a company in Brooklyn I applied at, and they gave me a chance to try out for this key wording position. The good news? It pays. The better news? I got it! Sure, it's small, but it's a step up from fitting rooms and sorting sensor tags, and I can attend to my work while sipping tea, listening to records and building my resume. (Also, it's in NY, so I like to think it might lead to some sort of NYC street cred at some point.)

But then it continued. (Insert shocked gasp here.) Earlier yesterday I pitched a column idea to BiblioBuffet (a website dedicated to books and writers' thoughts on them), and after a couple of hours the editor emailed me back and asked me to write a sample piece she'll judge for consideration. This may not seem like a big deal, but pending approval, I'll be appointed a "guest columnist" which would eventually (hopefully) lead to my own bi-weekly column. My pitch? The relevancy of various music-oriented memoirs and non-fiction works and whether they successfully capture audiences and the essence of the time. (Example: I read Pamela Des Barres I'm With the Band and discuss why it's important/whether it's important. Plus a mini history lesson. Basically, the idea of writing said column makes my little pop culture-filled heart skip a beat.) Dear everyone: please cross your fingers collectively.

It's absolutely crazy how quickly things seem to happen. Today at lunch Michelle and I were discussing how fast our big life changes came about (in addition to one-upping each other in regards to embarrassing situations). One day you're a slave to the Bird, the next you're packing up the car and starting an entirely new phase in an entirely new place. My "goodbye" to Jordan (and the Kennedys) begins . . . now.

Only three months ago Michelle and Jordan decided to list the house, pack up their shit and pursue their dreams of a life out West. September alone brought (us both) tears, frustration and various other synonyms for "miserable" as we huddled in the backroom over stock boxes and overpriced clogs, promising each other we'd never succumb to a life spent in retail (not that there's anything wrong with that - we simply don't want it). But today - after weeks of waiting and counting down - Jordan officially set out for Vancouver, making their Western plans official by beginning his quest for employment and living quarters. (Note: Michelle will be following once Jordan scores work and digs. However, I can't deal with the thought of a Kennedy-less existence quite yet, so I'm repressing the urge to announce "I'll miss you! You can't go!" while making light of the situation.)

So this is my unofficial-yet-official hat-tip and goodbye to Mr. Jordan Kennedy as he begins part one of a life journey that both he and Michelle will ultimately own. They're "fuck 'em - you only live once!" attitude is both inspirational and impressive, and I'm so privileged to consider them such close friends. Office nights and movie outings (like the time Jordan and I were emotionally scarred by District 9, or the time we forced Michelle to hide her popcorn when we both had stomach aches - on New Years' Eve) have meant so much to me, and despite the fact we'll soon live miles apart, I know our friendship will remain strong and continue to grow. But I'll stop there - I have to save something for your grand finale after the holidays. In the meantime, lovely readers, check out the Kennedy blog as the trials and tribulations of relocation are documented via the interweb, and you can understand the fabulousness that is this dynamic duo.

On that note (well, not entirely, but I'm lacking a segway), I'll leave you to your Wednesday nights while I head to bed and prepare for a ridiculously busy day tomorrow. Keywords, product reviews, school notes, breakfast/tea/coffee outings - and only 24 hours in which to do it all. Goodness. When it rains it pours - personally, I'm hoping for a monsoon.

Cue: Journey

So as we recall from earlier posts - or earlier life events prior to my love affair with blogging - 2007 was the year of doom, 2008 was the year of re-doing, and 2009 has been the year of change - particularly reminiscent of the ever-famous David Bowie hit, "ch-ch-ch-ch-changes".

After dutifully attending my four to five hour shifts at the Generic Bird this "holiday" (themed) weekend, I came home (as per usual) absolutely drained, frustrated and exuding negativity like Jon Gosselin flaunts Ed Hardy (zing!). I was bitter, I was disdainful, and I was falling into the same "woe is me" mindset that seemed to dictate the majority of September and October. Conversations revolved around the Bird, discussion was speckled with "oh yeah - and at work . . ." interludes and late night phone calls were made as I stumbled upon information that led to rants and "can you believe it?!" outbursts.

Regardless of the many positive aspects of my life, my existence was becoming increasingly defined by gift receipts, rude customers, scheduling, time off and disdain for the company's unoriginality and general policies. Like clockwork, after shifts I would return home to treat my Mum to complaints, worrying and loud talking that could only be diminished by hot cups of Sleepytime tea. It was getting the better of me, and I had to make a decision.

So yesterday, after four years of working at the Generic Bird, I handed in my four weeks' notice (I couldn't live with leaving high and dry) and will be an officially self-employed freelance writer as of December 12. Exciting? Yes. Liberating? You bet. Terrifying? Absolutely. Needless to say, after typing out my letter of resignation I had to watch several episodes of Mary Tyler Moore in order to convince myself I really would "make it after all". (Now to take to the street and toss my hat in the air as a sign of freedom and merriment.)

Needless to say, my sleep on Sunday night was fitful at best - tossing and turning as I dreamt about various Generic Bird backlash scenarios (Michelle demanding "how could you do this to me?!", Veronica announcing that "everybody hates you now!", or the possibility of getting zero shifts up until my last day, making my tuition payment for next semester an impossibility). As soon as morning hit, I awoke to make the necessary texts and Facebook messages that would prevent friends being blindsided ("the race to freedom is on!") and to mentally prepare myself for "the end of innocence". (Well, no not technically - that phrase just sounded good. But it's the end of a safety net, which is equally profound. Or terrifying.)

Luckily, my manager was nothing but supportive and respectful, and my coworkers re-iterated their beliefs in my talent and ability to "make it as a writer". Even though I still have four weeks until my quit date, my work friends took time to remind me that I was making the right decision and that regardless of any outcome, I would have their endless support. I was given sign after sign (I've just read The Alchemist so I'm pretty big on "signs" and "personal legends" right now) that I was embarking on the right path - specifically when I ran into a customer I've helped for years who gave me her full support and seemed genuinely happy and excited for my news. (Wendy, again thank you so much - you actually made my day.)

I can compare this decision to transitioning from the crib to the "big girl bed": Yes, the crib's comfortable and the other may result in midnight roll-offs, but it's a right of passage. You outgrow the crib, the rails, the fact that your Mum has to pick you up to get out - and frankly, the big girl bed is fucking cool. (It has ruffles and shit - it might actually have a canopy if you're into that sort of thing. Or maybe it's a water bed. Maybe it's the mid-80s. I don't know.) Regardless, it's the way life works - you grow up and you move on, and you commit to a career. Sometimes you make it, sometimes you don't (but for the love of God, I hope I make it).

And I've been so lucky - minutes after declaring my liberation of all things retail, my Facebook was barraged with the support of pals, and I received countless "congrats!" texts as I headed to Toronto for a rendezvous with the fabulous and ever-supportive Catie (who you may also remember as Brit's doting Mama). I can only compare this feeling of moving on and "growing up" (is that what this is?) to the scene in Almost Famous when Anita leaves home while Simon and Garfunkel's America plays in the background. (Minus the hair rollers and douchebag boyfriend.)

So again, thank you for all of the support. My family, my best friends, the amazing friends I don't see nearly as much as I'd like, the people who read this regularly and those of you I might not have met. It really is what I need most as I fully embrace the title of "starving artist" (technically "writer", but it's my blog and I'll use it to give myself street cred where I see fit) and go off into the sunset of my future (cue: Journey's Don't Stop Believing). And don't forget - I'm still in retail for four weeks, so there's still a lot of time to pay homage to the do's and don'ts of customer service - there's still a lot of pent up resentment toward holiday shoppers that needs to be released.

But at least this year (in addition to having a Boxing Day and actual "Christmas" - oh man!), I can announce my impending freedom as opposed to my irritation while responding to customers' rudeness and snark. Nothing silences "I want to talk to your manager" like "today's my last day". Ha.

Sweden + Britain = Love (Actually)

What better time to sit down and catch up with you guys than while indulging in my Saturday morning ritual? (Chocolate donuts, tea/coffee and Till Debt Do Us Part - I figure nothing makes you feel better about your current economic state than watching other people deal with their hundreds of thousands of dollars in interest rates and overspending.) It's been a great week - lots to fill you in on. I'm basically shocked that I've ever been bored.

Wednesday brought breakfast outings, writing progress and the sweet sounds of Peter Bjorn and John. After a quality breakfast at the local greasy spoon (diners are by far my favourite restaurant), writing film blurbs for University Link and grabbing a quick cat nap (because I'm in my mid-seventies), I picked up Katie and set off for PB & J.

The two of us have fond memories of the Swedish trio since a) they're fantastic live and absolutely tear shit up and b) after the show in April, we caught up with them and they drew pictures on my album cover since we all agreed that autographs are lame. (Also, they're cute Swedish musicians, so how can you lose?) This time, they toured with fellow Swede El Perro Del Mar who absolutely owned the place with her sweet European folk -and returned to the stage for an energizing version of "Young Folks". A-mazing.

Again, we were blown away by the vivacity and joy PB & J seemed to exude. You wouldn't know it to hear their albums, but they absolutely bring it to every performance with solos, clapping, high energy and impressive guitar solos (maybe not impressive to Zeppelin standards, but since I've only recently mastered the G-chord, they're impressive to me). It's impossible not to smile and nod in approval as they play - again, I'm not a dancer, cheer-er or loud clapper, but as I tapped my foot to the rhythm of "Amsterdam", I was in all of my glory. Sadly, since my camera is circa 1999 and can't capture movement without a flash, I had to use my phone for photos - so please enjoy these low-quality gems that fail to do the show any justice at all. (But at least they make my blog look pretty!)

Thursday I chatted with Zachary Gray of the Vancouver-based indie band, The Zolas, and I'm pleased to report that the interview/conversation went swimmingly. (Yes, I just used the word "swimmingly" - blame the barrage of chocolate donuts in my midst.) Again, the interview felt much more like a conversation than a professional Q&A session, and I'm stoked to write the piece - and hopefully catch up with the band in-person at some point soon. (Also, because Michelle and Jordan are leaving for Vancouver soon, I feel it important to better acquaint myself with the West Coast music scene.)

Speaking of Michelle and Jordan, Thursday night was the last Office/30 Rock evening before Jordan heads out to Van-City, and although I repressed my sadness through laughter at Michael Scott - and spilling root beer over the floor and all over Jordan's resume (classy move, Donahue) - it's hard to adjust to the thought of two of my best friends living thousands of miles away. I figure it's further motivation for me to save some serious cash-money so I can make the trek out there. Winnipeg, Vancouver, London - places I need to go. Let's get me there (feel free to make donations).

Yesterday was dedicated to being strictly awesome since it was Friday the 13th, and I firmly believe that days reserved for superstition are meant to be fabulous, not feared. I woke up to receive word (or email - "receive word" sounds like a cloaked man delivered news on horseback) that I've gotten a gig as a product reviewer in the UK, where I'll be, well, reviewing products in exchange for actual British Pounds. Although I wish I could be a resident of the UK, I figure a professional connection is one step closer - and in my mind, I'll have a flat in London before you know it. (Right? Right?!)

I celebrated my news with a cup of tea and chat session with my editor in LA (who's earned a place in the "near and dear" section of my heart), and took off to Guelph to meet Mina for subs and a long-overdue catch up. As we judged the teenage mall-dwellers who flaunted their "curves" with quality streetwalker attire (read: shockingly short skirts and traumatizingly tight pants), we bonded over boy talk and celebrity gossip, maintaining that it's only a matter of time before our current A-list crushes will dump their actress girlfriends and begin courting us. (I mean, we were at the mall surrounded by teenagers - as if we wouldn't indulge in a-typical girl talk.) That's right: we're awesome.

Before heading home, I made the mistake of heading to my old place of employment to pay a visit since a) I hadn't made an appearance since a month after I quit (April 2008) and b) I was in the neighbourhood. Whoever coined the phrase "you can't go home again" was probably referring to the bank at which they once worked, because I haven't felt so awkward since running into the majority of my high school population at the local watering hole at some point during the summer. Not only do I physically not belong there (tights, shorts and vintage do not mix well with bank-brand polos and pleated dress pants), but the one person I wanted to see wasn't in, leaving me to try and justify my identity to people that were completely unfazed by my presence and knew me only as "the girl in the photo from the day the branch opened". Yikes. It would've been less traumatizing traipsing through the mall in a towel during Santa's arrival. Actually.

However, my evening erased the horrors of the banking situation as I headed to Toronto for a girl's night with Melissa, where we drank wine, ate a variety of snack foods and discussed the importance of all things UK while watching Mad Men and Love Actually. Needless to say, a fabulous night - and I may or may not have acquired total apartment and magazine-collection envy of my fabulous friend. (She officially introduced to NME Magazine, and I plan on using this magazine to convince myself that I actually live in Great Britain. I figure it's fair since being well-versed in UK music is another step closer to a flat in London. . . . Right?)

So needless to say, a fabulous couple of days that have brought me productivity, work advancements and quality times. I desperately needed the boost I received yesterday morning since a situation on Thursday night re-iterated how desperately I need to leave behind the Generic Bird and the pettiness that surrounds it. I figure if I keep working with the ethic of an Eastern European man (Dimitri the Lover? HA - totally kidding), I'll eventually get to the place I need to be - I'll reach my "personal legend", if you will.

In the meantime, enjoy your Saturday and soak up the last days of sunshine and mid-teens weather. Tonight I'll be at the Generic Bird as the city's Christmas parade envelopes the area, leaving those of us in retail to start swallowing pre-cautionary Tums in hopes of combating the insanity of Christmas shoppers. December 15, people - that's my mental quit-date, so let's hope I make enough progress in the next month to escape all things retail before the dreaded Boxing Day.

Junk Food and Naptime

So yesterday's lack of blog can only be attributed to one thing: mourning the season three finale of Mad Men. Not because it upset me - it was actually the best episode of anything, ever - but because I'm not sure how I can make it to Summer 2010 without seeing any new episodes. Sterling Cooper Draper Price. I wish I lived in 1963 so I could work for them, too. Or at least attempt to date Don/Pete/Cosgrove or Kinsey. (And to think I thought Pete and Trudy were Haight-Ashbury bound.) Anyway, enough of that - time to repress my longing for more mid-sixties drama by focusing on the present. (Unless you care to discuss the finale in-depth - in that case, please send me a message immediately.)

Yesterday was a fam-jam affair x 239812, and it was glorious. I spent the morning/afternoon with my Uncle Bill where we looked at old photos, talked vinyl and generally enjoyed fabulous Uncle-Niece bonding time. My evening was spent running errands with my Dad, where we travelled to various hardware and home stores in search of outdoor Christmas twinkle trees (much like when I was a little kid) and in the process, ran into my old next door neighbours who basically defined by childhood. Loud laughing ensued, group hugs exchanged - and due to our boisterous and joyous natures, we were asked to leave the jewelry store at which we were gathered. (Oh, the joys of being a perpetual loud-talker.) A splendid Monday had by all.

It's always funny running into people from the past. Like most things in life, it tends to go one of two ways: 1) Fantastic - you pick up where you left off and you realize you want to include those people in your life, or 2) Horribly - you're reminded why you lost touch with them in the first place, and the loathed "so what are you up to these days?" conversation is had. Luckily, my run-in with my old neighbours/childhood best friends was of the "fantastic" capacity. Old memories were shared ("Don't go on the 401, okay Mooooom?"), hilarious stories were retold (memories of my neighbour pouring gasoline down our dryer vent at the tender age of four) and contact information exchanged. I believe a night of reminiscing and story exchanging is in our midst, and I'm already looking forward to it - I was the biggest crybaby in the history of children anywhere, and most of my childhood tales are tragically hilarious. (At age 11 I wept because my friend accidentally killed my Nano baby - and my Mom actually had to tell her to leave because I had locked myself in the bathroom and was too upset to come out. . . . Please be laughing at this.)

High on the hilariousness of recalling tales, I met with Alana for a brief tea/drive/chat, and in only an hour we had an excellent conversation about growing up, the lessons we've learned and where we hope to be in the future. I know it seems most of our hangouts revolve around life events and the discussion about them, but regardless of how often these conversations occur, I always come away feeling charged and enlightened. I know my small-town existence often gets the best of me, but truthfully, I'll miss the accessibility of drive-n-chats when we all move on. (Oh, the joys of your turbulent twenties and the inability for things to stay the same.) In the meantime - despite my longing to move to the "big city" (could I possibly sound any more small town?) - I'll treasure these times/these evenings/these outings/these accessible hangouts like no other, because unlike my younger self, I understand that such freedom is temporary. (Well, until I'm super-successful - when I'll be enlisting my friends to be members of my personal entourage. Then we'll do what we want. When we want. But responsibly, because frankly - we're mature and responsible folk.)

Anyway, today I attempted to embrace my professionalism, but due to lack of sleep and general "blah", I spent most of the day in my room eating Halloween candy and Swiss Chalet fries. However, I did finish an album review (as soon as it's posted, you'll know), wrote an intro about model-turned-actress Julia Voth, and spoke to the lovely Chaske Spencer via the telephone. (And what a nice guy! I absolutely love when both of us can conclude at the end that the interview was much more a conversation than a professional question-answer period.) Now I'm writing to all of you while watching So You Think You Can Dance - mostly because I'm too tired/lazy to get up and switch Arrested Development DVDs. (I should be an Olympic athlete.)

Tomorrow I'm determined to be more productive - if only to be able to write a blog that has more to do with my career (is that what we'll call it?) than my affinity for junk food while PMS-ing (don't judge me). I have film blurbs to write, a piece on the "90s Shows That All Teens Secretly Loved" and a Peter, Bjorn and John concert to attend - there's no time for afternoon naps while sipping tea and unwrapping Coffee Crisps. (Well, there might be - maybe I'll surprise myself with morning productivity.) In the meantime, enjoy your Tuesday night and spend it with friends. Like I said earlier, these times are fleeting, so when you can, take a drive, drink some tea and chat it up.