Oh Canada.

I moved to Canada. Things here are a bit more...Canadian. And by Canadian, I mean expensive. Americans love to bitch about the price of gas, how bad things are - we have it easy and we have no idea. I have yet to find ANYTHING about Canada that is a) better or b) cheaper than the US. You think American Idol is bad? Try Canadian Idol - you'll actually miss Simon Cowell.

All told, I am much happier here. Go figure.

frak.

I joined a BSG meetup group in BC. This might be the geekiest thing I have ever done.

"I'm old!"

My friend Mark has been uttering this phrase quite a bit of late. He is, of course, my age – we went to high school together. In what was the most ungraceful drunken exit from a hot tub I may have ever witnessed a few weeks ago while at the coast (there was a broken stepstool and a loud 'thump' involved), this was his exclamation. Not “I’m drunk!” or “I’m uncoordinated!” but, “I’m old!”

It’s beginning to catch up to me. I saw a chiropractor yesterday.

“When was your last adjustment?” he asked kindly.
“Let’s see…I think when I was nineteen.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“About nine years.”
“Wow.”
“How often should I be getting adjustments?”
“Generally every four to six weeks.”
“Oh.”


I apparently have something called Upper Cross Syndrome. Otherwise known as Little Old Lady Syndrome – my shoulders hunch forward, my right even more so than my left. This could explain the knitting, the sudden inclination to get a cat.

“Have you ever been in an accident, had any kind of injury?”
“Maybe…” which means ‘No.’ I just naturally have wicked upper back pain and fuckedupedness (totally a word by the way). People don’t believe me, possibly because I ignore it all the time. Massage therapists scoff until they get to my upper back and can’t get the knots out. “Wow, you weren’t kidding!”

No shit. I’m old!

"Were you mauled by a tiger?" "It was a dog...it was a big dog."

“I really didn’t like that Heath Ledger made the Joker so…comical.” – random girl in front of me as I exited my second viewing of Dark Knight on Friday.

Mark: “I don’t know…It didn’t feel very realistic.”
Me: “It’s Batman. Do you really want to argue realism?”
Mark: “I know. I think I’m just not into big blockbuster action flicks. If you took me to an Al Gore movie I’d probably be more excited.”
Me: “You’re the worst boy ever.”

My only complaint (having now seen Dark Knight in both regular and Imax formats – side complaint – don’t ask me what the difference between Imax and regular is. I’ll shoot you some catty reply like “Five dollars.”) is that the Imax screen at Bridgeport Village is pretty weak and not really worth the extra money. Oh well.

Unrelated: it’s China week on the Travel Channel. Thus, I really want a monkey. Or a tiger. Maybe a lion. “So you really want a liger,” my brother pointed out recently. “Yes, a liger would suffice,” I replied. I want a cat that can take up one half of my bed. Maybe this is strange and will cement my status as a bachelor for all time, but it’s still a pleasing idea.

“But a tiger could kill you.”
“So? Pit bulls can kill you. So can children. People have children and pit bulls all the time.”

Your problems make my fee seem insignificant.

I saw one of my therapists today (I always seem to have at least two. Maybe that isn’t normal. I’ll have to talk to one of them about that). I only see this particular therapist every three months or so. Eyes glued to a yellow legal pad, she asked me how I was.

“I’m doing really well,” I replied. Her pen stopped moving. Eyes peering up at me over her glasses, her voice dropped an octave in disbelief.

“Really.”

“Yes…really.”

She smiled. As it turns out, my well-being and pending relocation has conveniently coincided with her six-month sabbatical. They’re always so much happier to write you prescriptions when they’re going on vacation.

Quote of the Week

"I suggest you go to a movie...or a bar." - my mother, in response to both my internet and cable going out due to a car hitting a pole down the street.

"You have to be pretty drunk to lose a shoe."

I really need to go to a tropical island,

OR

I am a complete exhibitionist.

I don’t like wearing clothes in the summer. Which is not the same as being comfortable naked – I wouldn’t say that I am. I balked at a boy’s suggestion that I should become a stripper a few weeks ago – I have flaws. Dubiously, he gave me the once over and begged explanation. “I’m not going to point them out to you – then you’ll see them,” I replied. I’m no fool. (Don’t respond to that)

I went to the Oregon coast with a group of friends this weekend. Despite a near cloudless sky, the temperature on the beach (factoring in a nice old-fashioned Oregon wind-chill) was probably in the 50s. Determined to wear my bikini top, I soldiered on until my friend Sharin actually told me to put my shirt on. Reluctantly, I obeyed.

It’s a little embarrassing when your friends tell you to put your clothes on. I wasn’t even drunk (yet).

All of this could account for my knack at losing articles of clothing as well. Or my early-onset dementia (my father would attribute this to soy products. Thanks for raining on my tofu parade).

It started at the top - two gray, zip-up sweater hoodies, one lost to the streets of LA after a Rasputina concert at the El Rey, the other to a house party in NW Portland. Then, a bra to the insanity that is New York (there’s a longer story here, but I’ll save that for later. Hi mom!) It continued downward: underwear to the Bermuda triangle of exboyfriend’s unkempt bedrooms, socks kicked off in a foreign bed. Two weeks ago, I attended my 10-year high school reunion. Having misplaced both my expensive pair of four-inch stilettos and my cheap pair of back-up flats, I returned home at 9am barefoot and thoroughly amused.

To my credit, I have never lost a pair of pants.

"birds have literally exploded"

I was walking home from Wanted last night (yes, Angelina does show some ass, if you were wondering) and happened upon a lovely little protest going on outside Ten 01. What, perchance, could these people be protesting their hearts away at on a warm Friday night?

Foie Gras.

only in Portland.

(as the brochure I was given reads, "I am forced to conclude that foie gras is produced at a terrible cost to the birds themselves." mmhmm. what about 'duck'? I would say that's produced at a terrible cost to the birds themselves. quack!)

quotes of the week

my mother, on my new-found favorite therapy, Grand Theft Auto IV:

mom: "And what exactly is the point of this?"
me: "I'm a criminal and I have to kill some guy."
mom: "Right."

my father, on my new-found favorite therapy, Grand Theft Auto IV:

"I'm not sure why it's getting so much crap - it's not nearly as bad as what's on TV."

the guy crossing the street next to me last night in the middle of a colossal downpour:

guy: "All my money's gettin' wet!!"
me: "Mine too, man."

i'm not dead (volume 2)

i promise. breaking free from some very unhealthy relationships.

my ex-boyfriends keep stealing my choice of footwear, post-breakup. this has happened to me twice now. the first time, it's amusing. the second, well, it sort of creeps me out.

i have a website up for my photography. it is still under construction.

melainamace.com

life for rent

it occurred to me this week that i have had to share everyone i love with somebody else: best friends, boyfriends, siblings. it's hard to feel at home when nothing feels like it's your own.

it's all about timing.

so, i decide to return to London for the first time in fourteen years and they shut down Big Ben.

of course.

i remember thinking when i was thirteen (as scaffolding obscured my choice shot of Notre Dame) "Europe is great, but it will be a whole lot better when they're done fixing it"

"I never thought this would happen in Brooklyn. ... Kansas maybe, but not here."

a tornado hit Brooklyn today.

good thing i'm going there tomorrow!

(i know. i haven't written an awful lot recently. i'm an asshole. i'll try to rectify.)

Alright. On a scale of one to ten, what would you consider the likelihood you might be assassinated?

my therapist once asked me if i was concerned that an upswing in my emotional well-being might hinder my creativity (read: writing). i replied, no. what a silly notion. besides, crying bleeds the ink. i would be at my least creative, for whatever i would write would be illegible.

i've been wrong before.

you might say i've been creatively thinking up ways to do as little as possible. i am particularly good at this. if i were a little more creative, i could find a way to procure a sustainable income from doing absolutely nothing. i'm sure it's possible.

in short:

i got a degree.

i found a boy.

and i get to travel this summer (granted, to an area with a particularly high terrorist alert right now and a new ban on smoking)

at least the smoking ban won't hinder my intention to drink Guinness.

i'm not dead.

i promise. i could almost be considered, at this moment in my life, *gasp* happy...

(as she says this, Melaina's usual audience of cynics curses and walks away, muttering "you're dead to me...")

soon...i promise.

for now, read this.

"My parents keep asking 'How was school?' It's like saying 'How was that drive-by shooting?' You dont care how it was, you're lucky to get out alive."

i went back to high school today...to teach.

i opened my iTunes to play an mp3 for the kids. a particularly vocal girl squinted at my artist list on the projector.

girl: "30 Seconds to Mars? i've seen them. Jared Leto is so hot."
boy: "Do we have to go over this again?"

i guess some things never change.

tattoos for example.

my mom: "is it still there?" referring to the tattoo on my [very] lower abdomen.
me: "yes, mom. it's still there."

unrelated: i finished the first Harry Potter. i would check the forecast for Hell if you plan on visiting. you might need a sweater.

the irony of a wrong number.

I was listening to my father complain about his life this afternoon (I am, if nothing else, a loving daughter) when I got another call.

"Hi, can I speak to Mike?"

no, I thought, but if you do speak to Mike, I have a few things you could say to him on my behalf.

His opponent, as proud as the rooster who is left unchallenged upon the midden, crowed away in a last long burst of quotation and deduction.

(my word of the day was "midden" if you are reading this, thinking to yourself, my, where the hell did that headline come from. side parenthetical - i much prefer "midden's" sister synonym, "muckheap" but this is all entirely irrelevant)

i'm really just looking for some fantastic Google hits. and i'm totally not drinking wine right now. my iGoogle homepage (genius lovechild!) makes for fantastic fodder, let me tell you...(okay, i'll spare you).

i don't have anything in particular to say. this troubles me. it is the result of a couple of things: 1) i forgot that truly meaningful diatribe i had intended on writing, 2) it occurred to me recently that i blog a whole lot less when in the frame of mind of "oh, isn't this all so trivial?" and 3) i have midterms.

we'll go with midterms, for the sake of excuse.

a few things to mention this week:

it is entirely possible to get a floor-wide notice citing complaints of "olfactory disturbances." it is also possible that this notice is going on my wall for the purpose of amusement.

my brother made an exceedingly generous donation to the Melaina Guinness Drinking/Scottish Castle Hopping fund. (i was planning on beginning this blog with the phrase "i'm having trouble deciding which castle to stay in this summer" just because i could, but deemed it too...bombastic).

it occurred to me recently that i don't know what the hell i'm really doing with my life. and for that moment i was happy.

the same old prejudice prevails. war matters; love does not.

my lovely Chaya sent me this article by Erica Jong. it is worth reading, thus i urge you to.

i have many things to say. alas, i have many things i should be writing that are not my blog. for six more weeks at least, school and work will outweigh frivolity.

unrelated: it is my great wish that the people i know, namely the young men i know, could have the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart with my father. he has Gandalf's beard and more perspective than Brunelleschi.

he is somebody worth knowing.

reaffirming stereotypes

Paul Simms' Four Short Crushes.

now. he. kissed. her.

for a brief moment this afternoon, i found myself wanting a baby.

the moment passed.

an open letter to the United States Government

Dear Federal Government:

I cannot breathe. I miss Pseudoephedrine. Phenylephrine does nothing for my sinuses and doesn't have nearly as many letters. Please solve your meth problem another way.

Thank You.

Something's rubbing against my foot.

I went down to Eugene last night to visit my friend Ben.

me: "Let's watch Open Water. I've heard good things about it."
ben: "Sure. I haven't seen that one yet."

79 minutes later..

me: "Is that the end? that can't be the end..."
ben: "Wow. The next time somebody asks me to recommend a movie that will cheer them up, i'm definitely recommending this."

pause.

me: "Wanna go diving?"

in memoriam

where have all the restaurants gone?

it occurred to me today, whilst driving (happily? reflectively?) down Belmont, that i really miss Sweetwater. i do believe the last time i went there was on my 20th birthday, which was a long while ago. i thought about this and realized that, like many things in my life (tv series, boyfriends, perfect shades of lipstick) the things i love evaporate into thin air to remain only in my head a fond memory.

Manna Bakery (Ashland, OR) circa 1980s. best. bakery. ever. they made all my birthday cakes from age 2-16(?) i can't remember what year it closed, but next to Jim Henson's death and the deaths of my first two cats, Sophie and Nikki, it might be the worst heartbreak of my youth. if you ever had a Manna bakery cake, you would understand.

Beasy's Back Room (Ashland, OR) circa 1980s/1990s. best barbecue/southwestern food the NW ever procured. but it was their green olive laden salad that i loved (which i believe you can still get at Beasy's on the Creek today, but it's just not the same)

Bluebird(?) Cafe (Santa Monica, CA) circa 2004. best. cupcakes. ever. I used to work a few blocks away and would go there for lunch nearly every day. when i visited last August, it was a vacant store front (although, i just googled this one and it seems it may have moved to Culver City. it looks like the same place, so if you live in LA, check it out for me)

(a side cupcake note here: Magnolia Bakery in NYC? don't believe the hype)

and they say chivalry is dead...

i opened a door for a guy at Starbucks today and he was so thrilled that he paid for my coffee. ah gender roles in reverse.

a few things:

guest lecturing a class at your own school is a bit surreal. i totally sympathize with all my professors now. i felt like Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

Anyone...?

Alec Wilkinson wrote a long article on the origins of Parkour and David Belle in this week's New Yorker. mmm...David Belle.

interestingly, there was a four-page ad for visitoregon.com centered on Ashland's Oregon Shakespeare Festival in the middle of the article. given the fact that i'm studying narrowcasting in my capstone course, i began to wonder if every New Yorker contained this ad or just the ones sent to Oregonians. i received a credit card offer this week that was a Leo (that's the lion, not the DiCaprio) signature card. it freaked me out.

anybody want to launch a computer virus on Acxiom?

books of blood...for kids!

did you know that Clive Barker writes children's novels? i sure didn't.

I'll write you just to let you know that I'm alright

a couple of quotes for the week:

"i'm glad you're back on the hooch!" -- Chaya on my falling off the wagon. and when i fall, i fall hard. story of my life.

"yes, could you magically fill the gaping hole where the Broken Halo should be?" --me to the clerk at Fred Meyer when he asked me if he could help.

"what people can't tell from your blog and your myspace profile is how annoying you are in real life" -- my brother on how fraudulent digital avatars are.

but one Mace telling another they're annoying kind of defeats the purpose. it's what we do.

if you're an exboyfriend and i drunk text you, it was the Drop Top speaking. my apologies.

There's something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.

i have, however, found a moderate solution to what i like to call the Sunday Night Dread: manage it so that you somehow have Monday off. all the time. it prolongs the inevitable, but i've found that procrastinating the start of my week sure does make my life easier.

except for the fact that i have work due in the morning, i could actually completely ignore the fact that it is Sunday. well that coupled with the sudden epiphany that today was easter. i only realized this in the candy aisle at Fred Meyer an hour ago.

i have now consumed the contents of a large bag of Hershey's Candy Coated Chocolate Eggs in celebration.

happy ressurection! i feel ill.

I am not your friend. I'm not your lover.

(I wrote this last week and forgot to post it. or, I had planned on posting it while on the ground in Vegas, but on account of my having to run the entire length of McCarren Airport, which included a security checkpoint and a tram, I didn't have time. I will also note that I very nearly died on this flight. Which is mostly true, but i'm prone to histrionics)

I am writing from a plane somewhere over the midwest.

On planes, I am weary. I take account of my life. If I had one last call, who would I choose? It would have been a boy, if you’d have asked me sooner. I now know I’d have been wasting my time.

If my plane’s going down, you’d better fucking answer. Voicemail before imminent death is the ultimate heartbreak. Remember this when you ignore my calls.

I’m afraid to breathe on airplanes. Even after a whole box of Airborne.

I take account of my life. But mostly, I take account of what I’ve left undone. And I don’t mean words unsaid or sunsets in Paris. It is the unmade bed, the pile of clothes.

If I should go down on a plane, there’d be dishes in my sink, dirty laundry.

I find sudden relief that any porn I [might]own is on my hard drive and will go down with me. That would be an awful last thing to worry about.

Hi mom.

I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart.

sometimes a place is not what you remembered
a dark mass of lost streets
empty subway platforms
full of stangers
still seaching for
my lost
shaker of salt.

is it wrong to steal a cat?

"when we put together three things...

...it would be a miracle if the object of being attractive to men had not become the polar star of feminine education and formation of character."

if you put together these three things:

Red Bull
the spontaneous appearance of a term paper ghost-writer
ridding Melaina's body of the reservoir of snot it is harbouring

you would get one joyful girl.

at the moment John Stuart Mill is the polar star of headaches.

help.