Church-Lady Lunches and PoHo Houses

My friend and I travelled to lovely little Port Hope this weekend for their annual house tour. We managed to hit several stunning properties, from sleekly modern to charmingly restored, though we didn't make it to the three out-of-town options. As often happens, my favourites weren't the ones I expected at all. In my opinion, Best of Show was 184 Walton, the restoration of a Victorian townhouse on the main drag. It wasn't just the bay and transom windows and lovingly refinished plank floors, it was the eye-popping tangerine, flame orange, and soft lime paint colours. And the amazing origami chandelier in the dining room that papered the walls with patterned shadows.

A close second was the gorgeous 20 King St., with a kitchen to impress even a culinary philistine like myself (love the punchy, graphic wall of antique clothes-iron footplates!); a walk-in closet lined with meticulously cut-out images of women's shoes; and the cutest and the most British garden shed (below) I've ever seen—and that's saying a lot in a veddy British town.

Thanks to Peter for this photo!

The house below, also on King St. was beautifully restored and renovated, and had a cool office-slash-lounge added in the attic, but the decor was pretty over-the-top frilly and not to our taste. The garden, however, was another story. It was huge, went on forever, and featured a pool area, manicured hedges, and GIANT cedar trees (there's one visible to the right in the following picture; we were all mystified at how they managed to keep them trimmed). And the yard had one more thing at the very back, tucked inside the weathered eight-foot back fence: a dilapidated old barn with an alarming sine-wave roofline but noble character.


Worth a mention, too, was the new property at 103 Augusta, remarkable not only for its four levels of floor-to-ceiling windows stacked on the lip of a ravine, but also for the galleryful of gorgeous art created by the homeowner.

But as it turned out, it wasn't the architecture OR the decor that was the highlight of my day, it was the lunch served at the P.H. United Church. I could not have asked for a more quintessentially small-town Ontario setting, cast of characters, or cuisine.

In the house tour program, the lunch was listed as follows: "Homemade Meat Pies, Coleslaw, Rolls, Dessert, Tea/Coffee." But it was so much more. The program included no mention of the tea-rose tablecloths, the church-basement chairs, the hotel plate silverware, the mix and match tea cups, fresh bouquets in vases, or cheerful church-lady servers. Nowhere did it hint that we would witness those servers dumping the dregs of their coffee and tea pots back into the commercial percolators stationed in the classic, fluorescent-lit church hall. I was in cliché heaven.




And "dessert" doesn't begin to describe the oh-so-WASP experience of the creamy vanilla pudding studded with juicy, canned crushed pineapple and topped with the extra-fancy embellishment of a canned tangerine segment or halved maraschino cherry. WITH an oatmeal cookie! Shades of wedding showers past!



We were delighted with our "refreshments," but will always wonder about the church-lady paths not taken. For example, also available were repasts offered without irony by the Catholics ("Italian Meatball Sandwich, Caesar Salad" [!]), the Presbyterians ("Chicken Pot Pie, Salad"), and perhaps most tellingly, the Anglicans ("Quiche, Salad"). Those crafty Anglicans, however, did go the extra mile by providing the only all-day refreshment station for weary tourists, at which were served "Muffins, Scones and Sweets." After all, it's a hilly town, and on top of that, those houses have a lot of stairs.

So thanks to PoHo for a lovely day: the rain held off, the meat pies were delicious, and, to accompany our end-of-day coffees, our beloved Zest restaurant served us fresh ginger cookies. Even a church lady couldn't have asked for more.

For Mature Audiences Only?

Gentle Readers, welcome back to that spottiest of creatures, my blog (only slightly spottier than its creator). I am delighted to be able to reward those of you still checking in with a most excellent new entry in the Guilty Pleasures series from my talented and deep-thinking pal, Aaron. I know you'll enjoy his thoughtful musings on cartoon-based entertainment, and join me in contemplating how an unhealthy obsession with craptacular fantasy films has clearly derailed an otherwise promising young mind.

Please let both of us know what you think, and whether you share this fixation-that-shall-not-be-named. Most especially, if you have a Pleasure of your own you'd care to divulge, anonymously or otherwise, don't hesitate to get in touch. There seem to be more of you than I ever could have hoped; clearly, our only hope is to form a support group. I vote "doughnuts."

Fresh Pleasures

A special welcome to my second Guilty Pleasures Guest Blogger, the lovely and talented Karen, who dares to share her shameful reality-show secrets. Yours Truly has something of a track record in this area herself, being a former reality show bookie and all. (And I confess that I, too, LOVED Felicity—long may she waffle.)

So c'mon, Gentle Readers, I hear you out there, guiltily tuning in to your Bachelorettes and your Big Brothers. Fess up—who else is hooked on this crap?

Welcome, Guests!

Allow me to draw your attention to the first guest post in my Guilty Pleasures sidebar, a movie review from friend and fellow Pleasure-seeker Susan. Thanks to Susan for taking up the posting challenge, and to you lot still milling around out there in the pre-contribution shadows, let's see yer goods!

Sharing Our Guilty Pleasures

Welcome back, all. Mea culpa for the posting hiatus—I am hopeful the Blogspot desert will soon bloom again.

To that end, allow me to introduce my new Guilty Pleasures sidebar, to the right of your screen. This is meant to be a feature that focusses on a particular cultural product or oddity, and that I hope will occasionally be graced by the critical stylings of my dear Guest Contributors. The first entry is my own, which you will recognize by its inordinate length. I hope in the future to do better at that, too.

Thanks for checking back in.

J.

A Slight Glitch

Hi, there. I've made a discovery about the Blogger posting process: even if you post something today, if you started writing it a couple of weeks ago, it is posted as though it were written AND posted then, in March. So though I published a new post yesterday, called "Spying on Myself," it appears in the post "queue" before the Easter Bunny one. I'm just vain enough to let you know where you can find it, in case it gets missed. If you are interested in reading it, I appreciate your extra effort in tracking it down—thanks for understanding!

Mother Will Be So Proud

Ladies and Germs, it is with a mix of elation and trepidation that I share my first public post, published on Monday the 12th by Torontoist. Here are a couple of paragraphs as a teaser, followed by a link to the rest. Thanks again to Ryan Bigge and Torontoistas David and Ashley!

The New Pornographers

Diversity dance company Ill Nana.

It's Friday night, and it's loud at Toronto's fifth annual Feminist Porn Awards. As in deafening. If the FPAs are "the Independent Spirit Awards of the porn world," as Tristan Taormino, writer, director, anal-sex guru, and nominee, has called them, the "spirit" part is in plentiful supply.

A glance around the Berkeley Church venue also confirms the "independent" part. All colours of the gender rainbow are represented, in all shapes, sizes, and ages. And if the bodies they adorn are of indeterminate sex, the outfits are coming through loud and clear, yelling, "Look at me!" The splendour runs the gamut from man-skirts to bordello hose, with killer corsets, blinding sequins and satins, and brothel-creepers as far as the eye can see. The evening's "Special Correspondent," Ryan Hinds, resplendent in purple, rains clouds of glitter as he prowls the crowd for interview subjects.

[More]

And to thank you for stopping by, Gentle Readers, here are a few more never-before-published shots from my evening at the Awards:

Masti Kohr's Bollywood burlesque thrills 'em...


While CoCo La Creme brings 'em to their knees...



And Tristan Taormino takes the ultimate prize.

Boo! It's Easter

In celebration of the season, I sent this, one of my favourite images from the Awkward Family Photos site, to my friend Aaron. He responded with this link:

http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/the-65-sketchiest-easter-bunnies/

which in turn prompted the following response.


Quite an inclusive selection, wouldn't you say? Ranging from quirky to monstrous-slash-bestial to outright disturbing and possibly actionable. I find I'm drawn to the pathetic and/or sadistic ones, I'm afraid; e.g., the b&w dude with his sad little carrot bunch in # 5 & 25, the carnivorous beast of #64—which Awkward Family Photos captions "Hello My Pretty"—or any with palpably miserable children in their clutches. Then there are the drive-by candids, presumably of bunnies commuting to or from work, lunches packed in their gaily decorated baskets (or bundle buggies, as the case may be). My overall favourite of the bunch, however (pardon the pun), has to be #30. The shades, the beard, the sheet, the shoes peeking from under the bunny feet—and is that a motorcycle??? We just know, don't we, that this depleted gent needed the gig. That every year he tries out for mall Santa, but ends up only scoring the odd nursing-home visit. That that dubious little boy won't find Easter-egg chocolate on his breath. Nice fountain mural, tho'.



There's so much to discuss, isn't there? Where are these mall photo sessions with the EB occurring? I've never seen such a tradition around here. Are Canadians just missing the marketing boat in this regard?

And what about the conventions of the whole thing? There is apparently a huge range in styles re: bunny costumes, bunny outfits (jaunty waistcoats preferred, evidently), props, background, seating, etc. etc. Seems to me the whole EB industry is crying out for a Coca Cola- Santa-style makeover. So come on, Easter candy and paraphenalia manufacturers (this means you, PAAS, Peeps, Cadbury, etc.), it's high time for some standardization. Not too realistic, not too stylized, steer clear of ones that just look hungry or horny (e.g. # 4, 14, 28, 36, 45, 51, and 64). No sasquatch outfits or baggy track suits. And definitely no removable face masks—that's just asking for trouble. May I humbly suggest something along the lines of #12, 18, or 46, but a little friendlier. A velvet jacket and pink satin-lined ears (#38) are a good start, I think. Oh, and beware of copyright issues: Disney'll gut you like a fish of there's a whiff of Alice's White Rabbit in there. If I were you, I'd pair up with the good folks at Gund on this one.

And if it has to come at the expense of EB diversity, or be accompanied by a juggernaut marketing push of some trans-fat-laden products, we understand. After all, what is Easter for those of us in the secular world but the springtime equivalent to Hallowe'en: a nominally spiritual holiday co-opted by candy manufacturers?

But before I go, allow me to offer another option, an angle unexplored by the previous selection, and one that, for me, expresses the real spring-has-sprung, mating-season, rebirth/renewal sentiment of the holiday. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present: RuFluffy, the Bunny for the Other 10%. He's loud, he's proud, he's certainly fluffy (well, more like furry), and he's hopping your way (gingerly). And this Bunny don't lay no eggs....


Happy Easter, one and all.

Spying on Myself

Spyware goes cute: MARON-1, Fujitsu's "house-bot and handy in-home surveillance aid." (From Fujitsu.com)

I admit I'm feeling a little rattled. This week I found a bug in my apartment. Not the ah-it's-spring-the-critters-are-returning kind—I mean the Mission Impossible (RIP, Peter Graves), Jason Bourne kind. And it turns out there's one in my car, too! I've been listening to hours of recordings of banal daily activities: phone calls, TV-watching, cat-feeding, etc., and between you and me, my life's sounding damn boring—but fascinating at the same time!

So how did I acquire these mysterious devices, and who is so interested in the mundanities of my existenz? Well, turns out I've been bugging myself, unwittingly conducting my own investigation into my pathetically unsuspicious activities. And I accomplished this without any sizable outlays for sensitive listening devices, hidden cameras, or costly installations. All I had to do was not notice that I had hit the "record" button on my little $39.99 digital voice recorder that I carry in my purse.

After listening to several of the new folders on the device, which it has created every time it was activated, I deduced that they seemed to coincide with car trips, and they also seemed to record cell phone calls I made during those trips. (Note: naturally, seeing as it is now illegal, I —ahem—no longer continue this practice.) I was a little creeped out, but the threads of the self-surveillance mystery began to unravel. I realized that I usually carry the recorder in the same "secondary" purse section as my cell phone (the "primary" section, of course, being the location of the most-frequently-rummaged-for items: wallet, change purse, debit card, pen). So apparently when I reach across to the passenger seat to dig in my purse for my phone, I've been activating the recorder.

So CSIS, in case you're interested in my potentially seditious activities, I can save you some trouble.

At first, I thought I would just delete all these hours and hours of files without listening to any of it. How could it be anything but boring, right? But I decided to listen to some of them, and I was instantly fascinated by the opportunity each recording offered for a little audio time-travelling. I found myself trying to guess when each recording had been made. Where was I going that day? Did it seem to be day or night? Who was I calling en route? There were usually enough clues in the phone calls to nail this down. I remembered many of the unheard responses to my half of the conversations. How did I seem to be feeling—anxious, tired, cheerful? I cannot drive a car without the radio blasting, so Boom 97.3 was a constant in all the car sessions, but I found it both embarrassing and a little endearing when my surveillance "subject" would suddenly burst into song in accompaniment of a favourite lyric or chorus. If I wasn't cheerful beforehand, I think that must have helped.

On one particular occasion, I heard myself arrive back home, likely from an out-of-town day trip to visit my parents. I heard the car beeping as I backed into the parking spot (I have a handy back-up camera), I heard myself unclick the seatbelt, get out, lock the door. I heard my footsteps as I headed toward my building. I could tell how far I'd parked down the side street as the sounds shifted at the corner. I heard myself stop at the convenience store and buy something—probably milk—and chat with the clerk. I had to wait for the light, I crossed and continued walking, I unlocked the door at my building. At this point I held my breath as I listened—would I/she stop to check her mail? The keys jingled. She did. I heard my steps scraping lightly as I climbed the stairs. (I try to climb quietly through our stairwell-slash-echo chamber to avoid disturbing my fellow tenants, and apparently it works!)

With a *snick* I unlocked my apartment and dropped my stuff. I heard myself coo to my cats, who came to greet me. At this point, the purse, where the "bug" is concealed, was dumped near the front door, but I was surprised that I was still able to hear a muffled version of the following events. I heard the living room light click on (ah, it's evening!), and the cat kibble rattle in its container as I topped up the dishes. Footsteps moved about, the TV thunked on, the answering machine was checked. Another evening began.

Listening to these recordings, I was transported. I could close my eyes and relive every action, every step. It was interesting only because I was completely unaware of the surveillance, and therefore completely myself. I felt tenderly toward this spied-upon creature, innocently moving through her day. It also reminded me slightly of listening to Python's "Adventures of Ralph Mellish" sketch, on the Matching Tie and Hankerchief album, which sends up blood-curdling detective tales by describing a character and situation crashingly boring and mundane.

Ralph Mellish, a file clerk at an insurance company, was on his way to work as usual when... (da dum!) Nothing happened! (dum dum da dum) Scarcely able to believe his eyes, Ralph Mellish looked down. But one glance confirmed his suspicions. Behind a bush, on the side of the road, there was *no* severed arm. No dismembered trunk of a man in his late fifties. No head in a bag. Nothing. Not a sausage.

This sketch also includes one of my favourite deadpan Python exchanges, uttered when Ralph greets the secretary at his insurance office in "Dulls-ells Street":

Enid: Morning, Mr. Mellish.
Ralph: Morning, Enid.

Inanity aside, it was this vulnerability, this peek at my unconscious behaviours and habits that I found so touching. After analyzing the evidence for a couple of hours, I grew to like the subject of my investigation; I was in danger of empathizing with my suspect—an instance of Reverse Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps? She seemed friendly, she loved her cats, she liked to laugh. But I knew that once she found out about the surveillance, that innocence would be lost. Knowing she'd been spied on, she could never again be completely unself-conscious as she belted out "Someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight" in the car, or crooned, "Who's my baby boy?" while snuggling the cat. Could the poor victimized creature ever learn to trust again?

Apparently, the answer is yes. I've already pretty much forgotten my adventures as a suspect. Despite these flagrant invasions of privacy, I'm back to performing sessions of unabashed car-karaoke and murmuring sweet nothings to the cat. I still climb my stairs as softly as I can, and frequently don't discover dismembered trunks of men in their late fifties in the bushes. When it comes to self-surveillance, it seems like ignorance is bliss.