As seen on TV

I am ants in pants excited for Halloween this year. As in CAN! NOT! WAIT!, capslock, multiple exclamation points, jittery have to pee dance and all. Moreso than usual. There's nothing too spectacularly different about this Halloween, with the exception of a few new twists, things are pretty much falling into their annual tradtions. But for some reason, this year just seems to have an added burst of excitement. Even the pumpkins I carved have a bit more flair than usual. They're still in my signature "drunk kindergartener" style, but the second one was extra teethy, and that's a bit of a departure.

Anyway!

Since I am ohso very extra excited for Halloween, and today just happens to be Devil's Night, I'm going to Jacob Marley it up a bit here and take you through a journey of Halloweens past. Before we get right to it however, I feel as though I should explain something regarding costuming. My everyday manner of dress can be somewhat, oh, one could say outlandish. As a result, costume selection can prove to be a bit of a challenge. For example, I bandied about the idea of being Marla Singer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marla_singer) this year, and truly had a dead-on-balls-accurate interpretation. I didn't even need to buy anything for it, a cursory claw through the tickle trunk yielded most joyous results. In multiple Marla looks! I gleefully pulled on a tattered 50's prom dress, a somewhat disheveled black wig, fishnets, and even threw on a black floppy hat and dark sunglasses for good measure. A promenade in front of the mirror resulted in "YES! Promkini!" cosmic high fives to myself for my costume's impressive accuracy, however it also elicited a rather prounounced "Hmpf. Wait a minute.". Apparently I already dress like Marla Singer, because that is pretty much what you will find me wearing when I go camping. My friends are either not going to have any idea at all who I am supposed to be, or else they're going to think I'm not dressed up at all. And we CANNOT have that.

So, since it does require careful thought and consideration to choose a costume that won't be easily confused with my usual clowns-at-the-Barbie-prom ensembles, I often end up picking movie and television characters for costume inspiration (although, the above Marla example is also a prime example of how this Halloween is a bit different, because normally, a direct copy of something already established is what DOES set me apart from my usual couture of insanity). But I appear be on the verge of ultimate incessant rambling, so let's get back to it then, shall we? Without further ado, I now present:

Exhibit A. The plucky sidekick to Rainbow Brite, her best friend, Miss Patty O'Green. Incidentally, this is also the first item of clothing I ever sewed mysef:

Then there was everyone's favourite delusional spoiled brat of the 70's, Miss Jackie Bula Burkhart (shown here with Hott Donnaaa):

Ha. Okay, this is an AWFUL picture (and the only one I seem to have of this getup!), so please excuse the crooked wig, bad angle, and the fact this was taken way back in the olden day times of non-digitial photography and in looking at this, I honestly think when this was developed it was somehow done so in a manner most askew, but whatever. I assure you the real life version of this was much better. We can all laugh along together, though.

Taa-daa, Go-go Yubari:

I'm sorry, I'm still laughing at my incredible coolness and beauty in the above shot. Mwahaha.

Moving on!

One of my all time favourites, the girl doing the jaan pehechaan ho dance, featured at the beginning of Ghost World:

And finally, last year's masterpiece, which I am probably most proud of (due to its simplicity and carbon copyness!), Juno!

As for this year, I am BURSTING TO THE SEAMS excited about what I have decided to be (not telling you now!), which is NOT a direct copy of an existing character, however I suppose the look is slightly inspired by one. I guess I can give you a wee clue though (and by wee, I mean blastingly, glaringly obvious).... slightly inspired by Linda from Sid & Nancy.....

OH HALLOWEEN ARE YOU HERE YET?!?!?!?!?!??!!?>

One of my favouritest people, like ever.

This is my fairy godson. He loves "noni and cheese", Mouse Trap and "Pantsformers" ("More than eats my eyes...."). He is awesome at dancing and makes up sweet moves all the time. He can't watch Pee-Wee's Playhouse without jumping up and rocking out like crazy the second he hears the first note of the theme song. He makes up love ballads on the piano ("This one's for the ladies..."), with his own music and lyrics. He gives the Greatest. Hugs. Ever. He is very good at sharing, meticulous with pleases and thank yous, and has an uncanny ability to make people around him feel special with his compliments and enthusiasm. He LOVES books, finds sarcasm hysterically funny, and has always had an almost-frightening ability to recognize and remember music, no matter how long ago or randomly he heard it.

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He is incredibly perceptive and caring, and his social skills have always been alarmingly advanced. You could actually reason with this kid when he was an infant. He also rules at high fives.

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He has a fantastic sense of humour, and this amazing sparkle about him that just makes you smile all over. He's someone I seriously enjoy hanging out with, and have since he was a baby. He has such a great personality and is so much fun to be around. It's not even like "oh, I'm the grownup and you're the kid", you're just hangin'. :) I feel so lucky to know him, PERIOD. And the fact I get to be his fairy godmother? Dude, there aren't even enough gems for that tiara.

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I like typing. It's a dance party for fingers.

The Greatest Thing I Have Seen On The Internet All Day

Today I would like to give a shout out/high five/chest slam, to my favouritest news source on the internet, www.dlisted.com.

Michael K, you are a golden god:

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How many pair of shorts does it really take to cover Chris Brown?! Riddle me this, if it's so hot that Chris has to air his chest out, why the hell is he wearing the entire shorts section of American Apparel?! Pull your stupid camo capris up....all the way past your face.
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Word of the Day

Unused portions may be fridgerized. Do not refreezerate.

McBreakup

Dear Ron,

By the time you read these words, I'll be gone. As much as it pains me to say this, I can't go on living this lie any longer. It is not fair to you, or to me, or to the "us" I will always cherish. You've been in my life for as long as my memory can stretch. The elation, the excitement, the lip smacking good times we've had. I've let loose in your caboose. I've been to a slew of birthday parties at your pad. I've been with you since the days of styrofoam and sunglass-clad singing moon men. I've recited your menu in iambic pentameter, I've clambered up and into your ol'pal Hamburglar, and delighted in the jail cell belly of Grimace. I've assembled the McDLT, owned many a Smurf-adorned glass, and collected an entire family of Muppet Babies. I remember when Treats of the Week were special. The Lego helicopters, the Playmobil figurines... I. Remember. Your pizza. How cute those m-cum-Zs were. Sigh.

You were always a constant in my life, familiar and inviting. But I am afraid I can no longer take your sinister abuse. Slowly and surely your wicked ways have clouded the special place you once held in my heart. I've forgiven you for McHappygate -- offering the Happy Meal just long enough to allure, only to brutally take them away from Canada. Oh, you brought them back alright, most cruelly after my childhood was done. How repeatedly you crushed me, I would come again and again with hope in my heart that all those commercials I saw on CANADIAN TV couldn't be lies, but oh, they were. And I forgave you. I've watched your food shrink and your prices climb, the teardown of your playgrounds and the closure of the caboose. The crawl back to 10:30 for breakfast end broke my heart, and still, I stayed. I was loyal. But our relationship has become far more take than give, and you leave me empty and hurting. You insult my dignity when you lure me back to your intoxicating embrace.... WITH COLD FRENCH FRIES. I have continually buried these disappointments, picked up the pieces and carried on.

But now...

now that you have discontinued the enchanting elixir that is McDonalds Orange....

YOU HAVE CROSSED THE LINE.

Think of the children, Ronald! Think of the children! What will they drink at track and field meets?! The throat-savaging Red Poisintopia you now offer? Where is the non-carbonated option for those not choosing to bathe their teeth in acid? Even with the myriad of mistakes you have made, the mountain of hurtful disappointments, the one constant you always maintained was the Orange. If the rest of my meal brought me to tears and gastrointestinal assault, I could always count on the Orange. And now... it is too much for my battered soul to bear.

I am going to stay strong this time, Ronald. My absence will be long. I'm sure I will break down eventually, chasten and shame myself for doing so, but I assure you it will be a relationship of sour convenience. When no other options are available I will be forced to grudgingly oblige. And I know this. But you, Ronald, you should know... the love I once had for you, is gone.

Lose my number, bitch.

Devastatedly no longer yours,
~Promkini

Things that make you go.....

Why do people take only the cushions from couches left on boulevards? I'm sure you know this, have seen it, heard about it, perhaps have even experienced this yourself. Couches in all states of derelict disrepair are abandoned for garbage men to take away, and within hours, the cushions have mysteriously disappeared. Why just the cushions? Who is taking these? What are they doing with them? Are they replacing their own sagging cushions with them? Are they keeping just the insides? Often these are rained on, generally are varying levels of frayed and disgusting, and yet these cushions are somehow coveted. Do crafty people utilize these? Is there some kind of clandestine fort-building society I am not aware of? Where do all the cushions go? Santa? Do you have something to do with this? And why does everyone know someone who has left a couch out and had the cushions disappear, but no one knows anyone who has actually taken the cushions? To quoth the immortal Kelly Bundy, it wobbles the mind....

Little Red Riding Headless

I'm a polite and friendly person. If you're a stranger and we cross paths, this will bode well for you. We'll both get that nice and glowy feeling from exchanging pleasantries, my camera-toting mother will beam with pride at having raised me right, it'll be back pats all around. The only problem is, sometimes I can be kind of dumb. Years of etiquette training, being forced to grit my teeth and remain calm and pleasant to the biggest of fucking asshole customers, and perhaps even the hours of exposure to Guy Smileyesque game show hosts, have left me somewhat incapable of summoning the appropriate levels of FUCK and YOU life occasionally requires.

Take the other day for example. I'm officing away in happy-go-office land, spreading joy and sunshine to all I greet. The phone rings, call display reveals the name of a seedy local motel. THIS SHOULD BE ALARM BELL NUMBER 1, BUT NOOOOO. After a seemingly innocuous volley of how are you, fine and thanks, I find myself answering survey-type questions about my preferred type of exercise wear. The caller is doing market research for a swimwear and activewear company, that manufactures garments made of spandex.

Okay, stop right there.

Spandex. With the many microfibres, cotton blend, space age supersonic dries before you sweat in it, magical fancy schmancy fabrics available today, they're using Spandex. With suggested colours like YELLOW. Because yes, the majority of women slugging it away in the gym, trying to shed those extra pounds are going to opt for YELLOW SPANDEX as the flattering first choice of garment. Of course, rather than hang the phone up, I tut tut to myself this company must really be out of touch if it's yellow Spandex items they're marketing -- not in a funky, ironic way, either -- and...I continue the conversation. Because yes, I am a dumbass.

Alarm bells two through five thousand begin to ring, when the questioning leads to swimwear, how many bathing suits do I have? What colours are they? Which ones are my favourite? Are they high cut? The questions begin to repeat themselves. I nearly say "Okay, this is kind of creepy", but STOP MYSELF because that would be impolite.

Thanks, Mom.

The situation quickly escalates into the near-unhinged when the caller begins rambling nonsensically, eventually leading his line of questioning to bike shorts. BIKE SHORTS?! Hi, I've got 1989 on the line, even they'd like to kill themselves over that one, please.

Finally, when my telmarketperv begins WHINING about awww, why don't I wear bike shorts, I blurt out a STILL POLITE "I'm at work right now and don't really have time for this so I'm going to let you go now, bye". Click.

And this is where I am left wanting to a) shower with bleach, b) locate a therapist, and c) do it all over again. Because given the option of c), I would most definitely describe the burkas I wear while swimming, complain about the injustice of consistently being banned from swimming at public pools because I displace too much water, inquire about whether they have a sportsbra in their line that will support my knee-level bosoms without making my back hump too uncomfortable, and perhaps ask many questions of my own regarding whether or not their blend of spandex will irritate my eczema and leprosy. At the very least, I'd like to inform Mr. Pervert he is in fact, a disgusting asshole, and hang up much sooner than I did.

So, the moral of the story is, perverts, if you're going to trick even dumb girls like me into describing their bathing suits, do a little market research first (YELLOW SPANDEX, PEOPLE! YELLOW SPANDEX.), and me? I'm just glad I'm not a storybook character, because the wolf at the end of my tale would have a full belly indeed.

Listen to your mother.

My mother, constantly clicking photographer that she is, tells me to always have my camera with me. I certainly found myself in a state of "dammit! I should have listened!" (akin to the ever familiar should-have-brought-a-jacket-after-all-regret), the other day, while driving through the LCBO parking lot. Lo and behold, what do I spy with my twinkling bemused eyes, but a fairly normal-looking woman toting a child carrier… chock full of both child and her paper bagged liquor purchases. A rather practical display of ingenuity, if you ask me.

If I had money to burn, I'd totally hire a sky writer to put "Surrender Dorothy" over a bustling metropolis.

I'd also get a bat signal.
And use it for booty calls.

malice in funderland